Chapter Thirteen
Supper with a King Who Doesn't Want a Crown
That evening, Jon invited her to supper in his private chambers. The room was modest, far smaller than any hall in King's Landing or Dragonstone, yet its warmth was undeniable. A single hearth crackled in the corner, flames licking the stone walls and casting uneven shadows across the floor. Candles flickered in iron sconces, their light wavering against the pale snow pressed against the windows, draping Winterfell's courtyard in a muted white that softened the harsh lines of stone and ice.
A small table sat near the hearth, its wood worn smooth by years of hands and meals. Simple, unpretentious — yet it held the kind of quiet authority that spoke of survival, of practicality, of the weight of responsibility carried without need for grandeur.
Elara poured steaming tea into two cups, the curls of vapor rising between them like fragile smoke signals, twisting and dissolving into the warm air. She could feel the faint pulse of her inventory at the edge of her awareness, not intrusive but constant — a reminder of the impossible she carried with her, a secret in plain sight.
Jon's eyes followed her movements, quiet, measured, gray and steady as ice and stone. "You could sit with the lords," he said softly, voice low, carrying curiosity, caution, and an edge of wonder all at once. "But you chose me."
Elara set the cups on the table, their warmth seeping into her palms. "I'm not a lord," she replied, voice gentle, deliberate. "I don't want their games. I just… want people to survive."
His shoulders eased slightly, a subtle exhale that carried relief, weariness, and perhaps the faintest flicker of hope. "That's what I've tried to do my whole life," he said, gray eyes steady, thoughtful. "Keeping people alive, keeping them safe…"
She leaned back, studying him across the small table. "And yet here you are," she murmured softly, almost a whisper, "still burdened."
Jon's gaze held hers, steady as stone. "I didn't choose the weight," he said quietly. "It chose me. Duty, honor, survival… it's not mine to cast aside, even if I wish it were."
Her fingers brushed lightly against his hand, a gesture that carried more than touch — a promise, a connection, a shared understanding of endurance and responsibility. "Maybe it doesn't have to be so heavy," she said, her voice firm but soft, warming the quiet room more than any fire could.
His gray eyes darkened, shadows tracing the angles of his face in the flickering candlelight. "And if it falls on us anyway?" he asked, voice low, careful.
"Then we endure," she said, unwavering. "Together."
Silence stretched between them, heavy but comfortable, like the moment before snow collapses from a roof or frost spreads across a field — quiet anticipation, potent and charged. Outside, snow fell in steady sheets, coating Winterfell in white and muffling the distant sounds of kitchens, guards, and restless corridors. Inside, the room shrank around them, warm, intimate, protective, yet vast with unspoken possibilities.
Jon leaned back slightly, letting the warmth of the fire brush against his cloak, and for the first time that day, she saw him breathe — slow, controlled, but unguarded. It was a fleeting glimpse of the man beneath the title, beneath the duty, beneath the walls of expectation.
Elara sipped her tea, savoring the heat and the delicate scent of herbs. Every small movement was deliberate: the tilt of her cup, the curl of her fingers around the handle, the careful attention to the steam rising between them. The room felt suspended in time, a fragile bubble in a world of frost, blood, and unending responsibility.
"You carry more than you should," she murmured, voice low, as if speaking into the fire itself. "Even kings do not have to carry everything alone."
Jon's lips twitched, almost a smile, almost acknowledgment, almost relief. "And yet we do," he said softly. "Because sometimes… no one else can."
Her gaze softened. "Then perhaps we should let each other share the burden," she said, a quiet conviction in every word. "Even a little."
He inclined his head slightly, studying her with a quiet intensity. Snow drifted beyond the window, motionless, silent, indifferent — a stark contrast to the warmth and weight of the room. "Together," he agreed. His voice was a low promise, carrying across the small table, wrapping around them like a cloak.
In that moment, the fire crackled, steam swirled, and the world outside melted into irrelevance. Winterfell, the lords, the frost, the distant threat of dragons and war — none of it mattered here. Only choice, only presence, only the fragile tether between two people who had learned to survive in worlds that demanded more than they could offer.
Elara felt it keenly: the weight of her power, the pull of her inventory, the impossible advantage of her knowledge. And yet, in the presence of Jon Snow, none of it mattered. Not the numbers, not the miracles, not the expectation of awe or fear. Here, they were two people, sharing tea, warmth, and a truth that no one else in Winterfell could touch.
The firelight flickered, dancing across fur-lined cloaks, smooth wood, and the soft sheen of porcelain cups. For the first time in weeks, perhaps months, Elara allowed herself to relax, even if only a little — letting the silence, the presence, and the connection sink deep into her bones.
And in that quiet, intimate supper, she understood something profoundly simple yet impossible: that survival was more than magic, strategy, or miracles. It was trust. It was choice. It was the courage to share a burden with someone willing to bear it beside you.
And for the first time in Winterfell, that truth felt as real as fire against stone, warmth against snow, and hope against an unending winter.