Archive of Our Own ^beta

The sky was a pale blue, the sun high and bright, only a few puffs of clouds floated lazily across the wide expanse above them. A few shadows from the clouds drifted across fields that stretched towards the horizon. The road his horse and retinue traveled on was well-traveled, but also well maintained. Patches of wildflowers and the occasional bunch of trees lined the road, separating the trampled dirt from the green fields that waved in the gentle breeze, orchards, and patches of fruits, vegetables, melons. A fertile land as far as the eye could see.

Jon squinted up at the sun and lifted a hand to brush his dark curls from his forehead. He missed the North, the clouds, summer snows, cool air that bit at his cheeks as he rode. Never, not once, had he ever thought that his destiny would lay in the South, yet here he was.

He clenched his left hand and dropped his gaze to stare at it. It was covered in little brightly covered vines, etched into his skin by the Gods. Little buds, bright gold and blue dotted the vines; the maester told him that, once he and his soulmate bonded before the gods they would blossom. On the back of his hand a white wolf was paused, mid-run, a faint outline compared to the rest, and on his palm a red fox perched, just as faint.

The vines stretched up, curled around his wrist in a wreath and trailed tendrils up his forearm. Soul markings varied in their intricacy, and exact location, but when it had appeared, burning and itching its way across his skin one night it had been startlingly obvious and clear. Unable to be hidden.

Given a choice he might have ignored it, unwilling to burden the one who bore its match with a bastard from the North with five trueborn siblings. A man who without wealth and little prospects. A man without a name.

But he hadn’t been able to hide it. Robb had been the first to see it and within hours Jon had been dragged before Maester Luwin and Winterfell’s mark keeper, Keeper Pelton for recording. Three moons later Jon had been called to his father’s solar.

Some people never find their match, many that do wait years, that Jon’s mark had found a match so soon . . . the one who bore his match had reported it as well and quickly.

His father’s face had been as it usually was, a solemn mask when he waved Jon into this solar. Lord Stark had nodded at the keeper upon Jon’s arrival and the man cleared his throat, setting a scroll upon the table with a sharp thunk. It bore the seal of House Stark. It had taken mere moments for Jon to recognize it for what it was: House Stark’s official record. Even the soulmarks of Stark bastards, if they were raised in Winterfell, had their marks recorded and their match dictated within.

“As you know I sent record of your mark to the Hall of Records in the Citadel near three moons ago,” Pelton spoke, his voice accented with tones that belied his Northern upbringing. He was a distant cousin of the Stark main family line from Barrowton. His father had died when he was a boy and Lord Stark’s father had paid for him to travel south to study at the Citadel. He’d returned as a partially trained maester who had gone done the path of Record Keeper and traveled the nearby villages, stationed in Winterfell, documenting all marks that appeared.

Jon had glanced from the man to his father and then back. Nodding his eyes dropped to the scroll the record keeper had placed on the table. “I am aware.”

“Jon,” his father’s voice was soft, “your match was found.” There had been a gentleness in his tone, a hint of worry, but happiness as well.

“A match . . .” Jon had been surprised. “Already?”

“Aye,” Lord Stark had nodded. “I have already exchanged letters with her family. Arrangements are being made.”

“Arrangements?”

“Your match is a highborn lady,” the keeper said, eyes gentle. He shifted, his dark green robes of rough spun wool showing a bit of the grey tunic beneath. The maester chains the man had earned clacked against the wooden ones of his own order. Keepers were more artisans in the knowledge they sought, where maesters sought the knowledge of the world. “As such, per tradition, you will be joining her household within the year. You are lucky, as your own father is a high lord you will be her Lord Consort.”

“Of course,” Maester Luwin said, a moment later, when it appeared the Keeper and his own father did not wish to speak further, “you will always be second to her Lord Husband when her family marries her off.”

“If,” the keeper corrected the maester’s wording, but everyone knew the truth of it. Highborn families of the south did not elevate bastards to Lord Husband of a Lady unless she was the sole heir to the family. Their sons would be well provided for, should they have any, offered the best education and chances to become knights, maesters, keepers, perhaps even be gifted a keep and lands if her parents were rich enough. Marriages for daughters would be easy to come by. But he and they would be second to any Lord Husband and children she had with them. It would be he that would be shunned from her bed if her Lord Husband wished for heirs.

