rowan

full time student, writes every other moon

[rowancries]

NAVIGATION

"AND IF NANA WAS A BOY, SHE'D THE LOVE OF MY LIFE...."

rowan (19) infp—t!

burnt out uni student ☹️

atv's biggest fan. pink & navy blue. letterboxd warrior. all a's since elementary school. 2021 discord group chat survivor. harry lewis 🤤. huge lurker. jon snow fan girl. multi-fandom girlie. i watch a lot of movies. swans. chrismd10 🤤.

masterlist | request | anons

requests are almost always open!!! read the rules then feel free to shoot it in my inbox

[rowancries]

hiii! i just saw your harry and pop star fic!! it looks so cool!!!! will you be writing for it anytime soon? no pressure xx

HELLOO!!! thanks for asking about the fic xx

short answer: YES

long answer:

I plan to have the prologue up by this Sunday (6/7/26) and HOPEFULLY chapter 1 as well!!

After the initial release, I hope to stick to an every (or) every other sunday posting schedule, depends on how long it takes to write other fics too!!

i’m still mapping out the plot since i have so many good ideas for story lines & drama, so currently that’s going on as well!

[musiicpix3l]

Yes yes i know love is love. But they are still killing CHILDREN. over this.

[dvmpanwa]

accidental vegas wedding ───୨ৎ─── harry lewis x reader

pairing: harry lewis x reader synopsis: After a weekend of bad decisions, too many drinks, and a complete lack of memory, you wake up wearing a paper ring only to discover that somewhere between the casinos and the cocktails, you accidentally got married. word count: 1.6k  tags/warnings: accidental marriage, vegas wedding, fluff, drunk decisions, established relationship

a/n: first time writer here!! i have read fanfic for YEARS but never had the courage to start writing but here I am hehe^^ please bare with me guyss

The room was quiet in a way that Vegas never was.

Stale champagne. Expensive perfume. The familiar weight of Harry’s arm rested across your waist. You look to the right and smile with content as you see him sleeping soundly beside you. 

“Haz… Hazz… wake up. I think it’s almost noon.” you whispered, carefully pushing yourself up onto one elbow.

A groan escaped him as he buried his face deeper into the pillow. “Fuck… a few more minutes please.” 

“We can’t, unless you want to miss our flight back home tonig–” Before you could finish, he hooked an arm around your waist and tugged you back beside him. His arms immediately wrapped around you, pulling you against his chest as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

“Please,” he mumbled.

You laughed softly.

“Okay… fine. A few minutes.”

A satisfied hum left him as his grip tightened around your waist.

You rolled your eyes but settled back against him anyway, letting yourself sink into the warmth of his embrace. As you adjusted your position, something brushed against your finger.

Frowning, you lifted your hand.

A paper ring sat on your ring finger.

“…Haz.”

He hummed sleepily against your shoulder.

“Why am I wearing a ring?” 

Questioningly, you turned to Harry, lifting your hand for him to inspect. The paper ring was still there, wrapped loosely around your finger as though it belonged there. In the daylight, it looked even more ridiculous than it had moments ago—slightly wrinkled, unevenly folded, and clearly made from a paper towel that had no business becoming jewelry.

Yet for some reason, you couldn’t stop looking at it.

“Aww, did you propose to me last night?” you teased. 

Harry cracked one eye open. “Now I know that’s not true,” he mumbled. “I haven’t bought any rings yet.” 

Laughing, you reached for his hand. “Then explain this.”

Wrapped around his ring finger was an identical paper ring, poorly folded and held together by what looked suspiciously like paper towel from a public restroom. 

The two of you stared at the matching rings. 

“Right…” Harry said slowly. “That’s mildly concerning.” 

You giggled at his response. The joke wasn’t entirely new. Marriage had come up more than once over the last year—during Christmas with your family, during late-night conversations about the future, during quiet moments when neither of you were really joking. There had never been any rush. If anything, you’d both agreed to wait until life felt a little more settled before taking that step.

Which made the matching paper rings considerably more concerning.

“So…what exactly happened last night?” you asked, examining the ring again. “You know neither of us are exactly reliable after a few drinks.” 

Harry rubbed a hand across his face, squinting at the ceiling as though the answers might be written there.

“Honestly, it’s all bits and pieces to me.” 

“Well that’s reassuring” 

“No, wait. I remember winning three thousand dollars.” 

