Fire and Blood - A Song Rewritten (VelvetWhispers & Risky)

[VelvetWhispers]

Winterfell – The Night of the King's Arrival

Lady Elyra Frostmere

The goblet in her hand was silver, but Elyra would've traded it for something gold-plated and poisoned if it meant thinning the crowd inside the Great Hall by half. Or at the very least, silencing Ser Meryn Trant's chewing.

She slipped out of the side door with a feline grace that drew no attention—none that lasted, anyway. Lady Elyra Frostmere had made something of an art out of vanishing when no one expected her to, and appearing where she wasn't supposed to be. The cold bit instantly at her skin, but she welcomed it with a smile curving her painted mouth. The frost was honest. Unlike some of their guests.

A snowflake landed on the rim of her goblet. She took a sip anyway.

Winterfell lay beneath her like a sleeping beast, walls proud and worn, the air thick with the weight of old gods and older secrets. The sky above was a silver-black canvas, stars scattered like shattered glass across the heavens. It was quiet out here, peaceful in the way only the North could be: a stillness wrapped in danger, beautiful and cruel.

She exhaled, watching her breath swirl into the dark.

Inside, the court was pretending. Lords and ladies jostled for position like hounds for scraps. The king's laughter had been loud and wet, echoing through the hall with the sound of wine sloshing down his front. Robert Baratheon, once a warrior king, now more beer barrel than blade. He hadn't come all this way for the scenery, that much was clear.

The Starks, gods bless them, were hosting with all the warmth of their cold stone castle, but Elyra's instincts stirred with unease. The King wanted something. People didn't come to Winterfell unless they wanted something. That was the one universal truth of the North: you had to mean it to survive here.

She sipped again, leaned her shoulder into the cold stone of the courtyard arch, and let her dark eyes scan the yard.

That was when she noticed him.

A shadow standing apart from the others—brooding, quiet, still. He was speaking with Lord Stark's brother, the one with the beard that could catch birds if he turned his head fast enough. Their voices didn't carry, but Elyra knew how to read a man's shoulders, and Jon Snow's were drawn tight with resolve. Or was it rebellion?

She tilted her head, curious.

The name Night's Watch drifted toward her on the wind like a scent she couldn't quite place. Elyra's mouth twitched.

Ah. So the bastard boy wanted to run off and freeze his noble guilt away with a band of glorified crows. Predictable. And just when he was growing into that sharp-boned, storm-eyed kind of handsome too.

Her attention sharpened when another man approached. Blonde, with a mouth that smirked even when still—Tyrion Lannister, the Imp of Casterly Rock. His words were clearer, spoken with intent to carry. He didn't whisper the word bastard, he said it like a toast, daring anyone to flinch.

Elyra didn't flinch. But her knuckles whitened just a touch around the stem of her goblet.

When the lion left and the Stark uncle followed, Jon remained alone, staring out at nothing in particular. A painting of a lost boy in a man's body, shoulders slumped under the weight of invisible chains.

She watched a moment longer, the way a cat might observe a wounded bird—part curiosity, part hunger, part pity.

Then she pushed off the wall and strolled forward, quiet as snowfall.

"I hear the Wall is stunning this time of year," she said lightly, her voice silk spun with snow. "Of course, I also hear it smells like piss and broken dreams, so perhaps the view balances things out."

She stopped a few paces away, just at the edge of the torchlight, shadows dancing across her features—high cheekbones, dark eyes framed by longer lashes than any Northern lady had the right to possess, and lips that held secrets the way noblewomen held fans.

"I'd offer you something stronger than introspection," she said, raising her goblet in offering, "but I only steal from the kitchens, not the cellars."

A beat passed, just long enough for her to tilt her head and let her eyes roam over him with open curiosity, not the false demureness most ladies feigned.

"You're Jon Snow, aren't you?" she added, as if she hadn't known it the moment she saw him. "Lord Stark's… let's say inconvenient truth."

The words could've been cruel in another mouth, but in hers they dripped with playful mischief, not malice.

"I'm Lady Elyra Frostmere. You've probably never heard of me. That's all right—I quite like lurking in obscurity. It keeps the expectations low."

She stepped closer, the wind lifting her dark curls just enough to brush her cheek. The silk of her gown whispered around her legs, dusky grey trimmed in black—a proper Northern lady's gown, if a touch more fitted than convention demanded.

"But truly, you're thinking of taking the black already? Before you've even lived a little?" Her voice dipped, amused and conspiratorial. "Seems a touch dramatic. And I'm a woman who routinely keeps knives in her garters."

She looked up at him now, more earnest beneath the teasing glint.

"Don't go walling yourself off with old men and criminals just yet, Jon Snow. You might find the world has more to offer than shame and silence… even for someone like us."

She took a slow sip, watching him over the rim of her goblet.

"Besides," she added with a smirk, "you'd look terrible in black. Far too broody. People might mistake you for a poet."

And with that, she turned her gaze back to the stars, as if she'd merely wandered out to count them—and not to keep a brooding boy from throwing himself into a lifetime of celibacy and cold.

She couldn't say exactly when it had started—this sharp tug in her chest whenever she looked at him, this need to keep him from wasting the fire she could see flickering behind that brooding stare. Maybe it was the way he stood, so stiff in the cold, already trying to make himself small in a world that had done nothing but remind him of his place. Maybe it was the way he let the word bastard stick to his skin like a brand, like it defined him more than his blood or his mind ever could. Or maybe—gods help her—it was because he reminded her of herself. Sharp around the edges, colder than they liked their ladies, and too proud to beg the world for more than it was willing to give. And so, for reasons she hadn't yet dared to name, she couldn't let him walk into the dark and vanish into a vow he wasn't ready to make. Not when the world hadn't even seen what he was capable of. Not when she seemed to.

She tilted her head back one last time, letting the starlight kiss her face, before her gaze drifted down—back to earth, back to the boy alone in the dark with his ghosts. Jon Snow stood where he'd been left, still and solitary, his breath curling in silver ribbons before him. There was a weight to him that went beyond his years, the kind of heaviness one only carried when born into a world that made promises it never intended to keep.

Elyra studied him, her dark lashes lowering slightly. There was something in his posture—shoulders tight, jaw clenched—that made her feel the familiar itch beneath her ribs. Not pity. Never that. But recognition, maybe. Kinship, of a kind. The way the world had tried to tell both of them what they were allowed to be.

She moved toward him with the elegance of moonlight sliding across still water—unhurried, but inevitable. No rustle of silk or crunch of snow, just the soft whisper of her breath in the cold. She drew close enough to see the flicker of surprise in his eyes, and the tension in his frame that was so like a sword, half-drawn.

Her fingers brushed his wrist, featherlight, the first touch electric in the space between them. She watched his eyes for resistance. For reason. Found only breathlessness.

So she leaned in, slowly, so he could stop her if he wanted—though she already knew he wouldn't. Her lips found his with the confidence of someone who'd always gotten what she wanted, but kissed like she didn't know if she ever would again. A breathless, molten kiss that tasted of stolen wine and unspoken thoughts.

And when she finally pulled back, barely an inch between them, she smiled like the moon was watching. "There," she murmured, voice like velvet sliding over steel. "Now when you're shivering on that Wall, you can close your eyes and remember… Winterfell wasn't always cold."

 

[Risky]

Jon Snow, Bastard of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell

His Uncle Benjen had joined him on the balcony when both of them grew sick of the warmth of the hearth, and the beating of lips against goblets mixed with false laughter. It was not often that King Robert and his entourage deemed the North a worthy visit, and considering the private conversation in the Stark Catacombs earlier, House Stark prepared for the worst.

House Lannister had always maintained a loose rivalry with the Starks, and to keep the balance of power, King Robert had opted to marry Cersei Lannister. The sentiment of a King's visit was echoed in the words of House Stark: 'Winter is Coming', for they always feared the worst, and were realistic about what was coming. They maintained these words even through the longest Summer in living memory, though that 'Summer' in the North was still chilly to their Southern visitors.

But Jon's father had returned with news that the King sought his service in the Capital, that he had yet to agree or decline the offer... But his service was required. The former Hand of the King, Lord Jon Arryn, had recently died under mysterious circumstances. And now the King sought to bring a Wolf into his service, rather than a shield.

The dilemma had left Jon Snow with a few options he had yet to consider. His Uncle was a man of the Night's Watch, and had always been there for Jon when he needed him most, far more loving than either of his parents had truly been to him. He hardly considered himself a Stark, and he knew that if he joined the Watch, he could cast off any name and serve the realm as a faceless guardian against the Night.

But there was another future to consider that kept his honor and name intact.

He could serve his House rather than the realm, stay with his brothers who treated him as kin, and loved him despite his troublesome birth. He was far more accustomed to the former option; he had little to hold out for South of the Wall.

"You've still time to make your decision, Jon," the gruff voice of his Uncle spoke over a flagon of mead. He seemed to enjoy talking to Jon whenever he rode South, even though they always talked about the same thing. "I could always take you to the Wall on m'way back North," his hand moved the flagon as if to showcase the direction, but Jon's eyes were fixated elsewhere.

"I'll let you know my decision in the morning," Jon's voice was low, and his conflict was spelled clearly across every syllable. There was hesitation between words, and he could not bring his dark gaze to meet his Uncle's. It was as if he was already saying no to him, but could not bring himself to do it.

"You know I won't be upset if you decide to stay in Winterfell, don't you?" Benjen laughed before clapping Jon on the shoulder, a slight sway to his step as he returned to the warmth of the hearth.

A second, far fairer voice cut through the darkness and the flecks of snow that drifted down over the balcony as his Uncle left him. Jon turned his head to find a beautiful woman of reddish-brown hair approaching him, her voice drawing gooseflesh over his arms despite his usual tenacity against the chill of Winterfell's night air.

He wanted to interject when she talked about the Wall, doubting that she had ever been there, but he hesitated as she continued to close the distance between them. Her shadow flickered against torchlight when she finally halted, his head tilting to the side as she raised her goblet and admitted to him that she steals from kitchens.

"Did you steal from the kitchen here? Seems improper for a Lady," he scoffed quietly while ripping his attention away from the beautiful, mysterious figure that lurked just outside his reach. There was a tension between them that he could not explain, nor had he experienced. Every word she spoke dripped with something that forced a small shudder through him, as if she knew the perfect tone to take with him.

"Most just stick with Snow or Bastard," his gloved fist clenched against the snow-covered parapet, when she referred to him as 'Lord Stark's inconvenient truth.' It was hard enough to deal with the smirks and whispers of Southern lords and ladies, but the woman who spoke to him now did not wear the flowery patterns or the disingenuous smirks that marked Lannisters so plainly.

"I know House Frostmere, your father is Bannerman to mine," he had been drilled mercilessly on the Northern Houses, even the minor ones. From Bear Island to the Karstarks, they all contributed to the Warden of the North's armies and taxes. His brief flash to his Maester's lessons had him miss the next steps she took forward, so that when he blinked again, she was far closer than she had been. She spoke of the oath he would take if he followed his Uncle to the Wall and how he had yet to live... And how she kept knives in her garters.

This woman confused him; she was dangerous yet genuine, offensive yet beautiful, and he had no idea what to make of her. He only knew that his chest tightened when she drew closer to him, his head tilted, and his brows furrowed together when she tipped her head up to address the curtain of stars that hung over them.

"I don't know if I'll take the Black, but I have nothing here." Jon wasn't sure why he was telling her this, how she had disarmed him enough to pry information from him that his brothers and sisters would have had to torture out of him. "People already mistake me for a Lord, a poet is less conspicuous," an attempt at a joke, though his monotone voice hardly allowed it to land.

She drew ever closer, and now he could hear his heartbeat in his ears. His eyes could not meet hers as she pressed him and slunk around him with ease. Her fingers brushed over his wrist, and more gooseflesh sprouted where her soft touch registered against his flesh. He blinked and found her gaze intense enough to be forced to meet it, only to find her lips pressed gently against his. He had only been kissed by a woman once, and it had not been a pleasant memory for him.

Though her lips were far more pleasant, she had pulled away by the time he had registered their touch, leaving him flustered and blinking while she pulled away.

The incessant thrum of his heart forced shallow breaths from him, visible against the cold night as she remained just a breath away, whispering to him about how Winterfell wasn't always cold. He wanted more than anything to feel her lips again, the brief exposure almost addicting with its wine-stained flavor and the excitement that her beauty spurred in him. He closed that gap between them, this time his lips offering a kiss rather than just taking one.

 

[VelvetWhispers]

The stars above blinked down like knowing eyes when Elyra Frostmere tilted her face back toward them. For a moment, she imagined they whispered secrets only the cold could keep—secrets of men and kings, of honour and mistakes. Her lashes, dusted with snowflakes, fluttered as she drew her gaze back down to him.

Jon Snow.

Brooding as the sky, stubborn as the Wall, and, from what she'd just learned, far too ready to throw his life into its icy jaws.

It was only supposed to be a moment—a soft disruption to a harder choice. A clever tongue to challenge a quiet mind, not the beginning of anything. She'd stepped from the shadows with the sole intention of guiding a young man back from the edge of a cliff he didn't yet realize he stood upon. And yet… here she was, toes at the edge herself.

The goblet in her hand tilted slightly as he turned to face her, his expression unreadable, his eyes… gods, they were too old for someone so young. Elyra had known men with fewer years and fewer burdens—but they'd carried them with much more pomp, and far less poetry.

Then he kissed her.

Bold. Unexpected. Warm in all the places the cold had touched. Her breath hitched, more in surprise than protest, the goblet slipping from her hand with a soft crunch into the snow below. Oh… so the brooding Bastard could bite.

She should have pushed him back. Should have smirked, mocked, retreated with a quip about lost honour and stolen wine. But the world fell strangely quiet, the cold disappeared beneath the fever of a spark too sudden to be sensible, and for one long heartbeat, Elyra leaned in.

Their bodies moved closer, the heat of him pulling her in like a moth circling flame. Her hands ghosted over the furs at his collar, gripping briefly, anchoring herself to something real—even if it was only for a moment. Their lips met again, this time deeper, hungrier, an embrace that defied the stark chill around them. When they finally parted for breath, the cold rushed back in, shocking her lungs with the sting of winter air.

She let out a soft, breathless laugh, the sound rich with disbelief and mischief. "Well, Snow," she murmured, tilting her head just so, "for a boy who claims to have nothing here… you certainly kiss like a man who's trying to stay."

And then—

"Elyra!"

The night shattered like a dropped blade on stone. Her twin's voice cracked across the courtyard like a whip, full of vexation and the barely-veiled edge of amusement.

She sighed, eyes fluttering shut as she stepped back from Jon. "And just like that, my sins are summoned."

She didn't wait for Jon to say anything—didn't trust herself to linger. Instead, she gave him a smirk, sweet and razor-sharp all at once. "You have a mind, Snow. Use it well. I hope when you choose, it's for life… not just for duty."

With a glance over her shoulder—one last look at the boy beneath the bastard name—she turned and descended the steps, meeting her twin halfway down the path.

Elric Frostmere stood like a statue carved from wind and frost, all leather and steel, a pale gleam to his sword's pommel catching the torchlight.

He arched a brow. "Jon Snow? Really?"

Elyra's smile curled slowly. "I was bored. And curious. He's got brooding down to an art."

"Mm." Elric gave her a long look, then snorted. "Father's going to love this."

They walked in companionable silence through the courtyard, the sounds of the feast muffled behind heavy stone walls. As they reached the Great Hall's side door, Elric elbowed her lightly. "Don't tell me you're getting sweet on him. He looks like he reads poetry and scowls at soup."

"I like soup," Elyra replied breezily, brushing snow off her skirts. "And I've always had a weakness for brooding boys with identity crises."

Her twin only grunted.

Inside, Lord Aldric Frostmere stood like an old, gnarled tree dressed in wolf's fur—an odd man, even by Northern standards. His long hair was streaked with grey, his left eye half-clouded, and his weathered hands always seemed to twitch near a blade's hilt, as though daring fate to interrupt him mid-thought.

"You were gone too long," he said as they entered, his gaze swinging from Elric to Elyra. "With a boy."

"With a Bastard," Elric muttered.

Elyra curtsied low, the move graceful despite the smirk on her lips. "He was thinking of taking the Black, Father. I thought it my duty to save him from celibacy."

A long sigh from the Lord of Frostmere. "You jest, as always. But listen now. Lord Stark and his daughters may travel south with the King. If they do… you'll go with them."

Elyra blinked. "As a handmaiden?"

"No," her father said plainly, "as a shadow."

Her amusement flickered. That tone in his voice meant more than it said. She glanced at Elric, who nodded once, then leaned back against a pillar, arms folded.

"Your… talents," Aldric continued, "may be better suited for King's Landing. You'll watch. You'll listen. And if the Starks are walking into danger, you will be the dagger before the threat."

Elyra's fingers twitched at her side, aching for the weight of her blade. She hadn't held one all night, but the muscle memory never left.

In her mind, she pictured the steel hidden beneath her bed. The way it sang when drawn. The way it balanced in her hand like it was born there. Unlike other noble daughters, she hadn't spent her girlhood stitching needlepoint. She'd stitched wounds instead—her own, Elric's, once even her baby brother and heir to her father, Elton's tiny thumb when he tried to play soldier too soon.

She smiled, slow and wicked. "Then I'll bring my best dresses and my sharpest knives."

