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Wynafryd hurried through the New Castle’s corridors, the light of the sunrise streaming in through the tall windows. She came close to stepping on her skirts but did not slow. This had to be dealt with promptly, and she could make no decision on it without Jon.
It had been foolish, truly. It would be easier to explain it away with just desire, but there was more to it. So much more. Wynafryd didn’t know where it had begun. It was not the day he’d arrived in White Harbour, sullen and quiet. Nor was it that day in the woods along the White Knife. That left it somewhere between the two. Simple, she thought dryly, only a decade to sift through. She descended into the dark passage beneath the Castle Stair, bound for the Wolf’s Den.
Regardless of its genesis, their relationship had produced a consequence and Wynafryd would not leave Jon ignorant of it, not after all he’d told her. She was not truly worried about his reaction. He would be shocked, even if a babe was not the most uncommon thing to come out of coupling, but she doubted a great outburst of anger or panic. He had never been anything but gentle with her, even if some of his comments could cut without his intention.
In truth, Wynafryd was more concerned with the reaction of her family. Her father would be furious, her mother as well, and her grandfather might even break his ever-bright demeanour upon learning that his ward had sired a babe on his granddaughter.
She planned to put herself between Jon and her family, take the brunt of their harsh words, scathing reproaches, boiling anger. They would soften if it was her they spoke with. Mother would relent first. The reality of a soon-to-be grandchild would mollify her once the initial outrage passed. Grandfather after that, always practical and looking forward to solutions. Wynafryd was hoping that his fondness for Jon and shrewd mind would result in his assent for a marriage. Father . . . Wynafryd, preferred not to dwell on Father’s reaction.
She came out into the old armoury of the Wolf’s Den, now serving as an antechamber to the keep. Out the door and down the corridor, she stepped onto the grass of the godswood. It was not a large one when put next to that of Hornwood, Barrow Hall, or even Ramsgate, and felt a little claustrophobic with the dark walls of the castle rising up around it. Although not the most pleasant place, its size did make it rather easy to find Jon’s dark curls against the white bark of the weirwood and Ghost’s white fur on the grass beside it.
Wynafryd approached him as calmly as she could manage. The direwolf heard her first, and Jon only a moment after. He turned and quickly stood.
“Wynafryd, I’d not expected to see you here,” he said, his voice trailing off with uncertainty.
“Is that all I receive when you see me?” she teased, hoping that it might hide her nervousness.
Jon huffed and rolled his eyes. “Need I buy a ring from one of the silversmiths, then, every time I run into you in the hallways?” he asked. “Truly, why are you here? Do you not normally sew with your ladies in the morning?”
Wynafryd bit her lip anxiously and glanced away. Jon’s smile slipped, stepping closer and taking her hands in his. “What is it, Wyn?”
“I- well, you do recall our ride on the White Knife?” she inquired, raising her eyes to meet his.
“Of course, it was only yesterday,” he replied, bemused.
“No, not yesterday, two weeks ago,” she amended.
A rare blush found its way onto Jon’s cheeks. “I do recall it, yes. What of it?”
Wynafryd took in a breath. “The past several mornings, I have found myself sick upon waking. You know that I rarely suffer from such. I also did not get my moon’s blood when it typically comes.”
Jon’s eyes had gone wide, and his mouth had fallen open. It was so uncharacteristic of him that Wynafryd would have laughed if not for the circumstances. “I believe that- I think that I am with child, Jon.”
He was silent for a few moments longer, though he’d managed to bring his jaw back up. “Have you spoken to Maester Theomore?”
She shook her head.
“Your father?” he asked, a bit of dread entering his voice. Again, she shook her head. “Your grandfather?” No, once more. “Anyone at all?”
“Just you, Jon. Not my family, nor my maids, nor the servants. Only we know.” Her lip trembled slightly, thinking again of how that would not last, that they would have to tell her father, her mother, her grandfather, her uncle-
He stepped forward and placed a soft kiss to her cheek, and brought her into an embrace.
“All will be right.”
