Deduction, a wedding, and a bit of fluff.
Sansa
The door closed, a heavy thud echoed through the chamber, leaving Sansa in a state of disquiet after the unsettling revelation from Lord Varys. She paced anxiously before the flickering hearth, its flames casting dancing shadows on the walls, while Jon remained seated, contemplative, sipping from his ale.
"How was Joffrey poisoned?" Jon asked, breaking the tense silence that enveloped them.
Sansa sighed, her gaze fixed on the mesmerising dance of the flames. "I was wearing a necklace, a gift from a man named Ser Dontos, in gratitude for saving his life. He claimed it as a family heirloom, but it held a hidden crystal, concealing a deadly poison. I believe Lady Olenna, removed a crystal and laced Joffrey's wine with the contents."
Jon's brow furrowed with concern. "How many of the people here in Winterfell now were present at that wedding?"
Sansa offered a rueful smile. "Perhaps an easier question would be who wasn't present. The guest list was extensive."
In a gesture of reassurance, Jon reached for Sansa's hand, pulling her gently towards him. His arm wrapped around the back of her thighs. "I think it's crucial to consider those aligned with either Daenerys or Cersei," Jon said, his gaze fixed on the flickering fire.
"Maybe someone who might wish to act independently, with motives that align with Lord Varys's interests," Sansa said, her mind racing through the possibilities.
Jon nodded in agreement. "Let's begin with the newcomers. They are Yara, Theon, and Ellaria."
"Theon can be trusted. By extension, so can Yara," Sansa said, her words carrying a tone of cautious confidence. "But Ellaria... I'm uncertain. I know little of her, only that she was Prince Oberyn Martell's lover. Rumours suggest she killed Prince Doran and Myrcella Baratheon."
Jon's eyes widened with realisation. "Jaime's daughter?"
Sansa nodded, sensing the potential complications that might arise. "Jaime won't be pleased about her presence here," she said.
Curiosity etched Jon's features as he sought more information. "How did she kill her?" he asked, his eyes searching Sansa's face for clues.
"Poison," Sansa said, the realisation of Lord Varys's warning dawning upon her with sudden clarity.
Jon, attuned to the shift in Sansa's demeanour, gently pulled her down to sit on his knee, cradling her in his arms. "Tell me what you're thinking."
A heavy sigh escaped Sansa's lips as she said, "She sought revenge for Oberyn's death. They were in King's Landing for the wedding. Oberyn wanted justice for the Mountain's crimes against his sister and her children."
Jon nodded. "Go on."
"His niece and nephew are your true half-brother and half-sister. Rhaegar set aside his sister for Aunt Lyanna. Ellaria has assumed the mantle of his quest for revenge, which means you, as Rhaegar's son, and me, as a Stark, could be potential targets. Oberyn himself wouldn't have accused you; he believed children were innocent of their parents' crimes. However, from what I've gathered, Ellaria may not share Oberyn's sentiments," Sansa explained to Jon.
Jon, absorbing the weight of this revelation, sought further clarity. "So, you're suggesting Ellaria might be here to poison us?" His brow furrowed in concern.
Sansa nodded. "She would be my first consideration."
Jon pondered this unsettling possibility. "But why would Varys bring her here if he suspected she might try to harm us and then reveal her intentions?"
Sansa contemplated the question, her mind weaving through the intricacies of potential motives and allegiances. "He's brought a poison expert. Perhaps he wants to catch her," Sansa said, her thoughts weaving through the possibilities. "Maybe Varys has struck a deal with Dorne – eliminate Ellaria, and they will pledge allegiance. With everyone who knew Elia now gone, the Martells might not hold a grudge against you. Ellaria killed Prince Doran, and I suspect she isn't particularly popular in Dorne."
"I'll talk to Varys," Jon assured her, his hand gently curling behind Sansa's neck. "I don't want you worrying about anything except Margaery and ensuring her day goes without a hitch."
Sansa pouted, a hint of protest lingering on her lips. "But this is what I excel at."
Jon smirked, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "It's about time I learned how to play the game of thrones," he declared, playfully biting her bottom lip before drawing her into a tender kiss. When they paused for breath, Jon gazed at her with an almost puppy-like expression. "Am I forgiven?"
A teasing smile played on Sansa's lips. "Only if you wear the clothes, I made for you. You need to dress like a King."
"I'll walk around naked if it pleases you." he whispered, pulling her in for another kiss, while his hand slid under her dress.
Sansa stopped him. Her desire threatening to cloud her sensibilities. "We don't have time." Jon's face dropped. "Later, I promise. Maybe you can spend the night with a whore, as promised." She stood up and smoothed her skirt. Looking down, she noticed Jon's breeches were tented. She desperately wanted him. Just seeing his breeches in such a fashion affected her, but she had to be strong. "As long as you stay sober."
"Is that a promise?" he asked.
Sansa's answer was a mere smirk, before she changed the subject. "I'm going to find Lady Margaery. You go find Lord Varys. Let him introduce you to his taste tester."
Sansa turned away, intending to leave, but Jon's grip on her hand halted her departure.
