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feyhunter78 · 2 days

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Chapter Four - Jon goes to visit Old Nan and sets his future in motion.

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Jon dreams of you again, and again, and again, night after night, your back against the wall, bleeding out in his arms as you beg him to protect you. The time for him to set off for the Wall grows ever near, not too close, but not far enough away he can forget its approach. It plagues his mind, his desire to join his uncle, to prove that he is worth something, warring with an inherent need to be near you, to protect you from the horrors that live within his slumbering consciousness.

He has other dreams as well, smaller, less gory dreams, and when they start to bleed into his waking world, he turns to the only person alive he believes will have some semblance of an answer.

“Greendreams, they run in your blood.” Old Nan says simply, once he has finished telling her of his plight. Her needlepoint is in her lap, her frail body wrapped in thick blankets, even with the fire roaring beside her.

“Greendreams? But I am not a warg, Ghost, and I do not share a mind.” He protests, half serious, half humoring the old women.

“You need not share minds to have the dreams, nor do you need to be a greenseer to possess greensight, they are not one and the same.” She explains, her voice growing stronger as she speaks. “You must listen to these dreams, prevent the horrors if you are able.”

“I am to go to the Wall, but Lady y/n will return to King’s Landing, how am I to protect her?”

She fixes him with a look, one that he knows means she thinks him simple.

Jon stares into the fire, a silent prayer to the gods. He cannot protect you from his place on the Wall, he must make a choice, though he’s unsure if it is fully his to make. He alone cannot choose to return with you, he is a bastard, he has no place in King’s Landing.

Old Nan dismisses him without sparing a moment for his internal turmoil, and in his meandering, he runs directly into your father.

Tyrion looks up at him frowning, and Jon already fears he has spoiled his chances.

“My apologies, Lord Lannister.” He says, taking a quick step back to give the man room.

Tyrion scans him, searching him for weaknesses, his piercing green eyes, picking him apart. “My daughter, she is beautiful.”

Jon says nothing, only nods.

“Speak boy.” Tyrion snaps, glaring up at him with the might of a man three times his size.

“Yes, Lady y/n, is very beautiful.” He shifts his weight imperceptibility, hoping someone will come and save him from this encounter.

Tyrion nods. “She grows more beautiful each day, I worry for her, as all fathers do.”

Jon nods again.

“I know the circumstances of your birth are not…conventional, but they are many ways for a bastard boy to earn a name for himself in King’s Landing.”

Perhaps the gods had been listening to his prayer. “My Lord?”

Tyrion clasps his arms behind his back. “I have spoken with your father, he is to join my good-brother as Hand to the King and return with him to King’s Landing, he is bringing Lady Sansa with him, and you, if you agree to my proposition.”

Jon knew his father wouldn’t be able to deny King Robert anything, but to think…

“If you come to King’s Landing you shall come as my daughter’s guard, her sworn-shield, you will not leave her side, you will give your life for hers, and in return you get to escape your dreary life here.” Tyrion continues, giving him an expectant look.

“I am not a knight.” He says dumbly, the implications of what Lord Tyrion is asking him weighing heavily on his shoulders.

“Not in this moment, but my good-brother would be more than happy to knight the son of his dearest friend.”

“Why?”

Tyrion scoffs. “I offer the boy the chance of a lifetime, and he asks why? Because boy, I have seen you fight, and I know how deep loyalty runs in Stark blood, I will not worry for her safety if you are at her side. Besides, she is…fond of you.”

His heart sings, pushing all worries and tortured thoughts aside. She’s fond of him, his lovely lady is fond of him. “And my father approves, truly?”

“Yes, boy, he does, now will you give me an answer, or will we stand here all night while you ruminate in brooding silence?”

Old Nan’s words fill his head, accompanying the sounds of your sobs, of your pleas for him to promise you, to save you. “I will go.”

Tyrion nods. “Good, now we need to get you knighted, and some better clothing, my daughter shall not be seen with such a rumpled looking sworn-shield.

Jon looks down at his tunic. “I was asleep before this, Lord Lannister.”

“Still.”

It’s a blur, Arya’s anger then tears, Sansa’s distance, Robb and Theon’s claps on his back, Lady Catelyn’s strained smiles, and his father’s genuine one as he kneels before the king to be knighted.

The Great Hall of Winterfell is nearly empty, the bannermen returned to their homes, the servants busy cleaning or helping load the luggage of various royal family members back onto the monstrous wheelhouse Queen Cersei travels in. The sconces lit, his family and yours in a half circle surrounding him, King Robert at the center, Lord Stark beside him, Queen Cersi on the other. Prince Joffrey leers at him, but Jon ignores him, keeping his head bowed.