---

Winterfell's Great Hall was warm with firelight and thick with the scent of roasted boar and spiced wine, but Elyra Frostmere had never felt more like a wolf in velvet.

She stood just behind her father's left shoulder, dressed in the deep blue and silver of House Frostmere, her wine-dark hair pinned up with carved bone combs. Her twin, Elric, stood to their right like a shadow made flesh, silent and sword-strapped. He hadn't even touched his wine.

She sipped hers, slowly. Her eyes drifted across the long tables where lords and ladies gathered beneath the carved direwolves of House Stark. At the high table, the royal family glittered with Southern indulgence—Lannisters gold-gilded and smug, King Robert already half-soused and red-faced, slurring loudly at Ned Stark as if the Warden of the North were deaf.

But Elyra's attention—like her father's—was focused on the Starks.

The quiet dignity of Lord Eddard Stark was impressive, if a touch predictable. His words were few, his looks fewer, but each was weighty. Next to him sat Lady Catelyn, regal and controlled, though her mouth tensed every time King Robert made one of his louder declarations.

And then—ah yes—the girls.

Lady Sansa sat prim as a doll, every auburn curl in perfect place, her posture rigid as a banner pole. Arya, on the other hand, had just lobbed a piece of bread at her sister's head.

Sansa gasped as though she'd been struck with a mace.

Elyra took another sip of wine to hide her grin. Gods help the Seven Kingdoms if those two ever agreed on anything.

"Lord Stark," her father intoned beside her, deep voice cutting through the din with the subtlety of a drawn sword. He stood with the solemn confidence of a man who rarely asked for anything—but when he did, it wasn't a request.

Ned Stark turned, gaze calm but sharp. "Lord Frostmere."

"I ask a favour." Aldric inclined his head ever so slightly—an honour from him, more than most kings would get. "My daughter, Elyra, has been trained well beyond embroidery and courtly manners. If you do travel south, I would see her serve your household. As a handmaiden to your daughters."

Lady Catelyn turned, her blue eyes landing on Elyra with the swiftness of an appraising falcon. Elyra smiled—not the sweet smile of a Southern lady, but one with a flash of teeth. She curtsied low, her back straight and neck poised, the perfect picture of obedience. A lie, but a well-dressed one.

"I assure you, Lady Stark," her father continued, "she is quick of mind, discreet by nature, and far more adept with a...needle than any of my guards will admit. Should you find yourselves in less polite company, she will do more than fix a hem."

Lady Catelyn's eyes narrowed slightly. "And why would we expect less polite company?"

Elyra's smile sharpened. Ah, the tension beneath the courtesies. There it was.

"We live in interesting times," Aldric replied mildly. "I would rest easier knowing a pair of sharp eyes and sharper instincts travel with your daughters."

"She is… unorthodox," Lady Stark said finally, and Elyra inclined her head.

"I've been called worse, my lady. I only stab when spoken to."

That earned a snort from Arya—unladylike and delighted—and a scandalized huff from Sansa, who clearly thought laughter at a jest like that entirely beneath her. Catelyn's lips twitched ever so slightly.

Lord Stark's gaze lingered on Elyra, unreadable as a winter sky. After a long pause, he nodded once. "If Cat agrees, I do as well."

Lady Catelyn gave a curt nod. "She may serve. They leave on the morrow. I suggest she pack with haste."

"I already have," Elyra said lightly, casting a sideways glance at the Stark sisters. "I travel light."

And fast. And deadly.

As Lord and Lady Stark turned back to their royal company, Aldric Frostmere leaned toward his daughter and murmured low enough that only she and Elric could hear: "Do not embarrass our House."

"I never do," Elyra replied, lifting her goblet. "It's everyone else who fails to meet expectations."

Elric gave her a sidelong look, then returned to scanning the hall, clearly hoping no one would flirt with her until they left.

Elyra's eyes drifted toward Jon Snow across the room. He hadn't looked her way yet. Good. She wasn't sure what she'd do if he did.

She was going south with the Starks. That kiss had been a moment stolen from a night steeped in frost and fire—but it was over. It had to be.

Still… the next time she kissed a man, she suspected she'd think of Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell, and the way his lips tasted of snow and heartbreak.

But for now, she had shadows to walk in and secrets to watch unfold.

And gods, wasn't that more fun anyway?

 

[Risky]

Jon Snow hadn't been quite sure of his words and actions before she had approached him, but her first chaste kiss to his lips had completely turned that around. It was as if something unlocked inside him, and he was not in control as he closed the distance again to take what she had offered him only once.

Her body tensed for a moment just as his had, but she was far more experienced on this playing field. He was sure that if he had handed her a sword, she would have floundered just as he had when her lips first pressed to his, but unlike the would-be result of a duel between them, he wanted more. She seemed to want the same as her hands held on to his cloak, and she pulled herself closer to him.

He had always considered himself a fast learner, and he was proving it as he tilted his head to the side to match her deepening of their second kiss. He could feel her lips pull some of the breath that left him as he enjoyed that taste again, the taste of Arbor wine on her lips while his hand lifted to push through her reddish-brown locks. There was an indescribable warmth that he felt from kissing her, one that he knew he could grow addicted to if it was allowed to linger.

Luckily or unluckily for him, the two needed to part for breath, leaving him quietly panting in the chill of the night. The call for the woman who had been kissing him brought him back to reality, and his eyes snapped forward over Elyra's figure.

Her words forced a breath from him, and his dark eyes snapped to meet hers. If there was a sign from the Gods that he should not take the Black, that he should remain South of the Wall and remain with the Starks, then it had been delivered to him in the form of this woman before him. Her words sealed the decision he had been fighting to make, forcing a grimace over his handsome features as he realized he would have to tell his Uncle Benjen.

She met his gaze one more time before she left him alone on the balcony, his fur-covered form stooping low to pick up the goblet she had dropped. His hand tightened around it, and he winced at the thought of never seeing her again, but perhaps it would be for the best if they both continued their lives. There were few instances of chosen relationships working in the Seven Kingdoms, and he was sure that that trend would not be broken by a Bastard and the daughter of a minor Northern Lord.

Jon left the balcony and returned the goblet she had taken to the table by the hearth, avoiding the questioning gazes and the whispers that followed in his wake. Whether they were about his birth or what someone had surely seen on the balcony, he could not tell, and he was not staying to find out.

Eddard Stark was also not a man for parties and gossip, and Jon took after his father directly. The two met in the halls of Winterfell, silently beginning a walk together through the chambers that had been constructed by the First Men.

"You're still considering the Wall?" his Father questioned him, casting him a sidelong glance while walking with his hands nestled at the small of his back.

"No, I don't think I am," Jon admitted while walking left and abreast of his Father, who turned his head fully and raised his brows at the admission.

"Really? It seemed your mind was set... What changed it?" There was almost an accusation hidden behind his words, but this was Eddard Stark he was speaking to. Jon knew that his Father would support him no matter his decision, but his reasons were essential to such a man of honor and virtue.

"In times such as these... Family is more important than ever," Jon was not a natural liar, and he doubted that the pause between his words eased the concern. But he didn't want to admit to his Father that it had been a kiss from a woman that had changed his mind. He was sure that if he explained to him that a Noblewoman of the North had kissed him on their balcony, his Father would launch into a detailed explanation on maintaining one's honor and commitment to what is right, even with female attention.

Though in that regard, Ned Stark did not have much room to talk.

Jon was living proof of his father's dishonor, and he was sure that Catelyn Stark would have gladly sent him off to the Wall to be rid of him. But Jon could not have expected his Father's reaction to his decision not to join the Night's Watch.

"You're right about family, and our family needs you... You'll come with me to King's Landing, protect the girls... And me." The last part was clearly a jest, and his Father's war-worn face had broken into a slight smile when he had said it. "Robert wants me to be Hand of the King, and I'll bring a host of Wolves to attend his galas and feasts," he clapped his son on the shoulder and gave him a reassuring smile before leaving him alone in the hallway.

---

Jaime Lannister, son of Tywin, Kingsguard to King Robert Baratheon, Kingslayer.

It was not often that Jaime Lannister found himself without his sword and armor, but King Robert had boasted about being among friends while walking with his host directly into a wolf's den. It wouldn't have been the first time Jaime had reminded Robert that the Starks were no friends of the family Robert had married into, and it wouldn't have been the first time Robert would have told him to fuck off.

Each passing hour in Winterfell, Jaime hoped to see a spear driven into the fat bastard's gut, just to see the look on his face when he realized that he had been betrayed by the Northern rabble who had always valued their lands and traditions above loyalty to the Crown.

Yet with each hour, there was no spear.

He had been sparring in the courtyard with a few Northern soldiers who had gone on and on about how they did not believe the rumors to be true, that his skill was surely exaggerated. It was far more pleasurable beating them into the mud than it was facing his sister, who had been eyeing him since they had arrived in Winterfell.

"We must find a secluded place, I haven't felt you in so long~" the words forced a shiver through him. He had not been with Cersei for months now; the weight of the oaths he had broken had borne down on him far too heavily to continue. The King had already borne several of his children with golden hair, and Jaime had told Cersei they needed to stop while they were ahead. So many times had he heard the same speech about the Targaryens and their incestual marriages, and so many times he had felt the weight of regret after lying with the woman that he could not help but love.

"It's a plate, not the Mad King, Jaime!" The well-rounded, gruff voice of King Robert called out to him as his knife ground against his plate, the voice snapping him from his thoughts. The Frostmere's had been asking the Starks' permission for their daughter to attend the new Hand of the King to King's Landing, and he had been thinking about Cersei... It was an embarrassment, to say the least.

Though he was conflicted on if his thoughts of fucking his sister were more embarrassing than the host of giggles and roaring laughter that now echoed around the long table of the Starks at King Robert's comment.

"We've dragged on long enough with these... Politics," King Robert practically spat the last word, chunks of meat flying from his plump lips as he continued pontificating, always one to control the room he was in. "Tell us about the Mad King, Jaime, and how you restrain yourself from putting a sword through my back." His sense of humor had never quite landed with Jaime, and it was somehow worse with all of these expectant faces around him.

"I should credit my father Tywin with the plan, and he sent a raven asking me to put an end to the siege of King's Landing... That's all there is to say." Jaime glanced down at the dent he had forged into his plate while cutting his meat, rising from his chair. "If you would excuse me, Your Grace, I should rest before tonight's watch." It would have been an easy way to escape this table filled with faces he would have rather seen mounted on pikes, but Robert was never one to let him off easy.

"You'll stay, at least until I've made my announcement," Robert growled, forcing his Kingsguard, who in different circumstances could have put his fork through Robert's eye at a distance, to retake his seat.

"Lord Frostmere was aware that Ned is returning to King's Landing with us, but I wanted to wait to explain why," Robert leaned back in his chair, allowing his fat to overflow from a tunic that had probably fit him nicely a decade prior.

"Ned will serve as my Hand, to replace Lord Aeryn of the Vale, and to guide and protect the realm as we did when we overthrew the Mad King and his dogs." Again, he managed to spit his words before he leaned forward, his audience on the verge of applauding but perhaps too afraid to do so before he finished speaking.

"The Realm will never see a more capable Hand, and I would expect you all to grant him leave as he adjusts to his new position... And for the Starks to adjust to losing the Warden of the North in Winterfell," he looked around the table, his eyes settling on Robert Stark. "You will be the eldest Stark man of Winterfell, you've come a long way since you were just a babe suckling from your mother's tit," he laughed.

Jaime wanted to bury his head in his hands, but instead started applauding before Robert could continue to make a fool of himself. The rest of the table erupted with polite applause and false smiles, earning Jaime his leave as he quickly fled from the table. He could feel Cersei's eyes following him on the way out of the room; he just hoped that she didn't know where his quarters were.

 

[VelvetWhispers]

Lord Elric Frostmere

Elric Frostmere sat at the edge of the long table, face unreadable over the muted silver of his (her) surcoat, sword at his hip, eyes catching every flicker of torchlight and tension across the Great Hall. No one spoke to him much. That was fine.

The Kingslayer sat not far from the king, a golden lion slowly unraveling beneath the weight of Robert Baratheon's drunken pomp. Elric said nothing. Watched everything.

It was not the first time Jaime Lannister had been shamed by his king in public—so the stories said. Still, there was something different about witnessing it. The King's jabs were loud and graceless, gorged with meat and soaked in wine, but they cut deep all the same. The false laughter that followed echoed like clanging bells off stone.

Elric's gloved hands remained clasped, still and silent, but her mind was moving like the wind across an open moor.

So this is the lion they say outshines the rest. Golden, yes. Sharp, perhaps. But tame.

She had watched him spar earlier in the day, half-hidden in the shadow of the training yard's wooden arch, arms crossed, cloak pulled close. The northern soldiers—brave, foolish men—had come to test the legend. Jaime Lannister had humored them. Three fell to the mud in as many minutes. Four more followed.

He moved like a man who barely thought of movement. His footwork was unremarkable, even lazy—but his sword hand? It was fast, fluid, and merciless.

Too smooth. Too arrogant. He's used to being the best in the yard. No, not just used to it. Dependent on it. Elric who's true name was Elise had watched carefully, not for faults, but for cracks. There were few. But the ones that existed were etched not into his technique—but into his soul.

He was distracted.

Even now, across the table, she saw it. The flicker of disgust behind his eyes. The way he carved his plate to avoid looking at Queen Cersei. Elric was not a gossipmonger, but whispers traveled faster than ravens. And ravens, after all, knew when blood mingled with royalty in unnatural ways.

Still—despite everything—it was difficult to feel only contempt. Watching a man like Jaime Lannister reduced to a jesting target for Robert's amusement stirred something else in her.

Pity. That's what it is. A rare thing for a lion from the South.

But before she could dig deeper into that thought, her gaze drifted—inevitably—to the far end of the hall, where her sister danced like she was born to it.

Elyra spun between the arms of a Tyrell cousin and then a northern bannerman, all quick smiles and charming barbs. She was radiant in her Frostmere blue and silver, hair braided with fine silver thread, laughter rising like a summer stream above the clatter of plates and the heavy boom of Robert's voice.

Elric watched her sister move with an ease she had never felt. How Elyra endured the crush of silk, the eyes of men, the rustling of whispered expectations—Elric would never understand.

She herself had been born Elise, twin to a daughter of the Frostmeres, but raised by Lord Aldric as a first son. Not out of rebellion or cruelty, but because he had seen something sharp in her and knew she would never flourish in a gown. She had held a sword before she'd bled her first moon. And when people spoke to her—to him—they lowered their voices and spoke as men to men. Never once had anyone questioned that Lord Elric Frostmere was anything but what they appeared to be.

That life had its costs, of course. Secrecy. Distance. A certain loneliness. But no betrothal hung around her neck like a noose. No whispers of childbirth or duty weighed her steps. No man called her pretty thing or gentle lady and tried to pen her behind walls.

She would rather die.

The sound of chairs shifting and Robert's voice rising again pulled her back to the present.

"…Ned will serve as my Hand," Robert roared, and the hall shifted—gasps, mutters, applause rising in uneven waves.

Elric frowned slightly, eyes narrowing. She respected Lord Stark. He was a man of cold truths and quiet actions. But to leave Winterfell?

The North would not weather his absence easily.

With the applause still ringing, Elric rose quietly and excused himself, the heavy bench creaking behind him as he stepped away from the heat and sound.

The night met him like an old friend.

Cold, clean air kissed his face, cooling the warmth the hall had burned into his skin. Lanterns flickered against stone walls, their light casting long shadows across Winterfell's towers. The sound of revelry dulled behind wooden doors—music and voices muffled by thick walls, the smell of roast meat lingering in the air like a memory that refused to fade.

He passed by the kitchens, where a fat orange cat lounged on a barrel. It blinked up at him, tail flicking. Elric knelt silently, rubbing behind its ears. The cat purred. Even that, he preferred over the company in the hall.

Soon he was near the barracks, boots crunching against frost-hardened earth, where the courtyard opened like a darkened arena. A few torches lit the area dimly, but the sky above was a brilliant sprawl of stars, cold and glittering.

Elric stepped onto the packed dirt and approached the wooden dummy at the edge of the training yard.

He unfastened his cloak, letting it fall onto a bench. From beneath his coat he drew his sword—not the ornate Frostmere ceremonial blade, but the one he had forged in secret under the eye of the blacksmith, balanced perfectly to her weight and her speed.

No spectators. No challengers.

Just her. The cold. And the fire inside.

She began to move.

Each strike was measured. Each turn, practiced. The sword became an extension of her arm, her breath matching the rhythm of steel through air. She struck high, low, spun, ducked. Again. And again. Not with Jaime's arrogance—but with control.

He may have been born into brilliance. I will earn it.

She circled the dummy like it could bleed, her muscles aching, her breath misting the air.

The wind picked up. Distant laughter echoed from the Great Hall. Somewhere, Elyra was probably making a lord blush into his wine. And somewhere in the tower above, Jaime Lannister was probably cursing his golden fate.

Elric Frostmere, the silent twin, danced with shadows and wood, chasing perfection beneath a starlit sky.

And for a while, no one in the world existed but her blade.

 

[Risky]

Jaime Lannister skulked through the halls of Winterfell with a cup of wine in his hand, criss-crossing his steps as he imagined the lines of the cobbled floor moving out of his path. Flickering torchlight of the roving patrols made him walk normally for a little while on his way back to his chambers, but resumed his pacing when they had their backs turned.

The great halls of Winterfell were a far better place to think to himself on matters of life than the long table or the dueling grounds had been.

