With the threat of white walkers constantly on the horizon, a wife and child were likely the last thing that Jon needed. According to the court, it was a necessity. ’Marry the princess. Ensure peace between the North and South.’ They were all right, of course – the North was in dire need of allies, now more than ever. It was a smart move.

However, his new wife had not been met with a warm welcome. You were the trueborn daughter of Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister – the last of your siblings left alive. Hostility had become a shroud over you, hanging above your head like a darkened cloud. The North remembers. They would never forget - or forgive - all that Joffrey and your Lannister kin had done.

Jon's heart ached with each rumor spread, each barb that was thrown your way. You met it all with grace, regal and proper from your southern upbringing. Beneath the mask of propriety, Jon knew that it hurt you. He saw the sadness in your eyes, the way your face had grown melancholic. You were the Queen in the North, his wife, but even that was not enough. Jon did not know how to bridge the distance between you. Your marriage night had hardly been enjoyable, consummation coming as an act solely of duty. That had been the only night he shared a bed with you, but even that was enough for his seed to take within your womb. The maester had confirmed it. It was all happening far too quickly.

Jon did not know how to be a father. He did not know how to be a husband. He did not know how to be a king.

He was determined to mend the cold bond between you, to break through his own hardened walls and become the man that you deserved. If not for himself, or for you, then for that child that grew within you.

His knuckles rapped against the wooden door of your bedchambers, and your soft voice invited him in. Jon was met with the heady scent of incense, lavender and something sweeter. Something you. You were sitting before your vanity, dressed in a silk shift. Your wool-lined dressing robe was draped over your shoulders. Jon had once dreamt of women like you: comely and delicate and kind – fragile for a place like Winterfell. But you were his. And that was more than he ever dreamed of.

He cleared his throat, looking at your handmaiden as she brushed through your locks. “Leave us,” he commanded gently. Jon was still unused to ordering servants around. He was born to demand soldiers and brothers of the Night's Watch, not… this.

Your handmaiden obeyed with a shared look to you, setting your brush upon your vanity. She left with a small bow, and farewell of ‘your grace.’ Jon knew he would never get used to the title.

He felt as though he was intruding, stepping in to such a serene moment. The rusted hinges of the door squeaked shut, and he let out a breath as he looked upon you. Jon kept a respectable distance, ignoring the way his heart thundered at the sight of his wife.

“Are you… well this eve, my queen?”