A/N: this chapter is dedicated to the individual who has sent me many anonymous comments about Theon/Sansa. I hear you. Hope you enjoy :)
The Septon droned, and not for the first time, Jon found himself envious of Arya and Aegon for being allowed to remain in their respective chambers until it was their turn to be wed. Had they wed in the godswood, both ceremonies would be long over, and Jon could celebrate his luck in gaining what he never dared to hope for.
Sat to his right with a golden circlet atop her head, swathed in orange and crimson silks, Arianne seemed entirely other. Just as she had when she stood before him as the Septon joined their hands with ribbons of orange and silver, he was hers just as she was his, even if she were to keep the name Martell. Jon wondered if he ought to be bothered by that fact, that even though he'd cloaked her with the Targaryen cloak that had been in the chest Lord Reed gave him, she, and their children, would be of House Martell.
Sansa elbowed him lightly and Jon jolted. The Septon called for Aegon to cloak Arya, and Jon watched as Arya handed over her Stark maiden cloak to Robb with steady hands.
"I wish father were here," Sansa whispered to him. She sat at Jon's left, and beside her sat Bran, with Lady Catelyn beside him. "Father should be here."
"Aye. He should," Jon said. That thought had passed through his head more than once that day. What would he think of Arianne? Jon liked to think he'd have been fond of her, that he'd approve of the woman who was now his wife.
Jon wondered what father would think of all of this; an independent North and the deal struck to make it so.
The rustle of fabric was all that could be heard in the Sept as Aegon swept a cloak of red and black over her shoulders. Alysanne had given Aegon what had once been her own mother's maiden cloak, and the velvet black cloak settled heavy, the rubies which made up the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen glittering as bright as a flame across her back.
His little sister looked not at all like the knobby-kneed Arya underfoot of years past. In a gown of silver with her hair pinned and coiled atop her head, Jon saw for the first time the image of the queen she would be. Arya's sharp stoicness betrayed nothing of how awkward and out-of-place Jon knew she felt. "A true queen of winter," Sansa had called her that morning.
"My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever." The Septon paused, and Arya and Aegon joined hands and faced the Septon.
The Septon procured a silver and crimson ribbon from the small table behind him and wrapped it around their joined hands. "Let it be known that Arya of House Stark and Aegon of House Targaryen are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder." The Septon unwound the ribbon and set it back to the side. "In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Look upon each other and say the words."
It'd been nearly two hours since Jon and Arianne had said the words to one another, yet Jon's memory was already a blur. He'd been so focused on not stumbling over his remarks that he'd paid attention to little else. All he remembered was the weight of Arianne's hand in his and the shimmer of sunlight shining through the windows of the sept.
From the other side of Sansa, Jon could hear the light sniffles of Lady Catelyn. He'd no love lost for the woman, but nor did he wish her ill. She's lost much and more in these past moons.
"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger," Arya and Aegon's voices rang through the seven-sided sept as one. They repeated the same vows Jon and Arianne had only hours earlier, and with the final "from this day until the end of my days," the Septon gave one last prayer before gesturing to Aegon.
Aegon beamed down at Arya. "With this kiss, I pledge my love," and before Jon could blink, Aegon ducked his head down and kissed her.
Applause swarmed the Sept, and seemingly hours after the ceremony had begun, Aegon and Arya led the procession out of the Sept and to the great hall, which had been decorated with flowers of every color from the gardens of Riverrun. Targaryen, Stark, and Martell banners hung from the walls. Singers and their musicians had already begun to play from where they sat in the far left corner, and ribbons of red and black danced along the edges of the tables.
Hungry from sitting through two long ceremonies, none tarried in finding a seat. The fare was largely the same as the last feast, and the one before that. Trout and boar and whatever else Riverrun's larders could spare, as well as wine and ale. Jon, Arianne, Arya, and Aegon sat at the center of the high table this time rather than Robb and Alysanne, yet the most marked difference was the guards lining the hall, stopping guests as they entered and keeping a watchful eye on the celebration.
Jon had been allowed to keep his sword, as had Aegon and Robb, and aside from their own, the only swords to be seen were those glinting from the waists of the guards. Guards selected from Robb, Oberyn, and Edmure personally. There will be no bloodshed this night. It all made for a rather tense atmosphere, though as the ale and wine flowed and music filled the hall, it lessened.
