Chapter Text
Your father had called you to a meeting with his advisors, which was not uncommon, he often asked you to bear cups and refill glass after glass of wine. What was strange about this meeting was the buzz that had surrounded the castle for the past few days, your fathers request for you to dress in your finer clothes, reserved only for events, and the messenger arriving the night before.
The messenger, with a small entourage, had carried a letter from Lord Stark himself but the contents were unknown to you, and you had not even been given the opportunity to see the man.
Your lady in waiting had let you know he had retired quickly to his chambers, apparently tired from the long and rough travel. Why a raven had not been sent, you were uncertain.
Excitement was not a common thing for a dreary keep this far into the northern lands, change was almost unheard of, and yet you could hear servants gossiping, giggling, and smiling to each other with each walk you take in the hall. When you had attempted to ask them they only shook their heads and scurried away, the news was not theirs to tell it seemed. A strange pit of dread had formed in your stomach.
You take a deep sigh as your lady in waiting, Alice, helps to finish dressing you properly for the meeting. Turning your head to look back at her as she laces your dress tightly, but not uncomfortable.
“You have some idea of what is to happen, Alice please. I have seen the other servants gossipping. You must tell me, I’m not sure my nerves can take much more.” you ask. You send a pleading look her direction, knowing your friend will be unable to deny you.
She chews her lip for a moment but quickly relents as you continue your gaze, “Fine, I’ll tell you what I’ve heard, but it’s only rumors. I didn’t want to stress you. I’ve seen you fidgeting without stop.”
“Alice please, I cannot stand the suspense, you have no need to protect me. I am a woman grown,” you tell her, exasperated with the silence surrounding you.
“Yes… very well. It’s all rumors, whispers from other servants, but people gossip that Jon Snow, Lord Starks bastard, you know him?”
“Of course, Alice. I think just about the entire northern land has heard of Lord Stark’s one chip in his sterling honor,” you quip, “Besides, I think I might have seen him when I visited Winterfell with father.”
When you had visited Winterfell you were no older than nine and Jon himself likely a similar age. You had seen a young, gangly boy with dark onyx curls playing with the Stark’s heir, Robb, who you had met passingly at a feast the night before. The dark haired boy, you remember, was not present at any of these official events. Learning of his situation later you had felt something akin to pity
She finishes the laces and guides you to sit down in front of your mirror in order to fix your hair.
“Well, supposedly, the Starks have officially claimed him as one of their own. He’s not going to inherit Winterfell unless all other Stark sons pass, but he is still a Stark nonetheless.”
“That’s interesting I suppose, but how does this pertain to me?”
“Your father is planning on offering your hand to him, or already has, strengthen your house's ties to the Starks, or so I’ve heard…”
For a moment you’re silent, unsure how you even feel about this startling information. You had known you would get married, and that it would likely be sooner rather than later as you reached womanhood, but the shock still unsettles you in spite of this.
As you thought about it, you had no qualms about marriage itself, the truly uncomfortable part was that you did not know Jon. He could be a horrid brute or the kindest man in the world, but there was no way for you to know until you were already married, and the noose was placed.
Alice continues to stare at you in concern as you sit deep in contemplation, eyebrows furrowed.
Realizing time is ticking down and your father is waiting, you snap out of the trance-like state abruptly, determined to present yourself normally even with the crisis raging in your mind. “I should go see my father now. He’ll be anxious if I’m late.”
She smiles weakly at you and clasps your hand comfortingly before letting you slip away, it does little to ease your nerves.
As you reach your father’s council chambers, you can hear the jovial voice of your father inside. It is laced by a nervousness that only someone close to him would be capable of perceiving.
As the large oak doors creak open, you see that your father’s advisors are absent, instead a man you had never seen before enters your line of sight, sitting opposite from your father. He has a brooding look even as he spoke calmly with the overly enthusiastic visage of your father. With inky dark hair cut to shoulder length curled to perfection, warm deep gray eyes, he was a pretty man, probably the prettiest you’d seen. None of the men at your keep were any comparison.
You assume the man must be the messenger sent by the Starks, you had thought it would be some old decrepit maester, this man is much more intriguing. He turns to face you and bows his head slightly in acknowledgement, your eyes meet through the curtain of curls hanging in front of his eyes. you do a polite curtsy in return and glance towards your father for an explanation.
Before he can respond the man speaks. “My Lady, I am Jon Stark, Son of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, it is an honor to make your acquaintance.” His tone is serious as his looks, but not unkind.
