29-The Queen of Winter

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based on the Harry Potter and A Song of Ice and Fire universes. All recognizable characters, plots, and settings are exclusive property of Joanne K. Rowling and George R.R. Martin respectively. I make no claim to ownership.

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Acknowledgements: This chapter was edited by Void Uzumaki and Ashestodust. I also want to thank my beta-reader nicknm for helping me bounce ideas around.

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Author's Note.: Chapter turned out longer than expected. Enjoy!

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If you're feeling generous and want to support me, you can find me on P*T*E*N under the same name for up to three early access chapters(a week before discord).

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Harrion Karstark

He had no idea how long he had been rotting down here in the dungeons. Moons, mayhaps? Even years? With a mountain of effort and a small old bone found in a corner, he had managed to mark each day with a scratch on the granite wall. But eventually the bone was slowly worn down until it broke into fragments. The cowardly lord Mooton held him here instead of being confined in some guest room out of spite for the sacking of Maidenpool. But it was not like he was the one that sacked his shitty southern town. No, it had been that flayed cunt Roose Bolton and his men. In fact, he was here because the Leech Lord had set him up. He did not see it at the start, but when he spent a few moons thinking on it, he realised that the old Bolton had served them up for defeat in Duskendale by overreaching so deep in the crownlands.

Harrion only had rats for companions, and he had spent his time chasing them away or staring at the small and narrow window near the top of the eastern wall. While the other northerners fought and covered themselves in glory, he shamefully spent his time losing battles and being held captive instead. Before, he had some hope that his king would exchange some prisoners for him, but the news of the Red Wedding extinguished the last of it. He did not want to believe it at first, but as time passed, his belief was slowly chipped away. It even started to make sense after a while. The prissy southerners couldn't beat the Starks in a straight fight, so they decided to win through treachery instead. And the treacherous Bolton was surely in on it!

He tried thinking of ways to escape, but the room was made of solid stone. Even if he somehow managed to remove the thick steel bars that covered his tiny window, he had no hope of ever squeezing through it, despite his now thin frame. Not to mention that the small window was more than eight feet above the ground and he could scarcely reach it when jumping. He was stuck waiting for something, anything, to happen. He knew that he was a hostage for the good behaviour of House Karstark.

If the news of his father's demise was true, it would bode bad for his future. His cunt of an uncle, Arnolf, wouldn't hesitate to do something that would make Harrion a head shorter. Was his sweet little sister even still alive at this point?

Harrion had been feeling hungry for a long, long time, but the single serving of stale bread and gruel a day only stoked his hunger more. He could scarcely finish the rock-hard bread once he ran out of gruel, so it was left to the rats.

In fact, he was now watching a pair of rats eating the remains of his stale bread in a corner. How he missed the taste of meat. He would love to try and catch the little vermin, but he had grown slow and weak, and the manacles weighing him down made the task even more of an ordeal. Harrion had tried a few times before, but in the end, he only ended up even hungrier with empty hands and an emptier belly.

His limbs had grown thinner with each passing day, and now he could even count all of his ribs underneath his tattered robe.

Soon he might fall asleep and simply not wake up on the morrow. At this point, he would welcome the headsman's axe, being shipped to the Wall to join the Night's Watch or traded away. Anything to not die hungry, surrounded by his own piss, shit, and rats in this cell anymore.

He lay down drowsily on the thin straw bed in the clean corner, closed his eyes and slowly drifted into an uneasy sleep while wondering if he would see the blue sky again ever again...

BANG!

The door crashed open and Harrion opened his eyes groggily only to see two armoured figures looming over him with torches in hand. Was it time to face the block?

"This must be him! Take him to the Lord Captain immediately," one of the men said worriedly. He heard two clicks and suddenly his legs felt free. He looked at his feet only to see the manacles lying open on the cold stone floor.

Before his mind could wake up fully, Harrion was pulled up way more carefully than he would have expected. He tried to walk on his own, but his legs were weak and stiff. Each step was a battle where he had to ward off the painful groan of his weak joints and muscles. Neither of the men dragged him as he would have expected. Instead, they were patiently watching him as he struggled to walk.

