He decies to question her

Jon rose taller, the echo of her rushed apology drifting like embers from a guttering hearth. His gaze lingered on her, the familiar thrum of power awakening beneath his sternum, uninvited and relentless.

“Enter,” he said, drawing back. “Close the door behind you.”

To her credit the Servant paused a heartbeat, then stepped inside, the latch snicking into place with quiet inevitability.

Jon observed her shift uneasily in the gloom, strands of greying hair glinting under the sliver of light from the arrow-slit window.

“No one will notice you entering my chambers,” he whispered, sensing the phrase unfurl like unseen strands, “or the time you spend here.”

The room's atmosphere grew heavier for a breath, then eased. She blinked, her features steady, as though the directive had glided by without a trace.

Jon folded his arms, eyes tracing the deep furrows etched into her face by Riverrun downpours and Winterfell blizzards, the quiet scorn lurking just under her bowed head.

A single pulse of temptation gripped him: remake her like Mordane, twist this bitter scrubwoman into yet another faithful phantom, warm and willing under his hands. The idea soured in his gut. He had seized the realm's queen, her lioness sister the slayer of kings, even the boy-prince turned girl with her snarling guardian.

Another?

Too direct. Too close to a pattern Jon couldn’t afford to let take shape without varying it.

He shifted his weight and caught the edge of the bedpost, grounding himself before speaking. “You feel inclined to answer my questions truthfully,” he said. A faint vibration threaded through the statement, quiet but unmistakable. “No evasion. No pause. And the thought sits comfortably in your mind.”

Della’s chin lowered in a small, automatic nod. Her eyes unfocused for a breath, then cleared again, the suggestion settling into place as though it had originated from her own reasoning.

“What is your name?” Jon asked.

“Della,” she replied immediately—calm, untroubled, entirely certain.

“Tell me your personal history.”

“I was born to a groom in Riverrun’s stables,” Della said, the words coming without hesitation. “My father cared for the Tully horses. Most days were spent among hay dust and leather tack—mending straps, scraping hooves, cleaning stalls from first light until we couldn’t see the muck anymore.”

Jon’s next question came with purpose. “How long have you served House Tully?” He stepped past the years he already understood—everything after Lady Stark rode north as Winterfell’s lady.

“Since I was nine,” Della replied. “That’s when I began proper service. But I knew the family long before that. I remember Lady Catelyn as a girl in the training yard—skirts bunched in her fists, trying to outrun the stable dogs.”

“Your origins, then,” Jon said. “How did you come into service?”

“My father put me to work early,” Della answered. “I started in the stables—hauling buckets, brushing down skittish colts, doing whatever needed doing. I took to the horses easily enough. Quick hands, steady voice.”

She drew a slow breath before continuing.

“Lady Minisa Tully—Whent by birth—noticed me once while passing through. I was caked in hay and mud, sweating over a stubborn mare. She said no girl, lowborn or not, should spend her days buried in filth. The next morning I was pulled from the stalls and handed a basket of linens. From there she kept me close, sending me on errands, trusting me with her rooms.” Her tone tightened slightly. “That ended when she passed.”

Jon angled his head slightly. “How did she die?”

“Trying to give Lord Hoster another son,” Della replied. "Lord Edmure was still small—four, maybe five. The birthing went bad. Too much blood lost, and the maesters couldn’t turn it.”

Jon let that settle before asking, “And your childhood dreams? What did you want before duty took hold?”

Della’s expression shifted, the distance in her eyes suggesting she was sifting through years she hadn’t touched in a long time. “I imagined bold things once,” she said. “Thought I might swing a sword like a knight, ride out with a shield on my arm. Foolish for a girl in the stables, but the idea warmed me.” Her mouth twitched faintly. “Sometimes I pictured the opposite—silks, courtesies, a life with none of the grime under my nails. That was an even bigger reach.”

She drew in a quiet breath. “Truthfully, I wanted something simple. A husband with steady hands, children who grew up knowing they’d eat each night. But work stacked up—stables first, then the laundry rooms, then following Lady Catelyn north. One duty after another until the years blurred past. I’m near forty namedays. Still no family of my own.”

Jon absorbed her words. They came out smooth, unguarded, each truth delivered with the ease of recounting the day’s chores. Only then did the weight of it fully register—the power threaded through every question, tugging the truth from her without hesitation. Not once had Della paused to wonder why a bastard in a dim chamber demanded the story of her life.

The servant shifted slightly, waiting, and bowed her head again. “Forgive me once more, m’lord’s son. I truly meant no harm.”

