#got jon

The days in Winterfell grew subtly shorter with slow arrival of autumn, the sun reluctant to rise, the cold reluctant to leave. Frost coated the ramparts like a silvery skin, and your breath misted in front of you when you rode out with Robb in the mornings, always under the watchful eyes of Ser Rodrik or your mother. Your fingers ached even through your gloves, but you welcomed the sting. It gave you something to focus on—something other than the longing in your chest, the ache that had taken root ever since Jon began keeping his distance. Not out of cruelty or disinterest, but necessity. Eyes were always watching. Especially now that the royal party was due to arrive any day. Your father was preoccupied with preparations, your brothers with training and idle chatter, and your mother… your mother had eyes like a hawk when it came to you. And to Jon.

You had to be careful. You knew that. But it didn’t make the ache any easier to bear.

He was just ahead of you in the courtyard now, sparring with Theon. His dark curls were sweat-damp and stuck to his brow, his cheeks flushed with exertion. You tried not to stare, tried not to let your gaze linger too long on the way his shoulders moved, broad and controlled, or the way he gritted his teeth as Theon lunged. Jon parried quickly, twisted, and knocked Theon flat onto his back in the snow with a practiced sweep of his leg. You should have smiled. You would have, once. But the tension between you both had grown taut—too taut. A string pulled too tight, ready to snap.

Jon’s eyes met yours for the briefest second as he helped Theon up. There it was. That flicker of want, buried beneath his usual self-control. And then it was gone, shuttered away as quickly as it came, and he turned his attention back to the fight. Your heart thudded, angry and needy all at once. You were tired of passing glances and strained silences. Tired of the weight of your own longing.

That night, at supper, he sat far down the hall, wedged between Jory Cassel and Benjen Stark. You could barely hear his voice over the chatter. Robb leaned close to you, nudging your arm with a grin. “You’ve barely touched your food, Y/N. Not still sulking about Ma insisting you wear the blue gown to the feast?”

You shook your head, managing a tight smile. “No. Just… tired.”

But your eyes flicked to Jon again, betraying you as they always did. He didn’t look at you. He hadn’t looked at you all evening. You hated how good he’d become at pretending.

Later, you found yourself wandering the godswood, hoping—perhaps foolishly—that he might do the same. It was your place, after all. It always had been. How many times had you curled beneath the heart tree with him, your hands twined in his, your head on his shoulder? How many kisses had you stolen beneath the reddening leaves?

But not tonight. The godswood was empty, and your frustration boiled over as you sat against the weirwood roots and buried your face in your knees.

“Y/N.”

His voice was quiet, careful, but it struck you like thunder. You looked up sharply to see him standing a few paces away, his brow furrowed, his breath curling in the cold.

“You came,” you breathed.

“I had to wait until everyone was asleep,” Jon said, stepping closer. “I’ve wanted to see you every damn day.”

You stood, voice cracking with the sudden swell of emotion. “Then why haven’t you? You won’t look at me. You won’t touch me. I’m going mad, Jon.”

His expression shattered, all restraint slipping away as he reached you in three long strides. “Do you think it’s any easier for me? I see you in the yard, at meals, walking with Robb, and I can’t do anything. I have to act like you’re just a lady—like you’re nothing to me.”

You grabbed the front of his cloak, fists trembling. “I hate pretending.”

His mouth crashed against yours before either of you could think better of it, and you melted into him, fingers tangling in his hair, desperate to feel something after days of nothing. His kiss was fierce, needy, tasting of withheld longing and frustration. You broke apart only when the cold made your lungs burn, both of you gasping.

“You’re not nothing to me,” he said hoarsely, cupping your face in his gloved hands. “You’re everything. You always have been.”

“Then don’t keep away from me,” you whispered. “I don’t care if they watch. Let them watch.”

Jon rested his forehead against yours, eyes closing. “We have to be careful. Just a little longer. Once they’re gone—”

“We’ve been saying ‘just a little longer’ for moons.”

