This will (almost guaranteed) be the last instalment before season 7, and might serve as the conclusion.
Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read this story; I appreciate every view, comment, favourite and follow and thank you for sticking with this story to the "end".
Finally, to everyone who's ever requested more Jonsa, this one's for you. :)
The wedding feast was one for the ages. It was a raucous affair of staggering abundance despite the late winter hour of the ceremony. Every lord or lady with claim to some scrap of Northern land seemed to have crammed into Winterfell's Great Hall.
Outside, the night was inky black save for the fires and celebrations of the smallfolk on the moor. Inside, the Hall's golden torch lit glow illuminated the longtables, which were laden with such a mountainous heap of food that each one threatened to collapse under the strain. The situation was not helped by the regular slamming of tankards and goblets onto the ancient wooden surface with each passing toast.
Half a dozen kegs of White Harbour's finest ale had been squeezed into one of the Great Hall's shadowy corners. In the centre of the turmoil the wedding guests dined on moose, pheasant, deer and bear. A hearty array of vegetables had been scraped together from Winterfell's stores, seasoned with the most expensive of the castle's rather limited collection of spices.
Behind the High table, a looming mound of gifts was accumulating for the newlyweds. Luxurious furs, exotic artifacts, gleaming weapons, and well-preserved edible delicacies mingled in one enormous heap. The Northerners, who possessed very little as it was, had valiantly showered their monarchs with stunning gifts regardless.
Sansa eyed the pile in astonishment; she could hardly believe that such treasures even existed in the North, let alone that they should all have come to rest in Winterfell.
However, Sansa noted, the most valuable gifts of all rested not on the Great Hall's weathered stone floor, but on she and Jon's own heads and in a sizeable chest which had already been locked away in Winterfell's armoury.
Inside the sturdy chest rested a thousand dragonglass daggers; a gift from the dragon queen herself. Daenerys had recovered the obsidian weapons from Dragonstone's own abundant stores and sent them North to be hand-delivered by half a dozen Unsullied.
The daggers had also been accompanied by a pair of exquisite dragonglass crowns- a most luxurious expense on Daenerys' part. The regal headpieces- one thick and imposing and one slender and elegant- had been engraved with detailed images of direwolves and dragons. The shimmering obsidian had been inlaid with naturally-cut diamonds that sparkled in the light from any angle, evoking a sense of freshly fallen snow.
Jon's crown rested majestically atop his raven hair, perfectly fitted to the handsome summit of his head. At his side, Sansa's own slender crown contrasted sharply with her fiery hair as it balanced suitably on its surface.
Sansa liked the crown's weight; it was heavy enough to feel significant yet light enough not to be a burden. She cast her eyes upward at the tapestry that hung resolutely on the Great Hall's stony wall, and imagined that she and Jon appeared just as depicted on the fabric. She sat up straighter at the notion, smiling lightly to herself.
Sansa felt Ghost's warm weight shift at her feet. The ivory direwolf rested directly beneath Jon, keeping a ruby eye on passersby from beneath the tablecloth.
Jon noticed Sansa's eyes on the wolf and cast her a glance of his own, his eyes buoyant, warm and merry, yet relaxed. The edges of his lips formed an honest smile. His eyes had been fixed on Sansa in this way nearly all evening, in pride and disbelief.
She supposed that the whole situation was very strange to him; he must have been resigned to a lonely, unmarried life at the Wall.
How greatly his fortunes have changed. Sansa thought quickly to herself, her own heart pounding in uncertain anticipation mingled with elation.
I am the Queen in the North. She reflected suddenly, appreciating once more the weight of the crown on her head. All my life I dreamed of being a queen, and now my childhood fantasy has come to life in the most unconventional way…
Sansa observed that when she was a girl she had always anticipated leaving Winterfell to be married off elsewhere. Her childhood home was the last castle she had have ever expected to live out her days in- marriage into another house had always been inevitable.
