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This is part of a series of one-shots, which you can find on my profile
As she walked through the Godswood towards him, Jon found he couldn't tear his eyes from her. She was no blushing maid, but she looked divine in her white gown with her curls trapped in a Northern style braid. He would break them free that night, and see them spread out against the bed. Beside her, Willam looked every bit the proud lord, and happier than Jon had seen him in awhile. He had always been such a solemn lad. Perhaps that was why he liked me more than Robb, he thought to himself.
Melisandre and the Queen had a demanded a service with the Lord of Light, but the Starks were of the North, and Layla would only have the wedding take place in front of the Old Gods. Maybe the Old Gods would bless their union, he hoped, and that would ease my guilt of wedding and bedding Robb's wife.
"Who comes before the gods?" Jon asked, a useless question but tradition
"Layla of House Stark comes here to be wed," Willam said, "A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble." He recited, and Jon tried not to think of the fact there were lies in their marriage vows, "She comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?"
"Jon, of, House Stark," he said, the words foreign to his lips, "I claim her. Who gives her?"
"Willam of House Flint. Her step-son." He answered, "Lady Layla, do you take this man?"
A smile finally spread over her face, her eyes gleaming, and for a moment Jon thought she would decline. Vow herself Robb's wife and flee the godswood.
"I take him."
Stepping away from her son she took Jon's outstretched hand, her bare fingers clutching his gloved ones. Kneeling down before the heart tree, he did not let go of her as he prayed. Let me be a good husband to her, just as Robb was, he prayed, let her be happy and safe. Others may have prayed for sons and heirs, but not Jon. War is not the time for children. Afterwards maybe, he thought, if he lived.
He wondered what she prayed for, his eyes flicking over to see her head bent, eyes closed. Did she pray for love and children? A victory in the coming war? Robb's forgiveness. He wanted to ask, but decided he would not. What she prayed for was between her and the Old Gods. Or whatever god it was that she prayed to.
Once they had risen back to their feet he finally let go, only to scoop her up into his arms, causing her to let out an almost girlish giggle. The sound was unnatural for her, and if he had not seen her smiling eyes he would have thought it was for show. Reaching up she wrapped her arms around her neck.
"Take me away," she whispered, "Husband."
He smiled at that, small but still there. He was her husband, and she was his wife. From that point forward, she was his to protect, even though she had survived this long without him.
It was not until they got to the hall that he finally noticed the crowd that had been watching them. The ladies jealous of his wife's beauty. The lord's jealous that she was his wife. The Northern lords seemed content enough that her husband was both a Northerner, and the son of Ned Stark. But the southern lord's were very much offended that she rather wed a bastard than them.
The feast was not large, Layla having ordered that they conserve food for the oncoming winter. To make up for this, she had whatever barrels of ale brought up. After all, alcohol was not a necessity.
The couple sat on the dais above the guests, the king, queen and princess to the left of them. Layla had wanted to have her sons by her side, but only Eddard was permitted to join them, for they would never deny the little lord that had saved their campaign. Willam and Rickard were not deemed of high enough status by the queen, though Melisandre was, much to his wife's displeasure. She may have brought him back, but that did not mean Layla had to like the priestess.
Once the food was gone, the dancing begun, only growing as the drinks continued. But his lady wife remained in her seat, though she watched, just as he did.
"What bothers you so, dear husband?" Layla asked, leaning over to him, "If you're not careful, your solemn look will be taken for dissatisfaction, and you might just find your wife wisked away by a wildling or wooed by a southron lord."
The ferocity with which Jon looked at her in that moment may have unnerved other ladies, insipid and fragile women. Instead, she felt a tugging of desire in her gut. She wanted him desperately in that moment.
"You are mine. I am yours." Jon declared, reaching out his hand to grip her thigh, "No one will take you from me."
"Dance with me then," she said, "Dance with your wife."
"Whatever my lady wants."
He could not deny her something that would so obviously make her happy, and so he stood, offering a hand to her. Handing Eddard to the maid she took his hand, allowing him to lead her away from the table. It was different to when they danced at Alys Karstark's wedding. The crowd watched, but now he failed to care.
"Thank you for dancing with me," she said, "I know you don't enjoy it."
"I enjoy dancing with you."
It was the truth. Whatever made her happy made him happy. Ever since he had died, the only thing that had made him feel anything were her and Eddard.
They danced for a few songs, before he handed her off to Harlon. He trusted her good-brother to look after her in his stead, just as he had done after Robb's death. There had always been whispers about them, but when Jon had questioned she had only laughed at the thought of anything romantic.
