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⤷ ramsay's widow iii ˎˊ˗

# jon snow / karstark fem!user

-# Synopsis ￫ leading up to the wedding—which has been set to happen much earlier due to the northern lords insistent demands—you and jon seem to be getting 'closer'. if that's what you call it. ˎˊ˗

-# Warnings ￫ 6k+ .ᐟ fluff, but there is a tiny bit of foreplay between you and jon, but there's no actual smut .ᐟ mentions of ramsay... he's his own warning .ᐟ cockblocking (?) somewhat since you get interrupted .ᐟ ˎˊ˗

-# A/n ￫ pt. 3 to this fic (click)! this part is much longer to be one part, but i figured I'd lock in and make this one longer due to not posting in over a week. i'm planning to make a fourth part even though i said i'd make only three... but this part would be like over 10k words if i did that, so i need to split it up. the fourth part will be the wedding & will include smut! ˎˊ˗

The next morning arrived with a harsh, blinding white light. The snow had fallen heavily overnight, burying the courtyard in a fresh, pristine layer that hid the marring of the recent battle, if only for a few days.

Jon was already in the Great Hall, leaning over a map of the North with Davos Seaworth. The hall was drafty, the smell of old smoke and wet wool clinging to the air. Several lords were already present, their voices a low, discordant hum of a collection of complaints and suggestions.

Davos pointed to a cluster of villages near the coast, “If we don't move the grain by the end of next week, the people in the valleys will be eating seven knows what by mid-winter, Your Grace.” He glanced up, noticing the distant look in Jon's eyes.

“You're not listening, are you?” Davos inquired, causing Jon to blink and snap his focus back to the map. “I am.” He said gruffly before continuing, “The grain stores. Move them.” Davos tilted his head, a knowing, subtle smile touching the corners of his mouth.

He had known Jon for almost three years now, and he recognized the look of a man whose mind was elsewhere. Davos spoke softly, as so the lords could not overhear, “I imagine the walk in the godswood was more interesting than the logistics of grain stores.”

Jon cleared his throat, his expression instantly returning to its stoic mask. “The logistics are the priority, Ser Davos.” He shifted his gaze back to the parchment, though the silent intimacy of the previous night still lingered in the back of his mind.

He tried to focus on the ink-drawn lines of the coast, but the memory of your warmth was a persistent distraction. Davos hummed thoughtfully, “Of course they are. Duty first. Always duty with you.” he lowered his voice further, “But a man cannot lead an army on a severed heart, Your Grace.”

Jon stiffened. The memory of bright red hair flashing through his mind like a painful reminder of what he had lost. Ygritte. “I'm glad to see you've found something to make it whole again.” Davos added, amnesic of Jon's taut stance.

Before Jon could say something, the heavy doors of the Great Hall groaned open. A child draft swept in, bringing with it the scent of fresh snow.

You entered the hall. You were dressed in heavy Northern wools of deep blue and grey, your hair neatly braided. You moved with that same quiet, guarded dignity, but as your eyes scanned the room and found Jon, there was a brief, almost imperceptible flicker of something softer in your gaze.

The lords of the North stopped their bickering. Eyes turned toward you—some with curiosity, some with clinical appraisal, and others with the lingering disdain they held for the Karstark name.

Lord Glover was the first to speak, “Ah, the bride-to-be arrives.” His voice was grating and loud. “We were just discussing matters of grain, Your Grace. Though, I wonder if the Karstark lands have any stores left to contribute, or if they've been entirely consumed by… previous mismanagements.”

You slowly approached Jon, rooting yourself to his side. “My lands… they should have some grain leftover.” Lord Glover sneered, leaning forward, “Should have? A vague answer for a woman who expects the King's protection. I should hope the Karstark's can offer more than a ‘should’ when the rest of us are bleeding to keep this North alive.”

A few of the other lords murmured in agreement, their eyes flicking between you and Jon. To them, you were still the daughter of a traitorous house, a political necessity whose presence was tolerated only because you brought a vital name back into the fold.

Jon's expression hardened, his voice dropping to a sudden insulation. “That is enough, Lord Glover. You should wish to watch your tongue when addressing my bride.” He didn't raise his voice, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop. He shifted his stance, subtly moving so that he was partially shielding Giselle from Glover's piercing gaze.

