Hi! I wanted to get this one up quick for you guys! Just wanted to say how much I appreciate all your kind reviews and following/liking this story! I'm glad you guys agree with me; it's nice to see Jon acting his age and letting loose for once!
Hope you enjoy! Next chapter will be up soon! :)
Enrin led Jon through the woods, all but silent, stepping over twigs and rocks without needing to see where to put her feet. Jon followed behind her, the wolves trailing his steps. He could see Winterfell through the trees, and wondered idly where Enrin was leading him.
The wildling camp came into view, fires smoking above the trees. The voices and laughter grew quiet as they neared, almost becoming whispers. Jon stuck closer to Enrin's heels, and Ghost fell in step with him, a low growl forming in his throat. Without stopping, Enrin reached back to grasp Jon's hand.
"Some of them still don't trust you," she said, idly, as if it didn't bother her at all, "they're stupid and suspicious, but they won't hurt you." She turned to smirk at him then, "especially not while I'm here to protect you."
Jon gave her a smile as best he could, tight lipped and nervous. She stopped briefly at a rack of weapons, laid up by a fire. Axes, spears, and longswords were stacked haphazardly, rusting in the snow. Enrin reached for a bow and a quiver of arrows that had been slung over the post, the stone arrow heads glittering in the sun. Jon felt an icy grip envelop his veins.
Enrin led him past her people, through the embers of the smoldering fires, deep into the heart of the godswood. The wolves trailed them, near silent, save for the sound of their hushed panting disturbing the peace of the forest. It was darker here, the branches thicker, allowing less of the cold light to hit the floor. The ground was softer here, muffling their footsteps as they crept through the wood, a misfit pack of wolves.
Jon fell into step beside Enrin, one hand clasped around Longclaw's hilt. Old Nan had told him stories of the shadowcats that had once preyed in these woods, but the direwolves had chased them all away. Jon had never actually believed Old Nan's stories, but one could never be too careful.
His eyes searched her face, trying to discern what was going on in the mind behind it. Slowly, she drew an arrow from the quiver on her back, knocking it into her bow with smooth ease. Enrin's eyes darted to Night's, then to Ghost's. Both wolves weaved through the brush, Ghost east and Night west, the pups slinking after both of them like gray shadows.
Jon opened his mouth, to sigh, to ask her where they were going, but Enrin raised a hand to silence him, pressing a finger to her lips. Her storm gray eyes met his, for a moment, then flickered to the front of them, toward a gap of trees in a thicket. Jon's brows furrowed for a moment, until he heard them; the soft sounds of flat teeth chewing, the thud of hooves digging in the snow to reach the cold grass beneath it. The longer Jon watched, the more shapes became clear; five, ten, twelve deer stood before him, their coats long and shaggy, steaming in the frigid air. The air was so tranquil that he could hear the wind whistling through the great stag's antlers as he grazed on the snowy outcropping, above his herd. The ears of the beast swiveled this way and that, listening for a threat, but detecting none. Enrin crept ever closer, Jon close on her heels. They both held their breath as a gentle breeze lifted the leaves, making the rustle. And suddenly, she moved.
Jon had not noticed that she had raised her bow until the arrow was sailing through the air, the fletching singing in the slipstream.
The single arrow struck the stag in the eye, lodging itself between his antlers, the arrowhead poking straight through the other socket. The beast let out a sigh, almost peaceful, before it slumped to the ground, crimson blood melting the snow around it.
The herd panicked, fearful bleating filling air as the small clearing erupted into the sound of hoof beats. The doe scampered, one managing to escape into the trees, tailed by two fawn on long, shaking legs. The wolves moved then, fangs glimmering. Night slunk from the darkness like a living shade, her heavy paws making no noise on the soft forest floor. One doe, a hulking brown thing with a tear in her ear, feigned left, but the she-wolf was too quick. Night cut the doe off with one great paw, connecting with its head with a loud thwack. The doe crumpled, neck askew, blood trickling from her mouth. Night sank her immense fangs into the deer's throat anyway, as if to make sure it was truly dead.
Ghost followed her lead, slipping from the trees at the other end of the clearing, low to the ground. Surrounded on three sides, what remained of the herd darted, panic stricken, searching for an exit. Ghost chose his victim, and leaped.
Jon had never seen anything like it. The wolf was agile, light on his feet for a creature of such immense size. He landed on the back of one young stag, his jaws snapping through his antlers like twigs. A crack echoed through the field, and suddenly the hind legs of the animal were limp. Both wolf and stag tumbled to the ground together, a flurry of white and brown. It managed to let out one last bleat of terror, before Ghost clamped his fangs into it's throat, blood spraying across his snowy fur.