“If,” the maester had agreed, but his expression told the truth.

“Who is she?” Jon had managed to ask, finding his words.

“Your match had been found on Lady Margaery Tyrell, fourth child of Lord Mace Tyrell and,” the keeper had unrolled the scroll, displaying the official record, his at the very end next to an ink sketch of Jon’s mark, “his only daughter.”

As Jon finally caught sight of Highgarden, rising in the distance, his insides churned. A part of him wished to do nothing more than turn his horse around, snatch Ghost from the cart full of his belongings and the gifts his Lord Father had prepared, and turn North, run until he reached the Wall.

He was unlikely to see the North again . . . not unless his Lady Bonded allowed it or chose to travel North with him. He’d heard the stories. Lady Stark was quite smug in the tales she insisted he and his siblings learn once news of his status had spread. As Lord Consort, Jon would gain a title, some respect, but he knew the whispers. Most saw Lord Consorts and Lady Consorts as little more than whores.

He had hope that his lady’s family would allow him, at least, to act as her guard in public, if nothing else.

“It’s a beautiful place,” Jory said, drawing his attention as their horses clopped onto stone.

“It is,” Jon agreed, glancing over at him.

The captain of his father’s guard’s eyes were sad, sympathetic, pitying, he thought. All things Jon didn’t want.

“Don’t let the stories impact your opinions,” Jory told him then. “Not all southroners are alike. Give her, her family, and this place a chance. You might find you like it here.”

He pressed his lips together, the edge of his lip quirking slightly. “It’s too warm here,” he mumbled.

“It’s summer,” Jory laughed, “and you should have worn what Haig suggested.”

Jon rolled his eyes as he turned his gaze away. He had ignored the suggestions of the steward his father had sent with him, and that of his guards. Twenty-five men traveled with him. Of them only three, two guards and his steward, would remain. The rest would travel North after several days’ rest. In a year, his Lord Father and perhaps a few of his siblings would come to see the bonding ceremony once both he and his Lady Bonded turned fifteen.

Smallfolk stopped to stare as they passed and Jon did his best to hold himself as he thought his father or Robb would. He also knew the picture that southroners believed of northerners. Septa Mordane had been quite helpful in sharing with his sisters what opinions they’d have to break through if they married into southern Houses when they were younger. It was her words that had turned his sister Sansa against him and against many traditions of the North.

Jon let silence fall again and Jory sighed but didn’t try and break it.

They rode at a more sedate pace through the tiered castle, a path that took them past trees and rose gardens, smiling men, women, and children. Even the smallfolk looked rich here and, healthy. The style of clothing was unfamiliar, the cuts designed for a warmer climate than he was used to.

When they entered the final gate to the main part of the castle where House Tyrell called home, he heard his name announced, his relation to Lord Stark and his Lord Father’s titles accentuated while the Snow part of his name seemed but a whisper.

House Tyrell, those that were present, and their main household stood in greeting as he dismounted. Remembering his lessons, Jon paced forward and kneeled as Lord Mace Tyrell was introduced, followed swiftly by the introduction of his wife, his eldest son Wyllas, and his daughter, Margaery. Jon knew his youngest son was in the Stormlands with his bonded, but not where his second son, a knight, was.

“No need to kneel, boy,” a dry, female voice called out to him. “You’re practically family. Stand up so we can get this pomp over with.”

“Mother . . .”

Jon stood and let his eyes trail over the group. The young woman standing near her mother caught his eye near immediately. She was beautiful, the Rose of Highgarden indeed, with thick, curly brown hair, gentle features, and wide brown eyes. She smiled sweetly at him, lips slightly parted as she watched him. Heat rose from his gut to his skin, and his breath caught in his throat.

“Jon Snow, son of Lord Eddard Stark,” Highgarden’s keeper called, stepping forward along with Lord Tyrell and Lady Margaery. “Step forward, please.”

