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Seeds of the Northern Kingdom	By : Sigil_of_House_Throckmorton Category: A through F > A Song of Ice and Fire Views: 99145 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: The setting and characters of the series A Song of Ice and Fire belong to George R. R. Martin. I make no profit from this work, and will remove it should I be contacted by GRRM or any of his legal representatives.

Chapter List
- 1-Val
- 2-Alys
- 3-Lyanna
- 4-Meera
- 5-Wynafryd
- 6-Wylla
- 7-Sansa
- 8-Arya
- 9-Epilogue: Daenerys
- 10-Omake: Dany
- 5
- 6
- 7
Despite apologies from Wynafryd, Wylla Manderly continued to act put out with her sister. Intercessions failed, and the situation deteriorated further when, after getting her moons blood ten days into their stay, Wynafryd announced that their party would remain at Winterfell a while longer. She obviously could not explain the exact reasoning to her sibling, which made things even worse.

“Longer yet! I cannot believe you, Wynafryd! I was excited for this trip when we set out, to meet our king and queen and show our loyalty! But now, after having betrayed the Starks, you must keep me here and miserable. I will have not even the time to return to our home before my wedding day, if you insist on this!” Wylla shouted at her when the news was given.

Jon comforted Wynafryd that afternoon, like many others when she and Wylla would argue. He was assured that, despite their current circumstances, the sisters usually got along quite well.

“I still cannot believe she is this upset about the Onion Lord, or even my … misguided endeavors regarding your brother,” she confided to him one early evening, her head resting on his naked chest. “She is not one to hold a grudge over such a thing, especially when she knows we are back on good terms.”

Jon remembered arguments like this between the sisters that were lost to him. Sansa would say something to antagonize Arya, or Arya would do something impolite in Sansa’s company, and the bickering would begin. After a sennight, usually neither could remember what started the original quarrel and they would return to their normal state of more passive animosity.

He did not share this, though, and instead told her, “She actually does have a point, though. It is in only a little more than one moon’s turn that she is expected at Seaguard to wed Patrek Mallister.”

“Yes, I know,” she responded in a subdued tone. “This visit was supposed to be for only a sennight, mayhaps two at the most. But after what we shared, knowing what I could have…. A child of mine own … I seem to have let my hopes get the better of my good judgement. We truly cannot stay any longer. I will send a letter to White Harbor for a caravan to meet us at Moat Cailin, but even so we must leave Winterfell soon.”

Wynafryd glanced up at him again resignedly. “It might be some time before I have an excuse to visit again, Jon. But when I do, will the offer still stand?”

That is a fair question, Jon realized. Val told him that this was, first and foremost, out of consideration for his needs when they could not be together themselves. By the time Wynafryd would be able to visit again, that would no longer be the case, and Jon would not betray Val’s trust. There was another solution, though.

“I have a better idea. I will travel to Seaguard with you, then,” Jon said, drawing a bright smile from his companion. “I have yet to meet Lord Jason myself, and the Mallisters control our primary port for defense against Ironborn raiders. Besides, it would only be polite for a king to visit for the wedding of his newest vassals to his most loyal. As long as we are discreet, we can continue to try on the road.”

Val was not entirely pleased with the idea, when he brought it up with her that night.

“I am nearly seven moons gone, Jon. I cannot argue against the political goodwill such a visit would foster, but I will be quite agitated if you are not returned before this child arrives,” Val said with a grimace, before it softened. “Pregnancy has been harder than I anticipated. Dalla made it all seem so easy, and she still died in the birthing bed.”

Jon stayed with her that night, holding her close and comforting her in whatever ways he could. Before they both succumbed to emotional exhaustion, Val made him swear to be there for her labor.

“Promise me, Jon,” Val breathed into his ear.

Chills ran down Jon’s back, but by the time he responded she was asleep in his arms.

Val was left in charge of the court at Winterfell, while Sam was appointed the official castellan in absence of the king. Dolorous Edd would continue his duties as the castle’s steward, procuring supplies and labor for its various needs as spring progressed and repairs neared completion.

Iron Emmet led the traveling party with a handful of Stark men and the Manderly contingent that safeguarded Wynafryd and Wylla on their original journey. Satin and Dryn served as the king’s personal entourage for the trip. Jon would have liked Pyp and Grenn along as well, but they had yet to return from their quest.

