oncefuturequeen | for jon snow (tooktheblack)

for jon snow (tooktheblack)

Ravens had been dispatched, messages sent, and replies received. The Princess of Carhaise, one Guinevere of House Leodegrance, had been offered as bride to the new King in the North, Jon Snow of House Stark. Bastard though he might have been by birth, the former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch had seemingly done the impossible: he'd rallied all of the northern lords and the Wildlings from beyond the Wall to his banner, earned their support despite his lowborn heritage, and even now prepared the North for the Long Night hovering just beyond the horizon.

And Guinevere, only daughter of King Leodegrance and thus far bystander to the turmoil that had plagued Westeros these past several years, was to be his Queen. She'd been bitterly pleased to note, however, that this "marriage", such as it was, was costing her horrible father five thousand of his best cavalrymen, their horses and weapons, as well as several tons of wheat and grain, for the King in the North had to feed his people during the coming winter, did he not? Seemed a fair compensation for a wife he undoubtedly neither needed nor wanted.

Guinevere certainly felt the Northmen were getting the better part of the bargain, herself.

Regardless of her thoughts on the matter - her father had been adamant, as he despised both Cersei and this foolish Targaryan upstart - that when Carhaise could no longer remain neutral in the Westerosi disasters, old Leo had made the surprising choice to side with Jon Snow and the Northmen. Mainly, as far as Guinevere remembered, out of some lingering fond memory for the Stark family; Eddard, Benjen, and their poor father, slain by the Mad King not long enough to fade into memory. So it was that Carhaise packed up its Princess and her crotchety father and spent several weeks on the road, traveling with the promised dowries towards Winterfell.

The main entourage arrived one fine wintry morning, the King's carriage rolling beneath Winterfell's portcullis on the heels of four splendid horses, all stamping and steaming their breath in the chill air. Not waiting for the door to be opened, Leodegrance flung it open himself, still spry at the ripe age of sixty, but already a hard youth and old war wounds had begun to take their toll. Nevertheless, the old man's eyes were sharp and bright as he surveyed the courtyard, waving away porters and courtiers alike.

"Find my daughter," was all he commanded, and his servants bowed away to do just that, but before any of them could send the word down the line, the Princess cantered into Winterfell's courtyard, her grey gelding prancing prettily beneath her skilled hand. She'd left her long locks unbound and unbraided; they streamed over her dark cloak in a scarlet river. Rather than be gowned as a southern highborn lady, she instead wore a comfortable riding dress of thick wool and cashmere, adorned with only a jewel or two. Leo sniffed as he appraised his only child and bartering chip, but knew better than to bother; she'd inherited her bold way of speaking from him, and her temper from her mother.

She knew his disapproval; it was evident in her own sly smirk as she dismounted and joined her patron, ironically dipping a small curtsy as she approached, but he only huffed and rolled his eyes, thanking all the Old Gods and the New that she'd soon be someone else's headache!

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Jon wasn't in want or need of a wife. He had been crowned on the battlefield as King in the North and elevated above the status of bastard past his trueborn sister as the king. He hadn't wanted it. Jon has never wanted glory or crowns but he's been given them all the same as the result of simply doing the right thing and Sansa had urged him to consider the offer from Leodegrance. A calvary of five thousand was nothing to sneeze at, especially considering the grains and wheat that accompanied them.

"You must accept," she urged him, pushing him to respond to the letters and accept the pledge of both daughter and dowry and not reject it out of hand. "You are a king now and kings don't have the luxury of remaining unmarried. You need to do this if the North is to stay strong and survive the wars to come."

Sansa had spoken sense, truly, and she's in the bailey now alongside him meeting Leodegrance and his daughter. Jon himself is trying not to be sullen. He's glad for the men, of course, but marrying a woman he barely knows seems like something wrong. It had happened to Sansa, more than once, and she'd been hurt by it. What if he ended up at odds with this Guinevere after marrying her? He felt a sharp elbow from Sansa and tipped his head to the visiting king and his future wife.

"It's my pleasure to welcome you to Winterfell, your Graces. I hope you find your stay welcoming and the hearth warm even if we're in the middle of winter."

There. Even Sansa couldn't be angry about that. He catches her eye and she's quick to supply her own greeting, more eloquent, but Jon doesn't hear it because he's looking at his soon to be wife.

