Chapter Text
“Are you sure you want to go that far south?” Tormund asked from where they sat ‘round the fire making their plans and fletching arrows.
“Aye,” Jon answered, hoping that no one would ask him why exactly.
They’d been encamped in the hills of the New Gift half a moon. Many of their party were to return North on the morrow, beyond the Wall. But a few were being chosen to go on to Winterfell. There were rumors that had made their way North and things that Mance wanted to know. Jon wanted to please Mance but that was not the real reason he wanted to go.
For the past moon, he had not been able to rid his mind of Lady Sansa Stark. Her vivid auburn hair and how it had shone in the afternoon sun. Her blue eyes looking at him as her soft hands stroked Ghost’s white pelt with him.
She plagued him by day when he needed his wits about him. She plagued him by night. At least then, he was burrowed beneath his furs and no man or spear wife would know what he did while he thought of Sansa’s soft lips…just Ghost. And a direwolf would not make jests about a man pleasing himself alone in the night while he thought of his red-haired beauty.
He’d happened upon her by chance in the woods near Umber’s keep. She had been alone, picking flowers and singing to herself. Jon had been entranced from that moment on and watched her for a good while before he finally stole out from the brush to approach her.
She’d been frightened of him at first. Natural enough as he was one of the Free Folk, or the Wildlings as the Kneelers called them, and she was a lord’s daughter. But, Jon had quickly learned there was a bite to her tongue and she had all the spirit in the world to stand up for herself even with an armed man facing her.
They’d talked and learned a little of each other. Then, they’d shared a kiss. Well, Jon had stolen a kiss in truth though she had not objected to the stealing.
But it was hopeless and he would be better off to forget her. And now he had convinced himself that seeing her again was what he needed to remember that they were as different as the sun and moon and her beauty and smile would just be a pleasant memory to him in time.
“Mance won’t want his favorite boy going that far,” Varamyr said derisively, pulling Jon’s thoughts from Lady Sansa and back to the present.
Jon scowled at him and stood, ready to fight the man. They had never liked one another. “I’m not Mance’s boy,” he sneered.
It was true that Mance had looked after him since he was too little to remember. Sometimes, he dreamed of another man, his father more than likely, looking down at him and smiling but that was just a child’s memory.
Jon had been born south of the Wall and many of the Free Folk treated him as something lesser for it. Some kneeler’s bastard, they’d say. He’d been taken in a raid as a boy by Mance himself and raised alongside Mance’s children but he was always aware he was not Mance’s son.
He did not know why he was taken. It was women and girls that the Free Folk usually stole. But Mance had taken him.
“Because he’s such a pretty boy, no doubt,” Varamyr had said once when Jon was no more than eight. “Mance must’ve overlooked the tiny pecker between his legs and thought he’d grow into a black-haired beauty.”
He had asked Mance once when he was younger why he had taken him. Mance had never given an answer. He’d only asked Jon if he was unhappy there amongst them. He answered that he was happy. He didn’t want Mance to think otherwise. He wanted them to accept him. He wanted them to see him as just another man of the Free Folk.
Someday, they’ll see that I am as much Free Folk as they are, he swore to himself.
Tormund bade him to sit from where he stood facing Varamyr still, hands clenched into fists. He scratched his wooly beard and said, “Well, Mance had said once not to take you further than Last Hearth…but you were younger then. It’ll be alright, I suppose. But it’s all the way to Winterfell we’re going this time and remember that those wolves are dangerous…for kneelers anyway.” He gave Jon one final appraisal and said, “The boy can go.”
I’m not a boy.
Tormund meant if affectionately but Jon got tired of the big man treating him that way. Of course, to Tormund, many men looked like boys. Jon was only five and ten though and he did not voice his displeasure to a man like Tormund Giantsbane.
Jon nodded and went back to fletching his arrows. He preferred his sword or knife but arrows were better for hunting and it was safer to keep their distance at times, especially against mounted men.