The transition from the tenderness of the previous night to the hardness of a King was instantaneous. “Lady (Name) is here as my guest and my future wife. You will speak to her with the respect her position demands.” Lord Glover bristled, his face flushing red. “I only seek the truth of our supplies, Your Grace—”

Jon cuts him off, his dark eyes flashing. “You seek to belittle a woman who has suffered more in a year than you have in a decade.” He leaned back over the map, his voice a dangerous low. “The grain will be accounted for. If you spend as much time organizing your own stores as you do questioning hers, we might actually survive the winter.”

The hall fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Glover opened his mouth to retort, but the look in Jon's eyes—the look of a man who had figuratively climbed out of his own grave—silenced him. The lord huffed and sank back into his chair, muttering under his breath.

Davos cleared his throat, sensing the tension. “Perhaps we should return to the map. As I was saying…” As Davos began to speak again, filling the silence with the mundane details of transport and logistics, Jon didn't move away from you. Under the cover of the heavy map table and the distractions of the council, his hand found yours.

His fingers brushed against yours in a brief, hidden squeeze. He whispered, barely audible to anyone but her. “Ignore him. He's a small man with a loud voice.” You squeezed his hand back. “I can handle him, Jon.”

His gaze flickered to her, a small, private spark of admiration in his eyes. He nodded briskly. “I know you can. But you shouldn't have to.” He didn't let go of your hand immediately, desiring to keep the connection for a few heartbeats longer than necessary.

It was a silent anchor in a room full of men who saw her as a problem to be solved or a debt to be collected. The council dragged on for another hour. The air grew thick with the scent of damp fur and the droning voices of lords arguing over borders, taxes, and the placement of sentries.

Through it all, Jon remained a pillar of frozen stone, his voice clipped and decisive. However, every time the conversation drifted toward the Karstarks or the logistics of the wedding, his grip on the edge of the table tightened until his knuckles turned white.

Lord Glover interrupted Davos, voice still laced with bitterness. “And when do we finalize the date? The North cannot wait indefinitely for a wedding feast while the frost deepens. We need the alliance sealed. Now.”

The word 'sealed' sounded clinical, almost like a transaction. Jon stiffened, his jaw tightening. He could feel you beside him, your presence steady, but he knew the weight of these men's expectations were a different kind of weight.

Jon looked up, his voice hard. “The date will be set when the preparations are sufficient. Not a moment sooner.” Lord Glover scoffed. “Preparations? It's a marriage, not a campaign. A few vows and a bedding, and the North is united.”

A few lords shifted uncomfortably. The mention of the bedding was pointed and crude, a reminder of the biological duty they expected from the union. Jon's eyes darkened, a dangerous glint appearing as he looked directly at Glover.

Jon's hand untangled with yours, finding the hilt of Longclaw. “You are overstepping, Lord Glover.” Davos quickly stepped in, “Now, now, let's not let our tempers flare over a wedding. I'm sure we can find a date that suits both the crown and the logistics of the traditions.”

Davos shot Jon a look—a silent plea to keep his temper in check for the sake of the room. Jon took a slow, deep breath, forcing the anger back down, though he didn't look away from Glover until the older man finally looked down at the map.

He turned slightly toward you, his expression softening only for you. “We're finished here for the morning.” He looked back at the lords, his voice returning to the commanding tone of a king. “Go back to your quarters and prepare your reports for tomorrow. Dismissed.”

The lords began to filter out, some nodding respectfully, others—like Glover—muttering under their breath as they exited the hall. Once the heavy doors groaned shut and the room emptied of everyone except Jon, you, and a lingering Davos, the oppressive tension seemed to lift.

Davos lets out a long sigh and rolls up the map. “You've got a talent for making those men terrified of you, Your Grace. It's a very useful trait.” He turns to look at you both, his tone gentle. “I'll leave you to your peace. I believe there's some fresh tea being brought to the solar if you're inclined.”

You glance up at Jon, “We could go to the solar together, if you'd like.” you murmur. His eyes soften, the tension finally draining from his shoulders. “I would like that.”

He didn't let you lead the way. Instead, he stepped beside you, his arm brushing yours as you walked. The transition from the crowded Great Hall to the smaller, more intimate solar was a welcome one. The solar was bathed in a dim, amber glow from the hearth, where a fire crackled, fighting back the winter chill that seeped through the stone.

A servant had already arrived, leaving a heavy iron pot of tea and two cups on a low wooden table. The room smelled of cedarwood and dried herbs. As soon as the door clicked shut behind you, the silence shifted from the heavy, political sort to something far more comfortable.

