This is super long because I am terrible at splitting into chapters. Review, follow, and favourite! It really helps me write and improve :)

Faye

The Weirwood

Jon stirred. He was warm, comfortable, more than he'd ever been. Very slowly, he looked down. Nestled into his chest, which was fantastically bare, was a black head of sweet-smelling curls. Then he remembered.

Gods how she played with his head. When he'd seen her, smiling in the Hall, in that incredible dress, dancing with Greyjoy like she should have been dancing with him, he almost gagged. Who was this vixen that made him lose all sense of honour?

He'd escaped to the Godswood and dove into the pool, trying to rinse away the site of her form, her curves, her smooth, sun-kissed skin. Unfortunately for him, she had followed, in all her beauty. There she had stood, staring at him, his body, as if he was he world. He daren't hope.

But then she had slipped out of that dress, and he'd forgotten his anger, his hurt, hypnotised by the sway of her hips, the soft bounce of her breasts, the hair between her legs. Her hair, loose and shining in the starlight, was tousled, curls stroking her hips. His body tensed, and the closer she came, the harder he became until she had come so close he could he could count her lashes. When she had pressed his hand to her cheek, had confessed he was just as scared as him, he cracked.

Any thought of honour, of duty, flew from his mind when he pulled her close, kissing her with such fury and passion, he felt he would bleed.

And when she pulled back, gasping, and had whispered she loved him, he felt as if he would burst. That this woman, this beautiful, incredible woman loved him, over any other man, left him speechless. For the first time, someone had dedicated their heart to him alone. He said the words, knowing not one word was a lie.

What followed was unrestrained, raw, as she shifted her hips against his and he'd growled. That smile, her eyes darkening, how she'd pulled him out of the water and to the Weirwood, left him hard as stone.

"Let's do it here, now," she whispered, soft and warm. "In front of the Gods. And damned be the one that lies when they say I love you."

And so they had. Bare and naked before the Gods- cradled by the roots of the Heart tree, bathed in the heat of their desire- they coupled in the cold air, and her maidens blood stained the white tree red.

Jon should have regretted it, should leave her now, laying in the Godswood, buried beneath his cloak. But he couldn't. Not here, in the growing light of a new day, where the Gods had blessed them, sheltered them with a thousand blood-red hands.

So instead, he studied her sleeping face. Lashes fanned across her cheek, lips drawn into a sulky pout, tiny nose twitching in her sleep. He ran a finger across her soft cheek, to her chin, along her jaw, back to her brow. Tugging a curl, he smiled at her whine of annoyance, as she buried her face back into his chest and batted his hand away like a cat.

"Larys," he whispered, poking her ribs. "Wake up Larys."

She yawned, rubbing at her eyes, blinking up at him like an owl.

"It hurts," she murmured sleepily. "Between my legs. It hurts a lot."

Jon felt a wave of guilt wash over him. He hadn't even thought of that, how he took her maidenhood. Regardless of dishonouring her, he had hurt her.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely, leaning on an elbow.

"No."

"What?"

"No," she repeated firmly, glaring at him. It was very hard too take her seriously with a leaf in her hair. "I know what you're thinking. I dishonoured her, how can I look at her now? What will her father think?"

He hadn't yet considered her father- the blood drained from his face.

"But that doesn't matter," she continued, with the air of one addressing an unfortunate spillage. "You're going to wed me anyway."

"I am?" he said dumbly.

"Yes you are," she smirked, mirth sparkling in her eyes. "If you love me, you will."

"But I'm a bastard!"

"So what? I'm hardly going to inherit anything, am I? I'm not a great lady," Larys said firmly. "Either way, I could well be carrying your child. They say my mother was wonderfully fertile."

He gaped. Hadn't he sworn he would never have a bastard?

"Oh close your mouth Jon," she sighed, sitting up and holding his hand. She placed it on the root of the Heart Tree. "Didn't you swear you loved me? In front of the Gods? Didn't I? I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Jon. I wouldn't want any other man to be the father of my children."

Jon stared at her, at her hopeful face.

"But if you are with chi-"

"Look, if it's worrying you so much, I can drink moon tea. I have the special Dornish kind in my room, no one need ever know. Although when I throw it all up again, it will be all over you."

Her smile struck a chord. He was getting married.

Jon sat up, leaning against the tree, wrapping an arm around her. She pulled his cloak to her chin with a shiver, knees at her chest.

"Do you know," she started with a snigger. "My plan did work."