Jon did, pulling his left glove off and sliding his sleeve up to his elbow. Baring his mark, he held his arm out for the Tyrell Lord and his family to see.

The keeper drew close, bending his head of grey and white curls over Jon’s arm as he surveyed it. After a moment, he motioned sharply towards Lady Margaery. Seconds later a slender arm appeared, but inches from his, a hand with perfectly round and clean nails covered in the same green vines with gold and blue buds, the faint white wolf on the back of the hand. He could practically feel the heat of her skin radiating towards his own. After a moment, she turned her hand over and Jon mimicked the movement, showing off the identical red foxes.

“It is a match,” the keeper’s voice was firm and Jon wondered if he was imagining the disappointment in it.

“A match, just as the hall of records said. How unsurprisingly thrilling,” he glanced at the eldest member of the family. Lady Olenna, if he remembered correctly.

Jon’s throat felt dry as he drew his hand back, letting the sleeve slide back to his wrist. He didn’t return the glove to its place; it wasn’t needed anymore.

“My Lord Father sent gifts,” Jon said and he nearly winced at the roughness of his voice as his eyes darted between Lord Mace and his family. “The finest furs of the season. Samplings of the newest strains of winter crops for when the snows come as the maesters say winter winds will blow harsh, long, and far.”

“Our Master Farmer will be quite appreciative,” Lady Alerie smiled at her husband’s side, her silver hair shining from its braid. Little yellow flowers were entwined with her locks. Her blue eyes slid over him, taking in the details of his persona.

He was wearing his nicest northern garb, without the furs. His Lord Father had commissioned a white direwolf to be embroidered on the dark grey jerkin, showing his affiliation as a first-generation bastard of House Stark for all to see. The outfit Haig had suggested, though the correct colors, hadn’t been quite as clear.

“I—” Jon paused glancing to the side to Jory, who nodded towards the cart that had come to a stop nearby. Chewing his cheek, he strode quickly to where the cart they’d brought along had come to a stop. Ghost was curled up in the back upon one of Jon’s coats as he stopped and he ran a hand over his head quickly before grabbing the item next to him. He stepped quickly back towards the Tyrell’s, towards Lady Margaery. “This is for you, my lady, from Winterfell’s Glass Garden.”

“Oh,” Margaery stepped forward to take the pot from him, their fingers brushed against each other and he stamped down on the shiver that ran up his arms from the contact. “They’re lovely!” She peered down at them, smile wider than before. “We grow them here, but ours are much darker in color. These are almost like . . .”

“Frost,” Jon suggested softly. Her voice was just as lovely as he imagined it in the brief moments since first laying eyes on her.

She nodded and looked up at him. “Yes.” Biting her lip, Margaery leaned down to sniff one of roses. He had chosen one that was beginning to bud, hoping that it would bloom by the time they arrived. “Thank you.” She looked up at him, lifting her head from where she’d been smelling the sweet fragrance. Her smile was bright and all-consuming.

Jon smiled back, most of the fear that had shivered through his core dissipated, burned out by those soft brown eyes and pale pink smile.

There were a few minutes more of traditional greetings and exchanges. There would be more at their bonding, when his Lord Father would be present, along with his family

They were basically done when Tyrell servants descended upon the cart to take Jon and his men’s things to their rooms. The first man to reach the cart yelped in surprise, backing away.

“It’s all right,” Jon called, hurrying over to pick up the pup up. He was nearing two moons old now, nearly too large to fit in Jon’s arms. His bright white fur and red eyes were shocking, at first glance. “He won’t hurt you.”

“Is that a wolf?”

Jon looked up to find Margaery and her brother watching from a few steps away. “A direwolf,” he corrected, as Ghost leaned up to lick his chin.

“Really?” Margaery, curiosity shining in her eyes, stepped forward and lifted her right hand. “May I?”

He nodded and watched as she held it out for the pup to sniff. She wore a bracelet on it, silver and gold, charms of flowers dangling from it. Ghost’s black nose touched her fingers and then he licked them gently.

“You can pet him,” Jon told her, voice soft, “if you wish.”