Jon sighed as he removed his heavy cloak, tossing it over a chair. “I can't stand them.” He said huffily, though he didn't specify which 'them' he meant, but the frustration was evident in the way he rubbed a hand over his face. He looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes more pronounced in the firelight.

He then turned to you, his voice low and genuinely apologetic. “I'm sorry you had to hear that. Glover's tongue is as sharp as his mind is dull.” He sighed, moving toward the tea and pouring two cups with steady hands, though his gaze remained fixed on you.

He seemed to be gauging your mood, wondering if the cruelty of the council had chipped away at the fragile peace you shared the night before. He hands you a cup, his fingers lingering against yours. “Did he... did any of it get to you?”

You take the cup, offering a meek smile. “I've dealt with worse than Lord Glover.” He stared at you for a long moment, his gaze lingering on your smile. “That's the problem.” His voice was low, a trace of sympathy beneath the admiration.

Jon didn't move away. Instead, he leaned back against the edge of the heavy oak table, crossing his arms over his chest. The flickering firelight played across the planes of his face, highlighting the hardness of his jaw and the softness in his eyes. He looked at you not as a king looking at a consort, but as a man looking at someone who deserved placidity.

“You shouldn't have to be 'used to' people like him. Or people like…” He stopped himself, the mention of Ramsay Bolton hanging unspoken in the air. He didn't want to bring that ghost into the solar. He didn't want to remind you of the cage you had spent so long in.

He reaches out, his fingers grazing the sleeve of your wool dress. “I want this place to be different for you. Not just the castle. But... us.” He looked down at the tea in his own hand, the steam curling upwards in the dim light.

For a moment, the stoic commander was gone, replaced by a man who was still figuring out how to be loved without feeling like he was taking something he didn't deserve. He looked back up at you, his voice rough. “When we marry... I don't want it to feel like another arrangement. I don't want you to feel like you've just traded one lord for another.”

You stepped closer. “I wouldn't be too opposed to marrying you... Well, now that I've gotten to know you better.” You whispered, your eyes searching his. Jon nearly choked on his tea, a startled cough racking his chest. He sputtered, the tea splashing slightly against the rim of his cup. He stared at you, his eyes wide, the sheer boldness of your whisper cutting through his broodiness like a blade.

For a man who spent his life anticipating ambushes and betrayals, this particular assault—one of sudden, soft intimacy—left him completely staggered. He set the cup down on the table with a hurried clatter, his voice raspy. “You…”

He searched your face, looking for the tease, the playfulness from the night before, but the closeness of your presence and the sincerity in your voice made his heart hammer a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The air in the solar suddenly felt too thick, too warm, despite the draft of winter pressing against the windows.

His voice dropped an octave, low and dangerously soft. “You shouldn't say things like that to a man who is trying very hard to be a gentleman, (Name).” He didn't move away. Instead, he shifted his weight, closing the small gap between them until the heat radiating from your body warmed the front of his tunic.

He reached out, his hand sliding around your waist to pull you flush against him, his touch possessive yet careful. His gaze dropped to your lips, his breathing becoming heavy. “Do you have any idea how much I want to stop being a gentleman?”

The vulnerability he had shown moments ago was gone, replaced by a raw, focused hunger. He didn't kiss you immediately; he lingered just a breath away, his forehead leaning against yours, his voice a rough vibration that you could feel in your own chest.

“If we did this... if we didn't wait... I don't think I could let you leave this room for a long time.” He whispered. You pull yourself flush against him. “Then don't let me leave.”

That was the final thread. Jon surged forward, his mouth crashing against yours with a fierce, desperate intensity that spoke of everything he had been suppressing—the longing, the protectiveness, and a hunger that had been starving for years.

One hand remained locked firmly around your waist, pulling you so tight against him that there was no air left between you, while his other hand slid upward, fingers tangling deep into the hair at the back of your head to tilt your face exactly where he wanted it.

He backed you up with a slow, steady pressure, his movements urgent but focused. He didn't stop until your back hit the heavy oak table with a dull thud, the tea cups rattling precariously beside them. He broke the kiss for a split second, his voice a rough, strained rasp against your skin. “You have no idea…”

His breath was hot against your ear. “No idea what you're doing to me.” He trailed a line of searing kisses down the side of your neck, his stubble grazing your skin, his grip tightening as if he feared you might vanish if he let go for even a second.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his dark gaze clouded with desire and a raw, searching intensity. His chest heaved, his heart drumming a frantic beat against your own. His voice was trembling. “If I start... I won't be able to stop. Not until you tell me to.”