When he stepped into his chambers, he felt his brows furrow at the soft but unmistakable noise of steel striking wood. His hearing had been honed through years of training to be a knight, listening and waiting before striking. It was something that he had cast aside as a young man, that he would never need to wait and listen when there was a battlefield to take.

But the teachings of the knight he had squired for stuck with him despite his resistance to them, and now they drew him to the window of his chambers to look down at a nook of the Winterfell courtyard.

He watched the figure move gracefully and accurately, causing him to tilt his head to the side at the display. Of course, the warrior down there was probably unaware that he was being watched, but still, Jaime observed to see if they were worth anything. He had already fought several warriors today, but none had been worth his time.

This one appeared different, though; he wasn't fighting to show off, he was fighting to win.

He could suddenly feel the tug of his winter coat and sword placed neatly on his bed, his eyes glancing to the side to take stock of the items that whispered for him to don them before making his way across the room to them. Sparring in the cold would surely be preferable to dealing with Robert, or Cersei, for that matter.

Jaime wrapped the cloak around himself before adjusting his sword belt and leaving his chambers. The fine leather scabbard brushed against his leg with each powerful movement as he walked the halls with a purpose, navigating the twists and turns of the defensible tower before finally arriving back in the courtyard.

His boots crunched heavily against the snow, moving without the grace he had witnessed from the warrior. It was obvious that he was approaching, and he wouldn't have had it any other way, preferring to announce his arrival rather than sneaking around.

"I saw you here earlier, and at the feast," he observed from behind the warrior, setting his hand to rest on the pommel of his blade. "But I don't believe I know who you are, you're certainly not a knight," his words were unintentionally barbed as they tended to be. He had learned his mannerisms from Lords and Ladies, and there was always some veiled insult lingering behind what they said.

"You're not a knight, yet you appear to be a better fighter than most knights I know." Jaime laughed, his mind flickering to the pompous and ridiculous knights of King's Landing. Those who would sweat and cry at the sight of a true battle, who would not be able to overcome the sucking mud of a trench.

"But you'll learn very little sparring with something that can't fight back, and Gods know I need someone capable to keep my wits sharp," his words were accentuated by the soft hiss of steel leaving leather. Jaime Lannister's cloak fell to the snow-covered ground, and his sword flashed a brief reflection of the moonlight peering through dark clouds as he brought his famous blade to bear. The one that had killed the Mad King, the one he hardly used the sharp edge of these days.

"I doubt you'll have trouble dueling with sharp blades. I'll just use the flat edge." It was a taunt wrapped with false concern for his opponent's well-being. Using the flat of his blade would put him at a massive disadvantage, like a swordmaster teaching a boy to swing a stick for the first time.

The snow beneath him gently crunched with each sink of his boot as he shifted in a half-circle to observe his opponent, his sword facing Elric across Jaime's leg, ready to be brought up in response to any provocation. Jaime was more than a capable swordfighter; his display in the yard earlier had been reserved for facing opponents who didn't know any better. He had gotten the impression of fighting farmers when taking on the Northmen, but this was different.

His sword spun expertly as he closed the distance with a flash, impressive for a knight growing old as he was. Their blades sang as they connected for the first time, steel against steel as he drew their guards to lock.

"Knights these days are not battle-hardened, they fight with honor," his teeth were gritting, holding the locked guard as he lashed out with his leg, sweeping between Elric's to take him off-balance, their mutual guard breaking as he took advantage. "Honor is for gravestones and crypts, and for wooden dummies," he spoke as he roughly slammed the flat edge of his blade against Elric's thigh, what would have been a devastating, but slow, fatal wound.

Jaime was under no impression that the hot-blooded warrior would be done after one bout, and he expertly skirted backward to bring his blade up to guard again.

"You have grace and skill, things better suited to a woman," Jaime remarked, not knowing how valid his words were. He had intended them as an insult; of course, it was often his strategy to force his opponent's hand through pure rage and annoyance. It took a skilled warrior to make easy quips and insults during a duel, and Jaime was obviously practiced.

"Surely you won't allow me to beat you so easily this time."

 

[VelvetWhispers]

The sound of footsteps reached her long before the shape did.

Elric halted mid-stroke, the sword angled overhead, frozen in motion as the snow beneath her boots absorbed the last echo of impact. It was not the careful tread of a patrolling guard nor the hurried clatter of a drunk stumbling from the feast. This walk had purpose. Confidence. Weight.

She turned, slow and deliberate, the cold wind teasing a loose strand of dark hair from the tie at the nape of her neck. Pale breath drifted lazily from her lips as her eyes settled on the figure that stepped from the archway.

Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer himself.

Up close, he was still handsome in the way a lion was handsome—sleek, regal, golden—but age was creeping at his temples, faint lines whispering around his mouth and eyes. His beauty was no longer boyish. It was harder now, tired. She had seen him earlier at the feast, flanked by wine and shadow, his laughter sharp, edged like the blade he now carried.

Elric didn't twitch. Not a blink. Not a shift of stance.

She knew the type. Men who walked like the world owed them something. Who tilted their chins and measured others in silences between barbs. His words spilled out, laced with the kind of disdain that might rile up younger swords or prouder ones.

But Elric Frostmere was neither.

She simply listened. And she watched.

You're not a knight, he said, and she nearly smiled.

No. I'm not. But not for the reasons he thought.

His praise, if one could call it that, was wrapped in mockery. She imagined his barbed words might stir a lesser man into posturing or protest. But Elric found the whole exchange vaguely amusing—like a play rehearsed a thousand times, predictable in its turns.

As he drew his blade and it caught the moonlight like a mirror to old sins, she turned to face him fully, drawing her own blade. She kept her stance slow, too slow, her parries lazy and late. Not enough to humiliate herself, but enough to draw him in.

Let him think she was green. Let him lean into that arrogance. He was testing her—good. She was testing him too.

When his blade met hers the first time, steel sang its old, cold song. The clash reverberated up her arm, familiar and welcome. He locked guards quickly, boldly, and she gave ground. Let him sweep her leg, felt the sting of the flat against her thigh. The kind of blow meant to sting, not maim. The kind meant to lecture.

Still, she gave no outward reaction.

His talk of honour made her blink, and only then because she found the irony bitterly delightful. And when he spoke of her grace being more fitting for a woman, she did smile—though faintly and only to herself. If only he knew.

He moved back, confident again, sword readied. Waiting.

She drew herself up slowly, brushing snow from her coat like it mattered. Then she stepped forward. A slow, lazy arc of her blade came down toward him—not hard enough to hit, not fast enough to matter, but precise. Measured. A move made to bait a counter.

"You speak of honour like a man who's misplaced his," she said at last, her voice low, steady as the steel she wielded. "Honour may be for crypts… but I hear dishonour tends to end up there too."

Another slow strike. Her blade kissed his guard with the gentleness of a whisper, but her feet moved now—one angled step to his left, just enough to test his balance.

"It must be exhausting, carrying all that reputation without breaking your back." she said, as if testing the weight of truth. "If you really believed in what you said, you wouldn't need to say it at all. You sound like a man who's trying to convince himself, not me."

Her eyes found his through the falling snow. Pale blue meeting Lannister gold.

"Strange, isn't it… how the best warriors wear the heaviest masks... You don't speak like a man content with the songs they sing about him. Tell me, Kingslayer—Is it honour you miss, or simply the days before the world started whispering?"

Elric was not trying to win.

Not yet.

She was learning.

And learning, to her, was half the fight.

 

[Risky]

It was strange to him that his goading produced no reaction from his opponent, that there was hardly a word left from the young man's lips as they began their clash. He often expected to be the teacher, as he was an expert swordsman and who wouldn't want to be taught by Jaime Lannister?

But he found himself surprised that this warrior was taking his time, hardly even grunting or wearing that look of surprise that often encased his opponents. It made Jaime more cautious, a sinking feeling that something wasn't right moving straight into his stomach. He dismissed this feeling as just old instincts firing for no reason. He had little to fear from this boy that stood before him, even if he had moved with practice and skill while Jaime had watched him from his window.

The snow was unfamiliar ground for him to fight on, and this was the only disadvantage that the Lannister considered for himself. The warrior opposite of him had obviously trained in the snow, if the northern-forged sword and sigil he wore had anything to say.

The first strike of their second bout was slow, almost purposefully so. Jaime had been used to clumsy opponents, but he had not gathered that this one was clumsy from the brief stint of watching him train. Danger sank into him again as he stepped forward and batted the blow aside, returning to his guard rather than going for the counter strike.

"Everyone ends up in a crypt, but those with honor tend to be there much quicker," he adjusted his stance and squinted as he tried to get a read on his opponent.

He tried to twist his opponent's sword from his hand after the second strike; if he was going to be purposefully clumsy, he would take advantage. He could feel the grip of Elric's blade slipping from his hand until he reacted and brought them both free of the guard once more.

"I'm not trying to convince you, I'm trying to piss you off," Jaime said truthfully; usually this talk of misplaced honor could easily get under the skin of a warrior.

The move forced Jaime to point his foot inward, feeling himself tip forward slightly. Any lesser warrior might have fallen face-first into the snow from the hazardous grapple, but instead, Jaime used it for his first move of the bout. His sword dug into the snow and flashed a screen of white powder into his opponent's face.

Jaime chose not to follow up with his blade, stepping back to observe what his opponent might do when temporarily blinded. Would he swing wildly in hopes of taking the bout? Would he retreat and clear his eyes of the melting snow? It was always an interesting dilemma to witness.

A quiet scoff left him; maybe his opponent was better than he was at getting under skin. He couldn't find a response for those words, though if he had the ear of a confidant, he would have told him that he despised the title that had been bestowed upon him. A Kingsguard remembered for the slaying of his King was hardly a Kingsguard at all, and he wanted a true name for the lexicons.

The chill of the night had already forced a flush to his pale features, but he surely would have been red thinking about being the Kingslayer. He took a breath to steady himself, feeling the weight of cold air sting his lungs as he lunged forward again to meet Elric's blade. Though the words might have been intended to force an arrogant rage from him, his strikes were still precise, though this time not holding back for the flat of the blade as he had promised.

The clang of their swords rang across the stone walls of Winterfell, echoing over the courtyard with each successive strike. Jaime was no longer taking this fight one step at a time; he was trying to wear Elric down. Each strike was only intended to be received, never overreaching or leaving his guard as he tested the stamina of the warrior before him.

His sword tore through snowflakes lazily drifting around them, his eyes flashing dangerously as he pressed forward, trying to corner Elric so that he could finish the bout.

 

[VelvetWhispers]

The second bout began with the same stillness as the first.

Elric adjusted her footing as Jaime advanced, allowing the toe of her boot to drag slightly through the snow, subtly changing the angle of her stance. Her breath ghosted in a steady rhythm, visible in the cold air, slow and unfaltering. Her sword remained low, a position designed to provoke, to tempt a strike she could learn from.

He took the bait, but not fully. His strike was defensive, dismissive even—he batted her blow away without countering, and she saw it in his eyes: suspicion. The Lannister lion was starting to sniff at something that didn't fit his narrative. Good.

She slid sideways, circling with purpose rather than urgency, her blade trailing faint tracks in the snow. Jaime's taunts, those practiced barbs meant to unbalance a man, were no more than wind through the trees to her. His words fell between them:

"Everyone ends up in a crypt, but those with honour tend to be there much quicker."

Elric's eyes narrowed faintly, not from offense, but consideration. That was the difference between them. He wielded words like weapons. She let them pass like weather.

The next exchange came fast—faster than expected. Jaime twisted, trying to disarm her, and for a moment she allowed the motion, her fingers testing the edge of losing grip—then snapping back with quiet defiance. Her sword snapped free, and she pivoted on her heel, turning her body with liquid grace to face him again.

"I'm not trying to convince you, I'm trying to piss you off."

Elric didn't answer. She didn't need to.

Then came the snow. His sword dipped and flung a spray of cold powder into her eyes.

The world blurred white. A lesser warrior would have stumbled, would have swung blind in frustration or retreated, blinking tears and ice.

Instead, Elric smiled.

She let her knees bend, dropping into a crouch beneath the height of a normal follow-up strike. Her free hand brushed swiftly across her brow, clearing most of the snow, and then she surged sideways—not backward, not forward—moving along a diagonal line Jaime wouldn't expect. Her sword came up not in a slash, but in a gentle draw across the air, testing the space like a blindfolded dancer.

She didn't try to land a blow. Not yet. But she felt him watch, and that was enough.

By the time she straightened fully, most of the snow had melted on her cheeks, stung red by cold but otherwise unbothered.

"You throw snow like a drunk tosses wine," she said mildly, the faintest note of amusement in her voice. "Though I suppose both get in the eyes."

He lunged again. This time he was faster, harder—no more pretence of holding back. The clang of steel burst sharp into the night as their swords met. Sparks leapt once, brief and bright. Jaime was driving her, testing her guard.

But now she showed him what she hadn't before.

Her blade turned sharp, smooth—each parry timed not for brute force but for angle. Every step backward was measured, never panicked. She twisted her hips, letting one blow glance off the flat of her sword, then dropped low again, her shoulder nearly brushing the snow, and came up on his blind side.

She didn't strike. She didn't need to. Her movement alone said: I could have.

As she turned back to face him fully, her expression was calm, focused. No triumph. Only clarity.

"You fight like a man who wants to be forgotten for the right reasons," she said next, voice quiet but sure. Her sword dipped again, a faint salute, and then she stepped in, striking—not wild, but with sudden, practiced speed. Their blades met again, sparks flashing, and this time her follow-up was a tight spin and a kick of snow into his boot-line, not to blind, but to throw weight.

The courtyard sang with steel and snow.

Elric fought like the cold itself—slow until sharp, yielding until it cut. Her strength wasn't brute power. It was precision, patience, and something older than pride.

And through it all, she was learning him.

Every shift of his stance. Every breath before he struck. Every hesitation, no matter how small.

She didn't want to win.

Not yet.

She wanted to understand the Lion of Lannister. Blade first. Words second.

But when she next locked swords with him, her voice came again—low and dry:

"You may be trying to piss me off, Ser Jaime. But if you're not careful, I might start enjoying this."

Her lips curled slightly, not quite a smile.

And she pressed forward again.

 

[Risky]

"You seem to have many experiences to draw from for someone so young," he commented on how she kept comparing him to things, utilizing some deep wisdom that might be ascertained from many books or conversations. "How is it you know what a man fights like when he wants something, or is something?" In the brief interlude of their exchange, he paced like an eager animal, hungry for the kill.

The warrior had reacted to his snow throw in a practiced manner, deducing the angle of attack he would most likely take before trying to scamper away from him. Of course, he couldn't have realized that Jaime wouldn't take advantage of the temporary blindness of his opponent. While Elric was learning, Jaime was learning too.

Their swords clashed violently, no longer holding back for single moves and strategic strikes, but a display of swordsmanship that one might observe in a true life-or-death battle. Jaime wanted to draw the best out of this warrior, to see what he was capable of, rather than this facade that he currently faced.

Sparks flew from their colliding blades, and a genuine bark of laughter left him as Elric came about his blind side, barely slipping beneath his guard but not ending their bout yet.

The advance came quicker than Jaime would have liked to admit, but despite his large form, he was surprisingly light on his feet, even in the unfamiliar snow. The advance to his boot line forced him back, lashing out with his sword to force a guard and to halt his advance.

"You'll regret that," Jaime spoke as he struck, putting emphasis on that while flexing his wrists to issue a powerful sideways slash, feeling the fine craftsmanship of Elric's sword bend and hold firm to his power. With their blades locked again, he closed the distance, roughly slamming his knee into Elric's stomach.

He could feel the powerful muscles that lay beneath his opponent's tunic, and a hollow pain spread over his knee as he broke their lock and batted aside Elric's sword once more. It had been like kicking a tree, and it was obvious that his opponent had trained himself as such. There was enough leeway in his body to know that his opponent weighed much less than he did, which should have meant that Jaime brought more power to bear.

His breath was leaving in short, focused exhales, clouding his face in mist with each strike as steam began to curl off his form. The fight was heating him up, and each consecutive blow seemed to draw more sweat and more steam from him that curled around the two warriors locked in what seemed like mortal combat.

This young warrior had age and stamina on his side; an extended bout meant that he could wear Jaime down and eventually take the victory from him. But Jaime was not about to lose to a boy, and there was a passionate fire that burned behind his golden eyes as they once again locked their blades; this time, the full force of his body was behind it.

"Speak for yourself, I'm having the time of my life." His words left in a hiss as he worked on cycling oxygen to his already cold-battered lungs.

As Elric pressed forward, Jaime met him, keeping in mind his weight advantage as he began to bear down on him. He didn't want the warrior to be able to side-step him and throw him, so he kept his back leg set and not extended. Jaime's body twisted, and he slammed the pommel of his blade into the center of Elric's back, sending the warrior stumbling as Jaime retreated to reclaim some breath.

Perhaps Jaime could have used the warrior's stumbling to secure a victory in the bout, but he had a feeling that he still hadn't been shown everything that the warrior was capable of.

"I'm old, and proud of my skills... You can stop holding back now," Jaime growled before advancing again, this time feinting left before bringing his blade in a cross-guard on the right. The warrior was younger, and though he seemed wise, he had potentially underestimated Jaime's speed as his blade caught some fur that laced Elric's armor, tearing it off and leaving a gash in the fine leather. It was not a clean enough blow to secure a victory, but it was the same moral victory that Elric had held over him just moments earlier.

