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She wears one of her nicest dresses when she arrives at Winterfell. She much rather would have liked to wear her riding tunic and breeches, but her father insisted on looking as proper as possible. So she had to ride side-saddle on the entire trip to Winterfell. She secretly wore her riding boots under her dress instead of the slippers her father wanted her to wear, though.
She puts on her best smile as she greets the Starks. She recites all her courtesies and compliments each one of them, laughing when it’s appropriate and offering sympathetic looks when it’s necessary. She feels too fake doing this. If she is to marry Robb Stark, shouldn’t she be her true self?
But this is an opportunity her father did not want to miss. She is freshly flowered, a comely maid of fifteen. If she would marry Robb, she would be Lady of Winterfell, and her sons would rule the North and their children after them. It has been generations since a Stark and Karstark marriage has happened. Besides, the match is a much better one than Alys thought she would get.
Robb is a handsome lad of ten-and-seven. He has the Tully colours, but there are still hints of Stark in him. He is tall, almost a whole head taller than her. She blushes whenever he smiles at her, a wide, charming, genuine smile, showing off the dimples at the corners of his lips. His voice is husky when he says “my lady,” dipping his head to kiss her hand, his eyes never leaving hers.
He offers to show her around the castle grounds before supper begins. They walk arm in arm, quietly talking and acquainting themselves with one another. Ned and Cat raised him well, Alys thinks. He is polite and courteous, but he can still make her laugh, even more so when he surprises her with a crude jape. He talks of justice and honour, and how he will model his lifestyle after his father’s when appointed Lord of Winterfell.
“My lady,” Robb says when they come back to the courtyard, “this is Lord Theon Greyjoy, my father’s ward.” Theon stops sparring with another man and gives her a sweeping bow. He’s quite handsome, with a lean build and long dark hair over a strong jaw. She’s heard much of his family, though not so much of him; all she knows from talk at Karhold is that he is out of place, a kraken in a wolf’s den.
“A pleasure, my lady,” Theon drawls. He presses a sloppy kiss to the back of her hand. He winks at her, then swaggers off to the armoury. There’s a sway to his hips that amuses her, as if he were a busty barmaid.
Robb gestures to the other man, a boy with the curliest hair Alys has ever seen. “This is Jon Snow, my brother.” Ned Stark’s bastard. He flushes red when he kisses the back of her hand and her breath hitches in her throat when she locks gazes with him. His grey eyes are stormy and clouded, boring into hers.
“My lady,” Robb murmurs, snapping her out of her reverie, “we should head back to the castle for supper.” He takes her by the arm and leads her back to where they came from. She keeps looking over her shoulder at Jon, who’s staring right back at her. She decides she wants to learn more about this mysterious Jon Snow.
She dances with Robb at supper, his strong arms wrapped around her. He keeps a decent distance from her, though he flashes her wide grins and winks at her. He is quite light on his feet- he must have learnt the dance on top of his studies, swordfighting and archery. She finds it quite funny that he’s almost as good as the ladies at the dance; her brothers are absolute shit at it. She figures it must be because Robb will be Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North one day. He also has a Southern mother: all of the Southerners think that dancing and looking pretty are important.
At one point during the night, Robb leaves to go put his younger siblings to bed. Alys barely notices- she’s far too deep into her cups by then. Her vision is hazy and she laughs at everything, barely able to finish a sentence without hiccupping. She doesn’t feel the arm around her waist until they’re halfway to her guest chambers.
“My lady,” a low voice says when she thrashes in his grip, “do not panic. My lord father ordered me to escort you to your chambers.” She looks up and meets the grey-eyed stare of Jon Snow. She becomes aware of how handsome he is, with his straight nose and plush, pouty lips. She wonders how they would feel against hers-
No. The harsh realization hits her like a slap, sobering her. She is to marry Robb Stark. Robb is very handsome, probably even more handsome than his half-brother, by most people’s standards. She tries to think of his face, but it is foggy in her mind.
They make small talk on the way to her chambers. She likes the way her hand fits into the crook of his elbow, and she blushes at the feel of taut muscles moving underneath. His wool tunic is slightly rough against her skin, but she does not mind.