* * * * *
Jon allowed himself to bask in the joy of the night for a moment. The well-wishers and gift-givers (and favour-curriers) had dwindled from the high table, leaving to drink and eat and dance, and Jon could sit beside his wife in peace, enjoying the light and warmth of the Merman’s Court.
‘His wife , ’ Jon thought. Just a moon ago, he didn’t dare hope that he would wed Wynafryd. Now, they were bound in the eyes of gods and men until the end of their days. But that was so far away, it might as well be forever. Glancing to his left, he saw Wynafryd was still embroiled in a conversation with Wylla about something. She wore a beautiful gown of turquoise, with green sleeves, white cuffs and a collar of the same colour.
A crown of winter roses lay upon her head. Jon smiled looking at it. Although Ser Wylis had barely spoken a word to him since learning of the babe, Jon hadn’t forgotten the lessons on jousting. He beat a Ryswell cousin, a hedge knight, Lord Woolfield’s son, Daryn, and Robin Flint for the privilege of naming Wynafryd his queen of love and beauty, and to Jon, there was no one more deserving of the title.
Robb was the only other Stark in attendance. Rickon had to stay in Winterfell as lord, and Jon doubted Lady Stark had been rushing to attend the wedding of her husband’s newly-legitimised bastard. He hadn’t participated in the tourney, given that he’d been raised under their father’s eye, and Lord Stark did not overly enjoy jousts or melees. He had called them frivolous once, while Jon had been visiting Winterfell, and Jon had seen Ser Wylis bristle at the comment.
Robb was welcome company, for the New Castle had become lonely in the preceding weeks. Except for Wylla, the members of House Manderly did not speak to him unless they were obligated. So, Jon spent much of his time with his brother, sparring in the yard, walking through the streets of White Harbour, or before the heart tree in the Wolf’s Den. It was much the same as when Jon would visit Winterfell, Robb showing him some new servant’s passage or abandoned building he’d found. Jon was giving the tour now, though, and Robb was the one taking it all in.
Unfortunately, he would only be staying two days after tonight. With their father in King’s Landing, Robb was Lord of Winterfell and those duties did not cease when he left the castle. Even in White Harbour, for all the time he’d spent with Jon, just as much was with the Starks’ bannermen. Ghost and Grey Wind would be similarly disappointed, though at least Grey Wind had Shaggydog to play with when he left.
Jon was reminded why he wouldn’t be able to stay dispirited for long after Robb left, for Wynafryd touched his arm, bringing his mind back to the hall.
“Might we dance, Jon? I have seen at least one serving girl catch the bard’s eye, and I fear it will not be very long before another draws him away from his lute for good,” she observed, getting a huffed laugh out of him. A smile came onto her face when he did, her pale-blue eyes sparkling.
“If I must,” he sighed, before grinning, rising from his seat, and taking her hand to the dancing floor below.
* * * * *
It took a few minutes before Jon made it to her grandfather’s solar. He’d been sparring with the castle’s guardsmen and so had to wash and dress before he came in. Wynafryd had been waiting anxiously with her mother, with an eye kept on the crumpled stretch of parchment in Grandfather’s hand. He was tense, his eyes stormy, and she feared whatever ink was laid down on the missive.
Jon was much the same when he entered. He had argued with her grandfather when Father and Uncle Wendel had left with the Manderly contribution to Robb Stark’s army, claiming that he must go with them, that it was his right, that he should fight with his brother. Grandfather said he was needed in the New Castle, to help him with running the keep, the city, and its lands, and that Wynafryd was still with child and that he would lament not being present for the birth. Neither had moved past that dispute yet.
Wynafryd was quietly pleased that her grandfather had not permitted Jon to go, even if it angered him. She could not bear seeing him leave so soon after they were wed.
“My lord,” Jon acknowledged, before turning to Wynafryd and Mother, “my ladies.” There was a softness when he looked at her, even if the address was a formal one. He stood beside her and took her hand. Grandfather seemed to gather himself, finally looking up from his desk.