His silence said everything you needed to hear. But then he kissed you again, softer this time, his hands trembling against your cheeks. And for a moment, just a moment, the cold disappeared, the worry vanished, and the godswood belonged to only the two of you.

The cold crept deep into the stones of Winterfell that night, the kind of chill that lingered long after the fires were banked, that clawed at your skin even beneath thick furs. But you barely noticed it. Not when your chest ached with something colder still—an ache that had nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with him. You had barely seen Jon for more than a passing glance since the king and his retinue arrived. There were always eyes. Nobles crowding the great hall, lords vying for your father’s favor, your mother’s gaze like a blade upon your back. And Jon… he had been quieter than ever. Dutiful. Distant. It was unbearable.

But tonight—tonight was different.

The feast had ended. Sansa was still chatting with the southern ladies, Arya had long slipped away to gods-knew-where, and you had made your excuses to your mother as quickly as you could. You slipped through the hall like a shadow, heart pounding against your ribs, footsteps muffled on the flagstone as you ducked out through the servants’ corridor and into the night. You didn’t need to speak, didn’t need to ask. You knew where he would be. You always knew.

He was waiting in the stables, in the stall of his direwolf Ghost, who raised his head at your approach but made no sound. Jon looked up sharply, his eyes wide with a mix of hope and despair, and when he saw it was you, his shoulders fell in relief.

“Y/N…”

You didn’t give him the chance to say anything else. You closed the space between you in a breath, grabbing the front of his cloak and pulling him into a kiss that tore the breath from your lungs. He stumbled back against the wooden wall, arms wrapping tightly around your waist as if he could hold back the tide of time itself.

“I thought you weren’t going to come,” he said against your mouth, voice thick, raw with hunger and something deeper—grief, maybe.

“I had to,” you whispered, clutching at him like you were drowning. “You’re leaving.”

He nodded. “At first light. With Uncle Benjen. The Wall…”

“I know.” The words splintered on your tongue. “Gods, I know.”

He kissed you again, more desperately this time, his hands sliding up into your hair. You tangled your fingers into his curls, and for a moment neither of you thought—just felt. The months apart, the weeks of silence and stolen glances, the weight of everything unspoken—it all unraveled as your mouths met in fevered urgency.

He fumbled with your cloak, unfastening it with shaking hands, and you yanked his jerkin open, breath hitching when his warm skin met yours. There was no gentleness to it—no slowness. Just the frantic ache of two people who knew the night was all they had left. He lifted you against the stall wall, your legs wrapping around his hips, skirts hiked, his hands splayed against your thighs. You felt every inch of him, every tremble, every whispered curse against your throat as he buried his face there, his breath hot and ragged.

“I can’t let you go,” you gasped, clinging to him as he rocked against you, your bodies moving in a frantic, desperate rhythm. “Jon—please—don’t go.”

“I’m not,” he growled against your skin, his mouth finding your collarbone, your jaw, your lips again. “I changed my mind.”

You froze for the barest second, panting. “What?”

He cupped your face in both hands, pressed his forehead to yours. “I’m not going to the Wall. I can’t. Not without you. I don’t give a damn what anyone says.”

“Jon—”

“I’ll stay,” he said fiercely. “I’ll stay and I’ll marry you.”

Your breath caught. A whimper of disbelief and joy broke from you all at once. “You can’t—my mother—she’ll never—”

“She’ll have no choice,” Jon whispered, his hands sliding down to your hips again, grinding into you with a need that made your head spin. “Not when you’re carrying my child.”

The words hit you like a firestorm, searing through your veins and melting any hesitation. You didn’t pull away. You didn’t protest. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your thighs tightening around him.

“Then don’t stop,” you said breathlessly. “Give her no choice.”

He groaned, deep and guttural, and thrust into you with a force that made you cry out softly, your back arching against the wooden wall. You welcomed the ache, the burn, the wildness of it all. He kissed you like he was starving, like you were the air he’d been denied for years. His hands were everywhere—your breasts, your waist, your throat, holding you close as he moved inside you, desperate and hungry and home.

“I love you,” you gasped, your fingers in his hair, your nails biting into his skin.

