Hello everyone, and welcome to my Game of Thrones short story!

I guess you could say this is the culmination of several attempts at writing a Jon/OC fic. I've always wanted to, but they never worked. Now, given the status of my other story, I can't imagine going as in depth into another Game of Thrones story, so this is a simple, small love story spanning over the course of a few chapters. As such, not much in terms of plot is changing. It's mostly a character piece. This also won't update as often given there aren't many chapters.

This first chapter is just a small meet-cute. There is actually gasp humor! We'll get into the real meat of it in the next chapter.

Hope you enjoy!

"The greatest happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved; loved for ourselves, or rather, in spite of ourselves."

-Victor Hugo

The Quiet of Winter

Chapter One
Serra Lanford

Jon Snow was fifteen years old when he first laid eyes on Serra Lanford.

And when he did, he nearly choked.

He probably would have had no issue at all had Theon not been passing by at that exact moment.

There he sat, eyes temporarily transfixed on the mess of blonde curls that had just entered the Great Hall, a half-consumed mug of mead in his possession. Jon figured there was no hesitation on the Greyjoy's part before he slapped him across the back, gaining half the table's attention. They turned in time to witness Jon inhale his drink and then proceed to sputter it out. Somehow, the event prompted cheers – albeit drunken ones – and several more slaps on the back.

By the time he'd cleared his lungs and his eyes had stopped watering, gazes from all over the room had been drawn to him, including those of his father and Lady Stark, who'd skewer him with her dinner knife had there been no witnesses. Even so, he'd like to say she was tempted to try anyway.

Serra was watching as well. She leaned over to speak with her father, Lord Martyn Lanford, a wisp of a man with a kind face. But even that disappeared when he whispered back to his daughter about the bastard watching them, shaking his head.

Others take him.

Preferably now.

"What's the matter, Snow? Can't hold your liquor?" Theon asked, his face twisting into his trademark punchable smirk.

Jon felt his hands curl into fists. He would have scraped his chair across the floor and stood to meet Theon's insults had a large hand not grasped his shoulder tightly.

"Lord Stark may have need of you, Theon," his father's man, Jory, said, no real threat in his words, though his tone was like ice. "I'd suggest you move along."

That wiped the grin off the Greyjoy's face fast enough, although Jon would have preferred giving the honor to his fist. It would have been awfully hard to look smug with missing front teeth.

When Theon departed, disappearing into the throng of drunken bannermen, Jory took a seat next to him. His hand never left Jon's shoulder, allowing him to lean close and speak plainly.

"If you never want to be part of a feast again, then by all means, give in to that anger."

His words only further incensed Jon. "So, he's to get away with whatever he does?"

"Theon Greyjoy is a petulant child, the whole room knows it, but if you strike him, it's no longer about that. Now it's about a bastard attacking the trueborn son of a lord. He'll win, and you'll never see the inside of this room again."

Trueborn. There was no word he hated more in this world. Bastard he could grow used to, he could ignore and pretend it was for someone else, but trueborn was an entirely different beast. It was a word not meant for him, wielded like a weapon by those who spoke it, because being alive was not enough to make him a true son. He was an afterthought, a castoff, forced to sit in dark corners with the lower ranking members of his household because his mother was not Catelyn Stark.

And his father, the man who insisted that he was blood despite his name, would have him remain there.

He loved his father, but there were some days where he hated no one more.

This was turning into one of those days.

Jon took a breath. "That isn't-"

"Fair?" Jory interrupted, eyebrows raised. His father's man expected him to know better. "No, it isn't fair, but it is the way of the world."

Soundly defeated, Jon fell silent, picking at the roast mutton passed down the table. Conversations droned around him, rising and falling at regular intervals, the heartbeat of the North. Drinks were offered, a man or two toasted with him, but otherwise Jon watched the events without participation. He didn't want to give Theon Greyjoy the power to ruin his evening, but he was finding it hard to regain any semblance of enjoyment.

In fact, Jon was about to call it a night when a chorus went up on the other side of the room.

He glanced up to find that the Greatjon had stumbled out of his chair and to the center of the room. There he stood arguing very loudly with the tiny form of Serra Lanford.

Hands on her hips and chin held high, she didn't seem intimidated by the large Umber, though she didn't stand much of a chance once the man had set his mind to something. The Greatjon displayed as much when he casually plucked the young woman off the ground and placed her on top of the long table.

"Now, give a song!"

Serra glanced at her father seated below her, who could only shrug as his shoulders began to shake with laughter.