"Who're you? And who would be that Lord Captain of yours?" He frowned at the sound of his own voice. It sounded so raspy that it reminded him of rusty iron scraping on a stone.

"We're men from White Harbour. Lord Manderly sent us here to save you. And the Lord Captain is the man leading our fleet and has taken Maidenpool," one of them replied. For a moment, Harrion thought that he was seeing, or even hearing things and that he had already died. But the pain in his legs reminded him that he was very much still alive.

They moved to help him walk out but he weakly shook his head.

"No. I'd rather walk out of this prison on my own two feet!"

As the two men looked at him with respect, he mustered his remaining strength. He slowly moved his legs, putting one in front of the other and wobbling weakly towards the exit. Each step was a painful reminder that he was alive. And each step brought him closer to freedom. He was a Karstark of Karhold and would not be bested by some measly stay in a prison. Harrion gritted his teeth and persevered. In the dimly lit hallway outside lay two corpses in pools of blood.

As he slowly and painfully neared the exit, he could hear a commotion outside. The two men-at-arms faithfully flanked him, without trying to help him.

When he finally got outside, a faint breeze brushed against his skin and the smell of sea and salt assaulted him. He immediately looked to the night sky, only to see half a moon softly illuminating it. His vision began swimming and something watery appeared on his cheeks. He shakily raised his hand to wipe his face with the torn dirty rag that was his sleeve. He was crying. But those tears were of joy, not of sorrow. Then he burst out in raspy laughter for a short moment, before his perched throat constricted making him bend over and he started coughing heavily.

"Give the man something to drink!" a booming voice echoed near him angrily.

A flask of water was pushed into his hands and he thirstily drank a few gulps and stood up. He was in the castle's courtyard, surrounded by dozens of men with no visible sigils or heraldry. At the head was a big, harsh looking man with blond hair and blue eyes wearing the finest plate. Was this a Manderly? The man in question however was looking at Harrion with a mix of respect and anger and his face was turning a dangerous shade of purple.

"By the Gods, this is a disgrace! The gall of these southern cunts to treat a Northern Lord like a common brigand?! Lord Karstark looks like the first gust of wind would kill him. Lord Wyman personally entrusted this task to me by the order of the Stark of Winterfell himself! Get the Lord to the ship maester immediately," the man's voice lowered dangerously in the end.

The Stark of Winterfell? Weren't King Robb and his brothers dead? As he was escorted towards the harbour, he caught the furious voice of the captain thundering behind him. "...I wanted to be merciful but I will not stand for this! Put everyone to the sword! LEAVE NONE ALIVE!"

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Shireen Baratheon

The wind streaked through her face as Stormstrider flew over the wolfswood. The saddle underneath her felt way more comfortable than the hard and sharp scales. The feeling of freedom was simply exhilarating. Though the purple dragon seemed to tire quite quickly, and after little more than ten minutes of flight, he started to slow down.

"Turn back, Stormstrider," she yelled against the wind and the purple arced around.

She had no idea how the Targaryen dragons were truly controlled as the books on the subject in Winterfell's library were written by a maester who lived after the last dragon died and mentioned something about whips and maybe High Valyrian. She did not know if the records were wrong or if the king's dragons were particularly special because they were very intelligent and understood the common tongue well enough. Which was a relief, because she scarcely knew a handful of words in High Valyrian from her lessons with Maester Cressen and now started learning under Maester Wolkan, but learning the language had proven slow and cumbersome.

The last fortnight had passed by as quickly as the landscape below her. The maester had permitted more strenuous activity like dragon-riding only three days ago. With the help of Myrcella and Sansa, her maiden cloak was finally completed four days ago. The kind red-haired princess had not only provided the best fabrics Winterfell had to offer, but helped them greatly with the embroidery. Everything was ready for the wedding tonight aside from one last detail. She had no living father, uncles, or brother to give her away.

Stormstrider landed on an empty spot in the yard, but not before whipping his tail and throwing a swathe of snow towards the nearby spectators, covering some of them with it. Shireen sighed at his antics as she dismounted.

