30.The White Wedding

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Harrion Karstark

Once upon a time, Harrion would have said that an ignoble death or torture were the worst fates in the world.

He was wrong.

Death would be sweet relief, no matter how ignoble, and torture would be painful, aye. But it would make him feel alive before dying. What was death but just an end?

Harrion longed for death; he dreamt of it. But it was denied to him.

Only darkness.

Darkness and silence in the black depths of Mooton’s Pink Keep in Maidenpool. The dungeons were cold and damp, unfit for a man of nobler birth, but Harrion was a Northman and had survived worse.

But darkness? It was insidious. Pitch-black and all-consuming, it choked the surroundings. It slowly crept into your mind and memories, twisting them into something else. At first, he could close his eyes and recall the faces of his father, mother, brothers, and sister. But they slowly faded, and now all he saw was emptiness.

In this all-consuming darkness, their names began to dwindle. His father’s name was… his name was… Harrion could no longer recall. And that broke him more than anything.

Even the distant memory of the blue sky and the sun’s warm kiss was beginning to fade. Darkness devoured, and it gnawed at his very being, little by little.

But the darkness was not alone. It had a partner, a spouse that clung to it, no less insidious. Silence.

The silence was maddening. Even the three sounds that filled his dreary life were irksome and wrong. At some point, Harrion tried talking to himself so that he could hear something. But it tired him too much, and his voice was ugly, rusty, and incoherent.

Drip, drip, drip, drip.

The slow, rhythmic dribbling of water echoed somewhere far away. Had it rained again?

How did the rain feel against his skin, against his hair? Harrion couldn’t remember, and it made him want to weep. But his tears had dried long ago, and his crying was a waste of water.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

No less maddening than the silence, the scurrying of rats often woke him up from his daze. The vermin were waiting in the darkness, inching closer and closer by the day. Squeaking, chirping, and hissing, they waited for him to die. They wanted to feast on his bones and what little was left of his flesh.

The final echo in the darkness was the most insidious of the three. The sounds of footsteps and scraping of the platter of slop, a piece of hardtack, and a cup of beer that tasted like piss. Just enough sustenance so he wouldn’t die, but too little to be anything but weak and hungry. His limbs had long grown thin, his skin loose, for there was little meat left to fill it, and he could count all his ribs with his fingers.

Harrion had scratched down the visits at the start, trying to determine how much time had passed, but he lost the numbers. Even the stench of piss and shit no longer bothered him. He knew it was there, but it was no longer distinguishable. The darkness slowly devoured those sensations, too.

Had he been here for weeks? Moons? Years? Decades…?

His hair and beard had grown into a tangled mess, and his nails had grown out, curling like the talons of a savage beast.

William Mooton was one vengeful cur—just because Bolton had sacked Maidenpool, he was taking it out on Harrion. What did he have to do with sacking a turncloak’s town?

Escape… sounded good and sweet, but impossible. The cell was hewn directly into the stone, and the cold irons binding his arms and legs were impossibly heavy for his feeble limbs. At the start, he could have tried when his strength was still with him. But now? Harrion struggled to stand, let alone do more, and the darkness had muddled his thoughts.

Why were they keeping him alive again?

Harrion remembered… King Robb… and his kinsmen. Some of them had died in the war. Their name was… their name was… he couldn’t remember.

Perhaps… he was already dead, and this was hell.

Would he ever see the blue sky again? Feel the cold wind brushing his skin? He had forgotten it all, but the shadow of a feeling still lingered. Joy. That feeling was so fleeting, but he craved it.

Alas, the hunger gnawed at his innards again, and Harrion did the only thing he could. He weakly shuffled onto the straw bed in the corner, closed his eyes, and slept.

BANG!

The cell’s heavy door crashed open, and Harrion opened his eyes groggily but could only cringe from the two ruddy lights. ‘Torches,’ his mind supplied. His jailors had never brought torches before. Or, well, if they did, he did not see anything through the thick iron-studded door.

The flickering light blinded him, and he could only rub his eyes weakly and squint.

His cell door was never opened, only the tiny shutter to place the food platter. Was it time to die?

“Gods!” someone exclaimed. Hearing a voice was like a balm upon Harrion’s ears, even if it was hoarse and breathy. “This place stinks worse than a pigsty.”

He almost laughed, but his joy stuck in his throat. This was a dream nicer than most.

“Dungeons never smell of flowers, ye dolt,” another gruffer voice answered.

Harrion still couldn’t see anything besides two bright orange lights and moaned.

“This must be him,” the first man muttered, disgruntled. “He’s barely alive.”

“You call this alive? I’ve seen corpses looking better than this. Fuck, the Lord Captain won’t be happy,” the second sounded scared. “Are you Harrion Karstark?”

He decided to humour them.

“…Aye,” the words came out weak and painful. “…That’s… my… name.”

Something clicked, and suddenly his hands and legs were no longer as burdened as iron cluttered down the stone floor.

His mind was still groggy, as if he had fallen into a quagmire. Two pairs of hands grabbed him, pulling him up with far more care than he would have expected.