She did, running a hand over his back and over Ghost’s head and ears. “He’s sweet.” Her hand brushed against his forearm before trailing back up to scratch behind the pup’s ears.

“His name is Ghost. He’s quiet, rare to make a sound.”

“He is beautiful,” Margaery murmured and looked up at Jon. It startled him. Most thought Ghost was strange. White with red eyes, but not an albino. His dark nose and the pads of his feet belied that common misconception.

“Is he really a direwolf?” Lord Willas asked as he stepped closer, limping slightly although he tried to hide it.

“Aye,” Jon glanced over at his bond brother, “he is.”

“How big will he get?” Margaery asked, softly, drawing Jon’s attention again as she ran a long, slender finger down Ghost’s face, between his eyes and down to tap his nose. His pink tongue shot out to lick it, gaining a gentle giggle.

“I don’t know,” Jon admitted. “He’s the runt of the litter. I have been training him. He won’t hurt anyone.”

“May I help you?” she asked, biting her lip.

He met her gaze and nodded. “Of course . . . you’re . . . it would be best for him to know you as well as I.”

His chest heaved as he spun, meeting his bond brother’s strikes blow for blow. Ser Garlan was playing with him, he knew, the man was six years his senior and one of the best swordsmen Jon had ever met. Since his arrival, a moon ago, he’d dragged Jon to the practice yard every morning. At first it he thought the older man was doing it as a threat, wanting to instill fear into Jon’s heart should he ever consider hurting his sister.

Jon never would hurt Margaery, couldn’t, as to hurt her would be to hurt himself. His Lady was, in many ways, the opposite of Jon. Her words, wit, and smiles filled his silences and brought him out of his sullen and brooding moods. Margaery was able to draw more words from his mouth than Robb or Arya combined ever could.

Now, though, he taught Jon, would have taken him as his squire—had offered to take lead him on a path to knighthood—if Jon didn’t follow the Old Gods. It awed Jon to watch Ser Garlan spar on his own, usually against three or four other men.

Garlan finally disarmed him, ending the spar with a smile. “You’re getting better, Jon,” he said, dropping his sword arm to his side.

“Thank you, Ser,” Jon said as he retrieved his sword.

“It’s nearing the noon hour,” Garlan said as he glanced to the side. “I believe Margaery wished to dine with you today.”

Jon glanced to the side in time to see Margaery, along with some of her lady companions, at the far end of the courtyard. Ghost, now the size of one of the Tyrell’s hunting dogs, was sitting patiently before her as she ran her hands through the fur of his neck. He’d previously been resting in the grass beneath a line of peach trees at the edge of the practice ring.

Margaery glanced up as if she sensed them watching and smiled at them. At him. At Jon.

He ducked his head, shifting the training sword to his other hand and leaning down to pick up a shield from the dirt.

“Everyone was worried, you know,” Garlan told him quietly, “when word came of her—your match.”

Jon’s head shot up in his bond brother’s direction. The man was looking in his sister’s direction, hand raised in a wave, but he looked at Jon only a moment later.

“It has been a long while since a member of House Tyrell matched with a Northerner. Many give in to the rumors and superstitions of northern barbarians,” Garlan chuckled a bit. “Father was especially worried.”

“Not Lady Tyrell?”

“Mother has a tendency to focus on the brighter side of things when she can.” Garlan shook his head slightly. “She thought at least you’d be one to scare a Lord Husband from hurting Margaery.”

Jon bit his lip. “And now?”

“They like you, well enough, and certainly believe you would do everything within your power to prevent harm from befalling her,” Garlan said, settling a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Soon you’ll be bonded. Our Father’s already exchanged raven’s dictating the plans for the festivities. Houses from all over the reach and even representatives of the North will be traveling to witness your bonding ceremony.”

“Seems a bit much.” Jon couldn’t help the words that spilled from his lips. A mere murmur, but still aloud.

Garlan’s hand squeezed gently. “You’re not just a bastard anymore, Jon. Your Lady Bonded is of House Tyrell. She deserves the best,” in that Jon wholeheartedly agreed, “and your union will be a celebration. Just as mine was. Just as Loras’ was.”