Yet here she sat, a queen in Winterfell's own halls. A sweeter feeling she could hardly imagine.
Sansa met Jon's gaze breathlessly. We are joined as husband and wife, and all the North has come before us to pledge its loyalty and celebrate our union. I am home and Littlefinger is nowhere to be seen. It truly is as though I am awake in a dream.
Indeed, it was an image of near-fantasy; singers strummed lutes and drummed softly in a corner, lords and ladies from every region of the North dined amicably together, and in the centre of the Hall the drunken lords Hornwood and Glover danced a ridiculous duet, sending Arya and Bran into uproarious laughter at Sansa's side.
She committed the moment to memory, such that when her situation soon soured (as it inevitably would) she might be able to draw forth traces of her current lighthearted happiness.
The scene playing out before Sansa made her warm from head to toe with pleasure, but however exciting and wonderful the pomp and circumstance of the feast might be, Sansa still found corners of her thoughts straying to the impending night. She wondered what Jon would expect of her. Grotesque memories snuck into her head, and she felt the scars of Ramsay Bolton's games burn beneath her gown from mere recollection.
Don't scare yourself, you're stronger than this. She scolded herself firmly, casting a quick look in Jon's direction. Besides, there's nothing to fear from Jon.
As if in silent response, Jon took Sansa's hand under the table at that instant, clasping his fingers gently around hers.
Sansa sensed his warmth against her palm and clung to it gratefully, letting it pull her mind back to the present celebration.
A sudden chiming rang out as Lyanna Mormont, the fiery young Lady of Bear Island, stood up in her chair and tapped her goblet with a spoon. The commotion quieted down for Lyanna, ushering in the beginning of what was likely another round of toasts.
"Your grace, your grace," the Lady began, her voice youthful but firm as she nodded at both Jon and Sansa in turn, "Lords and Ladies of the North," she added, turning to address the rest of the Hall, "I just want to say…that I am very proud of what we are celebrating today, and of how we are celebrating it."
The Great Hall stared up at her attentively, some of her audience nodding in agreement, all of them hanging on each of her well-measured words.
"We have crowned a new king and a new queen, and they are strong rulers to get us through the Long Night." Lady Lyanna continued, her gaze fierce. "We know this fact, and we unite here today, ready to meet whatever is coming, despite our differences." She noted decisively.
"Some of us have been enemies." She added, her eyes finding those who had recently fought for the Boltons in the Battle for Winterfell. "Some of us, against advice, have remained friends." She decreed prudently, casting an intentional smile at Jon up at the High Table. "But none of that matters. All that matters now is that the North Remembers- we remember that we have all suffered loss, that we have a common enemy, and that we follow House Stark unconditionally." she called clearly, her words now inciting cheers of approval from many of the tables.
"Those we've lost wouldn't want anything less." Lyanna declared definitively, her face falling slightly in reverie, likely with thoughts of her own mother. "So, I propose a toast and a promise to them, and to our newly joined king and queen, to never again let our enemies divide us."
At this statement, the hall members cheered and raised their goblets.
Lyanna turned her eyes to Sansa and Jon and trilled clearly "to the end of divided days' past and the beginning of united days' future!"
The Hall echoed her words agreeably, many voices slurred with drink. The Lady Lyanna resumed her seat with a contented smile, and another Lord rose to take her place, continuing the train of toasts relentlessly.
The night drifted onward in this way; it was a happy haze of celebration and hopefulness, interspersed with poetic salutes to the North, the coming war, the sorrows of years past, the new monarchs, the new monarchs' future offspring, the large white direwolf under the High Table, and other more ridiculous subjects.
As the last of the food disappeared and the last gift was presented, the Hall began to grow restless.
"A bedding." Sansa heard someone whisper.
"A wedding needs a bedding."
"The true test."
"The real marriage."
"The bedding will be soon, best finish your drink."
"It's customary."
