Work Text:
Jon Targaryen couldn’t contain his disappointment when he finally met the Starks. Robb Stark, the young Lord of Winterfell, was his cousin and of age with him, but they looked nothing alike. Stark was taller, broader with auburn hair and clear blue eyes. He looked every bit a son of the cold-eyed lady standing proudly next to him. But while there was little warmth in Jon’s cousin, Catelyn Tully’s face could chill winter itself. Behind Lady Stark lingered the last of the present Starks, an auburn-haired girl of six and ten. She had the same blue eyes as her mother and brother and was very pretty and very tall, maybe even taller than Jon himself. The girl seemed somehow puzzled, but before Jon could figure it out, he felt Lady Catelyn’s gaze grow even more hostile. Stay away from my daughter, that look said. Jon was getting the look often since he turned twelve. He was his father’s son after all, though for some mysterious reason lords rarely looked at his perfect older brother the same. It made no matter that Aegon was married and Margaery Tyrell birthed him two daughters already. In some foolish corner of their souls the lords still nursed a hope that Aegon could make their daughters queens.
Jon got down from his mare and made a half bow. He might have been a prince, but he was not his father's heir. Robb Stark was the Warden of the North and the ruling lord, besides.
"I’m sorry to come sooner and without notice, my lord. My brother and the rest of the royal party should be here day after tomorrow. I got lost during a hunt and thought it wiser to head to the castle instead of returning to my companions." The prince lied. The words came out easily. He recited this mummer's talk in his mind more than once. And somehow, it the end, there was more truth to it than he had planned. Jon did get lost, alas not until he was about two thirds of his way towards the castle. Still, it was only by chance that he met traders who hoped to sell in Wintertown. Only that meeting saved him from being hopelessly lost. He had wished to reach Winterfell before the rest of the court, hoping it would set him apart from the visit which was more a show of king's dominance over once rebellious family than any courtesy.
"You did well, my prince. These lands are merciless to strangers. The stables will take care of your horse and our steward will show you your quarters." Robb Stark’s words were formal—neither cold nor warm—yet Jon had to swallow another bite of disappointment. Am I a stranger here?, he thought bitterly. Then where am I at home? Not in King’s Landing, that much he had learned long ago.
Winterfell’s servants were polite and quick to obey as servants anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms, but otherwise no one seemed to pay Jon much mind. Everyone in the castle was busy preparing for the arrival of the more important brother. Jon was used to it. He had received much the same treatment at King’s Landing. He was his father’s second son and the son of the wrong wife, at that. Behind his back many even called him Jon Snow for the strange affair that had been his parent's marriage. All his life he had lived as half a bastard, half a ghost. Somehow he had hoped all that time that Winterfell, the former home of his mother and seat of his kin, would be different. Hope is for fools and little children.
The sun was coming down when Jon left his chambers to attend a reluctantly-offered welcoming feast. He emerged freshly bathed, though not freshly clad. Almost all his belongings were two days’ ride behind with the main column, and he didn’t feel like begging for fresh clothes when none had been offered. For the last time, he made sure he had the two small objects in the pocket of his cloak. They would be useful for a secret venture he had planned after the feast.
The Great Hall was buzzing with servants preparing Winterfell for the grand upcoming events, so their dinner was to be held in the lord’s personal solar. Jon found only Lord Robb and his sister seated at the table, though two other places were set. His cousins stood up to welcome him. One skinny serving girl took Jon’s cloak while another with fair hair brought a modest dish of morning bread, roasted meat, and beets. A flagon of wine and flagon of dark beer were already in the middle of the table.
The food seemed tasty, even if it was simple, and Jon was surprised to find that he was hungry. Yet he couldn’t help nodding towards the unoccupied seat.
"Shouldn’t we wait for your lady mother, my lord?” he asked Robb Stark uncertainly.
"Mother?" repeated his cousin, puzzled.