"No!" he pleaded, a sense of urgency tinting his words. "We have time. We can be quick. You won't even have to re-braid your hair."
As Sansa met the gaze of love in his purple-grey eyes, a final push of encouragement settled any lingering reservations. "Let me lock the door first," she asserted, a rush of determination propelling her toward the imposing oak barrier. With practised efficiency, she bolted the sturdy iron lock, sealing them within the comforting embrace of the chamber. Returning to Jon, who remained seated in his chair, she felt the air thicken with anticipation.
Jon spoke softly, "Come here." He opened his legs, inviting Sansa into the small circle of warmth and intimacy.
With a gentle touch, Jon raised the folds of Sansa's skirts, revealing the innocence beneath. Their eyes met, a silent agreement passing between them. Sansa nodded, granting permission for what was to come.
Jon, with a careful demeanour, loosened the ties of her smallclothes. The air hummed with the unspoken anticipation as Sansa's legs yielded, straddling him in a tender dance. Remaining on her feet, she embodied a delicate blend of vulnerability and strength.
The moment she felt his tongue, every care in the world disappeared, sparking a tinder inside her. As he followed the line of her slit, kindling the small flame, until he met that spot which brought her so much pleasure. His fingers parted her folds to give him greater access, where he attacked her nub with fervour. The heat was building up inside her, like an inferno, dancing between her thighs. She could feel the twine of need, which connected her stomach to her cunny, tighten. Jon's beard, scratched the tops of her thighs as his burning dragon-tongue, swirled inside her, another sweet flame to add to the mountain of pleasure building. As if by second nature, Sansa pulled the leather tie from Jon's hair and ran her fingers through the raven curls she loved.
When Jon inserted his fingers, Sansa knew the twine would soon snap. She chased it; she wanted it. He focussed his energies, fucking her with his fingers, licking her folds and sucking on her nub, building the fire bigger and brighter. Sansa dug her fingers into the back of Jon's head, and placed the others on the back of his chair to keep her standing, should her knees buckle.
"Come for me." Jon's deep, muffled voice came from below. Sansa glanced down and saw his grey eyes, now purple with desire, staring back at her. He curled his fingers, like a hook, stroking the spot, which was always enough to tip her over the edge.
That vision was enough, the twine snapped, and the burn reached its zenith. Wildfire exploded inside. Her insides were pulsating around Jon's fingers. Her body doubled over, unable to stand up straight.
"Gods, Jon, yes." she panted, pulling Jon's mouth into her. Soon, it became too much. "Jon stop, stop." She cried, her legs wobbling, as the dying embers of her orgasm faded.
Jon did as she commanded, he righted himself. He sat up in the chair, where Sansa noticed, at some point, he had divested himself of his breeches and smallclothes, leaving his erection standing tall and proud. If she'd been mind to, she would have asked him when he'd taken them off, but she felt she no longer cared.
Jon placed his calloused fingers on her hips to steady her. "Hands on my shoulders."
"Yes, your grace." Sansa said, finally regaining her breath. She placed one hand on his shoulder, with the other, she grabbed his manhood and pumped it a few times, ensuring it was hard enough, while appreciating the softness of his skin.
Sansa lowered herself on him, guiding his length inside her. After the initial pinch, she felt the wonderful stretching sensation, and eventually the feeling of fullness enveloped her. She was one with Jon.
Jon closed his eyes and rested his head back. "Gods, you are so sweet and tight and wet."
When he opened eyes, his gave met hers, all sense of playfulness gone. No words were needed as their lips met, and attacked one another with a ferocious passion. Sansa could taste a mixture of herself and ale on him, one which she associated with the taste of sex, which had replaced lemons as her favourite flavour. The hands on her hips guided her, rolling with his in synergy.
Their lips Jon tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear, before lowering his thumb to her nub. Sansa rested her forehead on Jon's as their breathing became rapid and ragged. A bead of sweat ran down the back of Sansa's neck, but she didn't care. Her already sensitive core was alight once more. Climbing a mountain of need for the pleasurable sensation which coupling with Jon gave her.
They picked up the pace. Sansa knew from Jon's movements, his fires were burning like hers, both ready to snap at any moment. He furiously worked at her nub, winding up her body, tighter and tights, until finally something snapped.
Sansa stopped for a moment and lifted her head as her back arched. Jon pumped in and out, hard and fast, chasing his own release.
"Jon..." she whimpered as her pulsating core clamped onto Jon's manhood.
Warmth from Jon's seed flooded her insides, as he pressed into her. His body stilled. "Sansa." he said, pulling her body to him, and burying his face into her chest.
They picked up the pace. Sansa knew from Jon's movements, his fires were burning like hers, both ready to snap at any moment. He furiously worked at her nub, winding up her body, tighter and tights, until finally something snapped.
Sansa stopped for a moment and lifted her head as her back arched. Jon pumped in and out, hard and fast, chasing his own release.
"Jon..." she whimpered as her pulsating core clamped onto Jon's manhood.
Warmth from Jon's seed flooded her insides, as he pressed into her. His body stilled. "Sansa." he said, pulling her body to him, and burying his face into her chest.