“I love you,” he echoed, again and again like a prayer, like a promise. “I’ll never leave you. Never.”

When Alys reached the courtyard, she was greeted by an audience. Lord Eddard Stark stood tall and broad, as if made from the same granite as his keep. When he greeted Lord Edmyn Reed, his voice was low and quiet, quieter than what she expected from a lord.

Beside him stood his lady wife, Catelyn Stark, once a Tully from the Riverlands. She was a most beautiful woman, with hair the colour of polished copper and eyes as blue as a summers sky. She smiled and it felt warm.

The children emerged from behind the shelter of their parents' cloaks. The boy who reached Alys first was like a burst of flame in the grey yard. His hair was an unruly auburn, his face dusted with freckles, and a grin so wife it seemed to split his face in two.

"I'm Robb!" he announced cheerfully. He was all eager motion. "I can show you everything! The lichyard had stones older than Father, and the glass gardens - they have summer fruits even in the snow. And we have a new litter of pups in the kennels." His enthusiasm was a welcome, noisy thing that began to chip away at your frozen fear. Alys managed a shy, wobbly smile in return.

But movement behind Robb caught her eye. Another boy, holding back as if held by an invisible tether. Where Robb was bright energy, this boy was a still shadow. Where Robb was copper, this boy was black. And his eyes were the same storm-grey as his father, but he did not resemble his father fully.

"This my half-brother, Jon Snow," Robb said. He reached back and tugged the boy forward by his sleeve. The name hung cold in the air. 'Snow', the name for a bastard born in the North. Alys deduced quite quickly that Lady Catelyn was not his mother. It explained why he was reserved, why he stood further back than Robb and his other siblings. His own clothing was not a patch on the fine embroidered tunic Robb wore, or the dresses his sisters wore.

Jon Snow's eyes flicked over her swiftly, assessing her, then dropping his gaze to the muddy ground beneath his boots. Alys dipped her head and found her focus was no longer on the towering walls or direwolf banners... But on this boy who carried winter in his name.

The rhythm of her new life was etched in routine. Maester Luwin's chambers became a familiar haunt. Alys sat at the long oak table between Robb and Sansa, learning her histories, her sigils, her courtesies. Robb, always impatient with the quill, would nudge her foot under the table with a grin when Luwin droned about Andal migrations. He shared his honeycakes with her at breakfast, defended her teasingly when Arya declared her "squeamish," and included her in every game of knights-and-raiders in the yard. He was, in every visible way, the perfect friend and future lord. Alys was grateful for his friendship.

But her attention was pulled like a compass needle to Jon Snow.

In the practice yard, while Robb laughed and traded boastful shouts with Theon Greyjoy, their wooden sword a blur of enthusiastic motion, Jon would be a dozen paces away. He was instructed differently, albeit by the same Ser Rodrik Cassel who taught Robb and Theon. It was quieter and often of corrections, while Robb received praise in the dozens. Alys often saw the way he pushed himself longer and harder, even after Ser Rodrik had moved on, as if proving himself.

On rides beyond the walls, Robb was always at the head of the column, his auburn hair a star to follow, his voice ringing out as he challenged Theon to races. Somehow, Alys's pony would find its place beside Jon's shaggy garron. He rode in silence mostly, a quiet, watchful presence. But, without word, he was the first to point out the snowy owl perched in the distance, the spiderweb strung between two bushes like a diamond net. And one bitter afternoon, when the wind cut like a knife, it was Jon who saw her hands trembling.

"You'll get used to the cold," he said, is voice low, almost swallowed by the wind. It was the longest string of words he had ever directed solely to Alys.

She looked up, surprised he had spoken, more surprised he had noticed. Flexing her stiff, aching fingers, she asked "Will I?"

His eyes flicked to her hands and then back to the snow-dusted path ahead. "You have to," he stated, simple and absolute.

It wasn't a comfort. It wasn't the same cheerful response Robb would give. It was a stark truth, a survival tactic.