Jon found himself leaning forward, watching as the Lady Serra gave an awkward curtsy to the Lord's Table, her green dress dragging through bits of meat and sauce and drink. Lady Stark looked on the verge of chasing the Greatjon out of her castle, but his father was strangely bemused by the whole affair, and lifted his drink in approval.

And so, she began to sing.

On the hill there was a maid
Who no passing knight or lord she bade
A fond farewell to meet their fill
That heartless maiden on the hill

Quiet at first, Serra's voice gained in volume as it became clear that she had the Great Hall's attention. And how could she not? Her voice was beautiful, deeper than he thought it would be, but engaging. He could hear the smile in her voice and realized that despite her protestations, she actually enjoyed the act, if not the attention.

Now in the valley lived a boy
The butcher's son cared not for joy
Until his gaze chanced on the sky
And the cruel young maiden caught his eye

Alas! he cried I found the one
Though I'd left my heart open for none
The butcher saw his boy and sighed
For the maid would ne'er be anyone's bride

In drunken revelry, others began to sing along with her, and the mood quickly caught on. Lords and ladies were on their feet, laughing and spinning to the quick beat. It was a funny sort of song to find merriment in. Jon knew the lyrics well, given Sansa hummed it often enough. The boy climbed to the maid, who rejected his advances and sent him falling from the hill. It killed the boy, and in her sadness, the maiden jumped as well.

He supposed it was a romantic ballad, in a twisted sort of way.

Beside him, Jory chuckled.

"I think the young lord's smitten."

Jon looked over to where his half-brother sat, in full view of Serra's performance. Eyes wide and mouth set in a silly grin, Robb looked utterly ridiculous. He clearly didn't notice, his eyes never leaving the girl as she continued to dance about the top of the table.

It'd be a good match, he thought. The Lanfords were not an old house, but they'd been loyal bannermen over the years. Their keep was in the mountains north of Winterfell, carved into the rock face, or so Maester Luwin told them. They provided building materials to the other houses, and most famously carved the statues in Winterfell's crypts. Despite that, a Lanford had never married into the line.

Robb stood as the song turned into a loud rendition of The Bear and the Maiden Fair, with the Greatjon leading the vocals. He walked over to Serra's table and offered his hand. Jon imagined he was providing both a means down from the table as well as a dancing companion, even though his brother was a dreadful dancer. He tripped over his own feet just walking, don't ask him to do the same to a melody.

But Robb was clearly willing to embarrass himself for a pretty face.

Serra made a move to take his hand, but snatched it back just as quickly. Hiking up her skirts, she leapt from the table and landed gracefully on the stone floor, to the cheers of everyone around.

Despite the initial rejection, Serra took Robb's hand and allowed him to lead her through the crowd.

"Aye, so he is," Jon mumbled, taking another drink. His eyes glanced toward his father, who was watching the two with an unreadable gaze. Lady Stark, however, looked almost overjoyed. At least she could be happy for something.

Jory was looking at him, but Jon didn't bother acknowledging it.

Time passed, and the hall grew a little louder, and a little more chaotic. Everyone was deep in their drinks now. His younger siblings had been sent to bed, and all the sober attendees had left on other business, their livelier counterparts becoming far too much for them.

A few souls were passed out on the tables, snoring into their plates, but most of the remaining people had gathered in the center, singing and dancing still. Serra was being spun about by nearly everyone, passed from one man to another until she lost control of herself, crashing into the table before him with a whooping laugh.

She held onto the table to steady herself, brushing the curls out of her face as she continued to giggle. No one ran to her immediate aid, either because they were still laughing or were too drunk to notice.

Light blue eyes met his, crinkling at the edges as she smiled at him.

"Ah, the somber one," she said, offering her hand across the table. "C'mon, join us!"

Jon blinked, staring at her hand as if it meant to bite him. None of the other highborn ladies had ever spoken to him like that, or offered to even touch him, as if the bastard might rub off on them, not that he was supposed to associate with them in the first place. He blamed it on the drink; he also blamed the drink for his hand reaching out to take hers.

Robb suddenly swayed into the picture, sitting in a chair to keep himself from falling onto the floor. "I didn't think you'd still be here, Jon! Don't you usually run away from these sort of things?"

His brother might have been kinder if he'd been sober, but it stung nonetheless.

Jon tried to smile. "Was just about to leave. You highborns are hard enough to deal with when you haven't been drinking."

"No, stay!" Robb shouted, slamming his hand on the table. "Don't let me ruin everything!"

It was a bit late for that. Whatever small amount of courage he'd had a moment before had vanished, acutely reminding him of his place in the world.