Nonetheless, the trek was enjoyable for Jon. The last time he marched south, it had been with only vengeance in his heart, and in the dead of winter besides. Now there was levity from the men, stolen moments of softness and warmth with Wynafryd, and excitement in his wolf dreams as Ghost explored the new lands they passed through.

Emmett even joked that Jon should abandon his horse and ride Ghost instead. This led to both the beasts being measured that night at camp. The man-at-arms unlucky enough to be given that duty reported, with no small amount of trepidation, that Ghost was in fact a hand-and-a-half taller at the shoulder than the fine courser Roose Ryswell had given Jon earlier that year upon assuming his lordship.

Despite all the mirth, Wylla Manderly continued to sulk. Even the reunion with her father Wylis at Moat Cailin and the presentation of her maiden’s cloak did not lift her spirits.

One night, over half-way through the Neck, Jon saw her wander off toward the swamps abutting the King’s Road. His concern peaked, and he followed after her with Ghost accompanying him.

“Wylla,” he said once he found her sitting on an uprooted log near a pool of brackish water.

She did not respond, but merely continued to stare at the moss-covered woods surrounding them.

“Wylla, I do not know what has upset you so, but I do not want you to undertake your own wedding in so melancholy a mood,” he said as he sat beside her. “Surely you realize that I bear no ill will towards your house regarding Rickon. All of that business has been forgiven.”

She let a beat pass before saying, “I am quite sure of that, Your Grace.”

“You may call me Jon, you know,” he responded, surprised little by her sass. “I don’t bite.”

Wylla eyed Ghost warily. “Of that, I am not so sure. But I shall call you Jon, if you insist.”

“I do insist,” Jon said in his best conversational voice. “Is it, perhaps, that you wished for some other husband?”

Wylla tried to keep a straight face, but her eyes widened ever so slightly, and Ghost heard her heart flutter faster in her chest. “I am sure I have no idea what you are talking about, Your—Jon.”

I seem to have found the crux of the problem, then. “While I am sure Davos Seaworth was a great man, it is ill advised to await a man lost at sea for so—”

Jon was cut off by a sharp slap to his face. Ghost’s ears pivoted backwards in response, but he did not growl or even bare his teeth.

“Do not presume to understand the matters of a maiden’s heart, King Jon Stark,” Wylla spat. “I have never thought of Lord Seaworth in that way, and he is married with many sons besides. He was the bravest man I have ever seen. He did not tolerate the lies of the Frey dogs or their Lannister handlers, even though he knew he was likely to be killed for it. I truly thought he had been. However, if you must be so intrusive, know that he is not the reason for my poor disposition.”

Jon was glad they were far away from prying eyes. Had that strike occurred in public, the men-at-arms would not have stood for it. Grateful that a diplomatic incident was avoided, Jon pressed the troubled girl further.

“Not him, then. I would ask if you had a quarrel with Ser Patrek, but I know that the two of you have never met, and that he is by all accounts gallant besides. What is it, then, that has been vexing you so?”

Wylla snapped.

“It has been you fucking my sister since the second night of our visit, Your witless Grace!”

Now it was his own heart Jon heard accelerating through Ghost’s sensitive ears.

“Wylla, please, you must be mistaken, I—” Jon pled.

She did not let him finish, interrupting his half-hearted denial with a high-pitched haranguing. “Do not insult my intelligence as well as my hearing, King Jon. Wynafryd might have been grandfather’s favorite and protégé, but I share my family’s cunning. I came by to make mine own apology that night, and I heard your rutting and her strangled cries of pleasure. And to think, you didn’t even have the decency to hide it from your lady wife! It was in her own chambers, where the guards assured me the two of you had retired!”

“I—well, you see….” Jon tried again, still to no avail.

“Even if I hadn’t heard it that night, it would not have been terribly hard to figure out. You two went missing not long after lunch each day after that, and Wynafryd would always return in higher spirits than she’s been in since our girlhoods. No one else seemed to notice, but I did.”

Jon realized that it was pointless to try to stop her, at this point, and resolved to let her shrill rant burn itself out.

