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The next morning arrived with a harsh, blinding white light. The snow had fallen heavily overnight, burying the courtyard in a fresh, pristine layer that hid the marring of the recent battle, if only for a few days.

Jon was already in the Great Hall, leaning over a map of the North with Davos Seaworth. The hall was drafty, the smell of old smoke and wet wool clinging to the air. Several lords were already present, their voices a low, discordant hum of a collection of complaints and suggestions.

Davos pointed to a cluster of villages near the coast, “If we don't move the grain by the end of next week, the people in the valleys will be eating seven knows what by mid-winter, Your Grace.” He glanced up, noticing the distant look in Jon's eyes.

“You're not listening, are you?” Davos inquired, causing Jon to blink and snap his focus back to the map. “I am.” He said gruffly before continuing, “The grain stores. Move them.” Davos tilted his head, a knowing, subtle smile touching the corners of his mouth.

He had known Jon for almost three years now, and he recognized the look of a man whose mind was elsewhere. Davos spoke softly, as so the lords could not overhear, “I imagine the walk in the godswood was more interesting than the logistics of grain stores.”

Jon cleared his throat, his expression instantly returning to its stoic mask. “The logistics are the priority, Ser Davos.” He shifted his gaze back to the parchment, though the silent intimacy of the previous night still lingered in the back of his mind.

He tried to focus on the ink-drawn lines of the coast, but the memory of your warmth was a persistent distraction. Davos hummed thoughtfully, “Of course they are. Duty first. Always duty with you.” he lowered his voice further, “But a man cannot lead an army on a severed heart, Your Grace.”

Jon stiffened. The memory of bright red hair flashing through his mind like a painful reminder of what he had lost. Ygritte. “I'm glad to see you've found something to make it whole again.” Davos added, amnesic of Jon's taut stance.

Before Jon could say something, the heavy doors of the Great Hall groaned open. A child draft swept in, bringing with it the scent of fresh snow.

You entered the hall. You were dressed in heavy Northern wools of deep blue and grey, your hair neatly braided. You moved with that same quiet, guarded dignity, but as your eyes scanned the room and found Jon, there was a brief, almost imperceptible flicker of something softer in your gaze.

The lords of the North stopped their bickering. Eyes turned toward you—some with curiosity, some with clinical appraisal, and others with the lingering disdain they held for the Karstark name.

Lord Glover was the first to speak, “Ah, the bride-to-be arrives.” His voice was grating and loud. “We were just discussing matters of grain, Your Grace. Though, I wonder if the Karstark lands have any stores left to contribute, or if they've been entirely consumed by… previous mismanagements.”

You slowly approached Jon, rooting yourself to his side. “My lands… they should have some grain leftover.” Lord Glover sneered, leaning forward, “Should have? A vague answer for a woman who expects the King's protection. I should hope the Karstark's can offer more than a ‘should’ when the rest of us are bleeding to keep this North alive.”

A few of the other lords murmured in agreement, their eyes flicking between you and Jon. To them, you were still the daughter of a traitorous house, a political necessity whose presence was tolerated only because you brought a vital name back into the fold.

Jon's expression hardened, his voice dropping to a sudden insulation. “That is enough, Lord Glover. You should wish to watch your tongue when addressing my bride.” He didn't raise his voice, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop. He shifted his stance, subtly moving so that he was partially shielding Giselle from Glover's piercing gaze.

The transition from the tenderness of the previous night to the hardness of a King was instantaneous. “Lady (Name) is here as my guest and my future wife. You will speak to her with the respect her position demands.” Lord Glover bristled, his face flushing red. “I only seek the truth of our supplies, Your Grace—”

Jon cuts him off, his dark eyes flashing. “You seek to belittle a woman who has suffered more in a year than you have in a decade.” He leaned back over the map, his voice a dangerous low. “The grain will be accounted for. If you spend as much time organizing your own stores as you do questioning hers, we might actually survive the winter.”

The hall fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Glover opened his mouth to retort, but the look in Jon's eyes—the look of a man who had figuratively climbed out of his own grave—silenced him. The lord huffed and sank back into his chair, muttering under his breath.

Davos cleared his throat, sensing the tension. “Perhaps we should return to the map. As I was saying…” As Davos began to speak again, filling the silence with the mundane details of transport and logistics, Jon didn't move away from you. Under the cover of the heavy map table and the distractions of the council, his hand found yours.

His fingers brushed against yours in a brief, hidden squeeze. He whispered, barely audible to anyone but her. “Ignore him. He's a small man with a loud voice.” You squeezed his hand back. “I can handle him, Jon.”

His gaze flickered to her, a small, private spark of admiration in his eyes. He nodded briskly. “I know you can. But you shouldn't have to.” He didn't let go of your hand immediately, desiring to keep the connection for a few heartbeats longer than necessary.

It was a silent anchor in a room full of men who saw her as a problem to be solved or a debt to be collected. The council dragged on for another hour. The air grew thick with the scent of damp fur and the droning voices of lords arguing over borders, taxes, and the placement of sentries.

Through it all, Jon remained a pillar of frozen stone, his voice clipped and decisive. However, every time the conversation drifted toward the Karstarks or the logistics of the wedding, his grip on the edge of the table tightened until his knuckles turned white.

Lord Glover interrupted Davos, voice still laced with bitterness. “And when do we finalize the date? The North cannot wait indefinitely for a wedding feast while the frost deepens. We need the alliance sealed. Now.”

The word 'sealed' sounded clinical, almost like a transaction. Jon stiffened, his jaw tightening. He could feel you beside him, your presence steady, but he knew the weight of these men's expectations were a different kind of weight.

Jon looked up, his voice hard. “The date will be set when the preparations are sufficient. Not a moment sooner.” Lord Glover scoffed. “Preparations? It's a marriage, not a campaign. A few vows and a bedding, and the North is united.”

A few lords shifted uncomfortably. The mention of the bedding was pointed and crude, a reminder of the biological duty they expected from the union. Jon's eyes darkened, a dangerous glint appearing as he looked directly at Glover.

Jon's hand untangled with yours, finding the hilt of Longclaw. “You are overstepping, Lord Glover.” Davos quickly stepped in, “Now, now, let's not let our tempers flare over a wedding. I'm sure we can find a date that suits both the crown and the logistics of the traditions.”

Davos shot Jon a look—a silent plea to keep his temper in check for the sake of the room. Jon took a slow, deep breath, forcing the anger back down, though he didn't look away from Glover until the older man finally looked down at the map.

He turned slightly toward you, his expression softening only for you. “We're finished here for the morning.” He looked back at the lords, his voice returning to the commanding tone of a king. “Go back to your quarters and prepare your reports for tomorrow. Dismissed.”

The lords began to filter out, some nodding respectfully, others—like Glover—muttering under their breath as they exited the hall. Once the heavy doors groaned shut and the room emptied of everyone except Jon, you, and a lingering Davos, the oppressive tension seemed to lift.

Davos lets out a long sigh and rolls up the map. “You've got a talent for making those men terrified of you, Your Grace. It's a very useful trait.” He turns to look at you both, his tone gentle. “I'll leave you to your peace. I believe there's some fresh tea being brought to the solar if you're inclined.”

You glance up at Jon, “We could go to the solar together, if you'd like.” you murmur. His eyes soften, the tension finally draining from his shoulders. “I would like that.”

He didn't let you lead the way. Instead, he stepped beside you, his arm brushing yours as you walked. The transition from the crowded Great Hall to the smaller, more intimate solar was a welcome one. The solar was bathed in a dim, amber glow from the hearth, where a fire crackled, fighting back the winter chill that seeped through the stone.

A servant had already arrived, leaving a heavy iron pot of tea and two cups on a low wooden table. The room smelled of cedarwood and dried herbs. As soon as the door clicked shut behind you, the silence shifted from the heavy, political sort to something far more comfortable.

Jon sighed as he removed his heavy cloak, tossing it over a chair. “I can't stand them.” He said huffily, though he didn't specify which 'them' he meant, but the frustration was evident in the way he rubbed a hand over his face. He looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes more pronounced in the firelight.

He then turned to you, his voice low and genuinely apologetic. “I'm sorry you had to hear that. Glover's tongue is as sharp as his mind is dull.” He sighed, moving toward the tea and pouring two cups with steady hands, though his gaze remained fixed on you.

He seemed to be gauging your mood, wondering if the cruelty of the council had chipped away at the fragile peace you shared the night before. He hands you a cup, his fingers lingering against yours. “Did he... did any of it get to you?”

You take the cup, offering a meek smile. “I've dealt with worse than Lord Glover.” He stared at you for a long moment, his gaze lingering on your smile. “That's the problem.” His voice was low, a trace of sympathy beneath the admiration.

Jon didn't move away. Instead, he leaned back against the edge of the heavy oak table, crossing his arms over his chest. The flickering firelight played across the planes of his face, highlighting the hardness of his jaw and the softness in his eyes. He looked at you not as a king looking at a consort, but as a man looking at someone who deserved placidity.

“You shouldn't have to be 'used to' people like him. Or people like…” He stopped himself, the mention of Ramsay Bolton hanging unspoken in the air. He didn't want to bring that ghost into the solar. He didn't want to remind you of the cage you had spent so long in.