Sansa grew terribly nervous at all the chatter. She felt suddenly much colder and worried if she was breaking into a visible sweat. She daren't look over at Jon, for the knowledge that he would easily read the fear in her expression. She felt her scars tingle once more with a horrid freshness as though she had suffered them last week rather than several moons ago.
What if he doesn't fancy me anymore once I'm laid bare and scarred before him. Sansa wondered suddenly. It was a new and frightening thought; one which she immediately thrust stubbornly from her mind. I mustn't think that way. She urged silently. I pray, let my mind go blank, for I am riddled with dark memories and thoughts.
With new horror, Sansa observed that several Lords had risen, chanting, and were making their way toward the High Table. She felt Jon shift in his seat at her side but still resisted the temptation to look his way.
Sansa wanted to scream as the Northern Lords seized her playfully from her chair, lifting her above their heads. The room seemed to blur as she was paraded down the hall. Surely Jon was behind her, being dragged forth by Northern Ladies. However, in the chaos she could scarcely tell up from down, let alone get her bearings in the room. All that seemed to exist was riotous chanting of "bed the bride!", distant music, and her own fear.
No one seemed to notice Sansa's distress, so wrapped up as they were in hauling her upward to the Lord's chambers (or rather, Jon's chambers). At some point, she sensed that they had halted, and felt herself land on the familiar downy furs of Jon's bed. She collapsed gratefully onto the soft surface, burying her head for an instant in its gentle folds.
Sansa's stomach sank even further as she felt someone take hold of the fabric of her dress. She was back in Ramsay's chambers. He was about to rip the gown from her body. She was about to relive her nightmarish last wedding night, and her body was hollow and shaken with fear at the thought.
Suddenly, she heard a blessed, familiar voice calling firmly but not unkindly "Everybody out."
Sansa felt the hands holding her gown let go, releasing the luxurious fabric with small uttered protests. She heard those who had hauled her in shuffle out the heavy oaken doors, singing and chiding drunkenly as they went. The frenzied giggles of the Ladies mingled with the hearty bellowing of the men in an unpleasant cacophony which, thankfully, diminished quickly as they were ushered out into the hall.
Sansa heard the heavy doors of Jon's chambers seal with a weighty thud that reverberated gloomily off the walls.
The room sank into a peaceful silence; even the rumble of the distant celebrations in the Great Hall was quashed by the chamber's thick stone walls. Sansa felt Jon sit slowly on the bed beside her, his weight a respectful distance from where she lay with her face pressed anxiously into the furs.
"Sansa." Jon whispered gently, his voice deep and soothing to Sansa's ears. "It's okay." He promised softly, placing his hand delicately on top of where hers lay on the furs.
Cautiously, Sansa raised her head, lifting her eyes to meet Jon's sultry dark gaze.
"We don't have to do anything." He insisted quietly. "I won't make you. Not ever."
Sansa felt her chest lighten considerably, her eyes softening as she met Jon's eyes silently for a long moment. He stared innocently, kindly, handsomely back at her.
She exhaled a gentle breath, appreciating how differently she felt now that they were alone together. No more duty; no more pressure; no more hordes of wild Northerners. Simply she and Jon.
Just as it was in the cave…and in every night we've spent together already…except that this time we may do anything we like.
Sansa was not used to having control of situations. Jon had startled her by offering her a choice, a concept that had proven scarce in her life as of late.
After a long silence in which Jon could only guess at what Sansa was contemplating, she opened her mouth to reply.
"Then it's a good thing you won't have to make me." She whispered quietly, sitting upright to crawl slowly in Jon's direction. She saw his lips part and his breathing quicken slightly in surprise.
Though he appeared taken aback, Sansa noticed that his eyes appeared alight with tentative anticipation as she leaned toward him.
"I was scared, Jon," she breathed raptly, "of my own memories…and that I might not be brave enough," she continued, inching closer such that Jon's body was directly ahead, a reflection of her own. "but I'm not scared anymore."
Sansa's face was by that point mere inches from Jon's, such that their breaths spiralled upward as one in the chilled air.