The frightened hoof beats died down as the herd one by one gamboled out of the clearing, the stench of blood thick in the air. Jon released the breath he had not known he was holding.
"Have you never watched him hunt before?" Enrin asked, her voice light with wonder. Jon could only shake his did not yet trust his voice.
"It's beautiful," he said finally, barely a whisper. Enrin took his hand as they moved into the clearing. The pups had already come forward from their hiding places, and were tucking into the hind quarters of the doe their mother had killed. Night lifted her yellow eyes, meeting Ghost's red ones for barely a moment, before he dragged the limp carcass of his kill and laid it at Jon's feet and slunk off across the red snow to join them.
Enrin had reached the great stag, who sat like he slept in the snow. She braced one hand on an antler, before pulling the arrow out of the beast's skull, wiping the thick blood off with a handful of snow. Jon watched, in awe, as she knelt down and placed a kiss on the stag's nose saying "thank you."
"You're good with a bow," Jon said, his voice wary, and Enrin could sense his discomfort. She looked up at him, eyes shrewd, letting the stag's head loll to the side.
"You've had an air about you ever since I picked up this bow, Jon," she said, not accusingly, "you can tell me what it is about, or you can brood about it silently, but I am taking the meat back for the feast and it would be a lot less difficult if you would be so kind as to help."
Jon's eyes widened in surprise, but he reached down to grip the antler of the stag. Enrin reached above her to pull down a branch of the pine tree, and Jon helped her to drag the body onto it, fashioning it like a sled. Each holding the branch, they began their trek back to Winterfell in silence.
"I knew a girl who shot as well as you, once," Jon said after a few long moments, his voice echoing off the darkening trees. Enrin said nothing, but waited for him to continue. Jon took a deep breath, holding for a moment, before letting it out and squaring his shoulders. "I once saw her shoot a hare through the eye from fifty leagues away."
Enrin watched only her feet, no longer bothering to be silent. The snow crunched beneath her boots.
"And you loved her?" She asked, her words weaker than she would have liked. The idea of Jon Snow loving another woman sat with her in distaste, and she couldn't help but screw up her nose at the idea. She snuck a glance at him through the dark curtain of her hair, searching his face. He stared only ahead of them, a sad smile playing across his lips that did not touch his eyes.
"I did," he whispered, and his words were so heavy that they sank as low as Enrin's stomach.
They strode in silence for what felt like hours, until Winterfell came into view between the branches. The sun was low now behind the walls, and Jon realized they had spent hours out in the forest. It had felt no longer than moments.
"She's dead," he said suddenly, stopping so suddenly that Enrin nearly toppled over the branch she held. He reached out to steady her, cupping the top of her arms on both sides. The stag dangled, forgotten for a moment. "She died," he said again, as if confirming it for himself. Enrin opened her mouth, and then closed it again, unsure of where her words would take her. They regarded each other for a moment, still as statues, the wind whispering to them.
"I burned her myself. She was killed in the attack on Castle Black. A girl of the free folk, like you. Her name was Ygritte."
Jon had not said her name in only the gods knew how long; it felt foreign on his lips. It sat heavy on his heart, but not so heavy as he had thought.
Enrin blinked up at him, her full lips turned down in the corners, frowning.
"I didn't know her," she said, finally, after a beat. She chose her words deliberately, slowly, unsure of how to convey the storm of thoughts in her mind. "I don't ask that you forget her," she said, her teeth pulling at her bottom lip, "I know that she still has a place in your heart." Enrin lifted her eyes to his then, so gray they were almost white moons glowing in the creeping night.
"All I ask is that you might make room for me there, too, one day."
A smile broke Jon's face, lending light to the dusk. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her to him, resting his lips against her hair. The closeness that had felt so strange to him only this morning now felt comforting.
"Yes, Enrin," he said, his hands stroking her back through her dress, "for you, of course. There will be room for you."
Her cheeks reddened as she leaned into him, pressing her cheek to the hollow of his throat. This vulnerability was alien to her; she had been with other boys, but never a man. Never someone who warmed her heart rather than her bed.
They stood together for mere moments, the sky turning orange around them with the sunset. It was Jon who broke the embrace, adjusting his grip on the branch. Together, with soft smiles, they pulled the stag to the kitchens, so that preparation for the feast may begin.
Xxxxx
The door to her chambers creaked loudly as she opened it. She turned, and jumped, a soft yelp escaping from her throat.