“Have a good night, my lady,” Jon says when they arrive at her chambers. Reluctantly, she lets his arm go. She feels much colder now. “Sleep well.” Alys puts a hand on his arm as he begins to walk away, making him stop in his tracks. Slowly, he turns around to look at her. She’s taken aback by his intense stare, though she does not show his surprise. “I’ll see you in the morn.”
Before her common sense gets the best of her, she leans forward and plants a soft kiss on his cheek. His skin grows hot where her lips touch, and she smiles softly when she sees redness spreading from his neck to his ears. “Goodnight, Jon.”
Robb is busy the next day, having to help out his father. After breaking her fast, Alys does needlepoint with Sansa, Arya and Lady Stark, but she eventually gets bored. She excuses herself and wanders around the castle, acquainting herself with the halls if this is to be her new home. It’s a slightly unsettling thought: she would be a newcomer in these ancient grounds.
The sun is shining brightly by the time she steps outside. It’s a warm day for the North and she slips off her cloak, basking in the sunlight. She decides it’s too wonderful a day to pass up, and she makes her way to the stables. She’s curious about the Wolfswood and whatever else lies beyond the walls of Winterfell.
“Good morrow, my lady,” Jon Snow greets her, a crooked smile on his lips. He should smile more often, Alys thinks. His grey eyes light up and he looks younger.
“Isn’t it?” she agrees, saddling her horse. "I must be a terrible guest, but I had a craving to go riding.” She wishes she had her riding breeches, but she would have to ride side-saddle once more.
“Robb must be an even worse host, then. Besides, only a fool would pass up such a day as this one.” Jon saddles his own horse, and the smile remains on his lips. What’s gotten into this boy? “May I accompany you on your ride, my lady?”
“Of course.” She originally wanted to be alone, but she would not mind spending time with Jon Snow at all. He could even be her guide and help her navigate the forests. He helps her onto her horse, and she does not miss the way his hands linger on her waist for a moment too long. She does not berate him for it, but ignores it instead. She doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable, nor does she want to sound rude.
While they ride, he tells her of Winterfell. He talks of his family and when she laughs at his stories, her amusement is genuine. It feels good to be sincere, something she doesn’t think she’s been throughout her stay here. Jon is different than the others. He is an outsider here just as she is, and he does not judge her.
“Would you like to see the godswood, my lady?” She nods and follows him. She always found something intriguing about the godswood; perhaps it was the serenity, or the presence and power of the gods.
She was raised with the Old Gods and has a godswood back home at Karhold, but it is nothing compared to the one in Winterfell. The bright red leaves on the heart tree look like a cowl of blood. The tree at Karhold isn’t nearly as big, and even the face on this one is much more detailed. She feels sad herself when she sees the sap tears running along the bark.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmurs, running her fingers over the bark. “Do you believe in them? The gods, I mean?”
“Of course.” He pauses, seemingly holding his breath. “Do you hear that?” On cue, a breeze rustles through the trees, making her hair dance. “It’s them. They can see us.” His eyes bore into hers and she finds it hard to get air into her lungs. Her fingers intertwine with his, his calloused palm a delightful contrast against her soft skin. He speaks so quietly, she can barely hear him: “What I want to do is less than godly.” He shakes his head and pulls his hand away before she can get a word in. “We should head back before people start to miss us.”
Alys joins the boys in the training yard the next morning. The air is cool and crisp, feeling wonderful against her skin. The weather is not as harsh here as it is at Karhold. It is a welcome change.
She is quite impressed Robb, Jon and Theon’s fighting skills. They’re all so different in the way they spar. Robb is agile and swift, while Jon is lithe and graceful, almost as if he’s dancing. Theon is aggressive and does not miss a chance to strike. The contrast between the three makes for an interesting fight.
Jon comes out the victor, a wide grin on his red face. Alys claps with the rest of the Stark children sitting on the sidelines. It was a good match, and Alys feels exhausted herself after watching the lengthy spar. She’s not sure how they manage to fight for that long without any pauses.
Jon says that he’ll be back in a moment, and during the time, Robb and Theon head to the armory to change. Alys stays with the other Stark children and talks with them, gently bouncing Rickon on her knee. Sansa gushes about Alys’ hairstyle while Arya and Bran dispute quietly. Alys has already grown quite fond of the Starks, and can definitely see herself living at Winterfell.