“I stood up for the Starks when no one else would! I never let my loyalty fall into question, even with our home invaded by traitors! I would have never thought you capable of kinslaying or any such thing, but you had to take Wynafryd the Wanton as a mistress instead of me! Did you know she fucked her Frey? I overheard the fat one bragging about it to his brothers … cousins … whatever in the seven hells they were to each other, and she did not deny it when I confronted her.

“And then, to top it all off, she insisted we stay even longer at Winterfell, stealing my last days at home in New Castle, so that she would not have to leave your bed? And now you show a poverty of any shame at all and ask me what the matter is, you lupine twit!” she finished with a squeaky yelp.

Jon took a moment to compose his response, and would be lying to say he did not savor the site of Wylla sitting there; face flushed and shapely bosom heaving against her gown, green hairs escaping her braid and some perspiration falling down from her flax-blonde roots to drip across her brow.

One thought drowned out all others, so Jon braced himself for another oration and asked it. “You wished for me to take you as a mistress, Wylla?” He raised his eyebrow in what he hoped was a playful gesture.

“You are absolutely impossible,” she scolded, although all the venom had left her voice.

Wylla deflated before his eyes. She fisted her hands and buried her face into them, elbows propped precariously atop her knees.

Jon wanted to comfort her, somehow, to clear up all of the misunderstandings that had led her here, but he knew that she would not respond well to any touch of his. So instead, he closed his own eyes and opened them again.

The girl before him smells salty, but in a different way than the waters around them. He stands and strides toward her. She is much smaller than him, but he is gentle. He nuzzles between her hands and sniffs the stress and fear about her.

This one is distressed, and it makes his other self worry. He comforts her like he would any of his old pack, still scattered but family nonetheless. He licks her face, cleaning it of salt that would be much more delicious were all the prey in this land not coated with it already.

She girl resists his efforts at first, but soon his furry muzzle, whiskers, and wet tongue draw happy sounds out of her, even if he can still sense that the distress has not left her. He closes his eyes, and opens them again to see the girl relaxed against Ghost’s large head, her arms wrapped about his neck, giggling at the occasional tickle.

With Wylla no longer blinded by her grief, Jon explains to her his version of the events she had described. She does not acknowledge him, but she does not interrupt either. He accedes of House Manderly’s unquestioned loyalty to House Stark, and praises the exceptional bravery Wylla showed in standing up for his family when no one else would. He tells her of the prophecy from the old gods, although he leaves out the source, and explains why Wynafryd was willing to participate. He does not mention Wynafryd’s rape until the conclusion, and allows Wylla to judge their choices as she sees fit.

“No doubt you have been aggrieved, Wylla. I apologize for all the anguish I have caused you, and I hope that you will forgive me. I thought we would make fast friends the first night of your stay, and long before that I had hoped for a loyal supporter in the Riverlands by confirming your betrothal to Patrek Mallister,” Jon said. “I will leave Ghost with you, for he seems to have taken it upon himself to comfort you now, but please do not let this matter ruin the last few days you have with your family. Your father and sister will miss you very much.”

As Jon got up to leave, he gave her one final thought, not sure if it was even worth mentioning. “When I offered to seek justice for your sister, she told me that giving the Freys pies was somehow sufficient. I honestly have no clue what she meant, but she seemed remarkably at peace, all things considered. Perhaps you should ask her yourself, if you do not trust my judgement in the matter.”

Jon rejoined the camp, and when asked by Wynafryd where he had been, deferred an answer and retired to his tent. He did not feel like company this evening.

In the hour of the wolf, Jon awoke to a rustle inside his tent. It was a new moon with fog covering the skies besides, and he could see nothing around him. His hand slipped to the dirk under his pillow, but stopped when a treble voice whispered to him.

“Jon.”

“Wylla?” he asked to the darkness.

Rather than a verbal response, his cot dipped beside him and a warm body nestled its way under the furs with him.

“I have decided to forgive you, Jon Stark. And my sister as well,” she breathed into his neck, her head coming to rest at the same spot on his chest that Wynafryd always used.

She is so insecure. She seeks my bed for comfort and assurance. Jon wrapped her in a gentle embrace, tracing his fingers along the hairs at the back of her neck. Although enveloped in darkness now, Jon knew that the roots were losing their color. She would need to dye her hair again before the wedding, else rinse it all out.