"I didn't mean to frighten you," Sansa said, her red hair like fire braided into a thick bun at the base of her neck. Her dress was slate gray, with a wide leather belt covering her waste. Soft badger fur adorned her sleeves and shoulders, a thick, dark metal chain around her neck. Her blue eyes were warm, inviting. Enrin lowered her hand from her throat, grinning wryly.
"Of course, my lady, forgive me," she said, wondering if she was being too cordial or polite.
"Please, call me Sansa," the girl said, her eyes soft, "there's nothing to forgive. I've brought you something."
Sansa gestured to the fur topped bed. She had laid out an intricate white dress, with long bell sleeves. Silver thread wound across the low cut neckline, white fur covering the sleeves and shoulders. It had been slit up the side, all the way to the hip, with swirling patterns like snowflakes sewn into the skirt. Enrin gasped, reaching out to stroke the soft fur on the sleeves.
"Sansa, its beautiful."
"I made some alterations," Sansa smiled at her, running her fingers down the slit at the hip, "I figured you'd like it more that way."
Enrin looked up at her, eyes shining. "You shouldn't have," she said, her throat thick, "it is too much."
Sansa reached out, slowly, as if frightened that Enrin would pull away. The girls clasped hands for a moment, silent.
"I had made it for my wedding, to Joffrey," as she spoke, Sansa's eyes were far away, in a different land, "I wanted something of my home with me in King's Landing. I can't say that I regret never wearing it."
Enrin poured them each a cup of wine from the pitcher on her breakfast table. As she offered it to Sansa, her hand shook.
"Are you nervous?" Sansa asked, taking a dainty sip. Enrin downed her cup in one gulp, and reached for another.
"What has given you that idea?"
They laughed together then, like two friends, discussing the weather.
"He's very fond of you, you know," Sansa said, and Enrin's eyes flew to her immediately, "everyone can see it. Jon doesn't warm to people like he's done to you."
Enrin sipped her wine this time, swirling it about her cup. "Fond," she said, feeling the word on her tongue. She set her cup down. Perhaps she should stop drinking.
"And you're worried that it will never be more than fondness?" Sansa watched her, wise eyes following Enrin as she paced about the room, her eyes raking over the elegant white dress on her bed. She looked at Sansa and nodded only once, afraid to speak.
"My mother and father were that way," Sansa sighed, leaning back against one of the bedposts, "they married, and my father left for the Rebellion. My mother had my eldest brother, Robb, and my father returned with Jon.
"I've only ever heard the servants talking about it in hushed whispers. Never much more than that, for fear my father would hear and turn them out. Mother wouldn't speak to him for days,weeks even. Every time she looked at Jon, she saw his betrayal."
Sansa looked at her then, her eyes wet with unshed tears.
"My mother loved my father. I can't say that she ever forgave him, but she loved him. And my father loved her. He was a good, honorable man every day after that. He treated her like a queen, even though she was just a lady. Jon is more like my father than anyone I've ever met."
Sansa reached to clasp Enrin's hand again, squeezing it tightly. "I'm sure you both will be very, very happy together."
Enrin gripped her hand in return, and took a deep breath. "I had best dress," she said, rubbing her palms over her knees. Sansa stood, and smoothed her dress. She reached for Enrin then and hugged her tightly, only for a moment. "I'll see you in the godswood," she said in parting, closing the door with a soft latch.
Enrin released her shaking breath, pulling her gray dress over her head. She kicked off her boots, peeling her leggings down to her ankles. She placed her hands into the cold basin of water on her breakfast table, splashing it over her face and chest. She pulled a soft brush through her hair, leaving it hanging over her shoulders, wild and untamed. She felt the dress staring at her from the bed, almost mocking her. 'Is this marriage a mockery?' She thought, pulling a fresh pair of fur lined black leggings up her legs, lacing them at the waist. Inhaling deeply, she slid the dress over her head. It fit perfectly, hugging what curves she had. The fur was impossibly soft, brushing across her face as she laced the front bodice of the dress.
Enrin looked down at herself, smoothing down the skirt. She pulled on her boots as there was a soft knock on the door of her chamber. "Enter," she called, attempting to hide the tremor in her voice with a cough.
Tormund stepped over the threshold, smiling as he saw her standing there in her white dress, and some of the terror that filled her throat abated. He opened his arms to her and she rushed to him, pressing her face into the fur of his jacket. "You bathed," she breathed, and they laughed together, embracing in the doorway to her chambers. "I've come to escort you to the weirwood tree," her father said, his voice more gentle than she'd ever heard it, "come, my girl."