There were elements of familiarity that lent Jon a warmth as strong as the ale. The wolves, all of them, nosed through the hall from scraps of food dropped on the floor. Sansa and Alysanne stood arm in arm, watching the hall, heads bent close together and giggling under their breath. It reminded Jon of feasts in Winterfell, and he wondered when next he would find himself in the candle lit great hall back home.
That night would be the last feast for some time, and all the men knew it. Food was shoved into mouths as soon as it reached their plates, and no sooner had they swallowed were seats abandoned in favor of dancing. Some indulged in celebration of an alliance sealed, and some in anticipation of the war yet to come. Men who Jon had never known to drink more than a cup or two of ale were deep into their cups, and the dancing had only just begun.
The Bear and Maiden Fair clamored through the hall, the singer's voices overtaken by the drunken bellowing of the revelers. Lord Edmure dragged a timid Roslin Tully down from her place at the table and led her across the hall in bawdy dance, and they were in good company. Cley Cerwyn led Beth Cassel around in grand, sweeping steps, and Harrion Karstark had even convinced a reluctant Wylla Manderly to take a turn with him. It felt as though all were eager to replace the memory of the last feast.
From his place stood to the side, Jon watched as dance partners were swapped with the change of the song. Prince Oberyn handed Arianne over to a grinning Bran, and Tommen traded Robb Sansa for Alysanne.
"Jon." Lady Catelyn glided up to him and stood to watch the crowd. Aegon swept Arya passed, their laughter trailing after them, and Lady Catelyn smiled softly at the sight. "I never extended my congratulations. I wish you and Princess Arianne all the best."
"Thank you, my lady," Jon said, stilted though it was. He watched her warily out of the corner of his eyes, but she paid his hesitance no mind. She instead observed her children, spread across the hall. Robb and Sansa, Arya and Aegon, even Bran danced with a pretty Bracken girl, though he soon abandoned her in favor of locating Tommen.
"I should…" Lady Catelyn paused, and glanced at Jon briefly. "Arya has always been partial to you, and I know Princess Arianne intends to remain at court for a time. It is a comfort to know she will have you close at hand after I return North."
Jon could do naught but turn her words over in his mind in a poor attempt to make some amount of sense from them. When was the last Lady Catelyn had addressed him so directly, let alone sought him out? Winterfell it must be, for Jon couldn't remember. He managed another stilted "thank you, my lady," though he could not tear his attention away from the crowd when he did so.
They were both spared the discomfort of further conversation with the arrival of Arya, who had broken away from Aegon long enough to weave through the crowd to reach them.
"Mother," Arya said, a question in her words. She looked between them quizzically, and Jon subtly shrugged his shoulders.
"Sweetling," Lady Catelyn cupped Arya's face with one hand before dropping it. "If you'll excuse me." She swept away before Arya could say otherwise, heading toward Aegon, who had just finished a turn with Sansa.
Waiting until Lady Catelyn turned her back and was some distance away, Arya reached out, snagged the cup of ale from Jon's grasp, and took a deep sip. "It's my own bloody wedding feast, yet I've hardly had time to eat or drink a thing," Arya complained.
Jon chuckled. Indeed, the dancing began not long after the meal was served, and Arya and Arianne had been gathered to the floor before anyone else. "Yes, you've looked truly miserable all night," he teased.
"I said I was hungry, not miserable," Arya said. She shoved the cup back into Jon's hands, and he frowned when he found it nearly empty. "What did my mother want?"
"To offer her congratulations." It was the truth, even if Jon truly didn't know what it was Lady Catelyn had wanted. Arya didn't look entirely convinced, yet she let the subject go. She instead leaned against the wall beside him and took in the hall before her.
"I thought being wed would feel…different. I feel the same," Arya mused.
"You've only been wed a few hours, Arya," Jon laughed.
"I know that, Jon," Arya said, words as sharp as the glare she slanted at him. Arya frowned out at the crowd. "I don't know what it was I thought I would feel."
Dread and despair, Jon supposed, though he did not say it. He'd long known her thoughts towards marriage; she'd never made a secret of them growing up.
"I have come to return your wife to you, Prince Jon." Oberyn approached with Arianne on his arm, and no sooner did they come to a stop did Arianne abandon her uncle in favor of Jon. As was becoming her habit, she coiled around Jon's arm instead. "You must know how pleased I am that my favorite niece has found a husband near as pretty as she."
