The Glass Jewel
(Jon x Reader)
Words: 2829
Sixth in a series. Â Â Â
(Part 1 / King in the North / The White Wolf / Skins / The Thing That Came in the Night)
The heavy fall of Jonâs bootsteps echoed across the stones, and with them went all the other sounds in the room; a silence as thick and heavy as a wet bear pelt seemed to fall upon your shoulders.
It wouldnât do to chase after him--if heâd grown so hotheaded as to storm out on a guest, it was best that he was left alone to settle. If he needed your ear, he could find you.
You looked at your grandmother as she finished the last of her meal: how her expression remained unchanged as she scraped up the last of the greens and pork drippings onto a heel of bread, and ate as slowly as she had before. You wanted to strangle her. You wanted to weep. You wanted to know how it took her a single dinner to throw everything into chaos. Worse yet, it made a part of you wish she had never come.
She chewed, and she swallowed. She eyed the all-but-empty hall, as if waiting for a servant to appear at her elbow with another noggin of ale. When none manifested, she turned expectantly to you. âI suppose you should show me to my quarters,â she said at last.
In truth, you didnât know where Jon had planned to house her. There was a room very near to yours, you supposed, that she could have. You would have offered her your own bedâit was grander, and you had little use for it. But appearances had to be maintained, and no information should be offered unasked.
Higher and higher you climb into the keep, up the spiralling stairwell thatâas you now noticeâbrush the sides of your grandmotherâs bulk as she walks. Would this hindrance keep her above stairs or below, you wondered?
Her flinty eyes glance about the corridor; even here she was vigilant, even when there was nowt here but ageless grey brick.
âAnd where do you sleep, Y/n?â she asks, with all the subtlety of a woman known for carrying a mace.
âI sleep there, grandmotherâjust at the opposite end of the hall.â
âBy the other stairwell?â
âYes.â
Her brows narrow into a knowing scowl. âAnd where do those stairs lead?â
âToââ you catch yourself before you can say Jon ââLord Starkâs solar. And Lady Sansaâs.â
âYouâre at first names with Lady Bolton, are you?â
âMany here at Winterfellâat least, those who weathered the Boltonsâ have known her since she was a girl. She is still very much Lady Sansa in their eyes.â You throw a glance around the parameter. âItâs not my place to say, but...for reasons very dear to Lady Sansa, she prefers to dispense with the name Bolton.â
âI donât blame her. When I heard sheâd been yoked to Ramsay Bolton I shuddered.â She does so again, at the thought. âHaving to bed that repugnant dogâs pizzle of a man...â She shakes her head. âThough I suppose the gods are good after allâshe bore him no children and kept her fingers.â
You make a sound of weak agreement, though your mind is full of objections. You know that Lady Sansaâs stories are not yours to tell.
âThey seem to have smiled on Lord Stark as well,â she continues, âcollecting so many titles so soon. King in the North. The White Wolf. Now Jon Stark, heir to Winterfell.â
You nod. âI think he will do well by his name,â you offer, as you both approach her room. Youâre exhausted physically as well as emotionally: the fear, the surprise, the general disquiet of the whole night has taken its toll.
You open wide the door, giving place a quick inspection before allowing your grandmother inside. There is a cold hearth, piled with tinder and straw; the bed is half pelts, and looks as if it could stand up, shake, and walk away; a small chamber pot is visible underneath. Yes, you think, this will do fine.
âI hope this suits you, Grandmother.â
She takes a sweeping glance in the near-darkness. âIt will serve.â
Good enough. âIâll leave you this candle, then, so you may light a fire if you wish.â
She turns to you with eyebrow cocked. âAnd what sort of thankless child are you, that you would not kneel to light a fire for an old crone? Come inside, come inside!â
She kicks at a pile of logs with a leather boot, stuffed with hides and bound around her leg in leather scrap. When no mice or rats escaped, she seized a cask-sized log in both hands and slammed it into the grate, snapping the twigs underneath.
âClose the door, girlâyouâll let the draft in!â
You do so, and cross the room to offer her the candleâs flame. She nearly snatches it from your hand, and sets the straw and kindling alight.