Sansa Stark was quicker to resolve the situation. "Our lady mother sends her deepest regrets, my prince. She won’t be able to join us. We are behind with preparations for the royal visit. The fourth seat is for our sister, Lady Arya, but she…has fallen suddenly ill. I’m afraid she won’t be able to attend the royal visit either," the Stark girl spoke, and delicately sipped from her wine cup.
"Sansa," Robb Stark warned.
Jon couldn't figure out the reason for his cousin's reproach but apparently, Sansa Stark understood because she blushed and gazed at her brother defiantly.
"It’s not like she would want to attend. Better leave her with her dead. Please Robb,” her voice filled with despair, "do this one kindness for me. My future depends on it! No one will want to marry me with a sister like Arya."
"I’ll ask Mother about it, but you are not the only one who needs to marry, Sansa. I was hoping to find a suitable match for Arya. With so many lords coming, I was hoping that this visit could grant us the king's agreement."
In a slow, quiet motion, Jon reached for the beer. Lost in their own quarrel, it almost seemed as if they had forgotten him.
"She won’t marry. Did you forget that she took a dirk on Black Walder when you betrothed her to him?" Lady Sansa was glaring at her brother, daring him to oppose her.
Jon had to wince inwardly, and not just because of whatever the younger Stark girl had done. Freys were always bad news and Black Walder was bad, even for a Frey.
"That...that betrothal was ill done. I should have never agreed, no matter how much Uncle Edmure needed our help after his folly. Black Walder-"
"- what about poor cousin Robert?" Lady Sansa interrupted her brother.
"That was years ago, and even you refused to marry him," Robb Stark reminded her sternly.
Sansa Stark ignored the comment: "And Hoster Blackwood-"
"She liked Hos…I think," Jon’s cousin added, somehow nonplussed.
"He fled to Oldtown to become a maester the same day you let them meet!"
In that moment, Jon, who had been watching the whole exchange with rapt attention, choked on his beer. He barely managed not to spit into his food. Both Starks gasped, startled when they finally remembered there was a third person sharing their table, and turned a rather worrisome shade of red.
"My prince…" Robb Stark started, but despite the fact that he was already a bloodied warrior and a lord of a great house since he was six, he didn’t seem to be able to find the right words.
"We are most ashamed of this display, my prince," Lady Sansa said in a timid voice.
Jon would have gladly told them how refreshing he found this unintended outburst, but they were unlikely to appreciate the notion. And not just because he heard what was likely meant to remain among the family; it was his own father’s law which demanded the king’s consent for any marriage concerning the Great Houses. No matter how beautiful and courteous Stark maids could be, they would be never allowed to marry heirs of other great houses aside from their sick cousin, an Arryn boy who was unlikely to live till adulthood. The memory of Robert Baratheon’s rebellion was still too fresh. So when the silence stretched for too long, Jon just asked about the weather.
Soon enough, Lady Sansa took control of the conversation and inquired him about noble members of the royal party, especially the unmarried heirs. Though her questions were not obvious, the prince knew where this conversation was coming from, and felt responsible to warn his cousin honestly about the ones with unkind nature, vicious lovers, or large debts. Lord Robb was mostly quiet and it was only when lemon cakes were brought that Sansa Stark finally satisfied her curiosity. Jon took the opportunity to ask Robb Stark about the time when the wildling king Mance Rayder attacked the North and the young lord fought his first war.
By the time lemon cakes were gone and Lady Sansa had taken her leave, Jon gathered courage to ask for permission to visit the godswood before he went to bed. In the South, the godswood was barely more than a garden with large trees. Jon knew it was different in the North. Here, the godswood was the second most sacred place of Winterfell.
"Now?" the young Lord Stark asked, dumfounded when he heard the request. "In the middle of a starless night?"
"I’ve heard it’s big. I should be able to find it."
"You haven’t really seen the godswood if you haven’t seen the heart tree, and you won’t be able to find it in this darkness. You are more likely to drown in a hot pool, my prince."
"I won’t, I can swim."