“Yesterevening, a raven was received from King’s Landing, and another this morning from Castle Darry. The latter was from Robb Stark, telling us of the Northern army’s victory against the Kingslayer and Ser Stafford Lannister. Ser Stafford himself was killed, along with several other lords and knights of the westerlands and crownlands, and many more captured. The Kingslayer was forced to retreat to King’s Landing, and with Lord Edmure’s defeat of Lord Lannister and his imminent capture of the Golden Tooth, the war will be won, more likely than not.”
“That is excellent news!” Mother exclaimed. “With luck, all will be returned to normal by the end of the year.”
Grandfather’s face darkened. “There is more. We were not without casualties. Wylis was injured in the battle and died shortly after-”
Wynafryd did not hear the words that came after. Only the tiniest hint of her mother’s wail reached her. She barely even felt Jon’s hand holding hers tighter, or the other arm that wrapped around her shoulder. It was rather like everything had narrowed to a pinhole of lancing pain in her chest, and that was all she could focus on.
Then, she drew breath, like coming above water. No, Father was not dead, it was likely some man in Manderly livery that had been mistaken as him. He would be coming home with Uncle Wendel as summer turned to winter and would be meet his grandchild and-
“The raven from King’s Landing bore similar tidings.” Wynafryd watched - detached from her own eyes - as her grandfather looked over to Jon, whose face was rigid. “Joffrey the Illborn ordered the execution of Lord Eddard Stark before the Sept of Baelor. I am sorry, Jon.”
Now it was her turn, and she gripped Jon’s hand as tight as she could, and brought him into her arms, resting her chin on his shoulder, feeling the tears roll down her cheeks, and the ones on his, and his arms wrapping around her as well. Mother was sobbing and wailing but Wynafryd could not muster even a sound. Just a moment ago everything was muffled but now it was loud and terribly bright and crushing her under its weight.
She scrunched her eyes closed and pictured his face and kept it there; she would not let it leave her.
Never.
* * * * *
Jon pulled at the collar of his doublet. The Great Hall of Winterfell was stifling in its heat, too many logs laid upon the fire, too much smoke for him to think, too many people in every part of the place. A part of him would rather be stuck in a room with Lady Stark for an entire moon than bear this for another moment. But, he was here with Lord Manderly, and Jon would not embarrass him by acting a fool and being the first man to leave the harvest feast.
That did not mean he had to talk with the strangers overmuch, however. He could simply stay around Bran and Sansa, and ensure that Arya and Rickon remained in the hall. Though, Lady Catelyn was overseeing the latter two, and Jon did not intend to assist her in that duty. He was content to stay with Bran and Sansa, allowing them to regale him with the stories of the south, of knights and tourneys and the like, while they left out the parts they preferred not to remember. He noticed that their direwolves always stayed at their side, practically attached to them. There was something there, but Jon chose to leave that question unasked.
He continued that for as long as he could get away with, but he’d avoided one notable attendee for longer than was appropriate, given her status in Winterfell. She was the lady of the castle, and the main organiser of the feast itself. After ruffling Bran’s hair following an anecdote about Tyrion Lannister scaring Joffrey, he broke off from the little circle that had formed around them, and glanced about the room. Finally, he saw red hair and made his way over.
Lady Stark looked exasperated, having to manage with both Arya and Rickon without any assistance. She had finally gotten Ser Rodrik Cassel to take Rickon and Maester Luwin to get Arya when she saw Jon approach. In a moment, she had gone as stiff as the statues below their feet, her face a rigid mask.
“My lady,” Jon greeted. He could hear the hesitance in his voice and felt anger for it.
“Jon Stark,” she replied, his name sounding like a curse on her tongue.
“I must thank you for organising this feast, my lady. It is as fine a thing as I have ever attended.”
“My thanks for the compliment,” she said, her smile sharper than a razor.
“I must also offer my condolences, my lady. Lord Stark’s death was an injustice to any with good sense.”
“Indeed it was. But injustices lie around all of us, do they not? Even when we desire for them to have never existed in the first place.”
Jon was not such a fool that he did not understand her. He felt his temper rise, a fire in his face just below the skin. He was not nothing to me, he wished to say, no, to shout. He was my father. I offer you condolences and you spit bitterness back.
Jon did not say any of that. He was not of the appropriate position to express such a thing. Instead, he gritted his teeth before replying. “I shall leave you, my lady. I hope we might speak cordially in the future.” That being the most he could say without reprimand, he turned and stalked off.