You slither your arms around his neck. “...Then don't stop.” His eyes darkened at that, a low sound of approval vibrating in his throat. The invitation was the final catalyst. Jon's restraint, already frayed, snapped completely. He kissed you yet again, his mouth meeting you with a passion that was almost overwhelming.

It was a collision of all the things he had tried to keep buried—the loneliness of the Wall, the agony of death, and the sudden, terrifying realization that he finally had something he was afraid to lose.

With a sudden, fluid motion, he lifted you, hoisting you up onto the heavy oak table. The tea cups finally slid, one of them tipping over and spilling a dark stain across the wood, but neither of them noticed.

Jon stepped between your legs, pressing his body firmly against you, his hands sliding from your hair down to your thighs, gripping you with a desperate strength. He broke away for a moment to gasp for air, his voice a strained, rough whisper. “I've wanted... I've wanted this since the moment we were alone in the godswood.”

He didn't wait for a reply. He buried his face in the crook of your neck again, his kisses becoming more urgent, more demanding. His hands began to fumble with the laces of your dress, his movements hurried, almost frantic, as if he needed to feel your skin against his own to prove that this was real—that you were actually here, and that you wanted him.

The room around you seemed to fade away. The crackle of the fire, the cold wind rattling the windowpanes, the distant shouts of soldiers in the courtyard—all of it vanished. There was only the scent of you, the heat of the fire, and the frantic rhythm of two hearts beating in synchronization.

Jon pulled back slightly, his gaze searching yours, his voice trembling with an intensity that bordered on pain. “Tell me again. Tell me you want this.” Even now, in the height of his desire, the protector in him remained. He needed to hear it. He needed to know, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that he wasn't repeating the sins of the man who had come before him.

He wanted you to be the one to lead him into this, to ensure that this was an act of liberation, not of duty. You pulled him down by the collar, “Jon, I want you.”

A low, broken sound escaped him. His voice barely a whisper, thick with emotion. “I've got you. I've got you.” The confirmation was the only thing he had ever truly needed. Jon didn't hesitate further. He surged forward, his lips capturing yours once more, but the desperation had shifted into something deeper, something more needy.

His hands finally won their battle with the laces of your dress, the fabric slipping away to reveal the pale glow of your skin in the amber firelight. He paused for a heartbeat, his breath hitching as he looked at you, his expression one of pure, unadulterated reverence.

He touched you as if you were made of the finest glass, his calloused fingertips tracing the line of your collarbone with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the raw hunger in his eyes. He moved with a slow, deliberate intensity, shedding his own tunic and casting it aside without a thought.

When he pressed himself back against you, the contact of skin on skin felt like an electric shock, a grounding force that anchored you both in the present. He moved between your thighs, his weight a comforting pressure, his hands sliding up to cup your face, forcing you to look at him.

His gaze searching, voice rough and honest. “You're everything... I didn't think I was allowed to have.” He kissed you again, slower now, tasting the surrender and the desire. He began to move against you, a rhythmic, aching friction that drew a sharp breath from his lungs. Every touch was a question, every sigh an answer.

The world outside the solar ceased to exist. There were no lords, no crowns, no wars, and no ghosts. There was only the heat of the hearth, the scent of cedar and skin, and the way Jon whispered your name into the hollow of your throat, as if it were a prayer he had forgotten how to say.

As the tension reached a breaking point, Jon gripped your hands, interlocking your fingers and pressing them hard against the oak table. He buried his face in your shoulder, his body shaking with the effort of maintaining a shred of control before he finally let go, losing himself completely in you.

Long minutes passed in a heavy, contented silence, the only sound the crackle of the dying fire and the synchronized, ragged breathing. Jon didn't pull away. He remained draped over you, his head resting on your chest, listening to the steady thrum of her heart.

His hand had reached up, lightly squeezing your breast as he shifted to look up at you, his dark curls damp against his forehead. His voice a low, hushed murmur. “I don't think I can move.” He said it with a kind of weary, contented finality.

His weight was heavy and warm against you, a solid anchor in the quiet room. The frantic energy of moments before had melted into a profound stillness. His lips brushing against your nipple as he spoke. “I don't want to.” He shifted, curling his arm around your waist and pulling you closer against him on the table.

The wood was hard beneath you, but neither of you seemed to notice. His voice was drowsy, muffled against your breast. “We should... we should get you a proper bed.” He said it without moving, without any real intention of doing so. His hand traced lazy patterns against you hip, his eyes half-closed.