Guinevere heard her father respond to the greetings, no doubt with a few carefully, subtly veiled insults sprinkled in - because the old man had issues admitting that anyone, anywhere could ever hold a higher eminence than he - but she let him dig his own grave, because she was arrested by her first true look at her soon-to-be husband. Dark hair, dark eyes, like most Northmen she'd seen thus far, not overly tall - hardly a giant, thank the gods - and of a decent size, also; she'd heard of his prowess with a sword and didn't doubt too many of the wild tales.

But she didn't believe he'd ever wrestled one-handed with a giant nor ridden a mammoth into battle north of the Wall, no matter how entertaining the fireside tales sometimes became. Good natured stories, really. Nevertheless, she wasn't one to fade into the background and let others speak for her, so she gathered her skirts, took a few steps forward, and bowed her head, dropping into a graceful curtsy.

"Thank you for your kind welcome, Your Grace, Lady Sansa. It is our honor to accept your hospitality, gladly will we share in the warmth from your hearth, and offer our own assistance in the hard winter yet to come."

Pleasantries offered, Guinevere lifted her head, rose back to her feet, and leveled a warm smile at her intended - better she unleash what charm she possessed before they were shackled to each other; life might be much more unpleasant otherwise.

Jon isn't good at this part. He'd never thought himself to be in a position to marry a fine lady, much less a princess, and now he's a king looking to do that very thing. He remembers playing with Robb in the yard using practice swords and pretending that he was Aemon the Dragonknight.

"You can't be Aemon," Robb had shouted. "You're a bastard, Jon. Aemon was a prince." Robb had been his best friend and these jabs were few and far between unlike those from Sansa and her lady mother but perhaps that's why they hurt even more. He looks at his future wife and tries not to shy away from her. They ought to at least like one another before marrying.

"Let's go inside. It's too cold to be out here in the bailey, even if I was born here in the North." Sansa cuts him a glance and Jon offers his arm to Guinevere to escort her inside Winterfell proper.

One of Guinevere's eyebrows arched up slightly, but she took the offered arm nevertheless. So, a skilled swordsman and fighter, but woefully inept when it came to social niceties and courtesies. Not too surprising, given the circumstances. And while she wasn't entirely thrilled at being bartered off to a barbarian, the Princess of Carhaise, was, despite her personal inclinations, determined to Do Her Duty, if only to silence those wagging tongues who had always gossiped amongst themselves that she would grow old and die a spinster, unwed and alone.

Damn them all.

Winterfell was indeed a fortress, Guinevere realized as she entered the large hall. While Carhaise was constructed of light stone and marble, this place was built for defense and to remain standing no matter what might come crashing against its walls. Nevertheless, there was a beauty in its steadfastness, and a feeling of security that she suspected most might feel, safe behind these bulwarks.

"Your home is lovely," she told her intended as everyone trooped inside. "Silhouetted by the falling snow, it was a magnificent sight from the lower road." She managed a light little laugh. "I'd never seen snow before coming North, it's truly a wondrous thing." Then she tugged her cloak a little tighter across her shoulders. "Though I do imagine it becomes dreadfully cold here, at times."

"You're a southern girl, that's right," Jon says. It hangs stark in the air between them and he feels stupid for having said it. He wishes he could take the words back but there's nothing to do for it now. He has to push forward, though, and hope that his betrothed isn't going to hold his inability to speak well against him.

He's good with a sword. He's no good with words. Sansa is the one who does speeches, who writes letters and she's the one who negotiates. She'd negotiated the entire alliance with Leodegrance on his behalf and Jon had merely had to agree to terms in the very end of it.

"You'll see plenty of snow before winter's done, I'm afraid. We even have snow in the summers here at Winterfell. Summer snows are nice, though, and only last an afternoon or so before they melt away. They're nothing like a proper winter snow is. You'll be dealing with the cold for a while."

Hearing that, Guinevere brought up short, and simply stared at this...king. Her lips thinned, and her eyes narrowed, a truly dangerous warning for anyone else, but before she could summon a truly scathing retort, she inhaled a quiet deep breath, and let it out just as silently.