Stark shook his head in disbelief. He probably thought that Jon’s wits must have melted in the warmth of King’s Landing. Even so, he led the prince outside through a labyrinth of gates, covered bridges, yards, and keeps to the border of the godswood. Jon tried to compare their route to the plans of Winterfell he had studied since he was a child, to little avail. Their torches were the only source of the light, as there were no stars or lights in windows that night. Jon could barely make out the shapes of their closest surroundings.
"Here we are," Robb Stark declared when they reached a group of tall pines. "Nothing much to see besides the darkness."
"I’ve never seen night like this in King’s Landing. There is always light in the city, or darkness even greater than this. But you have to get lost in the tunnels under the Red Keep without a torch for that," Jon mused.
"Have you ever been lost in those tunnels without a torch, my prince?" Robb Stark asked with some interest.
"Only once, when I was six." I was never lost after that. That memory was still clear in Jon's mind. He stayed quiet for moment. Finally, he asked: "Would you mind to leave me here alone, my lord?"
"I’ll send a guard to wait for you behind the gate we came through."
"Tell him it will take some time."
"Your torch will burn out soon." Doubt in Stark’s voice was clear to hear.
"I won’t go any further tonight. I’ll find my way back." Jon assured him. "It’s barely thirty feet towards the gate."
In the end, Robb Stark did leave him alone. Jon listened to his retreating footsteps, waited a little while, and then quenched his torch. Darkness came closer, and all of noises seemed to become louder. In front of him, a sea of leaves rustled softly in the wind, and somewhere in the godswood he could hear a distant murmur of a brook and hooting of an owl. Behind him, dogs far off in kennels barked from time to time.
One of the earliest things Jon could remember was darkness, darkness even blacker than this. The prince couldn’t tell when he had first heard about the tunnels under the Red Keep, but he knew when he had first entered them. King Rhaegar was off fighting Balon Greyjoy, Elia had taken her children, Danenerys and Viserys to Dorne, and most of the court fled to their own holdings, still haunted by the not-so-distant-past and the dark shadow of Tywin Lannister. Somehow, no one hurried to take Jon with them. He was left in the care of an elderly septa and even older maester.
The maester died within a fortnight and when even the septa become ill, the prince found himself abandoned in the almost-empty keep. He was left to live on what he took from kitchens and the random kindness of servants, as if he was a common orphan to be pitied and not the son of the king. After few days of wandering around the known parts of the keep, he found himself in a corridor under the dungeons which led to the tunnels. He had neither torch nor candle, but bold child as he was, that didn’t stop him. He had gone blindly, keeping one hand on the wall. Even when the tunnel turned and descended and turned again, he continued. After some time, he grew tired and decided to return. He quickly found out, that he could not. Till his death, Jon would remember the fear he felt that day. Scared and half-witless, he started to run. It only got him lost even more. It probably took him hours till he sank, exhausted and crying, on the floor. Afraid as he was, he fell asleep. He would never know how long he slept, but what woke him was hunger. Later came the thirst. There the gods showed him at least small kindness. Following echoes of dripping, he found water falling in large drops from one place in the ceiling. He stood there trying to catch the drops with his tongue. And cried. And slept and stood under the dropping water and cried some more, growing weaker and weaker.…Later, they told him that he had been lost for at least two days, maybe even four, as no one was sure when he disappeared. What he knew was that on the last day, when he woke, instead of darkness, there was a dragon.
The dragon had three heads, and was made of rubies which shimmered in the torchlight. It was the beast adorning the king's own armour. Rhaegar Targaryen stood there, still armoured, sweaty and dusty from the long ride; even the hand on Jon’s arm was still gloved in iron. The man's pale face was calm and melancholic with the far-away look he always wore, but for Jon he never before and never after felt more like a real father.
"I was never afraid of these tunnels, though I was never fascinated with them like some, either," Rhaegar told him as a way of greeting. "You must have it from your mother. Once she told me that the crypts of Winterfell were ten times scarier than this place. She loved it there. It’s where she was buried after she had died."
