A Messenger from Lady Stark

Striding across across the room, Jon's boots thudding on the worn planks, and wrenched the latch free. The heavy oak door groaned open, hinges protesting with a low rasp as cold air surged in.

An older woman lingered in the corridor, her greying hair bound in a stark knot beneath a simple wool cap, face carved by biting winds and long years of toil.

Jon recognized her at once—one of the servants Lady Stark had brought north from the Trident, her Riverrun accent always sharper than the Winterfell folk's, her glances colder.

The scent of lye soap and starch wafted from her, the sharp tang that haunted laundresses tending noble sheets. Her gaze skimmed him, cold as a winter draft, mouth compressing like she'd bitten into rot.

“Snow.” The syllable snapped out, brittle and unyielding, skimming the air like a skipped pebble over frozen water. “Lady Stark has words for you.”

Jon’s jaw clenched, a flush burning up his neck like embers catching dry grass.

The Servant kept that half-step distance, stance rigid, as if brushing too close might smear her skirts with grime—the same cold reserve she and the other Riverrun women had carried since arriving with Catelyn Tully all those years back.

He straightened, shoulders rolling back. “My lord father’s son,” Jon said, the words grinding out low and honed sharp. “Bastard or Snow changes nothing. You forget yourself in his halls.”

The Servant's lips parted, then sealed tight, color flooding the creases of her weathered skin.

Jon leaned into the doorway, voice dropping low and laced with grit. “If Lady Stark bears orders for me—and that’s what these ‘words’ smell like—then take me to her now.” He paused, eyes narrowing as her flush deepened. “I won’t swallow them from your mouth. Servants bend truths, especially ones who stare at me like rot.” His gaze held hers steady, unblinking. “Unless she delivers them face to face, you carry nothing I care to hear.”

It was only now that Jon noticed the subtle vibration beneath his ribs only after the words had escaped, the power seeping unintended, threading his tone like mist curling through chinks in stone.

The servant's eyelids flickered. Her sneer dissolved as her posture sagged, shoulders hunching inward. She bobbed a rushed curtsy, fingers knotting in the fabric of her apron.

“Forgive me, m’lord’s son.” Her pitch wavered, gaze fixed on the rushes scattered across the floor. “I overstepped. No harm meant, truly. Pardon my boldness—it shan’t repeat.”

She retreated a pace, head still lowered, heat staining her lined features like embers glowing in ash.

“I’ll bring you Lady Stark at your word,” she added, words tumbling hurried. “Just speak it.”

Jon held her in his sights as the contrition echoed off the stone walls. Deep within him, the power twisted closer, content.