At the age of ten, the godswood became Alys's sanctuary. Robb found it unsettling, remarking that "The tree is always watching." But she was drawn to the deep quiet. The heart tree's face was always weeping, its red sap tears frozen forever, but it wasn't creepy. It was sad, and peaceful.

She found Jon there once autumn afternoon, sitting with his back against the massive white trunk, so still he seemed a part of the tree itself if he wasn't clad in black. Alys didn't announce herself. She simply sat in the carpet of rust-coloured leaves an arm's length away. The silence stretched, filled with the whisper of the leaves and the chitter of a squirrel.

"Do you pray here?" she questioned, the sound barely disturbing the air around them.

"Sometimes," he replied, his voice soft. "It's the only place that feels like mine."

A chord of understanding vibrated deep within her. A guest, a fostered girl. While she wore the fine clothes and ate at the high table, she didn't belong to anyone here. "Can it be ours?" she asked, the boldness leaping from her heart to her lips before she could cage it.

He turned his head then. His grey eyes finally met hers. He searched her face, and for the first time, she saw something real within them. A faint smile reached his mouth, something so rare. "Sure," he said, "It can be ours."

From that day, the godswood was their shared kingdom. Jon's silence unravelled into words - words of his dream to become a knight so great that men would forget his name was ever 'Snow.' Alys confessed that she often cried for home, for her mother's voice and the slow rivers of home.

At thirteen, the world tilted. The easy, genderless companionship of childhood soured and sweetened simultaneously. Alys noticed the new breadth of Jon's shoulders straining against his jerkin, the sharp line of his jaw where his boyish softness had once been. A casual brush of his hand while passing a practice sword sent a jolt up her arm that had nothing to do with the cold. She caught him looking at her, too - his eyes lingering on the curve of her cheek, the way her dark hair caught the light.

The kiss happened in the godswood. A bickering over saddles when the argument died mid-sentence. She stared at his lips while he stared at hers.

The first touch was a question. It was soft and hesitant, polite. But the kiss deepened, a slow claiming born of years of shared secrets and silent understanding. His calloused hands came up to cradle her face with a trembling gentleness that made Alys's knes buckle. When they parted, she gasped.

"I love you, Jon Snow," she whispered.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead against hers. "I love you," he whispered back, his voice rough. "I shouldn't, but Gods help me, I do."

It became a secret world layered atop the real one. Stolen, breathless moments stolen behind the heart tree. Fingers brushed as they passed on the staircase, a touch that burned like fire. Whispers in the dim library of what a future could look like for them if they'd take the plunge. A child's fantasy, but Alys clung to it.

And when she was sixteen, her world crumbled.

The summons came just after breakfast, a cold knot forming in her stomach when she saw her father standing with Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn. Tight smiles and pleasured expressions. Their words were spoken with formal grace of alliances and strengthened bonds. A future for Alys in the North.

To wed Robb Stark.

A tidal wave crashed over her, ice water flooding her bones, freezing the air in her lungs. Alys smiled politely, ever the dutiful daughter and ward.

"Robb is a fine young man," Lord Edmyn said, beaming. "A credit to your house, my lord. What an honour for my daughter to be the Lady of Winterfell some day!"

A sound escaped, a choked gasp that they all interpreted as overwhelmed joy. She was excused while details were agreed upon.

She found him at the top of the old broken tower, the wind whipping his dark curls like a banner. He stared north, towards the unseen Wall. "Jon," she gasped, her tears spilling. "They... they said..."

"I know." His voice was hollow. "Robb told me."

She clutched at the wool of his sleeve, "We could run away tonight. The Free Cities across the narrow sea are waiting for us."

He turned, his eyes not the warm grey but the stormy grey of a tombstone. "It was a dream," he said, his words releasing an anchor that kept her grounded in reality. "Just a dream, Alys."

"We can make it real."

"How?" The world was a crack, cruel and stark. "I have nothing to give you. Nothing to offer. I'm a bastard." Alys swallowed the hard lump in her throat as her lips parted ever so slightly, breathing in as if she could hardly get a breath. "And I can't stay and watch you, with him. So I'm taking the black."

