#second marriage

But you keep on looking forward. You don’t let the ire and the snide comments of the other ladies get to you, beyond trying to prove your innocence in their so-called plot of ensnaring the King. All that matters is that Natasha knew the truth. You’d been seeing less and less of her as of lately. Your father had railed on you that night, asking how could you have given in so easy? He could have milked the King for so much more. You stayed silent, knowing nothing you say or do will quell his anger at you in the moment. As for the King, he was ever the same. Lecherous looks across the room, wandering hands and a nasty mouth. He showered you in gifts, little compensation for the disgust you felt every time he touched you. It made you wonder, was that all that you were truly worth, your body? He swore up and down that he loved you, but you were sure he once did the same to many before you, even Natasha, and look where you’ve all ended up? 

The day of the wedding looms closer and it feels like a noose tightening around your neck. Your meetings with Natasha grow infrequent though not by your choice. She keeps her distance and you can no longer pretend that it doesn’t shatter your heart every time your eyes meet, only for her to swiftly avert hers. You take all that hurt and lock it in a box, deep in your heart. You can’t help but wonder though, if just like her husband, will her eye shift to someone new? 

Your apathy towards Lord Rogers remains much the same and though you do catch his smouldering looks from time to time, he was the least of your concerns. You embellish your plain wedding vows to the King’s satisfaction. Everything is to the King’s tastes though you don’t mind, having no desire to make choices. Keep the ceremony as impersonal as possible. Most days you roamed the castle halls in a daze, following where the wedding planners would direct you, trying on dresses and updos. You were little more than a doll, dressing up and looking pretty was all you had to do. Your days had taken on a sort of monotone, the routine bringing you a much needed reprieve from the constant noise inside your mind. You find no reason to rejoice in your predicament knowing just how precarious your position is, existing on the periphery of one man’s ever shifting desires. 

When you retire to your chambers for the night, separate from the other ladies now that you were to wed the King, you’re shocked to find Natasha awaiting your arrival. She looks as ravishing as ever though the bags under her eyes betray her true predicament. 

“My Queen,” you eke out almost breathlessly, nervous all of a sudden. She was the last person you expected to see sitting there. She smiles gently as she walks to you, holding her hands out in front of her, quickly pulling you close. 

“I missed you, my love,” she sighs into your hair, breathing in the familiar smell of you in. 

You pull away from her but she doesn’t let your hands go, your eyes betraying the hurt you feel although your tone does not. 

“Then why have you been avoiding me?” You try to laugh it off, the way one would who’s trying to brush off the hurt they feel. 

She sighs loudly, cupping your cheek in her palm, forcing you to look at her. “I couldn’t be as I’ve always been, it would be far too suspicious. The ladies are already speaking conspiratorially,” she says. 

“But you could’ve told me before. Do you know how much it hurt? To have you always looking in the other direction, never once acknowledging my presence? Even behind closed doors?” You question tearfully.

“I know, my love. But I beg you, please, try to understand my reasons for it. I derive no pleasure in denying myself your company. But it had to be done,” she pleads with you. 

You understand her reasoning now, of course you do, but it does little to do away the agony you carried in your chest for the past few weeks. You sniffle softly, nodding your head. “What are the ladies saying about me?” You wonder out loud and Natasha laughs softly before answering.

“They really seem to believe the only reason you were close to me was because you had your sights set on the King. They really do take their Queen for a fool, don’t they?” She laughs, pulling you besides her on the bed.

“I wouldn’t know, none of them will speak to me unless it’s to let me know how I’ve betrayed you, of how I’m the interloper,” you shrug. 

Natasha clutches your hand tighter, making you look at her. 

“Don’t believe their vitriolic words. As if they wouldn’t trade everything to be in your shoes.” 

You suppose she is right. Who wouldn’t want to be Queen? 

“We can talk about them all day but I have something more important to discuss,” she says, pulling you closer besides her, your hands in hers. You feel her slip something into your palm. You open it to find a beautiful silver anklet, bejewelled with tiny rubies. It’s vibrant red colour is exactly the colour that she so loves seeing on you. 

“It’s beautiful,” you say, holding the delicate piece in your hands. 

“I want you to wear it everyday. Something to remind you of me,” she says and you nod, holding out your foot as she clasps it around your ankle. It catches the light, glistening with an insurmountable beauty. 

