Chapter Text
Jon shot up in his bed, panting, sweating and clutching the furs atop his legs with white knuckles.
He could feel the remnants of the nightmare clutching at the edges of his mind, keeping the panic running through his body whilst he tried to slow his breath. The details were hazy, but it was the same subject that had been tormenting him every night for three years now, just with minor variations.
Lifting the now stifling furs off his lower body, he pushed aside the ties of his small clothes to view the bold words escribed across his left hipbone.
Sansa Stark.
The question was, did he dream of his name being written upon his half sister when her mark appeared tomorrow? Or did he hope her soul mate lived so far that the mark was a shadow, a pale mark impossible to read?
But Gods, if his nightmares were any indication, Jon knew there was one outcome that would haunt him for the rest of his life. If words appeared across Sansa's pale skin in bold striking letters like his, only to name some undeserving cunt, there was no telling what Jon would do.
Robb Stark's 17th nameday was received with great anticipation throughout the North. In the early hours of that auspicious day, Lord and Lady Stark, Maester Luwin, and Lord Robb Stark stood before the Heart Tree in the Gods wood.
Robb cut his finger and bled over the red sap of the Heart Tree's tears.
He knelt to pray, and he remained as such for an hour.
When his Mother had begun to shoot concerned looks at her husband, and Ned Stark's brows had creased with concern, Robb Stark gasped.
And began undressing.
All three spectators where likely embarrassed by the jerks of surprise they emitted, eyes widening and mouths dropping to see the heir of Winterfell lose his cloak, then tunic, then undershirt, before scrambling and clutching at his right shoulder, peering at a spot on his back just within his view.
A distortion had appeared upon the young man's skin, and Maester Luwin came closer to squint at the faint lines.
"A soul mark in true, the heir to Winterfell has a bond mate in Westeros, that I would say for sure. But the name is pale, and I cannot read the words as yet. They will darken with age, or with a closing distance, when Lord Robb's bonded receives his name."
His face may not have changed overmuch, but the softening of his brow and eyes exuded pride, and Ned Stark clapped his son firmly on the shoulder, bare to the cold, as his Mother lovingly draped his forgotten cloak across his broad shoulders.
"Every Stark has received a bond name from the Old Gods since the time of the First Men, you had not need to be nervous, but the proof is satisfying all the same, Robb."
Robb could not but beam at his parents, for whilst his mark was light, and their name unknown, he had a bond mate. Now he had completed the ceremony, even if his bonded was in the South, where they had forgotten the rituals of soul marks, his name would appear upon their body as soon as they passed 17 name days.
Then, all he would have to do is wait, and they may come to him, or he would find them.
After all, in the North, there was nothing held as important as finding your bonded mate, and nothing as insulting to the Gods as ignoring their choice.
Ned Stark had received his soul mark at 17, the name of his Brother's betrothed drifting along the strong line of his jaw. Brandon, whose soul mark appeared in stark white when the ritual was completed, signifying his bonded had passed before they could meet, was all too happy to step down from the position of heir, and instead become his sister's sworn shield.
Cat shared his mark, his name appearing on her skin, curling down a finger on her 17th nameday, to the relief of both their families- and both of them, so in love as they were.
But not all were so lucky.
Lyanna Stark travelled south with her brother and shield, Brandon, to darken the lines that swirled across her forehead like a crown.
She travelled to Dorne, thinking she may find her bond mate in the other kingdom to still hold the Bond and the Mark in reverence.
She sent her brother to Kings Landing to enquire of any who may have her name upon them, but it was there that tragedy struck.
Mad King Aerys killed her brother, and attempted to outlaw the soul mark ritual, prohibiting their use. Rickard Stark, Warden of the North came south to demand justice and the right of his people to find their bond mates, as had been done for 8000 years. He too was burnt by the king.
Unknowing of her family's fate in King's Landing, Lyanna Stark found Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, her name shifting down his left thigh, and they bonded, as only marked and matched mates can. They separated as Rhaegar left to attend to reports of his Father's growing madness, and Lyanna remained in Dorne; safe with his kingsguard.
But uncommonly, there was another with Lyanna Stark's name curling across his knuckles, and Robert Baratheon, in his rage and refusal to believe that it was not him sitting across the brow of Lyanna, was only too happy to go to war with Rhaegar for Aerys' crimes.
