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 had thought that coming to escort Guinevere to the hall for dinner would be a way to make amends. He'd blundered earlier, horribly so, and he needs to assure her that he'll try his best to be a good husband to her. He's aware that political marriages aren't always good ones and that often they aren't loving ones. Having never been married, Jon wants to have both - he wants the political alliance and he also wants love someday.

Guinevere is dressed in a deep forest green dress but otherwise she's dressed herself plainly. It makes her less intimidating, to be sure, and he's glad she's seemed to take Northern austerity to heart. It's something Sansa would notice straightaway and Jon wonders if he's not picking up on some of these things.

"You look lovely," Jon says softly. "I thought you might want an escort to the great hall?"

She was surprised indeed to see the King on the other side of the door, and it showed in the rising of her eyebrows and the two soft touches of color, high on her cheeks. "Your Grace." Guinevere dipped into a curtsy, saying as she carefully tucked a wayward lock of long hair back over her shoulder, "thank you kindly." She let a smile touch her lips, and she reached out to gently take his arm. "For both the compliment and the escort. Winterfell is so large, I'd have probably gotten lost in no time at all."

Maybe they could start over. Make something out of this alliance. Guinevere did know that her father's cavalrymen weren't going to take orders from these Northmen very well at the outset. Thankfully they did respect and revere their Princess, as she could ride a horse and fire a bow as well as any of them. But as those skills weren't very prudent for ladies of the southern kingdoms, it wasn't customarily advertised amongst the nobility.

She thought of something to say as they walked, and lit upon a curiosity she'd heard several times before. "I've heard, Your Grace, that you have a direwolf as a companion. A beast white as snow, and fiercely loyal to you. Is he here at Winterfell with you?"

"Ghost? Aye, he is. He's a direwolf, though, so they're not content to be kept as pets. He's probably in the Wolfswood hunting or doing whatever it is when wolves don't want to be indoors. I wish I could be with him, honestly."

It's something Jon always wishes. He doesn't like being a king for the most part. He's good at the battle bit, when it comes to that, but he's not so good at the tedium of ruling. He doesn't know how much food they need to winter a thousand people and he doesn't know how to settle squabbles between lords. It was different at Castle Black - there's no names at the Wall, no inheritance. Everything is names and inheritance when it comes to these Northern lords.

That's not even bringing the Vale into it. Sansa has the Vale through her connections with Baelish but Jon doesn't like the man. He doesn't like the calculating look in his eyes or the way he follows Sansa's every step. It's not something he can do anything about considering he needs the men but he can certainly dislike it in private. For now, though, he has the task of making his future wife like him even if it's only a little.

"You're going to have to forgive me. I'm not very good with women. I went to the Wall years ago and I'd never been with a woman or considered it before I left. The idea of marriage is something I've never had to consider and it's been thrown at me unexpectedly."

"Ghost," Guinevere mused thoughtfully. "What an appropriate name." She then wondered if the wolf would appear soon; she'd never before seen a direwolf, only in etchings, although it was the sigil of House Stark. But then her intended was once more reiterating the fact that he believed himself less than worthy when it came to...mostly everything, and Guinevere slowed her steps, pulling him around to look at her.

"I'm not very good with men, Jon Snow," she told him, one eyebrow aloft. "Most of the men I've known growing up were either cruel, ambitious pettymongers, like my father, or stupid as stumps with not a brain between the lot of them. So I believe we're both woefully out of our depth, aren't we?" She had to chuckle at Fate's irony.

"If it makes you feel any better," she added, a sly little smirk curving her lips, "I wasn't entirely thrilled with the prospect of marrying you, either." Her tone was gentle this time, however. "So I'll make a little deal with you, Jon Snow: stop apologizing, stop treating me as if I'll break, or as if your every breath offends me." She placed a slim hand to his bearded cheek and took a step closer. "I'm a woman, not an obligation, and I promise to be a good wife to you. I'll do everything I can to help you, however I can."

Green eyes gazed directly into brown; they were an even height, making their connection that much more intense. "Will that work for you, King in the North?"

It's a bit shocking that she'd draw up so close but she's to be his wife before the week's end and he'll have to get used to doing more than just touching if he intends to marry and father heirs. This seems like a chance to start over, at least, and he's grateful for it. He hadn't liked being at cross purposes with Guinevere and knowing that she wants to try and make the marriage work makes it feel as though the yoke isn't quite as heavy. He turns his head a bit so he can kiss her palm.