And then he gasped. The ache in his body… was too real to be a dream. Dreams were often cruel, but always painless.

The painfully bright torches slowly banished the darkness from his thoughts.

All he could do was croak out, “Who…?” The rest of the words choked in his dry throat. Speaking felt like scraping the bottom of a barrel with a rusty spoon.

“Friends,” the gruff one muttered.

“From White Harbour,” the second one added.

White Harbour… the name sounded familiar.

Standing up was painful, and he felt like his bones would bend and his joints would falter, ready to break and crumble at any moment. Everything hurt. But the pain… the pain made him feel more alive than ever.

He could barely make out the surroundings if he squinted now. Harrion was faced with two burly men wrapped in dark cloaks, with breastplates that shone like molten silver underneath the ruddy torchlight.

They moved to help him walk out, but he shook his head.

Gritting his teeth, Harrion Karstark moved his foot forward, and a hiss of pain escaped from his clenched teeth. Agony lanced up his ankle and into his knee. Then the other one moved, even though each step sent jolts of agony through his weakened flesh.

The pain was but a reminder that he was alive. And each step brought him closer to the sky.

He felt like a snail, but the two men-at-arms hovered near him yet watched on, faces solemn as he struggled forth. Harrion Karstark knew not what was happening or how much time had passed, but he knew one thing.

A sliver of dignity remained, and he wanted to leave this prison without being dragged like a sack of turnips. The darkness had almost gnawed away at it, but he still had just this little bit left.

The cell might have defeated him, but he was yet to break, and Harrion Karstark would see the sky again, standing on his own feet.

21st Day of the 8th Moon, 303 AC

The Storm Bride, Winterfell

Shireen tightened her grip on the reins, bracing herself against the cruel bite of the wind as Stormstrider cut through the skies above the Wolfswood. The cold gusts were fierce, lashing at her shawled face like a thousand tiny daggers, yet she found herself welcoming the sting. The saddle beneath her was far kinder than the unyielding scales she had first ridden upon, and her new riding gown granted her ease of movement.

Fear no longer held her in its icy grip; in its place bloomed a fierce, unbridled joy. Nothing could compare to the rush of air through her hair, nor the sudden drop in her stomach as the young dragon folded his wings and dove, the world blurring past in streaks of green and white.

For good or ill, no joy lasted forever, and this was no different. Stormstrider was young, and it was not long before the great bronze wings began to slow, the powerful strokes growing laboured. Still, each next flight saw them remain aloft longer.

Dragonriding, she was learning, was as simple as it was perilous. Stormstrider answered well enough to her pulls and nudges—reins, knees, and shouted commands all had their place—but to weave those signals into one seamless skill was easier said than done.

Flying alongside Jon made it easier. Her betrothed offered no counsel, nor did he interfere, yet his steady presence seemed to calm the dragon, lending Stormstrider a measure of discipline he did not always possess. Under Jon’s watchful eye, the young dragon grew more responsive, more willing to heed her hand and voice.

Jon had no woes with his own dragon, though it was far larger and more vicious than Stormstrider could ever be. With him, dragon and rider seemed like one seamless whole, moving effortlessly as if the dragon could read his rider’s mind. Perhaps it could. Shireen felt too shy to ask. Perhaps it was her pride speaking, but she wanted to prove herself capable without his help. Yet that reduced her to groping in the dark—the jealously guarded dragonlord of House Targaryen had long since been burnt down by Baelor the Blessed.

How were dragons raised?

How were they mastered and controlled?

How did the Order of the Dragonkeepers deal with those beasts?

Those were the questions she kept asking herself, but she could find no answer, no matter how much she read her way through Winterfell’s library. The collection didn’t possess half as much as Dragonstone in the way of dragos, but the knowledge on various other matters was vast and delightfully intriguing in its own right.

Her thoughts drifted towards the near future.

Today was the day. Tonight, she would become a woman wed, a wife, and a queen.

Apprehension swirled through her chest. Her hands felt clammy, and in the last few days, she had often found herself biting her lips and fidgeting where she stood, finding her shoulders or neck grow stiff.

With some struggle, heavy pulling on the reins, and a few loud commands, Stromstrider was steered down into a snowy glade in the sprawling expanse of elm and oak.

The heavy drumming of Winter’s wings trailed behind, and the bulkier behemoth also landed with a thud, sending ribbons of snow drifting across the clearing. Before his clutchmate, the purple drake looked like an errant child, barely half his size despite hatching at the same time.

Her gaze found Jon’s purple eyes as he gracefully hopped off his saddle.

“You know,” Jon was already by her side, helping her unstrap all the fastenings that held her to the saddle and dismount, “it’s quite dangerous for a dragonrider to land alone in the wilderness unprotected.”

“Stormstrider would protect me,” a flushed Shireen muttered with far more confidence than she felt as she almost fell into Jon’s arms when untangling her legs from the saddle. “And I have even less to fear with you, don’t I?”