For a man who had spent his entire life in a state of alert readiness, he looked utterly, completely undone.

A soft knock at the door made him stiffen. His eyes snapped open, the king returning to the man in an instant. He didn't move, though his hand tightened protectively on your waist. The voice was muffled by the heavy oak. “Jon? Are you in there?”

Arya.

A pause. Then, a distinctly mischievous edge crept into Arya's voice. “I need to borrow your bride. Sansa says there are things to discuss. Wedding things.”

Jon let out a low, frustrated groan, his forehead dropping to rest against your shoulder. He stayed there for a long moment, seeming to fight an internal battle between duty and the deep, primal desire to stay exactly where he was.

“Seven hells.” He muttered against your skin, his breath warm. He didn't move for a long moment, his breath warm against your shoulder, his fingers still tracing lazy patterns on your hip. The knock came again, more insistent this time.

Through the door, Arya's voice was dry. “I can hear you breathing, Jon. Don't make me pick the lock.” Jon lifted his head slowly, his eyes meeting yours, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She would do it, too.” He grumbled.

He didn't rush to pull away. Instead, he leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips, as if memorizing the shape of your. When he finally pulled back, his gaze was heavy with reluctance. His voice was hushed, meant only for her. “After the wedding—which should be held within the next few days—we will finish this.”

He rose, his movements economical as he retrieved his tunic, pulling it over his head with a casual grace. He helped you up, assisting you with the laces of your dress. He then turned away before he paused at the door, glancing back at you, still tousled, still slightly breathless, the firelight catching the shadows under his eyes.

For a moment, he looked like a man who had just remembered what it felt like to be alive. “Don't let Sansa talk you into anything too elaborate. I just need you at the altar. Nothing else matters.”

He opened the door to reveal Arya, who leaned against the frame with a knowing smirk, her arms crossed. She didn't say anything at first—just looked past Jon, her grey eyes landing on you, still seated on the table, the spilled tea a testament to what had transpired.

Arya's smile widened. “Took you long enough.” She glanced at you. “Ready when you are. Sansa's already planning the flowers, and I'm fairly certain she's mapping out the seating chart by hand like she's planning an army formation. Thought you'd want a warning.”

You nodded, adjusting your dress as you approached Arya. “Thanks for the heads-up.” You grinned. Her smirk softened into something almost genuine as you approached. She gave a curt nod, her eyes flicking over your shoulder to where Jon stood, looking like a man who had just been caught with his hand in the honey pot.

“Don't thank me yet. You haven't seen the list of potential musicians. Or heard Sansa's opinions on lace.” Arya said dryly. She then stepped aside to let you pass, but not before shooting a final, pointed look at her brother. “Try not to look so pleased with yourself. The lords might think you've been seduced by a traitor.”

Jon grunted, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Mind your own business, Arya.” Arya shrugged, a glint in her eye. “This is my business. She's going to be my good-sister, isn't she?” With that, she turned and started leading the way down the corridor, her footsteps nearly silent on the stone floor.

Jon watched you go, his arms crossed over his chest, a complicated mix of frustration and profound contentment warring on his face. He remained in the doorway until they turned a corner and disappeared from sight.

The heavy oak door clicked shut, leaving him alone in the quiet solar. The room still smelled of cedar, tea, and the faint, visceral scent of skin and perfume. He ran a hand through his already-mussed hair and let out a long, slow breath, the ghost of a smile finally breaking through his usual stern expression.

The corridor outside the solar was drafty, the stones radiating a deep chill that made you instinctively pull your dress tighter. Arya walked with a familiar, prowling grace, her presence a sharp contrast to the heavy silence of the castle.

She glanced sideways at you. “You handled the council well. Better than I would have. I'd have probably thrown a dagger at Glover's head if I were you.” She said it casually, but there was a thread of genuine respect in her tone.

Arya slowed her pace as you approached a branching hallway. “Sansa's in the sewing room. She's got bolts of cloth everywhere. It looks like a fabric merchant exploded.” She stopped just before the doorway, her grey eyes assessing you once more.

She lowered her voice. “He's different with you. Jon. Less... broody.” A faint, almost imperceptible smile spread on her face. “It's a good look on him.” Without waiting for a reply, Arya pushed the heavy door open.

Inside, Sansa Stark stood amidst a sea of silk, wool, and linen samples, a focused expression on her face as she held a swatch of dark grey fabric up to the light from a narrow window. Without turning around, “There you are. I was beginning to think Jon had decided to keep you cooped up with him indefinitely.”