And so, Rhaegar died, Aerys died, Viserys and Daenerys escaped, and Lyanna Stark, bond mate of Rhaegar Targaryen, sister to Ned Stark, and princess of the North, passed away on the birthing bed.
Ned Stark watched his nephew, heir to the Iron Throne, walk alone into the Godswood on his 17th nameday, four months before his eldest son's, and return alone an hour later, his face pale under his burgeoning beard, and his brows furrowed so deeply they shadowed his eyes.
"Jon? How do you fare? Is the mark faint, there is no shame in a mark that cannot be made out... Jon-"
"My mark... it is... it is impossible. I will not have my bonded. I cannot."
Ned looked down at his nephew, his son in all but true blood, momentarily perplexed.
Realisation hit in an instant.
"Oh, Jon. I am sorry, a white mark is a sad occasion... I am sorry... But it is possible... it is possible to find happiness without the mark and-"
"It's fine, Father. It is fine. Don't worry about me. My mark would never have happened anyway... it's just impossible."
But Ned still pulled the boy into his chest. Whilst he had broadened out in the past few years, filling gangly limbs with strength and muscle, gaining inches on Ned everyday, Ned could still comfort his nephew, and as he felt Jon's shoulders stiffen before relaxing, letting himself fall into Ned's embrace, he knew he had made the right choice.
Jon had refused to believe it at first. Cursed the mark in every direction, with every word and descriptor he had picked up from Mikken, his Father and the men of arms over the years.
The only thing he was glad for was its location, sitting deep within the vee of his left hip, there was no reason for another to see the dark letters slashing across his skin, so different to the birthmark like appearance of Robb's mark.
He was glad of his Father's original assumption- that his was a white mark, one of death- for word had spread and since become common knowledge. It prevented questions if nothing else, though the looks of pity and condescension had gotten old fast.
But the main effect of the mark was distraction.
For whilst Jon and Sansa had sat on each other's periphery their whole lives, they had never truly been siblings, and that only led to trouble, because Jon became distracted by Sansa.
Jon found himself contemplating how Sansa could possibly be his soul mate, which meant contemplating Sansa, which meant contemplating how she truly was growing more beautiful by the year, and gods when she turned 16 how her body filled, and as her smiles became warmer as she outgrew childish tendencies, and Gods just how fucking radiant she was-
Fuck. He was doing it again.
Jon's noticing of Sansa had quickly morphed into something different. Something much deeper, and warmer and enclosing. Whenever he saw Sansa nowadays, Jon felt as though he had been dunked into the hot springs. Hot and bothered and his skin shivered over his bones as he fought the warmth flooding his systems and rushing where it shouldn't.
But it was wrong. All of it.
The Gods did not approve incestuous marks. That was well known. The loss of reverence for soul marks and bonds started when the Targaryens came to power, their incestuous relationships never being sanctified by a soul mark, they scorned the marks as rituals for the uncivilised and uncouth. Only Dorne and the North held enough respect for the bond that they continued to hold tightly to their beliefs.
It was known. It could not be. He was wrong.
Jon knew that in the morning, Sansa's mark would appear and it would say the name of some unknowing idiot that would never realise that they were taking from Jon everything he could ever want.
Because Gods, how he wanted Sansa. How he wanted his name to be painted across her skin, because no matter how wrong it would be, the Gods would be showing their approval, and no one could argue against the choice of the Gods.
Jon just wanted Sansa, he wanted her to be his as he was hers, even though she didn't know it.
Sansa knelt at the Heart Tree, praying fervently, desperately, hoping that soon, so soon, her mark would appear, would show her who her real bond mate was and stop these... sinful thoughts and feelings she had felt growing, spreading, invading throughout the past year.
She just needed her mark to appear, she needed a name. One other than the one that appeared so often in her dreams.
Just as she bent her head to begin her prayer anew, her throat burnt, searing her skin with a strike of cold heat, passing through her body to her fingers, lingering with tingles at the tips of her body.
Her Mother and Father rushed over upon seeing her hold her throat, an unusual place for a soul mark to appear, gently soothing her ragged breathes.
Feeling along her neck, she felt the ridges and dips of the name, the print standing out upon her skin, indicating dark letters - her bond mate was in the North!
It was only upon turning to look at her parents, however, that alerted her to their silence.
They wore twin looks of horror, whilst Maester Luwin, whilst also obviously worried, looked mostly confused.
He opened his mouth, closed it, frowned, and opened it again to speak.
"But... who is Aemon Targaryen?"