He wanted to believe that it was more than just pomp. Jon knew that he was family, that Margaery at least cared for him as he cared for her. But still, the whispers of Lord Husband teased him. The idea that his soulmate would one day bar herself from him, lay with another man and bear his heirs. That, after their union, one day she would marry before the Seven and they would be limited to the allowances of another . . . it seeped and burned through his veins a dislike so great . . . he tamped it, forcing his thoughts away.

The food was always fresh and of a variety that Jon thought he might taste something new every day for years. Highgarden cultivated all manner of fruits, vegetables, grains . . . anything their traders could get their hands on that was able to grow in their climate. Few things couldn’t . . . if they didn’t grow in the fields or courtyards, then they grew in glass gardens or even in special rooms in the castle.

“Jon,” Margaery said as she nibbled on a cake with blueberries cooked into it, “would you join me for a ride this afternoon?” She was leaning forward, the cut of her dress baring more than any northern woman would have ever dreamed of baring outside the bedchamber

“I would very much like to, my lady,” he answered her quickly, averting his eyes to her sparkling brown ones, already caught, as he slipped a piece of meat to Ghost where he was lying at Jon’s feet.

“Good,” she said, her lips quirked in the smile Jon liked so much, “because I already arranged our horses to be prepared.”

Margaery, for all her proper lady act, enjoyed riding and disliked the side saddle used by many women. She was also quite adept with a bow as well. They took rides together several times a week, trailed by one of Jon’s guards and several of House Tyrell’s. Sometimes Garlan or Willas joined them, even Garlan’s Lady Bonded, as well, when they weren’t busy.

The area around Highgarden was just as lush with crops as Jon first thought it to be, maybe more so. With the greater bounty from the land came a larger population; both to work the land and supported by the land’s wealth. It startled him how many different faces they would see. In a single ride, they could look upon a hundred men and women that he’d not seen before. In the North, the faces they saw were always the same.

Margaery was kind to all, and only slightly calculated in her actions, as she dealt with the smallfolk. Once a young girl told her of her father’s injury, an accident while working in the fields, and she promised to send a maester to check on him. The first thing she’d done upon returning to Highgarden was just that. Of course, the relative close distance to Old Town meant that Highgarden often had a few extra maesters, those still in training, mostly seeking the link for healing as the fields during harvests often had interesting injuries crop up. Without a war, such things were often the best training a maester could have one of the boys told him.

Her sweet demeanor to the smallfolk endeared her further to him. Jon liked to think the smile she graced him after their first outing when he got off his horse to help an old man whose car had stuck in the mud, had been pleased and pleasantly surprised.

The month’s they spent together until their name days grew closer and finally passed were pleasant and filled with sweet moments. He loved her tongue, the words that fell from it, not quite as biting as her grandmother’s—Lady Olenna was a fiery, wise, outspoken woman who cared not for niceties—but he adored her way with words. It was a talent he had naught, though when pressed and in the near privacy of some of their afternoons spent together his dark humor shined through to her pleased laughter.

His Lord Father was joined by four of his siblings, Robb, Bran, Arya, and somewhat to his surprise, Sansa, when he arrived just a sennight before the bonding ceremony was due. Sansa had no eyes for him, though, beyond the niceties of greeting, her bright blue eyes wide and taking in all that Highgarden had to offer in splendor and wealth. The fortnight prior to their arrival, the servants had spent hours upon hours cleaning everything and the gardeners tending and trimming everything to perfection.

Sansa barely spared him a word, a glance, before focusing on Margaery, greeting her as if Jon’s bonded were closer in relation to her than Jon himself.

Robb embraced him first, fierce and strong, and Jon realized that the height gap between them had lessened in their separation. Beside them, Ghost was greeted in turn by his siblings, Grey Wind and Nymeria especially joyful in their greeting.

“I missed you, Snow,” Robb murmured into his ear.

“And I you, Stark,” Jon answered, hands clenching in his brother’s shirt before they drew apart, both smiling.

Arya wiggled her way between them as they separated, throwing herself into Jon’s arms, cursing in his ear about leaving her, leaving Winterfell.