But then she started to dance with Ser Justin, and he felt his grip on the chair tighten, unable to do anything but glare at them. It was no secret to him that the southern lord coveted his wife, and he knew that Layla had bedded him during the march to Winterfell. Even if she had claimed it was to assure her son's safety.
"You look like you want that knight dead?" A voice said, and Jon turned to see Alys taking the seat beside him, "Is he planning on kidnapping her like a wildling?"
"She would kill him if he tried."
"You still might want to stop staring." Alys suggested, "People are watching."
Sure enough, the guests had begun to notice their lord's glares. If this continued, whispers would grow. Jon would not shame his wife in such a way, so he turned his attention to the lady beside him.
"I'd ask you to dance, but I fear I may not survive your wife's glares." She teased, "Anyway, she's coming back to claim you."
As Layla neared them, Alys rose from her seat, curtsying, "My lady," she greeted, "Congratulations on your union."
"Thank you." Layla replied, "I think your husband has finally drunk enough to dance."
"Best go take advantage of that." Alys said, nodding at the couple before leaving
Taking her seat back, she reached over to grasp his hand in hers. She knows of my jealousy, he thought, she knows I embarrassed her.
"I know my assurances will not stop you from wishing Ser Justin dead," she said, "But do try not to kill him at our wedding feast. Might put a damper on things."
He tried to laugh at her teasing, but could barely manage a smile. His jealousy was unfounded, for he knew she would never be unfaithful, but that did little to ease his concerns.
Layla looked at him with such sad eyes that his chest ached. It was her wedding day, and he had made her unhappy. How terrible of a husband he was. It was only when the maid brought Eddard back to her that they both smiled. No matter what, he could always manage a smile for his young nephew.
As the night passed, the crowd grew rowdier as the drinks continued, and the murmurs of the bedding ceremony began. Jon did all he could to ignore them, but his wife cast him a nervous glance, obviously fearing his reaction to any attempts to strip her. And with good reason, for he would likely kill them all if one took any liberties.
"Jon," she said, her voice calm as she laid a hand on his arm, "It is tradition. I do not mind."
Two weddings and she had managed to avoid this tradition. But they had not had feasts like this.
"I do." He responded, "You are a mother, a lady, you were queen. They should not see you in such a state."
His thoughts went to Ser Justin, and he was resolved in his reluctance. No other man would see her naked as long as he lived.
"Then you better wisk me away," she whispered in his ear, her voice low, "And truly make me your wife."
The hall went quiet when Jon suddenly stood, all eyes on the couple. Handing Eddard to the maid, Layla rose to stand beside her husband. Jon said nothing, simply scooping her back into her arms to carry her out of the hall, just as he had carried her in.
It was only when he reached their chambers that he set her back on the ground, opening the door to let her in, his eyes avoiding her as he followed her inside. Even as he closed the door, he could not look at her, preferring to move to stoke the fire.
"Jon," she called out, causing his head to jerk up, "I need help with the laces."
Dutifully he stood, moving over to stand behind her. As he undid the ties, he was careful not to even brush his hand against her skin. The dress began to fall away, causing her to have to clutch it to her chest to keep herself covered.
"We don't have to," he said, taking a step back, "Not if you don't want to."
"I want to." She said, turning her head to look at him, her eyes wide, "Do you?"
It was times like these where she was reminded that he had died. That even though he came back, a part of him remained dead. What with the animalistic gleam in his eyes, and the way he practically ripped at her dress until she was standing bare before him.
He took a moment to greedily take in her body, and she wondered if he thought back to the wildling girl he loved. They had already laid together, but this was the first time as man and wife.
And so, he was gentler than she had at first expected him to be. Caressing her body with his hands and mouth, before he finally entered her. Arching her back, she gripped onto his shoulders as he moved inside her, moaning out his name. Just as he spoke her name into the crook of her neck as he spilled her seed inside her.
For a second the world went quiet, and it was only them two. For a second, she could pretend that it was only them two in the world, that there was no war, or death, or enemies. It was just them, and their love.
"I love you, Jon."
She had said it half a dozen times since he had come back to her, but not once had he reciprocated. Maybe he couldn't. Maybe the part of him truly capable of love did not return. Even so, she didn't need words, only actions.
"I love you too." He whispered back, nuzzling into her hair
But words were also sweet.
Please review, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Also, I've created a poll where you can vote for your favourite love interest of Layla, you can find it on my profile.