“Babe, you lost four hundred.” 

Harry frowned. 

“Oh.” 

You snorted. 

A ringing noise from the bedside table pulled both of you back to reality. 

Harry reached over with a groan, blindly feeling around for his phone before finally grabbing it. Squinting at the bright screen, he let out a breath. 

“It’s Ethan.” 

“Perfect,” you muttered. “Maybe he’ll remember what happened.” 

“And then continue to embarrass us even further.”

“Same difference.”  

You laughed as you climbed out of bed, soothing down your shirt. Leaning over, you pressed a quick kiss to his lips before making your way toward the bathroom. 

“One step ahead of you,” Harry said, answering the call.

The moment the call connected, Ethan’s grin filled the screen.

“Bog!” he exclaimed, looking far too awake for the hour. “How are the newlyweds holding up?”

Harry’s eyebrows kitted together. 

You paused halfway to the bathroom door. 

You and Harry exchanged a look.

“The what?” Harry asked.

Ethan’s grin finally faded as he realized neither of you were joking. He shifted in his seat, running a hand over his face before letting out a long sigh.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.”

Your stomach dropped.

“Ethan.”

“Wait. You genuinely don’t remember?”

Harry pushed himself upright against the headboard, suddenly looking far more awake than he had thirty seconds ago.

“Remember what?”

Ethan dragged a hand down his face.

“No way.”

“What, Ethan?” you pressed.

“Right.” He pointed at the camera. “Before either of you start freaking out, everyone is fine. Nobody got arrested.”

“That wasn’t even remotely my first concern,” Harry deadpanned.

“It should be.”

You and Harry exchanged a look.

“Ethan.”

“Okay, okay.” He sighed. “To put it simply, you two got married last night.”

Silence.

The only sound in the room was the distant hum of traffic somewhere below.

You stared at the phone. Harry stared at the phone. Ethan stared back.

Finally, Harry let out a laugh.

“A good one.”

“It’s not a joke.”

The smile slowly disappeared from Harry’s face.

“Ethan.”

“Harry.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

You looked down at the paper ring still wrapped around your finger before glancing at Harry’s matching one.

Neither of you spoke.

Ethan winced.

“Yeah. That’s pretty much the exact reaction everyone had when you two started exchanging vows.”

Your jaw dropped.

“We exchanged what?”

Ethan's wince deepened.

“Vows. Rings too, technically. Although calling those things rings is being generous.”

You and Harry looked down at the paper wrapped around your fingers.

“Right,” Ethan continued. “Anyway, I have screenshots, videos, witness statements—basically enough evidence to ruin both of your lives.”

“Ethan,” Harry said flatly.

“I'm helping.”

“You are literally doing the opposite.”

The call continued for another ten minutes, most of which consisted of Ethan recounting the events of the previous night while the two of you sat in stunned silence.

Apparently, there had been drinks.

Many drinks.

There had also been a heated debate about whether true love could survive a game of blackjack, an argument with a cardboard Elvis, and a declaration from Harry that if he was ever going to get married, it would be to you.

After that, the details became increasingly difficult to defend.

By the time the call ended, neither of you knew whether to laugh or be horrified.

The room fell quiet.

Harry slowly lowered his phone.

You stared at the wall.

He stared at the ceiling.

Neither of you spoke for several seconds.

“Well,” you finally said.

“Well,” Harry echoed.

Another pause.

“We got married.”

“Apparently.”

“We accidentally got married.”

“Allegedly.”

You turned toward him.

“Harry.”

“Yeah, alright. We definitely got married.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

The absurdity of the situation was beginning to outweigh the shock.

Harry laughed too, running both hands over his face.

“This is insane.”

“A little.”

“A little?” He sat up straighter. “We went to Vegas for four days and somehow came back with a legally binding commitment.”

“That does sound quite Vegas, actually.”

His head dropped back against the headboard.

For a moment, the two of you simply sat there.

The paper rings suddenly felt heavier than they had any right to.

Eventually, Harry broke the silence.

“If you want to get it annulled, we can.”

Harry’s voice was quiet, stripped of the teasing tone that had carried most of the morning. The suggestion was reasonable. Expected, even. After all, neither of you had planned for any of this.

Yet as you looked at him, sitting beside you with a paper ring still wrapped around his finger, the idea settled strangely in your chest.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “We can.”

Neither of you moved. Neither of you sounded particularly eager.

