Title: A Proper Lover.
Rating: NC-17 for later chapters
Summary: A lowly kitchen maiden named Andrea Wintark gets swept up in the complicated kingship of Jon Snow. Despite her best judgement and the foreshadowing of danger, she can't find it within herself to pull away as her feelings grow stronger for him.
Notes: Set in season 7 but with a seriously f-ed up timeline. Some important things to note: Jon is King, this is BEFORE Jon leaves Winterfell to meet Dany and falls a little after 'The Battle of Bastards'. Sansa and Arya are at Winterfell but Bran is not.
Title inspiration comes from a quote in 3x06 in which Ygritte says, "you're a proper lover, Jon Snow".
Notes 2: This is just for fun ya'll! I actually ship a lot of people with Jon and just wanted to write an OC for fun. If it's not your cup of tea, don't read, though constructive criticism is always welcome! Please enjoy :)
Notes 3: Finally, there are a decent amount of adult themes, foul sexual language and some uncomfortable things to read about in here. If any of the tags make you uncomfortable, please don't read.
Chapter 1: A Chance Encounter
Andrea Wintark has loved nothing but snow since she was a small girl. She's never craved the kiss of Summer heat or the gentle rains that rejuvenated buds of flowers in bare grass. She's lived in the North as long as she can remember—and even if she didn't know the difference between North and South, East or West, she'd know that the cold has always had a place amongst her bones and running through her veins.
She sometimes remembers winters from her childhood more than her parent's faces. She lost them early, her little sister too—gone from terrible strife, men trying to take their land, their home. She remembers her father pulling his sword, offering a smile, a comforting tilt of his lips. Pieces, the melting of snowflakes—almost like liquid slipping through her fingertips. That's how she recalls that night. Running into the woods to hide, her mother screaming; an echo still present in her nightmares. She lost sight of her sister until Andrea saw her dragged from the house, half alive, dress torn and thighs caked with blood.
She closes her eyes against the memory, leaning along a countertop in a warm kitchen despite the stone walls and floor, despite the chill outside.
"You alright girl?" A kitchen maiden asks, a crotchety old hag by the name of Rose, causing Andrea to straighten her posture.
"Fine, just needed a moment."
"Don't need a slacker." She grumbles, moving towards an iron pot over the hearth.
Andrea sighs but says nothing, running her fingers through her long locks. Her father always used to tease her that she looked nothing of the North, with her auburn hair and eyes the color of dying grass.
She lacks the harsh features, the roughness that places like Winterfell encompass. The thick black hair with the softest curls she's ever seen, brown eyes like the soil of the earth, almost something she can fall into.
And alright, she's thinking of one person in the North but…other than him, other than the bastard of Winterfell—King, she reminds herself, King in the North; those dark features are prevalent compared to her own.
Andrea tries not to think about how she's ended up here; she's luckier than most, quite more so than her family. The time between when she lost them and a few months ago often feel like fever dreams. She's lived in random homes, shacks barely held together, the woods with broken trees as her only shelter. That's when Ramsay Bolton's men found her, took her to Winterfell.
She's never believed in fate, the old gods or the new, if she had—she'd ask them why her parents had been made to suffer, why her sister who had never hurt anyone in her short life had been made to die so painfully. But fate, it seems, has been kind to Andrea.
Not soon after the Bolton's men had dragged her from the woods, Winterfell had been taken back by the Starks and Jon Snow had been made King. She had always pledged herself to the North, so it was quite easy to do so vocally when Lady Sansa observed the servants left behind by Ramsay. Andrea had been delivering wine and ale to dinners, war meetings, and Lady Sansa's chambers ever since.
It was not always a comfortable job but Winterfell was warm, safe and felt more like home than anything else did in a long time. Other than that, well, she couldn't deny that sneaking looks at Jon Snow didn't make the job a little more pleasant. He was beautiful in a way that shouldn't have been fair. His curls often pulled away from his face into a small bun, scruff of a beard decorating his strong jawline. He was shorter than his men but he earned the respect of those around him, making him taller than most. He also knew how to wield a sword, something she'd been able to see at the battle against Ramsay—very briefly, but just enough. He was fluid with how he moved; patient, practiced, almost looked too easy. He swung like he'd tasted death, like it was still heavy on his tongue.
Her mother had told her once, or maybe it was in a dream, she's not so sure anymore—that she should always fear the anger of a gentle man.
