This one may be a little long...enjoy! :) xx
Tormund clapped Jon on the back so hard that he felt his bones rattle. He laughed once, a booming sound, and he shook Jon slightly like a rag doll. "Very good, Jon Snow," Tormund said, almost shouting, "I shall bring her to you tonight. You should be wed as soon as possible, but I'm sure she'd like to look at you first."
Jon attempted to smile, but his face felt frozen in a wordless grimace of horror. Sansa was watching him, her face impassive. Tormund bound from the room, his massive furs giving him the look of a bear bounding after its next meal. Davos shifted uncomfortably, his hands clasped behind his back. "I'll, er...get a count of the men, your Grace," he said haltingly, and then all but ran from the room.
Sansa and Jon were left alone then, watching each other, neither knowing what words to speak to find absolution for their situation. They sat for a while, Jon braced against the table, in silence. Finally, Sansa reached forward and patted his hand, saying, "We all must to do what we must, Jon."
He wanted to point out the obvious nature of her statement, but Jon bit his tongue. He only nodded, silent, fear broiling in his gut. "I've done it twice," Sansa said, "at least you had the right to say no."
Jon felt shame wash over him like a hot wave. "I'm sorry, Sansa..." he said, trailing off, unsure what to say. Sansa only smiled wanly. "I'm sure she will be beautiful," she said, and Jon could not help but picture Tormund in a dress. He shivered. "I shall hope for that small comfort," he said, an uncertain grin stretching his stiff lips. "Perhaps you will grow fond of each other," Sansa said, ever hopeful, "like father and mother."
Jon's soft glimmer of hope was stomped out like an errant flame. "Catelyn was not my mother," he said, not as sternly as he felt, "Gods bless her but she never loved me as a son. Tormund must have lost his mind, marrying his daughter off to a bastard with no name."
Sansa glared at him, her eyes full of reproach.
"You are the only one who cares that you're a bastard, Jon." Her voice was hard as stone. "You are a king. You have a name. Your name is Snow, and now that you have this power, you can make it into anything you like it to be." She softened, squeezing his hand. Jon could only nod again, for any words would betray the lump forming in his throat. "Well," she said then, her tone all light and air, "I had best go and choose a gown for this royal wedding." Sansa smiled at him again, reassuring, before striding from the room, all red hair and purpose.
Jon stood for a while, leaning against the great wooden table, until his hands turned white from gripping its edges. Ghost inched ever closer to him, laying across his boots like a heavy white blanket, sensing his unease. Jon thought grimly that he had gained a crown, but his free will had been stripped away to make room for it.
Jon walked slowly back to his chambers, Ghost padding along silently at his side. He watched the flames of the torches flicker against the stone walls of the castle, ice forming and then melting just as quickly as it had come. He fancied that sometimes, he could hear the hot springs working their waters through the walls of Winterfell, like lifeblood coursing through a body. But what if she didn't like him? Jon thought it a childish and trivial thing to think, but...what if? His brother Robb had always told him that he was prettier than half the girls in Winterfell, but Jon had never had to worry about impressing a woman before. Not until...
He slammed his fist against the door of his bed chamber, rattling the wood on its hinges. No, he could not be plagued with thoughts of her now, not today, not before he faced this. Ygritte had been in the back of his mind since the night of her death. She was right, he knew nothing; nothing but that he did not know how to stop missing her.
John jumped at the sound of a knock on his door. Dennas poked his head inside, eyes downcast, a deer shank the size of his torso cupped in his hands. Ghost rose to sniff it, gently pulling it from the boy's hands and trotting over into the corner to devour his second breakfast. Jon gave the boy a clipped smile. "Dennas," he said, "I think I'd better have a bath."
The hulking black she-wolf watched the red bearded man trudge through the snows. She had been watching him from the moment he left the stone castle, waiting for him to return. She enjoyed watching the people bustle around the keep, ears perked and listening. The white wolf called to her sometimes, more now often than not, but she never let him near. He followed her about the woods, staring at her as she sniffed the great white tree, tailing her every step. Today she had killed a deer and let him eat from it when she had finished. As Tormund grew nearer, she bound to the edge of the trees to greet him.
"Hello, you beast," the man said, gruff but gentle. She knew he could not help but be wary of her, but she would not hurt him. The man stooped lower, gazing into the golden yellow eyes of the she-wolf, and whispered, "Are you in there?"
She gasped, blinking, her vision blurred. The roof of her tent came into view, the dark hide flickering in the light of the fire. Enrin sat up quickly, her furs tumbling from her shoulders. Tormund entered the tent then, shaking the flakes of snow from his fiery red hair. He grinned at her, and she bit her own grin back.
"How do you always know?"
Tormund gazed at her, eyes rolling.
"You think I can't tell my daughter's eyes from a wolf's eyes? I have been on this earth longer than you and I have seen many more things."
Tormund strode across the tent to lay an affectionate hand on her dark, almost black hair, brushing it from her face. "What did you see?"