The elders returned to their planning and Jon kept his mouth closed. But he did hum softly under his breath, a Southron song he’d heard a beautiful highborn maiden singing to herself alone in the woods near Last Hearth before he’d ever spoken to her…before he’d stole a kiss and she’d stolen his heart.
“Sansa,” Septa Mordane said sharply, “where is your head today, girl?”
Sansa looked up to see the septa standing before her and frowning. She looked down then at the piece of fabric in her lap where she’d been embroidering a direwolf. It was not as good as her usual work but she had been daydreaming a bit as she toiled.
“I’m sorry?” she asked, trying to figure out what she’d done wrong.
“You’ve made him white, child,” the septa said with a smile now. She looked once more and saw that she had indeed been stitching a white direwolf.
“Can’t direwolves be white?” she asked with a sniff. “The fabric is grey.”
“Yes, but to reverse your House colors…”
“Of course,” she said with a bowed head. Bastard colors. Her mother would not approve of that.
“Why don’t you work on another piece? Perhaps something for the Queen or Princess when they arrive?”
“Yes,” she sighed, laying down her needle. “But for now…I’d like some air,” she said. The septa nodded and started to rise. “No, you may stay. I just want a little air. I’ll return soon enough.” I want a little freedom. Is that so much to ask?
Sansa made her way through the keep and across the muddy yard where Robb sparred with Theon Greyjoy. She gave her brother a fleeting smile as she hurried on towards the godswood for a bit of peace and quiet.
A white direwolf. Whatever was I thinking?
She clasped her hands together, giggling to herself and knowing exactly what’d she been thinking of. She’d already found a small bit of red thread for his eyes. Ghost was his name and Jon was his friend.
Sansa found the heart tree and was relieved that her father was not there. They’d all been concerned about her since their return from the Umbers. Her mother said she was acting strangely. She asked if she’d met a boy she liked at Last Hearth.
Not a boy exactly, a man…or nearly a man. And he’s not just a man, he’s a Wildling.
Sansa laughed aloud to picture Mother’s expression if she’d voiced that aloud. But she quickly sobered here in the silent shadow of the Weirwood. She debated about whether or not she should kneel here and possibly soil her dress. At last, she decided the gods might listen to her plea if she showed the proper respect and knelt in the damp leaves that littered the ground.
She had prayed in the Sept just this morning with her mother. But now she sought her father’s gods, the old gods. Perhaps they would know more of him.
Please…I should like to see him once more.
She shouldn’t want to see him. She grimaced to think how shocked her mother and father would be. Mother would be terrified if she knew of their encounter. Her father would want to take his head perhaps. But she wanted to see him all the same.
He’d stolen a kiss…though she’d dare him to do so. But Sansa suspected it was her heart the youth had truly taken with him that day.
She curled her lip in defiance at the thought.
You shouldn’t want to see him, wicked girl. He’s just a dirty, thieving Wildling…a murderer and rapist more than likely. The King and Queen come to Winterfell, the Crown Prince, too. Why should you care about seeing Jon again?
How often had she had this argument over the past fortnight? Too many times to keep track. All she knew was that the answers her heart gave were always the same.
He is not a murderer or a rapist. He is not a dirty thief though he is a Wildling. Well, perhaps he does steal but only for the good of his people. He said so. Jon would not lie. He is sweet and kind, gentle and handsome, brave and strong...and I will never be free to love him.
Sansa wept then for she knew her prayers would likely not be answered. The old gods were as deaf to her pleas as the new. She would never see Jon the Wildling again and Joffrey Baratheon rode north with his father the king. And, Mother said Sansa must do as she was bid.
Perhaps my prince will be as handsome and noble as they say. Perhaps he will make me forget all about a young man wearing naught but skins and fur with curly, dark hair and kind, dark eyes, rough, callused hands that touched mine so carefully, full, sweet lips that kissed mine so softly. Gods, help me please. Help me forget him if I’m to go South.