Jon couldn’t remember the way back to the castle, but that day began his fascination with the North and the Starks. The king never told him anything more about his mother. Jon even had to learn her name from a maester, but he read every book and sought every rumour about the lands she came from and her family. And now he was finally here, and of course, nothing was as he had imagined.
Somewhere in a distance, a wolf howled. Such a lonely sound, Jon thought, but then another wolf answered, and another. Soon it was the whole pack. As the song ended, the clouds cleared in one place and the dark was suddenly lit by moonlight. The sphere was almost full. This is my chance, Jon decided. He would never be able to find the way quick enough in the earlier darkness, but with the moonlight...
Quickly, he went towards the small side gate and then the way he memorised from old scrolls. He could have asked for permission, but it would be harder to sneak where he meant to go if the Starks knew his wish and had denied it. And he could not bear not to visit his mother’s grave when he was finally here. Luckily, Jon had chosen the right drawings of the castle to guide him, and soon he found himself near an old door guarded by two huge stone direwolves. There was a massive lock, but the door was ajar. Jon entered, trying to be gentle with the old, creaking hinges. The old stone stairs that lay inside were steep and well-trodden by centuries of use.
If Jon hadn’t spent so much of his youth wandering underground, he would never even consider doing this without lighting a torch. But his was almost burned out, and he wanted to keep the light for when he reached his mother’s tomb. Still, he would likely not dare venture down in the crypt if not for a book where Septon Barth had written down the Old King’s memories about his visit in the North. Jon had learned every word of Jaehaerys’ lengthy description.
After twelve feet of descent something in the air changed, and Jon knew he was in the right place. There were older levels below, but the Starks from the last thousand years were buried here. Jon trod a few steps more before he stopped to listen. Nothing. He made another few steps and halted again. There it is–a faint noise echoed a few feet in front of him. It sounded suspiciously like rustling clothes and quiet breathing. Quickly, Jon reached for the firesteel, and flint in his cloak. However, he wasn’t even able to get his torch when someone sneaked upon him and snatched it right from his hand.
"Who is there?" Jon demanded from the stranger. He hadn’t brought his sword with him, but his hand flew to his dagger.
"Who are you?" came back a question - a girl’s voice with an unmistakable Northern accent. Jon still felt uneasy. He wasn't used sharing the darkness, but now at least he knew that he was not in immediate danger. He sheathed his weapon.
"Prince Jon Targaryen. I won’t tell anyone you were here, I promise." And hopefully you’ll do the same for me. Jon doubted that sneaking secretly into family crypts in the middle of the night would anyhow improve Starks’ opinion of him.
"I can be here if I want. No one else than me and Robb goes here anyways," the girl retorted.
There were very few people who would refer to Lord Stark as simply Robb. It could be none of those who he had already met. Besides, she was too bold and direct to be a servant.
"Lady Arya?" the prince dared to guess.
"I am Arya Stark, but I am no lady," the girl answered and Jon had to curse inwardly. So much for the Starks not knowing about this.
"I’m sorry I scared you." He just barely stopped himself from adding my lady.
Maybe I could still make an ally of her, Jon thought. At least she didn't scream for the guards. But what maiden prefers the company of dead kings than that of a prince, or is it simply because that prince is me? The well-known feeling of bitterness was taking hold of him, but then he remembered Lady Sansa's earlier words. Let her with her dead, she had said about her sister. Maybe it was not him, after all.
"You didn’t scare me. I’m not sorry I scared you," Arya Stark returned, unfazed.
There is a fire in this one. The girl reminded him of Dany. From time to time, his aunt had even showed to be a match to Jon’s own stubbornness. Despite the awkwardness of the meeting, a ghostly smile bent the corners of Jon's mouth.
"What are you doing here without light?" they blurted out in the same time.
"I asked-"
"-first," she finished for him.
This time, Jon laughed out loud. It sounded queer here down in the dark crypts among the dead lords and kings, but he couldn’t help himself.