The ground beneath Alys seemed to vanish. The Night's Watch. Eternal exile. No family, no legacy, no future. He was choosing to erase himself from the world rather than watch her play the dutiful role of Robb's wife.

"No..." she whispered.

"Robb will be a good husband to you. You know he will."

He reached out, a rough and familiar thumb ghosting over her cheek to rid the tears that fell. A farewell. He left her alone in the biting wind, a future she had envisioned for herself blowing in the wind like ashes.

For hours, Alys Reed moved through Winterfell like a ghost. The cheerful bustle of the castle preparing for a wedding was a mocking noise. She found herself in the library, a place of solace, but the words on the scroll before her blurred into meaningless black marks. She was simply existing in a state of suspended shock, the echo of Jon's final words repeating like a drum.

She didn't hear him approach. She only sensed a shift in the light as a broad figure filled the space beside her high-backed chair. Robb sat on a wooden bench a respectful distance away.

For a long time, he said nothing. The silence was different from the easy quiet they used to share. This was heavy. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, stripped of its usual confidence, and utterly earnest. "I'm glad it's you," he said.

The simplicity of it cut through Alys's numbness. She turned her head slightly, seeing his profile in the dusty light from the high window. He was staring at his own hands, clasped loosely between his knees.

"It could have been anyone. But a friend..." He let out a soft, humourless breath. "A friend is a good place to start, don't you think?"

The kindness in his words was a needle pricking at the bubble of her grief. She tried to speak, to offer some reciprocal assurance, but her throat had sealed itself shut. She could only nod, her eyes burning.

Then another silence descended. Alys could feel him gathering himself. His next words were spoken with a careful, deliberate neutrality, his gaze fixed on a tapestry of the Long Night on the far wall.

"I know," he said, the two words clear and calm as ice on a still pond, "that you've always loved Jon."

The world stopped. Her breath vanished. An icy chill raced from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet. Her head snapped towards him, eyes wide with fear. "Robb, I..." she stammered.

He held up a hand, a sharp gesture but not angry. "You don't have to say anything. It's all right." He finally turned to look back at her, his Tully-blue eyes clear, understanding and pained. "I've seen the way you looked at him, the way your laughter changed when he entered a room."

The exposure was complete. Alys sat there, utterly naked in her secret.

"It will not be spoken of again," he continued. His voice was firm, the friend receding and the future Lord of Winterfell stepping forth. "We have a duty now. One that cannot be overlooked. You must be loyal to me, as I will be loyal to you. In all things."

He paused. He offered a small, crooked smile, a flicker of the boy she'd ridden beside and laughed with showing through. "Beyond that, you are my friend. I trust you, and I will always protect you."

The wave that hit Alys was a turbulent sea. A staggering, knee-weakening relief washed over her first. He did not cast her aside, or mock her, but offered a way forward. Then came the aching sadness. He asked only for loyalty and honour, a partnership that a marriage could be built upon.

"Thank you, Robb," she whispered. And she meant it with every shattered piece of her heart.

The wedding day passed over her like a strange, silent storm. Moving through the rituals, encased in a shell of numbness, Alys was removed of her Reed cloak and was placed by Robb's heavy, fur-lined cloak of winter. Its significance weighed down of her, no longer a riverlands girl but a creature of the North.

Her vows were whispers lost beneath the high stone walls. Her eyes reamined downcast, fixed on the woven pattern of the rug, afraid to see the sea of faces. But once her gaze flickered up, she was drawn to a familiar figure.

There, standing in the shadows of an archway, was Jon. He was already clad in black, the wool a stark contrast to the celebratory colours of the wedding ceremony. He stood alone, his face a mask of perfect stillness. He did not look at Alys, his eyes fixed above the septon performing the rites. The sight was final. The boy from the godswood was already gone.

Later, the raucous cheers and bawdy songs of the wedding party faded, swallowed by the thick oak door of Robb's chamber - now Alys's chamber. The heavy thud of the bolt sliding was the loudest sound in the world.