A strange feeling settled over the room.

Not disappointment. Not relief. Something awkwardly caught in between.

Because the truth was, the idea of marriage had never been the problem.

The timing had been.

The planning.

The fact that neither of you wanted something so important to happen because of tequila and poor decision-making.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck.

“It's not that I don't—”

“I know.”

His eyes met yours.

You knew exactly what he was trying to say.

It wasn't that he didn't want to marry you.

And it wasn't that you didn't want to marry him.

If anything, that was what made the conversation so complicated.

The room grew quiet again.

Outside, Vegas carried on as though it hadn't completely altered the trajectory of your lives overnight.

Harry glanced down at the paper ring around his finger before letting out a soft laugh.

“Not exactly how I pictured doing it.”

You smiled despite yourself.

“No?”

“Nah.”

He looked at you then.

“When it happens for real, I'm at least getting you a better ring than toilet paper.”

A laugh escaped you, soft and breathless.

Only a few minutes ago, the idea of being married had felt absurd. Something that happened to other people. Something that belonged years in the future, after enough planning and certainty and carefully laid-out decisions.

Yet sitting here now, looking at Harry with a crumpled paper ring around his finger and bedhead sticking up in every direction, you couldn’t bring yourself to care about any of that.

Not really.

Because beneath the panic and confusion and absolute insanity of the situation was a truth neither of you had argued against once.

It wasn’t the marriage that scared you.

It was the fact that neither of you remembered it.

Your gaze dropped to the paper ring before finding him again.

“I like shiny things,” you said softly.

A smile tugged at the corner of Harry’s mouth.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his.

“But I’d marry you with paper rings every single time.”

[kere-28]

it's going to take a while to get used to, but at the end of the day they're still the sidemen. and i love the sidemen. so i'm happy they're moving forward despite everything.

[rowancries]

ALL YOU HAD TO DO WAS STAY | W2S

concept: what happens when you, a popstar who has made a huge name for yourself, starts rekindling with your ex, Harry Lewis?

notes: second chance romance, smau, popstar!reader

moodboards | extra

chapter 1 (COMING SOON..)

chapter 2

chapter 3

taglist: (open! comment to be added)

[wr2shw]

tinder prank

description: doing the "i saw your friend on tinder" prank on your boyfriend.

pairing: harry lewis (w2s) x fem!reader; george clarke x fem!reader; arthur frederick (arthut tv) x fem!reader; chris dixon (chrismd) x fem!reader

genre: fluff/crack

harry lewis

you and harry were lounging on the couch, your phone pointed towards him already recording. you gasp capturing his attention. "oh my god." you say dramatically.

"what? what?" he says, sootching slightly closer, his eyes filled with curiosity.

you put on the most serious face and say, "ethan's on tinder."

"what?!" he asks, geniunely shocked and completely believing you. "what the fuck is he doing on there? he's got a wife and a child, this is outrageous." he continues, actually fuming.

"yeah, how can people in relationships be on tinder? i hate cheaters." you add, trying your hardest not to break into a laugh.

it takes him a good two minutes before he slowly looks up at you again. "wait. a. minute." he says slowly, "how do you know that? what are you doing on tinder?"

"took you long enough, genius." you say, rolling your eyes.

"wait is it one of your pranks again?" he works it out. "i just don't believe you'd cheat on me."

"cocky bastard." you say, laughing.

"you love me." he says, grinning.

george clarke

george is scrolling trough his phone when you start recording. "oh my god." you gasp.

"what?" he asks looking up from his phone.

"bach is on tinder!" you say, your jaw dropped.

"what?" he asks, his eyebrows knitting together before relaxing again. "is this is stupid trend where you pretend to be on a date app?"

"fuck you, george, how do you get it everytime?" you say, annoyed at him.

"it's not that easy to prank me." he gives you a cocky grinning.

"i will get him one day." you mutter under your breath.

arthur fredrick

arthur is eating his breakfast, still sleepy, you start recording and say "oh my god." he looks up at you and raise an eyebrow. "bach is on tinder."

"no way." he says, abandoning his breakfast. "you are joking."

"no i am not, i literally just saw him on tinder." you push.

"that's crazy, we must tell liv." he says. "i am so disappointed in him." he frowns and returns back to his breakfast. "okay, how will we tell her? i am thinking we should let her know gently-"

"arthur, i saw him a tinder." you say again, emphasising on 'i'.