Ghost was already there, waiting for her faithfully, and she immediately scratched the underside of his chin, making his tail wag wildly. Next to the trusty direwolf stood her new sworn shield, Jyanna Snow. She was a tall and wiry woman with auburn hair and wore a brigandine under her surcoat which depicted the reversed coat of arms of the Wulls.

Shireen headed towards the Guest House, where Ser Davos was staying. She had not seen her father's Hand much outside the morning when everyone broke their fast in the Great Hall and sometimes he was not even there for that. She had heard that the Onion Knight had taken up some position under Lord Glover, but had no idea if it was true.

Thankfully, he was in his room, face scrunched and mumbling over a book containing the Jaehaerys' unified codex of laws.

"Princess, I am glad to see you," Davos stood up and politely bowed as soon as he saw her enter. The gesture brought a smile to her face, the onion knight had always been kind to her, even when most people had avoided her.

"Ser Davos," she nodded in acknowledgement. "Did learning your letters finally turn out useful?"

"Aye, princess. It even let me become a bailiff under the Lord Justicar. It feels wrong when I'm idle," he explained with a wry smile.

"That's great!" She beamed. "What happened to Devan?"

"I managed to get Lord Morgan Liddle to train the lad. Squire in all but in name. Hopefully, the chieftain will smack some sense back into my boy and make him forget about all the foolishness the Red Witch filled his head with," Davos scowled.

Shireen understood all too well. Devan might have saved her by helping her run away in the northern wilderness, but he had been a poor companion and oft prattled on about the Red God. The Red Witch had sunk her claws in many a good man, and the mere mention of her or R'hllor terrified her back then, so she had avoided Davos' son after she had joined the Stark's host. But she was safe here in Winterfell. Hopefully the mountain chieftain could set him straight.

"Ser Davos, could I ask you for a favour?" Shireen asked gently.

"Of course, Princess, I am always at your service!"

"Could you give me away during the wedding tonight?" she asked hesitantly.

"Give you away?" Davos looked baffled.

Shireen paused in confusion, then realised that the old smuggler most probably was not familiar with the custom of a wedding before the Old Gods.

"In the northern wedding ceremonies, the bride is given away by the father. Since..." Shireen's voice cracked and the words fled her. Neither her mother nor her father had been particularly attentive to her, she liked to believe that both of them loved her their own way. Shireen suspected that her mother would not approve of her choice of husband, but mayhaps Stannis would. He had taken a liking to Jon during their stay with the Watch, and her father never truly liked anyone before.

Realisation dawned upon the Onion Knight's face and he responded. "You honour me greatly, princess. I will do it!"

"Thank you, Ser!" She beamed in response.

Shireen went back to her room, where Merya drew her a hot bath. After washing away all the dust and sweat carefully, it was finally time to prepare for the wedding.

As her handmaiden was helping her brush her hair, Myrcella and Princess Sansa entered her room. The next few hours were spent weaving her long raven locks in an overly elaborate northern braid and testing out different essosi oils and scents. By the time she was ready and dressed up in the white satin wedding gown, the sun had already set.

A knock on the door was heard and Jyanna Snow peeked inside the room.

"It's time, Your Grace. The King and the Lords and ladies have almost fully gathered in the godswood," her sworn shield said and closed the door.

She carefully put her maiden cloak atop her shoulders and slipped her feet into a pair of white fur-lined boots. The cloak was made purely out of golden brocade threads, and the mighty stag of House Baratheon was embroidered with black silk. Shireen, accompanied by Jyanna, Sansa, Myrcella, and Ghost, headed towards the godswood. She felt the cold sting of the cold air outside through her cloak and gown. A waning moon softly adorned the clear night sky, and together with the stars dimly illuminated the darkness.

Shireen could feel a tangled knot form in her stomach slowly forming as they neared the godswood. What if she was not fit to be queen, despite being raised as the heir of her father? What if her marriage was as cold just like the one between her parents? After all, she was not marrying out of love here.

Nobility does not marry for love, but for duty.

The stern voice of her father echoed in her mind. But, by all accounts, Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Tully married for duty, but they loved each other dearly. And Jon Stark was every inch the son of Eddard Stark.