“My lady,” Jon announces, returning. His hands are behind his back, an impish smile on his face. He produces a crown of flowers weaved together and settles it gently on her head. “I declare you to be the Queen of Love and Beauty.” They exchange grins and her heart swells in her breast. If she is the queen, she would not mind having Jon for her king.
She sits with Robb at supper that night. He is tired from all the work he did today, but he is still in good spirits. “Much better, now that I have seen you,” he admits, finding her hand under the table and giving it a squeeze. Alys thinks back to when Jon held her hand in the godswood and involuntarily jerks her hand away from Robb. “Is something wrong, my lady?” He furrows his brow, his voice full of concern.
“Nothing at all,” she lies, flashing him a smile and giving his knee a pat. “I was just thinking how terrible it is to lie to your lady.” The tension eases from her shoulders and she thanks the gods that she’s a good talker, at least.
“Lying?” The familiar twinkle returns to his eyes. “And what am I lying to you about?”
She smirks behind her cup of wine. “You act as if I’m the most beautiful woman in the world.”
“You are,” he states firmly.
She laughs and shakes her head. “You’ve barely ever left Winterfell. How can you be so sure?”
“Because you are my lady.” He affirms his point with a kiss to her cheek. “My lady is even more beautiful when she blushes,” the heir to Winterfell teases.
“I’ve heard that the Lysene are quite beautiful,” she weakly attempts, but she closes her mouth at Robb’s dark gaze. She brushes her lips against his in return, her heart pounding loudly in her chest. The kiss is sweet and chaste, and she feels giddy afterwards.
Jon shoots up and hurries out of the hall, mumbling his courtesies. An awkward silence settles in the air as they watch him leave. Everyone is frozen in place, not sure of what to do.
“I’ll go see if he’s alright,” Alys offers without thinking. She follows Jon out of the Great Hall after Lord Eddard allows her to do so. “Jon,” she calls, stepping into the courtyard, “what’s wrong? I’ve never seen anyone run that fast.” She tries to keep her tone light, not wanting to upset him further.
“It’s nothing,” he mutters, swinging his sword at the training dummy. A solid thwack echoes in the training yard and the dummy shakes on its stand. “I just needed some air, that’s all.”
“You’re a terrible liar, Jon Snow,” she shoots back, putting her hands on her hips. “Stop being such a child and tell me what’s the matter!”
“It’s nothing,” he repeats, glaring at her. He trudges to the armory, muttering curses under his breath. She follows him, as determined as ever. “Go back to supper,” he orders, shoving his practice sword back into its slot. “I’m sure Robb misses you already.”
“What’s wrong with you?” she snaps, blocking the doorway so he cannot leave. “Robb was worried for you, too, you know. But if you’re going to be an insolent ass, you can forget about me trying to help you. You can sulk on your own all you want.” They stare at each other for several moments, silent except for their breathing. Jon has the advantage of height, but Alys is tall for a girl her age, and she does not back down.
“I’m stupid, that’s all.”
She snorts. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
And suddenly, his lips are on hers, his tongue searching her mouth. Her back is pressed against the wall of the armory, Jon’s hands firmly planted on her waist. The kiss is messy, teeth and tongue and sharp nips and bites, but it lights a fire deep within her.
He pulls away a moment later, panting heavily. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” He bolts away at the speed of light, leaving Alys even more frustrated and confused than before.
The next day, Jon makes it his mission to avoid her at all costs. Alys has never been this mad at anybody before. How can he kiss her like that and then ignore her? She wants answers, and she wants them now. But Jon is dead set on hiding from her, so she is left to her thoughts for the day.
He tears his gaze away from hers when their eyes meet in the courtyard, and he sits at the complete opposite of the table at every meal. Robb tries to talk to her and win her attentions, but she is too distracted. He suggests that she go to her chambers early that night. She thinks that that’s the best idea she’s heard all day, and she all but runs upstairs when she finishes her meal.
She changes into her nightclothes and lies on top of the furs, willing her mind to shut down. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to sleep, tossing and turning, but every position is too uncomfortable or awkward, or one spot is too cold, and one too hot. She gives up on the idea of sleep, instead staring at the ceiling, unblinking.