She took his hand as they strode slowly down the dimly lit halls of the castle, saying nothing. Their silence was comforting, all things they needed to say being spoken in the tight clasping of their hands, father and daughter, facing an uncertain future together.
The courtyard of the castle was lit with a hundred torches, stuck into the snow in a makeshift pathway, leading to the mouth of the trees. Suddenly Night was at her side, slinking out of the shadows, falling into step with her. The great she-wolf pressed her fur into Enrin's side, and, thankful, she returned the pressure.
Hushed voices grew silent as they entered the trees, their path lit well in the darkness. The snow had stopped, and the stars twinkled in the inky sky, the moon smiling down on them. Enrin wondered if her mother was the one who chased the clouds away on her wedding night.
The lords and ladies of Winterfell all milled about, trying to get a good look at her. Sansa stood before all of them, the wolf pups all sitting in a line at her side, their small heads cocked in confusion. Enrin caught her smile and did her best to reciprocate.
She saw him then, standing beneath the tree with his back to her, watching the red weeping eyes of the weirwood tree. He turned as the voices stopped, and when Enrin saw his face she could have sprinted down the aisle to him.
His dark eyes were glowing in the night, his hair freshly combed out of his face and tied hastily in a knot at the back of his neck. Jon had traded in his black leathers for a shimmering silver breastplate, with carved direwolves in the sigil of his house on either side of his neck. His great fur cloak rested about his shoulders, clasped about his chest with a glimmering silver chain. Ghost sat beside him, his red eyes a following her, ears perked forward calmly. Enrin could not help herself but to think how beautiful and regal Jon looked, standing there beneath the blood red leaves of the tree, awaiting her.
Jon's mouth grew dry as she approached, clasping Tormund's had like it was the only thing keeping her steady. The black she-wolf strode beside her, her sun bright eyes watching him, but all he felt was peace in her gaze. The white of her dress made the snow around them look gray. Moonlight shone down from the sky, forming a crown atop her head, making her dark hair almost silver. Her downcast eyes met his, then, once more gray to black, as they came to a stop in front of him. Maester Wolken appeared then, from beside the great tree, his hands clasped in front of him as his chain jingled in the night. He cleared his throat, a small smile creeping onto his face.
"Who comes before the Old Gods?"
Tormund stood straighter, taking Enrin's hand in both of his. He took a deep breath, and said, as if he had rehearsed it: "I come to beg the blessing of the Gods for this marriage. Who comes to claim her?"
Enrin swallowed deeply, her lips parting as she breathed, as Jon stepped forward.
"I, Jon Snow, come to claim this bride. Who gives this woman away?"
Tormund raised an eyebrow, and Enrin knew exactly what he was thinking. These southerners and their boastful weddings.
"I, Tormund Giantsbane, bring my daughter Enrin, from beyond the wall."
Maester Wolken reached for Enrin's other hand, and she gave it to him stiffly, her fingers cold as ice. The maester's fingers were rough with calluses, but he was gentle with her, giving her a small and reassuring nod.
"Lady Enrin," he said, his voice soft, speaking only to her, "will you take this man as husband?"
Enrin opened her mouth to speak, and her words lodged in her throat. Her eyes searched he maester's face, looking for answers, for an escape. Suddenly she turned, facing Jon, and their eyes met.
He looked apprehensive, terror flitting across the back of his eyes. She wondered if it were fear that she would run. She saw his chest rise, his sharp intake of breath the only sound in the clearing beneath the tree.
"I take this man," she said, and in that moment she felt sure that if her feet took her anywhere in this world it would be where Jon went. Her fears melted away like frost in the heat of summer, and as she looked into his eyes she squared her shoulders and said again: "I do. I take this man."
Jon shoulders relaxed, his gut untwisting like a great tentacled beast. Maester Wolken patted Enrin's hand with both of his, but her eyes were only for Jon.
"Your Grace," the maester said, rounding on him, offering his free hand, "do you take this woman?"
Jon placed his hand in the maester's, pulling the cold night at into his lungs.
"I do," he said, his words almost reverent, a sigh of relief, "I take this woman."
Maester Wolken placed their hands together, and Jon entwined his fingers with hers, her skin soft against his.
"She is yours, and you are hers," the maester said, clapping his hands together once, "from this day, until the end of your days. By the Old Gods and the new."
Jon pulled her to him then, jerking her arm forward. Enrin gasped beside herself as Jon's free arm curled around her back. And then his lips were on hers, her heartbeat pounding in her ears like thunder in a summer storm. For one sweet moment it was just the two of them, melting into each other before the eyes of the weirwood tree, and it began to snow.