"Shireen, has your mother or septa… explained to you how a marriage is consummated?" Sansa asked delicately. Myrcella blushed and looked scandalised by the question.

She froze for a short moment then frowned. "All my mother said is that it is going to be painful but I must do my duty."

Her future good-sister grimaced, before sighing.

"Bedding is not necessarily painful, Princess," her sworn shield chimed in with a kind smile. "It might hurt a little the first time, but if the man knows what he's doing it can be very pleasurable for the woman as well. And His Grace does not look like someone inexperienced."

She blushed at the words and felt the knot in her stomach loosen. But she wasn't the only one, even Princess Sansa and Myrcella's cheeks reddened. Though, it might have been because of the chilly evening air.

At the entrance of the godswood, Ser Davos was waiting. The princesses parted with her, Ghost disappeared into the trees, and the Onion Knight wordlessly escorted her along the snowy path that was lined with lit lanterns.

She shivered from the cold and her hands felt icy. The wedding gown and the maiden cloak were not thick enough to ward away the evening northern chill. Thankfully the wedding ceremonies before the Old Gods were quite short compared to those in the Faith.

The path towards the heart tree was surrounded by all the Ladies and Lords of the North. Most of them had a torch or a lantern in hand, and were standing quiet, faces solemn. She caught the sweet scent of oak, pine, and smoke. In front of the sacred weirwood, Jon Stark stood proudly next to Hugo Wull. The stout mountain chieftain was dressed in thick wool and leather and had the second biggest belly she had ever seen. Her groom wore a doublet made of blue wool underneath a dark grey fur-lined cloak emblazoned with a fierce white direwolf head. His sword with the white direwolf pommel rested on a leather belt atop his waist. The bronze crown that sat atop his brow looked somehow different, but she couldn't make the details in the dim light. He looked more regal than her father or uncle Robert ever did.

Something big stirred in the darkness behind the heart tree and she saw glints of dark blue and purple. So, Winter and Stormstrider were here to watch the ceremony.

"Who comes before the Old Gods this night?" Lord Wull's mighty voice tore through the solemn silence.

"Shireen, of House Baratheon, comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn, and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?" The onion knight spoke clearly.

"Jon, of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and King of the North. Who gives her?" the king's voice echoed across the godswood.

"Ser Davos of House Seaworth, her father's Hand," Ser Davos said with a smile. "Lady Shireen, do you take this man?"

"I take this man!"

They clasped hands, and her nearly frozen hand was enveloped in the king's warm and gentle grip. She felt… small as her head barely reached his shoulder. They kneeled and bowed together and prayed silently for a few short moments before the melancholy face carved in the bone-white bark. She prayed for a warm and harmonious marriage, for peace, and the blessings of the Old Gods. R'hllor demanded her life to burn in the fires, the Seven cared nought for her, so she hoped that the gods of her husband were more benevolent to her.

The blood-red leaves rustled pleasantly, yet the air was still. From the south, a flash of light illuminated the night for a short moment, followed by a mighty thunderclap that made her ears ring. The people in the surroundings shuffled uneasily yet stayed quiet.

As Shireen rose together with the king, her eyes gazed at the sky. There was not a single cloud in sight, as the moon and stars shone with their silvery light, yet somehow a thunder had appeared. Was this a sign by the gods? If it was, she hoped it was a good one.

Jon Stark carefully removed her golden cloak and handed it to Ser Davos. With only a gown, she shivered like a lone leaf in a storm under the cold air. Yet a moment later, a grey fur cloak was placed upon her shoulders by her husband. It felt heavy, but its warmth quickly chased the chill away. Even the crisp air around her bare face lost its icy sting.

"I am hers, and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days," the king vowed solemnly, his violet eyes heavy with feelings.

"I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days," Shireen returned the pledge. This was it. She was officially married now. The crowned stag was no longer her sigil, it was the direwolf.

Behind the heart tree, both dragons reared up and started spewing fire towards the sky. A stream of dark blue streaked with black crossed one purple, illuminating the night sky once again.