"All right, Queen in the North. I'll stop apologizing and stop thinking I've offended you every time I speak. You'll find I hate being in public and being called upon to say something and that people are always asking me to do it. I'm not good at saying things. I'm good at doing things - or at least good enough that they keep asking me to do them. I'm happier on my own than I am in a room full of people but being a husband means I have to let you into that space and grow comfortable with it. I'm willing to do that. I don't want you to think I'm standoffish and cold."

Sansa is still going to help them, after all, and Jon thinks Guinevere will have valuable experience to add as well. Jon thinks that he needs more than one voice to help him rule and someone southern will be even better; how are they going to keep the North independent from the South if they don't know how they think? You have to know your enemy, even if Leodegrance isn't exactly his enemy he fights the same way.

"At least the Gods saw fit to send me a lucky wife," Jon says. "You're kissed by fire."

The slight rasp of his scruff against her hand was...thrilling, Guinevere was surprised to realize. The soft kiss against her palm sent a rush of heat beneath her skin, settling upwards along her throat and reaching to her cheeks. A little flustered, she lowered her head and slowly withdrew her hand, but had to smile at Jon's response. At last, it seemed they were finally seeing each other for themselves, not as the titles others had heaped on their shoulders.

"I understand," she said, voice quiet in the hallway. "But you seem a good man, Jon Snow, and that's more important than a crown or land or title." She reached out for him again, this time threading her fingers with his. "I won't prod or pry into that space, but I am glad you're willing to share it. I'll promise to do the same, and we'll learn...together, yes?"

His latter words were a little puzzling, until understanding dawned. Then Guinevere laughed, a true laugh this time, and she gave her fiance an arch little look. "Ah, I see. Favor those girls with red hair, do you?" She smirked and wound both of her arms around his, resuming their trek to the downstairs Hall. "Well, then. You're welcome to run your fingers through it whenever you wish, Your Grace."

Jon is glad he can grow a beard now because he's fairly certain he's blushing like a maiden. It's stupid to be blushing over something a girl has said but he feels like a boy in Winterfell all over again, seeing the daughters of lords come to court Robb and sneaking him glances as if they were sad indeed to see that the bastard son had more of the look of House Stark than the heir.

He exhales softly and tries to compose himself. She's teasing him because presumably she likes him and so he tries to endure it with a modicum of grace. It's not something that comes easy, fast words between man and woman, and he finds himself with nothing to say for several long moments. When he does have something to say, it's not nearly as eloquent as what Guinevere had said.

"It's...the Free Folk say that red hair is lucky," Jon says, mumbling his way through it. "And I've always liked it. Red hair, that is. I've always liked girls with red hair."

"You'll have to teach me more about the Free Folk," Guinevere invited as they rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs. "I'm looking forward to learning all I can about the North and its King." She gave him another small impish grin, but then they were stepping into the Hall, where the smell of roasting meat and fragrant pine already filled the air, and Guinevere nodded a polite greeting to her future sister-by-law, allowing Jon to hand her up the step to the high table.

Leodegrance, dripping jewels, finery, and raiment, eyed his only daughter throughout the feast, but Guinevere spared him not the first glance, choosing instead to converse with Sansa about Winterfell, already intent on learning everything she could about her new home. The lords present were a boisterous lot, but seemed good-natured, more or less; it was definitely louder here than it was back at Carhaise, but then, this was an entirely different world up here, wasn't it?

But halfway through dessert - spiced rum cake that was delicious - the future Queen of the North reached for her coming spouse's hand beneath the trestle table and gave it a light tug. Let's go elsewhere, her raised eyebrows seemed to suggest. Quieter, perhaps?

The idea of escaping the crowded hall (and Tormund's loud praises of him, at that) is appealing to Jon. The last thing he wants is to be called attention to and everyone is looking and he and Guinevere just now. He doesn't want to seem as if he doesn't like to be with his people but sometimes they can just be exhausting. There's also the fact that his soon to be father by law seems to have some tension with his daughter that Jon cannot seem to unravel; do they dislike one another, perhaps? Jon knows what it's like to be disliked by someone in your own family, though his had been a stepmother.

He says his goodbyes to Sansa, who is happy enough to hold court at the high table, and follows Guinevere out of the hall. It's not exactly what he should do, as a king, but they were to be married within the week and if it seemed as if they liked one another the Northmen would be hopeful of an heir soon. That's something to be happy about, at least. Once they're out of earshot, Jon lifts her hands to his lips to kiss.