She finally turned, her eyes taking in your slightly disheveled appearance and the faint flush on your cheeks. A knowing, but not unkind, smile touched Sansa's lips. She gestured to the chaos around her. “We have much to discuss. But first, some wine? You look like you could use it.”

Sansa moved to a small table where a pitcher and two cups sat, pouring a deep red vintage. The sewing room was warmer than the hall, lit by several beeswax candles. She then handed you a cup.

“Now. Tell me. Have you given any thought to the colors for the ceremony? I was thinking Stark grey and white, of course, but we should incorporate something for House Karstark. A sunburst on the bosom, perhaps, in gold thread?”

She spoke with the practiced ease of a born planner, but her eyes were watchful, gauging your reaction to the sudden immersion in wedding details. You took a sip of the wine, the coolness a nifty feeling against the dryness of your throat.

“The sunburst would be lovely.” Sansa's smile widened, a genuine warmth finally reaching her eyes. She seemed pleased by your easy agreement, a small victory in the suggestion of merging the two houses into a gown.

“Excellent. Gold thread on the cuffs and hem, then. It will look striking against the grey.” She moved to a large table where several rolls of fabric were laid out, her fingers brushing over a particularly fine piece of white wool.

“Now, for the dress itself. We have this wool from White Harbor—it's remarkably soft and will be warm enough for the godswood. But if you prefer something grander, there is this velvet from the Reach that I managed to get my hands on…”

She held up a deep blue velvet, its rich color shimmering in the candlelight. Sansa watched you carefully, her expression open and inviting. This was more than just planning a wedding; it was an offering of inclusion in a place where you felt incongruous.

Her tone was gentle. “This is your day, (Name). Your opinion is the only one that truly matters. Well, yours and Jon's, I suppose.” From the doorway, Arya decided to chime in. “He'd probably be happy if she showed up in a potato sack. As long as she's there.”

Sansa shot her sister a mildly exasperated look. “Thank you, Arya. That's very helpful.” She comments sarcastically. Arya shrugged. “Just saying. He's not exactly a lace-and-velvet sort of man.”

Sansa sighs, but a small smile plays on her lips. “Arya has a point, as crude as it is. Jon has never cared for finery. But that doesn't mean you shouldn't have it, if you wish.” Her gaze softened as she looked at you, her voice dropping to a more confidential tone.

“I am glad for it. For both of you. The North needs a strong alliance, but it needs a true one even more.” Arya pushed off the doorframe and walked into the room. “Speaking of strong... have you thought about a cloak? For the ceremony. You'll need a new one. Jon's will be too heavy, and the one from your house…”

Arya trailed off, her meaning clear. The Karstark cloak was tainted by recent history—the Boltons. A new one would be a fresh start. “We could have one made. Something that's yours. Not just Stark colors, but something... new.” Arya said it with a rare thoughtfulness, her grey eyes meeting yours.

It was a significant offer, an acknowledgment that you were building your own place here, not just filling a pre-existing role. Sansa nodded in agreement, “That's a wonderful idea. A new cloak for a new beginning.” She picked up a swatch of a silvery-grey fur, holding it out for inspection.

“This is from a shadowcat Jon's men brought in last week. It's warm, and it has a sheen to it... it would be fitting.” The two sisters, so different in their own ways, seemed rarely united at this moment.

You examined the fur closely, running your fingers through the coat. “It's beautiful.” Sansa’s expression brightened at your approval. She carefully draped the silvery fur over a nearby chair.

“I’ll have the seamstress start on it tomorrow. We’ll line it with a heavy wool to keep out the chill.” She turned back to the table. “Now, about the dress. The wool or the velvet? The wool is practical for the weather, but the velvet… it has a certain grandeur.”

Sansa watched you carefully, awaiting your decision. Arya had wandered over to a basket of sewing tools and was idly testing the sharpness of a pair of shears. Sansa noticed your hesitation. “There’s no need to decide right now. You can take the swatches with you, see how you feel in the morning light.”

The silence lingered for a moment before Sansa spoke once more. “The ceremony will be at the heart tree, just after dawn. It’s the quietest time, before the castle fully wakes. Fewer prying eyes.” Her voice was gentle but firm.

She was clearly thinking of how to make the event as intimate as possible. “We’ll keep the guest list small. Family, a few trusted bannermen. Davos, of course. Tormund would raise hell if he isn't invited.”