"If I wanted to easily win, I would fight your sister." Jaime was using all of the tools at his disposal to get under his skin, and he had seen the section of the table Elric had been sitting at.

If he couldn't get to him by talking about his skill or stature, then surely family would be a sore subject for the warrior.

Jaime knew he needed to put more power into his offense, and now gripped his blade with two hands instead of one. He advanced again, his strikes battering against Elric's defense with strength that would have shattered a peasant's blade or farming tool. But the two blades that sang the song of death and steel were forged with this intention, the metals hammering and sparking against each other without a chip or break.

That was, until Jaime's sword shattered.

Irony was a fickle thing, for so long Jaime had felt the burden of the sword he carried, the one he had shoved into the Mad King's back. And now, during what was otherwise a pleasant bout from a surprising opponent, the blade that had been forged for a hefty price in the upper reaches of King's Landing finally failed him. Years of battle and bouts had finally caught up to it, and it was no Valyrian Steel, the sudden dislodgement of the metal and the fragments from his blade forcing a retreat and the Lion's back down into the snow of Winterfell.

The grip had left his hands, and there was a puzzled look on his handsome, but aged, features. A quiet scoff, and then a laugh left him as he reached up to push his fingers through his famous blonde locks, nodding to himself as if in confirmation.

"I suppose I won a battle, but the war is yours, my friend." Jaime buried his hand into the snow around him to shift back to his feet.

"A worthy opponent, just as I suspected... And your name was...?"

 

[VelvetWhispers]

Elric Frostmere's feet moved in the snow like she was born to it. She felt the air changing with each of Jaime's strikes, felt the snow melt against her skin from the heat their duel generated. Her blade moved in arcs not born from brute force, but from precision and practiced economy. She knew she didn't have his strength—he was forged from something heavier, denser, and old—but what she lacked in weight she made up for in will.

And speed. That, she had in spades.

When Jaime's knee slammed into her stomach, a gasp burst from her lips, in pain, and in surprise. The breath was stolen from her lungs, and for a moment, the world blurred. Her knees threatened to buckle. But she rode the momentum back, digging her heel into the snow and sliding like wind on ice, controlled and deliberate. She didn't need to match his weight—she needed only to keep moving, keep slipping past the reach of that legendary blade.

Her ribs ached. There'd be a bruise come morning—deep and ugly. She ignored it.

She steadied her breathing, inhaled slow, sharp through her nose. Exhaled through clenched teeth. Controlled, steady. Measured. She could feel sweat freezing near her collar, heat clashing with cold in the furnace of her chest.

"'Regret' is a heavy thing to carry," she muttered between parries, catching the edge of his sideways slash and spinning away from the force of it, her boots kicking up flurries that scattered into moonlit glitter.

His strikes came harder now, like hammerfalls, and she gave up the luxury of matching blow for blow. She slid. Ducked. Redirected rather than blocked, saving the strength in her arms. Her lightness was her shield now, and she moved like a shadow in the snow, darting, bending, disappearing when he thought he had her.

His comment about her sister hit her ears, and for just a heartbeat, she laughed—barely, subtly, a huff through her nose, not sharp or mocking but strangely fond. She didn't take her eyes off him.

"If you fought my sister, she'd poison your wine first," she said, steel ringing as she deflected his two-handed onslaught with blade angled and knees bent. "Then bury you beneath her flower beds. Not as clean as this, but effective."

Her smile vanished as quickly as it appeared. The next strike forced her back, knees straining. She twisted away, using his power against him, ducking below a horizontal cut and slicing toward his side—blocked, again. Their blades sparked. The air was alive with the clash of metal, each blow singing out into the quiet night like thunder beneath the stars.

She drove forward once, twice—then faltered.

He feinted. She caught the shift—but barely—and his sword tore a line through the fur at her shoulder. Leather parted. Cold nipped at her skin.

Her breath caught, not in pain, but in thrill.

Yes. This was it. This was real.

She pushed forward, forcing him back with a flurry of light, quick strikes, each one a question. Can you meet me here? How about here? What if I go high—low—spin—?

The crack was so sudden she didn't believe it.

A high-pitched snap cut the world in two.

His blade shattered. Not bent. Not dulled. Shattered. The sound was unnatural. Metal snapped like brittle wood. A storm of shards sprayed, glinting in the pale courtyard light.

Her blade didn't meet his. There was no resistance. Jaime's sword—broken.

Time slowed. She stood frozen as he stumbled back a step in the snow, fragments of steel scattered like bones across the white.

Her chest rose and fell, faster now, not from exhaustion but from the sudden rupture in rhythm. Her breath was no longer steady. Her expression cracked.

"No," she whispered. Not to him. To the air. To the gods. To whatever cruel force had interrupted.

"No!" she swore again. Her voice was low, near breathless, a silent fury. "That's not right."

She looked at him—truly looked—at the Kingslayer, at the laugh he offered her despite the swordless state he found himself in. Her brows knit together.

"That's not how it was supposed to go," she said at last, voice raw, soft. "You were supposed to finish. I was supposed to finish."

"I was supposed to win," she demanded, stepping forward, her voice coloured with something almost like grief and anger. "Properly. Not because your sword gave up."

A flicker of irritation pulled at Elric Frostmere's brow as she stood over the fragments of Jaime Lannister's shattered sword, her breath still steady from the fight, but her spirit off-kilter. She had wanted to earn her victory in full—in steel, sweat, and the clash of equal resolve. The chance to best the Kingslayer in open combat, not by the betrayal of brittle metal, was stolen from her, and that theft soured the air in her lungs. Her eyes flicked to him, expecting—what? Anger? Grief? Some sign that the blade, weighted with legend and blood, had meant something to him. But he only laughed, brushing snow from his golden hair as though he'd merely lost a game of dice. That casual detachment unsettled her more than any feint or strike he'd thrown. It wasn't right. The steel should've sung until it fell to her blade—not snapped in surrender.

It took her a moment to gather herself, her movements remained disciplined. She straightened her spine, lifted her chin. With a slow, deliberate breath, she sheathed her blade.

"I am Elric Frostmere," she answered, voice clear now, ringing in the air like a blade leaving its scabbard. Then she added, with a faint grimace curling the corner of her mouth, "And I would've beaten you, fairly… if your fancy southern steel could stomach northern cold."

She held his gaze a moment longer, her breath still fogging the air between them, her body humming with energy yet to be spent.

Then, she turned slightly, just enough to offer him a path up from the snow, and waited.

Because while the duel might've ended, the respect had only just begun.

 

[Risky]

It had all happened so quickly, and there was still a deep-set surprise lingering in the Knight's chest as he stood from the snow-covered ground. Maybe his sword hadn't been forged with the cold in mind, or maybe it had finally given up after years of use.

But Jaime couldn't remember the last time he had fought that hard.

There was a quiet hiss as he shoved what remained of his blade into his scabbard, his eyes looking at the glinting shards that barely peeked up from their hiding spots littered in the snow of the courtyard. His brows were raised at hearing the rage of how the battle ended from his opponent, whose voice seemed to go a little higher in pitch at the frustration. Jaime wrote it off as Elric being a younger boy whose voice hadn't truly dropped yet.

"I'm not sure you were supposed to win, but I appreciate your eagerness to do so," Jaime sighed while brushing some of the sweat from his forehead. The steam that had been curling off of him had begun to fade, and now the chill was beginning to freeze the sweat on his body, making him doubly cold.

"Besides, you're the warrior who broke the sword that slew the Mad King, that's something, isn't it?" Jaime's brows raised while his boot kicked over one of the fragments that lay on the ground. He bent low to pick up one of the larger pieces, offering it to the warrior. "And you have proof that you did it," he offered.

Though the blade had been with him through so many trials and so many battles... He almost felt relieved that it was destroyed. So often had it felt like a weight dragging him down, so many times had he been asked to show off the blade that he shoved into the Mad King's back, but now it lay in pieces on Northern soil. It was almost poetic, and he had no intention of reforging the blade that had cursed him with the title he hated with every fiber of his being.

"Perhaps your blade would have shattered if we fought in the South," Jaime breathed with a laugh. "If Northern steel is truly better, I should have a sword forged before we depart," he eyed the warrior who had shattered his blade, watching as he introduced himself as Elric Frostmere. He had known the latter half of the warrior's name, but hearing the first name drew curiosity from him.

"Last I heard, Lord Frostmere only had one son, and his name was not Elric." Curiosity sparked in his chest, and he tilted his head to the side while narrowing his eyes slightly. "What are you? A bastard? Or is your Father so ashamed of you that he would not even send a raven to proclaim your birth?" He had seen enough of the passing time to learn even of some minor Lords and their offspring. Not to mention that Tywin Lannister had taken a particular interest in Lord Frostmere over the last year or so, and Jaime enjoyed his snooping for information.

He eyed the warrior as if trying to discern his answer by facial expression alone, but the warrior hadn't given him much, even when he pried during battle. It wasn't very often that Jaime could find an opponent who could go toe-to-toe with him and resist the urge to give into the rage he often inspired in his opponents.

"We'll have to spar again sometime soon... When I have a more suitable blade," he laughed while bending down to retrieve the pieces that he could find of his sword. He didn't want anyone else collecting the pieces, only Elric deserved to maintain one of them. He wasn't sure what he would do with them yet, perhaps throw them into a creek or bury them. But he knew that he didn't want to remake the sword, that he wanted to start fresh.

 

[VelvetWhispers]

The cold was finally beginning to nip at her skin again, where the heat of the fight had momentarily banished Winter's grip. Now the sweat on her brow chilled as it clung to her temple, her chest rising and falling in controlled, shallow breaths as the adrenaline settled, but did not yet leave her.

Elric Frostmere stood quietly as Jaime's sword was surrendered to the snow in fragments—a bitter, anticlimactic end. Her fury at the shattering had already waned, leaving behind a gnawing hollowness rather than the satisfying ache of a bruised rib or split lip earned through a fight rightly finished. It had not been supposed to end like that. She hadn't earned the win, and worse—he hadn't lost it.

She had wanted the final blow, the lock of steel and will that might have forced him to yield, to see him drop to a knee, not because his weapon had crumbled, but because she had brought him there.

When Jaime spoke, "Besides, you're the warrior who broke the sword that slew the Mad King, that's something, isn't it?" She looked at him sidelong, the tension in her jaw relaxing if only slightly.

"Something, is it?" Her lips quirked, just barely. "You might want to be careful. There's a stable boy out there with a cracked old rake who'll start thinking he could break legends too...Kings die like anyone else. Steel doesn't get more sacred just for piercing a crown. If it earned glory for stabbing a madman in the back, then maybe it didn't deserved to break."

Her voice was wry, but quiet. As the shard was offered, she hesitated, fingers flexing before she took it, slowly. The metal was jagged, edges dulled by trauma, but not yet rusted by the snow. She turned it in her palm once, twice, eyes narrowing faintly.

Sometimes, in the quiet between drills or the lonely hours sharpening her blade, Elric had found her mind wandering to that infamous moment in the throne room—Jaime Lannister's sword in the Mad King's back. She wondered, not with judgment, but with a strange, unsettling curiosity, what she would have done if fate had placed her in his boots. To swear an oath meant something to her; it was the thread that kept chaos from unravelling a soldier's soul. But what did an oath mean when the man you served turned mad, when he demanded fire and death for innocents? Could she have raised her sword against a crowned monster, knowing it would brand her forever a traitor? Or would she have stood, rigid and silent, letting others burn? The truth was—she didn't know. And that unknowing, that ambiguity, gnawed at her in ways she would never admit aloud.

"I don't know what I'll do with it."

The murmur barely made it past her breath. It felt wrong to keep it. This wasn't the kind of trophy one mounted or polished. The sword that killed the Mad King—it meant little to her. History was made of steel and blood, but reverence for its tools was for bards and fools. No, this was a sliver of something personal now. Not legacy. Not lore. But the proof of a clash she'd sought not for honour or acclaim, but to measure herself. She wouldn't parade this shard. This fight was hers and hers alone.

For her satisfaction. Her test.

She was still turning the shard in hand when his words shifted tone, grew curious—cutting, even. Her brows lifted slightly as he named her house and danced around the fact she had never truly belonged in it.

"What does it matter?" she said simply, with a shrug. "The sword didn't care what I was. Why should you?"

It wasn't venomous. Just… hollow truth. The kind born of years spent in shadowed halls and back corners of a keep that had no place for a girl with too much edge to her voice and too steady a hand with steel.

Inside, though, there was a flicker of thought she didn't voice. Why did he know of her House at all? Minor Northern lords rarely drew Southern attention—yet Jaime Lannister spoke with the casual certainty of a man who had pored over names and lineages for reasons he'd never confess. Why Lord Frostmere? Why her family?

But she didn't ask. She didn't care enough, not now. If it mattered, it would reveal itself in time. What mattered now was that she'd nearly bested the greatest knight in the realm, and he knew it.

His laughter was unexpected—warm, almost nostalgic as he mused about a future spar. She met his eyes for a moment, then inclined her head with a single nod.

She doubted it. Men like Jaime Lannister rarely stayed in one place long, and even less often returned to the same bout twice.

Still, she said nothing of that.

Instead, her gaze dropped again to the shard, turning it over once more before offering a low-spoken insight.

"You're probably better off without it. Blades carry things heavier than steel, if you let them. Especially ones soaked in too much history."

She said it not as comfort, nor judgment, but as fact. Then she slid the shard into the inner fold of her tunic, where it would rest close, cold and unseen.

The courtyard was quieter now. The heat of battle had faded into the hush of snow settling undisturbed around them once more. And with that, something intangible shifted—curiosity taking root where tension had burned.

She tilted her head, brushing a stray lock of dark hair back behind an ear. Her breath still came evenly despite the exertion, a thin plume curling into the cold air. Jaime had been rambling again—half boasting, half reflecting—as he collected the broken pieces of his once-glorious sword. Elric watched him with cool, narrowed eyes, something unreadable twitching at the corner of her mouth.

Then, with a dry flick of her voice—neither warm nor cruel, just plainly amused—she said, "Do all Southern knights talk more than they fight?"

She let the question hang there like the steam off his shoulders, light as snowfall and just as cutting. It wasn't meant as mockery, not really. If anything, there was the ghost of respect hiding beneath the barb. He had fought well—better than most. But gods, he could talk.

Inwardly, she wasn't even sure why she said it. Maybe it was the way he'd looked at the broken sword like it had freed him. Maybe it was the way his words circled around meaning, never quite landing. He carried a thousand stories on his back, but rarely just stood still with one. She wasn't used to warriors who wrestled more with memory than their opponent's steel.

Still, a smirk ghosted across her lips. Let him wonder if she was mocking or complimenting him. Elric Frostmere didn't mind being both.

They had danced at the edge of something, the two of them. Not friendship. Not rivalry. Something more ephemeral.

And perhaps that was enough.

 

[Risky]

A quiet laugh left him when Elric admitted that he didn't know what to do with the shard of sword he had been given, "That's for you to decide." He dumped the collected pieces of his blade into his pocket and glanced around for any more of them, satisfied to see that there were none remaining.

"A dog could kill a stableboy, what he does with his sharpened stick is none of my concern," he rolled one of his shoulders while wincing. The weight of his age continued to bear down on him, and only grew worse the older he became, and the more he fought. Most knights didn't get to live as long as he or the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard managed to live, though peacetime had come upon them during the long summer.

Once again, he was surprised by the weight of the young warrior's words when he talked about the things blades could carry. His eyebrows raised with curiosity, "And what is that blade carrying?" Jaime motioned to the sword now at his waist.

He could feel that it was becoming his time to leave, that he should return to his chambers before other knights began looking for him. He doubted that their unofficial duel hadn't raised any concern from the local garrison, with the loud clashes of metal and the sparks they had produced. The last thing Jaime Lannister needed was word getting out that his sword hadn't been able to keep up with Northern steel, and while he appreciated the bout, he still had a reputation to maintain.

"Most Southern Knights talk far more than they fight, and most have never known the cruelty of war," he gave a half-smile before backing away from the young warrior.

"Until we meet again, Elric Frostmere," his boots maintained their confident crunch in the snow as he returned to the warmth of Winterfell's great halls.

---

Morning drew over Winterfell from behind a sheen of gray clouds, throwing sunlight in scraping arms that fought to be seen through a sky that spelled more snow would come. Roosters gave their morning calls, and the guards who had spent their evening walking the walls of Winterfell under torchlight gave their reports to their replacements as King Robert Baratheon's procession began assembling in the courtyard.

It was a mighty convoy made of horses and carriages, wagons that carried great tents and supplies that would most likely last a tour of Westeros if King Robert demanded it. They had arrived at Winterfell with several hundred knights and servants; now they left and had added several Starks and their servants in tow. It had been expected of Eddard Stark to ride in next to King Robert, who had blustered and complained that he preferred riding over his seat in the carriage with Cersei.

Of course, that was probably preferred for Cersei Lannister, as she could take the trip with her son Joffrey behind the closed, secure door of the royal carriage.

Meanwhile, Jon Snow readied himself for the journey to King's Landing, a cold stare from Catelyn Stark followed by brief hugs from his brothers, Theon, Bran, Rickon, and Rob.

"Stay safe in the South, we'll be here when you return," Rob gave him a light smile and a clap on the shoulder before Jon walked out into the courtyard. A horse had already been taken from Winterfell's stables for him, and Ghost waited next to it, happily panting as he enjoyed the chill that had descended over the morning.