She admires it, her hand slowly moving up your leg, rubbing slow circles on your knee, your long skirt pushed up. Before she can move any further, you push her hands away, standing up to undo the laced front of your gown, pulling it off and leaving you in just your shift. As if just shaken out of a daze, she does the same before she’s pulling you close, her lips hungry against yours. They slowly move down your neck as she avoids leaving marks on your neck, lavishing her attention on your nipples, licking one as her hand massages the other. She continues down your body, leaving little kisses down your stomach, her tongue poking into your navel before she moves on, sucking tiny dark marks on your hip bones. You can’t do much but close your eyes in bliss, your fingers cradling through her hair. 

Her fingers slowly run up and down your folds, spreading the wetness. “You’re so wet for me, my love,” she says, a husky quality to her tone that has you clenching on nothing. “Please, I need you,” you whine and she chuckles, clicking her tongue. 

“Patience, my love,” she says as she licks a stripe up your folds, circling your clit. You throw your head back, a needy whine erupting from your throat. When she feels satisfied that she’s made you needy enough, she slowly enters two of her fingers, the ring and the middle, into your tight, dripping hole, moving them in and out at an almost agonising pace, only increasing her pace when you whine. She’s never done something like this before. Her fingers stay inside of you as they’re moving up and down in an odd fashion, her mouth sucking your clit with a renewed vigour as you’re positively shaking. Your legs are quivering from her constant onslaught of pleasure and when her fingers hit a certain spot that has you seeing stars, you let out a loud shriek, as if prompting her to go faster and harder. She doubles down and you don’t even realise what’s happening when you cum all over her fingers, your whole body shaking in the afterglow. She pulls her fingers out of you slowly, lightly slapping your cunt with her other hand as she sucks her fingers into her mouth. You try to push her hand away, the feeling growing to be too much but she simply swats your hand away, continuing her ministrations. She quickly switches to rubbing your clit again and you cry out, trying to stop her by trapping her fingers in between your thighs but it doesn’t faze her. She simply bites your thigh, causing them to part as her mouth quickly replaces her hand. You’re drowning in pleasure, simultaneously pulling her closer to your cunt and pushing her away although you both know she's the one who’s truly in charge. You don’t let go of each other, not until she’s pulled another couple of orgasms from your prone body. The night ends with her riding your face, stopping only when her legs can no longer support her. She falls on her back besides you, both of you breathing heavy, the cool jewels around your anklet a contrast to your heated skin. 

Natasha won’t say it out loud but to her, the bejewelled anklet is something that binds you to her, almost like shackles around your ankle. But she won’t admit it, ever. 

*

It’s only a week to the wedding and the bride and groom are prohibited from seeing each other though you welcome this reprieve from his wandering hands and acid touch. You’re seeing less and less of Natasha too, much to your chagrin. You wore the ruby studded anklet still. 

June, to your surprise, couldn’t be happier at the prospect of you getting married to her father. Wouldn’t that make you her mother of sorts? She made her feelings on the matter clear, that you were her choice over Lady Morwenna, or any other ladies at court for that matter. You were with her in the garden, weaving flower crowns. She wants you to wear one for the wedding and you oblige, obviously. 

The comfortable quiet that cloaks you and June is disturbed by the clearing of a throat and you look up to find intent azure orbs gazing at you. You hold back a grimace, the pit in your stomach deepening at the sight of him. 

“Your Majesty,” you rise to your feet. “It’s only a week until the wedding. We aren’t supposed to see each other,” you admonish and he waves you off with a scoff. He dismisses June with a wave of his hand and much to your chagrin, she obliges and runs off. 

“The Queen and I kept every little tradition and look at where that got us. It’s not these things that make a happy marriage, it’s much more,” he whispers huskily as he pulls you close by the waist. You fight the urge to push him away, accepting his embrace with a straight face. The King might not believe in these little traditions but a little part of you always had. You weren’t naive enough to believe that these little things guaranteed a happy and long lasting marriage but the fact that they were still upheld for generations before you had to count for something, right? 

“I suppose you are right,” you shrug as his hands shamelessly glide over your curves. 

“I cannot wait for our wedding night. The day looms closer and you do tempt me so my love,” he whispers in your ear and a shiver of disgust rolls down your spine. 

“I understand Your Majesty but we must wait. Now that’s one tradition I refuse to forgo of,” you admonish, hoping and praying to the Lord that he might accept it and let you go. You couldn’t stand to be alone with him any longer. Now that you were to be wed to this man, no one would bat an eye at the lack of a chaperone. 

“I can respect that. It is only six days before you are completely mine,” he says with a final squeeze of your hip as he lets you go. 

I’d nothing else, it brings you comfort to know that you will not be completely his. You can never be.