She clearly hasnât lost an ounce of strength since last you saw her, you think, so why does she play the crone now?
When at last she has the log set to burning, she standsâwith not a groan nor a creakâand sits at the foot of the bed.
âCome, Y/n, and give me a hand with these boots. My old fingers are still-half frozen.â
On your haunches, you kneel before her; she sets a boot onto your thigh. You see now that the scraps and cords of leather are not one piece, but several pieces tied end to end. You recognize the hides inside as squirrel and mink. It is less a boot than a pawâtough and furry, more animal than human. Whatâs more, the smell of feet and old fur and rotting leather turns your nose. Still, you resolve to be Good, and begin to pull at a knot.
She leans in closer to you. âIâve heard it said that you are serving here as Lyannaâs consul.â Her voice is flat and soft now.
âYes, Grandmother.â
âAnd Lyanna bid it so?â
âYes, Grandmother.â Youâre unsure which is more bothersome, the knotted leather or the prying questions.
âDid Lord Stark have any say in this appointment?â
âI donât know, Grandmother,â you say, sure of your honesty in at least that answer. âI was only asked, not consulted.â
âIâm surprised. Itâs said you have Lord Starkâs ear and more.â
So that had left the castleâs gates. How far had it flown, you wonder. Your cheeks canât help but flush a littleâthe thought of the whole of Westeros knowing how you spent your nights. What else had passed through these broken walls? Did all of Planetos know he had taken your maidenhead?
âIf I remember right, you took to each other as children,â she continues.
âAye, we did,â you answer through gritted teeth, unwinding the wet leather from around her calf.
âDid you ever wonder why you were never betrothed?â
The question takes you off guard. You had wondered, so very long ago; but that was before you were a woman flowered, and many young men had caught your eye since.
âI suppose Lord Eddard had planned on urging him into the Nightâs Watch?â
âNo, child.â She lay a hand on your shoulder. You look up to meet her eyes. âEddard Stark knew Robert Baratheon from boyhood. He served as Robertâs Hand. Do you believe that the king would hesitate to grant him any favor he wished?â
You shake your head No.
âLord Eddard could have had Jon made legitimate with a stroke of the kingâs quill. Heâd be the second son, yes, but a full and trueborn son all the same, with the rights to name and title... Many men would offer up their maiden daughters for a chance at even that glass jewel of a Stark.â
You blink your confusion. You cannot say where this is going, but an uncomfortable churning begins in your belly all the same.
âDonât you see, girl? Jon was their lord-under-glass. Should any ambitious match be found, a new heir could be made as quick as a raven flies. A lord with too many daughters could yet earn himself a new sonâa Stark sonâin return for his loyalty. Such ambitions arenât served by marrying one of their own vassals.â
You nod slowly. âBut why tell me this now? Jon is a lord in his own right. He wonât need to be married off now. And Lady Sansa could still marry well...â
âSansa is twice married and only once widowed. As both a Bolton and a Lannister, she is cursed twofold. The whole of the North is cursed if she should let herself be taken in by Littlefinger.â A small sigh deflates her. âAnd for all the glory of this place, and all the lustre of the Stark name, there is very little substance to either now. The castle is half a ruin, and there are precious few men left to fight for it.â
You donât notice, but your hands are beginning to shake. You only feel the tightness in your throat. âBut the Manderleys...the Glovers...theyâve promised their swords to Jon. Surely their support...â Your voice falls away, strangled.
âAnd when he tells them about these White Walkersâwill they follow their âkingâ then? They dare not turn tail again, but they may march ever slower behind him. And what shall he do when no one is sworn to him but green boys and wildlings? Jon cannot make them an armyâbut he can marry into one.â
The air disappears from the room.
âThere may be a lesser Redwyne whoâll give him men enough to march against the Lannistersâin return for a Northern ladyship, of course. Perhaps one of Mallisterâs granddaughters, once she comes of age.â She efflares a laugh. âHe may even make a good match for the little Dragon Queen, if sheâll have him...â
âStop!â you cry. Youâre panting hard now, struggling to breathe. You blink and find tears wetting your cheeks.