For so long, that was all she had wanted…to go South. But then a chance encounter had changed all that for her. A different sort of restlessness grew within her now. Not a longing for things to the South but a desire to see further North. She no longer thought much of knights and tourneys. She thought of wild men with dark eyes dressed in skins who looked at her with such longing and adoration.
“Sansa.”
She startled to find her father standing behind her. He carried Ice and she could see his concern and surprise at seeing her in the godswood. She rarely came here. In all her fourteen years, these had never been her gods.
“Father,” she responded, rising and smiling through a veil of tears.
Ned Stark strode over to her and carefully tipped her chin up. “Why have you been crying, my daughter?”
“No good reason, Father,” she said in a lighter tone than what she felt. “I was feeling sad earlier but now I am not.”
His grey eyes sharpened and she knew he suspected a lie. Soon enough though he sighed and said, “If you are not pleased with the prince, you must tell me or your Mother so, alright?”
“Yes, Father,” she said, wondering why her father would say such a thing.
King Robert was his friend. Her mother had been hoping for a possible betrothal ever since the king had sent a raven telling them to expect the visit.
Her father kissed her forehead and patted her cheek. “Go and find your septa, love,” he murmured before he sat upon the stone by the heart tree and drew Ice across his knees.
Sansa curtsied and left her lord father alone with the old gods. She was a good girl and always tried to do as she was bid.
Jon shed his clothes in the Wolfswood and hurriedly put on the grey tunic, black breeches and jerkin that he had stolen a few nights earlier from a miller’s son that was heading towards Winterfell with sacks of grain. He had let the young man go and taken only his clothing.
Perhaps he can use one of the sacks from the grain to cover himself until he makes it home, Jon had thought with amusement.
Tormund had not been pleased though. He didn’t want any one reporting their presence but Jon had done the stealing on his own and it had been his decision not to kill the innocent youth.
“A good fit,” Tormund said approvingly as Jon emerged from the bushes. “You look just like a kneeler.”
Jon frowned and removed the tie from his hair.
Will she recognize me dressed like this?
The cloth was soft and yet not as soft as the skins and furs Jon was used to. He had nothing on under the stolen clothes, no small clothes as the kneelers would say, and the woolen breeches itched fiercely. Still, it would all be worthwhile if he could see her.
King Robert Baratheon had travelled all the way to Winterfell to meet with Lord Stark, the Warden of the North. Mance was curious to know why and to have someone present to see what news could be gathered.
Mance often spoke of a coming war and the need to protect his people. Jon wasn’t sure what all that was about as Mance spoke mostly to the elders of it but he had picked up bits and pieces of information.
There were only half a dozen men in their party and Jon was chosen to be Mance’s eyes and ears inside the castle. Tormund reckoned that Jon looked the least threatening and the most like a kneeler. He’d not appreciated the sentiment but knew it was his best chance to see Sansa. It was likely Lord Stark’s daughter rarely left the keep and when she did, he was certain she would not be alone.
With so many guests at Winterfell, it was very easy to enter the castle. There were all manner of knights, men-at-arms and squires in the King’s company. And for every one of those, there were at least two or three servants, it seemed.
A feast was being held for the king and Jon made his way to the Great Hall as though he had a right to be there…while carrying two wheels of cheese anyway. He observed what the servants did and mimicked their actions.
A trumpeter sounded a horn and Jon jumped at the sound not being used to the blaring of trumpets. It was then that Lord Stark entered escorting the queen and Lady Stark was led by King Robert.
Jon moved to the side and stood near the wall, trying to be as unnoticeable as possible. King Robert was said to be a renowned warrior who had killed Prince Rhaegar Targaryen on the Trident with his war hammer. But all Jon saw was a fat man in fine clothes already in his cups and stumbling towards the dais.
Lord Stark was another matter. He was tall and lordly looking with a stern face and intelligent grey eyes. Those eyes looked fierce at first but when he looked back over his shoulder and smiled at his lady wife, they softened.
His wife appeared rather shabbily dressed compared to the queen. Nevertheless, Lady Stark had dark red hair and blue eyes and would’ve been considered a beauty in her day. Though not as beautiful as her daughter, Jon thought.