His mouth twitched, and then a soft chuckle rolled off his throat. Something inside her belly fluttered. Gods, he was so dashing, and his hands were strong, like any maiden’s fantasy, and Shireen was just… nobody special, barely an ugly duckling.

Jon peered into her eyes. “You don’t have anything to fear with me, that much is true. But I see something else weighs on your mind.”

Even now, his voice was filled with concern. Was she so easy to read?

“I just…” The words choked in her throat. “Are you sure?”

“About what?”

Shireen had a thousand doubts running through her mind again. Even though she knew better, the wedding was tonight, and everything was ready. It was set to happen. It was everything she had ever dreamed of.

But what if… what if it turned out to be terrible?

Songs and fairy tales were just ink on those old, yellowed pages. The world was far crueller—marriages could turn bad, cold, and angry, like those between her parents. Or worse, like the bitter union between Uncle Robert and his golden wife…

Still, Shireen would not lie. Jon had been honest, and she could only repay him in turn. No matter how awkward or painful, she could only steel herself and tell the truth. “Are you sure… this isn’t a mistake?”

Jon’s face turned blank. “The marriage?”

“Yes,” she sniffled. “I’m not as pretty and—”

Her lips were sealed shut, and it took her frozen mind a few heartbeats to realise she was being kissed… and quite boldly at that. A pair of strong arms enveloped her, and heat was surging through her body and mind.

This was how kissing was?

Shireen loved it. It was doing things to her mind and insides that she never knew were possible.

Oh gods, oh gods…

When their lips finally parted, her mind had turned into mush, and her tongue could no longer string words together. “Uh—”

“If the marriage is a mistake, we’re in it together.” The king’s warm breath ghosted on her neck, sending shivers down her spine. “There’s far more to it than something as vain as looks. Besides, you’re even prettier than you were a year ago at Castle Black.”

Shireen wanted to claim it was a lie, but Jon Stark never lied. She allowed the hope to bloom within her heart.

“Really?”

“Yes. An ugly duckling can turn into a swan, you know?” The words pried off a watery chuckle from her mouth. “It doesn’t matter, for the beauty of the flesh is fleeting. Loyalty and honesty? Those two are priceless. I shall keep to my vows, now and always.”

“And so do I,” Shireen said, her lips twitching. “But… what of love?”

The king’s face turned forlorn.

“Love? I believe it is a luxury that ought to come with time and understanding.” His voice was so soft it almost made her weep. “Many, young and foolish, mistake lust for love, but they’re not the same.”

Jon Stark was young, just a month shy of twenty, but his purple eyes looked so old at that moment.

“I’m sorry—” A finger blocked her lips.

“Never apologise when you have done nothing wrong, Shireen,” Jon said, face solemn. “Even if you have, you shall answer to no man but me alone. You’re about to become not only my wife but the Lady of Winterfell and Queen of the North. Never forget it, for from tomorrow, your actions carry far more weight than your own.”

Shireen clenched her fingers. Now that the words had left his tongue, everything became more real, and she could feel a pressure settle on her shoulders.

“It’s a heavy burden,” she whispered, voice quivering. “I will do my duty, though I’m unsure if I can bear it.”

Jon clasped her hand and kissed her palm, making her flush.

“You are not alone. Marriage is a union where the burdens are shared, and a husband and wife fight them together, instead of each other.” His eyes glanced at the sun, and then he let out a long sigh. “We must return.”

“Why?” Shireen felt like she could stay in his embrace forever. It was warm and cosy, smelled of pine and leather, and felt safe. “I like it here with you.”

That earned her a rueful smile. “It bodes poorly for the bride and the groom to spend so much time together before the ceremony. Especially without a chaperone. And Sansa would doubtlessly raise a mighty fuss about it.”

“Fine,” Shireen said, prying herself away reluctantly. “Besides, we need to start preparing for the ceremony…”

“I am glad to see you well, princess,” Davos said. The old smuggler gave a deep bow before lowering himself carefully onto one of the narrow chairs at her leave. “Or is it Your Grace now?”

The old knight’s hair had turned almost fully white, with a handful of errant streaks of brown fighting against the onset of age.

“Not until tomorrow,” Shireen replied with a small laugh. “It has been some time since we last spoke, Ser Davos. Have you grown used to the North yet?”.

Davos rubbed at his chin, his mouth twisting wryly.

“The cold bites at these old bones,” he muttered. “Though truth be told, most things do, of late.”

“Do you mean to return to Lady Marya?”

That earned her a thin, sorrowful smile. “My return would be no kindness to her. I could not face her… not after losing four sons.”

Shireen bit the inside of her cheek. Those deaths had been her father’s doing, though not his alone. The Imp’s cunning had played its part, but without her father’s war, they would yet live. Others had fanned those flames too—lords and kings and men with far more ambition than sense. How many mothers had lost their children for it?

How many wives had been left widowed?

How many children were orphaned over that jagged chair of melted swords?

How many fathers had to bury their sons?

Her thoughts turned to the round, kind face of a simple woman, all warmth and gentle smiles. In her girlhood, Shireen had often pictured the Mother in Marya Seaworth’s likeness.