"yeah, i know, i am saying we must tell liv, she doesn't deserve this betrayal." arthur says, still completely oblivious.

"arthur, that would mean i am on tinder." you say, completely losing patience.

"oh my god. what are you doing on there?!" he exclaims, "this is way too much information for 8 in the morning."

"arthur it's a prank." you say, playfully rolling your eyes.

"oh so bach is not cheating on liv. thank god my parents are not divorcing." he sighs in relief.

chris dixon

"oh my god, chris!" you exclaim, grabbing his attention. "guess what?"

"what?" he says, his eyes wide.

"bach is on tinder." you say.

"what?" he asks shocked. "why is he on tinder?!" you can see light goes off in his head before he asks "what are you doing on tinder?", sounding slightly upset.

"huh?" you say, playing dumb.

"you said you saw bach on tinder, what are you doing on tinder?" he asks, his tone serious. you can't hold it in anymore and start laughing. "oh it's one of your stupid pranks, isn't it?" he sighs in relief, you laugh even harder. "haha, you got me." he says, dryly, making you laugh louder. "okay enough." he says, now laughing himself.

[hazelnott]

⤷ ramsay's widow ii ˎˊ˗

# jon snow / karstark fem!user

-# Synopsis ￫ jon visits you after the meeting, and you decide to take a walk to the godswood together. one thing turns to another, and you two share something very special. ˎˊ˗

-# Warnings ￫ 2.9k+ .ᐟ fluff .ᐟ mentions of death .ᐟ mentions of ramsay... he's his own warning .ᐟ first kiss .ᐟ slight mentions of sa .ᐟ ˎˊ˗

-# A/n ￫ pt. 2 to this fic (click)! i am planning to ease into the romance, but i suppose pt. 3 will include a more intimate route. i'm currently rereading asoiaf while ALSO rewatching the show, so i'm like completely immersed right now ˎˊ˗

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.

[rowancries]

IM KICKING MY FEET & GIGGLING

THEYRE SO CUTE!!

[cuunos]

being a kid and hearing adults say stuff like "woah 2011 was 4 years ago haha" didn't really convey the fucking horror of a youtube video crossing my recommended labelled "9 years ago" and it's from 2017. that's not true. 9 years ago is 2010 or something. don't lie.

[w2sprincess]

He so cuteee

[deerlyange]

[georgesclarkey]

y’all i feel like this is so obviously a joke idk 😭

[kere-28]

HARRY POSTED ON TWITTER, KSI REMOVED THE SIDEMEN FROM HIS INSTA BIO, DEJI'S REACTION VID CONFIRMED, EDITORS AND CLIPPERS ARE CONFIRMING IT, HE'S NOT IN THE NEW SIDEMEN AMAZON PRIME SERIES.

WE'RE SO COOKED💔

[lovelornparagraphs]

not fair (jon snow x fem!reader)

synopsis: troubled by the age difference and his desire to protect you, when confronted, he finally admits the truth.

warnings: slow burn romance, age gap (around 18/21), mutual pining, hurt comfort, injury recovery, blood and gore, near death experience, canon typical violence, emotional angst, romantic tension.

wc: 2.5k

The yard at Castle Black smelled of iron, smoke, and wet snow.

You had stopped noticing it years ago. Men shouted below the Wall while steel clashed against steel in uneven rhythm. New recruits stumbled through drills with frozen hands and bruised pride while older brothers barked insults sharp enough to split skin. Somewhere nearby, horses stirred restlessly in their stables.

The entire world seemed loud at Castle Black.

Except for Jon Snow. He stood near the edge of the training yard with Longclaw resting against his shoulder, dark curls dampened by snow. His attention followed the recruits with quiet focus while Ghost prowled at his feet like a pale shadow.

You approached with a stack of folded bandages balanced carefully in your arms.

"Three men split their hands open this morning," you said. "If they bleed over my floors again, I may poison their supper."

Jon glanced toward you. There was the smallest flicker of amusement in his grey eyes.

"That would improve the food."

You laughed softly.

It was easy with him. That was perhaps the most dangerous thing of all. Most men at Castle Black were loud in their attention. Crude. Obvious. They watched too closely or spoke too boldly.

Jon never did. He treated you the same way he treated the Wall itself—steady, dependable, always there.

Sometimes you hated how much you loved that about him.

"Maester Aemon asked for you earlier," you said.