Bran was next, less exuberant, but no less happy to see Jon than Robb or Arya had been.

His Lord Father had also embraced him, settling a hand on the back of Jon’s head, tangling in Jon’s curls, as he pulled Jon into his chest.

Rickon had stayed behind—and was quite upset about it, according to Arya—along with Lady Stark, as there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Jon had never thought his Father’s Lady Wife would deign to come to his bonding. He was quite sure that no matter who or where he had bonded—unless, perhaps, it was a Tully relative—she would have found an excuse to avoid the ceremony.

“I brought something for you,” his Lord Father told him later that evening, as the feast celebrating their arrival wound down. It still felt odd in his gut, his very being, to sit amongst the Lords and Ladies of the castle at the high table. “Would you come to my rooms in the morning?”

Jon had just returned from a dance with Margaery, who had been stolen away by Robb in his quest to ‘get to know his brother’s lady’. He’d been idly wondering, as he watched, if Margaery was enjoying the dance far more than the ones she’d shared with him as he had stepped upon her toes more than thrice. Robb was a much better dancer than he, for all that Ser Roderick used to call Jon the more graceful of the pair at swordplay, Jon had never seemed able to translate that gift upon the dance floor.

“Of course,” he replied, curiosity seeping into his tone and coursing through his very being.

Before Jon had ridden away from Winterfell, his Lord Father had made him a promise. A promise to share his mother’s name before the day he bonded.

The promise, his father’s words, had itched beneath his skin from the day he left to the day his father arrived in Highgarden. Margaery’s presence in his life had been a new distraction, barely drowning it out. It coursed back through his veins, burning beneath the skin, like wildfire, like frostbite.

“When shall we meet?” he asked, picking at the remains of desert upon his plate. “I usually meet with Ser Garlan . . .”

“Just as soon as you awake.” His father smiled at him. It was an odd sort of smile. “I doubt I will sleep much tonight, to be honest.”

Jon didn’t sleep much either. Upon seeking his bed, he tossed and turned, a slight headache spinning between his temples, as his mind raced with thoughts of what he’d learned. At some point, he did drift off, taken by the wine, by the sound of Ghosts’ breathing on the thick rug next to his bed.

Not long after the sun rose, Jon found himself rising as well, eyes squinting at the ceiling as sunlight played across it in the brilliant hues of sunrise. Groaning he’d rolled over only to replay his father’s words the night before.

Dressing, Jon took the time to splash water upon his face and run a wet rag over his body with a bit of soap. As he washed away sweat and stench of alcohol, wiped the sleep from his eyes, his mind whirled with what Lord Stark might share with him.

No matter what the Tyrell’s may or may not have wanted him to hear, Jon had heard the whispers. People were just as curious as he of who his mother was. Some thought a whore, as most in Winterfell had, but others whispered the name of a Lady. Ashara, of House Dayne. Sister to Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning and one of the Mad King’s Kingsguard whom his father had slain when retrieving his Aunt Lyanna’s body from the Tower of Joy. A great beauty with brown hair and violet eyes, they whispered. Some part of him wished it were true. If it were then a connection to two noble Houses might make it feasible for Lord Tyrell to forego marrying Margaery off eventually, to perhaps gift her—them—land and a keep. Permission to create a cadet branch.

When Jon arrived at his father’s door, Ghost trailing behind him, Lord Stark had met him with tired eyes, bruises standing out beneath grey that almost matched Jon’s own.

The room his father had been afforded was the most opulent of Highgarden’s guest rooms and included a set of rooms. They passed through the solar first before making their way towards the bedroom. The room had a balcony, the doors opened to the early morning breeze, soft silk curtains shifted slightly.

His father crossed to them after motioning him to sit on one of the beautifully embroidered chairs set in front of a closed, fireless hearth. They latched with a click, darkening the room somewhat.

His Lord Father smiled again, that odd, sad smile, as he took his own seat, across from Jon. Silence reigned for a long moment, both of them were too alike, Old Nan and others told him—even Lady Stark had agreed once within earshot—too prone to silence and sullen, brooding moments.