“Surely… she will forgive you?” she said softly.

Davos’s shoulders sagged. “Seven bear me witness, that is what I fear the most. She has a heart of gold, my Marya. But I’ve no right to her pardon. I was a poor husband, and a worse father.”

“It’s not true!”

The Onion Knight only shook his head. “Every man carries his faults, princess. Some are heavier than others. I’ve made my peace with mine. I’ve set my mind on staying in the North, too. It’s been no easy bargain, but Devan’s to squire for Morgan Liddle. Perhaps the chieftain will knock that Red God foolishness out of him.”

She remembered Morgan Liddle well—bald and broad as a bull, with a face carved from stone. A hard man, even amongst the hillsmen, yet fair. One of the king’s most loyal men and his brother had become the captain of the guard within a day of the crowning. After the Battle of Winterfell, he’d been red from helm to heel, and the men called him Red Axe Morgan ever since.

“The chieftain is a capable man,” she said at last, murmuring a prayer for Devan. “Without the Red Woman to fill your son’s head with nonsense, he might yet be turned to sense.”

“So I hope,” Davos said. “As for myself… I’ve taken up service as a bailiff beneath the Lord Justiciar.”

“It suits you well, Ser Davos,” Shireen said with solemn approval. “The king has need of honest men with a firm hand for justice, now more than ever.”

“Thank you, my lady.” He paused then, hesitating for a long moment. “Yet… shouldn’t you be making ready for the evening ceremony?”

“Err…” Shireen coughed into her hand, heat rising in her cheeks despite herself. “I summoned you for a favour, ser.”

At once, Davos slipped out of his seat, falling to one knee. “I serve at your pleasure, Your Grace.”

“Stand up,” she said, more sharply than she intended. He obeyed at once, settling back into his chair with the awkward stiffness of an old man unused to ceremony. “What do you know of Northern weddings?”

“Precious little,” Davos admitted, rubbing his thinning grey hair with a sheepish smile. “But I did hear there’s no septon to read the sermon.”

“Indeed. There is no sermon, either. The ceremony is rather short, truth be told—the Northmen care little for pomp…” Shireen faltered, throat feeling tight. “But there is one matter of import, one tradition that they always cling to. The bride must be given away before the heart tree… by her father. Or a brother or an uncle. I…”

Davos blinked once, twice, as the meaning sank in. Then, slowly, he lowered himself to one knee again.

“You honour me greatly, Your Grace,” he said, voice rough.

“It is your loyalty that is beyond compare, ser,” Shireen told him, smiling despite the flutter in her chest. Yet unease lingered beneath the warmth of the moment, a gnawing that had nothing to do with her wedding. “Still… perhaps you ought to send word to your wife and sons. They would be glad to know you still live.”

After they had scrubbed her clean, Meraya helped Shireen from the steaming bath and wrapped her in a thick towel softer than velvet. Lyna, the new handmaid, was waiting with another, already warmed by the fire. She set to work on Shireen’s hair, rubbing the dampness from her long black locks with quick, practised strokes.

It took five towels and nearly an hour before her hair was fully dried and plaited in the Northern fashion—tight braids pinned back neatly, practical yet solemn. Shireen had refused the gems and gilded nets and the pearls that some had pressed upon her, along with the powders and Essosi oils. Yet Sansa had coaxed her into weaving a few winter roses through her braid. A touch of the North, she’d called it, smiling that knowing smile of hers.

Next came the stockings, pale and soft against her legs, followed by the rest of her undergarments, all in white. Then they brought forth the gown.

The wedding dress had been stitched from white Torrentine cotton and fine snowy Norvoshi wool, trimmed with soft snow fox fur. Two skirts overlapped, split for ease of movement—fit for a queen who might ride to her wedding, if need be. Even Sansa, though busy seeing to Jon’s attire, had deemed it ‘beyond satisfactory’.

When word spread that the future Queen of the North required a wedding gown, a flock of tailors and seamstresses had descended upon her like crows upon a cornfield, each eager to have their needle claim the honour. It was no small thing to craft the gown of the first Northern queen in centuries.

The dress fit snugly about her chest, warm and weighty on her shoulders. Comfortable enough, yet it did little to soothe the nervous fluttering in her belly.

Her mother’s sharp voice rose in her memory.

“Weddings are dreadful affairs, daughter mine. The gown chafes, the hall stinks of sweat and wine, and the bedding’s worse by far.”

The recollection twisted her insides into knots.

“Come, Your Grace,” Lyna urged her gently. “At least have a look at the mirror. Say if it pleases you.”

With some reluctance, Shireen stepped toward the polished silver mirror. Her breath hitched.

A maiden stood before her, clad in white. Her cheek and neck bore the scars she had long grown used to, and her jaw was still too square, her Florent ears still too sharp—but the gown softened her somehow. The winter roses gleamed like blue stars in her dark braids. Half a beauty, if not for the scars… perhaps…

“Good.” Sansa’s voice came from the doorway. Shireen turned at once. The red-haired princess stood framed in the hanging lamplight, eyes bright. “You look stunning.”