"Leave him alone, Oberyn," Arianne said. Oberyn winked at him, and Arya snorted, amused with the display. Her laughter caught the attention of Oberyn, who spun to face her.
"Our new Queen of the Six Kingdoms," Oberyn said. "Would you care for a dance?" He held a hand out to her, which Arya gladly accepted. Prince Oberyn amused her greatly, Jon knew. She'd spent an entire day of their march from Casterly Rock asking after his travels, and Oberyn had been all too pleased to share.
The two returned to the crowd of dancers, and Jon wondered how long it would be before Aegon stole her away again. Jon didn't think Arya had spent more than a song dancing with anyone else before Aegon reclaimed her.
"Greyjoy looks as though someone's spit in his ale," Arianne said. Jon searched the crowd and espied Theon leaning against the opposite wall, brooding and sipping a mug of ale.
"Theon always looks that way," Jon said. He followed Theon's line of sight to Sansa, who danced with Rodrick Forrester. He spent a moment searching his sister for any hint of distress but found only a pleasant smile and a red tinge upon her cheeks. Another night, Jon might have spent his time puzzling out a reason for the vitriol Theon directed at Rodrick. He would not do so this night.
The last thing Jon wished to spend his wedding thinking about was Theon Greyjoy, no matter how he'd warmed to the man. Jon twirled Arianne about and back into the crowd before she could continue speaking of him, and the peal of laughter she let out made him feel as warm as the mulled wine had. He spun her again and again, grinning down at her when she held firm to his arms to keep him from continuing.
Once she'd steadied, Arianne reached up and tugged gently on a strand of his hair. "Your hair is getting long, husband."
Jon ducked his head away from her reaching hands and spun her out and away. Indeed, it'd been some time since his hair had been cut. It brushed his shoulders now, and he'd only just dodged Alysanne's attempts to take shears to it that morning.
"I'll cut it if it bothers you," Jon offered.
Arianne tutted. "I never said it bothered me."
For several songs more, Arianne and Jon danced. He led her through the steps of the Northern tunes that were as familiar as the winters which inspired them, and Arianne guided him through Dornish songs he'd heard no tell of.
It was in the middle of one of those Dornish songs that a hand clapped down on his shoulder. Jon stopped, and Robb stepped beside him.
"The men are growing drunk and rowdy. Ayra's already slipped away. If you wish to avoid—" Robb's warning came a mite too late. A cry of "the bedding!" rang through the hall, a cheer echoed eagerly by others.
The singers launched into The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown, though one could hardly hear them. Robb granted him a pitying smile before a crowd of eager noble women descended upon him.
They ushered him out of the hall and towards the door, tugging at his doublet all the while. Jon twisted around and caught a glimpse of Arianne, and his heightened nerves eased upon sighting Prince Oberyn and Ser Daemon Sand keeping the handsier lords at bay.
The bawdy japes and insistent hands persisted throughout the entire journey to his chambers, and before he knew it, the doors to his chambers swung open. Dacey Mormont shoved him in with a final lewd comment, and the door shut behind him with a firm slam. He stumbled into the room as naked as his name-day, and Jon cursed, frantically looking around for anything to cover himself with. All his belongings had already been packed into trunks in anticipation of the march, save for what he would wear on the morrow.
The furs will do. He snatched the furs from the bed and covered himself just as the door crashed open again, and Arianne tumbled through. The door closed on the crowd of jeering men, and muffled through the door, Jon heard Oberyn shouting at the crowd to leave.
There was naught but silence between the two of them for a long moment. All that could be heard was the drifting hollering of men singing The Bear and Maiden Fair and the crackling of the lit hearth. Arianne shifted her weight and eyed him up and down, and Jon allowed himself a moment to do the same. She'd managed to keep her shift, for all the good it did. It dipped low on her chest, and the gauzy material turned sheer with the firelight behind her.
"We do not—" Jon stopped short and forced his gaze to remain on her face. He felt like a green boy, unable to finish his sentence. As if he was not standing there entirely exposed save for the furs he clutched to him. As if she is not my wife.