The bedpost no longer gave Jon the anchor he needed, so he eased back against the cold stone instead. Chill crept through his tunic and settled along his spine, sharpening his focus on Della across the chamber. Her fingers twisted in her apron, knuckles pale, her stare fixed on nothing in the present—caught somewhere deep inside the pull of the spell.

The compulsion threaded through every word she offered, leaving her responses bare and direct, her voice carrying none of the cautious silences common among the smallfolk.

He drew his arms across his chest, a measured gesture that deepened the shadows around him. “Suppose the chance still existed,” Jon said, tone low and even. “Suppose you could take up a knight’s path now.”

A shift flickered through Della at that. Her eyes narrowed, kindling with a spark that had survived decades of labour and disappointment. The rasp of her boots on the flagstones marked a subtle change in footing—bracing herself, perhaps, for a dream she’d buried long ago but never fully let go of.

“I’d take it,” Della said. The words came cleanly, unshielded. “Put a sword in my hand and a horse under me, and I’d ride until I proved I’d earned both. Maybe it sounds foolish for a woman my age, but the wanting never left.” Her jaw set in a way that made the rest unnecessary. “If the chance appeared, I’d seize it. Wouldn’t waste a breath hesitating.”

Jon acknowledged her answer with a single nod. The pause that followed stretched long enough for the room’s quiet to gather around them, the next question forming almost on its own.

“What if a good marriage were within reach?” Jon asked.

The question hit her hands first; her grip on the apron tightened until the fabric pulled taut across her fingers. A slow breath slipped out of her, weighted with old longing she hadn’t voiced in years.

“I would,” Della said quietly. Her gaze fell to the floorboards as though the admission lived there. “Age or no age, I’d welcome it. A decent man, someone with strength in him and enough kindness to match—someone who’d see more than the work I do.” Her shoulders eased a fraction. “I’d build a home with him. Something steady. I’ve wanted that since I was a girl, even if time pushed the hope so far down, I stopped looking for it.”

The lantern sputtered, its weak flame throwing uneven shadows that rippled across the silver strands in Della’s hair. Jon didn’t let the moment settle.

“What if you were offered the life of a true noblewoman?” he asked.

A subtle lift touched her chin, the reaction small but unmistakable. Something warmed her features, smoothing the tension carved there.

“I’d take the place without hesitation,” Della said. Her voice carried a firmer note now. “Dress in fine cloth, stand where people have to look me in the eye, and earn regard instead of washing it out of other folk’s shirts.” Her fingers loosened on her apron. “Call it a childish pull if you like… but the thought of being recognized—of mattering—never fully left me.”

Jon noted the slow lift and fall of her shoulders; each breath pulled straight from the compulsion working through her—truth rising from her like water drawn from a deep well.

“What if a home and children were still possible for you?” he asked.

A faint sound broke from her, caught somewhere between a breath and a swallowed ache. Her hands loosened at last, fingers spreading as though reaching for something she’d held only in memory.

“I would want that more than anything,” Della said, voice barely above a murmur. Her eyes glossed, the first hint of emotion slipping past the spell’s stillness. “Children underfoot, a hearth that belongs to me, days marked by laughter instead of chores. That wish never thinned, even when the years made it feel out of reach.” Her gaze steadied, soft but certain. “I’d treasure it if it ever came.”

Jon let a moment pass before moving, the chamber’s stillness shifting around him as he paced a slow arc. Each step on the stone gave a soft, measured echo.

“What if your youth were returned to you?” he asked. “Your prime—strength, ease, all of it.”

Della’s hand drifted to the grey at her temple, fingertips brushing it as if testing the years that had gathered there. The gesture carried more fatigue than self-pity.

“I’d take that chance in a heartbeat,” she said, a faint warmth rising along her throat. “To feel my body answer me again—quick, steady, without the dull ache that follows every long day. To look in a glass and find the girl I used to be staring back, the one who thought the world still had room for her.” Her voice lowered. “Call it vanity or longing—either way, the want is still there. I’d reclaim that youth and try to live it right.”

He halted directly in front of her, close enough to catch the fine creases at the corners of her eyes and the strain behind them. The earlier questions had worked through her piece by piece, stripping away hesitation, and the last hung in the narrow space between them like tension drawn taut on a bowstring.

“If I could grant any of that,” Jon said, his voice level, “what would you offer in return?”

Della lifted her gaze to his, unblinking. With the compulsion gripping her, nothing shielded the truth that followed.

“I’d give you whatever you asked for,” she said, the answer spilling out with nothing held back. “My service, my trust, every secret I have. Those hopes have followed me my whole life. If you could make them real, Bastard or not, I’d bend myself to your will without a second thought.”