Andrea has never spoken to him, isn't sure she'll ever have a chance of a conversation but she's seen enough of his eyes to know he speaks through them. He may still be a bastard but he's got more honor and humility than most knights or kings.
Another example of the old gods and the new giving all to some and nothing to most.
She assumes as a bastard that his life has been nothing short of easy. He had lost, maybe, almost as much as she had. At least he still has his half-siblings and is King in the North—a fortunate happenstance to fall into.
And despite everything he's been through, she knew he was kind. More gentle than he probably should have been to rule but men elected him because he was fair, because he was strong. Because he'd die for them, unselfishly, if he had to.
If she was a queen she's not sure if she could honestly say she'd do the same.
"Girl." Rose interrupts her thoughts again.
"I have a name you know."
"One I don't care to remember, I got enough work round here to do." She begins circling around the kitchen, cleaning up odds and ends of dinner preparation.
"Well, what is it? Don't leave me in suspense." Andrea addresses dryly, already knowing what it is she has to do.
"If you cleaned up as much as you squawked this place would be spotless in half the time."
A soft laugh leaves her lips, retrieving a tray to put a cask of sweet Summer wine and a goblet on top. For an old bird she's funny at least.
Andrea takes the tray with two hands and leaves the kitchen, walking down the dimly lit stone corridors towards Lady Sansa's room—she usually requests wine around this time of night when she can't sleep. She knew, as any other at Winterfell, what kind of terrible things Ramsay Bolton had been capable of. She wasn't sure how Lady Sansa could sleep after ordeals like that—Andrea knows if it had been her she…would have pictured her sister, that dried blood on her thighs and once pretty face—and never be able to close her eyes again.
But the Lady of Winterfell was much stronger than some gave her credit for, much stronger than Andrea thought she could be.
She bites her lip as she turns a corner in the hallway, a draft causing a shiver to rake down her spine.
At least the Lady seemed to stop having nightmares that woke her up screaming. Andrea had been near her chambers one night, a moon or so ago, Jon rushing down the hall with Ser Davos and men at his heels. He burst into her room, ready to fight an assailant to come to realize that the only threat was in Sansa's dreams, her memory, the man long gone and dead.
Jon had put his sword away and gently approached his sister to draw her into his arms before mumbling to Davos that 'this was not a spectacle'. Andrea's eyes went to the floor as the men were ushered out, door slamming closed behind them.
Sometimes when Andrea brought her wine she could tell Sansa was troubled, that quiet nightmares still plagued her thoughts—uncontrolled when she slept. But she never seems to seek Jon out again and he doesn't come to visit her. Andrea can understand, perhaps, where the Lady of Winterfell is coming from…there are certain things that Jon as a man and as her brother shouldn't know.
She wants to tell her that she's unbelievably brave and that she admires her strength, her will to go on despite what she'd been through…but Andrea never quite finds the right words to do so. It isn't her place to address her and she never wants to assume that she somehow understands what she's experienced.
Andrea goes up a set of steps and pauses—a group of three men outside the dining hall, all equally drunk, and blocking the hallway towards Lady Sansa's chambers. Her hands grip the tray; she has to walk past them to get to her destination.
She continues forward, instantly catching the eye of one of the men. "Well, what do we have here? Gods have been kind to me to get such a gift in the middle of the night."
Andrea doesn't look at them but knows just from quick glances out of the corner of her eye that they all, for the most part, look the same—dressed in thick brown leather, some with armor, all a cup of ale in hand, beards scraggly and dirty with long greasy hair to match.
Another one of the men steps directly in her path, "Pretty," He touches her then, none too gently either, fistful of her locks between his meaty fingers. "Think it matches the color of her cunt hair?"
"Sure it does." The third one drawls, still leaning against the stone walls, unmoving until— "Let's see if we can find out."
"Unhand me." She snaps, yanking herself out of the second man's touch. "Leave me be, I'm taking wine to Lady Sansa."
She hopes the name will help but it sounds weak even to her own ears. The men are not moved or convinced.
"And when she doesn't get it from you she'll call for someone else."
The first man grabs at the sleeve of her dress, hard, and rips it. Her reaction is instant, though foolish. She spits at the man's face in an attempt to get away. The second man is just as quick; he backhands her across the face and though it's not hard enough for her to fall, she does stumble and drop the tray of wine.
