I don't own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire, and I don't own any of the characters besides the ones I've created (if it wasn't already obvious). I am not making any money from this, nor do I have any desire to do so.

After watching Season 8, I channeled all my... complicated feelings into this idea I had, where I try to fix everything about canon that I didn't like, while trying to change as little of canon as possible, helped along by a DnD character concept I never got to use. Then quarantine happened, and I had nothing else to do, so here we are. I hope you enjoy my little Game of Thrones idea that completely spiraled out of control into whatever this is.

I swear eventually it'll be a Jon/OC pairing, it's just going to take a very, very long time to get there, for reasons that will hopefully make sense at some point.

Fair warning: this is heavily based on the TV show, and not the books. So, if you hate the show or just want something that's more accurate to the books, maybe give this one a miss.

PS: I edit chapters after posting—never stop. I swear it's a compulsion. Just letting you know—every single chapter has been or will be edited after posting (and I do mean edited).

If there was one thing Lady Caitriona Norrey hated above all else, it was a feast.

She'd been through enough of them to know what they meant: curtsying, socializing, and so much dancing, her feet would ache for days afterward. All she wanted to do was hide until the celebrations were over, preferably in a place small enough that only she could access it. As a scrawny twelve-year-old girl, she knew she could find a bolthole small enough.

But Caitriona's father, Rendon Norrey, had great expectations for his only daughter. Namely, he wanted her to be the future wife of the Warden of the North. House Norrey was a proud Northern family, after all, and Caitriona was close enough in age to the heir to the North, Robb Stark. His fifteenth nameday celebration seemed the perfect opportunity to ingratiate herself, or so her father said.

Caitriona thought the opposite. She had about the same desire to marry as she did to eat cabbage; which was to say, none at all.

In fact, if it hadn't been for her two older brothers bribing her with sweets, she would have hidden away until the whole stupid thing was over, and damn the consequences. Luckily, Owen and Cerys knew her better than her father ever could; they knew she was a slave to her sweet tooth—and also a slave to the pretty new dress her septa had made.

But nothing could stop the sick little flip of her stomach as they neared Winterfell—not chocolate-chip cookies, not even pretty dresses. She would have given nearly anything for their driver to turn the carriage around and take them back home.

Still, when her family arrived in the courtyard of Winterfell, Caitriona couldn't help but be impressed. It had to be at least three times as big as her home, and twice as high, too. She could have stood there, just taking in the castle in front of her, all day. But there was no time because the Warden of the North and his family were waiting in the courtyard to greet them.

"Rendon," Eddard Stark said, smiling as her father bowed. "How are you?"

"I am well, my lord," Caitriona's father replied. He moved to greet Catelyn Stark, kissing her hand. "My lady." Afterward, he stood up straight and asked, "You've met my eldest, Owen, have you not?"

Ned Stark nodded. "Aye. It's good to see you."

"Thank you, my lord," said Owen, bowing deeply. It took all of Caitriona's willpower not to roll her eyes. He was stiff and solemn—a perfectly proper Northman. To her, it just looked ridiculous, especially considering how many times she'd watched him practicing when he thought no one was looking.

"And this is my second born, Cerys." Cerys bowed too, but unlike Owen, he subtly winked at his little sister, as if he too thought this whole situation a waste of time. It made her want to grin. At least someone tried to understand her struggles, even if deep down Cerys was more excited to meet Eddard Stark than she could ever be.

"My daughter, Caitriona." Realizing this was her queue, Caitriona curtsied. And perfectly, too, if she had anything to say on the matter.

When she looked up, Caitriona noticed a boy of about fourteen or fifteen staring at her. Considering his age and resemblance to both Lord and Lady Stark—the reddish-brown hair and blue eyes of his mother, and the strong jaw of his father—she knew it was Robb.

Looking at him made Caitriona's desire to retch even stronger. It wasn't that Robb was ugly—he was, in fact, very handsome. In any other circumstance, she would have enjoyed looking at him. But her father had brought to Winterfell for the sole purpose of being thrown at the Stark heir, and it made her feel more like a shiny toy rather than a person. No amount of good looks could change that.

It didn't help that she knew what her wifely duties would be once she was married, and they sounded disgusting. When she'd voiced this opinion, Owen and Cerys had laughed and assured her she would come around to the idea once she was older. But two years later and Caitriona still couldn't fathom how age would change her opinion.