Jon sighed.

"More letters?"

"You say that like reading pains you."

"It does when half the northern lords write like drunken children."

You smiled despite yourself. For a moment, his gaze lingered.

Not long...

Still, something warm moved quietly beneath your ribs.

You had known Jon for years now. Long enough to understand the shape of his silences. Long enough to know when he was troubled even before he spoke.

Long enough to know loving him was a terrible idea.

You were young...younger than him.

Jon was much older. Not too old, but old enough.

It's not a great distance in years. Yet sometimes he looked at you as though you belonged somewhere safer than Castle Black. Somewhere softer.

You hated when he did that.

Because there was nothing soft about your life.

Not anymore.

You had seen too much blood for softness. Too many political marriages. Too many bodies. Too many winters.

The Wall stripped innocence from everyone eventually. You adjusted the bandages in your arms. "You should eat before evening training."

Jon lifted a brow.

"Was that concern?"

"No. I simply dislike when you nearly faint during meetings."

"I have never fainted."

"You swayed ominously once."

A quiet laugh escaped him.

Gods.

That laugh could ruin you.

Ghost suddenly lifted his head toward the gate. The direwolf’s ears twitched.

The yard shifted around you almost instantly.

Men turned and voices lowered.

The returning rangers appeared through the snowfall.

And your smile vanished..bBecause Jon’s expression changed first.

Something was wrong.

The men coming through the gate looked exhausted.

One limped heavily.

Another had blood soaking through his cloak.

But your eyes found Jon again almost immediately.

He had already started moving.

"Tormund returned early," he muttered.

You followed him across the yard. Snow crunched beneath your boots while brothers rushed to help the injured men dismount. The cold wind carried the metallic scent of fresh blood.

One ranger collapsed before reaching the steps.

Chaos erupted.

You moved automatically.

Bandages.

Hot water.

Pressure on wounds.

Orders.

None of it frightened you anymore. That was the first thing Jon noticed. While everyone else shouted over one another, you knelt beside a bleeding ranger with calm hands and steady breathing.

Blood covered your fingers. You didn’t even blink.

Jon had always assumed you acted older than your age. But watching you now, he realized it wasn’t an act at all.

You simply understood survival. Hours passed before the yard finally quieted.

The wounded had been carried inside.

Snow continued falling beyond the narrow windows.

You scrubbed your hands clean in a basin darkened pink from blood. Your shoulders ached.

But you barely noticed Jon enter the room.

"You’ve been awake since dawn," he said.

"So have you."

"I’m not the one swaying ominously."

You snorted softly.

Then his hand closed around your wrist gently.

Your breath caught before you could stop it.

Jon frowned slightly.

"You're exhausted."

"I'm alive."

"Stop deflecting. That's not what I asked."

You looked up at him then.

He was too close.

The room suddenly felt smaller and quieter.

His thumb shifted slightly against your skin before he let go. The loss of warmth felt embarrassing.

Jon stepped back.

"Get some rest tonight," he said quietly.

You forced a smile.

"You sound like Aemon."

"And you ignore advice exactly the same way."

You rolled your eyes. But after he left, you realized your pulse had not settled.

Not even a little.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱

Three days later, Jon Snow nearly bled out beyond the Wall.

The storm arrived before sunset. Winds howled hard enough to shake the towers while snow buried the paths leading toward the gate. Men rushed across the yard carrying torches through the growing dark.

You had been organizing dried herbs when shouting erupted outside.

Your stomach dropped instantly.

The gate opened. And Jon stumbled through it covered in blood.

The world narrowed and you barely remembered moving.

Tormund was supporting most of Jon’s weight while two brothers tried keeping him upright. Blood soaked through the side of Jon’s leathers in thick dark streaks.

Too much blood...far too much.

"Move," you snapped.

The command left your mouth sharp enough that men obeyed without question.

Jon’s boots dragged against the stone floor. His face had gone pale beneath the cold.

Still conscious...

Barely.

"It’s not as bad as it looks," he muttered.

"You’re leaving blood behind you like breadcrumbs," you replied.

Tormund barked out a rough laugh.

"That means he’ll survive. Still arguing."

You guided them toward Jon’s chambers instead of the crowded infirmary.

There were too many wounded already.

Too much noise.

Jon needed quiet.

He sank heavily onto the edge of the bed while you lit more candles. The room filled with warm gold light. Only then did you finally see the wound clearly.

