Nymeria I
"This seems to be a place of faith rather than a tree with a carved face."
She let the words drift into the quiet air of the godswood, tilting her head slowly from side to side, studying the ancient weirwood with a mixture of fascination and deep unease.
The carved face in its pale, bone-white bark stared back at her, unblinking eyes wide open, mouth frozen in what could have been an eternal scream or a silent, knowing judgment.
The blood-red leaves rustled softly overhead in the faint northern breeze, but the face itself never moved.
She had come to this place several times since the Dornish party arrived in Winterfell two moons ago.
Winterfell itself was vast and ancient, steeped in history that felt heavier than the stone walls surrounding it, yet for someone raised amid the vibrant chaos, bright colors, and open sensuality of Sunspear, the North offered surprisingly few true sights worth lingering over.
The brewery had been interesting for its sheer scale and relentless activity, the constant rumble of barrels rolling across stone floors, hammers ringing against iron hoops.
The crypts were undeniably eerie, filled with the oppressive weight of long-dead kings staring down from their stone thrones.
The glass gardens offered a surprising pocket of impossible warmth and life amid the frozen land but the godswood… this was something entirely different.
Quiet, heavy and almost sacred in its solemnity.
It felt less like a garden and more like a temple where the old gods themselves refused to speak but only watched.
Two moons in the North had settled into a grueling, monotonous routine that Nymeria had come to quietly resent with every fiber of her being.
Dawn training sessions with the Winter Sons in the freezing yard, where the wind cut through even the thickest cloaks like knives.
Enduring the wary glances and thinly veiled suspicion from northern lords and smallfolk alike.
Being a Sand Snake, a bastard daughter of the infamous Red Viper, carried a particular kind of weight in this land.
In Dorne, her name inspired respect, fear, and often open desire.
In the North, it mostly inspired distrust and curious glances.
"This is more than a place of faith," Jon said quietly from beside her. His gloved hand rested against the weirwood's carved face, tracing the deep grooves almost reverently, the way a man might stroke the muzzle of an old, trusted horse. "It stands as a symbol of the alliance between the First Men and the Children of the Forest. A reminder of how long House Stark has stood as protectors of the North."
She smirked faintly as she watched him.
There it was again, that quiet, almost possessive pride whenever he spoke the name 'Stark'.
He wore it like armor, yet beneath it she could sense the deep, aching want to truly belong.
It was something she understood better than most, even if their worlds were separated by culture, climate, and centuries of different traditions.
She knew dozens, perhaps hundreds of Sands across Dorne.
Bastards were common enough in the south, especially in her father's wide and notorious orbit.
Many wore the name with indifference or even open pride but few carried the same heavy, crushing burden that northern bastards seemed to shoulder from birth.
On Dorne, blood was blood, here, it felt like a scar that never quite healed, no matter how much honor a person earned.
Jon noticed her prolonged silence and glanced over, his grey eyes curious but patient. "You don't agree?"
She leaned back against the smooth trunk of another weirwood, crossing her arms beneath her thick cloak.
The cold still seeped through despite the layers, but she refused to show even the slightest shiver.
"I was thinking about us, actually," she said, her voice taking on a thoughtful, almost languid cadence. "How vastly different it is here compared to Dorne, how the same word 'bastard' can mean such completely different things depending on where you're born."
Jon remained quiet, listening. She liked that about him, he knew when to let someone speak without interruption.
"You know," Nymeria continued, "in Dorne, being a bastard isn't some shameful mark that follows you like a curse for the rest of your life. My sisters and I, we're the Sand Snakes. We carry our father's blood openly, and with it comes power, real power, people fear us, respect us, some even lust after us because of who our father is. In Dorne, a bastard can inherit lands, command armies, and rule in their own right if they're strong enough. We fuck who we want, love who we want, and no one clutches their pearls or whispers behind about 'the shame of it all.'"
She pushed off the tree and began to walk slowly around the heart tree, her boots crunching softly in the thin layer of snow. Jon followed a few paces behind, listening intently.
"In Sunspear, my father taught us from a young age that a snake doesn't apologize for its fangs. We turn the name 'Sand' into something sharp and dangerous, it is something to be proud of. I remember when I was thirteen, some arrogant lord's son tried to mock me at a feast, calling me 'the Viper's mistake' in front of everyone. I broke his nose with a wine cup and then kissed him later that same night just to confuse the hell out of him. My father laughed for days when he heard the story. He was proud."
Her lips curved into a fond, wicked smile at the memory before her expression grew more serious again.
