Jon gets dressed for the feast

Della backed off a pace, her clenched hands opening like flowers in **** bloom. She dipped her chin in a quick nod, the blaze in her eyes cooling to embers. "Aye, m'lord'. I'll keep it in mind."

The Queen's bundle lay heavy on the bed, dark fabrics tumbling out as Jon tugged the oiled cloth free. Scents of distant dyes—rich and foreign—wafted up while he spread the pieces across the rough wool blanket.

Without a word, Della reached for the smoke-coloured silk undertunic, holding it up with a glint in her eye. "Let me lend a hand," she said, her tone light, almost playful.

Jon stripped off his coarse wool, and she closed the distance. Chainmail whispered as she lifted the velvet over his head, her palms gliding along his arms to settle the fabric, thumbs pressing just a touch longer than needed against his skin. The warmth from her fingers lingered, tracing seams down his chest until the silk lay smooth.

Kneeling, she held the black leather trousers open. Jon stepped in; her hands followed the rise—calves first, then knees, thighs—steady yet deliberate, a faint color rising in her cheeks as she tugged the lacings tight.

Rising, she turned to the jerkin, breath coming a bit faster now. Fingers worked the silver clasps with care, brushing his collarbone on each snap, then smoothing the wolf-fur mantle across his shoulders before circling back to fiddle with the belt's onyx studs, as if they refused to sit right without her touch.

Jon caught the way her gaze flicked up, holding his a beat too long, the flush deepening on her face. Loyalty—that's all he'd commanded. Yet here she stood, hands lingering like this, a spark in her eyes that hinted at more, something budding on its own beneath the oath he'd drawn from her.

At last she drew away, that warm smile breaking through, shy around the edges. "You cut a fine figure now, like a true lord's son. The hall's in for a sight."

Jon shifted his weight against the bedpost, the stone floor cold under his boots as the faint clatter of dishes echoed from below.

His eyes settled on Della, tracing the way her fingers toyed with the hilt at her hip.

"Joining the feast?" he asked, the words slipping out easy, though he held her gaze a second longer, watching for the flicker in her expression.

Della's head tilted slightly, a lock of chestnut hair slipping free to brush her cheek in the lantern's warm flicker.

"No, m'lord's son." Her lips twisted into a half-grin, dry as cracked earth. "Hedge knights scrape for scraps outside the hall. Yards or barracks for me—maybe charm a trencher from the cooks if the night turns kind."

That familiar heat unfurled in Jon's chest, steady and insistent, like embers stirring under ash.

He held her eyes, the order coming out clear and unshakable.

"You are invited. As my sworn shield, you go where I go."

The air trembled briefly, the statement sinking in deep, reshaping what was.

Della blinked, surprise melting away as ease settled over her features, as though the summons had been etched in her day from the start.

Her smile grew, carrying a soft warmth.

"Wouldn't miss it, m'lord's son. By your side."