The sound echoes off the walls, the goblet kicked aside as the third one steps forward and grabs her rough enough to bruise, pinning her back against the cold stone. The rock digs into her back and she knows she should be looking this man in the face, to somehow show him she's not scared…even though it's dripping icily into her veins.
For some reason, she can't seem to stop staring at the wine on the ground—the red moving like it has a mind of its own, slithering snakelike towards the cracks in the stone.
"What the hell is going on?" A resounding voice asks, deep and rough in all the right places.
The weight off her is gone instantly and she turns to see Jon Snow walking towards them from down the hall, Ser Davos not far behind him.
Man one glances at man three before clearing his throat, "Just teaching this kitchen whore some manners, your Grace."
Jon interrupts him mid-sentence; he's not very loud but there's an edge to his voice that demands respect. "I wasn't asking you."
Oh. It's then Andrea realizes he's speaking to her and when she looks up, their eyes meet. She's seen him from far away many times but seeing him this close is almost striking to the point that it makes her knees weak. He must have just come from outside; there's still flecks of snow melting into his hair.
She nearly falls into how deep his eyes are—his jaw set, usual pouty lips pressed together into a firm line. He's angry…and waiting for her to speak.
She inclines her head a little, reminds herself yet again that she's speaking to the King. She can't look at him like that.
"I was requested by Lady Sansa to bring her wine but I was…" She glances at the three men, "Interrupted, your Grace."
She's not sure whether they expected her to be quiet but they're clearly furious with her admission.
Man two grits out, "You bitch," between his teeth and moves to strike her. She turns her head quickly, readying herself for the blow but…it never comes.
And that's because Jon has caught the man's wrist mid-swing. "You dare raise a hand to a woman under this roof." There's no question to his tone, face pinched with an emotion she can't identify. Irritation mixed with something else, something deeper.
The man struggles in Jon's grasp, barely controlled anger slipping into his voice. "No, of course not."
"Your Grace." Ser Davos corrects, speaking from behind Jon, "You're speaking to your King."
One of the other men visibly swallow, seeming to understand the implications.
Man two's eyes haven't left Jon's face, the King's gaze trained on him—a message clearly there with no other words spoken. Make a move, I dare you.
"No, of course not," Man two says again, "Your Grace."
Jon lets go of his wrist, turning to address his advisor. "Ser Davos, escort these men outside to Ghost…see that they feed him. He hasn't had dinner yet."
Davos nods once before the men begrudgingly walk behind him down the hall. Ghost? Jon's…direwolf? Her eyes follow their retreating backs, a question on the tip of her tongue. Andrea turns to look back at the King and realizes he's asked her a question.
"Sorry?"
"I said, are you alright?"
They're alone in this hallway. His shoulders are slightly more relaxed while he speaks to her—no one else to watch him, he doesn't feel observed. She's never thought of that before; how heavy his body must seem with eyes always on him.
"I'm alright," She finally manages to say, "But your Grace…" She trails off. Andrea has heard, after all, the horror stories of Ramsay and his hounds; poor creatures. But surely…Ghost wouldn't be the same.
Jon laughs suddenly, having followed her gaze. It's short and gone as soon as it appears but the gentle crinkling to the corners of his eyes remain.
"Oh, no. Ghost won't eat them." She lets out a slow breath of relief. "But he will scare them when they try to feed him; he's not used to any hand but mine. Maybe next time they'll think twice before they speak to any lady in this house."
She's not a Lady, but she appreciates the thought. "Thank you." She whispers before sinking to the floor to clean the mess she'd made.
Some of the wine had soaked through the bottom of her dress, coloring the pale brown shade in an almost pretty way. She doesn't expect Jon to stay past her thanking him, but he does and even more to her surprise he kneels to help her. She wants to tell him that he doesn't have to but surely no one tells the King of the North what to do. And from what she knows of Jon Snow, he'll do what he feels obligated to do.
She straightens the flipped tray and he sets the goblet on it. "I'm surprised you care about what happens to the men who attacked you."
"Just felt sorry for the wolf is all." She mumbles but then catches herself, pausing to pick up the pieces of the broken cask that had been holding the wine.
When she looks up at Jon's face there's a ghost of a smile there before his eyes wash over her face.
Then, "You're bleeding."