Your stomach tightened.

A deep slash stretched across his ribs.

Not clean...jagged.

The kind of injury that reopened easily.

Jon noticed your expression.

"I’ve had worse."

"And yet somehow you remain dramatic every time."

His mouth twitched weakly then pain crossed his face hard enough to erase the humor.

You moved closer immediately.

"Take the cloak off."

Jon obeyed more slowly than usual.

His hands shook. That frightened you more than the blood.

You stepped forward before thinking.

"Here."

Your fingers brushed his shoulders while helping pull the heavy fur cloak free.

Heat climbed into your face.

Jon went still, but not because of pain.

You realized that too late. The room suddenly felt unbearably quiet.

You focused on the wound instead.

"This needs stitching," you muttered.

"Wonderful."

"Try not to complain."

"I never complain."

You looked at him flatly.

Jon exhaled a quiet laugh before leaning back carefully.

You cleaned the blood away first.

The cloth beneath your fingers turned crimson almost immediately.

Jon’s jaw tightened as he tried not to react.

That only made it worse.

"Stop pretending it doesn’t hurt," you said softly.

"I’m fine."

"You can barely sit upright."

His eyes lifted toward yours. They were tired...

Something inside your chest twisted painfully.

You dipped the cloth into hot water again. The silence stretched and Jon watched you the entire time.

Not your hands.

You.

It unsettled him more than the wound itself.

He had seen you covered in blood before. Seen you command frightened men twice your size. Seen you stand untouched by things that would make others tremble.

But now, alone in candlelight with your sleeves rolled back and worry hidden carefully behind your calm expression, something felt different.

Dangerously different.

Your hair had fallen partially loose from its braid. There was exhaustion beneath your eyes. And when your fingers brushed his skin, warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with fever.

Gods.

When had that started?

You threaded the needle carefully.

"This will hurt," you warned.

"I gathered that from the needle."

You rolled your eyes before beginning.

Jon inhaled sharply.

His hand clenched hard against the blankets.

You worked quickly. Still, you felt every strained breath he took.

Every twitch beneath your fingertips. Every moment his eyes stayed fixed on your face.

The tension thickened slowly and neither of you acknowledged it.

That somehow made it worse.

When you finished, relief loosened your shoulders. Only then did your hands begin trembling.

Slightly...barely noticeable.

But Jon noticed anyway.

His voice softened.

"You were worried."

You tied the final bandage tighter than necessary.

The raw feeling the bandage tighten against his sore wound and he gasped softly.

"You nearly died."

Softer...

"That tends to worry people."

Jon looked at you for a long moment.

Something unreadable flickered across his face.

You stood too quickly.

"You need rest."

"Stay."

The word escaped him before he could stop it.

You froze.

Jon stared at the floor briefly like he regretted saying it. But then he looked back up.

And there was something unbearably honest in his expression.

"Just until I fall asleep," he said quietly.

Your chest tightened.

"Alright."

You sat beside the fire while snow battered the windows outside...little did you know, Jon fell asleep watching you.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱

The following days settled into routine.

You brought fresh bandages. Hot water. Meals Jon often forgot to finish.

And every day the tension between you worsened.

It lived in small things.

The way Jon’s gaze lingered too long whenever you tucked loose strands of hair behind your ear.

The way your fingers hesitated while adjusting his bandages.

The way silence no longer felt comfortable.

Only heavy.

One evening, you arrived carrying soup and found Jon struggling to fasten his shirt.

The movement reopened the healing wound slightly.

"Gods," you muttered, setting the bowl down. "You’re impossible."

"I can dress myself."

"Clearly not."

You stepped closer before thinking.

Jon’s hands stilled.

Carefully, you reached for the shirt ties. Your knuckles brushed his chest and heat flooded your face instantly.

Jon went frighteningly still. You could feel his eyes on you.

"There," you whispered.

Neither of you moved away. The space between you felt dangerous.

Jon’s voice came rougher than usual.

"You should sleep more."

You blinked.

"What?"

"You look tired."

You laughed softly.

"That’s your attempt at changing the subject?"

His expression betrayed him immediately.

You stared.

Then realization hit hard enough to steal your breath.

Oh.

Oh.

Jon stepped back first. Like the closeness itself frightened him.

That hurt more than it should have.

The room grew quiet.

"I should go," you said.

Jon nodded once.