He could already feel the curious eyes on him and his direwolf as he bent low to rub between the animal's ears, still a relatively young wolf, though still larger than even an adult dog. Ghost knew to follow him, and now he had his scent again, so Jon climbed onto the back of his horse and settled into his saddle with a soft sigh.

The line of horses, carriages, and wagons began to move as soon as the gates opened, keeping a slow and steady pace as they took to the King's Road. Jon maintained his position near the back, leaning back in his saddle while Ghost trotted alongside them. He knew that the beast was grown enough now to hunt for his own food, and he would go and find something to eat whenever hungry. He just hoped that one of the guards didn't mistake Ghost for a wild beast on his way back to camp.

That same look of genuine thought crossed over Jon Snow's features as he allowed his horse to simply follow the convoy ahead of him, looking off into the snow-tinted trees of the North as they rode South. He had been in the North for as long as he could remember, and King's Landing would be as unfamiliar to him as the Wall would be, and most likely just as dangerous.

Our family needs you. His father's words rang in his ears, and he let out a quiet breath, unable to remember anytime that the Starks needed him for anything, aside from dying to lift the stain on their honor, of course.

He heard and felt Ghost tense as a horse approached them from behind, his eyes flickering to meet the gaze of Lady Elyra Frostmere.

This should be fun.

 

[VelvetWhispers]

The King's Road stretched ahead in long, winding coils of half-thawed dirt and icy puddles, the weight of royal wagons cutting ruts deep into the path as the procession moved southward. Flakes of snow clung to the last frost on the trees like brittle lace, melting slower in the shadows where the light of morning hadn’t reached. The sky remained heavy, flat and pale, with clouds that hung like forgotten thoughts—thick enough to blot the sun, thin enough to suggest it might burn through later if the gods were feeling kind.

Elyra Frostmere wasn’t counting on kindness. Not from the gods, and certainly not from fate.

She rode just a little apart from the train of horses and carriages, her deep green cloak trailing behind her like spilled ink on snow, hood pushed back despite the chill. The wind bit at her cheeks and tugged at strands of her braid, but she preferred it to the velvet-cloaked heat of the royal litter, where the Septa had already begun her morning litany, and Sansa and Arya Stark were halfway through their third quarrel before they’d even left the outer gate. The thought of days—weeks—trapped between the two of them made her twitch behind the eyes. She’d decided ten minutes into their waiting that she'd rather ride in saddle sores and sleet than share that damned box.

Besides, this way gave her a far better view.

Jon Snow rode ahead of her, his dark cloak rippling behind him like some brooding specter from one of Old Nan's tales. She hadn’t expected him to come. Not really. Men like Jon—quiet, grim-browed types—tended to brood and brood until they melted into the stone around them. But here he was, one more Stark wolf pulled into the jaws of the lion. And of course, he rode at the back, ever the outcast, ever the watchful shadow.

And yet he listened, she thought with a crooked grin. Maybe I should tell men what to do more often.

The kiss still lingered in her memory, tucked between her ribs like a secret dagger. Not for the kiss itself—it had been clumsy, almost a dare—but for the way his eyes had lingered after, like he hadn’t expected her to let him do it. And gods, the surprise in his silence. Elyra was used to silencing men with a blade or a sharp tongue, but that kiss had ended in neither, just a breath between them and the ghost of something too dangerous to name.

Focus, she reminded herself, fingers tightening on the reins. She had a purpose in all this—a reason that her father had barely spoken to her at their parting, his words colder than the frostbit air. Make yourself useful, at least once, he had muttered, not even offering her his hand.

Elric had made up for it, of course. Her twin had held her a moment too long, whispered something crude about noblemen and their soft sword hands, then kissed her brow and vanished into the sparring yard to avoid sentiment. Elyra’s smile had stayed all the way to the gate.

But now, as the royal party moved beyond Winterfell's walls and the trees closed in around them, her gaze fixed once more on the bastard prince ahead of her. And once more, she gave in to impulse.

She nudged her mare forward, boots pressing into the flank with practiced ease, and steered up beside him. Ghost gave her a look, as if weighing whether or not she was worth growling at. She winked at the direwolf before fixing her gaze on his master.

“Tell me, Snow,” she purred just loud enough for him to hear over the clop of hooves and the crunch of thawing ice, “is your sulking louder when we reach the capital, or should I brace for silence all the way to the gates?”

She glanced sideways at him, letting the corner of her mouth tug upward in amusement.

“You know, for a boy who steals kisses behind weirwood trees, you’ve gone terribly shy.”

Her fingers brushed the edge of her cloak, drawing it tighter as a gust of wind sliced between them. Deep green against the white woods—it made her feel like a wolf herself, in the old stories. One with teeth.

“I’m beginning to wonder if I imagined the whole thing,” she added airily, voice teasing and dangerously light. “But that would be a shame, wouldn’t it?”

And with that, she rode just a touch ahead of him—enough to see him if he caught up, but far enough to leave him deciding whether to follow her shadow or keep to his own.

 

[Risky]

Jon Snow had been enjoying the brisk air for what depressingly felt like a final time, his eyes looking over snow-capped trees, when he heard a horse approaching him. It wasn't uncommon for horses and their riders to move up and down the line of the procession, but with the sound coming so early on in the journey, he doubted that it was simply a changing of the rear guard. He glanced over his shoulder to see the beautiful woman he had met on the balcony the night before, his eyes flaring wide for a moment before he was able to compose himself.

There was no doubt in his mind that it had not been a dream, and he could still feel the ghost of her soft lips pressed against his with all the passion of saving a near-dead man from drowning. She had breathed some life back into the young bastard, and now they were traveling to King's Landing together. Maybe he could have sought her out after the meal the night prior, taken her dancing, and told her that he had made up his mind. But instead, he had watched as she danced between Lords and entertained them, feeling a pang of jealousy that felt unnatural to him. Who was he to feel jealous of a woman he hardly knew outside of drunken kisses? Yet, he had felt it, and she had occupied his dreams the entirety of the night.

He could remember waking in a cold sweat, feeling the final brush of her lips trailing against his neck, and then his collarbone... Tracing lower, the gentle caress of her tongue against his body... It was something he had never experienced, and yet it had felt vividly real.

The look in his eye when he first regarded her suggested he had seen a ghost, and her comment about his 'sulking' certainly didn't help his recovery. "I don't sulk," he tried to make his features hard, but found it suddenly difficult. It was all he could do to hold back the smile that wanted to cross his lips, and luckily for him, the chilly breeze that swept over the plains adjacent to the King's Road had bitten most of the procession's cheeks, forcing a natural red flush to them that concealed the blush that had darkened his features.

"I... I wanted to speak to you last night after our meal, but you appeared busy," Jon commented. Between flirtatious laughter and dancing between a multitude of partners, she had certainly appeared to be enjoying herself without his intervention.

Her next words forced a breath from him, his lungs feeling suddenly empty and his mouth overly dry. He swallowed and he shook his head, "It's not that I'm shy, I~" she commented about imagining the whole thing, and his thick, dark brows knit together with the overwhelming confusion that was starting to overtake him.

She hardly gave him time to think on her words as she nudged her horse forward and seemed to try to leave him in her wake, but he pushed his horse forward in turn and followed her closely. There was a decent amount of space between them and the next set of riders, so he was able to speak his mind in a plain tone, "I've never been kissed before... At least... Not like that," he had practically thrown the words from his stomach, unable to stop himself.

"You changed my mind, about the Wall, I mean," his gloved hands tightened around the reins of his horse as he tried his best to speak candidly with this woman who had dominated his dreams the night prior.

"How can I see you again?" Jon felt that the words sounded desperate, but her teasing and her appearance last night had made him desperate. She had swept out of the shadows and turned his life into an entirely new direction, uncertainty waiting for him in the South of Westeros. At least on the Wall, he had known what to expect; Uncle Benjen had told him plenty of stories. But now he had to deal with the trifling backstabbery that was the capital of King's Landing, the place his father had always spoken so lowly of.

It's not a Stark's place to be in King's Landing, the people move in ways we could never understand.

Lady Elyra wasn't from King's Landing, and yet she moved in ways Jon could not even begin to comprehend, and that suited him just fine. He wanted to know more, a fire flickered behind those dark eyes of his as he asked that they be able to see each other again. Surely their meeting last night had not been a one-off occurrence; surely she hadn't talked to him and kissed him just to fiddle with his emotions.

 

[VelvetWhispers]

The North bled away in brittle greys and winter washed greens, the forest pulling back from the King's Road like a wary creature. They rode beneath skeletal trees, their branches slick with last night's frost, stretching upward like they were trying to scratch holes in the bloated sky. Birds dared no song in this stretch of woods, and only the crunch of hooves and the distant jangle of a knight's armour filled the air.

Elyra pulled her hood up as Jon Snow's horse clopped up beside hers, the deep green wool shadowing her eyes and catching the breeze like a slow breath drawn through silk. A few errant strands of her braid escaped, dancing against her cheek.

She didn't look at him. Not yet.

The procession was occupied in its own world—pages chasing after dropped satchels, nobles wrapped in fur-lined cloaks trading empty pleasantries. The Septa's voice still droned behind her in the litter, some righteous warning about the sinful heat of the southern sun. It only made her smile.

Her companion's flustered attempts at dignity were already warming the morning.

"I don't sulk," he had said. But the pause, the way his voice dipped—it was the smallest twitch of a smile on his lips that pleased her most.

Ah, so he was listening.

She tilted her head beneath her hood, amusement brightening her eyes even as her mouth stayed schooled in mock seriousness.

"Busy?" she echoed, voice lilting with playful doubt. "You mistake movement for meaning, Jon Snow. I danced because the floor was slippery with lords' egos, not because I was enjoying myself."

Her gaze flicked to him then, sharp and soft all at once. "Besides, if you had come to me, I might've saved you the sight of Lord Brantley's sweaty hand on my waist. I've had cleaner embraces from men bleeding out in the dirt."

She let the words hang there, watching for a flicker of jealousy. There—just a glint in his eyes. It made her grin, slow and secret.

But then he went on, and the grin faltered slightly. The kiss. The Wall. You changed my mind, he said.

Her brows lifted, just slightly. That one, she'd not expected. Her chest gave a quiet flutter she didn't care for, and she masked it with a chuckle that was more breath than sound.

"Well, if I knew a single kiss could stop a man from throwing himself off the edge of the world," she murmured, her voice lower now, "I'd have spent my life rescuing fools with my lips."

She turned her face forward again, but her thoughts tangled like ribbons in the wind. What was she doing? Teasing a Stark bastard on a road headed straight into the lion's mouth. She had a task. A reason. And it wasn't this.

But then—How can I see you again?

It surprised her enough that she actually looked at him, her head tipping slightly, one brow arching with delighted disbelief.

"See me?" she repeated, voice light as snow on fur. "But Jon, you're seeing me now. What more could you possibly want from me?"

Their horses, of their own accord, had drifted nearer. Close enough that their knees nearly brushed. She leaned in just slightly, her head tilted as though she might whisper a secret. The hood fell a bit lower, casting their faces in shade.

"Unless…" she purred, a smirk curling her mouth, "you're only interested in seeing what you already know you like."

And before reason or reputation could stop her, she leaned closer still. Her hand found the edge of his cloak, fingers curling in the fabric as if to steady herself—but it was him she wanted steadying.

She kissed him.

It wasn't like the night before—no half-drunken dares or whispered provocations. This one was slower, measured, and far more dangerous. Her lips brushed his with the heat of memory and the edge of promise. It tasted like frost melting on skin. Like breath caught in a throat. Like things neither of them were supposed to want.

What am I doing? a voice inside whispered. She'd never done this. Never toyed with anything so fragile. But there was something about his question—so sincere, so simple—that broke through her armour. She knew better. She knew better.

But she kissed him anyway.

When she finally pulled back, it was with a grin that curved like a blade meant for slashing throats or cutting threads of fate.

"Well," she said breezily, settling back in her saddle like nothing had passed between them but air. "It's a long road to King's Landing, Jon Snow. Who knows what you might see by the time we arrive?"

And with a flick of her reins, she guided her horse just ahead again—close enough for him to follow, but not enough for him to catch her just yet.

Let him chase a little.

Let them both pretend it wasn't dangerous.

 

[Risky]

Jon Snow's life had been relatively simple so far; there had only been so much expected of him. He had learned from Maester Luwin how to wield a pen, and from Ser Rodrik how to wield a sword. He had ridden through snow-touched lands wrapped in fine furs and enjoyed the thrill of the hunt, but nothing had prepared him for the woman who now rode at his side.

Her constant teasing and the way her face animated as she searched him for little reactions had him constantly on guard, trying to adjust his features to not give up too much information. But still her skillful eye caught on, and her small smile made his stomach flutter with the anticipation of what she would say next.

A soft huff left him when she mentioned Lord Brantley as if to dangle the prospect that she had been around another man before him. His eyes flickered with annoyance and that tinge of jealousy she had been searching for.

He chewed the inside of his cheek and sat back in his saddle while shaking his head, "It wasn't just the... Kiss, it was just... A reminder that there's more to life than duty." He struggled to find the words that would perfectly describe his decision.

No one had ever gone out of their way to speak to him before, aside from his Uncle Benjen, of course. Maybe that was the reason he had wanted to go to the Wall so badly, but since she had sought him out to convince him otherwise, it had made the reckless and difficult decision that much easier.

You're seeing me now. What more could you possibly want from me?

"You know what I~" Jon had started to say after she teased him, but was cut off as she reached out to grab his cloak. His breath was caught in his throat as she closed the distance between them so easily, his hand finding her cheek as her lips sealed against his. This had been his fourth kiss ever, and two of the other three had been from her. His mind went quiet as all thoughts escaped him, his head tilting gently against her as his lips took over for only a moment.

She naturally took that opportunity to break away from him, leaving him breathless and still confused as she gave him a grin and told him about how long the road to King's Landing would be. Mention of the Capital immediately forced his gaze behind them, noting the lazy train of horses and wagons behind them with riders hardly paying attention to anything but the road at their feet. They were lucky for that, that no Lannister or political enemy had noticed the two kissing between their horses.

When he looked back at her, she was already riding ahead, and he nudged his horse to follow. Though it was difficult to return to her side, he could still speak to her from the position he maintained slightly behind her.

"Why do you keep doing this to me? You kiss me, run away, and then smile as if it never happened," Jon's brows furrowed together as he tried to make sense of it.

"You must have some experience doing this. What is it you want from me?" The accusation lay over his tongue, as if she had been kissing Lord Brentley for his secrets and for her torturous idea of fun.

"You know that I have nothing to offer you aside from leers and funny looks, or is it torturing me that you enjoy?" Jon's horse was able to edge forward and bring them together again.

"Did Lord Frostmere put you up to this?"

 

[VelvetWhispers]

Elyra rode just ahead, the wind tugging gently at the fur-lined hem of her cloak and playing with the loose ends of her braid. The road narrowed slightly, hemmed in on either side by thick pines that wept frozen needles, their branches heavy with snowmelt. It smelled of pine sap and distant hearth fires, a cold crispness on the air that filled her lungs and cleared her thoughts—though not entirely.

She didn't look back immediately. She was waiting.

And sure enough, she heard the thud of hooves adjusting behind her, the faintest grunt of effort from a horse nudged into a trot. Her lips curled, satisfied. He's coming.

It pleased her more than it should've, how quickly he closed the gap again. But then, Jon Snow was proving to be surprisingly...eager to learn.

The kiss still lingered on her lips like an echo—softer than the first, slower, but deeper somehow. There had been a trembling honesty in it, one she hadn't expected from the quiet, brooding boy at the feast. He had kissed her like she was a riddle he wanted to solve, like he was afraid of the answer and desperate for it all at once.

And stars help her, she wanted to kiss him again. Not because it amused her—though it did—but because there was something more. Something slow-burning and dangerous curling around her ribs every time he looked at her like he didn't know what to do with her, but he wanted to.

Gods, what am I doing?

The thought skittered across her mind like a stone over a frozen lake just as he rode up close enough for his voice to carry.

She angled her head back slightly as he spoke, just enough to catch his words while pretending she hadn't been waiting for them. His tone—serious, puzzled, almost wounded—gave her pause.

"Why do you keep doing this to me? You kiss me, run away, and then smile as if it never happened."

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Not her usual smirk, but something more indulgent. She slowed her horse slightly until they were once again side by side, her shoulder brushing his as the road curved gently beneath them.

"Oh?" she said lightly, voice silk-wrapped in mischief. "Would you prefer I stop kissing you, then?"

She cast him a sideways glance, her lashes low and hood shadowing her grin.

"I never said it didn't happen, Jon Snow. I remember every kiss with you." Her voice lowered, just barely, the teasing still there, but softened by something sincere. "Like they were seared into me. Smoke and snow."

He went on, and she chuckled—a low, lilting sound that rolled from her chest like she didn't have a care in the world, even though his words struck a little closer than he meant them to.

"You must have some experience doing this. What is it you want from me?"

That earned him a gentle raise of her brow. Ah, so he was brooding again.

She let the words roll off her, the implication not lost but forgiven. It was an easy thing, really, to dismiss what others said of her. She'd been called worse than a flirt. Worse than a seductress.

And truth be told, yes—he was not the first boy she'd kissed.

But he was the first she hadn't forgotten.