Looking around, he saw that several lords and lordlings had taken their leave. Good, he thought. Now he could rest for the early ride in the morn. He was to accompany Daryn’s lady mother back to Hornwood, for she feared the intentions of Bolton’s bastard and wished for some assurance of protection. He bid his siblings good night, and informed Lord Manderly of his departure, before walking out of the hall, finally freed from that cloying stuffiness.
* * * * *
Wynafryd giggled as Jon felt her stomach, his eyes wide with awe. When he left for Winterfell six weeks past, one would not know she was with child, her midriff the same as it had always been. But now, there was the slightest bump that had been absent not so long ago. Mundane as it was, Jon was enamoured by it. And Wynafryd was enamoured by him and his reaction to it alone.
Jon eventually pulled his hand from her abdomen, gently, as if to not disturb the babe. Maester Theomore said the little one would not be aware of anything outside the womb yet, but she didn’t know exactly how the maester would discover such a thing, and preferred to imagine the babe could, and felt how much both she and Jon loved them.
Soft as he’d been with her stomach, he kissed her. There was not a heat to it, just a warmth that it set alight in her chest. Drawing back, he turned to his side and leant his forehead against hers, his eyes closed. Hers remained open. She wanted to etch his face in her mind, to have this memory to hold onto if he was away again, as he would inevitably be at some point. Or if he was injured and they must sleep in separate chambers. Or . . .
Thoughts of her father clawed into her mind, and she cursed them, trying to wish them away. But she could not, and she remembered the fear she’d felt when the raven had arrived two weeks ago, writing that Jon had fought the Bolton bastard in battle. It had mostly subsided when she read that he’d escaped uninjured, but some part of it remained. Small, but loud. Loud and fearful. One which told her how easily she could lose him.
Her eyes welled, and Jon felt it. His eyes opened in quiet alarm.
“Wyn, what is it?”
She sniffed, shaking her head. “Nothing, Jon, just foolishness.”
“Foolish or not, I must know, love.”
His sincere eyes, concern amongst the grey, brought it out of her. “I just thought that, it would be so easy to lose you, how soon Father had been here, and then gone, how I might wave you goodbye and never lay eyes upon you again.”
She managed to keep her cheeks dry as she spoke, though her voice trembled ever so slightly.
Jon laid a kiss on her forehead, and took one of her hands in his. “I know. Truly, I do. Every day my mind tortures me with a different manner in which you might be taken from me. We have no control over it, only whether we dread its coming or savour that it has not arrived today. My father said that to me, once. I feel we should savour it.”
His words did little to comfort her, but his voice warmed her, and his arms protected her, and the two together allowed her to relax, to nod into his shoulder, to close her eyes.
“I love you, Jon,” she whispered.
“I love you too.”
* * * * *
Jon suppressed a sneer as he looked on at the kneeling ironborn before him. They had been stripped of their valuables - armour, weapons, jewellery - and left in only tunics and breeches. Most bore no sigil and had no blood of any house. There were a few, Asha Greyjoy herself among them. She was at the end of the line nearest to him, and the first one he addressed.
“You,” he said. She glared up at him. “Your name?”
“Asha Greyjoy,” she spat. “There’s two names there, not something you’re used to, is it Snow?” A few guffaws went up from the ironborn in spite of their bondage.
His temper flared. “I suppose you wouldn’t be used to playing the thrall either? Medrick, stand her up. She may watch the rest.”
The man-at-arms stepped forward and yanked Greyjoy to her feet by the arm. She resisted his grip, but the man did not struggle too greatly against her, skinny as she was. Jon turned his eyes back to the remaining prisoners. He asked the same question as he did Asha, putting it to each of them. There were a few more minor nobles, who he had sent to the dungeon beneath the Motte. He did the same for most of the lowborn prisoners as well, taking an ear or a finger from them as punishment.
Finally, there was only one. His face was not boyish, but he did not look quite like a man either. He had a smattering of light scruff on his cheeks, but no more, and there were no blemishes or wrinkles or stresses on him that an older man would have. He looked scrawny to Jon’s eyes.