He reaches out, his fingers grazing the sleeve of your wool dress. “I want this place to be different for you. Not just the castle. But... us.” He looked down at the tea in his own hand, the steam curling upwards in the dim light.

For a moment, the stoic commander was gone, replaced by a man who was still figuring out how to be loved without feeling like he was taking something he didn't deserve. He looked back up at you, his voice rough. “When we marry... I don't want it to feel like another arrangement. I don't want you to feel like you've just traded one lord for another.”

You stepped closer. “I wouldn't be too opposed to marrying you... Well, now that I've gotten to know you better.” You whispered, your eyes searching his. Jon nearly choked on his tea, a startled cough racking his chest. He sputtered, the tea splashing slightly against the rim of his cup. He stared at you, his eyes wide, the sheer boldness of your whisper cutting through his broodiness like a blade.

For a man who spent his life anticipating ambushes and betrayals, this particular assault—one of sudden, soft intimacy—left him completely staggered. He set the cup down on the table with a hurried clatter, his voice raspy. “You…”

He searched your face, looking for the tease, the playfulness from the night before, but the closeness of your presence and the sincerity in your voice made his heart hammer a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The air in the solar suddenly felt too thick, too warm, despite the draft of winter pressing against the windows.

His voice dropped an octave, low and dangerously soft. “You shouldn't say things like that to a man who is trying very hard to be a gentleman, (Name).” He didn't move away. Instead, he shifted his weight, closing the small gap between them until the heat radiating from your body warmed the front of his tunic.

He reached out, his hand sliding around your waist to pull you flush against him, his touch possessive yet careful. His gaze dropped to your lips, his breathing becoming heavy. “Do you have any idea how much I want to stop being a gentleman?”

The vulnerability he had shown moments ago was gone, replaced by a raw, focused hunger. He didn't kiss you immediately; he lingered just a breath away, his forehead leaning against yours, his voice a rough vibration that you could feel in your own chest.

“If we did this... if we didn't wait... I don't think I could let you leave this room for a long time.” He whispered. You pull yourself flush against him. “Then don't let me leave.”

That was the final thread. Jon surged forward, his mouth crashing against yours with a fierce, desperate intensity that spoke of everything he had been suppressing—the longing, the protectiveness, and a hunger that had been starving for years.

One hand remained locked firmly around your waist, pulling you so tight against him that there was no air left between you, while his other hand slid upward, fingers tangling deep into the hair at the back of your head to tilt your face exactly where he wanted it.

He backed you up with a slow, steady pressure, his movements urgent but focused. He didn't stop until your back hit the heavy oak table with a dull thud, the tea cups rattling precariously beside them. He broke the kiss for a split second, his voice a rough, strained rasp against your skin. “You have no idea…”

His breath was hot against your ear. “No idea what you're doing to me.” He trailed a line of searing kisses down the side of your neck, his stubble grazing your skin, his grip tightening as if he feared you might vanish if he let go for even a second.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his dark gaze clouded with desire and a raw, searching intensity. His chest heaved, his heart drumming a frantic beat against your own. His voice was trembling. “If I start... I won't be able to stop. Not until you tell me to.”

You slither your arms around his neck. “...Then don't stop.” His eyes darkened at that, a low sound of approval vibrating in his throat. The invitation was the final catalyst. Jon's restraint, already frayed, snapped completely. He kissed you yet again, his mouth meeting you with a passion that was almost overwhelming.

It was a collision of all the things he had tried to keep buried—the loneliness of the Wall, the agony of death, and the sudden, terrifying realization that he finally had something he was afraid to lose.

With a sudden, fluid motion, he lifted you, hoisting you up onto the heavy oak table. The tea cups finally slid, one of them tipping over and spilling a dark stain across the wood, but neither of them noticed.

Jon stepped between your legs, pressing his body firmly against you, his hands sliding from your hair down to your thighs, gripping you with a desperate strength. He broke away for a moment to gasp for air, his voice a strained, rough whisper. “I've wanted... I've wanted this since the moment we were alone in the godswood.”

He didn't wait for a reply. He buried his face in the crook of your neck again, his kisses becoming more urgent, more demanding. His hands began to fumble with the laces of your dress, his movements hurried, almost frantic, as if he needed to feel your skin against his own to prove that this was real—that you were actually here, and that you wanted him.

The room around you seemed to fade away. The crackle of the fire, the cold wind rattling the windowpanes, the distant shouts of soldiers in the courtyard—all of it vanished. There was only the scent of you, the heat of the fire, and the frantic rhythm of two hearts beating in synchronization.

Jon pulled back slightly, his gaze searching yours, his voice trembling with an intensity that bordered on pain. “Tell me again. Tell me you want this.” Even now, in the height of his desire, the protector in him remained. He needed to hear it. He needed to know, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that he wasn't repeating the sins of the man who had come before him.

He wanted you to be the one to lead him into this, to ensure that this was an act of liberation, not of duty. You pulled him down by the collar, “Jon, I want you.”

A low, broken sound escaped him. His voice barely a whisper, thick with emotion. “I've got you. I've got you.” The confirmation was the only thing he had ever truly needed. Jon didn't hesitate further. He surged forward, his lips capturing yours once more, but the desperation had shifted into something deeper, something more needy.

His hands finally won their battle with the laces of your dress, the fabric slipping away to reveal the pale glow of your skin in the amber firelight. He paused for a heartbeat, his breath hitching as he looked at you, his expression one of pure, unadulterated reverence.

He touched you as if you were made of the finest glass, his calloused fingertips tracing the line of your collarbone with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the raw hunger in his eyes. He moved with a slow, deliberate intensity, shedding his own tunic and casting it aside without a thought.

When he pressed himself back against you, the contact of skin on skin felt like an electric shock, a grounding force that anchored you both in the present. He moved between your thighs, his weight a comforting pressure, his hands sliding up to cup your face, forcing you to look at him.

His gaze searching, voice rough and honest. “You're everything... I didn't think I was allowed to have.” He kissed you again, slower now, tasting the surrender and the desire. He began to move against you, a rhythmic, aching friction that drew a sharp breath from his lungs. Every touch was a question, every sigh an answer.

The world outside the solar ceased to exist. There were no lords, no crowns, no wars, and no ghosts. There was only the heat of the hearth, the scent of cedar and skin, and the way Jon whispered your name into the hollow of your throat, as if it were a prayer he had forgotten how to say.

As the tension reached a breaking point, Jon gripped your hands, interlocking your fingers and pressing them hard against the oak table. He buried his face in your shoulder, his body shaking with the effort of maintaining a shred of control before he finally let go, losing himself completely in you.

Long minutes passed in a heavy, contented silence, the only sound the crackle of the dying fire and the synchronized, ragged breathing. Jon didn't pull away. He remained draped over you, his head resting on your chest, listening to the steady thrum of her heart.

His hand had reached up, lightly squeezing your breast as he shifted to look up at you, his dark curls damp against his forehead. His voice a low, hushed murmur. “I don't think I can move.” He said it with a kind of weary, contented finality.

His weight was heavy and warm against you, a solid anchor in the quiet room. The frantic energy of moments before had melted into a profound stillness. His lips brushing against your nipple as he spoke. “I don't want to.” He shifted, curling his arm around your waist and pulling you closer against him on the table.

The wood was hard beneath you, but neither of you seemed to notice. His voice was drowsy, muffled against your breast. “We should... we should get you a proper bed.” He said it without moving, without any real intention of doing so. His hand traced lazy patterns against you hip, his eyes half-closed.

For a man who had spent his entire life in a state of alert readiness, he looked utterly, completely undone.

A soft knock at the door made him stiffen. His eyes snapped open, the king returning to the man in an instant. He didn't move, though his hand tightened protectively on your waist. The voice was muffled by the heavy oak. “Jon? Are you in there?”

Arya.

A pause. Then, a distinctly mischievous edge crept into Arya's voice. “I need to borrow your bride. Sansa says there are things to discuss. Wedding things.”

Jon let out a low, frustrated groan, his forehead dropping to rest against your shoulder. He stayed there for a long moment, seeming to fight an internal battle between duty and the deep, primal desire to stay exactly where he was.

“Seven hells.” He muttered against your skin, his breath warm. He didn't move for a long moment, his breath warm against your shoulder, his fingers still tracing lazy patterns on your hip. The knock came again, more insistent this time.

Through the door, Arya's voice was dry. “I can hear you breathing, Jon. Don't make me pick the lock.” Jon lifted his head slowly, his eyes meeting yours, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She would do it, too.” He grumbled.

He didn't rush to pull away. Instead, he leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips, as if memorizing the shape of your. When he finally pulled back, his gaze was heavy with reluctance. His voice was hushed, meant only for her. “After the wedding—which should be held within the next few days—we will finish this.”

He rose, his movements economical as he retrieved his tunic, pulling it over his head with a casual grace. He helped you up, assisting you with the laces of your dress. He then turned away before he paused at the door, glancing back at you, still tousled, still slightly breathless, the firelight catching the shadows under his eyes.

For a moment, he looked like a man who had just remembered what it felt like to be alive. “Don't let Sansa talk you into anything too elaborate. I just need you at the altar. Nothing else matters.”