"No, that's alright," Jon replied, standing. He nodded to Serra. "My lady."

Her round eyes blinked, confused, but otherwise she did not react as he walked away, disappearing out the doors and into the darkened halls of Winterfell.

Sword training had always been a good way to relieve stress. When the day had been too much for him or the words of others too harsh, Jon would find himself on the training grounds, breaking wooden dummies with blunted steel until his anger – or his arm – gave way. He visited often as of late, and found that his body was becoming more likely to give in than his emotions, leaving him tired, sore, and no better off than when he'd started.

But tonight had not been the case, at least.

Jon had not been particularly frustrated, his anger at Theon having dulled over the course of the meal, but he'd taken up the practice sword out of habit. It was far too early to sleep anyway, and most people had taken to avoiding the cold that had fallen over Winterfell, preferring hearthside seats to the wintry blasts from the Wall.

He'd been cold at first, hands nearly numb as he began the motions with his sword, but by the end, even the winds were not enough to keep him cool. In the pale moonlight, Jon could make out the steam rapidly escaping his leathers, drifting into the night sky until it was no more. Breathing heavily, sword discarded at his feet, he watched the distant moon and wondered if they were not due for snow soon.

Satisfied, Jon began the slow trek back to the castle, listening as the buzz from the ongoing feast inside began to grow. His path took him past the stables, where the soft whinnies and hoof beats of horses greeted his ears.

As well as one distinctly feminine giggle.

Jon paused in his journey, staring at the half open gate. There was a – not so small – part of him that thought to just leave well enough alone. He could think of a dozen ways that the situation on the other side of that doorway would lead to nothing but trouble for him, regardless of his innocent intentions. However, his curiosity, and boyish overconfidence, were quickly winning the battle, and cheered in triumph when he pushed through the gate.

Several creatures moved in their stalls, sniffing in his direction before returning to whatever claimed their attention previously.

Jon ignored them, staring into the darkness, hoping it would remain silent until his curiosity was sated.

A small hiccup to his left killed any hope of a quiet evening.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Jon began to make out a small silhouette lying against the hay. With a dark dress and wild curls, it could have been none other than Serra Lanford. She'd clearly been drinking, and clutched a bottle in her hand still.

To be honest, Jon considered still walking away. A bastard alone with a drunken highborn lady in the dark? Men had been sent to the Wall on less. But exposure was a real threat in the North, and while Serra was warm in the stables for now, chances were she would not remain. The drunk liked to wander – as she had clearly proven already – and he would not have her injury or death on his conscience.

"My lady?" he asked, taking a tentative step forward.

Even in the darkness, he could see her eyes light up.

"Bastard!"

Right, she could freeze to death then.

"No, no, no, no, don't…go." She tried to sit up, but the drink hit her, and Jon could practically hear her vision swimming. Serra fell back into the hay with a sigh. "It's so lonely in here."

He leaned against the frame of the stall, watching her as one would a wounded animal, dangerous and unpredictable. Serra immediately took to ignoring him, humming the song from earlier in the evening. She casually played with the bottle, letting it roll from one hand to the other, back and forth until her lack of focus dropped it into the hay beside her. Staring at the spot it fell to, it took the young woman nearly a minute to find the thing again before she began attempting to pull the cork out.

"You shouldn't drink any more, my lady," Jon offered, not that it was needed. Serra couldn't get the bottle open.

"You shouldn't drink any more, my lady."

Others take his curiosity.

Serra gave up on her quarry, and looked back up at him. Moonlight drifted through the cracks in the wood and lit the golden strands of her hair. There was hay stuck in her curls.

She gestured to the overturned stool beside the pile of hay. Something told Jon that had been her first target, and that she had grossly miscalculated the landing.

"Sit."

"No, thank you, my lady."

Her eyes narrowed. "What if I ordered you to?"

Jon inhaled, his body going stiff immediately. The young woman he'd met in the Great Hall hadn't given him the impression of like the other highborn women he had known, putting on airs and believing themselves better than those below their station. But perhaps that had been his drink talking. He was a bastard, after all. Everyone was better than him, and they knew it, and they had no problems showing it. What could he do but take the hits and move along?

He was in too deep now, however. Suppose he said no, or just left, and she remembered. There were too many things she could say to her lord father, and no one would ever question a word she said.

So, Jon picked up the stool and took a seat.

Serra offered him the bottle.

"Open."

The cork came out with a 'pop,' and Jon handed it back to her.

She shook her head. "Drink."

Jon took a breath, looking at the girl across from him. She didn't even blink, blue eyes watching expectantly.