Ghost sits by his side, a red kerchief tied around his neck, a gift from you, one Jon was surprised Ghost allowed you to tie around his neck. It’s darker than the normal Lannister colors, more crimson than ruby.

He knows you and your father don’t have a personal coat-of-arms, but he has noticed your gowns, and your father’s doublets tend towards darker, more cool toned shades of red and gold. A small act of rebellion, a way to set yourselves apart? He’s unsure, but now he knows he’s part of that act, willing or unwilling.

It matches his eyes. You had said, smiling up at Jon as you smoothed down the fur between Ghost’s ears, the crimson fabric stark against his snow-white fur.

Kneeling before the King, Jon doesn’t feel he truly deserves to be knighted. He has won no battles nor performed any great feat of valor, he has trained, he has studied, he has been loyal, but he hasn’t done anything the bards sing about, or anything detailed in those books Sansa reads.

“Rise Ser Jon, shield of the Lady Y/N Lannister, bound before the gods, and your King.” King Robert commands once his sword has left Jon’s shoulders and returned to its sheath.

He does as he’s commanded and bows to the King before turning to you, bracing himself for the regret in your eyes. Surely this is a jest taken too far, he will look into your eyes, those verdant eyes, bright as spring, and see you realize you’ve made a mistake, see you ready to cast him aside.

“Lady y/n Lannister, daughter of Lord Tyrion Lannister the third son of House Lannister, my sword and shield are yours.” He says, taking a knee once more and finally summoning the courage to meet your gaze.

The persistent voice in his head that whispers how unworthy he is goes quiet. You’re looking at him with such reverence, such excitement, there is no sign of regret or jesting.

All that ran through his mind as he knelt before you now was this: he was not a poet, and he could not call himself a lover. For he did not have the skill with words others did. He could only say that he was yours, even if you did not want him, even if right now you fled across the continent, returned to the South, and cursed his name for all to hear. He would be yours until the day his breath escaped him for the final time.

“I am grateful for your sword and shield, now arise Ser Jon Snow, my sworn sword, my protector.”

When you bid him to rise, addressing him by his name, calling him yours the air that fills his lungs tastes sweet, and he presses his lips to your hand, clasping it a moment too long, evident by Tyrion’s sharp cough.

“I will serve you well, I swear before the old gods and the new, my life is yours.” He says, keeping his voice steady, his face set in an expression he hopes reads as serious but not stern. He’s always had trouble walking that line, finding he often looks far more sullen than he feels.

“As mine is yours, Ser Jon, I entrust it to you.” Your words are clear, ceremonial, and he would easily believe the words are typical of a sworn sword ceremony if not for the way King Robert’s eyes flicker to your face.

The next days fly by, and soon he is standing outside your door, red cloak marking him as a guard of House Lannister, hanging from his shoulders. It’s one that’s not darker than the others, which makes him feel odd. Did you not wish him to match you? Was he not deserving of your crimson fabrics? His armor is new and shined to perfection, his boots new as well, and slightly stiff, his sword hangs at his side as Ghost sits patiently waiting at his feet.

Lord Tyrion exits first, dressed in finery, a small satchel at his side. He looks up at Jon and nods. “Red suit you, do not make me regret this.” Then he brushes past him, heading down the hall and towards the main gates.

You appear next, form wrapped in dark red velvet, a white fur lined cloak folded over your arm, your gown belted with a chain of gold, that accentuates your waist and hips. Your hair is down in a Northern style he finds quite familiar, it looks beautiful on you, framing your face just so.

Jon jerks his eyes away before you can notice his stares and bows his head. “My Lady.”

You smile at him, your bracelets jingling as you reach down and hold your hand out for Ghost to sniff. “Are the others ready to depart?”

“Yes, My Lady, all but Lady Sansa.” He says, offering his arm to you.

You take it and begin to walk through the halls with him, your brows furrowed in concern. “Is Sansa alright?”

He thinks through his words, speaking slowly. He doesn’t want to give you a bad impression of Sansa, you seem fond of the younger girl. “Lady Sansa is…upset at the addition of Lord Theon.”

You snort, then hide your smile with one hand, embarrassed. “She did not expect your father to let him remain here, did she? He is an assurance the Iron Islands will not revolt, if he is not within Lord Stark’s grasp then what danger would he be in?”

He hadn’t thought of it that way. While Theon was an outsider like him, he existed in a space entirely different from Jon. Theon was Robb’s closest companion, the two shadowed each other, fought together, jested, and patronized brothels together.