"Thank you. I was going to go insane in there. I don't like it when everyone's staring at me like that. Sansa's much better at handling it, I think."

Guinevere accepted the affection gracefully, giving his hands in hers a soft squeeze and accepting his kiss across her knuckles. "You're welcome. I did say I was going to help you however I could, hm?" She twinkled at him a moment more, then companionably linked her arm with his as they strolled along the corridor.

"Your sister seems quite the diplomat. She's very skilled with turn of phrase and political subtleties," Guinevere mused. "Although I suppose living in King's Landing for as long as she did helped with that." Her nose wrinkled at the mention of the capital, and she shook her head in resignation. "She's a strong woman," the Princess added. "Definitely someone to be admired."

They walked along quietly for a few minutes, then Guinevere glanced at Jon and said, "So. Tell me something about Jon Snow. The man, not the King. And then I'll tell you something about me, not the Princess. A little game, if you like."

Talking about himself is even worse than talking about Winterfell, really, but at least they're alone. It's easier when it's only one person and Jon is aware of the fact that he cannot marry Guinevere and not actually have a conversation with her. That's not how marriages work and while some lords might have marriages like that, it's not what Jon wants. If it has to be a political marriage, he at least wants to try and make it be a real marriage too.

He walks a little way along the corridor while he thinks of something to tell her. Most of his stories involve battle and bloodshed and he doesn't want to talk of that. Neither does he want to talk of his time with Ygritte; it seems poor form to tell his betrothed about his relationship with a woman he loved before she came into his life. In the end, it's a story from childhood he decides to tell.

"I used to lie about things so my sisters wouldn't get punished," Jon says. "They're clever, so they might have figured it out, but I couldn't bear to see Arya or Sansa get punished for anything. I used to take the blame for everything. Lady Catelyn already hated me. It was just as well I did everything wrong. Any time something got broken or stolen, I covered it up. Even the time Sansa broke into the kitchens and ate a whole tray of lemoncakes. I said it was me."

Edited 2019-09-04 21:40 (UTC)

While she'd meant her little game as a lighthearted way to break further ice between them, Guinevere felt her heart grow heavy and even a bit sad at Jon's recollection. She paused, turning to just stare at him for a long moment, before taking his hand in hers and this time pressing a gentle kiss to his knuckles.

"You're a wonderful brother, Jon Snow." Guinevere held his hand to her cheek briefly, before turning to continue on down the corridor. "I can't think of many siblings who would do such a thing for their own." She had none, just cousins by the score, alas, but although it was disheartening to imagine Lady Stark holding his very existence against him, Guinevere thought she could understand why. "It must have been hard for you," she observed quietly, "growing up here."

"Yes, it was, but in other ways it was happy. I loved my brothers and sisters so much and we had so many happy memories here. When Robb and I were boys, we scared Sansa, Arya and Bran in the crypts. We'd put flour on our faces and pretended to be ghosts."

Jon laughs at the memory, remembers how Sansa had screamed and cried and how Arya had punched him for scaring Bran. It'd been a good memory, especially when they'd all raced one another to go play in the light summer snow. He wishes to have that kind of life again, really, and hopes they can approach it together even with winter on their heels.

"I probably should have led with that story. My sister Arya punched me and Sansa cried. We all made up in the yard with a snowball fight."

Ah, that was a much better tale. "Yes," Guinevere agreed, a smile touching her mouth, "you should have." But the memory sounded like a happy one, and she had little trouble imaging Jon and Sansa as children, with an older brother and younger brothers and sisters, gallivanting all around Winterfell. Perhaps it wasn't such a horrible thing, to have siblings. She'd never know. Not entirely.

"Who won the snowball fight? Do you remember?" They fetched up near the stairwell of the inner keep, the heat from the torches enough to at least offer some warmth. The skies were clear tonight, full of stars, and Guinevere shivered, clutching her thick cloak a little tighter. "Now I realize why all of Winterfell's hearths are so large and spacious. You said before that you sometimes even had snow during the summer?"

"Aye, we have summer snows. They're light, though, and melt when the snow is high. It's nice to have them, I think. It reminds you that the winter isn't always so terrible. As to who won the snowball fight? I like to think I did."

In the end, it'd been he and Robb against a horde of siblings but Jon, for his part, had let his sisters win. He thinks that memory is his favorite, especially since they'd all gone inside rosy cheeked and happy.