He lifted the bottle to his lips, tilting it just enough so that the liquid inside touched them, before handing it back to Serra. He needed his head clear if he was going to make it out of this mess, and she'd never notice the difference.

Serra looked at the bottle triumphantly, taking a long swig from it before falling deeper into the hay. She snuggled into the stuff, making sounds of contentment. It couldn't have actually been comfortable, but she was too far-gone to notice.

"Are you going to give me orders all night?" he asked.

"Possibly."

"Why?"

"It's nice to have someone listen to me for once."

Had Jon not been so furious at the whole situation, he might have noticed the sadness in her voice. Then again, he may not have cared. A lady's concerns were not his own, and yet he was paying for them nonetheless.

It fell silent again soon after, save for her breathing. Thinking she might have fallen asleep, Jon stood up, having half a mind to grab the nearest guard and have him take care of her. He wanted to go back to the training grounds, knowing full well he'd beat everything into the dirt and still feel that anger, but it would be better than going back inside in this state. Gods knew snapping at the wrong person was the last thing he needed.

"Bastard…" her voice faintly called to him as he left the stall.

"My name is Jon," he replied firmly, not turning back.

"Jon Snow," she echoed, tongue rolling curiously off his last name. "Snooooow. It must be nice."

Nice. That was not a word he'd use to describe it. That was not a word anyone would use.

He sighed, caving. "And what could possibly be nice about having a bastard's name?"

Serra smiled, looking at him like he was simple and didn't know any better. "You're free."

Faintly, a voice in the back of his mind told him not to, and was quickly lost to the sudden roar of his anger.

"Free? I'm free?" he asked, chuckling mirthlessly, watching Serra slowly sit up and nod at him. "Free to do what? To sit at the back of the hall while my brothers and sisters are in the place of honor? To follow your orders?"

"You're free to do whatever you please," Serra replied, her voice clipped. "You can ride south and become a knight, you can be a maester or a septon or travel across the sea and be a bloody mercenary for all you care. Or you can even stay here and mope about being a poor bastard boy with a roof over your head and a full belly every night."

Jon took a step into the stall, shaking his head. "You say these things like you know, but you couldn't possibly understand what it's like."

"Maybe I don't," she shrugged. "But what I do understand is that my father spoke to your father. I understand that my father told me that Robb Stark is a match our family could only dream of, and what an honor it would be to marry into such a noble house. I understand that because I'm a woman with a name, my life isn't for me to decide."

Serra gripped the sides of the stall and slowly pulled herself to her feet, gripping the wood with white knuckles. She took a step forward, letting go of her anchor and standing before Jon. She swayed heavily, looking ready to fall at any moment, but her eyes were steady, and fixed on him.

"Do you know what I'm free to be, Jon Snow? Your brother's fucking broodmare."

Jon didn't know what to say, truly. His anger, and whatever he'd been prepared to shout at her, had disappeared entirely, disbelief rendering his voice useless. All he could do was stare into those blue eyes and, for once, question whether he had been wrong over a good deal of things in his life.

Then the eyes were gone.

Serra had fallen, dropped right where she stood, and Jon was just barely able to catch her under the arms. She'd spent the last of her energy arguing with him, and felt like dead weight in his arms. Again, Jon found himself looking around the area, only finding horses staring at him, before he attempted to stand her back up.

The girl flopped against him, her head resting on his chest, arms wrapping around his person tightly.

Gods, this night could not have been any-

No, don't say it.

"I don't want to marry Robb Stark," she murmured, voice muffled by his tunic.

"My brother's…a good man," Jon replied, attempting – and failing – to peel her arms from his body. Serra Lanford may have been a small woman, but her grip was like death.

"Good for him," she said, attempting to bury her head in his chest like he was a pillow. "Still don't want to."

"Why not?"

Jon wasn't quite sure why he asked. If he kept her talking, at least it meant she was still conscious, but there was a part of him that truly wanted to know. Girls from all over Winterfell swooned over his half-brother. Robb was tall, good-looking, strong, and the future lord. Lords from across the North were practically shoving their daughters in his direction, and somehow he'd stumbled across the one who wanted nothing to do with him.

Serra leaned back, and Jon was struck by just how sad her eyes had become.

"I don't want to be my mother."

Her grip on him relaxed, and she fell backwards.

"No, no, no, no, no!" Jon quickly grabbed her arms again, pulling her forward. In one, fluid movement, he ducked down, grabbed her legs, and picked her right up, tossing her body over his shoulder.

He paused.

And thought.