“Your name, boy?”
He scowled. “Qarl.”
“Have you a house, Qarl?”
“I am sworn to House Greyjoy, but I hold none of their blood.”
Jon nodded idly. “Fine, then. You shall go unharmed-”
“DON’T LET HIM GO!”
All heads turned to the source of the cry. A woman, about the age of Greyjoy, stood with her fists clenched in the doorway of a small building constructed against the walls of the keep. Her hair was brown, though a shade lighter than Wynafryd’s, and her eyes were more similar to Sansa’s than those of Jon’s wife. Still, there was enough of a resemblance that he felt unnerved.
“He killed my boy! He was only eight, m’lord, no more, and that bastard ran him through with his blade! You can’t let him go m’lord, you can’t!”
“Shut up, you bitch!” Asha snarled, only to be shaken aggressively by Medrick and told to remain silent.
Jon looked at the woman, suddenly replaced with Wynafryd’s face, her soft features contorted into ones harshened by raw grief and fury. He turned back to the ironborn, Qarl. Guilt did not mar his face, but recognition did. His fist clenched around the arming sword at his side. The man had done it, and hadn’t even the grace to put on a show of sorrow. He remembered one of the many moral imperatives his father had impressed upon him, and chose to act on it.
“Sellyn, bring me that log.”
“Damn you and your tree gods, Stark, release him!” Greyjoy snapped. Jon glanced back at her while Sellyn carried the log to him. Anger was writ across all her features, but her eyes betrayed something else. A pang flashed across his heart, recalling Wynafryd’s gaze the night he had returned from the ambush in the Hornwood. Asha must love this man in some way, he thought. Perhaps they were lovers. That could not breach his decision.
Returning to the man before him, he watched as Sellyn dropped the log to the ground and turned it to its longer side. Qarl was shoved to the makeshift chopping block, and the Manderly man kept a boot on his back to stop him from moving.
“No, STOP!” Asha cried. “I-I command you, Stark!” A few of the men chuckled at her grasp for authority, but Jon did not. He did not face her. He remained focused on the ironborn raider beneath him. Without preamble, he drew his sword from its sheath.
“In the name of Robb of the House Stark, the First of his Name, King in the North, Lord of Winterfell, by the word of Jon of the Houses Stark and Manderly, I do sentence you to die.”
The blade rose and fell with speed, and cut nearly clean through the neck. A little was left, however, and Jon quickly swung again, severing it properly. Blood spilled from the wound, turning the snow-covered log into a weirwood with no eyes and a grim smile. Behind him, a woman wept. He felt an emptiness in his chest.
* * * * *
Wynafryd took the roll of parchment from the servant, barely murmuring some words of gratitude before lying back against the pillows. If it was destined for her, then there was likely a single writer. She could feel Sara’s eyes looking at her curiously, but she didn’t care much for her maid at the moment. She broke the seal and unfurled it.
My love,
I write to you now in hopes that the raven arrives before you enter the birthing bed. I am more sorrowful than I can express that I am not present there to offer comfort of some kind to you, or ‘a hand to crush’ as the maester so-gently put it.
Wynafryd snickered quietly. Maester Theomore was blunt at times. Most of the time.
We have already discussed names for a boy and names for a girl, but I leave the final decision to you, for the child will be a Manderly and serve as your heir, not mine. Besides, although I did not name my direwolf in the same manner as my youngest brother, I might be of a similar inclination if given the chance once more.
She smiled fondly. Foolish, wonderful man.
I write to you now to tell you of the near future. At present, I write at my chambers in Winterfell, to ride off at first light. We will not, however, be returning to White Harbour immediately. I have received word from my brother that I am to lead an army against Moat Cailin from its northern side, while Robb assaults from the south with his force and crannogmen.
Tears welled in Wynafryd’s eyes, but she stifled them and continued reading.
We are to have the advantage of numbers, but it shall be difficult to bring those to bear with so many on the impassable face of the Moat. The ground is too soft for horses to charge, and so the knights and freeriders will be on foot. I plan to march amongst the men, though not at the front.
