Charleen had never been particularly fond of embroidery, but when the date appointed for her wedding to Jon Snow drew near, she found herself acquiring a new appreciation for it as the sigil of House Wollard, a flaming beacon, slowly took shape upon the thick woollen fabric of her maiden cloak. Sitting by the fire in her chamber with her back to the window where snow was gathering upon the ledge, she spent many hours carefully guiding her needle to and fro, threaded with brown yarn at first for the wooden structure of the beacon, and then with yarn in the colours of flame – yellow, orange, and crimson. The cloak itself was the colour of House Wollard, black, with a silver clasp in front.
In her wardrobe, among her other clothes, Charleen's wedding dress was waiting for its appearance – a simple gown of white lambswool, which she had had one of the seamstresses make for her. The old woman had smiled knowingly when Charleen tried on the garment, and Charleen had turned her face away to hide her blush.
Her maiden cloak, however, she had wanted to make herself. It was going to be the first time that the sigil of House Wollard would be displayed in public since the death of her father, and also the last, since the male line of the Wollards ended with him. Charleen had never known her parents, but in making her maiden cloak, she felt that she was honouring their memory.
Embroidering also brought back memories of her childhood, when she had spent many afternoons practising needlework with the other young ladies of Winterfell, all under the watchful eyes of Septa Mordane. Lacking both skill and patience, Charleen had often longed for the end of the lesson, so that she might be able to return to Maester Luwin with his herbs and salves and elixirs, and his knowledge of the human body, its afflictions, and their cures. It had been similar for Arya, Charleen remembered, though of course, Arya's desire had not been directed towards Maester Luwin's study, but towards the courtyard, where the boys were riding their horses, shooting arrows, and practicing with sword and shield. Only Sansa had thoroughly enjoyed doing needlework, which was small wonder given her talent for it. Charleen remembered how Sansa's face had glowed with happiness whenever Septa Mordane praised her; and when a knock at the door of her chamber suddenly burst through her thoughts, she wiped her eyes with her hand before answering.
It was Jon. He closed the door and crossed the room towards her, and Charleen felt a smile spreading across her face in spite of her tears.
"My apologies," she said softly, "I'd rise, but –"
She gestured at the needlework in her lap, and Jon stretched out his hand to touch the half-finished embroidery.
"Is that what I think it is?"
"Aye," Charleen almost whispered. "I hope you'll like it. And my dress."
"You'll be the most beautiful bride in all of the seven kingdoms," Jon declared.
He grasped her head with his hand and kissed her gently on the forehead. "I'm sorry for disturbing you," he added. "There was a raven from King's Landing."
He held up a scroll of parchment, and Charleen looked at it warily.
"From whom?" she asked.
Jon exhaled deeply as he lowered his eyes to the parchment.
"Cersei of House Lannister, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms," he read.
"What does she want?"
"Come to King's Landing, bend the knee, or suffer the fate of all traitors."
Charleen sighed heavily. "We're so preoccupied with the enemy to the north, but we can't forget about the one to the south."
"There's a thousand miles between us and Cersei," Jon reassured her. "Winter is here. The Lannisters are a southern army – they've never ranged this far north."
"You know more about armies than I do," Charleen admitted, "but don't underestimate Cersei Lannister. Her husband the king is dead, all of her children are dead, and yet she is the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms."
"She killed my father and brother," Jon pointed out. "I'm not going to underestimate her."
GoTGoTGoTGoTGoTGoTGoT
On the day of her wedding, Charleen readied herself at dusk.
She had taken a bath, washed and brushed her hair and twisted up the strands that framed her face, pinning them in place at the back of her head. Darkness was falling outside as she slipped on her white wedding dress and picked up her maiden cloak from where it lay waiting for her on the back of her chair. The embroidery was finished – Charleen had extended the flames surging from the beacon all the way around the shoulders and towards the clasp that fastened the cloak in front. On this night, the beacon fires of House Wollard would blaze through the darkness one last time before being extinguished forever as Charleen joined the wolves of House Stark.
Charleen looked at her reflection in the mirror on the side of her wardrobe for a moment and slightly adjusted her cloak so that the flames framed her neck symmetrically on both sides. Then, she moved across the room to the window and peered out into the gathering darkness. For a few minutes, she stood almost motionless, until a light suddenly appeared in the courtyard – the flicker of a torch, revealing to her the outlines of two figures moving towards the entrance of the godswood.
It was time.
Her heart suddenly beating hard and fast inside her chest, Charleen turned and crossed the room towards the door, where she took one of the torches from its sconce in the wall. Stepping out into the passage, she looked around almost furtively for a moment and then started towards the staircase leading down to the gate of the Great Keep.
A minute later, Charleen emerged into the courtyard. Snow was falling, fine and dense as mist, and the buildings around her were fringed with icicles. She made her way towards the godswood, her footsteps muffled by the snow. The gate stood open, and she passed through and closed it behind her before starting down the path towards the great heart tree.