The only one she couldn't seem to stop thinking about.

The only one who made her want to turn back after riding away.

"Gods," she murmured with a breath of laughter, "you are dramatic. Is it really so torturous? I didn't realize my kisses were such a burden."

But then his last words stopped her cold. Her spine straightened and the smile faded from her face like morning mist.

"Did Lord Frostmere put you up to this?"

Her hands tightened around the reins for a beat before she reined in slightly, forcing her horse to slow and turn toward him. The teasing left her mouth. Her eyes found his—stormy, simmering, suspicious.

"No," she said, voice steady now, something deeper threading through it. "My father has nothing to do with how you make me feel."

She let the weight of that sit between them for a moment, then added, softer, almost as if to herself, "When you look at me, I don't see anything else. No leers. No clever comments. No scheming glances or quiet judgment." Her gaze returned to his, clear and earnest. "You don't need to offer me anything. You already have."

Another beat of silence passed. She looked forward again, her eyes scanning the frost-silvered branches above, the white wind dancing through them like silent ghosts. Then she asked it—soft, genuine, utterly unsarcastic.

"Why do you think so little of yourself?"

Her head turned back toward him slowly, the sharp edge of her smirk replaced by something far more dangerous—affection.

"Why do you bend to the world as if you owe it something, when I can see so clearly that it's the world that should be bending to you?"

The wind carried her words between them like a whisper meant only for him. She didn't wait for an answer—not yet.

Instead, she let her smile return, softer now, her voice warm.

"I didn't come to the Winterfell to be kissed by a Stark bastard with snowflakes in his lashes and a voice like a sword unsheathed… but I'm not sorry that I did."

This time, Elyra stayed. No coy glances over her shoulder, no disappearing into the procession. She looked at him—really looked—and waited. Not as a game, not as a trap, but because his answer mattered. Because he mattered.

 

[Risky]

The King's procession had spread out over the Kingsroad to allow for greater scouting and protection; it had been easy for the two of them to find a gap where there were few able to watch them. Even when Elyra rode forward, the nearest wagons and horses to them still moved along without paying attention to their surroundings.

If they were, they would have noticed the bastard of the Warden of the North chasing after the daughter of a minor Northern Lord as if they were children playing, Elyra easily running away from him with that teasing expression occupying her beautiful features. The trees around them offered protection from both bandits seeking to pick off lone riders from a King's procession, but also from the wandering eyes that were so common in King's Landing. It was far easier to hide in the North, especially away from the towns and fortresses that made up its few civilizations.

The crunch of his horse's hooves against fresh-fallen snow made it easy for her to hear his approach, and he had noted the slight turn of her head and the small grin on her lips as he closed the distance between them.

Would you prefer I stop kissing you, then?

His brows furrowed again, and the scoff that left his lips forced a plume of steam from his lips as he shook his head, though it was obvious that she had been teasing him again.

"I just want a straightforward answer, and to do this the right way," Jon was a man of honor like his father, and this already felt wrong to him without any sort of conversation.

Of course, he knew that there was no right way to do what they had been doing; it's not as if he could court her. Even if he were a Stark, he would be expected to marry for a political alliance, but because he was a bastard, Lord Frostmere would never acquiesce to a courtship between them. But that didn't stop him from wanting to do what was right, all the while keeping this woman whom he was already infatuated with at his side.

Her words made it hard for him to breathe, that she remembered each kiss with him, and that they were seared into her. She had put into words exactly how he felt, the ghost of her lips brushing against his the night before still lived with him. It made him want more, to be able to hold her and have her where nobody could interrupt them.

"That's why I want to see you again," his words from earlier sprang forth so easily. "Your kiss hasn't left me since you gave it to me, and now you've given me another... Yet you're still distant, just as far away as you were when you left me on the balcony," Jon breathed.

There were words that he regretted, ones that made her laugh at him like he didn't know what he was saying, and others that made her face darken and forced regret to pang through him.

His heart pulsed in his ears as she pulled back on the reins and finally met his gaze, drawing their horses side by side once more. He had either made a misstep or she truly wanted him to know that her next words would be serious, her green gaze boring into his black.

Jon could only nod when she told him that her father had nothing to do with it, and he assumed that she would simply leave him with that. She seemed to enjoy leading him toward this mystery to unravel, and whatever prize waited for him at the end of her labyrinth.

But instead, she told him about how he looked at her, and how he seemed to want nothing more, how he didn't have the gaze of a politician or ambitious Lord looking to shift their position to a more favorable one. He let out a quiet breath at her final words, despite understanding the meaning, he still didn't feel that he had offered her anything. She had told him that she sought nothing from him, but that she valued how he seemed to want nothing from her as well.

He couldn't match her gaze when she asked her question, one that ripped the air from his lungs and made his head feel light. It was a question that challenged his entire life, the acceptance he had learned that he would never amount to anything unless his father spoke the words to make him a Stark.

"I am nothing, and I have always been nothing, Elyra," he remembered the voice calling her name, the one that had torn her from his embrace.

"But being nothing has detached me from court pleasantries and secret-sharing, and I have been able to focus on matters of honor." His gaze finally flickered back to meet hers, finding that warmth and affection that seemed to pour from her gaze. It was a look he had never seen in a woman's eyes; most of the women in his 'family' despised him or treated him simply like a brother. Arya was perhaps the closest to loving him; he had always treated her like the warrior she had wanted to be treated as.

The sword he had had forged for her sat in his saddlebag, and he had planned on giving it to her when they arrived in King's Landing.

"I don't need anyone to bend to me... I just want..." Jon didn't actually know what he wanted; for the longest time, it had been to serve on the Wall, but he had thrown that opportunity to the wind. He had claimed it was for his family, but he knew the truth that he had been too embarrassed to share with Eddard Stark.

This time, he was the one to take her cloak; words couldn't describe exactly what he wanted, but he knew deep down that this would suffice for an explanation. His gloved fingers slid over her smooth skin and cupped her cheek as he leaned over their horses to press another kiss to her lips. Her red locks cascaded over his fingers as his eyes slipped closed, a soft noise leaving his throat.

"This is what I want," a soft breath played between their lips as he felt warmth filling him from that pit in his stomach that seemed to constantly open whenever she was around. He knew that their kiss couldn't last forever, but when he withdrew, he made it slow, almost hesitant.

No power that could be given by man compared to the racing of his heart whenever he felt that soft press of her lips against his, and he would rather leave the world to freeze over than give up that feeling. His eyes were filled with life as he watched her, waiting for her reaction. He knew that she had called him brave for kissing her the night before, as if she hadn't been expecting him to do so.

But her words only drew that instinct from him again; they were not the words of someone looking to take advantage of him.

 

[VelvetWhispers]

Elyra hadn't moved since Jon's kiss. Her horse stood still beneath her, steam puffing from its nostrils in the chill air, but she made no effort to ride ahead again. This time, she waited—eyes trained on Jon with the full weight of her attention. She didn't smile, not yet. She just looked.

He hadn't been able to meet her gaze when he said it. "I am nothing."

Gods.

The words had slammed into her, sharp as the wind off the Shivering Sea. She'd wanted to shake him, scream at him, No, you're not, but the moment for honesty had vanished beneath the brush of his lips against hers. Another kiss, just as fierce and foolish and spellbinding as the last.

She'd melted into it like a fool, like a girl with no sense at all, her fingers curling into the thick wool of his cloak before she could think better of it. His kiss hadn't been clumsy—not this time. No, it had been almost reverent, like he was afraid of breaking something precious between them. The fire of it curled deep into her belly, spreading warmth to her fingertips even as snowflakes melted on her lashes.

And still, she had let it happen. Again. Because, gods save her, Jon Snow was worth the risk. Worth the gossip. Worth the Septa's shrieking. Worth the weight of her own name.

But just like before, that moment had shattered.

A sudden halt in the procession. The cry of her name on the wind. The Septa, round and red-faced, bustling from her litter with righteous fury while somewhere behind them, the Stark girls were at each other's throats again. Sansa's shrillness cut through the trees, Arya's scorn riding its coattails.

Now, hours later, the camp at Moat Cailin was a sprawl of torchlight and snapping canvas, crowned by the glowing sigils of the royal party pitched farther ahead. The air smelled of wet leather and horse, the cold sharp enough to slice clean to the bone.

Elyra stood with stiff fingers inside the makeshift tent that had been hurriedly erected for the northern ladies. Snow drifted through holes in the old stone above, and the brazier barely warmed the air. She was back at her "task," if you could call it that—serving the Stark girls in their own personal drama.

Sansa sat like a statue carved from frost, disdain pouring from her with every narrowed glance. "Is it so hard," she snapped, "to find my blue wool? The nice one, not the thick one. Do you even know the difference?"

Arya, thankfully, only grunted and slouched deeper into her furs, her booted foot knocking a stool aside as she kicked it moodily.

The Septa watched like a hawk, fussing about posture and grace and hairpins. Elyra felt like a living ghost—neither servant nor noble, expected to blend in and disappear all the same.

And as if things couldn't grow more miserable, a young maester—handsome faced, owl-eyed, and evidently en route to the Wall—had made himself at home beside the tent's brazier, droning about the histories of the First Men. His voice was so dull she wanted to stuff snow in her ears to silence him.

Her gaze drifted.

Jon.

He passed just beyond the edge of the tent's flap, his dark cloak catching the wind like a banner of shadow. Her heart kicked.

She'd always been bold. Bolder than her twin, certainly. But never foolish.

Until now.

Because there was something about Jon Snow that provoked her. Maybe it was those damn kisses. Or the quiet heat she sensed burning in him beneath all that brooding. Or maybe it was the way he looked at her like he didn't want anything from her at all—no title, no alliance, no favor. Just her.

That was a dangerous kind of desire.

But gods help her, she wasn't about to turn away from it.

As night deepened and the wind cut sharper through the camp, Elyra slipped away. She snatched a skin of Dornish red and a satchel filled with someone else's supper—roasted root vegetables, a hunk of bread, and a bit of salted meat. The Septa would notice soon. She might scream. Elyra didn't care.

She spotted him near the outer ring of the camp, near the tethered horses. Alone, of course.

Perfect.

Grinning, she slid into step behind him, reached out, and caught his hand. His head snapped toward her, startled, but she raised a finger to her lips, whispering, "Shhh."

Then, without asking, she took his hand in both of hers and tugged him after her.

"Come," she whispered, eyes dancing with mischief as she glanced over her shoulder. "Quickly. Before the Septa turns into a shrieking banshee."

They slipped into the dark together, boots muffled by frost and moss. The camp faded behind them as they crossed the crumbling path that once formed the southern causeway, now swallowed in parts by creeping swamp. Frogs croaked nearby. A distant wolf howled, and somewhere in the mist, a soft lantern light danced where no one walked.

Will-o'-the-wisps, some called them. Ghost lights.

Elyra found a low stone wall near the edge of the ruins—part of some ancient keep long since sunken into the mire. She sat, pulling him down beside her, their boots dangling above the bog.

The mist clung to the air, thick and silver in the moonlight. Somewhere far off, a light flickered across the marsh.

She didn't speak for a long time. Just sat, shoulder brushing shoulder. Let the silence stretch between them like thread.

Then, softly—

"When I was ten, I chased a ghost light through these ruins."

She didn't look at him as she said it. Just stared ahead, eyes tracing the wisp as it danced.

Her home wasn't far from Moat Cailin—just beyond the bogs where night mist clung to the earth and the trees bent like old men listening to secrets. Frostmere Hall stood on a patch of high ground, its gray stone towers narrow and weather-worn, the crooked watchtree beside it older than the keep itself. As a girl, Elyra would ride out when the fog was low and the air held its breath, tracing marsh trails toward the ruins and imagining Moat Cailin as a slumbering giant, half-buried in time. The Frostmeres had never been a house of grandeur or renown, but the stones remembered them. Just as they remembered the dead.

"It was just after my brother died—my eldest. He was quiet, thoughtful. Always carried more weight than he let on. He used to bring me here at dusk, said the stones remembered things. Said if I was still enough, I might hear them whisper.

"So when he was gone, and I saw a blue light dancing between the towers one evening, I thought it was him. Thought maybe he'd left something for me… a sign, or a secret. I didn't even stop to think. I just ran after it.

"No boots. No lantern. Didn't tell a soul. The light stayed just ahead of me, slipping through the fog like it was leading me somewhere. I cut my palms on broken stone. Fell waist-deep into a sinkhole. Swore I felt fingers brushing my ankle under the water.

"But I kept going. Because it felt like something mattered again. Like I was close to something real.

"And then… it vanished. Just like that. No warning. No flicker. One moment it was there, the next it wasn't.

"I stood right here, I think—on this very wall. Couldn't see the keep anymore. Couldn't see anything but the mist. Everything was so still. And for the first time, I realised I'd never been alone before. Not like that.

"I waited. I don't know how long. I didn't cry. Didn't call out. I just sat and listened, like he taught me. And after a while… I heard my name.

"Only once. Soft. On the wind. Just a whisper. But I followed it. One step at a time. And somehow, I found my way back.

"I don't know if it was him. Or the ruin. Or something else that didn't want to let me go. But I never saw the light again."

She turned to him now. The wind caught her hair, sent it tumbling around her cheeks in wild red curls.

"Until now."

A quiet settled again.

She tilted her head, studying him.

"I've never told that to anyone," she murmured. "Not even my twin. But you…"

She reached up, fingers curling into the collar of his doublet, drawing him closer with gentle insistence.

"You're not nothing, Jon Snow," she whispered against his lips. "You are something… Something I haven't seen before. And gods help me, I don't think I can look away."

And then she kissed him.

Slow, deep, but tinged with that fever she had been keeping on the edge of her tongue the entire day. A hunger, yes—but something else, too. Something raw and reverent and entirely hers. The world around them could vanish and she would not notice.

Because here, now, she was not bold or foolish or a lady of the North.

She was just Elyra.

And he was the only light she saw.

 

[Risky]

Bodrin Tarbeck, Maester of the Citadel

There was very little of Westeros that Bodrin had not seen... Well, at least through the eye of his mind. He had yet to lay eyes on most of the country of his birth, but he knew that his journey would take him through much of it. Just the walk so far had allowed him to observe much of its beauty, though the weather now began to turn cold.

The young Maester had been released from the Citadel after successfully defending his idea of research beyond the Wall, a place where books tended to overexaggerate or neglect entirely.

So when he had arrived in Moat Cailin, it had been exactly as he had envisioned it. The fortress stood impressive among the bogs and swept trees that represented a shift between North and South Westeros, though it was still considered a home territory of the North. He could name every House that occupied the area, could take a stick to the land to draw their borders, all from keen research of their maps and the books written about them.

He had taken every opportunity to learn while he was studying at the Citadel, and now he stood wearing his Maester's robes, carrying a satchel across his body with a few relevant books tucked away inside. He also carried plenty of paper and ink, knowing that his research would require much writing.

He intended to be able to write a book when he returned from his journey beyond the Wall, and he knew that his work would be far better fresh.

Excitement bubbled inside of him as he watched the sun brush against the horizon to the West, sending vivid oranges and purples to color the otherwise drab landscape. His boots sunk into the wet earth with each step, the mud sucking at the soles and squelching as he navigated around particularly deep patches. He had avoided the Kingsroad for as long as he could, knowing the dangers of bandits and Wildling clans that often preyed on lone travelers such as himself. Having nothing to offer them might have been worse than running into them, so he opted to take the most scenic routes.

But now he was able to step onto the Kingsroad for the first time, noticing the presence of a large force of bannered soldiers and servants that had arrived in Moat Cailin a few hours before he had.

"You there! Halt and state your business!" A gruff voice had called from flickering torchlight and a massive array of tents that dotted the area around Moat Cailin. There was obviously some sort of procession coming through the area, though he had not heard any news of such a large one.

Bodrin stopped in his path and gave a small smile to the guards approaching him, marked clearly as Lannister soldiers by the folding visors of their helmets and the Lion insignia on their chests.

"My name is Bodrin, I am a Maester of the Citadel!" He called out while maintaining his friendly demeanor, not wanting them to think of him as a threat. He carried no weapons save a skinning knife that he only intended to use on animals should he capture one on the road. "I was hoping to find a fire and good company for the night." The guards had stepped closer to him upon hearing that he was a Maester; he could see their eyes moving along the chain around his neck.

One guard had shrugged at the other, and they motioned for him to pass into the camp. They were probably aware that they had nothing to fear from the man, though he stood slightly taller than both of them and had not spent his time at the Citadel allowing his body to wither away.

He had made his way through the camp, excitedly observing the banners of House Baratheon, Lannister, and Stark flying proudly above their respective tents. It was not often the Lannisters and Starks broke bread together, and yet he was here to see it!

His first stop had been in the Stark section of the camp, eager to discuss his potential research with ancestors of the First Men. They would also be the most experienced with Wildling interactions South of the Wall, maybe there were some differences between them? Why did Wildlings want to go South of the Wall when they knew they would be hunted and killed? These were questions he had practically blathered on about to anyone who would listen. He did not know at the time that he was outside the tent of Sansa and Arya Stark, speaking to one of their guards about his interactions with Wildlings.

The pen scribbled away at parchment he kept backed with a sheet of wood, knowing that even if the ink did bleed through onto the surface, it would still be better than risking the pen breaking through the sheet.