“I am glad for you, Wylla. It is a terrible thing, to see a family so divided.” You never know when the last time you will ever see someone might be.

“It was foolish of me, I see that now. I had no idea Wynafryd went through such … vile things, and I was an imbecile to question her loyalties,” she said. “Apparently the only reason the Freys never did the same to me was that my ‘betrothed’ was at Winterfell, being fostered by Ramsay Bolt—Snow.”

Jon shuddered involuntarily. He was not sure he would ever be able to recall that name without malice.

“Little Walder Frey was a brute and a rapist. He was dead before I even retook Winterfell, killed by some ghost. I am glad you did not have to suffer him,” said Jon.

“It was no ghost. I talked with Wynafryd quite a bit earlier tonight. Grandfather had him murdered, just for me,” she said, and Jon could feel a small smile from her lips on his chest. “Then in the aftermath he goaded a Frey knight to attack him, knowing Roose Bolton would send his men away. That was how he planned to get a message to Stannis or anyone else who listened.”

Jon remembered those men. After the untimely death of King Stannis, the knights of White Harbor had provided valuable information about what to expect inside the castle. “It seems I owe your grandfather even more than I knew.”

“He surely was bold. And despite being the Defender of the Faith, he knew enough about the old ways to bring justice to our enemies,” she practically purred.

“Is this about the missing Frey party? He must have been in a terrible situation, being forced to accept them as guests. There is no way he could have hurt them without incurring the wrath of the old gods and the new, nor becoming as bad as the Freys themselves,” Jon mused.

“You know nothing, Jon Stark. But should you ever find yourself slighted the guest right in an egregious way ever again, be sure to let House Manderly know, and we will set it to rights.”

“I will keep that in mind, my lady. Now, as wonderful as it is to hear our reconciliation, we must needs sleep for the ride tomorrow, and I would not wish you to be caught in a scandal so soon before your wedding,” Jon told her.

Wylla was silent for a moment, before she whispered, “I have never met Patrek Mallister. By all accounts he is a good man, brave and strong and even comely, depending on whom you ask. Still, I will be sad that my maidenhead will not be given to a man I love.”

Jon tensed under his furs, now very aware that a thin shift was all that separated him from Wylla’s nubile body.

“I honestly never thought I would still be a maiden at nine-and-ten. I thought I would already be married with a child or two. I hoped to maybe even marry your brother Robb,” she reflected. “The Lady Wylla Stark. We were of an age, nearly, and he was ever so handsome the once we met. And now I will marry a man of seven-and-twenty, who has probably pleased many a woman judging by the reputation of his adventures with Edmure Tully.”

“I know what you are insinuating here, Wylla. Regardless of my agreement with your sister, I will not take your maidenhead,” Jon said sternly. “The Mallisters needs be tied more closely with the North, and would object to a marriage outside the Faith of the Seven. You are the one person able to unite us, rather than set a divide between the Starks and our newest vassal. If I put a bastard in you, this will all be for naught.”

“No bastards, then, Jon. You needn’t even take my maidenhead, not truly,” she said, and he could feel her face lift from his neck to hover over his. “But please, let me experience the pleasure my sister says I could find in your bed. Let me feel loved by a man I admire and respect. Let me serve you, King Stark.”

Wylla dragged a soft thigh over his hip, and Jon’s reluctance faded away. Seven, she is the seventh of nine.

Wylla was taller than her sister, with slightly less voluptuousness about her hips and thighs but a no less impressive chest, accentuated by her narrower waist. Jon could feel her sizable breasts, only slightly smaller than her sister’s, press against his chest with only a shift between them as she leaned over his body to take his lower lip into her mouth.

Jon returned her kiss with his tongue, darting it passed her lips as they parted for air and into her wet mouth. She was startled momentarily, but her tongue rallied against his in a fight for dominance. Her kisses were more forceful than all the others he had ever received, except mayhaps for Ygritte, but Jon was satisfied to cede control.

Wylla began to moan into his mouth as his hands brushed up and down her sides, sliding her silk shift a little higher each time.

“We must keep quiet, my lady,” he whispered in her ear. “My tent flaps are thicker than most, but guards are posted about camp and other tents are not far off.”