"And if I wish to?" Arianne stalked towards him, sliding the shift off her shoulders and letting it pool on the ground behind her. It was no longer enough to focus on her face, and before he could stop himself, his gaze drifted downwards. She stood before him, and he could smell the perfume drifting off of her, sweet jasmine and warm sage that clouded his thoughts.
He greedily ran his eyes over her figure, and Arianne grabbed the hand not clinging to the furs and placed it upon her breast. Heavy and full in his hand, he ran a thumb over her nipple before dropping his hand to brush against the curve of her waist. Warm beneath his touch, her skin was coppery and smooth, and a dark patch of curls sat between her legs.
Running a hand up his chest, Arianne traced along his collarbone and shoulders. Jon's breath shuddered. "You've never lain with anyone?" Arianne asked. Jon shook his head. "You need not lie. Things are not so rigid in Dorne."
"There's been no one," Jon repeated. He settled his hand on her hip, lightly digging his fingers in and admiring how the skin dimpled beneath his touch.
"Really? No pretty serving girl in Winterfell? No camp follower to warm your tent?" Arianne pressed closer and trailed her hand down his arm. Distracted by the press of her breasts against him, Jon didn't notice her other hand reaching down to tug the fur from his grasp until it was too late. It fell to the ground, and Jon's eyes snapped to hers.
"I told you. No one." Arianne draped her arms over his shoulders, toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. She tilted her head back and leaned up into him, her breath dusting across his lips. Jon's head swam, and he could hardly sort one thought from another. Perhaps that was why, before he could think better of it, he asked, "Have you?"
His words had come out sterner than he'd intended, more strained than he'd hoped. Arianne pulled away slightly, but Jon followed before she could go far. Her body was warm against his, and even though the hearth had been lit in their rooms, he felt cold in her absence. Her eyes, large and molten-brown, turned the slightest bit harder. Still, shame had no place when she answered, "I will not start our marriage with a lie; you will find no blood on the sheets. Is this a problem?"
Jon shook his head no, and, before he lost his nerve, dipped his hand between her thighs. He swallowed when he found her to be slick. Robb and Theon had mentioned something of this. He ran a finger along her slit and let Arianne guide his hand, and her hitched breath and soft sigh submerged him in a feverish haze.
Who was he to care that she was no maiden? Jon was no follower of the Seven, and it was they who preached to such matters. They were wed now regardless. He thought briefly of who it might have been, though the spark of jealousy was doused by Arianne's lips on his and her hand wandering lower to brush against his cock.
The kiss was nothing like the chaste one they'd shared in the Sept or the stolen ones they'd shared in the days before. She kissed him hungrily, nipping at his bottom lip and holding him firm by his neck with the hand not stroking him. Arianne shoved Jon backward and he let her, falling back onto the bed. All he could do was watch as she climbed atop him and straddled him, her gaze racking along his body.
"Oberyn was right. You are very pretty." Jon had nothing to say, too focused on the sight of her above him as she leaned forward. Her lips found his again, and Arianne grabbed his hand and guided it back between her legs. Jon obeyed eagerly. He dipped a finger into her, and when she brushed her tongue against his he added a second, drinking in her small gasp.
Before long, Arianne swatted his hands away and took him in hand. She lowered herself onto his cock and his head fell to the mattress below. Jon tried and failed to hide his stuttering moan and heaving breaths as Arianne raised and lowered herself again and again. Her hand wound in his hair, tugging his head forward to face her from where it'd lolled to the side.
"Is this alright, husband?" The teasing twist of her words was met with a nip at his jaw. He nodded, and his hair tugged against the fingers knotted through it, sending a pleasant jolt through his stomach. He moaned a "yes" and dug his fingers into her hips.
She kept her rhythm for some time, sliding up and down him until his peak washed over him as sudden as a winter gale and with a stutter of his hips, his seed spilled into her.
Gently, Arianne eased her grip on his hair and combed her fingers through, brushing it from his face. She fell beside him and whispered promises of again, and Jon had not yet caught his breath when he rolled atop her.
The few hours of sleep Jon did manage were as dreamless and as deep a slumber as he'd had since the start of the war. It was a sleep that lasted not long enough; earlier than he'd have liked, Arianne stirred in the bed beside him and arose. She drew back the curtains, casting the room in the gilded, early morning light. Jon squinted against it.