His eyes caught the movement of someone leaving the Stark tent, and his head tilted as he watched a woman take a fur-coated man by the hand and pull him into the darkness. He was a guest in this camp, and he knew that he had no reason to be observing the actions of others, but was still interested to see the goings-on. His hand idly traced the image of the woman taking the man by his hands into his book, the banner of House Stark fluttering in the background, and the voice of the Septa in the Stark tent making him smile to himself.

---

Jon Snow

Jon hadn't been expecting Elyra to suddenly be at his side, his eyes flashing with brief surprise and then recognition when her hands clasped his. He nodded and quietly followed her out into the bog, stumbling every now and then as her excited pace kept him on his toes.

He could feel and hear his heartbeat escalating with each step, where walking would normally not be exhausting for him, but when he was with Elyra, he found that he had trouble breathing. Whatever game she had been playing before had been thrown to the wayside, and now she seemed hellbent on showing him that she wanted to be with him.

The cold of the North had begun subsiding as they moved further south, but there was still steam leaving his lips with each labored breath. He gently squeezed her hand as she pulled him along, wishing for a moment that he hadn't worn gloves so that he could truly feel her hand wrapped around his. It was the first order of business when they found a crumbling ruin to take a seat on, his hands quickly removing his gloves and tucking them into his pockets.

Each brush of her shoulder against his made him nervous, and his thoughts were mostly drowned out by the near-constant thrum of his heart beating.

He had been taught by his Maester the locations of every Northern House, even if he could never dare to lead them. Some small part of him knew that House Frostmere was nearby, but hearing her first words brought that small feeling to life, his eyes raising to meet the side of her beautiful face while she told her story.

His teeth gnashed against the inside of his cheek as she mentioned the death of her brother, his fingers interlocking with hers as she admitted the hard truth to give her hand a reassuring squeeze. There was no desire to interrupt the personal story, but he wanted her to know that he was there, that he was listening.

It was a hard story to hear; he couldn't have imagined what he would have felt had any of his brothers died. Even if they were technically half-brothers by blood, their deaths would surely cause him to go against every principle he had ever stood for.

Jon had also never seen the ghost lights she spoke of, his eyes leaving her for a moment to look out at the flickering lights over the bog. People of the North tended to be superstitious, but having never seen the lights she spoke of, he could have easily believed that they were the marks of the dead. He watched as they warbled and flickered over the water, soft reflections of light meeting the glow that made them so real. His thumb brushed over the back of her hand while she spoke of them, how she had been lost but had been led home by the call of her name over the wind.

He could feel her eyes on him, and his head turned to meet her gaze while her hand reached up to take his collar. A soft breath left him, brows furrowing over softened features when she admitted that she had never told that story to anyone, "I'm honored," he breathed.

She pulled him closer and their lips brushed together when she told him that he was not nothing, earning a flurry of shivers that flew from the base of his spine and evened out over his shoulders. His breathing was uneven, his heart somehow beating faster before she finally pressed her lips against his again, showing once again the impact that such a simple action could have on the Northern bastard.

His bare hand found her cheek, fingers pushing into locks of red as they parted around his grasp. A soft groan left the man as his head tilted, and he groaned quietly with satisfaction, knowing that the closest potential interruption was miles away.

There came a time when the two of them had to part for air, and his forehead found hers when they did, "You make me feel like I'm something."

He didn't leave them parted for long, his lips closing the gap between them, and his eyes remained closed, enjoying the simple sensation that he had never felt so good before. He could have kissed her for hours if she had allowed him, and now he could plainly see why it had been so frustrating that they had been interrupted multiple times.

His hand fell from her hair so that his arm could wrap around her, gently pulling her close to him in a sort of half-embrace as they sat shoulder to shoulder on the wall. There was a hesitancy with his kiss at first, but a soft brush of his tongue against her lower lip indicated that he was considering whether or not to deepen their kiss.

 

[VelvetWhispers]

Elyra Frostmere

Elyra felt him falter behind her, boots catching on the uneven stone path that wound through the bog like the spine of a half-buried beast. Jon Snow stumbled once or twice, but never let go of her hand. That alone made her heart twist. Even in the dark, even in the mist—he followed.

She smiled to herself, even as the cold nipped at her cheeks and nose. He wasn't saying much. He never did. But his silence wasn't emptiness. It was weight. Presence. A kind of quiet reverence that made every glance, every word, every kiss feel like a secret confession whispered to the wind.

When they reached the crumbling ruin, she half-dragged him up onto the broken stone ledge, and only then did he tug off his gloves—fingers trembling slightly in the cold. She watched him, her throat tight with affection. As soon as he slid his hand back into hers, skin to skin, she felt a thrill so deep it made her knees feel unsteady.

He didn't speak as she told her story. Not once. But he didn't need to. The warmth of his hand in hers said everything. When she mentioned her brother, and the lonely sound of her name on the wind, she felt his fingers interlace with hers—strong, certain.

No one had ever held her hand like that before.

And when she turned to him, drawing him close, whispering that he was not nothing, that he meant something—his shudder of breath, the way his brows creased and his eyes locked to hers like she was the first star rising in the dusk—gods, it undid her.

The kiss was slower this time, but no less powerful. She had kissed him before. Twice. Thrice. But this felt different. This felt like falling.

Jon's hand rose to her cheek, gentle but insistent, his fingers threading into her tangled red hair. She leaned into him instinctively, her lips parting beneath his without question, her body singing with warmth despite the cold all around them.

She felt his forehead rest against hers, their breath mingling in the narrow space between.

"You make me feel like I'm something," he whispered.

The words made her chest ache. She smiled—a soft, indulgent thing full of fondness and disbelief.

Oh, Jon.

She didn't say it aloud. But the thought echoed through her like a bell tolling.

How has this happened so quickly?

How have you undone me with nothing but honesty and those impossible eyes?

She'd known him only briefly. A handful of days at most. But something in him—something real and raw—called to her. Like a whisper through ancient stone. Like a ghost light over the bog. And she knew, even if she should run from it, she wouldn't. Couldn't.

Because it wasn't just his kisses that undid her. It was the way he looked at her like she mattered. Like he saw through the name and the finery and the courtly masks to something she hadn't even known she was hiding.

When his lips returned to hers, she met them eagerly. This time, when his tongue brushed against her lower lip, she welcomed it without a moment's hesitation, her mouth parting for him, deepening the kiss with breathless, aching need.

A soft moan escaped her as his arms came around her, pulling her flush against him. She slid her hands up his arms, fingers trailing the thick fabric of his cloak until they found his shoulders, then his neck, curling into his hair. She pressed herself closer, lost in the feel of him—the heat of his body, the strength in his arms, the gentle reverence in the way he held her.

They kissed like they had nothing to lose. Like the world had narrowed down to this—stone and mist and each other.

Around them, the bog glowed.

Faint lights danced just beyond the ruins, ghostly and flickering. They shimmered like stars caught in mist, weaving between the broken stone towers and casting faint reflections on the still water below. It was unreal. Magical. As if the world itself was holding its breath.

When they finally pulled apart, it wasn't reluctance that slowed them—it was the soft weight of peace settling between them.

Elyra shifted, turning her back to him and leaning against his chest. Jon's arms wrapped around her waist without needing to be asked, his chin resting lightly against her shoulder. His cloak draped around both of them like a shield against the chill.

She brushed her cheek against his, feeling the rough stubble scrape softly against her skin. She smiled at the sensation. It was grounding—real.

They sat like that for a long while, silent. The wine and food she'd stolen sat forgotten in the bag at her feet. She didn't want wine. She wanted this—the quiet beat of his heart against her back. The smell of leather and snow and Jon.

Eventually, she spoke, voice low and laced with mischief.

"Your sisters are insufferable," Elyra murmured, her voice light, teasing.

She thought she felt his chest shift against her back—perhaps a quiet laugh—but she didn't turn to check. The warmth of it lingered in her hair all the same, and that was enough.

"Especially Sansa," she went on, grinning into the dark. "She looks at me like I've tracked bog water onto her favourite rug. A stray dog with too much attitude and too little pedigree."

The corners of her mouth quirked upward at the thought, and she chuckled softly. "Arya, at least, doesn't pretend. She'd happily put a blade to my throat if she thought I deserved it, but I think I respect her more for that." Her head dropped gently back against his shoulder, the motion unhurried, content. "You've got the patience of the gods. I couldn't share a roof with all that judgment and live to tell the tale."

She could feel the way his arms sat wrapped around her waist—firm but not tight, as if she might disappear if he held on too hard. There was a pause, a silence where his breath slowed, and she could sense the turn inward. He was thinking. She didn't press.

But after a beat, she tilted her head, her cheek brushing against the rough edge of his jaw. "What was it like?" she asked softly, almost tentatively. "Growing up there."

There was hesitation. She felt it in the stillness of him.

"You don't have to tell me," she added quickly, her thumb lightly tracing a line over the arm around her.

But she heard him speak.

And she listened.

She didn't interrupt. Didn't move. Just sat still, letting the words pour into her like cold stream water over bare skin. There was a quiet, aching simplicity in what he shared. No bitterness. No dramatics. Just truth.

As he spoke, Elyra stared out across the bog, watching the ghost lights drift lazily over the water. She remembered Winterfell well enough—remembered the dark stone, the endless snow, the whisper of the godswood trees. But more than anything, she remembered her. Catelyn Stark. The way the Lady of Winterfell looked at Jon like he was an ill-fitted shadow at the feast table.

Elyra's hands clenched briefly, jaw tightening. It wasn't fair. None of it was fair.

She turned slowly in his arms until she could see him, the pale light from the distant flickers outlining his profile—his strong jaw, the quiet tension behind his eyes.

Her fingers rose and brushed gently along the edge of his jaw, thumb pausing at the hollow of his cheek.

"You are not what they made you believe," she said, her voice low and fierce, the words a vow. "You're not. You're brave, and kind, and more honourable than any of those highborn peacocks playing at lordship."

Her voice didn't waver. Not once.

And for a moment, she thought he might look away. But he didn't.

He looked at her like she'd just pulled him from the water and given him air.

She didn't need him to smile. She didn't need anything more than that look.

And gods, her heart fluttered. Light and wild and alive.

Around them, the bog breathed. The ghost lights flickered, soft and slow, drifting like stars made flesh. The air was damp and fragrant with moss and earth and old stories.

They sat like that, curled into each other, while the rest of the world held still.

In that moment, Elyra Frostmere wasn't a bannerman's daughter. She wasn't a mystery with too many secrets. She wasn't anything that anyone had tried to make her.

She was his.

And for once in her life… she didn't want to run.

---

Elric Frostmere

The winds of time could turn kingdoms to ash and brothers into enemies, and Elric Frostmere had seen them shift like smoke on a battlefield. One moment, the North was quiet in its frozen stillness, and the next—war. All it had taken was the capture of a single man. The Hand of the King, Lord Eddard Stark, betrayed in the heart of the capital and dragged before the Iron Throne like a common criminal. Whispers had turned to roars, and now the realm bled.

From the Vale, word had come that Lady Stark had taken the Imp—Tyrion Lannister—in the name of justice. And from that single act, the realm had unravelled. Wolves and Lions now tore at each other's throats. Lord Tywin moved against Riverrun. Jaime Lannister cut down Ned Stark's men at the Whispering Wood. And then—fate turned again.

They'd captured the Kingslayer.

Now, Elric stood in the heart of Robb Stark's camp, surrounded by flapping banners bearing the direwolf of Winterfell. Men bustled through the muddy lanes between tents, sharpening blades, feeding fires, preparing for whatever the next sunrise would bring. And at the centre of it all stood the Young Wolf, not yet a man in years, but already crowned King in the North by those who had bent the knee to him.

Her father among them.

Lord Frostmere had ridden at Robb's side since the banners were first raised. A quiet, steady man, loyal as the mountain was high, and just as immovable. Elric had followed in his stead, sword in hand, face shrouded beneath the guise of a son. She wore her father's sigil on her cloak, and none questioned the presence of Lord Frostmere's dutiful, grim-faced son.

Today, she stood at the edge of the ring where the Lords of the North gathered. The Kingslayer had been dragged before them, muddy and bloodied, his golden armour dulled and dented from his fall. His wrists were shackled before him, though his chin was high, as if he still sat a prince on a crimson throne. Elric watched in silence, arms crossed, her dark gaze fixed on the infamous knight.

She remembered the last time they met—Winterfell, beneath the looming towers of the courtyard. His smug grin. His arrogance. And how it faltered when their blades met. She'd shattered his sword with a measured blow. His laughter had never left her memory.

Robb spoke. She could not hear the words from this distance, but she could feel the weight of them. His voice was calm, steady, colder than ice. Jaime said something—his mouth twisted in a smile that didn't reach his eyes—but Robb's face didn't change. He gave a short nod.

Then the Kingslayer was dragged away again, his boots scraping through the mud. The gathered lords began to disperse, and Elric spotted her father speaking with Robb, heads bowed. A few words passed between them. A look. Then her father turned.

"Elric," he said, voice low but firm as he approached.

She straightened instinctively. "My lord?"

"You'll guard the Lannister. The Young Wolf wants eyes he can trust."

Her brows rose, just a fraction. "Alone?"

"For now."

She didn't ask why. She only nodded.

The makeshift prison was little more than a wooden enclosure, built hastily with timber and iron spikes driven into the earth. A tent had been raised over it to shield from the rain, but not from the chill. Elric stepped through the guarded threshold, nodding once to the Stark men stationed there.

Inside, the Kingslayer sat shackled to a post. He looked up as she entered, eyes glinting with that same infernal amusement.

"Well," she said, stepping into the lamplight. "Looks like your luck's run as thin as your steel."

His head tilted, and for the first time, a flicker of recognition stirred in those lion's eyes. She let the silence hang.

"You remember me," she added coolly, leaning one shoulder against the post opposite his. "Winterfell. You mocked my sword. Then I broke yours."

Elric didn't smile. She didn't need to.

Inwardly, she kept her expression hard, but her thoughts churned like storm clouds. The Lannisters. Southron rot in golden wrappings. Her blood had run cold the day she heard of Ned Stark in chains. No northern child could forget the way Lady Catelyn's face had gone pale when word reached her of her husband's fate. Nor how the Stark bannermen, like her father, had stood in the dark, swearing vengeance. Elric had taken her oath then—not just as her father's son, but as a sword sworn to the North.

To her, Jaime Lannister wasn't a man. He was a symbol. Of everything false and gilded that had bled Westeros dry.

But she was still a soldier. Still dutiful. And now, she was his jailor.

"Don't expect me to bring you wine and soft cushions," she said, folding her arms across her chest. "I might've gone easy on you once," she added coolly. "But Winterfell was sport. This is war. Unless you'd like another lesson in humility."

She let the words settle.

The last time their blades crossed had been under the snow, the falling flakes quiet around them, the world still unbroken. Their duel had drawn no crowd, more their own curiosity than anything else. He'd laughed then—grinning like a lion bored of his cage—as he circled her. She remembered the weight of his swing, the arrogance in his posture, and the flicker of surprise when her strike shattered his blade clean into pieces. It had been a game to him, a distraction. To her, a test. And now? There was no room for games. The line between them had hardened. That moment in the snow was a memory from a world that no longer existed—before fathers were captured, before brothers were slain, before crowns were forged in rebellion. Then, they'd been two swords meeting for sport. Now, they were enemies forged by blood and betrayal.

Her jaw clenched. This was the man who had slain the last king with his back turned. The man who laughed through the death of northern sons. The man she would never trust.

But still—her duty was clear.

She kept her eyes on him, unwavering. The chains clinked as he shifted. The torchlight flickered between them, and beyond the canvas walls, the North whispered with wind and war.

Here, in the cold heart of rebellion, Elric Frostmere stood watch. Silent. Unbending.

And the lion, caged.

 

[Risky]

Jon Snow

He could hardly feel the time pass as they kissed on that stone wall where no eyes could find them. His body shivered at the small noise she made when his tongue found the bottom of her lip, finding his eagerness matched when she opened her mouth to receive him.

This time, there was no sudden interruption, no need for them to break away or think about who could possibly see them. Her fingers explored over his arms and when they moved up into his hair, he gently cocked his head to the side to give her more room to explore. A soft breath left him before his lips found hers again, enjoying the feeling of her fingers raking through his hair while they enjoyed each other.

Being able to hold her made all the difference for the young bastard, as all the times she had slipped away from him, he had felt that she was hardly real, and that she couldn't have possibly felt anything for him. But now he felt her heartbeat, how she pressed into his grasp when she could do so with no fear, and how her breath trembled when they finally broke their passionate kiss.

There were no words needed when she shifted to press her back against him, his arms snaking around her and his fingers clasping together to keep her seated on the ledge. His eyes closed as he settled his chin onto her shoulder, turning his face when she brushed her cheek against his and allowing his lips to brush against her soft cheek with a quiet sigh. The smell of her hair became far more evident to him, and the fragrance only reminded him of home, a light firewood-stained scent that had been flowered by perfume. It was as if her true nature could not be stifled by what a handmaiden had thought appropriate to apply to her.

Jon loved the depth of the woman now in his arms, the mystery before him still unraveled, still making his heart pound as if he were in danger or incredibly nervous.

She would easily be able to feel how his heart began to slowly calm as they sat in silence, his eyes closing as his cloak around them kept them warm. The furs normally kept his body relatively warm, but now with two sources of heat to reflect, they could have stayed out without a fire all night.