He opened the door to reveal Arya, who leaned against the frame with a knowing smirk, her arms crossed. She didn't say anything at first—just looked past Jon, her grey eyes landing on you, still seated on the table, the spilled tea a testament to what had transpired.

Arya's smile widened. “Took you long enough.” She glanced at you. “Ready when you are. Sansa's already planning the flowers, and I'm fairly certain she's mapping out the seating chart by hand like she's planning an army formation. Thought you'd want a warning.”

You nodded, adjusting your dress as you approached Arya. “Thanks for the heads-up.” You grinned. Her smirk softened into something almost genuine as you approached. She gave a curt nod, her eyes flicking over your shoulder to where Jon stood, looking like a man who had just been caught with his hand in the honey pot.

“Don't thank me yet. You haven't seen the list of potential musicians. Or heard Sansa's opinions on lace.” Arya said dryly. She then stepped aside to let you pass, but not before shooting a final, pointed look at her brother. “Try not to look so pleased with yourself. The lords might think you've been seduced by a traitor.”

Jon grunted, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Mind your own business, Arya.” Arya shrugged, a glint in her eye. “This is my business. She's going to be my good-sister, isn't she?” With that, she turned and started leading the way down the corridor, her footsteps nearly silent on the stone floor.

Jon watched you go, his arms crossed over his chest, a complicated mix of frustration and profound contentment warring on his face. He remained in the doorway until they turned a corner and disappeared from sight.

The heavy oak door clicked shut, leaving him alone in the quiet solar. The room still smelled of cedar, tea, and the faint, visceral scent of skin and perfume. He ran a hand through his already-mussed hair and let out a long, slow breath, the ghost of a smile finally breaking through his usual stern expression.

The corridor outside the solar was drafty, the stones radiating a deep chill that made you instinctively pull your dress tighter. Arya walked with a familiar, prowling grace, her presence a sharp contrast to the heavy silence of the castle.

She glanced sideways at you. “You handled the council well. Better than I would have. I'd have probably thrown a dagger at Glover's head if I were you.” She said it casually, but there was a thread of genuine respect in her tone.

Arya slowed her pace as you approached a branching hallway. “Sansa's in the sewing room. She's got bolts of cloth everywhere. It looks like a fabric merchant exploded.” She stopped just before the doorway, her grey eyes assessing you once more.

She lowered her voice. “He's different with you. Jon. Less... broody.” A faint, almost imperceptible smile spread on her face. “It's a good look on him.” Without waiting for a reply, Arya pushed the heavy door open.

Inside, Sansa Stark stood amidst a sea of silk, wool, and linen samples, a focused expression on her face as she held a swatch of dark grey fabric up to the light from a narrow window. Without turning around, “There you are. I was beginning to think Jon had decided to keep you cooped up with him indefinitely.”

She finally turned, her eyes taking in your slightly disheveled appearance and the faint flush on your cheeks. A knowing, but not unkind, smile touched Sansa's lips. She gestured to the chaos around her. “We have much to discuss. But first, some wine? You look like you could use it.”

Sansa moved to a small table where a pitcher and two cups sat, pouring a deep red vintage. The sewing room was warmer than the hall, lit by several beeswax candles. She then handed you a cup.

“Now. Tell me. Have you given any thought to the colors for the ceremony? I was thinking Stark grey and white, of course, but we should incorporate something for House Karstark. A sunburst on the bosom, perhaps, in gold thread?”

She spoke with the practiced ease of a born planner, but her eyes were watchful, gauging your reaction to the sudden immersion in wedding details. You took a sip of the wine, the coolness a nifty feeling against the dryness of your throat.

“The sunburst would be lovely.” Sansa's smile widened, a genuine warmth finally reaching her eyes. She seemed pleased by your easy agreement, a small victory in the suggestion of merging the two houses into a gown.

“Excellent. Gold thread on the cuffs and hem, then. It will look striking against the grey.” She moved to a large table where several rolls of fabric were laid out, her fingers brushing over a particularly fine piece of white wool.

“Now, for the dress itself. We have this wool from White Harbor—it's remarkably soft and will be warm enough for the godswood. But if you prefer something grander, there is this velvet from the Reach that I managed to get my hands on…”

She held up a deep blue velvet, its rich color shimmering in the candlelight. Sansa watched you carefully, her expression open and inviting. This was more than just planning a wedding; it was an offering of inclusion in a place where you felt incongruous.

Her tone was gentle. “This is your day, (Name). Your opinion is the only one that truly matters. Well, yours and Jon's, I suppose.” From the doorway, Arya decided to chime in. “He'd probably be happy if she showed up in a potato sack. As long as she's there.”

Sansa shot her sister a mildly exasperated look. “Thank you, Arya. That's very helpful.” She comments sarcastically. Arya shrugged. “Just saying. He's not exactly a lace-and-velvet sort of man.”

Sansa sighs, but a small smile plays on her lips. “Arya has a point, as crude as it is. Jon has never cared for finery. But that doesn't mean you shouldn't have it, if you wish.” Her gaze softened as she looked at you, her voice dropping to a more confidential tone.

“I am glad for it. For both of you. The North needs a strong alliance, but it needs a true one even more.” Arya pushed off the doorframe and walked into the room. “Speaking of strong... have you thought about a cloak? For the ceremony. You'll need a new one. Jon's will be too heavy, and the one from your house…”

Arya trailed off, her meaning clear. The Karstark cloak was tainted by recent history—the Boltons. A new one would be a fresh start. “We could have one made. Something that's yours. Not just Stark colors, but something... new.” Arya said it with a rare thoughtfulness, her grey eyes meeting yours.

It was a significant offer, an acknowledgment that you were building your own place here, not just filling a pre-existing role. Sansa nodded in agreement, “That's a wonderful idea. A new cloak for a new beginning.” She picked up a swatch of a silvery-grey fur, holding it out for inspection.

“This is from a shadowcat Jon's men brought in last week. It's warm, and it has a sheen to it... it would be fitting.” The two sisters, so different in their own ways, seemed rarely united at this moment.

You examined the fur closely, running your fingers through the coat. “It's beautiful.” Sansa’s expression brightened at your approval. She carefully draped the silvery fur over a nearby chair.

“I’ll have the seamstress start on it tomorrow. We’ll line it with a heavy wool to keep out the chill.” She turned back to the table. “Now, about the dress. The wool or the velvet? The wool is practical for the weather, but the velvet… it has a certain grandeur.”

Sansa watched you carefully, awaiting your decision. Arya had wandered over to a basket of sewing tools and was idly testing the sharpness of a pair of shears. Sansa noticed your hesitation. “There’s no need to decide right now. You can take the swatches with you, see how you feel in the morning light.”

The silence lingered for a moment before Sansa spoke once more. “The ceremony will be at the heart tree, just after dawn. It’s the quietest time, before the castle fully wakes. Fewer prying eyes.” Her voice was gentle but firm.

She was clearly thinking of how to make the event as intimate as possible. “We’ll keep the guest list small. Family, a few trusted bannermen. Davos, of course. Tormund would raise hell if he isn't invited.”

Arya grinned before commenting, “He’d probably try to carry Jon off bridal style afterward.” Sansa allowed a small smile. “Quite possibly. But that’s a problem for after the vows.” She picked up the cup of wine she’d poured for herself and took a sip, her eyes thoughtful.

“It will be a good day. A peaceful one. The North needs to see a Stark wedding that isn’t… just duty.” Arya nodded briskly, “Speaking of duty… have you thought about what you’ll do with the Karstark lands? After?”

Sansa shot Arya a warning look. “That’s a discussion for another time, Arya. Today is for the wedding.” Arya held her hands up in a gesture of peace. “Just asking. A queen should think ahead.”

Her use of the title ‘queen’ was casual, but it landed heavily in the room. It was a reminder of the weight that would soon rest on your shoulders, alongside Jon’s. Sansa smoothed her skirts, deliberately changing the subject. “Let’s focus on the present. The dress, the cloak, the feast afterward… though I suspect Jon will want to keep that brief, too.”

She smiled wryly before adding, “He’s never been one for long celebrations.” A stifled chuckle escaped Arya. “He’ll have other things on his mind.” Sansa gave a soft, knowing laugh at Arya's comment, a faint blush coloring her own cheeks. She quickly busied herself with rearranging the fabric swatches on the table.

Sansa cleared her throat. “Yes, well. Let's focus on the details we can control.” She turned back to you. “The feast will be in the Great Hall. We'll keep it simple—roast boar, fresh bread, ale. Nothing too extravagant."

Arya snorted. “Gives a lesser chance of the lords getting drunk and starting to make endless speeches about glory and honor.” Sansa ignores her again. “I thought we might have music. Not a full band, just a lone harpist.”

Sansa's eyes drifted to the window, where the afternoon light was already beginning to fade into a deep winter grey. The light in the sewing room was growing dimmer as the short winter day began to wane. Sansa moved to light a few more candles, the flickering flames casting a warm glow over the piles of fabric.

She turned back to you with a warm, but slightly weary smile. “We've covered quite a lot. But there's one more thing. The vows.” Her tone was gentler. “Traditionally, the words are spoken before the heart tree. They're simple. Promises of loyalty and protection. But... you and Jon may wish to say something of your own.”

Arya leaned against the table. “He's not much for long speeches. Might be better to keep it simple.” Sansa nodded. “True. But the words should mean something to you both.