"As you wish. I wanted to see my mother’s tomb and my torch was almost burned out, so I decided to light it again only after I came here. I can find my way in the dark rather well." And he had learned early the art of watching without being watched. The heart of the trick was not to be afraid of the dark.
"And you didn’t want anyone to see you sneaking here." Arya Stark wasn't fooled by his words. "I won’t tell anyone if you give me your firesteel, and flint."
That seemed like a cheap deal to Jon, and he felt oddly touched that he could gift her with something. He took the items out of his pocket.
When her small fingers brushed his hand, they were cold from the chilly air of the crypts but the feeling was far from unpleasant. Arya Stark didn't hesitate with her task, and in a few deft strokes she had the torch burning. Before Jon had time to react, she was holding it in her left hand and with her right, she was dragging him along. He could see only her back. She was not nearly as tall as her sister, and was clad in simple woollen doublet and breeches. Though the light wasn’t good, as far as he could see her hair didn’t appear auburn.
"Uncle Benjen gave me my own fire steel on my ninth name day, before he got lost beyond the Wall. My mother found it a year later and took it away," the girl said as they were passing long-dead Starks. The light of the torch made deep black shadows dance upon their stern stone faces. "I come here often to talk to my father. He died in Balon Greyjoy’s rebellion."
Before you were even born. Jon knew a lot about the Stark family. When the Ironborn attacked the Seven Kingdoms, Lord Stark had left his wife with a child in her belly, just like the first time when he went to war. This time, however, he didn’t return. The youngest Stark was born moon turn, or near to it, after someone put an arrow through Lord Eddard’s eye. She is four and ten now, Jon mused. It seemed strange that she felt closer to the dead father she had never met than to her living kin, but if there was a person that was able to relate, it was Jon.
"Here’s my father," She told him softly when they finally stopped.
Jon looked at the likeness. Eddard Stark’s face seemed too serious, even for a statue. He was bearded and his hair was straight where Jon was clean shaven with curly locks, but otherwise they looked rather alike.
"You look a lot like him," Arya murmured, voicing his own thoughts.
Jon turned to her and he had to restrain himself from staring. Her face was finally still, turned to him, and lit as well as it ever could be with only one torch around. She looked a lot like him too - she had a long face, her hair was straight and brown (lighter than Jon’s, it seemed) and her eyes were black in the dim light. It moved something inside Jon, how much they were alike, and how beautiful she was. On its own accord, his hand went to her cheek. He touched her face and before he could stop himself, his thumb brushed lightly along her lower lip.
In an instant, her eyes went wide. She forced the torch into his hand and fled like a startled deer.
"You mother’s tomb is the next one to the left," she shouted from the stairs and then he heard only quickly retreating steps. Dark as it was, she was running.
"That went wonderfully," Jon sighed aloud, looking dumbstruck towards the empty spot where she had stood just a moment ago. He took some time to get his little cousin out of his head before he turned back to the tombs.
There were three tombs close by. In the middle was another bearded Northman with a sad face, and a younger, taller one was to his left. Jon recognized them to be his grandfather Rickard and his uncle Brandon. Jon’s other grandfather Aerys had them killed - Lord Rickard was burned alive and Brandon strangled as they watched each other die. More of my kin I’ll never meet. Jon had never met Aerys either, but he was not so sorry for that.
The former king had been the only Targaryen killed in the rebellion. After Tywin Lannister had heard of Jon Arryn victoriously descending from the Trident, he thought the royal cause lost. He rode hard on the King’s Landing and sacked the city. Aerys, Elia and the children would have been killed too, had the whole royal family not hidden in one of many secret corridors of the Keep. But the message had been wrong–it was Robert Baratheon who had been killed, and Jon Arryn and Ned Stark who bent their knees. Soon Lord Tywin found his mistake, but it was too late. He was trapped in the city as Prince Rhaegar was returning with his army and part of Jon Arryn’s host. The Lannister had time to close the gates, but the siege lasted only three days. On the second day Randyll Tarly joined the prince with half of the Tyrell’s army from Storm’s End. And as soon as Rhaegars’ spies informed him that Tywin did not hold his family hostage, Rhaegar gave the command to attack.