And realized.

Seven bloody hells.

Here he was, Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell, carrying Lady Serra Lanford on his shoulder like she was meat ready for the butcher's block.

Jon closed his eyes and sighed.

Gods, just don't let Lady Stark see me.

Clearly committed – and admittedly not willing to see what sort of mess he'd wind up in if he tried to put her back down – Jon slowly made his way out of the stable, turning this way and that, looking for any guards that may have been patrolling.

He nearly hit her head once.

Only nearly.

The moon was still bright and full as he crossed the courtyard, lighting the path clearly before him. He kept slowing his pace, both because the girl in his arms was heavier than she seemed, and he wasn't quite certain where he was going to deposit her once he entered the castle.

He hadn't thought that far.

He never did.

Arya said it was his defining trait.

Minus the brooding that was.

"Jon?"

"Yes, my lady?" he asked, admittedly relieved that she was still conscious.

"I'm sorry I called you a bastard," she mumbled. "I forgot your name."

"I'm sure you won't forget it now, my lady."

"And I'm sorry I ordered you around."

"That's alright."

"I'm usually nice."

"If you say so, my lady."

"You don't believe me?"

"Not entirely."

Jon felt her hand swat at his leg and couldn't help himself. He laughed.

Gods, what a confusing night this was.

After some precise maneuvering, and nearly dropping Serra on her head, Jon managed to pry open the door to the kitchens.

The fires were already out, the servants and cooks done for the evening. He stumbled through the space, guided by the moonlight pouring through the windows alone, listening as Serra began to hum again.

In the adjacent corridor, he attempted to put Serra down, mostly by sliding her against the wall. He wasn't certain she could stand on her own anymore. She answered that quickly by nearly falling down as soon as he let her go, so he kept his arms under hers.

He could just leave her here, he thought. It was warm, and someone would find her come morning.

"Serra," he started, gaining her attention. Her head rolled up, and bleary, blue eyes blinked at him. "Do you know where your quarters are?"

She bit her lip, and appeared to struggle. "There were…stairs?"

Jon sighed. "Well, I suppose that's a start."

He tried to lift her, and swing her arm around his shoulder, but Serra appeared set on staying put, refusing to help in the slightest. Oddly, Jon found himself unable to move her.

"Why didn't you dance with me?" she asked. "I wanted to dance with you."

Jon didn't know how to answer that.

Footsteps down the hallway spared him from it. A large, bearded man walked toward them. One of his eyes had a large scar running through it, and though his hair was as white as the snow, his beard was blonde still. His armor was dark, steel bound to leather, and chiseled into the gorget was the image of the sun rising over the mountains, the sigil of House Lanford.

"Ser Nestor!" Serra exclaimed, smiling widely. "Come to take me home?"

"Something like that, my lady," he replied, voice gravel. He eyed Jon. "Or at least to better company."

Jon couldn't help but glance at his sword.

Serra bounced off the wall at that, hands on her hips. "Jon Snow is marvelous company! His intentions are completely honorable!"

Then she fell backwards.

Catching Serra Lanford for the third time that night, Jon grunted against the impact, attempting not to touch anything he shouldn't as he struggled with her body in front of one of her father's men.

Ser Nestor sighed, grabbing her arms and pulling her up. He then picked her up off the floor as if she weighed nothing, and walked away without another word.

Jon didn't sleep that night. He kept waiting for his father to come into the room and ask him to explain himself, or Ser Nestor, or Lord Martyn, or worst of all, Lady Catelyn. But no one disturbed him, and all was quiet until the sun slowly rose that morning.

He stumbled through the Great Hall, finding it remarkably clean and free of the men who had passed out in it the night before.

Seated where she was at the feast, head flat against the table, leaving her curls to roam wildly across the surface, was Serra.

A boy with equally blonde curls, her brother, Rickard, kept yelling into her ear, knowing full well what his sister was suffering from. Her hand appeared from beneath the table and planted itself on his face, shoving him away.

"You look like shit, Snow," Theon said, bumping past him.

"He still looks better than you."

Jon blinked, looking back to Serra. She'd lifted her head, resting it on her hand, while the other one still occupied itself with her brother. Her eyes were red, skin pale, and she looked utterly miserable, but the grin on her face dripped with a smugness that rivaled Theon's.

He'd never forget the look on Theon's face for the rest of his life.

.

.

Serra Lanford is no Myra Stark, that's for sure, and I certainly hope I've made her likable enough. We'll get more into her and why she acts the way she does next chapter, you know, when she's sober the whole time.

Thanks for reading!