“It's your choice, of course. We can stick to the old words, or you can prepare something. There's no wrong answer.” She added. Outside the room, the sound of heavy, familiar footsteps echoed in the corridor. A moment later, the door pushed open and Jon stood there, his frame filling the doorway.

He had cleaned up slightly, his hair damp as if from a quick wash, but he still carried the scent of the outdoors and a faint, lingering warmth from the solar. His eyes found you immediately. His voice a low rumble. “Am I interrupting?”

Sansa smiled faintly. “We were just finishing. The planning is coming along well.” Jon nodded, his gaze still fixed on you. “That’s good.” Arya perked up an eyebrow. “Come to steal her away already? The sun's not even down.”

A faint flush creeped up his neck. “Davos needs me. Council matters. But I... wanted to... walk with you. Back to your chambers.” The unspoken ‘I wanted to see you’ hung in the air between you. He stood awkwardly in the doorway, looking every bit the man torn between duty and desire.

Sansa exchanged a knowing look with Arya. “Of course. We have enough to be getting on with for now.” Jon’s gaze softened as you approached him, his hand lifting slightly as if to reach for yours before he remembered you weren’t alone.

He let it fall back to his side, but the intensity in his dark eyes remained. His voice low, for your ears only. “Ready?” Sansa gathered up a few fabric swatches. “Take these with you, (Name). Look at them by the window in your chamber tomorrow. The light is better there."

He offered his arm to you, a formal, almost old-fashioned gesture that felt strangely earnest coming from him. You smiled at Sansa as you took the fabrics before taking Jon's arm. As you stepped into the corridor, Jon spoke up. “Davos is waiting in the solar. Something about grain shipments from the Vale.”

He fell into step beside you, his presence a solid, warm barrier against the chill of the stone hallways. You walked in a comfortable silence for a moment, the only sound being your footsteps and the distant echo of the castle.

He glanced down at you. “Sansa didn’t… overwhelm you, did she? She means well. She just… plans.” His tone was protective, laced with a gentle concern. He slowed his pace as they turned a corner, the path to the family wing quieter and more private.

Stopping just outside the door to your chambers, he turned to face you. “I won’t be long with Davos. An hour, perhaps.” He stood close, his voice dropping to a near whisper. The torchlight flickered across his face.

You stared up at Jon. “The wedding… when do you think it'll take place?” You inquired. He looks down at you, the intensity in his gaze sharpening, stripping away the last of his kingly reserve. “Soon. Very soon.”

His voice is rough, low as he added. “I’m confident that Sansa can have everything ready in three days' time. At dawn, of course, in the godswood.” He lifted a hand, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the calluses on his skin.

“If I had my way, it would be tomorrow. Tonight.” He leans in closer, his forehead nearly touching yours, his voice dropping to a whisper. “But Sansa insists a king's wedding should be… special. That takes time.” He lets out a soft, frustrated sound, a mix of a sigh and a grunt.

The torchlight flickers, casting shifting shadows across his face, highlighting the stark contrast between the stern set of his jaw and the raw longing in his eyes. “Three days feels like a lifetime.” From down the corridor, the distinct, heavy tread of Davos Seaworth's boots echoes, followed by a polite cough.

“Your Grace? The ledgers are waiting. Lord Royce's man is getting impatient.” Davos called out, his tone apologetic but firm. Jon doesn't pull away, his eyes still locked on yours. He spoke loudly enough for Davos to hear, but his words are meant only for you. “I'm coming."

With obvious reluctance, he finally steps back, his hand falling to his side. He gives you one last, long look before turning to walk down the hall toward Davos, his posture straightening back into that of the King in the North.

As he disappears around the corner, the chill of the corridor seems to seep back in, the brief warmth of his presence gone. The heavy oak door to your chambers stands before you, a silent promise of the privacy and the future that is now only three days away.

Your chambers in the family wing were a world apart from the drafty stone halls. A fire crackled steadily in the hearth. The bed was large, covered with heavy furs, and a few personal touches had begun to appear—a carved wooden box on the bedside table, a brush set that had been Sansa’s gift. The air smelled faintly of cedar smoke and dried herbs.

You stood for a long moment, the silence of the room a stark contrast to the planning and the intense emotions of the afternoon. The fabric swatches Sansa had given you felt heavy in your hand. You laid them on the bed: the white wool, the blue velvet, the shadowcat fur.

A soft scratching sound came from the door. Before you could answer, it pushed open slowly, and a massive white shape padded silently into the room. Ghost lifted his great head, his red eyes regarding you calmly before he settled himself on the rug before the fire with a quiet huff.

The direwolf’s presence was a comfort, a silent guardian and a tangible piece of Jon. You were not entirely alone. The furs on the bed were thick and warm, but a deep chill had settled into the stone of the castle, a chill that seemed to seep into one's bones.

You pulled the covers tighter around yourself, watching the firelight play across Ghost's pale fur. The direwolf's ears twitched at the sound of your movement, but he did not open his eyes. The quiet of the room was broken only by the crackle of the fire and the sound of the wind picking up outside, whistling faintly past the window.

It was a lonely sound, a reminder of the vast, cold North that waited beyond Winterfell's walls. After a time, the logs in the hearth settled with a soft crash of embers, sending a wave of closeness throughout the room.

Ghost let out a low, contented sigh in his sleep, his tail giving a single, thumping wag against the floor. The silence stretched on, the three days ahead feeling both like a promise and a trial. The weight of the coming change, of becoming a queen, of belonging to Jon in the eyes of gods and men, settled over you in the quiet dark.

You then slowly sat up, the coldness nearing unbearable. “Come here, boy.” You beckoned Ghost onto the bed, patting the furs. The direwolf lifted his head at your voice, his red eyes glowing in the firelight.

He regarded you for a long moment, contemplating if he should go or not. Then, with a graceful, silent movement, he rose from the rug and padded to the side of the bed. He hesitated only a second before leaping up onto the thick furs, his great weight causing the bed frame to creak softly.

He circled once, then settled himself heavily beside you, his warm body radiating heat like a living furnace. He rested his massive head on his paws, his eyes closing contentedly. The deep, penetrating chill that had clung to you began to fade almost immediately, replaced by the comforting warmth of the direwolf.

The wind outside seemed a little less biting. You drifted into a fitful sleep as you curled up against the direwolf's immense warmth. The fire burned low, and the howl of the wind became a distant lullaby. Time lost meaning in the dark, quiet chamber.

Jon stood rooted to the spot. Watching. Ensuring you wouldn't vanish from his sight the moment he looked away. Davos approached him cautiously, “She's a fragile thing, Jon. But, there's a strength in her. I saw it in the way she looked at you.”

Turning towards the solar, Jon scoffed dryly. “I don't want her to be fragile, Ser Davos. I want her to be able to rest without the fear of what comes with the morrow.” He then strode towards the solar, his cloak billowing behind him.

As he entered the room, the chatter of a dozen Northern lords snapped into a sudden, suffocating silence. All eyes turned to him, their faces etched with a mixture of suspicion and desperate hope.

The solar was smaller than the Grand Hall, but the air felt twice as heavy. Maps of the North were sprawled across a massive oak table, weighted down by daggers and inkpots. The lords of the North—men with weathered faces and furs stained by road-dust—stood in clusters, their voices having been a bustle before Jon had entered.

Lord Manderly was the first to drift forward, his voice authoritative and thick with a White Harbor accent. “Your Grace. We are glad you've joined us. We were just discussing the… specifics of the Karstark restoration.” Jon shook his head, his voice cutting through the room with its coolness. “I am not interested in specifics. I am interested in loyalty.”

Lord Glover then stepped forward, his arms crossed in equity. “Loyalty is a two-way alley, Snow. The Karstarks betrayed the Starks when they were needed the most. Now you wish to bring their daughter into bed to wash away that stain? Many are naming that as a weakness.”

A few of the lords murmured in agreement. Jon didn't flinch. He couldn't, not in front of them. He walked to the head of the table, leaning his weight on his palms, his dark eyes scanning every man in the room. The silence that followed was that of predatory.

His voice sparse and parlous, “The Boltons are dead. The North is mine to lead. If any man here thinks my marriage is a weakness, he is welcome to voice thought outside the walls.” Lord Glover stiffened, his maw snapping shut.

The room grew still again, the only sound the popping of the logs in the fireplace. Lord Manderly waved a hand, attempting to pivot, “Of course, Your Grace. Of course. We merely seek clarity. Once the marriage is sealed, the Karstark lands must be formally returned to its initial standing. It ensures the stability of the eastern marches.”

Jon straightened up. “The lands will be returned. Not for the sake of a treaty, but because the North cannot survive if we keep carving it into pieces.” The lords murmured, the tension in the room shifting from open challenge to a begrudging acceptance.

They were men of the North; they respected strength, and Jon had just reminded them that while he might not have the name they expected, he had the will of a King. Lord Manderly nodded thoughtfully, “A wise decision. Stability is the only currency that matters as of now.”

The meeting dragged on for hours. Jon endured the endless petitions for grain, the disputes over borders, and the subtle jabs at his legitimacy. Every time a lord spoke of you—referring to you as a ‘means to an end’ or a ‘concession’—Jon’s jaw tightened.