"Sansa might have a different version of the story, though. We played all sorts of games here. I want it to be like that again. I want it to be full of children again."

"Snow during the summer." It sounded a marvelous thing, and she someday hoped to see it. She'd never even seen snow before yesterday, when they'd crossed into Winterfell's barony lands. Guinevere leaned against the balustrade, gazing at the softly falling flakes, even on such a clear night. "It's so beautiful here..."

Then the rest of his words reached her ears, and the Princess couldn't help a slow flush that crept her throat and settled warm in her cheeks. "Well," she heard herself say after a moment or two, "it's part of my duty to give you an heir, Your Grace, but there's no law against providing only one, is there?"

She'd not hailed from a large family as had he; her mother had succumbed to fever when Guinevere had been just a small child, and her father, much older, had been aloof and distant, far too preoccupied with his crown and his kingdom to raise a daughter.

"Aye, well, you want more than one. I think traditionally they say they want an heir and a spare but I don't like to think of children that way," Jon says. His own skin is heating up too because he knows exactly how to get those heirs and it's been a while since he's lain with a woman. Knowing he's going to be married to this beautiful woman soon heats his blood.

"I hope we'll be very happy together, Princess," Jon goes on to say. He finds it easier to speak in private than in public and he hopes that it's more like this between them as husband and wife and not like it'd been out in the castle yard or at the feast in the Great Hall.

It isn't Jon's nature to be forward, not really, but he cannot help but lean in and give Guinevere a proper kiss on her lips. He wants to see how she tastes, see how it feels to kiss her and feel her give way under his touch.

She started to answer, but before she could, he was leaning towards her and rather than shove him backwards - as she'd done to no end of suitors since was old enough to wear a skirt - Guinevere held still, even angling her head just the slightest so that his lips might meet hers, slanted and perfect. She had been kissed before, but not...well, really; those vying for her lands and title had either been polished snakes with oily hands and cozening mouths, or overgrown boys with marbles for brains and too-eager, groping fingers.

But Jon...was gentle and soft, just resting his lips against hers and it was Guinevere who shifted just the slightest and parted her mouth with a quiet sigh, reaching up to touch fingertips to his rough cheek, relishing his sweet sincerity. He seemed a good man, despite her earlier reservations; a man thrust into a role he'd never wanted, but at which he was determined to do his best, despite the odds. She could respect that.

The fingers on his cheek slipped further, sinking into dark curls as she held him against her, and the Marble Maiden of Carhaise felt herself melting, just a little, warmed by a Northman's simple honesty.

Jon is encouraged by how she buries her hand in his hair and he wraps an arm around her, pulling her up against his body. He dimly recalls that they're right out in the corridor but with everyone feasting in the hall just now, he cannot imagine they will be caught. For now, he can kiss Guinevere to his heart's content even if he shouldn't do aught else until they wed.

He wonders if Guinevere has ever been properly kissed. She seems a natural at it if she hasn't and, truly, does it matter? She'll be Queen in the North before the week's out and they'll be able to do this whenever they want to. Jon finds that he aches for it, aches for the identity of husband rather than king or commander and he pulls Guinevere even closer for it.

He slides his hand lower, cupping her bottom and pressing her closer still. If they get interrupted, it might be embarrassing, but he's willing to press his luck.

Now she did squeak - lightly - an involuntary giggle stifled between them, as she felt herself hitched snug and close to her brand new lord and king, and the firm hand against her rear was by far the furthermost liberty anyone had ever dared take with her. But it felt...right, she dimly realized, having this Northman's arms holding her close, his soft warm lips on hers, and Guinevere voiced a very soft moan, both of her hands now wound into thick black curls, feeling their softness against her fingertips.

It truly seemed a dream; she'd only met this man a few hours ago, but it seemed the most natural thing in all of the world, being out in the cold winter evening with him, she caught between his body and the stone wall, both hard and unyielding against her natural softness. It was enough to make her strangely lightheaded, and she had to pull her mouth from his to catch a quick breath, tilting her head to offer him the slope of her throat, and possibly, with her floating along on the first stirrings of true desire, anything else he might want.

"...Jon..." It was a single word, his name, but voiced in such a breathless tone, so unlike her, but completely willing, submissive.