"With this kiss, I pledge my love, and take you for my Lady and Wife." Her face was cupped by a pair of calloused hands and a set of soft, warm lips gently planted themselves over hers and she felt the whole world turn hot as her insides fluttered.

Her cheeks reddened, her mind felt dizzy, and by the time she managed to gather her thoughts again, she realised that she had to do her part of the vow.

"With this kiss, I pledge my love, and take you for my Husband and Lord," Shireen managed to find her voice and had to stand up on her toes to reach the king's lips. She felt clumsy then, but he cupped her face again, and she melted in his arms.

When she finally managed to come back to her senses, she was already in the strong hands of her husband, who was effortlessly carrying her to the feast. She blushed even harder. Gods, she did not know kissing could feel so good. Her mind still felt a bit jumbled, but she didn't really recall the final vows to be a part of the traditional northern ceremony. Not that she minded…

A faint yet pleasant scent of pine and mint was coming from her husband. Shireen took a careful look at Jon Stark's sharp and handsome face. The pale scar across his left eye made him look even more dashing, and his eyes shone like a pair of amethysts in the darkness. He caught her eyes with his gaze, winked, and gave her a mischievous smile, making her blush even harder.

Her sky-blue eyes then settled on the crown atop his brow. Now, close-up, she could see that it was indeed a different crown, despite the similarities. It was still bronze, but delicate black veins ran through the polished metal. Across the whole length of the circlet, intricate crossed swords were interwoven. At the middle of his brow, a detailed direwolf head with ruby for an eye met the one of a roaring dragon, who had a dark sapphire-encrusted eye. Across the length of the bronze, first men runes were beautifully inscribed and in the dim light of the night looked like they were a flowing river. For a short moment, she felt that the runes glowed with soft purple light but it went away as she blinked in wonder. Compared to the previous crown, this one gave off an ethereal and mystical beauty.

The Northern lords and ladies were cheerfully trailing after them, the solemn expressions from earlier nowhere in sight.

The procession reached the Great Hall, where all the long tables were now heavy with food. Roasted Pork, venison, beef, mallards and many more. There were all types of cheese, hams, pies, and cakes. Bowls were filled with various fruits. Some she recognised from the glass gardens, but others like peaches, pears, and plums were from as far as Dorne and Essos. Her husband carried her to the head of the High Table where he finally let her down on the chair on his left.

The large hall quickly filled up, and on her other side sat Sansa, Arya, and Myrcella. The servants quickly began serving wine and ale across the tables and the atmosphere quickly became rowdy.

The king stood up and everyone quieted.

"My Lords and Ladies, to my wife, Queen Shireen Stark!" he toasted with a full tankard. She blushed as wine and ale was flowing freely in her name. "While we're still rather sober, it's time for the gifts!" Laughter rang merrily in the hall at his words. Torrhen Flint, her husband's squire, quickly brought a rather small ornate chest to the king. Inside lay an intricate yet slim circlet made of the same metal as the king and inscribed with similar runes. But instead of swords, there were stags, dragons, and direwolves carved in great detail.

"A crown for a Northern Queen!" Jon Stark's voice echoed in the hall as he placed the warm circlet atop her crow and the men cheered. For some reason, the metal felt… warm and refreshing and it might have been her imagination, but the surroundings felt clearer. The crown was not the only thing in the chest, however. There also lay an intricate pendant made of gold. It had the form of a howling direwolf head, encased in a full circle, and small runes were beautifully inscribed over it. The king also carefully placed the pendant on her neck, before whispering in her ear. "Always wear it, it will ward bad luck away amongst other things."

The Lords and Ladies started bringing out their gifts. She received plenty of rare fabrics from all corners of the world, jewellery, a cyvasse board made out of weirwood, and even an intricate dagger made out of the best Qohorik steel with a weirwood handle carved with direwolves and stags. The King received weapons, books, luxurious riding boots, saddles, intricate belts, and many more. While her husband's face was smiling, Shireen had the feeling that he was not very enthusiastic about any of the gifts, other than the weirwood longbow gifted by Rodrick Forrester.