By the time the solar finally cleared, the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the fortress in a shroud of bruised purple and grey. The Lord filed out one by one with their grumbled partings, their boots thumping against the stone floor like a heartbeat.

Jon remained in the solar for a few minutes after they departed. He leaned against the heavy oak, his eyes closing as he let out a long, ragged breath. The crown felt heavier than ever.

He thought of the way Lord Glover spoke of you—as if you were a piece of land to be conquered or a debt to be settled on behalf of your family. He suddenly pushed off from the table and started out of the room, his pace unhurried.

He didn't head for his own quarters or the Great Hall. Instead, he made his way towards the west wing.

The corridor was quiet, illuminated by the flickering wall sconces. He stopped outside the heavy oak door Sansa had shown you to. He didn't knock immediately; he stood there in silence, his hand hovering over the door.

Hesitating.

He wondered if you were sleeping, or if the silence of the room was too loud for even that. He then knocked softly, barely more than a tap. His voice was low, muffled by the barrier of the door.

“(Name)?”

Inside the room, the fire had burned down to glowing embers, casting a dim, orange light across the furs and the half-eaten bowl of pottage on the table. The room smelled of cedar and old stone, along with the faint scent of your signature perfume oils.

You reluctantly stood from the foot of your bed, brushing the wrinkles from the nightgown you were given. You made your way towards the door, turning the knob and opening it.

“You came.” You managed to murmur, noting the bags under Jon's eyes. He leaned against the doorframe, his expression weary. “I said I would.” He didn't step inside immediately, instead he remained in the threshold.

The flickering light from the hallway highlighted the deep lines of exhaustion around his eyes and the smudge of soot still clinging to his jaw. His gaze drifted towards the table, “You didn't eat much.” he acknowledged.

He looked back at you, his dark eyes searching yours. Now that they were away from the prying eyes of the lords and the heavy atmosphere of the Great Hall, the silence between them felt different—less like a force field and more like a mutual space.

You shook your head, “I wasn't that hungry.” you responded, which made Jon frown. “You need your strength. The North doesn't feed the frail.” He finally stepped inside, the heavy thud of his boots echoing in the small room.

He didn't move toward you, instead keeping a respectful distance, though his presence seemed to furnish the space. He glanced at the dim embers of the fire, then back to her. He let out a profound huff. “I spent the last four hours listening to men describe you as a political necessity.”

His jaw tightened, a flicker of the prior anger from the solar returning. He then shifted his weight, his hand resting on the hilt of Longclaw. “I told them the lands would be returned. I told them the union would happen.” He turned to look you in the eye.

“But I want you to know this.” He paused, letting the words linger. “Under my protection, and in this marriage, you are not a liability.” He inhaled deeply as he struggled for a moment to find words that didn't sound like the empty promises of a courtier.

Jon wasn't a man of poetry; he preferred to give the cold, hard truth, and the truth was that he felt a strange, mutual kinship with your silence. “You are your own woman. If you wish to spend your days here in the library, or the godswood, or simply in silence… you may. I will not stop you.”

You smiled at that. “On the topic of the godswood, perhaps we should take a walk there.” You offered, already reaching for your furs. “I need the fresh air anyhow, it is quite suffocating in here already.”

Jon blinked, caught off guard by your suggestion. His voice cautious, “It is late. The air… it is freezing.” he didn't say no. In fact, the idea of escaping the stifling walls of the keep was almost too tempting. He looked at you, noticing the small smile engraved on your face, and felt a strange tightening in his chest.

It was the first time he had seen you look at him with something other than reluctant acceptance, and he found himself craving more of it. He then stepped back toward the door, “Put on your furs. All of them.” he waited for you to dress, standing guard by the door like a sentinel.

Once you were wrapped in heavy wool and fur, he led the way out of the west wing, your arm interlocked with his. You moved through the keep in a shared silence, your footsteps echoing in the corridors.

As you stepped outside, the winter air hit you like a physical blow. The wind howled through the battlements, carrying the scent of pine and incoming snow. The courtyard was mostly empty now, the fires of the funeral pyres reduced to glowing mounds of ash.

You walked toward the godswood hand-in-hand, the snow crunching beneath your boots. As you entered the grove, the silence of the castle faded, replaced by the eerie, whistling wind in the branches. The weirwood tree stood at the center, its stark white bark seemingly glowing in the dark, the blood-red leaves shivering against the night sky.

Jon stopped a few paces from the tree, his voice barely above a whisper. “This is the heart of Winterfell.” He looked at the carved face in the trunk, its eyes weeping sap that looked like frozen blood.

You glanced up at the tree, your arm tightening around his. “It's… it's beautiful.” Your voice trembled slightly from the cold as you murmured. Being as observant as ever—one he picked up on from being the shadow of Winterfell—he noticed the tremble.

He stepped closer, his presence intentionally blocking the biting wind. “You're shivering.” He acknowledged. He didn't hesitate this time. Without a word, he reached out and shifted the heavy, dark fur of his own cloak, pulling the thick material around your shoulders to share the warmth.

He didn't pull you flush against him, instead being mindful of your boundaries and remaining close enough so that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. He then looked up at the red leaves of the tree, “My father… he always said the Old Gods see everything. Every promise made, every lie told.”

He fell silent, his spent, tenebrous eyes drifting back to you. In the pale, ghostly light of the weirwood, your e/c eyes seemed to luster. The stark contrast of the red leaves against the white snow created a crimson halo around you, isolating you from the rest of the world.

His voice flat and coarse, “Do you believe them? The gods?” Jon wasn't asking for a theological debate. He was asking if you believed in fate. You cocked your head to look at him, “Do you?” You inquired back, which caused him to look away.

His gaze meandered back to the weeping face of the weirwood. “I used to. When I was a boy.” His voice turned dull, devoid of conviction. “Now I only believe in what I can see. The dead. The cold. The people who need someone to lead.”

He shifted slightly, the heavy fur of the cloak pulling them marginally closer. The wind whipped around them, whistling through the branches, but within the circle of the cloak, there was a pocket of stillness. Jon didn't look back at you instantly.

“Faith is a luxury for people who haven't seen death.” He paused, his expression softening as he noticed a stray lock of h/c hair fluttering across your face in the wind. He made a sudden, instinctive movement to brush it away with his thumb, but he stopped himself inches from your skin.

His hand hovered there for a heartbeat—indecisive, almost as if he was afraid—before he dropped it back to his side. He cleared his throat, his voice returning to its dourness. “But maybe that's why we're both here. Two people, who no longer believe in fairy tales, forced into a marriage expected of by people who still believe.”

You leaned into him in the slightest, “Our wedding…” you trailed off, changing the subject. “It is to be a quick one, is it not?” He stiffened at the contact, but could not pull himself away. “Yes. A quiet ceremony. In the godswood.” He looked at you, his eyes searching your face.

He could tell you weren't asking out of anticipation, but out of desire to get the formality over with. “No feast for the lords. No grand announcements. Just a septon, the Old Gods, and the witnesses.” He shifted the weight of the cloak, ensuring you were fully shielding from the blighting wind.

His voice turning mellow, “If you want it to be even smaller… I can make it so.” You glanced up at him, “The consummation… is it required?” Jon froze in place. The question hung in the brisk air, more jarring than the wind itself.

He didn't move; he didn't seem to even breathe for a few seconds. His gaze remained fixed on you, his eyes widening ever so slightly. It was a question of duty, and of the most intimate kind of violation—a question that, for a woman who had been wedded and bedded by Ramsay Bolton, likely carried a significant weight.

His voice dropped to a rough whisper. “No.” He didn't hesitate. There was no pause to consider the political ramifications or the expectations of the lords who would want there to be an heir to secure the Karstark alliance. The answer was immediate and absolute.

His grip tightened on the cloak. “It is not required. Not by me.” He looked you dead in the eye, his expression solemn. “I will not touch you unless you ask me to. Not tonight, not on our wedding night, not ever.”

He stepped back just an inch, giving you more space, though he kept the cloak snuggly wrapped around you. He wanted you to feel the significance of his answer. For Jon, the idea of forcing himself upon someone—especially someone who had already been on the receiving end of such monstrosities from Ramsay—was a thought more repulsive than any battle he had ever fought.

His jaw tightened. “You have spent enough of your life being told what your body is for. Under my protection, you decide.” You hesitated, the back of your hand brushing against his as you brushed your hair out of your face.

“They will be expectant for a child.” You affirmed, fidgeting with your rings. His voice turned bitter, a sharp edge returning to his tone. “Let them expect.” He looked out toward the distance silhouettes of the keep. “They expect a lot of things. They expected me to stay dead. They expected that we would not win the battle for Winterfell.”

He didn't look at you, but his chest rose and fell in heavy, rhythmic, cadence. The though of the lords—men like Glover and Manderly—speculating about the intimacy of his own bed made his skin crawl. To them, a child was just another seal on a contract, a living, breathing piece of parchment to guarantee loyalty.

Jon turned back to you, his gaze softening. He saw the way you leaned into him, the feeble trust you were tentatively placing in his strength. He realize then that for you, the fear wasn't just about the act itself, but the political clock that started ticking the moment the vows are spoken.

His voice barely above a murmur, direct and pointed. “I don't want a child born of a duty you dread. I would rather have no heir at all than one that is a constant reminder of your place to the world.” You smiled slighty at his words.

