The heavy silence that follows Smalljon's comment is evident only to Sansa since the uncles keep talking between themselves and the Greatjon accepts a large horn of ale from a servant before he sits with an audible sigh of comfort in his great chair facing the hearth and stretches his long legs out before him.
"Will you tell us of Karhold, Lord Jon?' she asks him tentatively now though she can hardly bear to look at him, or have him look at her. "You were there some time."
"There is news of your lady sister, my lady-" he begins lightly.
"The marriage pact with the Freys is broken then?" the Greatjon interrupts.
"So it would seem, Father: Harrion expects the King to announce the betrothal of the younger daughter of House Stark to the heir of House Karstark."
The Greatjon nods sagely but then rolls his eyes. "That will please Lord Rickard, no doubt, the ambitious old fart: he had wanted Robb for Alys when she was only a chit and he was only heir to Winterfell. Gods…this will make his son my good-brother; now I'll have to be pleasant to that walking, talking bunghole. Begging your pardon, Sansa."
"Of course, my lord. But how is it we have received no word? I have not even had a raven from my lady mother." She is disappointed that her family does not involve her in family matters, nor ask her counsel. She feels quite awkward that her husband and good-son should know more of her family's affairs than she does; it seems to her that she is hardly worth the alliance that she has brought them, for they had been Robb's confidantes since the banners were called to make war in the South.
"The marriage pact with the Freys has been long in its dissolution, my lady; but King Robb thought it best that it did not appear that he had anticipated the break. It was a political matter, not a family one," the Smalljon explains.
It is a family matter to me, she thinks wistfully. "But then it will seem as though Arya has been set aside. How could his grace desire such a thing? Or my mother?"
"The pact was very unpopular here in the North, Sansa; even you have said that you pitied Arya returning South, and to House Frey, no less. Though there is no less than House Frey is there?" The Greatjon laughed at his own humor again.
After Robb had been recognized as King in the North by King Renly, Walder Frey and his brood had anticipated that his daughter Roslin's royal marriage would garner plum positions at court and highly-placed marriages for his many offspring. But Robb had never kept much of a court and he had rewarded his own Northmen first. The loss of many in battles meant that there were fewer high-born men for Frey's daughters to wed and those Northern houses with female heirs choose to marry them to Northern men. The only other successful marriage brokered had been that of a fat daughter named Walda to Roose Bolton, and at the cost of the girl's weight in silver for a dowry. The Frey patriarch was further insulted when Robb elected to delay Arya's promised union to one of his sons, Elmar the boy was named, until she reached ten-and-six, saying that she had needed time with her family to recover from the death of her father and her ordeal in the South. Sansa had been deeply hurt when she had heard of Robb's excuses, and wondered why she had not merited the same consideration as Arya. Sometimes she did not feel that she was a Stark at all; and she believed that her family felt the same.
"No one will be unhappy to see your lady sister stay in the North, Sansa," the Greatjon reassures her mildly. "And what of your marriage prospects, Smalljon?" Her husband turns his attentions to his heir now and Sansa looks back and forth between them. "Did they thrust Lady Alys at you? I trust you did not thrust any part of yourself at Lady Alys!" He laughs heartily at his own bawdy words. "Well, is Rickard to be your good-father? Gods be good. Though I've naught against the girl if you haven't, boy."
"You speak of my marrying and call me boy in the same breath? I wonder if I am fit to wed then," the Smalljon remarks sourly.
The Greatjon looks at his son with impatience. "If I live to see you go gray like me, you will still be my boy, Smalljon. What ails you this night? Did the girl fail to please you…or did you fail to please her?"
"I can please any lady very well, Father-" he bristles.
The Greatjon laughs at his son's defensiveness as though he were bragging. "Listen to him!"
Sansa is confused again: she was unaware that Lord Jon was even considering marriage and he was with her in their tower only this day after his return; she wonders how he can love her and think of marrying another girl. But he and his father seem to be approaching an argument now and Sansa does not want the tension in the solar to escalate. She is fearful of the Smalljon's anger, and her husband's; and she feels compelled to reconcile them. "I am sure your eldest son is a desirable match for any lady, my lord," she tells the Greatjon gently.