Arya grinned before commenting, “He’d probably try to carry Jon off bridal style afterward.” Sansa allowed a small smile. “Quite possibly. But that’s a problem for after the vows.” She picked up the cup of wine she’d poured for herself and took a sip, her eyes thoughtful.

“It will be a good day. A peaceful one. The North needs to see a Stark wedding that isn’t… just duty.” Arya nodded briskly, “Speaking of duty… have you thought about what you’ll do with the Karstark lands? After?”

Sansa shot Arya a warning look. “That’s a discussion for another time, Arya. Today is for the wedding.” Arya held her hands up in a gesture of peace. “Just asking. A queen should think ahead.”

Her use of the title ‘queen’ was casual, but it landed heavily in the room. It was a reminder of the weight that would soon rest on your shoulders, alongside Jon’s. Sansa smoothed her skirts, deliberately changing the subject. “Let’s focus on the present. The dress, the cloak, the feast afterward… though I suspect Jon will want to keep that brief, too.”

She smiled wryly before adding, “He’s never been one for long celebrations.” A stifled chuckle escaped Arya. “He’ll have other things on his mind.” Sansa gave a soft, knowing laugh at Arya's comment, a faint blush coloring her own cheeks. She quickly busied herself with rearranging the fabric swatches on the table.

Sansa cleared her throat. “Yes, well. Let's focus on the details we can control.” She turned back to you. “The feast will be in the Great Hall. We'll keep it simple—roast boar, fresh bread, ale. Nothing too extravagant."

Arya snorted. “Gives a lesser chance of the lords getting drunk and starting to make endless speeches about glory and honor.” Sansa ignores her again. “I thought we might have music. Not a full band, just a lone harpist.”

Sansa's eyes drifted to the window, where the afternoon light was already beginning to fade into a deep winter grey. The light in the sewing room was growing dimmer as the short winter day began to wane. Sansa moved to light a few more candles, the flickering flames casting a warm glow over the piles of fabric.

She turned back to you with a warm, but slightly weary smile. “We've covered quite a lot. But there's one more thing. The vows.” Her tone was gentler. “Traditionally, the words are spoken before the heart tree. They're simple. Promises of loyalty and protection. But... you and Jon may wish to say something of your own.”

Arya leaned against the table. “He's not much for long speeches. Might be better to keep it simple.” Sansa nodded. “True. But the words should mean something to you both.

“It's your choice, of course. We can stick to the old words, or you can prepare something. There's no wrong answer.” She added. Outside the room, the sound of heavy, familiar footsteps echoed in the corridor. A moment later, the door pushed open and Jon stood there, his frame filling the doorway.

He had cleaned up slightly, his hair damp as if from a quick wash, but he still carried the scent of the outdoors and a faint, lingering warmth from the solar. His eyes found you immediately. His voice a low rumble. “Am I interrupting?”

Sansa smiled faintly. “We were just finishing. The planning is coming along well.” Jon nodded, his gaze still fixed on you. “That’s good.” Arya perked up an eyebrow. “Come to steal her away already? The sun's not even down.”

A faint flush creeped up his neck. “Davos needs me. Council matters. But I... wanted to... walk with you. Back to your chambers.” The unspoken ‘I wanted to see you’ hung in the air between you. He stood awkwardly in the doorway, looking every bit the man torn between duty and desire.

Sansa exchanged a knowing look with Arya. “Of course. We have enough to be getting on with for now.” Jon’s gaze softened as you approached him, his hand lifting slightly as if to reach for yours before he remembered you weren’t alone.

He let it fall back to his side, but the intensity in his dark eyes remained. His voice low, for your ears only. “Ready?” Sansa gathered up a few fabric swatches. “Take these with you, (Name). Look at them by the window in your chamber tomorrow. The light is better there."

He offered his arm to you, a formal, almost old-fashioned gesture that felt strangely earnest coming from him. You smiled at Sansa as you took the fabrics before taking Jon's arm. As you stepped into the corridor, Jon spoke up. “Davos is waiting in the solar. Something about grain shipments from the Vale.”

He fell into step beside you, his presence a solid, warm barrier against the chill of the stone hallways. You walked in a comfortable silence for a moment, the only sound being your footsteps and the distant echo of the castle.

He glanced down at you. “Sansa didn’t… overwhelm you, did she? She means well. She just… plans.” His tone was protective, laced with a gentle concern. He slowed his pace as they turned a corner, the path to the family wing quieter and more private.