“Would I be wrong to kiss you before the wedding?” You probed. His breath hitched in his throat, freezing. He had faced White Walkers and death itself, but that simple question left him vulnerable.

His voice sounded strangled, “I…” He didn't finish the sentence, for he could not. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic sound that seemed louder than the howling of the wind through the weirwood branches. He was suddenly hyper-aware of everything. The scent of the air, the warmth of your body pressing against his thought the thick furs, and the way your lips were parted slightly.

He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to your lips before snapping back to your eyes. “It is said that it is bad luck to kiss the bride before then.” He leaned in, closing the distance with an agonizing slowness. He stopped just an inch from your lips, giving you ever possible second to pull away, to change your mind, or to simply tell him to stop.

“Are you certain?” His voice was hardly audible. “Is the King in the North afraid to kiss a lady? And here I thought you were the bravest man I know.” You taunted, a pompous grin on your lips. A low, guttural escaped his throat, half-laugh and half-groan. “Brave is fighting a dead army. This…”

He didn't finish. The challenge in your voice was the final snap of the invisible thread. Jon closed the remaining gap, his mouth meeting yours in a kiss that was far from the timid, careful touch he had shown you moments ago.

He pressed you back slightly, his hands sliding from your cheek to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in your h/c hair to hold you steady against him. For a moment, everything went silent. You could hardly breathe with how long he clung on, his lips locked to yours in an perennial dance.

Then, he pulled back just as swiftly as he had pulled in.

The aftermath of the Battle of the Bastards was a gruesome one. One Jon would've preferred to reverse, despite the necessity of it. The blood from the battle still stained the snow, a mixture of smoke and soot—a reminder of the price required to pay for the reclamation of Winterfell.

The victory had been absolute, but the cost was etched into every dead man and cracked stone of the keep. In the courtyard, men slogged in a heavy silence, hauling debris aside and gathering the dead for the pyres. The snow fell steadily, strewing the ruins in a deceitful, clean white.

Winter has come. But, now it was no longer a threat to the North. Inside the Great Hall, the air was frigid, biting at Jon's flushed face. He stood by the hearth, his dark curls draping around his face like curtains, staring into the embers. Lost in thought. He looked less like a newly claimed King and more like a man who had seen all too much.

A handful of braziers strived against the draft, casting long, spectral shadows along the walls. Ser Davos Seaworth had stepped forward, his voice low. “The lords are restless, Jon. They don't want just a leader. They want a beacon that the North is whole again.” Without looking from the fire, “I gave them a victory.” Jon responded briskly.

Davos tightened his jaw, “A victory is a moment. A marriage is a foundation. House Karstark is a powerful name, even if it's been dishonored as it has.” Jon finally turned, his dun eyes tired and rimmed with exhaustion. He looked like a man who had just come back to life and found only more burdens awaiting him.

(Name). Ramsay Bolton's widow. Jon had seen you in the godswood many a time, your figure that of a ghost. You were the Bolton's prisoner in all but name. Davos cleared his throat, “She has suffered enough at the hands of the Boltons. Bringing her into your house—properly, as your wife—cleanses the Karstark’s name and will secure their swords. It is a practical choice.”

Jon let out an empty scoff, “Practical.” his gaze shifted towards the heavy oak doors. Behind those doors awaited the woman who had survived the cruelty of Ramsay Bolton. A woman who was now being traded from one man to another. “...(Name) deserves someone with much gentler hands than Ramsay.” Sansa had chimed in, sitting at the high table nearby.

Jon glanced at Sansa for a brief moment, his brows knitted. Sansa had endured Ramsay's brutality before, Jon knew that. “She's a kind woman, Jon. She assisted with my escape. She trusted that I'd find the help she needed.” Sansa had said, averting her gaze downward as she added timidly, “You'll come to love her, I know it.”

Jon exhaled gravely, a breath he didn't even perceive he had been holding. “I have faith.” He grunted, turning his gaze back to the cinders of the fire. The doors then groaned open, a servant stepping aside as you entered the hall. You walked with a quiet dignity, your h/c hair falling nimbly over your shoulders.

You didn't spare a glance to the lords whispering in the galleries; only looking at the man standing near the head of the table. The hall fell with an abiding hush as you approached. The only sound was the soft rhythmic thud from the heels of your boots against the stone floor, along with the crackle of the hearth.

The lords of the galleries leaned in, their eyes watching your every move. Jon gradually made his way closer to the table, meeting your stop. He stood tall, the heavy Stark cloak weighing over his shoulder. He didn't move any closer, nor did he offer a false smile. His expression remained guarded, his eyes searching yours for nothing in particular.

“You've had a long journey from the Dreadfort.” Dreadfort. The place Ramsay kept you cooped up in while awaiting the battle. His voice was steady, but devoid of any hardness. Davos stepped back to give you both space, his voice soft “The chambers in the west wing have been prepared for you, My Lady. They are warm, and the servants have seen to the linens.”

Jon ignored Davos, his attention set on you. “You don't have to stand. Please. Sit.” He implored as he gestured to the high table. You offered a paltry smile as you sat, brushing your skirts beneath you. “Thank you.” The distance between you and Jon felt like a canyon, the space filled with the ghosts of the people who had fought to clear this very room.

Jon remained standing for a moment longer than necessary, his hands gripping the edge of the table. His knuckles were turning white. He finally sat back down after the silence got too loud. “I know what they say. The lords. The council.” He didn't look at Davos, but the smuggler remained a few paces away, a silent witness to their awkwardness at the moment.

“I didn't ask for this crown. And I didn't ask for you to be brought here as a payment for your father's sins.” Davos cleared his throat, “Perhaps now is not the time to bring the politics of the past, Jon.” Jon shifted, the heavy furs of his cloak rustling. “It's the only time we have, Ser Davos.”

He looked at you, his expression stoic but not unkind. He was searching for something—a flicker of anger, a sign of fear, or perhaps just a sign that you were still there behind the mask of courtesy. “You've spent years with a man who found pleasure in flaying men.” He paused, leaning forward, “I cannot give you back the dignity you lost. But you will find no cruelty here. Not from me.”

You look up at him, “I appreciate your graciousness, My Lord.” Jon stared at you for a long moment, “Not Lord, just Jon.” he corrected. “...Right. Jon.” Your voice was steady, your gaze clear, but your words felt like formality—a shield you carried out of necessity.

His expression softened in the slightest, “Graciousness isn't what you need. You need peace.” He looked away, his eyes drifting toward the high windows where the grey light of the North filtered through. The silence stretched between them, though no longer oppressive, but heavy with the things unspoken.

Davos stepped forward, “Peace is a rare thing in the North, My Lady. But it is something the King is determined to make do.” Jon grimaced at the title of ‘King’, his posture stiffening. He shifted his weight, his gaze returning to you. He noticed the way you sat—spine straight, hands resting still in your lap.

You were composed. Far too composed for someone who had undergone Ramsay's savagery. “You must be tired.” Jon's voice was gruff as he gestured to the hall, “I'll have the servants bring some food to your chambers. Something warm.” As he spoke, a low, guttural huff echoed from the entrance of the hall. Ghost, his direwolf, trotted in.

His red eyes scanned the room before settling on you. He didn't growl; he simply approached with a slow, curious gait, his paws silent on the stone. The wolf stopped a few feet from the table, tilting his head as he sniffed the air, sensing the lingering scent of the Dreadfort.

Jon watched Ghost, his brows furrowing, “He doesn't trust easily.” he commented. You watched the direwolf with a mix of awe and fright, “He's beautiful.” you murmured—more to yourself than Jon. Ghost stepped closer, closing the gap until his large, white head was leveled with the table.

The wolf didn't lunge or snap; instead, he leaned in, his cold nose nudging tentatively against your hand. Jon smiled, a true one that hadn't been on his face in quite a long time, “He likes to protect those close to me. He knows you're someone worth defending.” He glanced up from Ghost and up at you.

He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. “A good omen.” Davos chimed in, “With the wolf, you'll be the safest you've ever been.” The moment was interrupted by Sansa standing, the shuffling of her boots cutting through the air.

Her red hair—kissed by fire, they say—contrasting sharply with the grey of the stone walls. “I hope your journey wasn't too taxing, (Name).” Sansa smiled at you before turning to Jon, “The lords are gathering in the solar. They are anxious to hear the terms of this union.”

Jon stiffened, his jaw tightening. “Let them wait.” Sansa exhaled shallowly, “They have waited long enough, Jon. The North needs to know that the Karstarks have truly returned to the fold.” You had been petting Ghost, too submerged in the warmth of the wolf's white fur to even heed the conversation.

The wolf leaned into your touch, his heavy head resting against your palm. His red eyes closed in contentment, letting out a purr-like sound that escaped his throat. For a few seconds, the politics of the lords ceased to exist. Jon watched you, his expression unreadable.

He didn't tell you to stop. He didn't remind you of the lords waiting in the solar or the propriety of the situation. He simply watched how the tension in your shoulders seemed to dip, if only by an inch. Sansa's expression softened as she watched you, maybe a tad bit of relief in her eyes at the sight of you relaxed.