The sigh of her response conveyed even more excitement, if anything.

Soon enough Jon slipped the shift above her head entirely, tossing it to the floor before sitting up to soothe lines down the pulse points of her neck with his lips. Through susurrations of ‘Jon, Jon, Jon’, he licked and kissed his way across her collar bones and down to the peaked, pebbly nipples of her chest. Although he could not see them, he assumed they were the same bright pink as her sister’s. He paid them special attention, knowing how strongly Wynafryd reacted to such maneuvers, and swirled his tongue around each of them before pinching them between his lips with a grinding motion.

His touches were too much to bear, and Wylla grasped his and to bring it down between her legs. Jon was not surprised by her lack of smallclothes, and began rubbing the bone of his palm across her entrance.

“Yesss,” she hissed into his mouth.

Jon took special care not to separate his individual fingers, lest one accidentally slip inside her slick folds and break her maidenhead prematurely. Wylla did not seem to mind, and even began to grind her pubic bone against his hand.

The green-haired girl did not sit idle as Jon explored her ample bosom and dripping cunt. She ran her hands down his back and pulled his shirt roughly over his head. Before long her hands yanked at his smallclothes, standing him up before shucking them down to his ankles. Jon returned to his cot by crawling on top of her so that he might better control the location of his cock.

She pulled him down on top of her and draped her arms across his broad shoulders before resuming their kiss. They laid like that for some time, her legs wrapped around his hips and their stomachs pressed together. She shuddered occasionally as the underside of his cock brushed across the pearl of pleasure at the apex of her thighs. His cock was slick with her juices, and the quivering warmth she offered tempted Jon more than he imagined possible.

“Jon, please, please can you put it inside me?” she asked after what seemed like an eternity. Her high round cheeks pressed against his face, feeling impossibly smooth against his beard.

Jon considered. He wanted to, so badly, he truly did. There has to be some other way, Jon thought, before remembering a stray desire he had while fucking Lyanna Mormont.

Still kissing Wylla, Jon dipped one of his hands away from her breasts and grabbed the side of her arse underneath her thigh. He guided his hand carefully from her bulbous cheek to the inside of her groin and carefully slid a finger between his cock and her cunt. She panted appreciatively at the new stimulation.

“I cannot go inside where you want me, Wylla, but this might be an alternative,” he uttered to her as he removed his now slick finger before pressing it against the tighter orifice of her arsehole.

“I – hmmm….” she responded as he massaged the pucker there with light pressure. Much of the lubrication from their foreplay had dripped into the crevice of her arse and pooled at the opening, so it was not too long before his finger was able to slip inside of her. She suspired as he pushed his finger further in and curled it upward, moving it back and forth across the smooth wall he found. It’s not that much different from a cunt…. This could work.

The breaths passing through Wylla’s rounded nose were coming hard and fast. “What say you, my lady? Do you trust me?” he asked through her pliant lips.

“I would try anything with you Jon. Please, I want you to do it. I want to feel you within me,” she muttered back.

Jon withdrew his finger and gripped his cock in the now free hand. It was still coated with lubrication, both his and hers, and his foreskin was mostly retracted by their prior play. Drawing his cockhead carefully across her entrance to gather one last bit of moisture, he aligned it with her arsehole and pushed forward.

The very tip sunk in before she gave a small yelp and the rosebud squeezed down tight. Jon did not think he could even withdraw, trapped as he was inside of her arse. Only one way to go, then….

Jon’s hand let go of his turgid cock and once again gripped an arse cheek, this time spreading it open to alleviate some of the pressure. His other hand wormed its way behind her neck to press gentle circles into the bones there in an effort to relax her. Wylla, wanting to help herself, grabbed her own breasts and rubbed the tips up and down Jon’s chest, which seemed to give her pleasure. After a bit of work, she relaxed enough for Jon to sink into her more deeply.

“How does that feel, Wylla?” he asked her.

“Well … you are inside me, I suppose,” she said, and he could practically hear the grin in her voice. “But, well, it felt better with your finger, when it was pressing towards the front. Right now, there is just …pressure.”

This presented a conundrum. Now that his cock was buried to the hilt in her yielding flesh, he had absolutely no desire to remove it, if at all possible. Fortunately, when encountered with a difficult problem, Jon had never been one to give up.