“I think it is less that he is accompanying us and more that he is to be her guard.” Jon continues, half entranced as the scent of jasmine rises from your hair when you toss it over your shoulders.

“But he is not her sworn sword, so she will not have to spend every moment with him by her side. Besides, it is not as if he is unpleasant to look at.” You say nonchalantly, as if you two are simply friends having a casual stroll, your lips quirking up as you bite back a laugh.

You have perfect lips, plush and soft looking, stained a light red color by the berries from your morning meal, for a moment he wonders if you would taste of them.

“You find Theon handsome?” The words spill out before he can stop them, and he fights a rising blush when you fix your emerald eyes on him, taking him apart the same way your father did those few nights ago.

“Perhaps…” You stop right as you both reach the gates and turn on your heel, making a show of adjusting the fastener of his cloak. “Why? Do you feel threatened my sworn sword?”

“I—Theon is not a threat; he would never turn his sword against our house.” He cannot stomach the thought, though they weren’t close, he would never doubt Theon’s loyalty. The older boy had proven himself time and time again, in fact he believed Theon would turn his sword on himself before he turned it on Robb.

You pat his armored chest smiling up at him with a mischievous smile, before returning your hand to his arm and beginning to walk through the gate and towards the others. “We shall see how he feels once he and Sansa are stuck in the wheelhouse together for several hours.”

It’s begun to rain, the temperature dropping, and he wonders who will remain on their horse instead of taking shelter inside the wheelhouse. “Will we not ride alongside the wheelhouses?” Jon asks, scanning the crowd gathered outside the gates.

“You may if you so desire.” Your answer is vague, but your grip on his arm tightens and when he sees the assembled groups outside the Queen’s wheelhouse he understands why.

You, Myrcella, Joffrey, Theon, and Sansa along with the Queen, and Tommen seem to be relegated to the wheelhouse. King Robert and Lord Stark remain on their horses, the two in deep conversation, their heads bowed towards each other.

Jon has never spoken directly with you regarding your cousin, the eldest prince, but he has seen your thinly veiled contempt for the boy many times, seen the way you shrink back when he becomes overly excited or angry.

You stop on the edge of the crowd, scanning it for your father, a pout appearing on your lips when you see him next to his horse. “And of course Father will wish to ride his horse, but he never allows me to ride alone unless we are within the bounds of Lannister land, so I cannot even use that as an escape.”

“It will be safer for you in the wheelhouse.” Jon says, nodding gratefully at the servant who brings him his own horse.

“For whom?” You grumble miserably as your father climbs onto his horse, ignoring Joffrey’s calls.

“For you, there is no other’s safety I care for.” It’s not a full lie nor a full truth, he cares for his father, Sansa, and Theon’s safety, but he has sworn himself to you, so outwardly your safety takes precedence.

The rain picks up, no longer a sprinkle, and he lifts his cloak, stepping forward to shield you from the rain. You are so much smaller than him, delicate, your hands are soft, your skin unblemished by scars, and you move closer to him, further into the safety of his cloak.

You coo at his words, your lighthearted spirit returning. “Do you care for me Ser Jon? I am flattered, truly.”

He brushes your teasing aside and begins to walk towards the wheelhouse, keeping you within the confines of his cloak. “Please allow me to escort you aboard, Lady y/n.”

You go with him, albeit begrudgingly, your frown reappearing as you draw closer to the wheelhouse. “Ser Jon, can I not ride with you? I promise I am a very good rider, and I will not bother you at all.”

“You know her father has quite the appetite for whores, I would not be surprised he had hired some to give his daughter lessons.” Theon had jested, elbowing Robb as you passed by, heading towards the library tower.

Robb rolled his eyes but laughed, which only encouraged Theon.

“What must it be like to have a lioness in your bed? Do you think she bites as she rides a man’s cock? Are lions not known for their teeth?”

“Their claws, they are known for their claws.” Jon snapped, unable to hear such vile words spoken of you, even if Theon’s questions did spark something in the recesses of his mind.

“Ah, see Jon is in on it as well. She scratches, mystery solved.”

“No, My Lady, I am sorry, but it is not proper.” He says, dropping his cloak and gesturing towards the stairs.

The disappointment in your eyes pierces him through, and he almost gives in, but Theon’s voice rings out from further inside the wheelhouse, and he steels himself.

You nod and release his arm, traveling up the steps without looking back at him.

“Lady y/n.” He calls before he can think better of it. “If you have need of me, call out my name.”

You give him a smile and pick up your skirts, your steps looking considerably lighter, until the door closes behind you, and you are lost from his sight.

Jon TL: @mostclevermiss, @solacestyles, @2valentines

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