It took less than half of a day to retake the city. Most of the Lannister soldiers were killed, and Lord Tywin was taken captive. When finally King Aerys emerged from the underground, he gave the order to burn his former friend alive. However, he must have been as arrogant as he was mad to keep Tywin’s own son in the Kingsguard. Jaime Lannister killed Aerys Targaryen, second of his name, in the middle of the court while the king was surrounded by his loyal subjects, family, and sworn swords. No one was able to stop him.
Or maybe no one wanted to, Jon thought, not for the first time. Ser Jaime fled, never to be heard of again. Tywin Lannister still died, though by an axe- not fire. When his younger dwarf son followed his father to his grave not a half a year later, only the Mad Lioness was left to rule the Westerlands.
Sometime in the middle of all of that, far away in Dorne, Jon had been born and his mother had died. Ned Stark was allowed to return home with his head and his sorrows. Stark had ridden south to save his kin, but returned only with tree bags of bones to burry. Jon Arryn stayed in the South a little longer. He tried to convince Stannis Baratheon that their cause was lost till the bitter end of Storm End’s siege, but Lord Stannis never bent the knee. The castle yielded only after his death. By that time, only five people out of the whole castle remained alive. Renly Baratheon, Stannis’ younger brother, was one of them.
Stannis Baratheon’s death meant the real end of the rebellion. The Seven Kingdoms finally reached peace – strained one. And things only went more sour over the years. King forbidding Sansa Stark to marry Harrold Harding came across as an insult to many and Aegon’s not-so-welcomed presence at Robb Stark’s impending wedding to Alys Karstark just added salt to that wound. Damn it all.
"I’m sorry I don’t hate them more, but they are my family as much as you," Jon told his dead grandfather before he stepped over to his mother’s tomb.
The first thing that occurred to Jon was that Lyanna Stark had curly hair, like he did. The second was that she looked a rather lot like Arya. Jon knew that that wouldn’t stop him from being attracted to his little cousin. Targaryens were known to all men in Westeros for being conquerors, kings, dragonriders, and for their custom of bedding close kin. Jon's own uncle Viserys fought vainly for years for the right to marry his own sister. And Jon’s siblings were not much different. Rhaenys may have been married to her cousin Quentyn and Aegon to Margaery Tyrell, but Jon knew his siblings had been each other’s lovers first. As for Jon himself, the first girl he had ever kissed at the ripe age of sixteen was his own aunt. It was not kissing, though, that he wanted to think about now.
Jon searched his mother’s stony eyes, trying to imagine it was truly her, futile as that may be. She had been fifteen when Rhaegar took her, and only sixteen when she died. At sixteen, Jon himself had been half a boy. It seemed so strange. She had died four years younger than he was now, and yet she had been his mother.
"I wish the gods had given you more time," Jon told her softly. "I wish I could have known you. The only thing I know about you is that you liked these crypts. Rhaegar told me that once, and I guess it has be true. Why else would your brother bury you here and have you make a statue?"
Jon hesitated, but in the end could not stop himself.
"I hope your brothers loved you. I don’t think Rhaegar ever did. I don’t think he ever loved anyone. He is dying now. He has been dying for three years. He is so weak he can’t stand; he is not even strong enough to read anymore. He only listens. Rhaenys had returned to King’s Landing, and she reads to him when she can. I come to him sometimes too, Aegon never does, but it makes no difference. We never have anything to tell each other. I used to ask about you when I was younger, but Elia always knew and became upset. But it isn’t that bad in King’s Landing. No one tried to kill me yet," Jon jested weakly. He imagined this moment many times, but once he got here somehow it all felt pointless. The torch was going out when he remembered something else. Something bright.