“You truly think so?” Shireen hated the way her voice trembled. She had long since learned not to care, but what maiden truly wished to be plain?

“Why, yes,” Sansa said, gliding toward her. “I’ve been to three weddings, and none were happy. All the gold and gems in the world cannot hide a sorrowful bride. I had my doubts, but this suits you better. It’s honest.”

Sansa leaned closer, her breath warm against Shireen’s ear. “Besides,” she whispered, “it suits Jon’s style.”

The tightness in Shireen’s chest eased a little at that.

“Any advice?” she asked before she could stop herself. Regret wellwed up at once. “I—sorry—”

“No need,” Sansa said quickly, though a shiver ran through her. “Only… you might not want my counsel. I’d tell you to flee while there’s still time.”

“I’m not running,” Shireen declared.

“Good. At least you look the part. Do you know how much time and effort I spent planning this whole thing?” The red-haired princess tilted her head while inspecting Shireen’s braid. “The blue roses bring out the colour of your eyes even further. Perfect.”

The ceremony crept nearer with every passing heartbeat. Meraya came hurrying in, a pair of boots clutched in her hands—Howland Reed’s gift, finer than what was previously prepared. They were dyed white and fashioned from lizard-lion leather, supple yet strong. Shireen had never seen their like; not even Cersei Lannister, with all the wealth of Casterly Rock and the Iron Throne behind her back, had worn such fine boots.

A knock on the door heralded yet another visitor, and Jyanna Snow’s harsh face peeked inside the room.

“It’s time, Your Grace,” Jyanna said, her thick voice rumbling with Northern burr. “The king and the rest were bound for the godswood ten minutes past.”

Shireen’s new sword shield was a stocky woman—her shoulders nearly twice as wide as any noble maiden— with a stern face and a fierce frown, and the angry scar running across her lips made her fiercer still.

“We shouldn’t dally for too long,” Sansa said, lifting the great cloak. She fastened it about Shireen’s shoulders with steady hands. The heavy wool was black as coal, lined with fur against the Northern cold, and upon its back the crowned stag of Baratheon was stitched in shining gold thread. Shireen and Myrcella had worked on it together for weeks.

“Where are the gloves?” Myrcella asked, frowning.

They fretted and fluttered around, but the white gloves were nowhere to be seen.

Before long, Shireen left her chambers and set off toward the godswood. Her boots struck the stone in a steady rhythm, though inside her, her stomach was twisting itself into knots.

Myrcella fell in beside her as they made their way through the darkened keep, the crimson silk of her gown peeking out from beneath a cloak of pale wool. Night had settled fully over Winterfell. The waxing moon hung high above, cloaking the yard in cold silver light. The crisp air stung on the skin and bit into her bare fingers, but Winterfell’s high walls blocked off the worst of the cruellest northern wind.

Still, Shireen’s hands would not be still beneath her cloak, no matter how she tried to still them. Her fingers worked nervously at the fabric, twisting and untwisting.

“At least it isn’t snowing,” Jyanna Snow remarked as they neared the godswood gate.

“Snowing?” Myrcella glanced about, curious.

“Aye,” the shieldmaiden said. “Snow on a wedding night makes for a cold marriage. It is known.”

Nobility does not marry for love but for duty.

The stern voice of her father echoed in her mind. But Jon had said love might come with time, and she prayed—truly prayed—that he was right. Duty she could manage—she had been groomed for it since the moment she could read her letters. But no maiden truly wished her marriage to be cold or cruel, and Shireen was no different.

At the arched stone door to the godswood, Sansa drew her aside.

“Shireen,” she began carefully, “has your mother, or your septa… spoken to you of what happens when a marriage is consummated?”

Myrcella went scarlet in an instant, and even the tips of her ears flushed.

Shireen shifted uncomfortably in her boots. “Mother only said it would be painful, but that I must do my duty.”

Jyanna gave a snort. “Bedding’s not always painful, princess. It might sting the first time, aye—but if the man knows his way, he’ll show you pleasures you’ve not dreamt of. And His Grace does not strike me as one untutored.”

Heat flooded Shireen’s cheeks so fiercely she thought she might burst into flame. Even Sansa and Myrcella had turned a deeper shade of crimson.

They said no more after that. Too mortified for words, they passed beneath the stone arch into the godswood in silence.

Ser Davos was waiting just inside. Ghost lingered a moment at the edge of the path before melting soundlessly into the trees like a silvery phantom. Myrcella and Sansa rushed ahead to join the gathering by the heart tree.

The Onion Knight gave her a small, encouraging smile and offered his arm without a word. Shireen took it, grateful. Together they walked the snowy path lined with lanterns and torches, their ruddy flames burning bright in the night.

The scent of pine and oak and smoke filled her lungs as they neared the clearing. It steadied her some, though her heart still beat wildly in her chest.