What? Her tongue darts out to the corner of her mouth, a slight stinging greeting her in response and oh, her lip.
"It's nothing, your Grace." Andrea tells him as they stand. "I should get back to the kitchen, get wine for Lady Sansa. I hate to keep her waiting."
"I'll accompany you and bring it to her myself. Odds are she's already angry with me about something," He smiles again, light and gentle—like it might blow away with the slightest gust of wind. "Best direct her wrath towards me instead of you."
Andrea feels the corners of her mouth pull up into a similar smile, the humor of his features infectious. She feels like it's rare to see him like this; any time she delivers ale to dinner or a meeting his face is stoic, brooding even, cold as if carved from ice or stone. The only time he melts, his gaze softens, or a smile touches his lips is if he's speaking to his sisters.
"If you insist."
He follows her to the kitchen, very apparently insisting. Luckily, Rose isn't there to give her any problems about another broken cask and how to do her duties. She sets the tray on the counter and tosses the cask aside, looking for more wine…except when she turns Jon already has some in his hands.
"That's not the Summer wine, your Grace." She tells him as he pours it into a cup.
"As long as it's not ale she'll be satisfied. Trust me."
She does, of course, but that thought doesn't leave her lips. She wouldn't dare say that her faith in him runs far beyond a cup of wine.
"Thank you again." Andrea tells him, not sure what else to say. Once again, she's hyperaware that they're alone and it's almost as if she can feel the heat of his skin in this small space, in this cold stone kitchen with dying embers of the hearth whispering their goodbyes.
He takes a step towards her, her back straightening as she breathes in—he smells like leather and skin, a soft kiss of sweat. He's suffocating, no, intoxicating.
"Don't forget your lip." He tells her gently.
It doesn't even hurt, not really, but it might bruise if she doesn't take care of it. She hums softly, a slight head nod in his direction. Her guard is down and while Jon is a different type of King, she knows that she should probably acknowledge him in a proper manner.
Andrea crosses the kitchen, her fingers brushing over jars before she finds what she needs. She crushes violet and rose petals into a stone bowl with her hands, adding a hint of water before rubbing the flowers between her fingertips until a light sheen of oil releases against her skin. She can feel his eyes on her, he hasn't left, observing her selection with a curious gaze.
"Violet and rose petals help with healing." She says by way of explanation. "And they smell nice."
She's not sure what he's waiting for and she's not about to ask—his presence isn't unwanted even though the heat from his body sometimes feels like it's crawling under her skin. It sounds unpleasant but for some reason it's not.
He's always so busy, speaking on matters that need his immediate attention, as a King she'd expect nothing less. Maybe it's just…nice to spend time around someone who doesn't demand anything from him, no matter how small.
She touches her mouth, trying to gauge where the cut is without being able to see it. Jon takes another step forward, his hand slightly outstretched.
"Here, allow me…" He trails off; it doesn't sound like a question but he is asking her permission.
It's in his eyes.
He doesn't move until she nods her head, her own hand dropping from her face. There's nothing hesitant about the way he touches her, deliberate in how his one hand cups her jaw while the other dips his fingers into the oily substance left behind by the flowers. Andrea can't help the soft breath that leaves her mouth as he begins to brush the salve across her lower lip. A small smile plays with the corners of his mouth at her reaction and she feels heat kiss her cheekbones, making his touch feel even more like a burn on her skin.
He's gentle in a way she doesn't expect, in a way she didn't know he was capable of. She figures that's probably an unfair assumption, she doesn't know him outside what he lets others see. She can't imagine how exhausting that must be; a King must be dedicated to everyone and everything that was not themselves. Or, at least that's how she imagines it is.
She's heard stories, she's seen a little with her own eyes—how sacrificing Jon Snow can be. He'd give anything for the people who follow him, depend on him; perhaps he'd even give his life.
The tenderness contrasted with the harshness of his reality is almost painful to think about and she winces a little. He instantly misreads her expression and softens his touch against her cheek and lip even further.
"Sorry."
She almost wants to laugh because at this point his fingertips are practically feather light, barely felt. "It's alright, your Grace. You're doing me the favor."
Jon runs his thumb along her cut once more before his hands fall from her face. "Is this something you discovered on your own? Through practice?" He taps the bowl before she picks it up to put it away.
"While I wish I could take credit, no. My mother taught me when I was young." Andrea says, a smile touching her features.