âY/n...â
âNo...â The word comes out in a mewling little whine, but you canât stop from saying it over and over again.
âIâm sorry, Y/n...â
She kept talking after she spoke your name; you did not hardly hear it. Your mind is a thousand places at once, your thoughts running about in a panic. That all those nights should mean nothing. That the battle scars you still boreâthat he had kissed half a hundred timesâshould mean so little...
â...leave Winterfell at the next clear day...â
Leave? But why? There was work to be done here, and there were aunts and cousins aplenty to secure the lodge for winter.
Were plans being laid even now? Surely Jon would not keep you in his bed whilst his marriage was being arranged. Then again, you think, if youâve already given him your maidenhead, and can offer no more than the sworn swords of a treen and craggy island, you worth may be only as a bedwarmer now. You were not privvy to the talks that made you consulâwhy should you be present for the machinations of a marriage alliance?
âYou may take a part of him, if you must...â
This only starts your tears afresh. âI...there was...I couldnât...â
Your grandmother nods knowingly. âMoon tea.â
It was not moon tea, but it was close enough. And you havenât the will or the words to explain otherwise. You simply nod your agreement.
âThere is time, if you wantedââ
âNO!â You howl, another sob lurching through you. You, yelling at the grandmother you thought was dead. You could be no more ashamed of yourself.
âI couldnât...I couldnât do that to Jon,â you finally say. âHis great fear is that heâd father a bastard himself. Itâs no life for a child here...â If only she knew how different Bear Island was from the rest of Westeros...
She seizes your chin her still-powerful grip and lifts it so you meet her eyes.
âHe is the son of a Lord and you are the daughter of a Lady. Bastards or no, you are equals. It cannotâit will notâbe said that any child that comes of your bodies shall be any less.â You nod into her hand.
With a surprising tenderness, she wipes away your tears with her thumb. âYou are his equal, sweetling. And he is no kingânot yet.â She pulls her hand back. âBut a manâs title is bought, sold, and traded as much as any maidenhead. Just know that he may yet be too costly for you.â
You nod again, and force a weak smile. You hope that it is enough to mask the heartbreak that twists like a knife in your chest. More tears are welling behind your eyes; a full cup threatening to run over. And for a moment, you wonder if throwing yourself off the battlements would break your neck, or if youâd only freeze to death in chest-high snow.
You standâslowly, as not to spill the overflowing cupâand give her a little curtsy. âCan I do anything more for you, Grandmother?â You suck in a sob. âI should like to go to bed now.â
âNo, child,â she says softly. âI should like to sleep myself.â She pulls at the heel of her boot before adding âIâve not slept safely in many moons. Remind me to thank Lord Stark for his hospitality in the morning.â
âI will.â You back out of the room, barely holding your composure. âGoodnight Grandmother.â
âGoodnight, Y/n.â
You close her door behind you and have a quick glance around the hall: there is no one to see or hear you. Still, the few steps to your room feel like leagues of swamp, weighing down every footfall.
The very minute you close your door, you throw yourself onto your bed and sob into your feather pillow. Your whole body cramps with the heave of it.
Could you have been so foolish as to think that you could keep him? The White Wolf, the King in the North? That your sword, your maidenhead, your willing ears and loving arms could somehow be enough to overcome your inferior name? The accusations ring in your head: all Mormont women are skin changers and she-bears, populating an island with their bastards.
If Jonâs seed planted a son in you, you think, heâd be a prince on Bear Island. He would be adored. He could have a good maester, and a horseman, and half a dozen masters-at-arms. He could be just the warrior his father was, if not more...
But thereâd be no question he was a Stark. Not if you whelped a boy after a stay at Winterfell. Not if he had Jonâs dark eyes. Or his raven curls, or his solemn mouth. And if Jon had boys of his own... Too many had died in the Blackfyre rebellions to allow it. And you donât think you could bear the look in Jonâs eyes, if he found out heâd left a son unloved.
No. You couldnât.
You sob harder. You do so over and over until, finally, there is nothing left. Defeated and drained, you curl in on yourself, falling asleep on your bear pelt blanket.
For the first time in many moons, you sleep alone.

