“Let me try something then. Move how I tell you,” he instructed her.

It took quite a while, but after much repositioning, twisting, losing their balance once and Jon tickling her cunt for a few minutes as a break, they were finally realigned in the position Jon had imagined for them. He now lay on his back, with Wylla’s back to his chest, and his cock still buried inside her arse.

Wylla’s chest heaved from the exertion of it all, drawing Jon’s attention to it in the form of a hand to cup one of her now tender breasts. He let the other hand drift lazily down her soft but flat stomach, brushing through her curls before settling his middle two fingers on either side of her sensitive nub.

Jon told her to brace her hips just a touch higher, allowing him to relax his legs and withdraw half his cock from her arsehole. It was ridiculously tight, but they were still so well lubricated that the motion did not take too much effort. Jon pushed his hips up, sliding back home.

“How does it feel now?” he queried with a playful nip to her ear.

“Mmmm,” she whispered back to him. “That is much – better,” she said, her sentence broken up by another thrust. “It feels like … like you are rubbing … my cunt from … the inside and out,” she managed before dissolving into sighs.

He stroked his hand back and forth over her mound, her wet pearl slipping between his fingers each time. His other hand pinched and pulled on her nipple, sometimes reaching across to the other generous breast to give it attention as well. Their heads were nearly aligned, allowing them to each turn towards the other and for Wylla to continue her efforts to dominate his mouth.

They kept at it, the wetness from her cunt dripping down to where he drove in and out of her, some of it falling onto the underside of his cock before he forced it back inside and ensuring that they stayed lubricated enough to continue. She loosened the more they went, still sighing pleasantly all the while.

Eventually, her legs gave out and she let her hips fall, leaving her impaled on his rock-hard cock. Not one to give up so easily, she started rocking back, pushing the sensitive underside of his cockhead against her front wall toward what he supposed was the inside of her cunt.

“Right there, that feels so good for me—Jon, yes, right there—fuck me there!” she said, trying to speak quietly but likely louder than she should.

Jon was not doing much at this point, but he dutifully continued his ministrations to her cunt and breasts. His cock remained steadfastly hard inside of her.

“Oh, gods, YES!” Wylla said in a high-pitched squeak, barely louder than a mouse. With that as the only warning, her arsehole clenched once again, even more clamped then it had been at the beginning. The pressure lasted for only a moment, before she let out a series of satisfied, rapid, soprano hums in time with contractions of her sphincter.

Jon held his arm tight across her breasts to stabilize her as she thrashed on top of him, attempting to do the same with his hand on her mound. This caused his fingers to pinch her swollen pearl, renewing her rapturous squeals. She seemed to writhe anew as bursts of liquid shot through his hand from near the apex of her cunt, reminding him of his own release.

The need was suddenly upon him, and Jon acquiesced without protestation. Her insides felt hot around him as even hotter streams of seed erupted out of him, throbbing against the wall closest to her cunt.

“Jon, it’s so warm, oh gods—uuunnngghhh,” Wylla voiced softly, until her limbs collapsed to their sides and she rested boneless atop him. Their legs collapsed in a tangle on the now soaked furs.

When Jon next opened his eyes, a dim grey light seeped through his canvas tent. Wylla was still draped over his body, his cock wedged firmly between her arse cheeks.

Others take me. “Wylla, wake up,” Jon said with as much urgency as his soft volume would allow.

She stirred and Jon pressed his mouth against hers to still her panic. When she did wake, her soft blue eyes locked onto his. They were remarkably like Wynafryd’s, although Jon knew better than to tell her that now. Wylla’s green locks were wild next to him, and the look she was giving him dripped sex.

“Thank you, Jon. That was incredible,” she said as she gave him one final kiss. “Now, how do you suppose we can get away with this?”

Jon had her get dressed, and although he took time to admire her shapely form as she dropped her shift back over her head and wrapped a cloak around her slim shoulders, he thought through his options.

“Very soon, Wylla, Ghost will cause a disturbance among the horses. I will double check that the men are drawn away, and you will rush to the woods. If anyone questions you, say that you were drawn out by the commotion but were still asleep and lost your way,” Jon explained as concisely as he could.