The lords and ladies of the North stood arrayed on either side of the godswood, their faces solemn, their eyes fixed upon her. Wildling chieftains, mountain and forest clansmen, everyone of import in the North was gathered here. She saw envy stab at her from the eyes of the younger maidens, and even some of the older. But none made a move. They watched in silence as she approached the ancient heart tree.

Before the weirwood, Jon Stark stood straight and unbending, the red leaves swaying above him like a thousand crimson hands. There was no splendour to his garb, nor any need for it. He wore a black doublet slashed with silver, a sword belted at his waist, and a plain dark crown resting upon his black curls. A white cloak hung from his shoulders, stirring softly in the breeze, and upon its folds a grey direwolf raced as if alive.

In that moment, he seemed every inch a king—sombre, steady, carved of the same cold stone as Winterfell’s walls. Shireen Baratheon had never beheld a sight so grave and regal.

Something shifted beyond the heart tree, deeper in the grove. A flicker of sapphire and amethyst caught the torchlight, glimmering through the ruddy glow. Stormstrider, she thought, and her heart gave a nervous leap.

“Who comes?” Jon’s voice rang out, sharp as a dragonsteel blade. “Who comes before the gods?”

Davos stepped forth, snow crunching softly beneath his boots. “Shireen of House Baratheon comes here to be wed,” he declared. “A woman grown, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”

“Jon, of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and King of the North. Who gives her?”

“Ser Davos of House Seaworth, her father’s Hand.” The Onion Knight turned to her then, his hazel eyes misty. “Lady Shireen, do you take this man?”

She stepped forward, drawing herself up as best she could. “I take this man,” she said, willing her voice not to tremble.

Their hands met. His was warm and sure; hers, near-frozen from the lack of gloves. Together, they knelt before the heart tree. Its face, carved in pale weirwood, was long and sorrowful, drawn in crimson lines that sat like a bloody wound on the bone-like bark. The godswood held its breath.

Shireen closed her eyes. ‘Please,’ she prayed silently, ‘if any of you are listening… grant me a chance. A chance for warmth, for peace, for happiness.’

The air stilled. Even the wind seemed to pause. Then the blood-red leaves stirred all at once, a shiver running through the branches. A crack of lightning split the sky, followed by a rolling clap of thunder. Gasps rippled through the gathered lords, but Shireen had not flinched at the sudden sound.

Neither the thunder nor the lightning frightened her. Instead… they felt welcoming.

She lifted her gaze toward the gaps in the canopy. There were no clouds, only the cold gleam of stars and the slender crescent moon. ‘Where had the lightning come from?’ she wondered. ‘Was this a sign?’

Jon rose then, and unclasped the heavy Baratheon cloak from her shoulders. He handed it to Davos, and at once the night’s chill bit into her. The wedding gown, for all its finery, was little defence against the northern cold. She shivered until a white cloak, warm and weighty, settled around her shoulders. Warmth still clung to it, as did the scent of pine and mint and leather.

“I am hers, and she is mine,” Jon said. His voice was low, yet it carried to every corner of the godswood. These were not the words of the First Men’s rite, and for a moment, Shireen blinked in surprise. But then, she glanced at the heart tree, and she understood. “From this day until the end of my days.”

“I am his, and he is mine,” she echoed, though her throat was tight, her vision swimming. “From this day until the end of my days.”

This was it. Before gods and men, she was wed. Shireen Stark. The name sounded strange and sweet in her mind.

Above the treetops, the dragons rose. Their fierce roars split the night, as streams of dark blue fire streaked across the sky to meet purple flame swirled with bronze. They crossed like two burning swords, driving back the shadows.

Jon cupped her face in his hands, rough palms gentle against her skin. “With this kiss, I pledge my love,” he said, leaning down, “and take you for my queen and wife.”

His lips brushed hers, warm, sure, and lingering. Her heart hammered wildly. By the time she found her breath, he’d drawn back, watching her with quiet encouragement.

“With this kiss,” she whispered, hoarse and breathless, “I pledge my love, and take you for my king and husband.”

She had to rise on her toes to reach him, awkward and shy, but he leaned down to meet her halfway. The world melted away.

Then her feet left the ground. With a suddenness that made her gasp, Jon swept her up into his arms, cloak and all, and bore her toward the Great Hall where the feast awaited. Shireen could feel the heat in her cheeks rising to her ears, but she did not look away.

Her thoughts were a jumbled whirl, but one thing shone bright and certain through the haze: kissing was wonderful. Warm and dizzying and soft, it set her heart racing faster than a galloping horse. Perhaps… her mother had been wrong, after all.

Her gaze strayed to Jon’s face. The pale scar slashing across his left eye lent him a rough, dangerous handsomeness, and his eyes glittered like amethysts in the torchlight. When he felt her looking, he turned and winked mischievously. Shireen’s breath caught in her throat.

Over his shoulder, the procession wound its way through the dark courtyard. Stark bannermen followed in their king’s wake, solemn faces softened by cheer.