A generous fire crackled in the hearth, painting dancing shadows on the tapestries of battles and wolves. The room was warm and utterly alien. She stood in the centre of the room, her wedding gown of silver-grey and blue satin feeling much like a ridiculous costume than a beautiful dress.

She heard Robb move, simply leaning against the solid wood of the door, as if needing its support. Alys forced herself to look at him, seeing his auburn curls and his pale face beneath freckles, and his shoulder slumped. He looked young and nervous.

His voice, when it came, was soft and bare. "Tonight... We don't... Don't have to." he said, the words halting.

Alys stared at her husband. Robb was offering an escape hatch, a reprieve. It was a kindness, the one Jon had told her he had. But she remembered the lessons drilled into them by Maester Luwin. A marriage unconsummated was a contract unsigned, an alliance easily broken. Looking at him now, she saw he didn't deserve the reluctant bride he's been given. He needed his wife's commitment.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. "We must."

He searched her face for a long moment, and then gave a solemn nod. He understood. When he pushed away from the door and walked towards her, he did it slowly.

His fingers were clumsy on the intricate laces of her gown, but they were gentle and patient. He worked slowly, giving Alys time to breath, to absorb her new reality, to understand what was about to take place. The layers of silk and satin pooled at her feet, leaving her in a simple white shift. He pulled at his own tunic, leaving himself bare over his torso. In the firelight, she saw the strong, lean lines of his body, the scattering of copper hair across his chest. It wasn't what she had been expecting, but she also wasn't sure what she had been expecting.

He began to touch her then. It was nothing like the stolen caresses in the godswood with Jon. His hands mapped the slopes and planes of her body, his kisses were not hungry but questioning and tender. He was learning her.

Somewhere, deep beneath the cold numbness of grief, she felt a kindled spark. His skin was warm against hers, the softness of his lips on the shell of her ear, the whisper of her name. She buckled and turned her head, meeting his lips with a fire he'd never expected. Alys had thought she could get through it by thinking of Jon, imagining that it was Jon she lay beside, but in this moment, she was watching Robb and deliberately traced her fingertips down his naval.

A sudden, sharp current of bravery surged through her. It felt less like courage and more like necessity - a final act to bridge the chasm of her own fear. Before her nerves could rebel, her fingers found the fabric of her shift and tugged. The linen whispered against her skin as it slid down her body.

He hadn't expected that. His breath caught, a soft intake of air. His gaze now travelled over her - the gentle slope of her waist, the softness of her hips, the shy curve of her breasts. He was dazed in a grateful wonder.

Within moments, they had made it over to the bed, with Robb discarding himself of his boots and breeches along the way. There was a sharp pain that made her gasp and stiffen, but he simply held her and stroked her temple with his thumb. When he began moving, he did so with a slow, careful rhythm. And the feeling... changed. The pain receded, replaced by a gathering fullness. A coil that began to tighten low in her belly. A small sound escaped her lips and her hands flew to touch his body.

Her mind no longer thought of godswoods and grey eyes. There was only Robb. The feel of his heartbeat against hers, the rhythm they found together, the sensation she had no name for that he brought out in her... How could she have overlooked him?

The coil finally snapped and Alys shook against him. A moment later, Robb's body shuddered against hers with a choked gasp.

For a long time, there was only the sound of the crackling fire and their breaths. Robb then moved, pulling the furs up over her cooled skin.

Tears welled, spilling hot and silent down her temple and into her hair. They were not bitter tears, but born of confusion, overwhelmed-ness, and of an awe of her husband. They had done their duty, but it had opened a door inside that she thought she'd closed forever when Jon broke her heart.

Alys turned her head to look at him, his blue eyes staring back at her, wholly focused on her. Her fingertips rose to graze the stubble of her chin as he placed his hand on her hip, pulling her body closer to his.

"I didn't know I could misjudge my own heart," she whispered against him.

He smiled, true and bright, and he tucked her head beneath his chin, his arms a steady shelter. She closed her eyes, feeling her husbands slow breaths and hearing the northern wind moaning outside.