Enrin sat straighter. "I saw the white wolf again. Night even let him eat from her morning kill," she said, unable to hide the excitement from her voice. At the sound of her name, the she-wolf perked her ears. She loped to Enrin's side and lay her head in her lap. As if on cue, six fat wolf pups tumbled into the tent, barking at yapping at each other. Night sighed affectionately as they took to her swollen teats; Enrin could feel her discomfort abating. Night hated to be away from her pups for too long of a time, and yet never refused Enrin when she asked to use her eyes.
Her father nodded, pulled off his thick gloves, and then sat across the fire from her. Enrin felt a creeping sensation of dread, leaking from him like oil. Against her will, her eyes squinted.
"Do you have something to tell me, father?"
Tormund twisted his gloves in his hands. Enrin felt that he was nervous, so nervous that she could almost feel his teeth grinding against his jaw.
"I have asked Jon Snow to take you to wife and he has accepted my offer, to strengthen the bonds between these southern twats and us free-folk." The words tumbled from his mouth, rushed, and he tensed, awaiting his daughter's reaction.
Enrin had gone hot and cold at once, her scalp prickling dangerously. Night opened her eyes and growled low in her throat.
"You did this without asking me?" Her voice was breathless and full of rage, lips pulling back over straight white teeth in a snarl as fearsome as her wolf's. "Father, how could you do this thing? How dare you? Like I am some maid these southern buffoons breed to trade for land and fucking livestock?" Her words were biting, but Tormund did not flinch. He held up a hand, placating, and said, "Enrin, my girl, you are a princess now and this is what the princesses of the south do."
It was all Enrin could do not to fling the burning embers of the fire into her father's face.
"I am NOT a southern princess," her voice was low, grating, her teeth clenched, "I was not a princess until a few days ago. And now you are selling me to this king for what? So I can sit in his stupid stone house and raise his bastard children?" Enrin got to her feet, pulling the hood of her furs over her dark hair. Tormund made no move to stop her as she stepped around him, flinging open the flap of the tent. Her feet carried her like a raven on the wind, deep into the godswood.
In the safety of the quiet trees, Enrin slowed to a walk. Night kept pace with her as the pups stumbled behind, fat gray lumps of fur leaping from one stone root to another.
She could feel her rage seething out of every pore, weaving around her like a kraken with many arms. She all but flung herself down on a slate rock jutting from the ground, wrapping her arms around her knees. The pups milled about her feet, sensing her distress. She lifted one into her arms, a plump little male, and held him close. She wondered if she should name them.
Tormund appeared through the trees, axe in hand. Night grumbled, but made no move. Her father smiled at her, scanning the horizon. "Have I ever told you how I met that mother of yours?" He asked, stepping over the pile of wrestling pups to sit by his daughter's side. Enrin watched him balefully. In truth, Tormund did not speak much of her mother. She only knew that they had married, and her mother had died in the birthing bed.
"We had come upon their camp," her father said, not looking at her, "her tent was the first one I meant to burn. I stuck my head in and was met with a spearhead." He chuckled, pointing to a faded white scar just above the line of his beard. Beside herself, Enrin smiled.
Tormund sighed, blinking the wetness from his eyes.
"She was all dark hair and stubborn," he nudged her knee with his, "I don't have to wonder where you got it from." Tormund reached over and took the wolf pup from her hands, stroking its head. The pup curled against her father's furs, under his chin. "When she died, I burned her myself," Tormund's voice was only a whisper now, "it killed me to do it, but I could not bear the thought of her coming back as...one of them."
Her father looked at her then, his eyes burning into hers. "If we do not tie ourselves with these southerners, Enrin, we will all become meat for the dead's army," Tormund said, his voice earnest, "If you really cannot bring yourself to marry this man, I will find another way for us, I will, but I know Jon Snow and he is a good man." He reached out, grasping her hand in his. Only then did Enrin realize how cold she had become. "He will not hurt you, I swear it."
Night stepped silently to her side, working her head under Enrin's arm. The girl sank her fingers deep into the wolf's fur, feeling her frozen limbs drink in the warmth. She and her father sat for a long time in silence, only the wind speaking to them through the trees.
As the sky turned pink, the sun setting across the horizon, Enrin turned to her father.
"I will do it."
Jon shook the furs of his cape, draping it across the fireplace in his chambers. The snow had soaked it almost to the core.
For the better part of the afternoon, he had paced. Ghost sat with him all the while, still as a weirwood tree, his red eyes following Jon's every step. Dennas had fetched him a steaming tub of water, and he had bathed until the water ran cold. He wore pants of thick wool, and a fresh tunic under a jerkin of black oiled leather. Longclaw was strapped at his waist, clanging noisily as he walked. A sharp knock on his door startled him and he jumped, whirling, as Dennas entered.
"Pardons, your Grace," the boy said, meeting Jon's eyes for the first time, "the King of the free-folk will be here shortly."
Jon gave him one nod, and then called Ghost to his side. He felt calmer with his wolf near.
Sansa and Davos were awaiting him in the throne room. Sansa had chosen a gown of crushed velvet, a deep emerald blue that brought out the red of her hair. She stood poised, hands clasped in front of her, smiling gently at him. Jon tried to return her smile, but panic roiled in his gut. He took his place to her left, between she and Davos. The older man greeted him with a small bow, but said nothing. It was now more than ever that Jon appreciated Davos' penchant for silence.