A sudden knock at the door almost makes her jump out of her skin. “Alys,” Jon’s familiar voice calls, “can I talk to you?”
“Now you want to talk?” she spits, angry at him for ignoring her, and angry at herself for getting so worked up over it.
He sighs. “Just let me in, please. I want to apologize.” Hesitantly, she swings her legs off the bed and trudges to the door. “I’m sorry,” he says when she opens the heavy wood. “I didn’t want to upset you, but I…I shouldn’t have done what I did last night.”
She bolts the door shut behind them, frowning. “That’s no excuse for ignoring me like you did. Maybe I wanted to talk about it. Maybe I wanted to ask you why you did it.” She crosses her arms over her chest and stares at him, silently challenging him.
An eternity passes before he responds. “I think it’s obvious as to why a man kisses a woman.” She blushes at his quiet declaration and feels like a young girl again. Was that Jon’s strange way of proclaiming his love for her? Her palms sweat and her pulse races under his intent gaze.
“I don’t want you to marry Robb,” he whispers, brushing a strand of hair away from her forehead. “He is my brother and I love him dearly, yet I want to deny him of this. Of you.”
She licks her lips and holds onto the collar of his tunic. “I don’t want to marry Robb.” It is startling to hear herself say that, as she was not even sure of it before the words left her mouth. But what she wants is here, in front of her. She is fond of Robb, sure, but it is not the same passion she feels for Jon. “I want you.”
He is obviously restraining himself, his face contorted in what seems to be pain. “I’m only a bastard. It would not be right…”
“I’ll be Lady Snow,” she breathes, her lips barely touching his. “Do you really think titles and lands mean anything to me?” She closes the space between them, meeting his lips in a heated kiss. Her kiss with Robb was sweet and chaste, but nothing compared to the fire in her kisses with Jon.
They tumble onto the sheets, desperately tearing at each other’s clothing. She’s suddenly very relieved that she’s only wearing a thin nightgown. Jon fits his hips into hers and raises a tentative hand to her breast. She can feel his hardness through his breeches and parts her legs invitingly.
He kisses every inch of her body once she sheds her nightgown. She gasps when she feels his beard between her thighs, deliciously scratching against the sensitive skin. She never thought a man would want to kiss a woman there, but for once, she’s glad she’s wrong. The careful swipes of his tongue and light nips of his teeth push her over the edge with a shuddering cry in a matter of minutes.
Never had she used the word ‘beautiful’ to describe a man, but Jon simply is. The sparse dark hair covering his toned muscles is a wonderful contrast to his pale skin. His hard lines and strong frame feel lovely under her touch, and she wonders how she lived this long without Jon Snow in her life.
It hurts when he enters her and breaks her maidenhead. She bites her lip bloody to stifle her cries, but his pace is slow and she eventually catches on. The pain subsides, and although it is still dully there, the pleasure is greater. His hand palms her breast, the fingers teasing the nipple, and the pain is a forgotten memory.
She uses his chest as a pillow after they are done, panting and sweaty, limbs entwined. She feels perfectly content and safe in his arms. Her eyelids droop shut after awhile of listening to each other’s breathing, and she falls into a pleasant, dreamless sleep.
The wedding is a small affair in the godswood later on in the week. She had always pictured a huge affair with hundreds of guest, tourneys, tens of courses at supper and an exquisite gown. Only the Starks and a handful of their household are present, and her gown is nothing more than a simple white dress. The maiden cloak hangs from her shoulders, feeling heavier than usual as Alys is impatient to shed it.
It did not take much convincing for the marriage. Robb understood, and though he was sad at first, he only wanted her to be happy. Her father responded to her letter right away, and with reluctance, gave his blessing. He never could say no to his little girl.
“I am his, and he is mine,” she whispers, tears pricking at the back of her eyes. Jon’s trembling fingers unpin the cloak from her shoulders and replace it with the direwolf one.
“I am hers, and he is mine.”
The kiss they share is much gentler than the ones in private. Still, it does not fail to raise goosebumps all over her skin. She welcomes any touch from her new husband with open arms.
She likes the sound of ‘Lady Alys Snow’ much more than she should.