And pasted an entirely false, brittle smile on her face, saying in response, "Then I suppose I'm quite lucky that I brought enough clothes to keep me warm, Your Grace." She did, however, withdraw her arm from his and take a pointed step back. "Since I'm just a mere southern girl too frail to survive without summer sunshine and ocean breezes."

Guinevere felt her temper rising, but had to rein it back; this was hardly the time or the place to launch the nearest crockery at her fiance's oafish, uncivilized head, regardless of title or eminence. Still, she couldn't help what came off of her tongue afterwards, tone bitterly pleasant, but no less sharp. "With Your Grace's leave, do my father and I have quarters prepared, or shall we simply take residence on the battlements, perhaps to toughen our tender constitutions to your harsh northern climate?"

Jon doesn't quite know what to do with this rapid shift in personality and he looks helpless. Of course he doesn't intend for the king or his daughter to sleep on the battlements and he'd only been speaking of how different and how difficult northern winters were. It hadn't been any offense. Before he can get anything out, Sansa comes and nods her head slightly in deference to Guinevere.

"Forgive my brother, Princess. He's very good with a sword and bow and very dim when it comes to navigating the waters of a conversation. He's kind and you'll never find a man more loyal but the subtle arts are best left to us. In the North, it's often a point of pride that we've survived our winters and made the best of them. The words of House Stark are Winter is Coming, after all. Since you, too, will become part of House Stark the moment we have the wedding, we'll be accepting you under our banners and with our words."

Jon doesn't think he's ever put that much thought behind Winter is Coming, snow or the thoughts of winter. He's not really certain how Sansa manages these things and he doesn't know what he's going to do when he and Guinevere are alone. It isn't as if Sansa can be in the room when he consummates this marriage to keep him from saying something stupid.

"I didn't mean anything by it," he adds softly. "I'm not so good with talking about things, not really. I'm better at doing things, if that makes sense?"

On cue, the Lady Stark stepped up and spoke, thankfully diverting Guinevere's ire and helping diffuse the skyrocketing tension that had suddenly leaped nearly out of control. Realizing this, Guinevere eased down a fraction, inclining her head to Lady Sansa's apology and accepting it with courtly grace.

"...my apologies, Lady Sansa. Your Grace." She touched fingertips to her forehead, forcing her lips to curve slightly. "It's been...quite the long journey, I'm afraid, and being overtired sometimes loosens my tongue more than I'd like." The smile she gave to Sansa, however, was sincere, and she again nodded her thanks. Then, a little daring, she reached out and took Jon's hand in hers, gripping his calloused fingers lightly.

"Nor did I," she said for his ears alone. "But we'll have to learn how to get along with each other, yes?" Guinevere gently ran her thumb across the back of his hand. "And it makes perfect sense. I was just...surprised, that's all."

When she reaches for his hand, Jon doesn't expect it. He supposes he ought to - she's going to be his wife within a few days - but he doesn't expect it at all. He curls his fingers around hers and holds them close squeezing her hand in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. He doesn't want to start his marriage off on the wrong foot.

"I would never want to insult you," Jon assures her. "I've never been married but I want to treat you well and I want to keep you safe. You have nothing to fear from me. I swear it."

Perhaps Leodegrance doesn't care who he's bartering his daughter off to but Jon cares about how he treats his wife. He wants to do well by her and, hopefully, come to love her.

Well, that was comforting to hear. Surprising, but comforting all the same. Guinevere gave Jon's hand one final grasp then Lady Sansa was inviting her to follow, saying she would show her to her quarters so that she might bathe and rest before rejoining everyone in the Hall for supper.

Once she was finally alone, the quarters provided for her clean, well-furnished, and above all, warm, the Princess let herself be undressed, undone, and then immersed to her ears in a steaming tub of hot water, then it was back on the stool to be dressed for her first meal here at her new home. Rather than arrive dripping regality, as she would have done back in Carhaise, Guinevere kept her jewelry understated but elegant, her gown a deep forest green with wide sleeves, a tapered waist, and long flowing skirts, and let her maid arrange her long scarlet hair into a semblance of a Northern woman's braids, a style she would be adopting all too soon.

Still, she was pleased enough with the finished product once it was done, and she was just draping on her warm outer cloak when a knock echoed on the other side of the door.

for jon snow (tooktheblack)

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smol time skip b/c mah brainz

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