"It'll be a long day, and we've slept long enough," Arianne said. Jon grumbled his disagreement, but his stomach rumbled as servants brought in trays of bacon and warm bread. His hunger won out against any lingering weariness, and he shuffled to a seat across from Arianne at the small table by the window in the solar.
He was of half a mind to take her back to bed. They weren't set to march until midday, and the sun was low in the sky still. Her robe falling half off her shoulder was all the more convincing, yet Arianne seemed intent on starting the day. She'd already brushed the knots from her hair, and her clothes were set out and ready.
"A black vulture on yellow, with a babe in its claws," Arianne said. She picked up a piece of fruit from the plate and popped it in her mouth.
Jon furrowed his brow. "What are you talking about?"
"House Blackmont of Blackmont. Come now, Jon." Arianne handed him a small plate piled with bread and bacon, and he eagerly took it. She grabbed an olive from the small bowl between them and ate it, watching him all the while. "I'll give you an easy one. Blue hawk on silver."
"It's too early for this, Arianne," Jon sighed. The stubborn dregs of sleep still clouded his mind. How is she so awake? Stubbornly, Arianne pinned him with a stare and snatched the jam from his reach as he made to grab it. Jon sighed again. "Fowler of Skyreach."
"Very good," Arianne praised. She popped a grape into her mouth and grinned at him, placing the jar of jam beside his plate. Her robe had fallen further down her shoulder, and thoughts of bed surged to the forefront once more. Arianne could be convinced, surely. Jon could be quite convincing when the need arose.
A quick knock and the door opening dashed any thoughts of their bed. One of Arianne's cousins strolled in, and Jon scowled. Tyene. The two did everything together, and Jon supposed he ought to be grateful she'd at least waited this long to barge in.
"You're still eating?" Tyene said. She waltzed up to the table and plucked a slice of bread from Jon's plate. "Everyone's gathered in the yard."
"We're not to march until midday. We've hours yet," Jon groused. He pulled his plate closer to him and scowled at Tyene, both for stealing his bread and for reminding him he ought to be down in the yard as well.
It'd be hours until they marched, but it would take hours to gather and ready the men. He was still Robb's hand, even if for only a few more moons. Regardless of his desire to return to bed, Jon took one last bite of bread and hoisted himself from his seat and slipped back into the bedroom to dress.
As he was about to leave, Jon lingered in the doorway, watching the scene before him. Tyene had begun braiding Arianne's hair, and the two giggled together about something or other. Jon's feet carried him forward before he'd entirely made up his mind, and he gave Arianne a swift kiss before continuing out the door and down to the yard.
The chaos and commotion Jon found in the yard were no great surprise, given the buzz of the rest of Riverrun. Servants and men-at-arms rushed past him in the halls, careening around corners and vaulting up the stairs. The yard was hardly any different. The Smalljon shouted orders at some men, and squires dipped and weaved around horses and carts.
The last he'd seen such disarray, they'd been leaving Winterfell. Of course, then, it'd only been Northmen. Now it was Rivermen and Dornishmen alike. Nearly all of Riverrun was to march, save a small contingent of men left behind should the need arise. Even Lady Catelyn was to join. There would be no returning to Riverrun; after Harrenhal would be King's Landing.
Jon waved to Edmure, who readied his horse across the yard as he spoke to Roslin, who was amongst the few who would remain behind. Not far from Edmure stood Beth, Jeyne, Wylla, Joy, and Jorelle, huddled around their horses and talking amongst themselves.
Shrieks from above rang loud above shouted commands, but few paid it any mind. The dragons had been circling all morning by the looks of it, intrigued by all the commotion and no doubt eager to stretch their wings and fly above the column. Aegon stood beside Arya, pointing up at Vēzos as the dragon twisted about.
A shout of his name came from behind him, and Jon spun around to find Alysanne approaching. Jon bade her good morning and asked, "Is Robb busy? I'd hoped to speak to him before we marched."
"Not overly so, no," Alysanne's face twisted, and she tugged her gloves onto her hands, pulling at each of the fingers. She peered over her shoulder at the man in question. "Though I'd be careful were I you. He's in a state."
"Why's that?" Jon studied Robb. His shoulders were tensed into a harsh line, and he roughly shoved items into the bag hanging from his horse's saddle. Nerves, mayhap. The enormity of it all was weighing down on Jon; he imagined it was thrice as heavy for Robb.