The great doors of the hall stood open, torches blazing on either side. Servants in woollen cloaks and fur-lined caps bowed low as they passed, a living corridor of bent backs and murmured blessings. Within, the long oaken tables groaned under the weight of the feast.

Steam curled from roasted pork, slathered with thick brown gravy. On silver platters, slices of venison were arranged like red flowers with a stem of hearty cheese. Beef, mutton, mallards, roasted potatoes, and far more things than her eyes could count. Cheese, hams, pies, and cakes in many forms and colours. Bowls overflowed with exotic fruits, from blood oranges to the scaly apples of the Summer Isles. The air was thick with the scents of meat, spice, and fresh bread, so rich she could almost taste it.

Her stomach gave a treacherous growl.

Jon bore her to the dais and set her down upon the ornate chair to the left of his wooden throne. Her knees wobbled the moment they touched the floor; she was glad to sit, lest she make a fool of herself before half the North.

To her left sat Sansa and Arya, with Myrcella beside them, the Manderly girls beyond, their cloaks and gowns a bright riot of colour against the dark hall. To Jon’s right gathered Lord Wyman and the Northern lords and chieftains, broad-shouldered men with booming laughs, already reaching for their cups.

There were no speeches to delay them, no pompous declarations. The servants moved with swift grace, bearing tankards and goblets, trenchers piled high, and in a breath, the Great Hall came alive. Laughter rang off the rafters, mingling with the clatter of knives and the roar of men, the air growing warm with meat smoke and merriment.

Then Jon rose, a cup of ale in his hand, and all the merriment quieted.

“To my wife,” he said, his voice ringing clear through the hall, “Queen Shireen Stark!”

The loud cheer almost knocked her off her chair. It rose up from every corner of the hall—lords and servants, bannermen and handmaids alike—echoing and hollering over each other. Shireen flushed crimson as her name rolled through the feast, accompanied by a river of ale and wine.

Jon’s mouth curved into the faintest of smiles. “One last thing,” he called, once the uproar had ebbed, “before we drown ourselves in meat and mead. Time for the royal gift!”

Torrhen Flint, their royal squire, stepped forward at once. He bore a small chest, ornate and banded with iron. As the boy set it down and cracked the lid, the firelight caught on polished metal within.

Nestled in a bed of red velvet lay a golden circlet, slim and wrought with exquisite care. Fine runes traced its surface, the same ancient markings that gleamed upon the king’s own crown, but where his bore the crossed swords of House Stark’s kings, hers showed wolves and fawns leaping together, carved in lifelike detail.

Before Shireen could blink, Jon had lifted the circlet from its resting place and set it over her brow. The weight settled against her skin, heavier than it looked, yet the metal was warm, as if it did not care about the chilly evening air.

The crown was not the only gift in the chest. A slender pendant shaped like a howling direwolf head encased in a full circle of runes dotted with sapphires was also clasped around her neck.

Jon leaned in and whispered, “Wear it always. It will keep ill fortune at bay… and worse.”

And then, the feast continued—the lords and ladies had all given their gifts at the breakfast, forcing poor Torrhen to struggle under the weight of the growing pile.

Shireen remembered taking relish in the hearty food and the dark ale, but the rest of the feast was like a blur. Music filled the Hall as the hearty meals were devoured with rabid fervour and washed down with wine, ale, and mead. Yet the more time passed, the songs became bawdier and bawdier.

Her stomach fluttered uneasily. Dancing would come soon. She had never been very good at it, no matter how much her tutors had made her practice. The thought of stumbling here before the whole North made her palms slick with sweat.

Then the fiddlers struck up a tune she knew well, The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown. The first bawdy line had scarcely been sung when Greatjon Umber lurched to his feet, horn of ale waving, his great beard wet with drink.

“Bedding!” he bellowed.

“Bedding! Bedding!” the cry swept through the hall like wildfire, from the high table to the benches below. Men and women alike rose, closing in the royal seats like wolves around a lamb. Shireen’s heart hammered against her ribs. She shrank into her seat as their faces loomed nearer, eyes bright and hungry with drink and mischief. She could almost feel their hands on the gown, tearing at the fine white cloth, stripping her bare for the bedding chamber.

Beneath the table, Jon’s fingers found hers. His hand was warm and steady, but his smile was lopsided. Mischievous.

A white blur barrelled in before the crowd could surround them. A strong pair of hands lifted her, and before she quite understood what was happening, she found herself atop the broad back of… Ghost. Her hand sank into the fur, holding on for her life.

Gasps and curses rose behind her as the direwolf leapt. His powerful haunches sent them sailing over the first line of revellers, then the next. A heartbeat later, they were through the doors and into the cold night, leaving a chorus of disappointed groans and indignant shouts behind.

Riding a direwolf was nothing like riding a horse. Ghost moved smoothly as flowing water, each stride flowing as if carrying her weight without effort. She clung to his thick white fur, heart still racing, though not from fear. In no time, they passed through the courtyard and into the small hall, reaching the great door of sleek mahogany banded with gleaming silver. The wedding chambers.