Rendon's voice distracted her from her thoughts. "And my youngest, Arthur." He gestured to her only younger sibling.

Arthur looked nervous, which was never a good sign. Sure enough, he stepped forward and bowed so deeply that he lost his balance and stumbled. Caitriona dug her nails into her palms. To any other person, a six-year-old stumbling wouldn't have been a cause for concern. But their father—who made at least one comment per day about his son's clumsiness—expected absolute perfection, especially today.

Predictably, Rendon looked a mixture of outraged and embarrassed, though it was imperceptible to everyone but his children. Father had always been good at charming those who didn't know him. To the outside world, he was a smart, amiable lord of the North. But all three of his children knew the truth: that Arthur's mistake would mean a beating later, because Rendon was always looking for an excuse to punish his least favorite son.

She wished she had the ability to stop it, but there was little Caitriona could do—beyond fantasizing about sticking her father in the eye with one of her daggers and watching him bleed out on the floor. The Gods could curse her for kinslaying, but they couldn't curse her for dreaming.

Caitriona looked up at Cerys, who was now standing painfully still. He knew just as well as she did what was going through their father's mind, and like her, Cerys was not pleased. He grabbed her hand and squeezed it in a small, comforting gesture.

On her other side, Arthur had retreated back next to her. Caitriona threw her arm around his shoulder and allowed him to snuggle into her. She could feel him shaking.

"My lord," Catelyn Stark said, completely unaware of the tension. "You are very welcome."

Caitriona's father smiled his most pleasant smile, covering up his anger remarkably well. "Thank you, my lady."

"You must be hungry after such a long journey."

Rendon nodded, smiling. "Indeed, we are."

The Lady of the North smiled back, and, along with her family, ushered them into Winterfell.

The best thing about Winterfell was the food.

The stew the Starks served was easily better than anything at Norwood—better than anything she had ever tasted, to be honest. Caitriona ate as daintily as she could, although it was difficult not to inhale everything.

She didn't speak much to anyone beyond a comment to Lord and Lady Stark about how beautiful Winterfell was. But no one seemed bothered by it, for which Caitriona was incredibly grateful. As she ate, she decided that perhaps this evening would not be so bad after all.

Oh, how wrong she had been.

Between the musicians, the dancing, and the talking, the hall was too loud—so loud she could hardly hear her thoughts. There were so many people milling about, it left her with hardly any room to breathe. Her brothers had gone off to dance with two very pretty ladies, leaving Caitriona alone to sit miserably at a table smack in the middle of the hall. There was no cover for her to take shelter in, which meant no escape from the inevitable socializing she would have to do.

It was quite the problem, considering that everybody was blurring into one as the night wore on and her frustration accumulated. Caitriona's father had forced her to dance with three different lords' sons, which had severely worn on her already short temper. Her feet were starting to hurt as well—they'd been stepped on at least twice—and she'd bit down on her tongue to keep from making snarky comments more times than she could count.

It wasn't until she noticed the boy, standing in the back corner of the hall, that she found something interesting to take her mind off her predicament. He didn't seem much older than she—maybe a few years at most—with black curly hair and a very brooding look to him. The boy was even more handsome than Robb Stark, although Caitriona didn't care about that particular piece of information at the moment.

The thing of interest to her was that he looked just about as bored and annoyed to be there as she felt. Caitriona hadn't thought it possible for someone to hate it as much as she did, but apparently, she'd been wrong.

She was so lost in thought over the matter that she didn't even notice her two older brothers sit down next to her.

"Don't become too enraptured with that one, Riona," Cerys said, smirking.

Caitriona broke her gaze away from the boy to glare at her brother. "Don't tell me what to do." Then, as an afterthought, she added, "And I wasn't enraptured."

Cerys grinned. "You know who he is?"

She shook her head.

"Lord Stark's bastard son."

That got her attention. "Lord Stark has a bastard?"

"Oh, aye," he replied. "Everyone knows that. His name's Jon Snow—sired during the war. Lady Stark wasn't too happy when Lord Stark insisted the boy be raised at Winterfell. She despises him."

Owen, never one for gossip, especially when it concerned his liege lord, scoffed at his brother. "How do you even know all of this?"

Cerys shrugged. "Whores talk."

Caitriona gagged while Owen shook his head in disapproval. Cerys ignored them both. "You, little sister, should be paying more attention to him," he said as he pointed towards Robb.