"Of course he is: he has the look of his father!" he crows. "And he is my heir-"
"I thank you for your kind words, my lady," the Smalljon tells her archly, "mayhaps I should make suit for the Lady Arya," he taunts her though only she knows it.
Sansa sucks in her breath. "I do not doubt that you are a worthy match, Lord Jon; however if the king has given his word to Harrion Karstark, he would not be like to break it," she looks at him steadily now. "My lord brother always honors his words." Her words are meant as a reproach.
"Forgive me then, my lady: I am sure no Stark has given reason to question their honor."
Sansa's chest tightens and she feels as though she could reel from the underlying harshness of his words which hit her like a blow to her flesh, a feeling she has not forgotten. She suddenly feels shaky and so turns to her lord husband.
"Will you pardon me, my lord? I fear I have over-exerted myself unnecessarily today," she keeps herself from glancing at the Smalljon as she speaks, "and I should like to retire."
The Greatjon sets down his horn and rises from his chair. "You should have stayed abed today, I told you," he insists though she knows well that he did not. "I'll see you to our chamber."
"No, my lord," she insists, "I am well enough to retire alone…and it will leave you free to discuss matters of importance if I am not present to impede you," she adds sadly. The men all rise self-consciously as she wishes them good rest and leaves the solar with her head held high and her hands clasped together before her.
She sits at her dressing table brushing her hair when the Greatjon comes in; he seemed surprised to see her awake.
"I thought you'd be asleep, Sansa: were you not tired? You needs mind yourself in your condition -"
"I will, my lord; but I wished to ask your forgiveness. I was ungracious towards you in the solar and would beg pardon. I was surprised to have such important news of my sister Arya, and to be the last to know, it seemed."
The Greatjon waved away her concerns as he came to stand behind her. He liked to watch her brush her hair, she knew: he would take his time putting on his boots in the morning if her maid was brushing and braiding her hair, and she could see him steal glances in her looking glass as he sat on the end of their bed.
"As Smalljon said: the king wished to keep his choice secret. Karstark was careless to tell even my son without a royal proclamation. The Freys have been a pain in your brother's ass since he sat it on his throne and he's well rid of them."
Sansa set her hairbrush down now. "But Queen Roslin is a Frey," she ventures.
"Aye, and a fine queen she has made regardless. I suspect your lady mother had a hand in choosing for him; though she may well have been the only one he could stand to look upon without suffering the green-sickness: ugly lot those Frey girls," he shudders in revulsion. "I saw them for myself and prayed the gods my king did not offer me as husband. I'd have taken the Black: wildling spearwives and white walkers would have been a better fate."
And a better fate than me, for they would not have betrayed you as I have.
She looks down at her hands. "I pray I have never given you cause to lament your fate, my lord," she says humbly.
He reaches a great hand to cup her cheek now. "Never once, Sansa. To bed with you now."
She rises and walks to the bed and shrugs out of her fur robe to drape it over the footboard. The Greatjon sheds his clothes and lets his boots fall onto the floor and pulls the covers of the bed back and climbs in naked beside her.
"Feeling better then?" he asks gently and he pats her shoulder and leaves his hand there and Sansa knows that he wants her and so she nods and smiles and turns to him. He strokes her hair and runs his big hands down her body over her bedgown and strokes her thigh. When he moves closer she lies back compliantly and raises her bedgown above her waist and opens her legs for him as he rolls his tremendous body onto hers, propping himself on his elbows so she will not have to bear his weight. He grunts under his breath as he enters her slowly and easily and begins to move in and out of her, never breaking the repetitive rhythm of his steady thrusting. He goes on a long time like this and sometimes he will reach to touch her hair or her face or to cup her breast. He does not hurt her, though his member is large and long, and lying with him is not unpleasant but Sansa looks up at him with a dispassionate detachment belied by her soft smile and gentle breathing. Finally his own breath comes heavier and his eyes flutter and roll back and he grunts with an expelled breath and her name on his lips and holds himself inside her as he spends his seed in pulsing throbs and sighs in relief. He withdraws from her as soon as he is finished and rolls off her onto his back and lays a great arm across his eyes and waits for his breathing to resume normally. He leans over to kiss her cheek.
"Good night, Sansa."
"Sleep well, my lord."