"What plan is that?" he asked in surprise.

"I wore that dress and danced with Theon to see if you would be jealous."

He burst out laughing, all the hurt of last night long gone.

"I fell for that one didn't I? Who knew you were such a good strategist?"

"I did!" she exclaimed indignantly. "How else would I get an idiot like you to marry me?"

He gasped in mock offence, jabbing his fingers into her sides.

"No!" she cried, shuffling away from him, yanking the cloak with her. "You promised you wouldn't do that anymore!"

"I promise," he vowed with fake sincerity.

She hugged the tree root, lifting her head to the carved face, which, in all it's sadness, seemed to be smiling at them.

"Gods save me! He lies!" she wept, dramatically burying her face in her arms.

She froze.

Jon's laughter slowly died away, and he moved forward to see what had scared her. It was just a tree root, bone white like always. But she stared at it as if it was a demon.

"What is it?" he asked, a hand on her back.

A pause.

"My blood should be there," she said calmly, pointing at the root. "It was right there. I swear it. That's where I bled when you entered me."

"What are you talking about?"

He followed her finger to the random patch of root, clean as the rest of it. Jon vaguely remembered her hisses as he broke her maidenhood, murmuring sweet nothings in her ear, her nails scratching his back. He remembered the cool wood against his legs.

Jon ran a hand across where the blood should have been, dried and sticky. Instead, there was nothing. He turned his head, frantically staring at the other roots, looking for some hint of blood. Instead, he found himself staring at the face of the Weirwood.

"Look."

They stared, unconsciously holding each other, the long, solemn face staring back. Where there was once brown sap, there were fresh, wet tears. Tears the colour of blood.

By the time Larys had limped through Winterfell, and into her room, she was shaking like a leaf. She'd never been so terrified in her life.

Ripping off the ruined dress and pulling on a heavy velvet night robe, she tied it wrong three times. When it was finally secure, she walked to her chest, digging for the moon tea her Aunt had sneaked into one of her dresses. As she frantically prepared the tansy tea over the fire, she glanced at the door. Jon said he'd be here soon.

It wasn't a moment before he stormed in, pushing the door shut with his foot, wearing a loose white linen shirt and breeches tucked into boots. But he could have been wearing a dress for all a relieved Larys cared just then.

"Do you have the honey?"

He nodded silently. Larys twisted her hair into a knot and beckoned for the jar. He sat on the floor beside her as she added a spoon of honey to the mix, stirring it in. Now it had to simmer.

Her hands fell to her lap.

"Fucking hell Jon."

"I know," he whispered.

"What was that?"

"I don't know."

"It drank my fucking blood."

"I know."

Jon stretched his legs out either side of her. She leaned forward.

Larys stabbed at the fire with the poker, jabbing aggressively.

"It was going so fucking well," she wept suddenly."And then that stupid fucking tree drinks my fucking blood!"

She burst into tears. Jon pulled her back till she leaned against him, and held her. He didn't know what else to do.

He didn't say anything. What was there to say? Everything she had said was true. He was scared shitless.

When she had quietened down, they sat in silence, haunted by the twisted ending to a wonderful night. The tea bubbled.

"It's ready," Larys said numbly, breaking from his hold and pouring a cup. She sat blowing on it, and he watched her, leaning back on his hands.

"What if this is a blessing?" Jon suggested, undeterred by her disbelieving look. "No really. Don't the Gods like blood sacrifices? Why would they curse us?"

"I don't know Jon," she scoffed sarcastically. "Probably because we fucked in front of them. "

He shook his head. "The Old Gods are different. They don't have so many rules as the Seven. They must know it wasn't just a drunken mistake. They have to know."

Larys paused and turned around slightly. Jon's tone of voice had changed, panic seeping in. He'd been trying to keep calm for her.

She sighed.

"There's nothing we can do except pray I suppose. Best not think about it," she managed with difficulty.

He nodded and rose, helping her up.

"Are you going to drink the moon tea?"

"Yes of course," she said brushing herself off and grimacing.

She lifted the cup to her lips, not pausing to think about what she was doing, and downed the cup. Coughing and spluttering, she stumbled to her bed. Jon hurried to get her water, and she drank it slower.

"Gods," she gasped. "That tasted terrible!"

"I'm sorry, even though you don't want to hear it."

"You're damned right I don't."