"Was she a witch?" There's no malice or judgement in how he says it, but she can hear the contemplation in his tone.
She knows he's probably thinking about the Red Woman who claims to see unspeakable things in the fire, the woman Andrea saw at meetings even though her presence were always very brief. She used to watch Jon, carefully, before she was asked to leave Winterfell…as if she could somehow read his future like words on his skin. And perhaps she could.
"No," Andrea says after a moment, "She just appreciated the old gods and the new and what the earth gave to her. She respected what she could learn from it. She was much better at it than I am though," She smiles over her shoulder in Jon's direction. "I just learn through doing, see what works and what causes a rash."
A soft laugh rumbles in his chest before he leans against the table. A comfortable quiet settles over the space like an embrace, warm and nearly intimate—like they've been in one another's company before.
"When did you lose her, your mother?" Her eyebrows draw together in a question how? And he clarifies, "You can hear it in your voice."
She takes a piece of plant from another one of the jars and plays with it between her fingers a moment, thoughtful. "When I was younger." She says, not willing to divulge much more than that.
He nods once, seeming to understand he's stepped over a line he was not invited to cross. "I didn't mean to pry."
A smile can cover up almost anything; that's something her mother used to tell her. Almost. She shakes her head and splits the piece of plant in two, a gooey clear substance leaking from the cracks. She holds out her hand, wanting to reach for one of his.
"May I?"
His eyes dance with amusement and something else, curiosity maybe. "You're not going to hex me, are you?"
She laughs, the sound echoing warmly, "I wouldn't dare, your Grace."
He pauses for a moment longer before allowing her to take his hand, turning it until his palm is exposed. "This usually grows in Westeros, somewhere much warmer, so we're running low."
She spreads the sticky substance from one end of the cracked plant along his hand, over a scar, thick and puckered pink.
Probably one of the only ugly things about him.
"It's supposed to heal scars."
"And you wasted it on my palm?" Jon asks, voice warm. His fingers absentmindedly close on hers for a moment.
"It's quite a nice hand, your Grace." Andrea teases, pulling away from his touch.
His brown eyes flicker up to meet hers and she can tell that he doesn't quite believe in the power of plants or their healing properties…but that he might want to, just a little, merely because she does.
"Thank you," He pauses, tilting his head a little. "Lady…"
Oh, he doesn't know her name. Of course he doesn't.
"Andrea, and I'm not a Lady." She corrects gently.
Jon lets out a slow breath from his nose, straightening his back as his fingers play with the scar on his palm. She lets her thoughts wander to Lady Sansa, how she carries herself, her posture, her ability to take someone apart with her words, her long beautiful dresses that capture the eye and at the same time look like they weigh so heavily on her shoulders, an unspoken burden. Even Lady Lyanna Mormont of Bear Island, so small in stature yet larger than life—braver than some grown men she's known. Much alike Lady Arya, deadly, tells the stories of her age through her eyes. She finally thinks of Lady Stark, Catelyn, gone before her time but someone who never stopped fighting for the safety of her family with the viciousness of a mother wolf.
Andrea could not possibly be compared to such women.
"Titles matter, do they not?"
He raises his eyebrows at her. "They do," He agrees, "I suppose I meant that you should be treated with the respect of a Lady."
She stares at him for a moment, slightly taken back by his statement though…very touched at the same time. Jon steps towards her, a soft smile barely on his lips. For a moment she thinks it might be the trick of the light, shadows from the fireplace.
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight." She whispers back, watching him pick up the cup of wine for Lady Sansa and then he's gone.
Andrea lets out a soft sigh, running a hand over her face, fingers pausing along her jawline. She allows her eyes to close, recalls the warm pressured grip of his fingertips on her skin, melting into her pores. Becoming a part of her. His gentle brown eyes, the speckled hair of his beard along his chin and jaw. She wonders if it'd feel odd to kiss him, the scratchy, almost burly sensation against the skin of her face. Her mouth. She then wonders what it'd feel like elsewhere…her chest, her navel…between her thighs…
Her eyes snap open, her hand falling from her face, a soft red blush taking its place.
She can't be thinking about Jon Snow, not just that but the King in the North, this way—what could possibly come from it?
Heartache, a voice supplies, pain.
And she's had enough of both to last her a lifetime.
Thanks for reading! Comments welcome :)