It's a dangerous thing to do, honestly. Guinevere is warm and soft between him and the wall and when she offers her throat, he dips his head to lay a string of kisses along pale, soft skin. He doesn't want to mark her skin just now, fair as she is, and it would be poor form to look as if he'd bedded his wife before she was his wife. For now, he keeps his lips soft and when he reaches the crook of her neck and shoulder he inhales her soft scent.

"I can't wait until we're wed," Jon says softly. "I want to be able to do this and not have to stop. I want to kiss you and hold you and not have to worry about anyone else in the world. Is that what you want? Or something you think you might want?"

It's difficult to tell, knowing so little of one another, but Jon is at least soothed that he and Guinevere seem compatible in this even if they don't know one another terribly well yet. The rest will come, he thinks, and he can be confident in his bed chamber even if he can be unsure outside of it.

How was she supposed to form words, let alone coherent sentences, when he was kissing and touching her like this? Guinevere dimly realized he'd said something, but the meaning behind his murmured words against her skin didn't catch up with her for several long, breathless moments. Guinevere finally opened her eyes, lashes heavy over their deep green, and realized that she was clutching Jon's hair in tight fingers, keeping him in place so that his mouth could worship her tender skin.

She'd been kissed before, yes, groped in dark corners by a potentially interesting suitor, of course, but her responses had all been lukewarm, tolerant, and had eventually fizzled out to boredom or nothing at all. Never had she felt such heat course beneath her skin in response to a man's touch; it was beyond intriguing. Guinevere suddenly found herself wondering if marriage to this Northern bastard-turned-king was going to be as mediocre as she'd initially imagined.

Taking a moment to find her tongue once more, and lick her lips when she could, Guinevere slowly pulled away from the King - the better to think a little clearer - and a small smile appeared, a little coquettish, but no less sincere. "I think..." she mused in a husky low voice, "...I think that...I might, yes." Tapered fingers touched his cheek, drifted across his mouth, then she was pulling him right back, giving a soft whimper into heated kisses that seemed to go on and on.

It's rather like mulled wine, the way she feels beneath his mouth. It's rich and red and spicy, something that warms him to the core even when winter's chill is just outside. She isn't like any other woman he's ever known and he wonders if that bodes well for their marriage. It must, yes? It must be good that the king wants to bed his new queen so badly that he's willing to risk it before the ceremony makes it legal before witnesses.

Her mouth is still hot on his and Jon slides his hand down to cup her bottom and bring her that much closer to him. He wants Guinevere to know how much he wants her and how eager he is to make her wife and start their reign together as the King and Queen in the North. This is already better than he'd expected it to be and he wonders if Sansa, who usually handles diplomacy, had known anything about Leodegrance's daughter before coveting his calvary.

Jon thinks he'd rather not know.

"I could have you now, if you wanted," Jon says breathlessly. "But I won't risk it. Not before we're wed. I want there to be no question about our marriage and the reasons behind it. I want...there's ways to have you without consummating it, though. I swear there's ways."

The need for breath eventually broke them apart, and Guinevere rested her forehead against Jon's, softly panting with parted lips. She forced her hands to release him, but slid fingers over his shoulders to rest against the front of his tunic, warm from the heat of his skin.

"No, Your Grace," she somewhat regretfully agreed, "we shouldn't...we shouldn't risk it." Because tensions were already high enough, and adding more fuel to that fire would be folly indeed. "We must be...we must be wise, I think." Which didn't mean rutting right here against the bailey wall where anyone might see and hear. Guinevere licked her lower lip, still tasting him on her tongue.

"We...we need to wait. Your Grace. Jon." But her fingers curled just the slightest into the heavy fabric of Jon's outer tunic. "Will you escort me back to my chambers, then?" And pray to the Old Gods and the New that she had the resolve to keep from pulling him right into them with her.

Jon doesn't want to pull away from her but Guinevere has the right of it. He cannot go and risk this on some spur of the moment thing. He will be properly wedded in a few days and then he can bed his new wife as much as they both wish. It's worth the wait to do it properly.

"I shall escort you back to your rooms," Jon says, pulling away reluctantly. He still offers his arm to her, though, and intends to walk closely with her even if he's taking her to bed and putting a solid wooden door between the two of them. These rooms will only be hers for a few days, after all.

"At least we don't have to worry that we aren't compatible, aye? It seems we will be able to figure things out and the rest will come with some time. I couldn't have asked for it to go better, Guinevere. I truly couldn't have."

for jon snow (tooktheblack)

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