*

You sit motionless as the women flutter around you, fixing your makeup and making last minute arrangements to your veil. You decided on leaving your natural and open, a dainty flower crown of lavenders adorning your forehead. You wouldn’t remove the anklet Natasha gave you, much to the displeasure of your mother. But even you had to admit, you looked ethereal. 

The ride in the carriage to the church was short, almost too short. It was odd. After weeks where you weren’t left alone for more than a few minutes, the sudden solitude of the coach was suffocating. It’s funny, you suppose, the women at your side as you readied to march to your doom but you’re undeniably alone when push comes to shove. 

Natasha won’t be at the ceremony and you’re glad for it. You’re not sure you’d be able to stand there with her watching. Your mind would no doubt be overrun with the thought of how happy you would be if only Nat was in His Majesty’s place. 

You walk down the aisle in a daze, not noticing the myriad of faces surrounding you. Your father’s proud gaze, your mother and sister already tearing up, the ladies that cannot disguise their contempt, Lord Rogers’ face a mix of misery and anger. You simply focus on walking towards the man who holds your life in his palms. You’re nothing but a mere puppet to his whims and fancies. 

You go through your vows without noticing. You know you won’t mess up when they’ve been rehearsed and re-rehearsed to perfection. You kiss him when the minister allows you to but you don’t feel it. You don’t feel the hunger on his lips, the victory. You don’t even feel the butter sting of your defeat. Maybe you’ve just gone numb or maybe it’s the wine. By the smirk on his lips, you think he can tell. 

You ride back to the palace together and you’re thankful that the ride is short enough that he can’t do more than just paw at your breasts like an animal. Your lack of enthusiasm doesn’t deter him. 

Natasha’s handmaiden leads you to your former chambers for you to ready, much to your surprise. The jealousy and hatred of the ladies pretty much seals the fate on their arrival but you are thankful for their absence. 

The handmaiden, Mina, ushers you in and shuts the door behind her, leaving you alone and confused. You sit at the vanity, wondering what to do when you hear the ruffling of skirts and soft footsteps behind  you. 

“Why do you look so confused, my love?” Natasha’s voice pierces through the silence and your breath hitches at the sight of her. She is dressed in a delicate pink gown, the one you suspect she wore at her wedding, her hair adorned with a beautiful mix of lavenders and daisies. 

“What are you doing here?” You asked, confused but not averse to the idea of her being here.

“Why, I’m here to celebrate my wedding night with my lovely wife,” she says as she gently cups your cheek and you lean into her touch. 

“I don’t understand,” you admit and she smiles, a genuine one, filled with love and adoration. 

“James is bound in holy matrimony to the both of us so doesn’t that bind us in a way too? Am I wrong then, to call you my wife? To want to share this night with you, on our marital bed?” She asks and you can hear the vulnerability in her tone that brings tears to your eyes. 

“I am yours, forever. I am bound to you just as I am to him. Maybe even more deeply,” you say as she sighs in relief and pulls you in for a kiss, leading you towards the bed. She starts kissing down your throat, pulling off your dress when you stop her, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “What about His Majesty?” You frown. 

She chuckles before continuing to make her way down your torso, stopping to gently bite your nipple. “I’ve made sure that he’ll be too drunk to do much. He always had a habit of imbibing far too much,” she says between kisses. You chuckle and pull her close for another kiss, flipping her on her back swiftly. 

She gasps softly and you smirk. “And that’s why I love you,” you tell her. 

“That’s the only reason?” She asks and you smile to yourself before kissing down her neck. “Yeah, and because of these beautiful breasts… Your soft stomach…. Your strong legs…and, this tight pussy,” you say as you kiss down her body before finally reaching her centre. She’s wearing nothing underneath the dress, granting you all the permission you need. You suck her clit into your mouth as she drapes her thighs over your shoulders and pulls you closer to her wet cunt. Two of your fingers slowly delve into her hole, softly looking for the spot and when she moans airily, you know you’ve found it. You rub her g-spot softly as you suck her clit in your mouth. She’s a mess above you, tugging on your hair with one hand as the other pinches at her own nipples. She’s cum thrice before you finally stop, sitting back to catch your breath as she lays there, panting. You can’t help but smile at the thought that she is your wife. 

Nat gently tugs on your hand as you turn to look at her. 

“Sit on my face,” she commands and you’re about to complain when she pinches your side. 

“Just do what I say, this night is about the both of us,” she says as she pulls you closer, manoeuvring your knees onto either side of her face as her hands frame your lower back, pulling you lower onto her face. She laps at your folds slowly before sucking your clit into her mouth as your fingers find purchase in her scarlet locks. You ride her face until your legs are shaking and you can no longer support yourself, falling down besides her. You’re exhausted but still a woozy smile adorns your face just like it does her. 