“Jon,” his father began after a time, voice edged with sorrow. He cut himself off with a sigh, eyes closing as his face etched with anguish. “I promised to tell you of your mother next we met, before your bonding.” He opened his grey eyes and met Jon’s. “Now I will keep that promise.”

Jon sat up straighter. He had assumed, hoped, thought, that this might be what his father had called him here for. But often when young he’d hoped only to have that hope burn to ash the moment he spoke his curiosity.

Name day after name day as he grew he’d hoped . . . but his father had never once said the words he’d sometimes dream of as he let his disappointment slip from his eyes, tears melting down his cheeks.

“Father?”

His father’s hand’s clenched together in his lap, a muscle jumped in his cheek, as he opened his mouth again. “At one point I thought not to tell you, to let this secret die with me and the other two who know it. There were four of us, at first. When you were but five your mother’s handmaiden passed of the pox as it swept through the North. It hit her House just as hard as Winterfell and Winter Town.” He paused for a moment. “There are only three of us now, that know the truth. Myself, your wet nurse, and . . . Lord Reed.”

Jon furrowed his brow as he listened, trying to burn each syllable into his mind, aching to hear the name of his mother even as his hands quaked as if bitten by the sharpest cold.

“Loathe as I am to admit it, if it hadn’t been for your bonding I may have allowed many more years to pass before I spoke the truth of it, but I cannot allow you to enter into a bonding without this knowledge,” his father said softly, gently, but with a pleading force that asked Jon to understand. “Not when fate is fickle, allowing hidden traits to trickle through from past generations.”

A chill ran down his spine as he waited. What?

“I loved your mother,” the words were fine as silk and Jon felt his lips quirk into a smile, “and I made a promise to her that I have kept to this day, at the expense of my honor and that of others. Your mother was my sister, Lyanna.”

“But . . .” the smile fell away and Jon drew back, eyes widening. His breath caught in his throat, heart hammered in his chest, and he was unable to voice the words, the questions that were inevitable. The truth he wished, in the briefest of moments, his father—uncle would not say. He finally managed to choke out; “then?”

Lord Stark nodded. “Your father was Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Jon glanced away, at the empty hearth. “Why?” He asked, voice dry and cracking at the edges.

“I promised your mother,” Lord Stark told him, voice quiet and solemn, “and because you are my family, my blood. I lost too much family in a single year. I couldn’t bear to lose another. From the moment I first held you, you’ve been like a son to me.”

“But you’re telling me this now, only because any child I have might look as a Targaryen? Violet eyes, silver-gold of hair?” Jon was torn between the fire burning inside him and the slick fear and seeping sadness. Everything he once knew, his place, stolen from him in the blink of an eye.

“Because the thought of it made me remember that you deserved to know.”

“Jon?” Margaery’s voice was quiet, gentle, concerned, as she slipped into his room. His quarters were in the family wing, though among the rooms reserved for cousins of the main family line. House Tyrell was larger than House Stark, his fa—mother’s House having dwindled as sons died without issue and daughters married into other families. A few distant cousins still lived in the North, and even fewer in the South, but seldom did any find their way to Winterfell.

He was staring out the window, resting on a cushioned window seat, Ghost seated in front of him with his face on Jon’s lap. He said nothing as Margaery dismissed her handmaiden, ignoring the girl’s protests. She latched the door to his rooms and padded quietly over to him. After a moment, she sat in the space before him, angled towards Jon and Ghost.

She reached out with her left hand and ran it over Ghost’s muzzle and ears, allowing him his silence. He loved her for that, among many other things; Margaery seemed to know exactly when to prod and when to wait. When to fill the silence with her words and draw his own out of the frozen mist that clouded his mind.

“Do you know?” he asked finally, an eternity later. The sun had drifted in the sky, leaving the noon hour behind. A servant had knocked, Haig, only to be sent away at his Lady Bonded’s order.

She nodded, very slightly, tilting her head to watch him. “Your—Lord Stark met with my parents, and grandmother, this morning. I was asked to join them along with my brother’s shortly thereafter.”

Jon looked away, staring towards where he could see Arya and Bran playing in a courtyard some ways off with some of Margaery’s younger cousins and children of several Reach Lords who had already arrived.