His nose brushed through some of her fiery locks, pushing them over her back before his nose brushed against her slender neck, feeling the quick jump in her heart before he returned to her shoulder. There was a feral part of him that wanted nothing more than to explore her, hold her, and never let go. But there was also the honor that had been instilled in him by his father, that he should never push beyond a certain boundary with a woman before they were married. That sense of honor didn't still the deep thoughts that must have come from some primal instinct, but they did keep him in check as the two of them sat quietly after such a display of passion.

A soft scoff left the bastard when she told him that his sisters were insufferable, waiting for her to explain herself before breathing, "You should meet my brothers."

He loved his brothers and his sisters more than anything in the world, but there had always been a distance between them. Jon had always known that he had no true brothers, that his mother had died giving birth to him.

His body tensed slightly as her head fell back against his shoulder, and he closed his eyes again as he listened to her notes on his sisters. A soft smile spread across her shoulder when she mentioned Arya. The little Stark girl had always had trouble hiding her true self, often declaring loudly how she never wanted to be a lady wearing dresses and attending feasts.

"Sansa is... Sheltered, and I think most of us are, at least from politics," Jon muttered, his brows furrowing together as he thought about it. "At least my brothers and I could leave Winterfell on hunts and trips; this is Sansa's first time traveling." He couldn't even remember the first time he had traveled, but he was sure that he was just as unadjusted as Sansa was now. She had taken easily to the idea of being a lady, that one day she would marry some noble and have plenty of children, a true prodigy to be a noblewoman.

Elyra's next words were harder for him to answer, and despite trying not to make it obvious that this was a sensitive area, she seemed to sense immediately his apprehension of the subject.

But her hand found his arm, and her words found his ears, and he felt that not only did he have to talk about his childhood in Winterfell, but that with her, he wanted to.

"I always knew that I was different, but it took a few years to understand the consequences," Jon started before taking a breath and swallowing a sudden lump in his throat.

"I learned to read books. I had always heard of a mother's warmth, but I never felt it... Whenever I joined my family at the table, she would suddenly become indisposed." He winced at the image of her face that appeared as he described Catelyn Stark, that sullen disappointment and blatant disgust of the product of stained honor.

"When I was younger, my Uncle Benjen would join us on rides from the South to gather recruits for the Night's Watch, and I would always take my meals with him... I wanted her to be able to eat with her family."

"Uncle Benjen always wanted me at his hearth, and I wanted more than anything to have what he had, what he told me about his Brotherhood," Jon explained before lifting his head from her shoulder so that he could continue. He held her still, allowing her head to rest against his shoulder and feel the vibration of his deep-seated voice thrum through both of them as he spoke of his childhood.

"The rest of my family was well aware of how she felt, and my brothers would take me out of Winterfell to keep the peace... And to use my presence as an excuse to go where we pleased." Jon laughed, as Robb and Theon often wanted to explore beyond what the setting sun would allow them to. But as long as Jon was with them, Catelyn Stark hardly seemed concerned about the trio being home in time for dinner.

"She has never told me what she thought of me, but her eyes say what her mouth won't, and that's enough for me to know."

A bastard, living proof of his father's adultery, a spitting image of the woman who made the most honorable man in the North weak enough to draw him into her bed. He always assumed that he looked more like his mother.

After all, he hardly looked like his brothers.

There was a moment of silence between them before she turned and set her fingers against his jaw, earning a soft breath from the bastard as his dark eyes met hers. The world could have fallen away from them, and he wouldn't have noticed, too taken by her eyes as she told him that he was far more than anyone thought of him.

It was impossible for him not to feel like he had already fallen for this fierce woman, one who believed in him without question and could see past the stain and appreciate the colors it left.

The Gods must have sent her to him; there was no other explanation.

And they would never be able to have her back.

Jon wordlessly closed the distance between them again before pressing a soft kiss to her lips. There were no words he could have said that would have been better than the simple gesture of affection and appreciation, and his hand gently rose to her cheek to brush his thumb over her pale features.

---

Jaime Lannister

It never ceased to amaze him how prone the Seven Kingdoms were to war; it was as if every generation needed to experience what it felt like to go on the march, and what it felt like to die buried in mud. This generation had borne Robb Stark, a seemingly natural commander who had raised the armies of his father to rescue him where he was imprisoned in King's Landing.

Jaime had placed Eddard Stark in jail himself, after one of his soldiers had shoved a spear through the back of the Warden of the North's leg, and the Kingsguard had seized him after a pitiful attempt at a coup. He could have easily believed that King Robert would have wanted Ned to rule in his stead until Joffrey grew of age, but this was a matter of principle and family, and Jaime's path was clear.

What had made it even clearer was when that red-haired cuck Ned called a wife who had taken his brother as her hostage. He had been hoping for days for the opportunity to take the fight to the North and free his brother, but the opening moves had not been completed at that point. He had reveled in receiving a raven from his father requesting his presence in the Riverlands to put pressure on Catelyn Stark's homeland.

The siege of Riverrun had been his assignment, his father expecting him to assist Ser Gregor Clegane in his failure so far to tame the impenetrable fortress. Jaime had taken the duty with grace despite the gnawing realization that he would be unable to pierce the North and raze every village in his path until his brother was home safely.

Little did Jaime know that he would have been much safer doing so, as when he had received word at his camp about a sizeable Stark force moving South to meet Tywin Lannister in battle, a trap had been sprung. Though the force he kept at Riverrun numbered in the thousands, the force commanded by the Young Wolf were in much greater number. They had fooled whatever Lannister scout had reported to his Father, and Robb Stark's true plan came to fruition just as the rest of them had.

The siege of Riverrun was lifted, and Jaime Lannister had been stripped of his armor and dragged through mud and forest to where the Northern Army had made their camp. He had heard their number was easily twenty thousand, but they were obviously much smaller. When Robb and his mother had first approached him, he couldn't help the laugh that bubbled straight from his chest.

"Kingslayer," Robb's eyes leveled with him. There was a hardness to his gaze that Jaime hadn't seen when they had last met, the sure mark that he had seen his fair share of battles.

"Lock him up with the rest of the filth," a larger, gray-haired Lord who had to be one of the Karstarks, growled the orders as if he were the one in command.

"I wasn't aware an Old Wolf was leading the Young Wolf's army~" Jaime hardly had time to get the words out before a fist had sunk into his stomach. He coughed and doubled over, held aloft by two Northern soldiers who restrained his arms while they dragged his feet over the trampled ground of the Northern camp.

He had hardly recovered his breath by the time they had thrown him into what appeared to be a flimsy, wooden cage. Of course, he could have dreamed of breaking free if his hands hadn't been clasped behind him in heavy irons. The guards who had thrust him into this makeshift prison secured his hands to a post in the middle of it, and he huffed as he looked up at them.

"Is all of this really necessary?" Of course, he knew the answer already, but hoped that the soldiers of the North were as dense as they looked.

The two did not allow him to goad them, and they soon left him alone in his cell with his back to the support pole he was shackled to.

A figure stepped from the darkness not twenty minutes later, and Jaime's eyes blinked as he focused on the face of the warrior who now leaned against the post opposite his. A short laugh left the Lannister at the mention of his thin steel; it had been a long time since he had seen Elric Frostmere.

"My father mentioned melting down Ned Stark's sword and making me a new one should I capture the Riverlands, I suppose that is out of the picture." Eddard Stark's Valyrian steel greatsword was one of legend, and had been in the care of the Starks for generations. Allegedly, even during the Age of the First Men.

"I don't recall mocking your sword, I recall enjoying a bout and being the only one to land a true blow," he remembered clearly the frustration that had risen when his sword had given out before his guard could.

His head cocked to the side when he was told not to expect wine and soft cushions, a mock pout drawing over his features as he sighed, "So much for Northern hospitality."

There had already been hundreds of plans of escape moving through his mind as he had been dragged to the Northern camp. His eyes had looked to the horizon and the forests, where the sun made the foliage darker and where there were signs of a river to lose the hounds that would surely follow. He would gladly take any opportunity to escape if he could, and he doubted that a man of honor such as Elric Frostmere could be bribed.

"I would cherish the opportunity to duel you again," Jaime's shackles clicked and shifted against the pole as he sat up and turned them toward him. "Unfortunately... My hands are tied."

"Fortunately for you, I don't have to teach you a lesson in swordsmanship," Jaime sighed and allowed the pressure against his shackles to loosen against his pole. He hoped that Elric would take the bait, but of course, he doubted that he was that stupid.

The Lion at her feet was battered and bruised, having been taken in under men who had certainly lost friends to his sword arm. They had reported that several men in their group had been killed by him before they were able to take him alive, apparently at the express orders of the Young Wolf. There had been tension between the Lords of House Stark and Karstark; the order to take him alive had been a controversial one.

"What is it you hope to gain by my capture? That maybe if you hold me and my brother, you'll buy freedom for Ned Stark?" Jaime raised his eyebrows before laughing. "You don't know my father if that's the case, and besides, you have far fewer hostages."

"And far fewer men than you would need to lay siege to a city such as King's Landing, might I add," Jaime pressed like he always did.

Elric had been immune to his charms and goading when they had crossed blades in Winterfell, but Jaime hoped that the boiling blood he could already sense would be easily pushed to an inflection point.

 

[VelvetWhispers]

Elyra Frostmere

The night hung heavy around Moat Cailin, the ghost lights flickering low across the bog as if the world itself were holding its breath. The ruins behind them whispered with wind and memory, and before her, Jon Snow's mouth found hers again—not like the first, hesitant and questioning, but full and certain. Elyra melted into it.

Her arms slid around his neck as though they had always belonged there, one hand tangling into his curls while the other pressed lightly at the nape of his neck. He kissed her like he meant to remember every breath between them, like he had no interest in letting the night slip by unnoticed. Her body curved into his, as if her bones recognized the shape of him.

Gods, she was lost. And she didn't care.

The kiss deepened, slowed, then softened like the final note of a song that lingered in the throat before fading into stillness. Her forehead rested against his, and for a moment all she could hear was the hush of their breath, the distant echo of frogsong, and the quiet pulse in her ears that matched the rhythm of her heart.

"You know," she whispered, her lips still barely brushing his, "I'm starting to think I might have to steal you from the Night's Watch."

She felt the shift in him, the slight catch of breath, and her lips curved into a grin before she pulled back just enough to see his face.

"They'll send a raven to my father," she murmured, mock-serious, "accusing me of treason, seduction, and unlawful conscription."

There was mischief dancing in her eyes, and a warmth she didn't bother hiding. Her fingers curled at the back of his neck, her gaze unwavering.

"I'll have to find you a new occupation, of course. Something more suited to your… talents."

She paused dramatically, considering her options.

"A bard, perhaps?" Her grin deepened. "You've brooded enough for seven lifetimes, Jon. Might as well put that voice to use singing sad songs by the fire."

She tapped his shoulder lightly, pretending to assess his build. "Or a goat herder. Far less political intrigue, and the goats will probably listen to you more than the Night's Watch ever would."

Her hand drifted across his shoulder, fingers teasing. "A professional brooder, maybe. You could teach it, honestly. Brooding: The Art of Staring into the Distance. First lesson—wear black, scowl often, speak little."

She caught the glint of the moon in his eyes and couldn't help the soft laugh that escaped her lips.

"Snow shoveler?" she offered innocently. "It is your namesake, after all."

Then her voice dropped a shade lower, tender and teasing all at once. "Bodyguard. I might need protection from all the hearts you break."

Her fingers traced down his arm before she pretended to consider his hand. "Stable hand, maybe. You've got the moody eyes and the work ethic. I'd visit the stables more often."

She leaned in again, her breath brushing his ear. "Love poet. Your letters would be one word long, but they'd be devastating."

Her chest tightened with something she didn't want to name, but it spilled into her voice anyway as she finished, softer now: "Or… my personal knight. Sworn to serve and… well, we'll discuss the rest privately."

The silence between them turned golden, a pause gilded with promise. The bog still shimmered below like some enchanted realm, ageless and wild. A colder, more sensible version of herself might have said it was time to return. The Septa was likely hunting her down with a list of tasks and a scowl that could sour milk. She was only out here because her father had sent her to oversee preparations—nothing more.

And yet, here she was. Wrapped in a bastard's arms, whispering dreams she shouldn't dare shape aloud.

There was a betrothal in the works. Negotiations her father hadn't spoken of directly but hadn't needed to. She wasn't foolish. She knew her place in this game of crowns and alliances.

But none of it mattered—not here. Not with the smell of firewood in his furs and the weight of his arms around her.

In Jon Snow's embrace, the world outside the walls faded, and the rules she'd grown up under felt like parchment left too long in the rain—fragile, tattered, irrelevant.

Whatever storm would come tomorrow… she would face it then.

Tonight, she only wanted to feel real. And with him—she did.

---

Elric Frostmere

Elric Frostmere had seen many kinds of cages in her life—some gilded, some rusted through—but few were as satisfying as the one that now held Jaime Lannister.

The Kingslayer sat with his back chained to a wooden post, limbs long and lean but no longer dangerous—at least for now. Mud clung to his boots and knees, a smear of dried blood marred one side of his jaw, and his golden hair was dulled by sweat and grime. He looked less like the lion of House Lannister and more like a mongrel that had picked the wrong fight in the wrong woods. And yet… the grin never left his face.

"I would cherish the opportunity to duel you again," he said, voice smooth despite the bruises beneath his ribs. He tugged against the manacles for emphasis, metal clinking against the pole. "Unfortunately… my hands are tied."

Elric exhaled softly through her nose. Gods save me, she thought, he's making jokes in chains. The man had been dragged through half a mile of muck, beaten, bloodied, and stripped of his pride—but none of that seemed to dent the arrogance that clung to him like a second skin.

"Fortunately for you, I don't have to teach you a lesson in swordsmanship," Jaime added, sighing theatrically.

A wry smile tugged at the corner of Elric's mouth, unbidden. She gave a soft snort and shook her head, amused despite herself, and despite the gnawing ache behind her eyes that came from too little sleep and too much loss. She didn't humor many with smiles. Her men said she was more stone than flesh, all sharp glances and cold logic. But Jaime had always had a way of finding the cracks in armour—whether with steel or smirking words.

She lowered herself onto an upturned bucket beside the makeshift cage, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders to guard against the evening chill. The stew handed to her steamed like a chimney, the scent of barley, onions, and too much salt pork rising from the dented tin bowl. More broth than meat, as usual. She dipped a piece of stale biscuit into the murky depths and took a bite, chewing thoughtfully.

"Gods, they're getting creative," she muttered, fishing out what might have once been a bit of mutton, though it had the resilience of boiled boot leather. "The butcher must be hacking blindfolded again."

She took another bite, this time soaking more bread to soften it into something resembling food, and caught Jaime watching her with something between curiosity and veiled hunger.

Elric smiled—really smiled, the kind that deepened the lone dimple on her left cheek and made her look far younger than she was. It was rare for her to wear such warmth in a camp soaked in grief and iron.

"You talk like a man who thinks he still holds the pieces on the board," she said lightly, blowing gently on her next spoonful before tasting it. "But in case you hadn't noticed, we moved first. And we moved better."

Another bite. The broth burned her tongue slightly, but the warmth was welcome.

"I don't hope for anything with your capture, Ser Jaime," she went on. "I'm not a prince of the realm or a lord with titles to earn. I'm a soldier. One of many. And you were unlucky enough to fall into our hands."

Her gaze flicked up to his, steady as ever. "And everyone in this camp knows your father well enough to guess what he'll do. Sacrificing his children for his ambitions is hardly a leap. I doubt he'd blink twice."

A pause, and then her smile crooked again, sharp and dry.

"As for needing more men… I suppose we didn't need them that badly, did we?" Eluding to his capture.

She stirred the stew again, the spoon clicking against the tin. Silence stretched between them for a few heartbeats as she ate—slowly, unhurried, her body relaxed but her mind never still.

He was watching her. Of course he was. Jaime Lannister was always calculating. But she wasn't afraid of what those eyes might see. Let him think her cool, sardonic, careful. Let him think her a man hardened by war. That, at least, would protect her better than any blade.

When the moment felt right, she leaned her elbows on her knees and regarded him with an expression of thoughtful curiosity.

"There's something I've always wondered," she said, voice softer now, but no less sharp. "You put Lord Stark in chains. Your king—King Robert, not your boy of a nephew—had no wish for that. And still you did it."

Her brow furrowed, just slightly.

"So tell me, Kingslayer… was it worth it?"

She didn't press. Didn't mock. She asked the question as one soldier might ask another, amid the crackle of campfires and the stench of sweat and blood.

"Did your family get what it wanted? Power? Glory? A throne built on kindling?" Her words had weight, but not venom. "Or was it just another war… started by men who believe they're too clever to bleed?"

But you don't eat in front of a starving man, she thought, even if that man put a sword through your brothers-in-arms.

She dipped her spoon, swirled the stew once, then offered it through the bars.

He didn't reach for it—his hands were bound—but her point had been made. Compassion wasn't weakness. Not in a world that begged for monsters.

"You don't have to answer, of course," she added lightly. "Most men in cages prefer stories of freedom, not failures."

The fire nearby hissed as someone added wet wood. The wind shifted, carrying with it the scent of horse and iron and the slow decay of bodies that had once been brave and breathing.

Elric Frostmere sat quietly, one boot resting on the edge of her bucket, her posture relaxed but ready.

She had no illusions that she could make sense of Jaime Lannister. But if she could peel back even a single layer of that golden mask, she would consider it a good night.

And perhaps, in the end, that would be worth something.