The Glass Jewel
(Jon x Reader)
Words: 2829
Sixth in a series.
(Part 1 / King in the North / The White Wolf / Skins / The Thing That Came in the Night)
The heavy fall of Jon’s 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 wouldn’t do to chase after him--if he’d 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. “I suppose you should show me to my quarters,” she said at last.
In truth, you didn’t 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 bed–it 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 that–as you now notice–brush the sides of your grandmother’s 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.
“And where do you sleep, Y/n?” she asks, with all the subtlety of a woman known for carrying a mace.
“I sleep there, grandmother–just at the opposite end of the hall.”
“By the other stairwell?”
“Yes.”
Her brows narrow into a knowing scowl. “And where do those stairs lead?”
“To–” you catch yourself before you can say Jon “–Lord Stark’s solar. And Lady Sansa’s.”
“You’re at first names with Lady Bolton, are you?”
“Many here at Winterfell–at least, those who weathered the Boltons– have known her since she was a girl. She is still very much Lady Sansa in their eyes.” You throw a glance around the parameter. “It’s not my place to say, but...for reasons very dear to Lady Sansa, she prefers to dispense with the name Bolton.”
“I don’t blame her. When I heard she’d been yoked to Ramsay Bolton I shuddered.” She does so again, at the thought. “Having to bed that repugnant dog’s pizzle of a man...” She shakes her head. “Though I suppose the gods are good after all–she bore him no children and kept her fingers.”
You make a sound of weak agreement, though your mind is full of objections. You know that Lady Sansa’s stories are not yours to tell.
“They seem to have smiled on Lord Stark as well,” she continues, “collecting so many titles so soon. King in the North. The White Wolf. Now Jon Stark, heir to Winterfell.”
You nod. “I think he will do well by his name,” you offer, as you both approach her room. You’re 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.
“I hope this suits you, Grandmother.”
She takes a sweeping glance in the near-darkness. “It will serve.”
Good enough. “I’ll leave you this candle, then, so you may light a fire if you wish.”
She turns to you with eyebrow cocked. “And what sort of thankless child are you, that you would not kneel to light a fire for an old crone? Come inside, come inside!”
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.
“Close the door, girl–you’ll let the draft in!”
You do so, and cross the room to offer her the candle’s flame. She nearly snatches it from your hand, and sets the straw and kindling alight.
She clearly hasn’t 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 stands–with not a groan nor a creak–and sits at the foot of the bed.
“Come, Y/n, and give me a hand with these boots. My old fingers are still-half frozen.”
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 paw–tough and furry, more animal than human. What’s 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. “I’ve heard it said that you are serving here as Lyanna’s consul.” Her voice is flat and soft now.
“Yes, Grandmother.”
“And Lyanna bid it so?”
“Yes, Grandmother.” You’re unsure which is more bothersome, the knotted leather or the prying questions.
“Did Lord Stark have any say in this appointment?”
“I don’t know, Grandmother,” you say, sure of your honesty in at least that answer. “I was only asked, not consulted.”
“I’m surprised. It’s said you have Lord Stark’s ear and more.”
So that had left the castle’s gates. How far had it flown, you wonder. Your cheeks can’t help but flush a little–the 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?
“If I remember right, you took to each other as children,” she continues.
“Aye, we did,” you answer through gritted teeth, unwinding the wet leather from around her calf.
“Did you ever wonder why you were never betrothed?”
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.
“I suppose Lord Eddard had planned on urging him into the Night’s Watch?”
“No, child.” She lay a hand on your shoulder. You look up to meet her eyes. “Eddard Stark knew Robert Baratheon from boyhood. He served as Robert’s Hand. Do you believe that the king would hesitate to grant him any favor he wished?”
You shake your head No.
“Lord Eddard could have had Jon made legitimate with a stroke of the king’s quill. He’d 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.”
You blink your confusion. You cannot say where this is going, but an uncomfortable churning begins in your belly all the same.
“Don’t 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 son–a Stark son–in return for his loyalty. Such ambitions aren’t served by marrying one of their own vassals.”
You nod slowly. “But why tell me this now? Jon is a lord in his own right. He won’t need to be married off now. And Lady Sansa could still marry well...”
“Sansa 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.” A small sigh deflates her. “And 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.”
You don’t notice, but your hands are beginning to shake. You only feel the tightness in your throat. “But the Manderleys...the Glovers...they’ve promised their swords to Jon. Surely their support...” Your voice falls away, strangled.
“And when he tells them about these White Walkers–will they follow their ‘king’ 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 army–but he can marry into one.”
The air disappears from the room.
“There may be a lesser Redwyne who’ll give him men enough to march against the Lannisters–in return for a Northern ladyship, of course. Perhaps one of Mallister’s granddaughters, once she comes of age.” She efflares a laugh. “He may even make a good match for the little Dragon Queen, if she’ll have him...”
“Stop!” you cry. You’re panting hard now, struggling to breathe. You blink and find tears wetting your cheeks.
“Y/n...”
“No...” The word comes out in a mewling little whine, but you can’t stop from saying it over and over again.
“I’m sorry, Y/n...”
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 bore–that he had kissed half a hundred times–should mean so little...
“...leave Winterfell at the next clear day...”
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 you’ve 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 consul–why should you be present for the machinations of a marriage alliance?
“You may take a part of him, if you must...”
This only starts your tears afresh. “I...there was...I couldn’t...”
Your grandmother nods knowingly. “Moon tea.”
It was not moon tea, but it was close enough. And you haven’t the will or the words to explain otherwise. You simply nod your agreement.
“There is time, if you wanted–”
“NO!” You howl, another sob lurching through you. You, yelling at the grandmother you thought was dead. You could be no more ashamed of yourself.
“I couldn’t...I couldn’t do that to Jon,” you finally say. “His great fear is that he’d father a bastard himself. It’s no life for a child here...” 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.
“He is the son of a Lord and you are the daughter of a Lady. Bastards or no, you are equals. It cannot–it will not–be said that any child that comes of your bodies shall be any less.” You nod into her hand.
With a surprising tenderness, she wipes away your tears with her thumb. “You are his equal, sweetling. And he is no king–not yet.” She pulls her hand back. “But a man’s title is bought, sold, and traded as much as any maidenhead. Just know that he may yet be too costly for you.”
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 you’d only freeze to death in chest-high snow.
You stand–slowly, as not to spill the overflowing cup–and give her a little curtsy. “Can I do anything more for you, Grandmother?” You suck in a sob. “I should like to go to bed now.”
“No, child,” she says softly. “I should like to sleep myself.” She pulls at the heel of her boot before adding “I’ve not slept safely in many moons. Remind me to thank Lord Stark for his hospitality in the morning.”
“I will.” You back out of the room, barely holding your composure. “Goodnight Grandmother.”
“Goodnight, Y/n.”
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 Jon’s seed planted a son in you, you think, he’d 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 there’d be no question he was a Stark. Not if you whelped a boy after a stay at Winterfell. Not if he had Jon’s 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 don’t think you could bear the look in Jon’s eyes, if he found out he’d left a son unloved.
No. You couldn’t.
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.