It made sense, he was just as he had been all those years ago at Winterfell. The only differences were his once bare face now has a layer of stubble, the gangly body of a boy now muscled through what must be relentless training, and he had grown slightly taller.
It takes you a moment to realize you are staring rather unabashedly before you quickly respond, "The honor is mine my Lord."
Though you may have reservations about the marriage, propriety demanded politeness. Beyond that, any judgment of him passed by you would only be prejudice until you actually speak.
"As you can see my daughter is very beautiful and I'm sure as you speak with her, you will come to appreciate her wit as well," your father beams, but the crinkled smile does not quite reach his eyes. He glances toward you apologetically.
Jon's eyes scan your face momentarily, and a slight red hue bleeds onto his cheeks.
"I am sure I will," he is slightly ungraceful in his bluntness, the awkwardness is almost endearing however.
“Now you’ve met him, I have good news. You are going to be betrothed to Young Lord Stark, as long as he’s happy with what he sees,” he laughs uneasily. The joke is extraordinarily callous. Your father loves you, you know, especially as his only daughter, but sometimes grace and courtesy are not his strength.
Jon, to his merit, does not laugh, and you can’t help but notice the red tinge spreading on his face once again. “She is very beautiful, I would be a fool to complain.”
“Soon you shall be sent to Winterfell with Lord Stark to await the wedding. I will follow when it comes time for the ceremony, get to know your new home, new family,” your father waves you off, dismissing you.
“Yes, Father,” you respectfully curtsy and address Jon before leaving the room, “Lord Stark.”
His eyes never break from your silhouette as you leave.
* * *
Evening falls quickly and you remain in your room. No one had called on you, there were no lessons, no cup bearing, and dinner had been sent to your room rather than the normal raucous, joyful meals shared in the hall.
Your father finds you in your room not sulking, but rather stewing on the plague of thoughts and anxieties. He knocks quietly, making his presence known. The fact he is waiting for you to speak first had not escaped you, but you can’t bring yourself to care.
He is much more somber than earlier, his seeming elation at your marriage, while possibly, not entirely false, must have been exaggerated for the benefit of Lord Stark.
“You must have known this would be coming soon, but I’m sorry all the same for how sudden it was… I was not going to inform you until it was something steadfast.”
“I… I understand, and I have no right to be upset or angry. I am simply frightened. I am moving to a new home I know nothing of, with a man I have barely said a word to. Lord Stark is an enigma to me, no one knows anything about him beyond his heritage.” You realize you must sound immature, but cannot force yourself to stop at the outflowing of frustration. Angry tears prick your eyes and sting your cheeks.
“I am sorry, but you know we are bannermen of the Starks. We follow them, keeping our families tied and bond strong is necessary. Not to mention the fact they are willing to accept our, admittedly small dowry.”
“So it's a trade then, they accept our below standard bride and dowry, and we accept their bastard,” They are hurtful words you do not entirely mean, but they rush from your mouth anyway.
“If that is how you choose to view it then I cannot stop you, but the Starks are honorable. Lord Eddard is a good man. I assume he raised his sons the same way. You may not appreciate it but I am doing what is best for you and our lands.” He turns to walk away but waits a long moment for a reply that does not come.
No response or retort comes to mind so you sit and cannot help but feel petulant like a child rebelling against their lessons.
* * *
The road to Winterfell is long, and arduous as you come from the most northern house in the kingdom. Even having only made the journey once, you could remember it clearly, due to the sparseness of inns, sleeping in tents with only an animal hide between yourself and the cold night air.
Now you are about to depart once more, Jon by your side, along with a few of your father’s and the Stark’s knights as your company. You are bundled tightly in a warm fur cloak, covering your riding clothes. Taking a wheel-house this wearisome route would be both extremely impractical and possibly prolong the journey doubly, so riding sores it would have to be.
As you step out into the frigid morning air, you watch the entire party of men readying themselves for the journey, which would be around a fortnight in total. They strap large packs of food and rolled up fabric for tents onto strong, stocky horses.
You notice Jon laughing and exchanging banter with one of the Stark men. He had seemed so brooding at your first meeting. In comparison, it felt strange to see him looking so carefree.
It leads you to speculate on his feelings, both towards you, and this marriage that had been thrust upon you. Maybe he just truly was repulsed, his serious expression may have been disguised disgust and his compliment begrudging appeasement. Though the truth of his favor is not your biggest worry, his temperament and the inevitability of a new home are, it would be smart to remember that. No matter how pretty the face, Jon is an unknown, just as much as Winterfell is.