When a light finally came became visible at the end of the path, Charleen's knees went weak beneath her. Heart thumping, she forced herself to continue on at a measured pace until the old weirwood tree came into view, pale branches stretching up into the swirling snow. Beneath it, two figures stood waiting in the light of a torch fixed in an iron stand. On the left was Maester Wolkan, whom they had chosen to officiate the wedding so that he might act as witness and make a record of it in the archives of Winterfell. And on the right –
Jon was wearing a heavy cloak trimmed with fur over his armour of boiled leather, and on his chest gleamed a metal gorget hammered with the direwolf of House Stark. He turned his head to look at Charleen as she approached, and when their eyes met, a smile flickered across his face.
"Who comes before the old gods this night?" Maester Wolkan asked.
"Charleen of House Wollard comes here to be wed," Charleen replied, swallowing against a sudden lump in her throat. "A woman grown, trueborn and noble, I come to beg the blessings of the gods."
"Who comes to claim her?" the maester continued, and Charleen saw Jon's shoulders moving as he took a deep breath.
"Jon Snow of House Stark," he said, "Lord of Winterfell, and King in the North."
"Who gives her?"
"I come alone," Charleen declared, "having no living kin."
The maester looked at her steadily. "Lady Charleen, will you take this man?" he asked.
"Yes," Charleen replied eagerly, her voice quivering, "I will. I take this man."
"Then let gods and men bear witness to your vow," Maester Wolkan said. He took her torch and stepped aside, and Charleen and Jon joined hands before the heart tree. In the flickering light of the torches, the face etched into its bark seemed to have come alive, looking down upon the lovers with an ever-changing expression. They knelt down upon the ground, bowing their heads in token of submission, and then rose as one.
Jon bent over his bride to undo the clasp that fastened her maiden cloak, and a shiver ran down her spine when the garment fell away. She watched, motionless, as Maester Wolkan stepped forward, took the cloak from Jon and handed him a second one, which, she realized belatedly, he had been carrying across his arm all the while. It was made of dark grey wool, with a broad fur collar across the shoulders and the direwolf of House Stark done in soft white leather on the back. Tears burning in her eyes, Charleen turned around, away from Jon, and felt a soft weight settling upon her shoulders as he wrapped the cloak around her. For a second, she closed her eyes, letting the tears fall, and then moved to face Jon once again. His fingers were trembling as he reached for the clasp and fastened the cloak upon Charleen's breast. Slowly, he raised his gaze to hers, and kissed her tenderly.
Her heart swelling within her, Charleen returned the kiss.
She drew back a little after a moment with fresh tears brimming in her eyes. Jon grasped her hand, and they both turned to Maester Wolkan, who gave them leave to go with a smile and a nod.
Hand in hand, Charleen and Jon made their way back through the godswood, across the courtyard, and into the Great Keep. The hallway inside the castle was deserted, but on the stairs leading up to the second floor, they met the old servant Palla, who was making her way down with an empty basket of firewood slung across her arm.
"Your Grace," she said softly, inclining her head, "my lady."
A smile appeared on her wizened features as her eyes travelled over Charleen's dress and cloak, and Charleen, smiling shyly in her turn, felt a blush creeping up her cheeks.
When they reached the top of the stairs, Jon put his arm around his bride, lifted her up against his chest and carried her the rest of the way along the corridor and into the lord's chamber.
It was the first time that Charleen had been inside the room since the battle, and she immediately noticed Jon's scent, a faint but distinct aroma of leather, wood and salt that sent a thrill of excitement through her. As soon as Jon set her back on her feet, she leaned in to kiss him, her breath catching in her throat as he reciprocated, filling her mouth with his taste. Jon's hands moved to the clasps of her new cloak, and the garment fell away to pool at her feet. Her dress was next – Jon motioned for her to turn around and carefully undid the lacing at her back. The dress slipped down, leaving nothing but her shift. Charleen stepped out of the pile of fabric gathered at her feet and turned back to Jon with a deep breath. Jon stood motionless for a moment as his eyes travelled over her form; then, he closed the distance between them and kissed her passionately.
All at once, he broke away and got on his knees to pull off her boots. Shivering slightly as her bare feet touched the stone floor, Charleen caressed his hair with trembling fingers, and he lifted his face to look at her.
"Are you a maid?"
"Aye," Charleen whispered, her mouth dry.
Slowly, very slowly, Jon ran his hand up her leg, lifting up her shift. Charleen felt his warm breath on her thighs as he leaned in to kiss her, and gasped as his tongue caressed between her legs. She pulled the shift over her head, closing her eyes as Jon scooped her up into his arms and laid her down on the bed.
"Oh," he breathed, drinking in the sight of her naked body, "but you are beautiful!"
He unclasped his cloak, unbuckled his gorget and shrugged out of his armour and clothes until only his smallclothes were left. With bated breath, Charleen watched as he pulled them off. She had seen him naked before, but he looked different now, and it filled her with awe. He moved to kneel between her legs, lowered himself down upon her and entered her, slowly, but with purpose. A moan of pain escaped her lips – it felt like fire, but once the pain subsided, the warmth remained.
"Jon," she whispered, "oh, Jon."