“But how do you know—” she got out before the horses started making all kinds of noise, which the men-at-arms soon followed with shouts. She kissed his cheek, said “Thank you, King Jon,” and slipped out before he could respond.

Wylla did not grace his tent again during their journey to Seaguard, but her disposition around camp and on the road improved dramatically. She laughed with Jon, and her sister and father too. Jon wished she could have been like this more around Val, for they surely would have been fast friends. Jon made a note to have a dagger similar to Val’s commissioned just for her and sent to Seaguard at the earliest opportunity.

Jon and Wynafryd continued to make attempts of their own as opportunities allowed all the way through the wedding night, taking great care not to be caught. Wylla looked beautiful in her blue-green and dark green cloak and gown, although the Mallister purple and silver cloak looked lovely with her flax-blonde hair as well.

The small sept was full of Seaguard’s staff and sworn knights and ship captains. Jon was surprised but pleased to see Lord Justin Massey in attendance with his wife Asha, recruiting ship builders from the area to lay the foundations of a port at their new holdfast, Seadance, on the Stoney Shore. Asha was her usual abrasive self, but the way she glowed as she stroked her middle left Jon some hope for the pair of them.

The houses Blackwood of the Twins and Blackwood of Raventree Hall were both in attendance as well. It was Jon’s first meeting with Lord Tytos Blackwood, the lord who flew the Stark banner the longest after King Robb’s betrayal. Jon proclaimed that the lord would receive a boon, whatever he wished, for his leal service. He requested a Northern husband for his daughter Bethany, a girl of eleven, which Jon promised to grant at the earliest opportunity.

The meal following the couple’s vows was simple, for the lands around Seaguard had been pillaged substantially by the Frey siege before its liberation, but lords and small folk alike feasted on venison and garlic, carrot soup, and spiced fish and clams, all topped off with thick brown ale.

Jon sat next to Lord Jason on one side and the wedded couple on the other. Since he had not lingered in the Riverlands long after he sacked the Twins, Jon accepted many official pledges of fealty that night from petty river lords and land holders who had heard of his approach. Lord Tytos Blackwood of Raventree Hall, Lord Hoster Blackwood of the Twins, Ormund Wylde the Knight of Flint’s Finger, and lastly Lords Jason and Patrek Mallister themselves.

After allowing some time for the noblemen and women to dance, Jon called for the bedding. He ended up being the one to toss Wylla onto the bed, naked as her nameday, once they reached the chambers. He did not linger, though, and gave her a knowing smile before returning downstairs with the men.

As he returned to the hall, he was pulled aside by Hoster Blackwood. The man was of an age with him, twenty or near enough as makes no matter, and appeared slightly less gangly than the last Jon had seen him, over a year-and-a-half ago.

“King Jon, there is a matter I’ve been meaning to discuss with you,” he said in his nasal voice.

“Speak to it, Hoster,” Jon replied, anxious to meet with Wynafryd again once they could discreetly slip away.

“I’ve received a raven saying that my men stopped a sizable contingent of knights riding up the King’s Road making for the Neck. They are led by Lord Hardyng, who claims that they are pursuing a kidnapper,” Hoster explained while his awkward elbows shifted uncomfortably. “My men followed their orders and prevented this armed incursion into our lands and detained the lot of them once they drew swords, but I do not know how to advise them. We have yet to have a border crisis since you’ve been king, and I’d not like to start a war with the Vale if I can help it.”

Jon agreed wholeheartedly. The Vale had been silent during the War of the Five Kings, and completely inaccessible during winter. They might be simply testing the changed borders of the surrounding lands, or they could be a scouting force for an invasion. Jon did not even know if they still swore allegiance to the Iron Throne.

“Thank you for informing me, Lord Hoster. Send word to detain them for now, but in good conditions, and I will come to judge them for myself on the trip home,” Jon told the man. He scampered off, seemingly intent on finding a raven right away.

Yet more trouble. Why did you allow your men to push this burden onto you, Robb? As Jon reentered the hall, he locked eyes with Wynafryd from across the room. Ghost was nearby, and he smelled what Jon was learning was fertility on her tonight. Although, it certainly has its advantages.
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Seeds of the Northern Kingdom