From across the yard, Jon finally catches sight of you, you quickly avert your gaze hoping he does not notice your prolonged staring.
He says something to the man who leaves for the stable, whatever he had said is indistinguishable from the excited chatter that surrounds you.
The man walks back with a gelding. Its mane floats in the breeze like the silk you imagine the wealthy women of King’s Landing galavant about in and its shiny coat is indicative of a healthy horse. Unlike the stocky pack or war horses you usually see in the yard, it has a more slight, elegant build, maybe a palfrey, meant mainly for women of nobility traveling. Likely, it is worth a fortune, more than your father would be willing to spend on a horse not meant for battle.
Jon takes the reins from the man and approaches you, leading the horse along with him.
He almost timidly clears his throat before he speaks, “Uh, good morning my Lady.”
“Good morning Lord Stark.” you do your best to hide the hesitation that overcomes you, to make normal conversation.
“That is a fine horse. I don’t think I have ever seen one so stunning.”
“Ah well, I suppose it is good that you favor it as I mean for it to be yours.”
You remain stunned for a moment, almost too shocked to speak, “Is it really? Just for the journey I presume?”
“No, no, I brought it for you, to keep. A gift felt appropriate, considering it's our first meeting and… our imminent marriage.”
“How did you decide on such a fine horse as a gift?”
“I mostly relied on the opinion of my sisters… I was unsure what a lady would want.”
You can’t help but smile at the image of Jon confiding in his sisters, helpless in the matters of women. Not that you are in any way more knowledgeable in men, so perhaps it’s wrong to make fun, it doesn’t stop you.
“It is not what I would expect, I think most men would have decided on finery, perfumes, or the like,” He almost appears crestfallen before you continue, “A horse is far more thoughtful. Your sisters have refined taste.”
Jon’s mask of impassivity is back up quickly, though some excitement or maybe pride bleeds into his speech, “Well, it was mostly my youngest sister Arya’s input. Sansa insisted a necklace was right, but I tend toward the more practical. I had hoped you would as well. It’s a long journey, a good horse should make it more comfortable.”
“You have my gratitude. He’s wonderful. I usually rather enjoy an outing riding, though I might change my mind after a fortnight of it with little stop.”
“If you do then I’ll have to think of a new gift, or force another opinion from Arya or Sansa.”“Now that we have been acquainted, and I am to live with you, while your sisters have done a fine job and gifts are not necessary, if you wish to give me anything, I would rather you ask me,” You’re rambling, but, old gods willing, this will offer motivation for him to talk to you, so maybe you can learn more about him in turn. Set some of the worries to rest.
“Then I will be sure to consult you.” He finally breaks eye contact with you and surveys the yard; It seems that your little caravan is finally packed.
Knights, both your father’s and Jon’s, are lined up on horses and your father, the lord himself, has stepped out from the warm embrace of the keep. He approaches you and Jon. He slaps a hand onto Jon’s shoulder familiarly.
“Take care of my daughter. I am trusting that Lord Stark has taught you well.”
“Of course my lord, I will do my duty to her.”
You smile civilly but it irks you how they talk as though you're not here. And what exactly does Jon mean as a husband's duty? Is that all you will be to him, duty?
Your father walks to you, ready to lean in for a hug, a goodbye, but stops, likely remembering your fight, and the subsequent days of tense silence between you. After a moment of deliberation, you fill the distance, wrapping your arms around him. He instantly returns the action
“I will miss you at Winterfell.”
He releases you from the hug and cups your cheek in his hand.
“I will be there for your wedding, but you’ll have your own life there. You will not miss me or your home forever.”
You nod, though it's difficult to believe him at the moment.
“We’ll leave soon. Ride until sunset,” Jon tells you.
You nod and take the time left to soak in your home one more time, and say your final farewells to family and friends.
You go to the horse and wait for a stable boy to bring a mounting block, getting on a horse with your thick fur cloak and the many layers of your split riding skirt is no simple task.
“Would you like help?” Jon offers.
“Uh, yes thank you.”
What you expect is him to offer you his hand for balance as you step up once the block is here. However, instead, he places his hands under your cloak and onto your waist. His hands are strong but gentle as they tighten around you. The sensation makes your breath catch in your throat. He sets you onto the saddle. His hands run down to your hips making sure you’re stable, before letting you go, his hands linger a moment longer than necessary but you cannot bring yourself to mind.
Jon mounts his horse as well. Together, led and followed by your entourage of knights, you leave your home. The sense of security that blankets you here, you are sure you will never feel again.