She huffed and crossed her arms in defiance. "I don't want to pay attention to anybody. I want to be left alone."

"Father won't like that," Cerys said, snorting.

Caitriona shot him a murderous look. Under another circumstance, his delight in refusing to give their father what he wanted might have excited her. She and Cerys would often put their heads together and come up with ways to make his life more difficult, just to get a little power back from him. But after a long, exhausting day, she had no patience left. She just wanted to go home.

Owen put a hand on her shoulder, trying to comfort her. "Come on, I promise it won't be that bad."

"If Father wants me to marry Robb, he should be talking to Lord Stark. What Robb or I want doesn't matter. No one ever married because they liked each other."

Cerys barked out a laugh. "You're too young to be so cynical."

"No, but I am too old to be lied to," she said with a glare at Owen.

"Oh, Riona," he sighed, putting an arm around her. Owen always knew when it was a lost cause, trying to argue with her.

Caitriona smiled—grudgingly—and put her head on her eldest brother's shoulder. The hall seemed to slow, and she realized just how tired she was, barely stifling a yawn.

The three siblings watched as the other lords and ladies talked and laughed and danced. Luckily, their father was in a deep conversation with Lord Glover and Lord Bolton, leaving him too preoccupied to reprimand his children for not participating.

After some time, she felt Cerys nudge her side, nodding in Robb's direction. He was being egged on by the heir to the Iron Islands—Caitriona couldn't remember his first name—smiling and laughing as his friend pushed him towards her and her brothers.

Just what she needed.

"My lady," Robb said. He bowed, holding out a hand. "May I have this dance?"

It took all of her willpower not to scream at him to go away. Instead, she took a deep, steadying breath and replied, as politely as she could, "No, thank you, my lord."

Robb blanched at her for a split second, surprised at Caitriona's reaction. He recovered his composure quickly, though. She was impressed, in a bitter sort of way.

"It's not polite for a lady to refuse," he replied teasingly.

It seemed he thought they were playing some game where she pretended to be coy until eventually giving in and accepting his invitation.

The idea of that only worsened Caitriona's temper.

"Yes, well, it's not polite for a lady to step in horse shit either, but I'd honestly rather do that than dance again. Now, kindly, leave me alone," she snapped.

It was said more loudly than she had intended. So loud that the entire room stared in her direction, completely silent beyond the musicians.

Caitriona heard Owen gasp, and Cerys try to cover his laugh with a cough. Her father had turned an intense shade of purple, which under different circumstances, she might have found funny. Lord Stark snorted in disbelief and amusement, his wife giving him a half-hearted disapproving glare. Robb blushed, and Caitriona felt her cheeks heating up to match.

She glanced over to where the brooding boy was standing, only to find a slight smile on his face.

It set her blood to a boil. She had embarrassed herself in front of her liege lord and his entire family. Worse than that, her father was going to punish her like never before—if he didn't outright kill her first.

And yet Eddard Stark's bastard found it funny.

Gods, did she wish she had her daggers with her, just then.

Unfortunately, Caitriona wasn't able to stew on her fury for very long. Without a word, her father grabbed her arm so forcefully it hurt and dragged her out of the hall. She knew she was in for the whip, but if Caitriona was being honest, at this point a whipping was entirely worth it if it meant she didn't have to stay at the feast—or dance—ever again.

I think what this prologue establishes is that Caitriona desperately needs therapy. A lot of it.

Anyway, a few notes:

1. In the books, Norrey is actually a northern family that resides in the mountains just south of The Gift. They aren't a house—they're a clan. But since the tv show doesn't ever mention the Norrey Clan or really mention the difference between clans and houses in the North, I figured I'd just use the name (because I was too lazy to come up with my own) and make them an actual house with my characters. Hey, if the show can change aspects of the book lore, then so can I.

2. Caitriona is not a name used in the lore of ASOIAF or the TV show. It's a Scottish name. I had originally meant just to use it and the associated nickname(s) as placeholders, but now I'm so attached to them that when I change it to something more lore-friendly, it feels wrong. Sorry, guys. You're just going to have to live with the not-so-lore-friendly name.

3. In the same vein, Rendon isn't actually a lore-friendly name either. In the books, the patriarch of Clan Norrey is named Brandon. The problem is that there are already just so many Brandons in the lore, so I had to change it from Brandon to Rendon to keep myself from getting confused. If you've ever played a little game known as Dragon Age: Origins, you'll hopefully recognize it.