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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"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."

She laughed quietly, falling into step as she took his arm and they headed for the familiar stairwell. "I think the worst is over, Your Grace. All that's left is the formalities." And the learning to live with each other; Guinevere knew she wasn't any picnic to tolerate, and it was far too soon to tell how their public life would go. She was sure, however, that at some point, her husband and his army would ride off to war and she'd be left to tend to Winterfell, hopefully with Lady Sansa, and wait and watch for his return. If he returned.

But those darker thoughts were best left for later; they definitely had no place in mind when the King and his future Queen arrived again at her quarters, and she pressed a small, sweet kiss to his grizzled cheek, whispering at his ear her wishes for pleasant dreams and a restful night. Then she slipped out of his grasp, shared another brief, quick kiss, and hurried into her chambers, closing the door with a mischievous little smile.

Jon thinks about testing the door after she slips away from him but decides not to, in the end. He can wait. It isn't so terribly long and weddings in the North during winter are often solemn affairs.

His wedding to Guinevere does warrant a moderate feast, if only because Leodegrance and his army has come from so far away, but the ceremony is held by candlelight in the Godswood. Jon stands at the end of the path alongside the weirwood while he waits on Guinevere to come. Sansa is the one who announces her arrival, asks the questions; Jon thinks this is best since it means no one will end up tripping on their words. Once he's standing before the tree with his wife, though, he has eyes and ears only for her.

Her gown is snow white and trimmed in fur with a hood in lieu of a veil. Jon takes Guinevere's hands in his own to warm them and when they finish exchanging words, he kisses her softly. He wants it to be more of a true kiss but they are in public and he can restrain himself somewhat.

He picks her up to carry her into the Great Hall and there's already a feast laid and ale poured. There's a seat for them at the high table and Jon takes great pleasure in setting Guinevere on her feet and pulling her close for a slightly more intimate kiss than the one to seal the vows.

"How does it feel to be Queen in the North, then?"

Guinevere had always expected that when her marriage finally came about, she'd be wed in a sept in either her father's kingdom, or that of her potential husband, and hadn't bothered to think any more about it. But upon learning of her impending nuptials to the King in the North, she'd had to revise her opinions of a wedding ceremony, as the Northmen mostly still worshiped the Old Gods, and their traditions were worlds different than those with which she'd been reared.

The weirwood was, she realized, stunningly beautiful. Blanketed all in white, lit by softly glowing candles here and there, the Princess of Carhaise came forth to meet her husband through the silent assemblage of nobility, both of the North and South, and managed to repeat her vows without stumbling over any of the still-unfamiliar words. Their brief, soft kiss cemented both their marriage and the alliance of their Houses, but Guinevere did gasp in a bit of surprise when Jon swept her into his arms and led the throng back towards the keep; apparently that too was tradition.

The feast had been prepared within, and it was to the raised table that her husband took them, setting her on her feet in a mild whirlwind of snow-dusted cloaks and long skirts. Before she could chide him for such behavior, Jon had pulled her close and found her mouth with his, unabashed now that there could be no judgment for doing so. Feeling slightly giddy and a little girlish - her septa would faint if she realized such - Guinevere drew back with a breathless little laugh, replying, "A little strange, to be honest. I'm not entirely sure what that even means, just yet."

"Well, for tonight, you need only to think of feasting and dancing," Jon promises her. He's happier tonight than he's been in a long while and his smiles have come easier and easier. Even Sansa has noticed the difference, teasing him lightly, and Jon doesn't even have a way to refute it. He is happy and while he hadn't wanted to get married before, he cannot imagine remaining unmarried with Guinevere as his wife.

Jon brushes his fingertips along the curve of her cheek. "You'll be a wonderful queen, Guinevere. I know you will. You're clever and brave and not afraid of doing things - the men in the North admire that. We prefer a woman who knows how to ride and feels comfortable outdoors. Winter is hard on all of us. You need strength to survive it, physical and mental, and I feel you have both."

There's no denying her beauty, either, and Jon kisses her once more before pulling out her chair so she can be seated and begin the feast.

Well, feasting and dancing she could do. Maybe not so much the feasting, as her stomach had been in knots ever since the sun rose earlier that morning; nerves, her septa had assured her, which would soon pass once the frivolities were over and done with. And they were halfway gone, weren't they? Although Guinevere would only privately admit to a little bit of trepidation for the coming expectation after the feast was done, but that couldn't be helped, now could it?

Nevertheless, Jon was stroking her cheek and smiling at her, his dark eyes warm with sincerity, and it touched her, deep down. Guinevere returned his soft kiss and sat, arranging her skirts appropriately, then spied Lady Sansa on her husband's left hand, smiling at her, which the new Queen in the North returned only too gladly. A booming voice echoed across the Hall, and everyone's attention turned to the speaker, one of the Northern Lords who was holding a tankard of ale and saluting the bride and groom.

Which of course began the hearty carouse of good cheer, good wishes, and good food and drink, and Guinevere let herself be swept along in the merriment, smiling where necessary and laughing when something truly struck her amusement. These Northmen were definitely more boisterous and rough-hewn than the nobles of the Southern kingdoms, and it was different, yes, but also more genuine, and she found herself admiring that. Every so often, Jon would reach for her hand, squeeze her fingers or kiss her knuckles, and the sheer ease of his affection - which she felt she'd done nothing to earn - had her blushing like a milkmaid, but she relished it, regardless.

Jon wonders at how easily they seem to fall in with one another. Guinevere is bolder in some ways than he is and finds it easier to talk to those she doesn't know. There are lords in the North that Jon doesn't know very well and only when they're asking something of one another but Guinevere seems to navigate them with an ease rivaled only by Sansa. It's an enviable quality and one he's glad both his wife and his sister possess.

He keeps her hand in his as they eat and occasionally takes a moment to kiss her or lean in and say some sweet thing against her ear. The crowd cheers whenever he does and now that he's several tankards of ale in, he's a little bolder with his affection. There's a honeyed cake in the dessert course that he likes and he holds a bit up with his fingers, tempting Guinevere to eat from his hand.

"This one is my favorite," he murmurs. "They made it for me, especially, but it tastes bitter compared to you."

It was a little dizzying, all of the revelry, and Guinevere did feel a bit overwhelmed with the boisterousness of it all, but she rallied well, calling upon all of her Southern diplomacy and charm to keep from running out of the Hall in a panic. Her sister-by-law was a welcome balm, sprinkling subtle hints throughout the conversations to assist the new Queen in the North, and Guinevere was silently grateful for her assistance.

Though most present were swilling ale by the tankard, Guinevere only allowed herself a few sips of wine, knowing that all eyes were definitely upon her, even more than the man beside her, and falling over in a drunken faint simply wouldn't paint the best picture, would it? Her father, she noted with a bitter twist to her lips, was so deep in his cups that he was laughing and pounding Northern lords on the back as if they were his own bannermen; she supposed he was profoundly relieved to be leaving for Carhaise minus his troublesome daughter.

But then Jon was turning towards her, a silly little smile on his face, and holding out a bit of sweet cake for her to taste. A little nonplussed by this uncharacteristic boldness, she nevertheless obediently leaned in to let him feed her the morsel, a bit surprised by its rich sweetness. "Mmmm," she had to respond, "it's delicious." The blatant compliment had color dusting her cheeks, and she lowered her lashes demurely, ducking her head a bit modestly. "You flatter me, Your Grace."

for jon snow (tooktheblack)

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