Natasha couldn’t leave marks on you no matter how much she wanted to but you made up for it by leaving more than enough marks on her, her pale skin littered with deep red and maroon bruises and crescent moons adoring her thighs where you’d gripped them a little too hard. 

You couldn’t imagine sex with His Majesty would come even close to this but you knew it had to happen. So once Natasha is asleep, you slip away with a note left for her on the pillow : 

I may walk alone in the night’s chill, 

aka the Alysanne the Winter Queen fic

Just imagine it:

The North might rise for a male bastard if they believed Jon Snow to be the only child of their heir, but it'd be a hard sell to get it to do the same for an illegitimate daughter. So Ned Stark can pass off his sister's child as his older brother's without anyone raising too many eyebrows or pissing off his wife too much. (Cat's still pissed, because Brandon was her betrothed, but it's a less potent anger than your new husband having an affair and choosing to raise the child.)

So f!Jon Snow (I'm calling her Alysanne instead of Joanna or Lyanna or Lyarra, because I like the lore throwback) grows up thinking she's the bastard daughter of Brandon Stark and Ashara Dayne. When she's young and all elbows and knees, they still call her The Bastard of Winterfell. After puberty hits, some start calling her The White Rose instead - in part as a play on her last name, in part because I feel she'd have the whole Snow White thing going for her.

Then, shortly after Aly turns 14 and the North starts wondering if Ned is going to marry the girl off to his heir to forestall any questions of inheritance between Brandon's line and his own, Lady Caitlyn dies in childbirth. Her child - maybe another boy born 2 or 3 years after Rickon - dies with her.

Ned is heartbroken and sort of retreats into melancholy. Steward Poole and Maester Luwin divide the Lord's duties between them, calling on young Lord Robb for those which require a Stark. And those tasks which in times past would have fallen to Lady Caitlyn - running the household, overseeing the staff, caring for the children - fall to Aly instead.

After about two or three months of this, I imagine Lord Umber comes to Winterfell for some reason and manages to knock some sense into Ned - you still have a family to care for and The North to rule etc - and manages to plant an idea in the process: your niece is practically running the keep singlehanded and your bannermen will be pushing you to marry one of their daughters or sisters before long, so why not tie up any issue of inheritance once and for all and wed the girl yourself?

Ned really can't argue without revealing that Alysanne Snow is really Alysanne Targaryen. Besides, all he's ever wanted to do is keep his family safe and, admittedly, Umber's idea is such a handy way doing so The Old Gods might well have made Caitlyn bleed out in childbed after five easy births to see it happen.

And so Aly becomes the second Lady Stark.

It's... awkward at first - how could it not be? - but they're Starks and they do their duty (and, though it would probably pain Ned to admit it, he likes Aly rather more than he liked Cat at first. He'd respected Cat and cared for her, certainly, but Aly is Northern. It's easier with Aly. She understands in a way Cat never could, even if yes that's because he raised her to be that way. So awkward.)

Actually, the whole how do you go from being uncle and niece to husband and wife would probably be the bulk of the fic, because there's so much to explore there. Plus the inherent angst of do I tell my wife that I've been lying about her parents all along? To say nothing of my cousins I was raised beside are now my stepchildren. How do I make that work?

By the time Robert arrives to kick off the events of S1, three or four years have passed. Aly's 18 or so and given birth to two sons - Torrhen and Cregan - and the fact that the king is lusting over his best friend's wife is just unpleasant for all involved, and Ned ends up agreeing to become Hand of the King mostly just to get Robert out of the North before one of his bannermen decides to take offense to Robert's wandering eyes in a permanent way.

Afterwards, well... Ned doesn't set out to put his wife on the throne, but it happens. He's somewhat more cautious this time around because Aly's not "safe" at the wall the way Jon was in canon, not to mention Torrhen and Cregan are the same age Rhaenys and Aegon were when they were brutally murdered, and as such rather more successful.

Dorne ends up being surprisingly helpful after they realize that Ned intends to put Aly on the throne in her own right and abdicate The North in favor of Robb, in the Dornish fashion. They still don't like that Rhaegar spurned Elia the way he did, but better a Dragon than a Lion or Stag.

And so Aly becomes Queen Alysanne Targaryen, second of her name. Ned stays as Hand of the Queen as well as her consort. Torrhen, namesake of the King Who Knelt, becomes known as The White Wolf and spends a considerable amount of time after his majority north of The Wall...

And that's all I've got. Feel free to adopt the bunny if you can give it a good home, just link me if you ever do...