That you plan to march amongst them at all is folly, she thinks, but returns her focus to the ink once more.
It is for the morale of the men. When they see the banner in their midst, it shall buoy them, they shall fight harder, inspired to victory, for if their commander fights alongside them, surely victory is assured. One of the men of House Burley told me as much, and a Cerwyn cousin said the same. Both have more wisdom in a fingertip than I have in my whole being, and so I place my faith in their advice.
I will not write some grand message in the event that I do not return, for I shall return. It would be a waste of ink to scrawl such a fearful thing. I will see you soon, my love.
Your husband,
Jon
Damn you, she thought. She loved him for his courage, but she wished he was a craven at that moment. She reassured herself. Jon had promised his return. He had never broken a promise to her, and he would not begin now.
Suddenly, she felt a wetness in the sheets beneath her and in her shift. Trembling slightly, she glanced up at her maid, whose eyes darted away now that she had been seen.
“Sara, I believe my labour has begun.”
* * * * *
All around him, men trudged forward across soft earth towards the crumbling silhouette of Moat Cailin. Ghost padded beside him, his head held low like it would be as he hunted. Jon supposed it was a sort of hunting, just different prey. Over the helmets of his men, he could see the golden krakens of House Greyjoy flying on dark banners. Unlike the Northern force, there were no lesser houses or highborn champions, only the soldiers of the Iron Fleet, commanded by Victarion Greyjoy, brother of Balon.
Surrounding Jon were Manderly men, Lockes, Cerwyns, Flints of Widow’s Watch, Hornwoods, Tallharts, Stark retainers, and the forty clans of the Spears. There had been grumbles amongst them, he knew, that they were being led by a boy, a bastard, when there were old greybeards and men in their prime who might be more able. The Manderly men were behind him, though, as were the Hornwoods, Lockes, and Flints of Widow’s Watch. The rest might grouse, but their elders knew as well as he that cohesion was more important than any stratagem to achieve victory. They would not go against him in the midst of battle.
Besides, there was little enough cunning to use in such a circumstance. Jon had his orders from Robb, to occupy the Iron Fleet as Robb’s force circumvented the Moat and charged in behind them. A hammer and an anvil. All they needed to do was hold, and hold they would.
Jon heard the shouts of the men ahead begin to rise, and grow deeper and louder as others joined them, until he heard the shrill cries of steel against steel, and the pained shouts of men wounded. With the men ahead, behind, and around him, Jon joined the push forward, drawing his arming sword and clenching his other hand around the shield’s handle. He could feel Ghost’s energy, the tension in his legs and jaw.
It seemed like hours of waiting before Jon could notice how close he was to the ironborn, and realised he was stepping over dead men, a great majority wearing black and gold, but a few in more friendly colours. At one point, he saw the face of a Manderly man he recognised, a deep gash in his neck and his hazel eyes open but unseeing. He avoided placing his foot on him, but continued on.
The smell of the field was horrid; the metallic sharpness of blood, the staleness of kicked-up earth, and the repulsive stink of refuse. Ahead of him, men screamed and roared and fought like animals. It was like purgatory, some space between marching and triumph, a complete uncertainty even if the tide of the battle seemed to be in their favour.
In the distance, the bellows of horns sounded. Robb’s army. Jon grinned. They had infiltrated the Moat and were forming to charge the ironborn rear. Soon, the final stronghold of Greyjoy dominion in the North would be crushed between two armies.
Suddenly, the man before him fell and Jon stepped forward to take his place. The ironborn were clearly panicked. The warhorns had shaken them. They did not fight as one wall of shields and blades, but stepped out of their lines and stabbed wildly at the nearest man. Jon parried one such strike, and Ghost leapt forward, his teeth sinking into the raider’s forearm and pulling him back. Jon jabbed his blade under the man’s chin and pulled it back to meet the next man.
As man after man came and fell, as he led the lines forward, as he trudged ahead with his teeth gritted so hard that he feared they might break, he felt a surge of energy run through him. They were winning. He could see the running grey wolf on snow behind the ironborn. With their advance, it seemed less like a hammer and anvil, and more akin to a hammer and a mallet.