"Theon's gone and asked for Sansa's hand. They've been courting for some time, it would appear." Jon jerked his attention back to Alysanne, who continued fussing with her gloves as she continued.
"Courting?" Bloody Theon. He scanned the yard and finally spotted the pair in question. They stood off to the side, speaking with their heads bent close and chancing glances at Robb. He almost expected such a thing from Theon, but Sansa? Jon regarded Alysanne, who appeared more dryly amused than anything. "You're not surprised."
Her lips pursed, and she sheepishly peered at Jon before sliding her gaze over the yard, settling on Sansa and Theon. "Sansa may have mentioned something to me last night. I was also not entirely blind to any…affections Sansa may or may not feel."
Affections. Jon looked at Theon and Sansa and pouted. He supposed Sansa had been spending time with Theon. Yet, she also spent much of her time with Alysanne, and Sansa hadn't gone asking for her hand.
Sansa smiled up at Theon, who smiled down at her with a softness that Jon thought out of place and foreign on his face. His frown deepened. "Will Robb refuse them?"
"Robb fears the lords will claim he favors Theon too much." Alysanne sighed and continued to watch Sansa and Theon. "He already plans to give him the Dreadfort, as I'm sure you know."
Jon did know. It'd been half his idea, what with Theon's sister Asha claiming to be her father's heir and Balon Greyjoy doing nothing to dispute it. Theon had no desire to wage war against his sister, and none could argue he deserved a reward for rescuing Sansa from King's Landing. Jon already had in mind the lords who would make a fuss about it, but at least this way, none could accuse Robb of favoring Umber to Karstark or Manderly to Glover. "Will he refuse them?"
"No, Robb won't refuse them. He's asked that they wait to make any official announcement until the news of Robb granting Theon the Dreadfort settles, but he'll allow them to wed." Amusement sparkled in Alysanne's eyes, and she looked across the yard to Robb and then back to Jon. "Sansa has more steel than she's credited. You should have seen her, Jon. I'm not entirely certain she would have accepted a refusal."
Theon and Sansa. Jon watched the two of them together, Theon adjusting the saddle on Sansa's horse and Sansa's laughter at what was no doubt a joke unfit for any ears. Sansa's laughter was soft and something that Jon had seldom seen in the days since her return. Even a smile was rare from her. Sansa and Theon. They made an odd pair if one were to ask Jon, but he supposed some might say the same of him and Arianne.
"I suppose there are worse men she could marry," Jon said. He and Alysanne chuckled, and Jon spared Theon and Sansa one last long glance. Far worse men, Jon decided, than the man who had risked his own life to free her from King's Landing.
"Arya!" Alysanne called. She bid Jon a farewell and strode across the yard towards Arya, who had split away from Aegon to fiddle with and readjust the saddle Aegon's squire had put on her horse. Alysanne dipped her head close to Arya and must have told her of that morning's happenings if Arya's clear laughter was anything to go by.
At long last, Arianne emerged from the keep and, upon sighting him, made her way across the yard toward him. Beneath the thick cloak and furs drawn tight around her shoulders, her orange skirts swished around her legs, and her hair had been drawn into a tight braid rather than flowing loose as she so often wore it.
"I've married a bundle of furs," Jon said as she stopped before him. Arianne pouted at him and adjusted the silver fox furs across her shoulders. Though Jon could admit the morning was especially brisk, he delighted in prodding at her.
"And I, a jester. Tell me, will you juggle and sing for me as well as tell jokes?" Even a head shorter, Arianne still found a way to peer down her nose at him.
"If it would please you, then I might." He reached out and tugged lightly on one of her curls, mimicking her action from the night before and chuckling when she batted his hand away.
"It would not. Your sister has informed me you're a positively dreadful singer." Only once had Arianne referred to the Starks as his cousins in his presence, and Jon hadn't even corrected her. She'd made the change herself after hearing him refer to Robb as brother, and it endeared her to Jon all the more.
"Which one?"
"Sansa. She's proved quite informative."
"Informative?" Arianne failed to answer and instead brushed by him and smiled sweetly at Alyn, who helped her onto her horse. "In what way, Arianne?"
"In many ways," came Arianne's coy answer.
Jon got no answer that day. Nor did he get an answer on the second day or the march. Jon had yet to receive an answer as they came upon the ruins of High Heart, and he wondered if he ever would.