Stopping just outside the door to your chambers, he turned to face you. “I won’t be long with Davos. An hour, perhaps.” He stood close, his voice dropping to a near whisper. The torchlight flickered across his face.

You stared up at Jon. “The wedding… when do you think it'll take place?” You inquired. He looks down at you, the intensity in his gaze sharpening, stripping away the last of his kingly reserve. “Soon. Very soon.”

His voice is rough, low as he added. “I’m confident that Sansa can have everything ready in three days' time. At dawn, of course, in the godswood.” He lifted a hand, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the calluses on his skin.

“If I had my way, it would be tomorrow. Tonight.” He leans in closer, his forehead nearly touching yours, his voice dropping to a whisper. “But Sansa insists a king's wedding should be… special. That takes time.” He lets out a soft, frustrated sound, a mix of a sigh and a grunt.

The torchlight flickers, casting shifting shadows across his face, highlighting the stark contrast between the stern set of his jaw and the raw longing in his eyes. “Three days feels like a lifetime.” From down the corridor, the distinct, heavy tread of Davos Seaworth's boots echoes, followed by a polite cough.

“Your Grace? The ledgers are waiting. Lord Royce's man is getting impatient.” Davos called out, his tone apologetic but firm. Jon doesn't pull away, his eyes still locked on yours. He spoke loudly enough for Davos to hear, but his words are meant only for you. “I'm coming."

With obvious reluctance, he finally steps back, his hand falling to his side. He gives you one last, long look before turning to walk down the hall toward Davos, his posture straightening back into that of the King in the North.

As he disappears around the corner, the chill of the corridor seems to seep back in, the brief warmth of his presence gone. The heavy oak door to your chambers stands before you, a silent promise of the privacy and the future that is now only three days away.

Your chambers in the family wing were a world apart from the drafty stone halls. A fire crackled steadily in the hearth. The bed was large, covered with heavy furs, and a few personal touches had begun to appear—a carved wooden box on the bedside table, a brush set that had been Sansa’s gift. The air smelled faintly of cedar smoke and dried herbs.

You stood for a long moment, the silence of the room a stark contrast to the planning and the intense emotions of the afternoon. The fabric swatches Sansa had given you felt heavy in your hand. You laid them on the bed: the white wool, the blue velvet, the shadowcat fur.

A soft scratching sound came from the door. Before you could answer, it pushed open slowly, and a massive white shape padded silently into the room. Ghost lifted his great head, his red eyes regarding you calmly before he settled himself on the rug before the fire with a quiet huff.

The direwolf’s presence was a comfort, a silent guardian and a tangible piece of Jon. You were not entirely alone. The furs on the bed were thick and warm, but a deep chill had settled into the stone of the castle, a chill that seemed to seep into one's bones.

You pulled the covers tighter around yourself, watching the firelight play across Ghost's pale fur. The direwolf's ears twitched at the sound of your movement, but he did not open his eyes. The quiet of the room was broken only by the crackle of the fire and the sound of the wind picking up outside, whistling faintly past the window.

It was a lonely sound, a reminder of the vast, cold North that waited beyond Winterfell's walls. After a time, the logs in the hearth settled with a soft crash of embers, sending a wave of closeness throughout the room.

Ghost let out a low, contented sigh in his sleep, his tail giving a single, thumping wag against the floor. The silence stretched on, the three days ahead feeling both like a promise and a trial. The weight of the coming change, of becoming a queen, of belonging to Jon in the eyes of gods and men, settled over you in the quiet dark.

You then slowly sat up, the coldness nearing unbearable. “Come here, boy.” You beckoned Ghost onto the bed, patting the furs. The direwolf lifted his head at your voice, his red eyes glowing in the firelight.

He regarded you for a long moment, contemplating if he should go or not. Then, with a graceful, silent movement, he rose from the rug and padded to the side of the bed. He hesitated only a second before leaping up onto the thick furs, his great weight causing the bed frame to creak softly.

He circled once, then settled himself heavily beside you, his warm body radiating heat like a living furnace. He rested his massive head on his paws, his eyes closing contentedly. The deep, penetrating chill that had clung to you began to fade almost immediately, replaced by the comforting warmth of the direwolf.

The wind outside seemed a little less biting. You drifted into a fitful sleep as you curled up against the direwolf's immense warmth. The fire burned low, and the howl of the wind became a distant lullaby. Time lost meaning in the dark, quiet chamber.

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