"I trust you." She whispered softly into his ear, feeling him shudder at the proximity of her lips.
"You're sure?" Jon uttered back quickly, his resolve fading at Sansa's closeness.
Sansa kissed him in response, placing her hands tenderly on the sides of his face in an effort to draw him closer.
Jon seemed to awaken at her touch, kissing her back fervently.
In a heartbeat they had pressed their bodies together, and Jon had tentatively slid one side of Sansa's gown from her shoulder, as if testing her continued acceptance of the act.
Sansa briskly pulled her gown the rest of the way off her body by herself, nimbly escaping its folds and unquestioningly exposing herself entirely to Jon's gaze.
She paused only an instant before easing Jon's garments from his body as well. She wondered about his thoughts upon seeing her scars, but found that her worries evaporated as soon as she exposed his chest.
Of course, she realized strikingly, he is just as scarred as I am.
With a gentle finger, Sansa traced the slender scars on Jon's torso that marked where his Night's Watch brothers had driven their daggers.
Jon regarded her tentatively as she did so, his chest heaving measuredly with shortened breaths. Sansa locked eyes with him, azure on obsidian, and she sensed that he was reflecting on their similarities just as she was.
In a wordless response, Jon pressed his lips to a lengthy, hooked scar on Sansa's collarbone, causing her to inhale sharply- first in surprise, then in unexpected pleasure.
He drew away alertly at her gasp, studying her reaction respectfully for a heartbeat before proceeding more slowly. He continued to gingerly press the silken flesh of his lips to several of the scars that adorned Sansa's chest and midsection; some were pale and lightly healed, others were faded and nearly undetectable.
Jon soon reached the freshest of Sansa's past lacerations- the well-defined hollow beside her hip bone where the assassin's knife had lodged itself only a fortnight ago. He kissed that site most gently of all, so lightly that Sansa shivered pleasantly as though tickled.
Sansa soon identified an unfamiliar, curious sensation stemming from Jon's tender actions. A warm sort of yearning from deep inside that she had never experienced properly before.
This, she supposed, was what it was supposed to feel like to be with a man. She craved Jon's touch; she relished the feel of his powerful, corded muscles beneath her fingertips; she savoured the chance to run her hands through his splendid onyx hair, and in fact over every other part of him as well.
There was no doubt within Winterfell that the Sansa and Jon's union had been consummated. Some had expressed doubts after the rather unwilling march on the part of the monarchs up to the lord's chambers, but the audible intonations from within the room through the depths of the night proved otherwise.
"Our King Crow is proving a right wolf in the furs if what I've ears to is correct." Tormund mused shamelessly around some after-midnight hour from within the emptied Great Hall. "One of my lads swore there was howling and barking from inside the chambers an hour past." He teased gruffly, taking a long swig from the deep tankard in his hands.
"It's important that our king and queen produce an heir." Ser Davos replied feebly through a sheepish smile. "Let them 'ave their fun."
Tormund bellowed drunkenly with laughter. "Not to worry, I won't be interruptin' anything. You southerners is the ones with the strange bedding customs."
To that Davos shrugged and raised his goblet in a salute of reluctant agreement.
Jon stirred later than usual the following morning. Sansa, in all her beauty, lay at his side, only partially covered by furs despite the low temperature.
He had woken up beside her more times than he could count, but never like this. It seemed nearly all night he had taken her for wife.
One of, if not the greatest nights of my life…he admitted to himself sheepishly.
He had been terrified of being too rough or of frightening her, but Sansa had proved very receptive to his gentle advances.
Would that we could stay like this forever. Jon mused woefully, his eyes following the graceful curve of her back.
With a start he realized that, near enough, they could. At least whenever the sun dipped below the horizon and darkness ruled the castle…
Jon watched Sansa pensively as the first rays of light traversed the narrow slits of the shuttered window. He smiled at her sleeping figure.
I am hers, and she is mine.