The feast then began in full force, and the bards started playing all sorts of songs. Time blurred as she sampled a little bit of everything on the feast table, and only drank from the same ale that the king did. As time passed and more food and drink were being devoured, the songs started becoming bawdier and bawdier. Shireen realised that she would probably have to dance in front of everyone soon and tensed. She was never truly good at it. At that moment, "The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off his Crown" began to play and things became rowdy.

"Bedding!" The booming voice of Greatjon Umber lit a fire in the drunken men who quickly echoed him. The Lords and the Ladies quickly descended like vultures towards the head table.

Shireen knew this was a tradition, and shrank in her seat as she felt uncomfortable with the idea of having her clothing ripped apart and her naked body touched by all those strangers. She looked towards her husband, and saw a twitch in his lips.

A white blur barrelled in before the crowd could surround them, a strong pair of hands lifted her up and she found herself atop the soft back of… Ghost. She instinctively grabbed the silken white fur just as the direwolf nimbly jumped over the crowd at the Great Hall, avoiding all attempts of capture altogether. Riding the king's direwolf turned out to be surprisingly smooth.

Shireen heard groans and yells of disappointment as she rode out of the hall. Ghost was incredibly fast and did not seem to be bothered by her weight at all. He reached the Great Keep in the blink of an eye and before Shireen knew it, they were already standing in front of the door of the King's chamber. She carefully hopped off Ghost's back, rubbed his neck, and entered the chamber with trepidation. Warmth spread in her belly at Jon's kind gesture – her husband did not hesitate to break the tradition to spare her the discomfort.

The King's chambers were spacious and a flame was softly dancing in the hearth already. There was a wide bed and a nightstand on each side. Three drawers could be seen on one of the walls, a small table and two chairs at the corner, and a... weapon's rack? If her eyes were not deceiving her, all of it was made from mahogany from the Summer Isles. The floor was covered with various rugs made from bear, wolf, and even shadowcat pelts. She carefully took the Stark cloak off her shoulders, placed it on the hanger near the bed and slowly started taking off her wedding dress. She might have been spared the humiliating undressing but she knew her duty. When she was in her name-day gown she slipped under the warm covers to wait for her husband.

She did not have to wait long, the door opened and a gaggle of ladies deposited her nearly naked husband in the chamber, who spun and immediately closed the door before anyone else could enter.

"You can't have the direwolf guard the door, Your Grace!" a drunken shout was heard from the hallway.

"Winter might be too big to pass through the doorway, but Stormstrider and Bloodfyre aren't," was his threatening reply and the commotion outside the door quickly died down.

Jon finally turned and her blue eyes settled on his almost bare body. He still had his smallclothes on. Her husband's body was like that of a predator – there was no fat to be seen, only sculptured lean muscle. His torso was covered in many silvery scars, but seven of them were particularly thick and angry, one of which was right where his heart was supposed to be. She had heard how he was betrayed and risen back from the dead on his own funeral pyre, but seeing the marks with her own eyes…

He carefully joined her under the covers and pulled her into a warm embrace. She waited then, but nothing happened.

"Are we not going to… consummate?" Shireen whispered.

"You're too young," was his quiet reply and she felt her stomach lurch and tears started brimming in her eyes. Was her marriage going to be cold like the one of her parents? Suddenly, the arms enveloping her spun her around and she found herself face to face with her husband. "The Conciliator married his Good Queen, yet refused to consummate because she was too young and waited until the age of majority!"

"Until Jaehaerys was of age. Alysanne was four and ten when they wed a second time and bedded!"

"Aye, and when she got pregnant at four and ten, the babe was born too early and died soon after. My own mother was five and ten when she had me and she died at childbirth," was his chilling reply. "Do you want to risk it?"

"But I've heard that there are ways to prevent conceiving. The lords and ladies might talk...we should consummate or the marriage might be rescinded!" she insisted. Shireen did not want to be put aside...

"Fuck the lords and the ladies! Who would dare?!" His purple eyes blazed with fury for a moment then he gazed gently at her blue eyes. "We can always wait. I take my vows seriously, and you are now mine until my last day, just as I am yours. No men or gods can part us now! Do you truly want this or is it duty speaking? Tell me what you want!"