Her legs tingled as she slid from Ghost’s back to the ground. She reached up and scratched behind his ears, still breathless.

“Thank you, Ghost,” she whispered.

The direwolf gave a quiet huff, gave her fingers a gentle lick, and bounded away without a sound.

Shireen watched him vanish into the darkness, half laughing, half dazed, and wondered if she should thank Jon instead.

Ghost was clever, as clever as any man, but Shireen doubted the great white beast understood the rites and ribald customs of a bedding. No, this had her husband’s hand in it. Jon had chosen to break with tradition, and for sparing her the most humiliating part of the night, she was quietly, fiercely grateful.

Yet the harder part still lay ahead.

Consummation. Duty. Pain.

Her chest tightened as she pushed open the heavy mahogany door.

A wide bed was set against the far wall, flanked by stout nightstands. It was all that the chambers boasted. It served a single purpose and no further—the bedding. There was no hearth, nor any need for it—water from the hot springs was piped into the walls, warming even the cold granite. Incense burned at the corner, filling the air with a soft, hazy smell and three lanterns hung from the ceiling, cloaking everything with a soft reddish light.

She unclasped the heavy Stark cloak from her shoulders and hung it carefully by the bed. Her fingers fumbled at the fastenings of her gown, loosening one by one until the white fabric slid away. The stockings and underclothes followed, until she stood as bare as the day she was born. One by one, she plucked the winter roses from her braid and set them gently upon the nightstand. The cool air prickled her skin, raising gooseflesh along her arms.

Shireen slipped beneath the furs, drawing them up to her chin as if they could shield her from the pounding of her heart.

She did not wait long.

The door burst open with a clatter, and a gaggle of flushed, laughing women tumbled inside, half-carrying, half-dragging her nearly naked husband. Jon righted himself in a heartbeat and whirled to bar the doorway, pushing out all intruders and slamming it shut on a forest of grasping hands and wine-reeking faces.

“You can’t set the bloody wolf to guard the door, Your Grace!” someone cried, slurred and indignant.

“Winter may be too big to fit through the doorways,” Jon’s voice was dangerously low, “but Stormstrider and Bloodfyre are not.”

A nervous titter ran through the crowd outside, followed by the sound of retreating feet. Silence settled.

When Jon turned at last, her breath caught.

Tall and lean, he moved with the grace of a shadowcat. Firelight played along the rippling muscles of his chest and arms, turning the scars there to silver. Some were fine as spider silk, others jagged and cruel. Seven of them stood out thick and angry, one straight across the place where his heart lay.

Was this… was this from the mutiny at Castle Black?

Perhaps… there was some truth to those queer tales.

“Had your fill of staring?” His voice was amused, almost teasing.

“Err… yes?” The words tumbled out before she could stop them, and heat flooded her cheeks.

He chuckled softly and slid beneath the covers beside her. A moment later, she was gathered against his chest, the warmth of him seeping into her bones. She lay stiff and waiting for pain, but none came.

“Are we not going to… consummate?” she whispered, hardly daring to breathe.

“You’re too young.”

The words struck like a sudden blow. Her stomach lurched, and her eyes stung with tears. Jon turned her gently until she faced him, his thumb brushing away the wetness from her cheeks.

“Even the Good Queen Alysanne was four and ten when the Conciliator consummated their marriage,” she muttered, almost defensively.

“Six and ten,” he said, his breath ghosted on her face, a mild mix of spice and ale.

“Six and ten?” She blinked up at him, confused.

Jon sighed and closed his eyes for a heartbeat. “Young wives and mothers die far more often, and too swiftly,” he said. “I did not take you to wife only to lose you in a year or two. Six and ten is the age maesters say is safest for a woman’s first child. I’ll not risk you sooner than that.”

The earnestness in his voice slowly eased the fear away. Her septa had once mentioned much the same, though she had not paid it mind then.

“But…” She bit her lip. “It’s our duty. The marriage must be sealed. Proof may be required in the morning…”

Jon let out a low laugh. “A little blood on the sheets is easily arranged. And the vows were spoken before the heart tree. The High Septon is welcome to ride north and try to unmake what the old gods have witnessed—if he dares.”

His tone left no doubt the High Septon would find little welcome in Winterfell’s halls.

Shireen let out a nervous chuckle of her own. The Faith held no power here, not truly.

“What of an heir, then?” she asked softly, fingers finding his hand. “The realm needs one. Do you not want sons?”

Jon cupped her cheek with a tenderness that made her breath catch. “Sons and daughters will come in time,” he whispered. “I’ve no plans of dying soon. And it’s a poor bargain to trade a child for the mother.”

Her heart fluttered wildly. A dozen feelings warred within her—curiosity, desire, unease, longing. Her mother’s cold warnings rang in her ears, promising pain and duty. Yet exhaustion tugged at her eyes; the day had wrung her dry.

She trusted him. He had kept his word again and again, before gods and men both. If he said they would wait, then wait they would. A part of her felt the bitterness of it… but another part wanted, needed, something more.

Her voice was barely a whisper. “Kiss me?”