House De Poitiers was small compared to other Northern Houses. Joan was it's only daughter, but she had learn to carry herself as if she was from one of the greater houses of the land at the insistence of her mother. The carriages were several miles from Winterfell and from her fate, but Joan still thought about the urge she'd had to throw herself from the moving carriage and sprint away in the direction of her home. She felt her father's hand on her own and saw in his calm eyes the same well of some emotion she couldn't name. This had been arranged for ages and she'd met Jon Stark once before, but been too shy to write to him after they met that winter despite her mother's encouraging. Joan recalled the boy in the Godswood with the wooden sword and how he'd shared the sweet cake with her. She held onto those memories like a burning coal in her mind as she tried to focus on anything other than what was coming.
"Papa, I am afraid." Joan admitted. Her mother, Lady Kenna, stopped her embroidery project and both her parents looked at their daughter. Their eyes burned into her skin all the way down to her soul. The small family rode in a stilted silence the entire way to Winterfell. She hated every second of that silence which made her skin crawl, but then the carriages passed into Winterfell and stopped.
"It seemed larger last time I was here." Joan said, "You were seven, Joan." Her parents, in unison reminded her. It always freaked her out whenever they spoke in unison even though most of the time it was accidental. Joan groaned as her small family stepped out from the carriage, her grandmother, Diane De Poitiers, thankfully wasn't with them at the moment, as the woman had agreed to stay behind at their home to run things.
"It's still cold." Joan whispered, seeing her breath on the air.
Jon had survived battles of patience before.
He had stood through hours of lessons with Maester Luwin while Robb kicked him beneath the table. He had endured Sansa correcting his posture, Arya laughing at his expression, and Bran asking increasingly specific questions about whether marriage meant Joan would be allowed to command Ghost.
None of it had prepared him for standing in Winterfell’s courtyard dressed in dark grey wool and silver-threaded embroidery while half the household watched the gates.
The cold settled beneath his collar despite the heavy cloak around his shoulders. Jon resisted the urge to pull at it. Sansa had already slapped his hand away twice that morning and informed him, with the severity of a septa, that if he wrinkled the collar again she would have him dressed from the beginning.
Robb stood beside him wearing an expression Jon had come to resent. “You look as though you are waiting for an execution,” Robb murmured. “I have not ruled it out,” Jon replied.
Arya snorted. “You could still run. The stables are close.” Sansa shot her a look. “He is not running.” “I did not say he should.” “You implied it.”
Jon exhaled slowly.
They were all enjoying this far too much.
Then the gates opened.
Carriages rolled into the courtyard beneath the creak of wood and the press of wheels against frozen earth. Guardsmen shifted. Servants moved forward. Robb straightened, humor fading as duty settled over him.
Jon felt the same change. Whatever resentment lingered, the people arriving had come under his father’s protection and into his home. They would be welcomed properly.
Lord and Lady De Poitiers descended first. Jon offered the expected bow, though his attention had already shifted to the carriage behind them.
Joan stepped down into the cold.
For a moment, the courtyard seemed to narrow.
Jon searched her face for the child he remembered and found only fragments- something in the eyes, the line of her brow, the echo of a girl with a branch in her hand and stubborn pride in her stance.
This woman was nearly a stranger.
And yet not entirely.
That was worse.
A stranger would have belonged to duty alone. Joan lived in memory- snow, sweetcake, and the certainty of two children who believed a duel could settle anything.
Jon became aware that everyone expected him to move. He stepped forward. The formal greeting came first. He bowed, restrained and proper.
“Lady Joan.”
His voice held steady.
The rest of the greeting vanished.
Sansa had prepared him. Robb had suggested something clever. Arya had advised asking about branches. None of it seemed useful now. Jon glanced briefly toward her parents, then back to her.
“I should probably apologize.” The courtyard fell quiet. “That was not among the greetings my sister prepared.” Somewhere behind him, Sansa inhaled sharply. Arya made a sound that might have been a laugh.
“I only learned this morning that our betrothal had not been forgotten.” His gaze flicked once toward Robb, who looked elsewhere. “I thought it better you hear that from me than discover later that everyone in Winterfell knew before I did.”
There was no accusation in it. Joan had been brought into this as he had. That thought steadied him. The morning felt less like an ambush and more like two lives pushed together by promises made too early.
Jon folded his hands behind his back.
“You have traveled far,” he said. “Winterfell is colder than people remember.” He gestured slightly. “Your rooms are in the eastern wing, nearer the hearths, less wind.”
He had checked them himself, though he told himself it was only duty. Jon reached for his cloak clasp, then stopped. Offering it here would draw too much attention.
Instead, he turned. “Bring another fur. The thicker one.”
The servant hurried away. “There will be time for formalities inside,” Jon added. “And for whatever feast my family has arranged without consulting either of us.”
Robb coughed.
Jon ignored him.
He looked back at Joan, and the memory returned more clearly.
The godswood under fresh snow. A stubborn child dragging a branch too large for her. A sweetcake split unevenly because she refused pity.
His expression softened.
“I do remember you,” he said quietly. “Not as well as I should.”
His gaze drifted briefly toward the distant trees. “But I remember the godswood.” A hint of warmth touched his voice. “You challenged me to a sword fight with fallen branches.”
He met her eyes again. “I believe you declared yourself the victor before we began.” The corner of his mouth shifted, almost a smile. He let the memory rest between them without pressing her to share it.
“If you would rather go inside, I can escort you,” he said. “The fire should be lit.” His eyes flicked once more toward the trees. “Or, when you have rested, I can show you what you remember. The godswood has changed less than the rest of us.”
There were questions he wanted to ask: whether she had known, whether she had agreed, what she remembered. He asked none of them here. Those answers deserved privacy. Jon stepped aside, opening the path toward the keep.
“There is no need to decide anything today,” he said quietly. “Whatever our families agreed, I do not intend to make Winterfell another burden you must endure.”
The promise came simply.
She would have warmth. She would have time. She would have the freedom to speak plainly. The attendant returned with a heavy fur. Jon took it and held it out to her without presuming.
His eyes met hers.
“It is still cold,” he said.
This time, the restrained smile reached them. “Some things, unfortunately, have not changed.”
"It is good to see you again, Lord Jon." She said, gently taking the fur and wrapping herself in it. The warmth in his voice did not go unnoticed by her ears and her sharp mind that was working in overdrive. She wanted to tell him she hadn't forgotten him like her lack of letters must have indicated. Her heart was beating so fast. Her father's slight nudge of her shoulder with his gloved hand shocked her brain out of the wandering it was doing in the haze mists of the memories of a child.
"I remember you as well." She responded in equal quiet as he gave her comfort that Winterfell would not become a burden to her. "Going inside sounds wonderful." Joan sounded sheepish as she spoke, but trying to find her confidence again, she led Jon inside to a set of chairs by the fire. Once the pair was finally alone, save for Jon's large white direwolf that fell asleep at his feet. Joan's entire body seemed to relax from the stiffness of the courtyard.
"Mother would be furious at me for saying this, but I find the formality to be extremely stifling. If we are to be married then you should just call me by my name, none of the lady joanne nonsense." Her attention turned from her husband to be to the large white wolf that had quickly fallen asleep beside the fire. After a few moments of being soothed by the creature's breathing Joan turned her attention back to Jon.
"You never laughed at me when all the other lord's sons did." She spoke quietly, "I never did thank you for not laughing at me."