"I have met a girl," he whispered, unsure if there weren't living hiding among the dead. "You would know her well, she comes here often." The flame fluttered for the last time and in that dying light it almost seemed as if his mother smiled.
Jon climbed the stairs in darkness and silence, but when he entered the yard, he found the sky to be clear, and the night lit by moon and stars.
"Fat Tom has fallen asleep." Arya Stark was leaning against a nearby wall boldly. Jon felt relief flood through him. There was something intimate in their new-born acquaintance. What ever happened between them, it would be theirs as long as they kept it secret. And I should find some gods to thank for that. No matter their shared blood, Jon was not fool enough to think that kinship granted him any liberties towards Lord Stark's younger sister.
"Is Fat Tom the guardsman your brother sent to wait for me?" Jon asked the girl.
"Yes. He is the slowest of my brother’s guards. Whenever I and mother have a fight and Robb thinks that I was right he sends him after me. My mother is glad that he has sent someone, and I am glad he has sent someone who can never catch me."
"Somehow, I don’t think he is the only one unable of that." Jon told her. She smiled and Jon rather liked that smile.
He took few steps closer to her. Arya Stark sent him a wary look, but made no move to run. He should have begged pardons for acting so improperly earlier, but instead he asked softly: "Arya, why weren’t you at the dinner?"
She bit her lip. The answer came only with hesitation. "My sister told me you came here to marry me."
That left him speechless. If they knew each other longer that would be a sweet, sad dream… and likely nothing would come of it. I could kiss you, I could love you, but I would need to fight half of the Westeros to marry you.
"That is not true."
She gave him a long look, and maybe Jon was imagining what he wished to see, but he could swear he saw longing in her sharp eyes. "I know. Sansa lied. She didn’t want me at the dinner. Everyone knows I would avoid you like a plague if I thought we were betrothed. But I was sure you were here to marry her. It's stupid, but…I like you. I watched you ride in, and when you took care of your horse, and when you talked with Vayon Poole. And I even heard you curse when you stepped into horse dung in the yard." She grinned, but then she went serious again. "Sansa and I never got along but I do not wish her ill. You would make her a better husband than most, and maybe I am truly scaring her suitors off like she thinks."
"I’m not here to marry your sister either." He took her hand in his and squeezed it gently. She shivered but didn’t try to pull away. And if your brother saw me now he would probably mount my head on a spike, granted if your mother did not do it first. "I have no more power to decide who I marry than you. Martells love me little and Tyrells love me even less. None of them would profit if I married a strong house outside of their influence. Besides, most people figured that my father will die soon and then only thing stopping Aegon from disinheriting me would be through Viserys on the throne. But as soon as Margaery gives Aegon sons…"
"Viserys…" The girl sounded puzzled.
"-is mad," Jon finished. "Of course, that didn't stop the old Frey from marring him to one of his half-Darry granddaughters. Three years, and he has three sons already."
"Have you ever wanted to marry someone?" she asked, her hand still in his, his thumb tracing circles on her skin.
"Once, but not really. The first girl I’ve ever bedded. She was one of Aegon’s bastard cousins, two years older and thousand times wiser than me. She didn’t want to marry me though." He chuckled. "She said that I was thinking with my... well, not thinking at all."
"I have never wanted to marry anyone. I never even wished for a kiss," she confessed, staring at his face defiantly. But her eyes were opened wide, her breathing was loud, and dark as it was, Jon could swear that she was blushing. He could have missed it all if he were younger. He may have missed it, truth to be told. He was never the most perceptive when it came to women and girls, but enough of them had been bold with him over the years for him to finally learn the signs.
"You are lying," he told her, and tightened his hold on her hand as if someone was about to run from the night and steal this moment from him. Or maybe he was afraid she would flee. She was so changeable, one moment skittish, another bold. Most of all she was precious.
Nevertheless, his doubts lingered. Maybe it should be a boy her age, someone sweet and shy or one bold yet green as summer grass.
In the end, he pondered too long and didn't get a chance to kiss her that night. It was she who kissed him.