King in the North.

But not even he was safe from the expectations that followed. He was higher above them, the one they chose despite everything — a Stark bastard through and through, and yet they gave him a crown and a throne made of wood, pledged their alliance to him in all ways.

Besides one house, who refused to bend the knee, who refused his help during the Long Night, who refused to bow before their king. Jon wasn't mad at them, they owed him no loyalty, no respect, but what came from it? Oh, that had put him in a sour mood.

They offered him their daughter. You, with eyes that could capture the heart of any man, but did not capture Jon's. It was an exchange — their loyalty, their men, their weapons, if only Jon would make you his queen.

What a stupid idea... and yet, he agreed.

Sansa had been against it at the start, but she soon came to realize how important this alliance was. It wasn't just politics, it was strength. Your house was great in power, and they knew their place and their worth. Those who had bent the knee to the Boltons only did it to the Starks because they feared having their heads next on the chopping block.

Your house didn't fear the King in the North.

Nor did you fear Jon, or respect him for that matter, and it was something that got into his nerves since the day you walked through the gates of Winterfell in your expensive furs and regal appearance. He was envious of how the people instantly respect you, whilst he had to make up for the fact that he was born a bastard.

To some, he would always be Jon Snow, and not Jon Stark. He could not say the same for you, for you had been born in purple, raised your whole life to be the wife of a lord who would no doubt waste all of his economies to make you happy.

Jon couldn't give you that, not now, not before the Long Night, not when all of Westeros was at risk, and not when he knew nothing about you.

The day of your wedding came, and the ceremony was a bit too big for his liking — too many resources wasted on a celebration that he found could've been just you both kneeling by the weirwood forest and saying vows neither of you would keep.

A lavish feast, with all of his vassals present. Wine that made his senses numb, a fat goose that each time he bit into he could feel the grease running down his chin, a soup that had more pepper than it needed to have, and the few bards that remained sang beautiful songs that made him wish to be deaf.

Before long, you were both forced to retire to your chambers by those closest to Jon — Tormund, in specific, who wished to know about the 'southern customs', but he had managed to stop the wildling from entering your shared chambers for the night.

He stood by the door for a long time, his gaze downcast, and he didn't know whether it was the warmth of the hearth or because he had drunk too much, but he felt a sort of heat crawling up his neck.

"It's hot here, isn't it?"

Jon murmured, already starting to undo the clasps of his cloak, and Gods, he swore he could feel the way your gaze burned on him.