Larys continued to sip her water, wondering if she would know when her unborn child, if there, would die. In an effort to distract herself, she looked at Jon. Aside from blood-drinking and child-killing, that night had been unbelievable. Just thinking about it sent tingles up her spine. Of course, it would be a while before she could let him anywhere near her place, sore as it was, but there were other things to do.

"Help me take off my robe, Jon."

Lord Stark watched from the balcony as Jon and Larys mounted their horses. Something had changed between them, he could swear it. Before, Larys had been the forerunner, always touching Jon first, always starting conversation, and holding it after it began. But now it was balanced, and so natural- light touches as he helped her mount her horse, handing him a hunk of bread she'd saved him from breakfast, the way he pulled a leaf from her hair without so much as blinking. And as they rode out of Winterfell, Ned couldn't help but believe he'd been right all along. They were made for each other.

Ned walked slowly back to his solar, thinking heavily. If Jon and Larys married, Jon would need a name. Should Ned legitimise him as a Stark? Or something else? Something very, very different?

One thing was for sure. Him and Jon needed to talk.

"What's wrong?" Larys asked, pulling Jon's bread and taking a quick bite before he could.

He smiled slightly, shaking his head.

"It's stupid."

When she continued to wait expectantly, he sighed and expanded.

"Why hasn't anything happened yet? It's been weeks and we haven't been cursed or killed in our sleep or anything."

Larys didn't look at him, intensely studying another leaf she'd pulled from her hair. "Do you want to be cursed?"

"Well obviously not, but the wait is killing me."

"Yes," she began nervously. "Well, something has happened."

He turned sharply, taking in her expression. "Go on."

"It's strange, and scary, and at first I thought I was just hearing people talking, but then I realised they were there even when I was alone. The whispers I mean. They tell me things. I've only heard them a few times. I couldn't understand what they were saying. But they were there."

Jon stared silently ahead, deep in thought.

"Maybe it's the Gods."

Instead of laughing as she once would have, Larys remembered the tree, and the line between her brows deepened.

"Maybe it is."

The wind howled. Jon sat silent upon his horse, looking over leagues of grey and green and purple. The grey of stone, the green of grass, and purple of heather.

In the South, mountains like something from a folk-tale, and to the East, the Sunset Sea. Around them were trees- oaks, pine, chestnut, condensing into a forest before them.

In the distance, a silver ribbon on the horizon was the Wall, small from here, but still it seemed to stretch half-way across the world.

"Here, come."

Jon followed his father's horse, and the two of them wound through the green giants, making their way forward, until suddenly, a clearing. A lake. And in that lake, a tower.

"This is Queenscrown," he gaped, wondering why his father had gone to so much effort to bring him here alone.

Eddard Stark just looked at him, a glimmer of sadness in his cold grey eyes.

"I thought it was appropriate," he whispered.

Before Jon could ask why, his father spurred his horse forward, around the lake. Jon hastened to follow, carefully, as he tried to avoid misleading swamp paths. They found themselves half-way around the lake, and suddenly, at an exact point he was sure he could never have found without his father to follow, was a path. Lined by willows, it led through the reeds and towards the tower, which although shrouded by mist, looked far larger than he had imagined.

When they at last found themselves at the gate, Jon was stunned by just how large it was. Hidden by the willows, what he had thought was a copse of trees was truly a keep, and a new one at that.

"When was this made?" he said in awe, staring up at the golden mernals of legend.

"About ten years ago now," said his father, joining him in dismounting. "When I knew for certain it would be yours."

"Mine? What are you talking about? All this belongs to the Nights Watch."

His father sighed, running his hand along the vine covered wall.

"It did. But for years now I've been meaning to do something with the New Gift. Queen Alysanne Targaryen meant well, but Lord Stark had protested, and rightly so. He knew it would be neglected by the Watch, and he knew the North far better than she ever did. The Watch will make a fuss, but there isn't much they can do. They've done nothing with it for years, and the villages around here are deserted because of the wildling attacks they failed to repel. What the North needs is a man loyal to it and the people, closer to the Wall than the Umbers, close enough to help them when they need it."

"And you think it's me?" gaped Jon, mind whirring. "Why me? Why not some Lord of noble birth? Or Bran when he grows?"

"No," said Ned, shaking his head. "Bran has years ahead of him yet. And you are far more than you think you are Jon. You are of far nobler birth than any Lord, or even Robb."

Jon froze and stared at his Father. He had not imagined it. Lord Stark's face was far more solemn and resigned than he had ever seen it. His own face staring back at him.

Blood pounded in his ears.

"It's time we spoke about your Mother, Jon."