"But here in the North?" She continued, her voice lowering. "The word is spoken like a brand burned into your flesh at birth. You carry it in your name, Snow, as if the very land itself marked you unworthy from the moment you drew your first breath. I've seen how they look at you, Jon. The lords' sons, the guards, even some of the smallfolk, there's respect there, yes, because you've earned it with your blade. But underneath? Always that shadow of suspicion. Always the quiet question of whether you'll reach too high one day, whether the bastard will try to claim what isn't his by right."
She stopped directly in front of him, close enough to see the faint scar above his left eyebrow and the way his jaw tightened ever so slightly.
"You fight harder than most, you train longer. You stand taller than trueborn sons twice your age. It's almost admirable. Almost." Her voice dropped into a teasing lilt. "Tell me, Snow, does it ever grow tiring? Carrying that weight on your shoulders every single day, knowing that no matter how much blood you spill for the North, some will always see the stain first and the man second?"
Jon exhaled slowly, his breath forming a visible cloud in the cold air.
"Every day," he admitted, his voice low and honest. "But it's mine to carry."
Nymeria studied him for a long moment, then let out a soft, throaty laugh.
"How very northern of you, so cold." She stepped closer, her dark eyes gleaming with challenge and something hotter. "You know, if you were born in Dorne, you wouldn't need to be so restrained all the time. You could take what you wanted. Who you wanted. No one would bat an eye if the bastard son of a Stark dragged a princess into his bed and fucked her senseless against the palace walls."
Jon's eyes darkened noticeably.
A faint flush crept up his neck despite the freezing temperature.
"Careful, Sand," he said, his voice rougher than usual, carrying a surprising edge of heat. "You keep talking like that and I might forget I'm supposed to be honorable. I might just push you up against this weirwood right now and show you exactly how a northern bastard handles a mouthy Dornish viper."
Her eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise. A delighted, predatory grin spread slowly across her face.
"Seven hells," she breathed, laughing low in her throat. "You actually said that out loud. I didn't think the quiet Snow had such filth in him."
She bit her lower lip, stepping even closer until her breasts nearly brushed his chest.
"Careful, Jon. Talk like that and I might actually let you try, though I should warn you, dornish women don't just lie back and take it. We bite, we scratch and we ride you until you forget your own name and beg for mercy."
Jon's smirk was small but genuine, his grey eyes burning with newfound boldness.
"I'd expect nothing less from a Sand Snake. Might even enjoy the scars you leave behind."
The air between them thickened with raw, electric tension, for several long heartbeats, neither moved.
The godswood felt smaller, the ancient trees leaning in as if listening to every word.
She finally broke the charged silence with another soft laugh, though her voice remained husky.
"You continue to surprise me, Snow. I thought all northern men were honor and ice with no fire left in them." She traced a single finger lightly down the center of his chest. "Clearly I was wrong."
Jon caught her wrist gently but didn't push her away. "You talk too much, Sand."
They stood like that for a while longer, trading increasingly crass and heated remarks.
Jon's rare boldness seemed to feed off her own, and Nymeria found herself genuinely enjoying the game more than she had expected.
The usually solemn godswood felt alive with a different kind of energy, one that had nothing to do with old gods and everything to do with them
Eventually, Nymeria stepped back slightly, though the heat between them lingered like smoke.
"But truly," she continued, "The way bastards are treated is night and day. In Dorne, we are weapons to be sharpened. In the North, you are useful shadows, respected when convenient, but never fully trusted. I wonder sometimes what it does to a man, living with that weight every single day."
The light in the godswood began to fade into the long northern dusk and Nymeria turned the discussion toward the future.
"Tell me honestly, Jon," she said, stepping close once more, her body nearly pressed against his. "Do you ever wish to leave the North? To see the Seven Kingdoms properly or even beyond? Essos. The Free Cities. Places where Snow doesn't define who you are."
Jon's expression grew distant, almost wistful for a moment.
"Maybe in another life I would have," he said with a solemn state. "But in this one… I'm chained here to Winterfell, my duty is to the North, it's not just words for me."
He moved even closer, his body brushing against hers.
"Even if I decided to leave," He murmured, "Who would I go with?"
Nymeria's own smirk turned wicked and promising.
She leaned in until their lips were a breath apart, her voice low and dripping with intent.
"I would take you," she whispered. "I could show you, I could show you everything."
The promise hung heavy and thick in the cold air between them.
She pulled back slowly, eyes gleaming with satisfaction at the clear hunger she saw in his gaze. Turning gracefully, she began walking away down the snowy path.
"You're welcome to join us when we leave for Dorne, Snow," she called over her shoulder without looking back, her voice light but carrying undeniable heat. "Think about it."
Her hips swayed with deliberate, inviting grace as she disappeared between the ancient trees, leaving Jon standing alone beneath the silent, watching eyes of the heart tree.