She then turned back to Jon, her tone returning to one of business inducing. “Jon, the Manderly representative is asking for a specific audience. He wants to ensure the Karstark lands are formally recognized under the Northern crown before the wedding is announced.”

Jon stood up abruptly, the bench scraping harshly against the stone. “I said let them wait, Sansa.” His voice wasn't loud, but it held a sudden, sharp edge. He looked down at you, seeing you still connected to Ghost, a flicker of something—protectiveness, perhaps, or guilt—crossed his face.

He didn't want to pull you back to the cold reality of the expectant lords just yet. Davos soon stepped in, attempting to smooth the tension, “The Manderlys are thorough, that's all. A bit of parchment now saves a lot of blood later.”

Jon sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine.” He looked at you one last time, “Go with Sansa. She'll show you to your chambers. Get some food. Rest. I'll deal with the lords.” He reassured, beginning to walk.

You then look up at Jon, giving Ghost one last stroke along his fur. “Will you come see me later?” You inquired, staring at his back that was partially turned to her. Jon stopped in his tracks, looking back over his shoulders, his dark eyes meeting yours.

“I will.”

He didn't promise a time, nor did he offer a smile.

the slap on your rear brought you to a sudden halt, causing you to glance behind you. nate followed your gaze, his eyes darkening subtly as he was met with a fraternity guy who had a rather shrewd grin plastered on his face. most would interpret nate's glare as a challenge to provoke him, but the guy persisted by standing his ground.

"fuck's your problem?" nate stepped forward, his imposing height practically dwarfing the frat guy. at nate's accusing tone, heads cocked towards you. the loud, booming music faded as all attention was set on you three. mr. frat guy then stepped forward, his hands lazily stuffed in his pockets as he dared to peek at you again.

nate stifled a chuckle. "uh, uh, look at me. you think you can touch my girl and live to tell the tale?" he snagged the guy's collar, forcefully pulling him closer. collective gasps filled the air as the people around conjointly ushered back. "i'm fucking talk to you!" nate shouted, shaking the frat guy frantically.

silence filled the air as the music was abruptly cut off. spit then splattered onto nate's cheek. oh. now he was really gonna get it.

nate delivered a hard blow square in the guy’s face, sending him tumbling to the ground. nate then mounted the guy, repeatedly punching him over and over again. blood flowered the wooden floor below the two.

you watched in horror as nate beat the guy to a pulp, “nate!” you shouted, resoundingly attempting to pull nate off him. as your voice froze nate's intrusive outrage, the frat guy managed to overpower him and knock him off with a speedy slap across the face.

the guy situated on top of him, passing a punch straight to nate's nose. blood spilled from nate's nasal cavity before he managed to catch the guy’s wrist in a firm grip before he could plant another blow. he then knocked his head against the frat guy’s sending him back with a groan.

with his bloodied knuckles, he continued his onslaught of incessant strikes. a few hits in, “stop, you're gonna kill him!” you hysterically clamored. nate didn't seem to even realize the guy had fallen unconscious in his blinded rage.

“serves him right.” nate sneered, brushing the stream of blood cascading down from his nose to his lips with the back of his hand.

“ow, ow!” nate yelped, “be more gentle, will you? that shit fucking burns like hell…” he yanked away with furrowed brows.

“no, i’m not going to be more gentle. you almost just killed that guy!” you shot back, grabbing his face and tugging him back closer. you dabbed a clean cloth to his lip, letting it soak up the blood from his busted lip.

“(name), he slapped your ass. you think i’m gonna let him get away with that?” he argued, his grip tightening slightly around your waist. “...besides, that's my job!” he added with a pompous grin.

you abruptly hit him with a nearby pillow, “hey, hey! you're supposed to be helping me, not trying to beat me up too!” he said as he snatched the pillow from your grasp and set it back on his bed.

you rolled your eyes, “just… stop messing around. i need to stop your lip from bleeding or you might get an infection.” you stated solidly.

“give kiss first.” nate urged snidely, puckering his lips.

you scoffed, shaking your head disapprovingly “it'll get infected if i do that.” you murmured.

nate considered it for a moment. “no tongue, just a peck.” he coaxed.

“no.” you said abruptly.

“please.” he chimed.

“no.”

“yes.”

“no.”

“no.”

“yes. wait what?”

he managed to catch you off guard by saying no too. before you could correct yourself, he leaned in and placed a quick peck on your lips.

“nate!” you yelled, pinching his ear.

𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗱𝗶𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘁𝘄𝗼 𝗺𝗲𝗲𝘁?

for this concept, i'll interpret your encounter with mark as how clark arrived on earth. (with you crashing onto earth in a foreign spaceship from krypton). cecil would probably send mark over to check the supposed 'meteor' out and surprise surprise... it's an unconscious you.

you'd be laying there somehow unscathed from the crash, your pulse still very much present. mark would loom over you with a puzzled expression like an all too curious cat. you didn't seem to be a threat... but you were undeniably an undiscovered species. so, safe to say he was still on guard.

i'll summarize the rest as best as i can. the gda had captured you, seemingly acquiring green kryptonite in the process—which made you compliant to their experiments. mark overseed their experiments, protesting to cecil about the inhumane nature of subjecting you to so many tests without your consent.

cecil would only then release you after he supposedly finished his studies, but not before ensuring a tracker was implanted inside you. due to your unknown species, the gda was determined to maintain control over you.

after being released from the gda, you would likely be taken in by mark and debbie. cecil figured it would be best if you hung around mark, as he was quite similar to you.

𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙳𝙲𝙰𝙽𝙾𝙽𝚂

much to mark's demise, oliver would be up your butt all the time, constantly asking endless questions about you over dinner. you'd find it amusing, but mark's jaw would subtly flex while keeping a smile plastered on his face. oliver saw you as a cooler big sibling and it made mark jealous (this would eventually lead into monotonous competitions of whose considered better).

you'd spend most of your time around the grayson household, occasionally going on missions with mark if required. you still weren't quite accustomed to human liveliness, but you were learning faster than anticipated thanks to debbie's help. you learned english pretty efficiently, practicing often with the others. one time, oliver taught you a potty word and told you to call mark that said word... he was abruptly scolded by both debbie and mark.

it'd take a while for you and mark to necessarily 'date'. there were a lot of signs that mark was into you. but you, being the naive alien you are, didn't quite understand those hints. things like holding hands—which you thought was a regular custom to humans—and subtle brushes of skin.

i feel at one point, in return for the grayson's helping you understand english better, you'd try and teach them kryptonese. mark would be the first to almost completely give up, while oliver was keen on learning your native tongue. seeing oliver's determination, mark would most definitely challenge oliver to seeing who knows more words in kryptonese. it'd be an endless competition of who knows what.

when you and mark began dating, it was kind of an awkward confession (expected from him). he got you your favorite food here on earth—not too sweet or salty, he knew how sensitive your taste buds were. he actually attempted to confess his feelings before, but when he uttered the one and only "i love you", you didn't quite understand. you assumed he meant in just a friendly way. the first confession was a fail, but the second was a score after you finally learned what type of 'love' he meant.

due to the gda being the only one in possession of kryptonite, you practically are unstoppable on earth. mark would be laying back sipping on one of the milkshakes the two of you got while watching you pummel a villain into the ground.

mark had to stop wearing cologne around you. anything that overshadows his natural scent would irk you. when you hug or kiss, you expect to smell that familiar smell. but, when your senses are attacked by the hints of cologne, you can't help but furrow your brows. you didn't make him entirely stop wearing fragrances, just specifically nothing that dims his natural scent.

sex wasn't something you two urgently wanted to do together. it wasn't something you considered at that. but, when mark first proposed, you were easily convinced since you trusted him—although reluctant. when it was finally time to get down, it'd be full of passion. (in my previous hcs ft mark & a human reader, i stated that he'd insist he be on bottom—for your safety of course. but, since you're a kryptonian in this, he'd most definitely switch between being on top and bottom depending on his mood).

sex with mark involves lots of touching. given you both can feel and hear the barest hint of things, you two love physical touch. your arms are always wrapped around him with your face buried in his neck, nose pressing to his pulse. the first few times you have with each other will be rather gentle and full of fervor.

i can imagine as these special times together turn more into hunger, so does the severity. funnily enough, i think you two would cause mini seismic earthquakes around the neighborhood while going at it. the law enforcement would be called over and you two would just be sitting there looking all too guilty.

one word: teeth. since you two have basically indestructible skin, you occasionally just bite each other's skin while going at it like a bunch of teething puppies. mark's the main culprit, regretfully so. the marks never last, but he obviously doesn't seem to care given he just keeps doing it.

when mark first saw you being affected by red kryptonite, he was shamefully enough turned on. he may or may not have once requested you be in the presence of red kryptonite during sex.

given his past relationship with amber, mark is definitely more upfront about his superhero status. rather than bottling up all his secrets like he did with her, he figured it would be better to just come right out and say that he's a superhero. shockingly, you were understanding. mark expected you to swiftly dismiss him and say he was bluffing, so your response was a bit of a surprise.

one perk of dating mark is that despite him not being there most of the time, he never fails to make up for lost time. he always brings something back from every mission, whether it's a souvenir from a different state or just a butt load of your favorite snacks. he even occasionally brings back a bouquet of your favorite flowers. you're always on his mind.