Her right hand settled on his cheek and turned his face towards her, cupping his skin. Jon shut his eyes, unwilling, not wanting to view the emotions within them.

“You’re still of House Stark,” her voice was gentle, a whisper that brushed over him. “You’re still Jon.”

“My father—”

“Was a dragon,” her voice, still a whisper, was fierce, “who people loved and followed loyally. No matter his sins with your mother he was loved and respected by the people. House Tyrell and a dozen others didn’t fight for the Mad King, we fought for our prince. Your father.”

“But—”

She pressed a single, long fingertip against his lips, pressing gently to silence him.

“Do you truly believe, after everything your father . . . uncle told you . . . showed you,” her eyes fell to the intricately embroidered black and red marriage cloak that set between them, “the words King Robert used to justify his rage?”

Lyanna’s mark had come in only after her Lord Father had declared her marriage. A marriage that would only be undone should her mark come in and tie her to someone of equal or higher rank. Her mark, like Rhaegar’s, had come in, Lord Stark had told him, not long before the Tourney of Harrenhal, but, for reasons all her own, Lyanna had kept silent on it. But when she had displayed one of the symbols of her mark upon her shield when riding in the tourney . . . the Prince had burned with a need to find her. And then they had acted as foolish young lovers, running off into the night, Lyanna unwilling to be second to her bonded’s wife, and Rhaegar never having wanted to marry Elia in the first place.

“You’re born of a bonding, blessed,” Margaery let her hand fall, covering his left with her right, squeezing gently as she leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together, “as ours will be.”

“My Lady . . .” Jon murmured, voice rough, pain still seeping around the edges of his words.

“My Prince,” she told him, pressing forward to capture his lips with hers, “my King.”

The bonding ceremony was beautiful, grand, the most opulent that Jon had ever attended. He knew the feast would be just as extravagant, having slipped through the kitchen with Margaery that morning, gathering sweets to feed the children they met on the quick ride through the fields, a near-daily ritual for them that neither wished to break even on this special day.

Allowances were made for his faith, and for hers. The septon stood in Highgarden’s Godswood, a place that had rarely seen foot travel outside of the gardeners that tended it until Jon’s arrival. Margaery herself told him she’d only stepped into the courtyard garden it rested in a handful of times in her childhood, rarely sparing more than a glance for the old Heart Tree reaching its crimson leaves and white branches into the sky.

Their left hands tangled together and were bound with an embroidered cloth, dark grey with white wolves, green with golden roses, until it covered their mark completely. Normal tradition was just a simple tangle of ribbons, wrapped gently around their hands, but their mark was visible to the world.

They spoke then, the words dictated by the Seven, those required of the Old Gods, and beneath the cloth his mark burned and his fingers clenched with Margaery’s.

Finally, when it receded and the tense lines of their bodies relaxed, the septon undid the ribbon and bared their mark to the world. On the back of their palms, the white wolf and red fox sat together, regal in appearance, surrounded by vines of blooming Gold and Winter Roses. Upon their palms, they would find later, a tower hidden among vines and thorns, the dark shadow of a dragon behind it.

They kissed then, deeper and more passionate, perhaps, than circumstances required. Perhaps more than protocol allowed, Margaery’s hand tangling in his curls and his cupping the back of her head gently. They were one.

He was hers and she was his.

They were greeted with celebration as they pulled apart, grey eyes meeting brown and lips spit shiny and cheeks as red as the leaves of the Heart Tree.

Later, as they drifted into their new chambers, Margaery pulling him towards their bed, Jon would stop her, retrieve the folded cloth from the chest of his mother’s belongings—those gifted by Rhaegar and those Lord Eddard had saved from her room in Winterfell years ago—and drape the Targaryen marriage cloak across his Lady’s shoulders with only Ghost to bear witness.

“I love you,” he murmured softly, before stealing another sweet kiss.

Her smile, as always was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen as she pulled him to her and teased his ear with her teeth. “And I you, my King.”

“If I am a King,” Jon told her as they fell onto the silk sheets and soft furs, “then you—you are a Queen.”