The Lannister Queen was reputed as one of the greatest beauties in all the Seven Kingdoms. Her hair was golden and she wore it up in an intricate manner. Her dress was a deep crimson and crusted with gold and jewels. Jon’s eyes boggled at the sight of such finery but when he looked at her face, he could not help but notice the haughty expression in her green eyes and the pinched displeasure that marred her face.
The queen’s brothers were in attendance as well. Ser Jaime Lannister was dressed in golden armor, his looks the masculine reflection of his sister’s. He appeared more kingly to Jon than the king himself but there was a cruelty to his smile. The Kingslayer he was called.
Her other brother followed in his elder brother’s wake. The Imp. Jon had never seen a dwarf before. He was fascinated by the little man’s mismatched eyes and could not help but stare. Though I am not the only one that stares at least.
Then, Jon saw her and all other thoughts or impressions of the kneelers and their king went out of his head.
She wore a pretty dress but no prettier than the one she’d been wearing the day they met. Her hair was braided back from her face but mostly hung down loose. She was as lovely as a new flower.
Radiant, Jon thought. That would perhaps be fine enough a word for her.
But, Jon was not pleased for at her side stood a youth close to himself and Sansa in age. He was dressed finely in green and gold with a fur cloak about his shoulders. The Crown Prince, Jon realized. He held Sansa’s arm and escorted her towards the dais.
Jon looked down for fear that the unbridled hatred in his eyes directed at the golden prince would draw unwanted attention. He managed to look up again after the rest of the family had made their way up to the high table.
The boy prince had a look of disdain on his face and he looked thoroughly unimpressed with the Great Hall of Winterfell. Jon had never seen such a large and impressive room in his entire life though. Hundreds of people could fit under this one roof. So much different than the huts and make-shift shelters of the Free Folk.
You have nothing worthwhile to offer her, he thought dejectedly.
“Boy,” an older man said while slapping Jon’s shoulder. “Whose House do you serve?”
“Karstark,” Jon said with barely a tremble.
They’d agreed he’d claim to be from one of the mountain clans…at least that’s what Tormund had decided. He’d figured Jon looked more like he was from further North. But once Jon had arrived he saw that only a few of the mountain lords had made the journey and the ones that did had brought very few servants with them.
The Karstarks had brought a decently large retinue though. Easier to blend in with the many.
Mance had often commended Jon’s quick wit which pleased him. He hoped his wits would be quick enough now.
“Help me with these platters,” the older servant said next.
Jon nodded and took a tray bearing mutton. He followed the older man up to the high table and tried to still the nerves in his stomach now. They served Lord Stark and King Robert, then their wives.
He moved down the line feeling self-conscious and resentful of this task, especially when he served the prince. I am no servant.
But when he reached Sansa, he stared at her boldly and imploringly, hoping she would notice him.
She didn’t. She glanced at the mutton and shook her head whilst chewing on her bottom lip.
“Are you sure you don’t care for mutton, milady?” he asked in a low voice.
Her head jerked up and for a moment her eyes narrowed. Apparently, servants didn’t normally urge the highborn to sample a dish.
But, much to Jon’s relief, her eyes widened just a quickly and her mouth flew open. He beseeched her with his eyes to say nothing. He was certain he had flushed scarlet though. She had recognized him. Even in his kneeler’s clothes, even here in the most unexpected of places, she recognized him…and smiled.
“Perhaps a little,” she said softly.
Jon was not much at serving. He’d nearly splattered King Robert in the mutton's juices though the man did not seem to notice.
But now, he carefully cut a serving and placed it on her plate.
A thousand questions seemed to fill her eyes but she only whispered, “Watch for me to leave.”
She’d said it so quietly Jon thought for several seconds that he had imagined it. He glanced at the people sitting on either side of her. Neither seemed to notice that she had spoken to him.
“Aye, milady,” he nodded as though she had given him some direction regarding the mutton and then he moved off to the next place, his heart pounding with hope and anticipation.