You left before he could see how badly your hands were shaking.

After that, Jon avoided you.

But not entirely...just enough that you noticed...enough to ache.

He became quieter during meals. Shorter during conversations.

Whenever your fingers brushed accidentally, he pulled away too fast.

At first, you thought you imagined it. Then came the distance. And suddenly everything hurt.

You tried pretending not to care.

And you failed miserably.

Three nights later, Maester Aemon asked you to deliver fresh herbs to Jon’s chambers.

You almost refused.

Almost.

The fire burned low when you entered. Jon sat near the window sharpening Longclaw.

The scrape of steel stopped the moment he saw you.

Awkward silence filled the room.

You hated it.

"Your bandages," you said quietly.

Jon set the sword aside.

"You didn’t have to bring them yourself."

"Clearly someone did."

You approached slowly.

Jon watched you kneel beside him. Close enough to feel his warmth.

The wound had healed well. You should have been relieved. Instead, your chest hurt.

"You’ve been avoiding me," you said suddenly.

Jon’s jaw tightened.

"No."

"Jon."

He looked away.

That told you enough. The realization stung worse than expected.

"Did I do something wrong?"

His eyes snapped back toward yours instantly.

"No. Never that."

The intensity in his voice startled you.

Silence followed. Snow drifted softly beyond the window.

Jon exhaled slowly.

"You trust me too easily," he said at last.

You frowned.

"What does that mean?"

"It means—" He stopped himself harshly. "Gods. You’re mighty young."

You stared at him.

"And you’re acting as though you’re ancient."

"That’s not what I mean."

"Then explain it to me."

Jon stood abruptly.

Pain flashed across his face from the sudden movement.

You rose too and frustration burned hot beneath your ribs.

"You don’t get to pull away and refuse to tell me why."

Jon ran a hand through his curls.

"Before this," he said quietly, "it was easier."

Your heart stumbled.

"What was?"

His eyes found yours. And suddenly you understood before he even spoke.

"Ignoring it."

The room went still.

You could hear the fire crackling softly. Your pulse thundered.

Jon looked almost angry with himself.

"You walk into this room and suddenly I notice everything," he admitted roughly. "Whether you’ve eaten. Whether you’re tired. Whether someone upset you. I wait for your footsteps outside the door like a fool."

You could barely breathe.

"Jon—"

"And the worst part is that I didn’t realize how young you still are until I started caring about you." His voice lowered. "That should make this easier. It doesn’t."

Emotion tightened painfully in your throat.

You stepped closer slowly, but Jon didn’t move away this time.

"You think I’m a child," you whispered.

"No." His answer came immediately. "I have cared for you since we were very young. I still see you as someone to protect."

Your eyes burned unexpectedly.

Jon noticed at once.

His expression softened.

"Hey," he murmured.

The word shattered something fragile inside you.

"I thought you regretted it," you admitted quietly.

Jon looked stricken.

"Never."

His hand lifted carefully toward your face. He hesitated before touching you.

Your breath caught when his fingers brushed your cheek. The tenderness nearly ruined you.

Jon’s forehead rested briefly against yours.

Neither of you spoke.

You didn’t need to.

The tension that had haunted the room for weeks finally softened into something...

Outside, snow continued falling over Castle Black. Inside, Jon pulled you slowly into his arms.

And for the first time in weeks, there weren't witty arguments or silent glances.

[hazelnott]

⤷ ramsay's widow ˎˊ˗

# jon snow / karstark fem!user

-# Synopsis ￫ after the battle of the bastards, you were pledged to jon. you are ramsay bolton's widow, but also a karstark. a practical choice, for the karstarks needed to seal their loyalty back to the north for their sins. ˎˊ˗

-# Warnings ￫ 1.8k+ .ᐟ fluff .ᐟ mentions of death .ᐟ mentions of ramsay... he's his own warning .ᐟ first time writing for got...kind of nervous .ᐟ ˎˊ˗

-# A/n ￫ i wrote this fic being centered around the time jon becomes king of the north, but before he meets dany. having to write that big ass essay for finals made me lock in on my writing. there will be a pt. 2 to this, and potentially a pt. 3. but i'm wary of when i will post it because this took me like a month to post. i started on a draft, didn't like it and left it alone for a few weeks, and then switched it up just now ˎˊ˗

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.

[girltalk]

[sprmax]

sometimes this community is just soooo annoying