The wooden doors opened and Tormund came first, followed by three other men. He stopped in front of Jon and inclined his head. They grasped each other's forearms warmly. Tormund smiled.
"Jon Snow, my daughter, Enrin."
He stepped away and that was when Jon saw her, his breath sticking uncomfortably in his throat. She wore a gray fur cloak with the head of a wolf; it sat atop her almost black hair like a crown. The teeth, as long as Jon's forefinger, framed her face. Her eyes were so blue that they were almost white, her cheeks angled like her father's, but that was all Jon saw of Tormund in her. Her full lips were parted, wary, her hands dangling uselessly at her sides. She wore a tight fitting dress of rough-spun white wool, the fabric clinging to the curve of her hips. As she moved toward him, her hair brushed her waist, freshly combed until it shone.
Enrin stopped in front of him, her eyes searching his face. They were defiant, belligerent even, waiting almost impatiently to say something.
"My lady," Jon said, breathless, "if I may...you are beautiful."
She blinked at him, her face screwed into a grimace for a moment, before she cleared her throat and smiled gracefully, almost mockingly at him. "Thank you, Jon Snow," was all she said.
Tormund clapped his hands, whooping. "You see that, Jon Snow!" He moved forward to put his arm around Jon's shoulders, "she did not bite your head off, you see that!" Jon thought for a moment that his friend seemed relieved.
Ghost saw it before Jon did, his white ears pricking up. The wolf leaped to his feet at Jon's side, unmoving, excited.
Night slunk into the room then, and Jon saw Enrin's shoulders sag in apparent relief. The wolf wound itself around her waist, the top of her head brushing Enrin's ribcage. Sansa spoke for the first time, then, her voice barely containing her disbelief. "Is that a direwolf?"
Night's golden eyes fell on the red haired girl then, and Enrin felt her stiffen. "She wouldn't hurt anyone," she snapped, defensive, "not unless I told her to." As if on cue, Night reached her muzzle toward Sansa's hand, taking in the girl's scent with a long sniff. "May I touch her?" Sansa's voice was full of a longing wonder. Enrin only nodded, but said nothing. Sansa reached out to stroke the wolf's nose. "I lost my wolf," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, "they killed her for something she didn't even do." Jon saw Enrin's face soften. "I know what that is like, to lose a friend," she said, stroking the fur that she wore across her back. "Enrin's mate was killed, hunting a mammoth," the black wolf turned to her, medallion eyes sad, "he keeps me warm now in death as he did in life. His bones are buried north of the wall, where he truly belongs." Enrin bit her lip, and then gave a short whistle.
The six pups came tumbling through the doorway, snow still melting in their gray fur. Jon only watched, his dark eyes as wide as saucers. The pups milled about Enrin's feet, nipping at each other, sniffing at them in interest. Enrin stepped closer to Sansa then, gently reaching out to touch her hand.
"A gift for my new sister," she said, dutifully flickering her eyes to meet Jon's, "one of them is yours to choose."
Jon could not hold back his gasp of disbelief, and Sansa could not conceal hers of joy. "Truly?" She asked, as one of the female pups clawed at her skirt. Sansa took it into her arms, blue eyes gazing into the warm chocolate of the pup's. Enrin smiled, stroking the pup's head. "Truly," she said, "no girl should be without her wolf."
Tears filled Sansa's eyes as she clutched the pup close to her chest. Night looked on, calmly. "I do not know how to thank you," Sansa said, her voice thick. Enrin said nothing, only shook her head once. Ghost bent his head to take in the pup's scent, and Night pulled back her lips in a snarl. The two wolves regarded each other for a moment, before Ghost all but shrugged and loped away, across the great hall and out the doors. After a moment, Night followed, her five remaining pups tumbling after her. Sansa's pup had contented herself to laying in her master's arms, nibbling gently at her hair.
"That is very kind of you, my lady," Jon said, and red warmth crept into his face. "I would like to extend he invitation to join us for supper, if you and your father would do me the honor of consenting."
Enrin knew it was no more than a formality; Tormund had dined at Jon's table every eve since the battle. She searched his face for a moment, before giving him a tight lipped grimace, the ghost of a smile. "The pleasure is ours," Enrin said, bowing her head so that the eyes of the wolf stared into Jon's, unseeing. He fought a shudder.
"My squire, Dennas," Jon said, and a rail thin boy a few years younger than Enrin's twenty, stepped forward, "will show you to your chambers, my lady. I hope that they are to your liking. Please, if you are in need of anything...do not hesitate to seek me out." Jon's face was a polite mask, every inch the king they had named him. Enrin only nodded, and turned to take the arm Dennas had offered her. "This way, my lady, the walk is not far," the boy's voice wavered, betraying his confidence. As the doors closed to the throne room, Enrin could not help but to steal a glance behind her, to where Jon stood stoic with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. In that moment, she saw something flash in his eyes, but it was unnamable. Her face warmed. In that moment, against her better judgement, she thought that maybe she should not throw away all her hope. Not yet.