jealousy? what's that? mark honestly wouldn't get jealous pretty easily. if he sees someone hitting on you, he kindly just ushers you away from said person. but there were rare moments, like when he peeped your ex—someone who used to be close with you—trying to swoon you and potentially steal your heart back. oh, boy. that's when mark felt true envy.

if you have any nerdy interests, trust mark will be trying to get into those interests. let it be a show you enjoy, or a comic series you are hyper fixated on. it's his favorite way to bond with you. he catches wind of you mentioning one of your favorite comic books? next thing you know he's nose deep in said comic. it's his love language.

mark was definitely a bit cautious about having sex with you at first. you assumed it was because he was still unfamiliar with such intimacy—dead wrong. mark wasn't a virgin. it wasn't the act that scared him. it was what could happen during the act that scared him. he was afraid he'd lose control and accidentally harm you. so, safe to say, he insisted you take the lead for your first time together. feel like he definitely almost broke the headboard the first time trying to ground himself.

mark is open to trying anything with you in bed. you want to try out a new position? have at it. a big no-no is anything involving him being on top (as stated why above).

cuddle demon. mark's seeking you out after every mission like a lost puppy. with his heightened body heat due to his viltrumite blood, you most of the time wake up looking like you had just run a marathon. much to his disapproval, you refuse his nightly cuddles during warmer weathers. you mostly tolerate them here and there, though. enough to keep him sane.

sex toys? his sworn enemy. the idea of you using a mere toy to please yourself sets something off in mark's brain. it irks him, really. isn't he enough for you?

mark has your heartbeat rhythm embedded in his brain. he can locate you in a crowded place just by listening for the pattern of your heartbeat.

mark LOVES doing handiwork. you need help repairing something? he'll have it fixed in a few hours. he loves being helpful in any way possible.

mark definitely would find any excuse to come crawling back to you. he's sick? straight into your arms. he's injured after a fight? pleading for you to patch him up.

he once tried to bake a cake for you for your birthday. you can guess how that went... in short, he's not great at preparing food—especially desserts.

mark is the type of person who jumps whenever a scary movie has a jumpscare—he's always watching them with you, so you unfortunately fall victim to him grabbing you. he might appear tough planning to watch a scary movie, but he most definitely will regret it midway.

your least favorite time of the year. It's infuriatingly cold to the point you just camp out in your dorm with a heater and a pile of blankets. unfortunately, this is your friend's favorite time of the year. she basically drags you out of your shared dorm to go out to meet-ups and just walk around hogsmeade.

winter.

your friend? cho chang, the popular ravenclaw who managed to snag cedric diggory, the one and only golden boy. you often hung around the two, even if you were essentially a third wheel. they were the love birds, and you? well, you were just there. cho had tried repeatedly to set you up with guys, from arranging blind dates to practically pushing you to socialize with them.

cedric even managed to set you up with someone, though spoiler alert, it didn't last even a month. guess you could say you were virgin fucking mary. it's not that you were unattractive—multiple guys had tried to approach you.

however, you turned down most offers. you weren't sure anyone here was someone you wanted to settle down with. you didn't have many close friends; just cho, and if you count cedric. you had a few acquaintances, but cho is really the only one you've truly committed to.

speaking of acquaintances, let's talk about mattheo riddle.

you aren't that close with mattheo, maybe close enough that he tolerates you calling him "matty". every time he notices someone overhearing you say the nickname too loudly, he looks like he's about to sink directly into the earth's crust. embarrassment perhaps. theodore—his friend—argues otherwise with him.

theo notices everything—and i mean everything. he notices how mattheo relaxes around you, a noticeable change from his usual guarded posture. he notices how mattheo's eyes follow you constantly, whether it's subtly or overtly. he notices that mattheo's face always flushes red whenever your hands brush.

anyway, enough about you and your complicated love life. let's talk about the present.

today, you're sitting at your desk, studying your charms homework assignment—the alohomora spell. you're tasked with practicing the spell and demonstrating its steps in class. wand in hand, you stood before the closed door to your dorm, preparing to cast the spell.

"aloha—"

smack!

the door swung open and smacked you squarely in the forehead. "ow! shit..." you grimace. you soon catch a whiff of cho's signature scent—cherry blossom.

"whoops! sorry, y/n." she apologized, ushering through the door with her books in hand. she seemed rushed, placing her books on the bed before immediately rummaging through her drawers. "where is it... ah!" she muttered to herself while pulling out a navy blue dress.

you watched her intently, raising an eyebrow. "what's that for?" you asked, crossing your arms and holding your wand tightly. cho turned to you, smiling. "christmas party, remember? it's a yearly tradition among seventh-year students. something we do behind the school's back. there'll be drinks and boys. hot boys." she said, emphasizing the hot.

great. another opportunity for cho to set you up with someone and ultimately fail. you scoffed and inched towards her. "a party? you know i don't do parties." you said, turning away and setting your wand back in its case. cho grinned like a cheshire cat before standing up and staring at herself in the body mirror, holding the dress up to her body.

"mattheo will be there." she added, glancing at you. she knew there was underlying tension between you and mattheo thanks to your half-asleep confession of your undying love for the slytherin snob. god forbid you tell cho anything, because she'll never let you live it down.

after a moment's hesitation, you sighed and turned back to her. "fine," you chimed. "i know you won't let me refuse anyway." your words made cho's eyes light up. "great!" she exclaimed before grabbing a black dress from her closet. "here, wear this. i was going to wear it, but black's just not my color." she said, a smile plastered on her face.

you nodded, took the fabric, and stood beside her in front of the mirror, holding the dress up to your body. a grin spread across your face as you walked to your desk, grabbed your makeup bag, and started getting ready. the mascara wand's bristles brushed your lashes, while the blush pigmented your cheeks, creating a soft canvas.

as you walked with cho and cedric, you stared at the snow-covered ground. you were wearing the dress cho had given you, paired with a leather jacket and black tights to keep you warm. walking along the hogsmeade trail, you approached a large cabin that appeared abandoned. it seemed like a perfect spot for rebellious students to camp out and hold illegal parties.

cedric greeted a blond slytherin—draco malfoy—who was one of mattheo’s friends. draco shot you a grin before allowing you three inside.

the music pounded loudly from a speaker suspended in the air, practically shaking the cabin structure. you nervously grabbed cho's hand, a little worried about getting lost in the crowd. cho just clenched your hand and pulled you towards the kitchen, where a gryffindor was mounted on the keg stand. cheers erupted as he managed to chug the barrel for a record time of a minute.

you were handed a can of beer. swallowing hard, you chugged the entire can. cho chuckled as droplets of liquid dripped from your mouth. you weren't a fan of the taste, but you honestly would rather be wasted than deal with the bullshit going on at this party. your glance around the room revealed purple led lights casting an eerie glow.

your gaze then fell upon a familiar face: blaise zabini. one of your childhood friends, also the one who introduced you to mattheo. he seemed to be chatting with someone before his eyes met yours. as you looked away, you noticed cho had disappeared.

great. now you were alone. you turned back towards where you'd last seen blaise, but he had vanished as well. you sighed hard before starting your way upstairs, brushing past multiple wasted people. you turned towards a nearby table, snagging another beer can. you took a few whisks from it, then noticed a couple practically eating each other's faces off in the guest bedroom.

you grimaced before turning away, but you felt dizzy. you never did well with alcohol, especially if you chugged it. you were a total lightweight. you suddenly bumped into a hard, unyielding chest. turning to look, you found yourself staring at none other than mattheo riddle.

"y/n. you alright?" he questioned, his hands instinctively catching your waist for balance. you quickly nodded, your grip tightening on his shirt. he then paused for a long, lingering moment before passing you a glass of water. "drink." he peeped, nudging the rim of the cup to your lips.

you took a slow sip of the water, letting its coldness wash down your throat. It was a stark contrast to the burning sensation of the beer you'd had earlier. you murmured a 'thank you' before glancing back up at mattheo.

"honestly," he teased with a smirk, "i fully expected you to be a lightweight." your brows furrowed as you stammered, "excuse me? what are you implying?" mattheo just grinned mockingly and pulled you closer.

"you know," he rasped, his eyes meeting yours, "your eyes really shine when you look at me. am i that attractive?" he gave a sly grin.

you stood in shock, your cheeks flushing—or was it simply your blush? you heard the sound of footsteps padding as theo raced up the stairs, a mistletoe in hand. he glanced around the room before spotting the two of you. he grinned and started towards you, jingling the mistletoe above your heads irritably.

the crowd then turned towards you three, and a silence fell before they began chanting, "kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss!"

you glanced back at mattheo, who was grinning ear to ear. this asshole planned this! "c'mon love birds! you can't deny the mistletoe." theo blurted, jingling the mistle toe even more aggressively.

mattheo turned to you and purred, "it's tradition, love." he leaned forward, awaiting your distinct approval before weaving your lips together. the kiss was euphoric, though you just stood there for a few seconds, unsure what to do. you had never learned how to kiss before, so it felt a little awkward.

you leaned into the kiss, your tongues colliding. the taste of beer blended with his. you soon pulled away, gasping for breath, and the crowd erupted in cheers. you spotted cho in the crowd, snapping pictures of you and mattheo. the sight almost made you faint, but thankfully, mattheo caught you.