Then, Jon saw a flash in the corner of his eye, and brought his blade up to meet it. Before him loomed a monster, in plate rather than mail, and a longsword in his hands. He drew up his weapon once more, and Jon felt his arm shake as he met the strike. Black and gold. Was this Victarion?
Another strike. This one was wilder, but stronger, and Jon chose to dodge it rather than meet it. Taking the chance, he stabbed his blade into the armour gap at the hip and felt flesh pierce beneath it. The sword came down again, and he caught it on his shield but staggered back. Faster than should be possible for a man of that size, he swung again.
Jon screamed as the thing dug into his leg and collapsed back. He looked around in a daze. Where was Ghost? He drew his gaze back up and saw the man point the blade down. Jon’s eyes drooped lower. It was so warm beneath the gambeson and mail, almost cosy. Wynafryd always loved warmth. He’d like to be with her. As he succumbed to the pull of the dark, a blur of white flashed past him.
* * * * *
Wynafryd knocked softly at the door. From inside, she heard the scuffling of feet and the scrape of a chair against wood. She cooed down at her son in her arms before the round face of Alla appeared from around the door. The maid stayed in the room when she could not, and for that, Wynafryd was deeply grateful.
“Good evening, Alla. You may go and eat now. You’ll be there before the rest,” Wynafryd smiled. The maids and other servants ate their dinner last out of the New Castle’s inhabitants, and arriving early enough to get the best of the remaining food was a lucky thing.
“Thank you, m’lady, good evening to you,” Alla grinned, before making her way down the hallway.
Wynafryd stepped through the door and closed it gently behind her. Torrhen was awake, but he’d been fed and had been changed and washed, so she didn’t anticipate any outbursts. He was oddly quiet, her mother said, as did the midwife Tilly. Not so much that it might cause worry, but enough to be uncommon. She always liked bringing Torrhen with her to see Jon, so that he would get used to his father’s face. Besides, her husband loved cooing over him and holding him, and she would not deny him anything more than he was already restricted to, still stuck in his bed.
Wynafryd thought of when she’d received the raven from her goodbrother, the king. Robb Stark had written of Jon’s injury, sustained while battling Victarion Greyjoy at the tail end of the battle. He had come close to death, at Victarion’s empty mercy, when Ghost leapt at the man, tore off his hand, and killed him. The Manderly men had rushed Jon away from the front lines and bandaged his leg. According to both Robb’s healers and Maester Theomore, that may have saved Jon’s life.
Before she’d seen that he was saved, Wynafryd had come close to breaking down, so sure that she had lost another of her family to this horrific war. It was only when her eyes had drifted over the remainder of the missive that it had been clear he was still alive. He was awake by the time the Manderly forces reached White Harbour, though unable to stand and having to be carried in on a litter.
He slept irregularly, with little to mark his days apart from meals. He was asleep now, she saw, and she sat down by his side. He was peaceful, like this. Like he had been before all this had begun. Before their fathers had been killed.
She turned from that, focusing on Jon once more. She brushed his curls out of his face, before glancing down at Torrhen, who was looking at his father with curious grey eyes.
“Do you want to say hello, merling?” she asked. Torrhen could not yet speak, but she knew his answer. She leaned over and tapped Jon on the cheek. “Wake up, love. Your son wants to see you.”
Her husband blinked awake, adjusting to the low light of the room. He smiled when he saw her, and it somehow became even bigger when he saw their son. He pushed himself up so he was sitting in the bed, and tilted his head to match Torrhen.
“Hello Tor,” he cooed. “You’re awake very late, aren’t you?” He glanced to Wynafryd. “Might I hold him?”
“Of course,” she replied, passing Torrhen over to Jon and watching him settle their son against his chest.
They sat in silence for a while, Jon watching Torrhen, Torrhen watching Jon, and Wynafryd watching both of them, a warmth in her soul. Their son began to nod off, his eyes drooping closed until he was completely asleep. Jon dipped his head and kissed his forehead, before looking up to Wynafryd.
“Thank you, my love.”
Wynafryd quirked her head. “Why?”
“Everything,” he said, and kissed her.