After a couple of minutes, they regained their composure. Jon's manhood softened inside her, which was her cue to get up and clean herself in the privy. There, Sansa retrieved a fresh cloth from a stack nearby, immersing it in the bowl of water perched on a table. With measured care, she cleansed and dried herself between her legs, a routine familiar in its repetition. Once satisfied, she returned to the chambers, slipping back into her smallclothes before scrutinising her reflection in the mirror. To the casual observer, her hair might have seemed presentable, but to Sansa, her braid appeared a tangled chaos.
Upon her return to their chambers, Jon, too, made his way to the privy to attend to himself. When he emerged, he was clad in the new attire she had crafted for him. Meanwhile, Sansa diligently re-braided her hair, ensuring every strand fell into place without a hint of rebellion. Jon, in his turn, combed through his own locks and gathered them, transforming from the tousled lover into the very embodiment of the King in the North.
Pride surged through Sansa as she observed the metamorphosis. This man was not only her husband but also a paragon of bravery, strength, gentleness, kindness, and undeniable handsomeness. He surpassed the promises her father had once made, embodying qualities that elevated him beyond expectation. A smile graced Sansa's lips, an unspoken acknowledgment of the profound admiration she held for the man in the reflection.
"How do I look?" Sansa inquired.
"I preferred how you looked before," Jon replied with a warm smile.
"What's that?" she asked, her brows knitting together.
"The well-loved look," he said.
Sansa couldn't suppress a reciprocal smile. "That is how I prefer you. But we are a King and Queen, and I don't think the well-loved look is the right appearance. Especially at someone else's wedding."
"Aye, I suppose you're right," Jon said, nodding in agreement.
Sansa turned to meet Jon's gaze. "I ought to go find Lady Margaery. This is, hopefully, her final wedding. I am determined we are to make it special for her."
Jon pressed a quick peck on her lips. "And I will seek Lord Varys. I would like to be introduced to this food taster," he said, leaving her with one last kiss before turning to depart. Sansa continued with the finishing touches to her hair, a sense of purpose imbued in her movements as she prepared for the momentous occasion.
For the rest of the day, Sansa dedicated herself to assisting Margaery in the meticulous preparations for her wedding. Despite her regal title as Queen, Sansa found herself in a role reversal, taking on the duties of the Lady in Waiting. She helped dress Margaery and expertly braided her hair in the distinctive northern style.
Having already endured three southern-style weddings, Margaery's disillusionment with the Faith of the Seven had deepened, particularly after contending with the challenges posed by the Faith Militant. Lord Tarly, however, remained steadfast in his devotion to the Seven-Pointed Star. As a compromise, a blend of the wedding traditions of the old gods, as witnessed in Jon and Sansa's ceremony, with a condensed version of the Faith's rites.
When Sansa proposed the idea of exchanging vows in front of the heart tree, Margaery's enthusiasm surpassed expectations. To her, the ancient weirwood held an allure of mystery and romance, making it the perfect backdrop for a wedding. The red leaves for the weirwood, represented life and love, and traditions in the whispered echoes of a bygone era.
Sansa had scarcely crossed paths with Jon since their morning tryst. Last-minute adjustments to the castle's adornments, coupled with an opulent array of dishes from the Reach, promised a feast grander than the one Jon and Sansa had enjoyed.
Winterfell now boasted a more lavish ambiance than during the visit of King Robert many years prior. Fresh tapestries graced the walls, and certain rooms had been whitewashed to introduce a touch of brightness. Garlands crafted from holly and pine adorned the Great Hall, infusing the air with a crisp fragrance. In every aspect, the castle radiated a vitality that banished the prevailing shades of grey, injecting a newfound vibrancy into the heart of Winterfell.
Jon had initially baulked at the opulence of the feast. Seven courses seemed excessive in his eyes. Why not stick to three, as he and Sansa had done? After many debates, Sansa had eventually persuaded him that such luxury was a necessity, a display of power. If Lady Olenna wanted to invest in Winterfell purely for aesthetics, it would serve as a potent symbol of authority until Jon claimed Kings Landing.
Amid their hectic schedules, Sansa found no opportunity to discuss Jon's meeting with Varys before the wedding. Instead, they made their way to the Godswood, decorated in the same fashion as Jon and Sansa's own nuptials.
The assembly gathered beneath the sprawling canopy of the ancient weirwood tree, its red leaves stood out as a shock of colour, amongst the white veneer of the Godswood. A visage of the Old Gods, etched into the bone-white trunk, bore an expression both timeless and sombre. The eyes, deep-cut and rimmed with dried sap, glistened with an age that surpassed even the venerable walls of Winterfell.
The ground lay adorned in a pristine quilt of snow, each flake a glistening gem that sparkled like crystals in the ambient glow of lanterns flickering against the encroaching darkness. The night held its breath, and the air carried the weight of ancient whispers, as if the very gods themselves observed the proceedings.
Dickon stood poised at the apex of a makeshift aisle, tall and strikingly handsome. In a different time, he might have been considered an ideal suitor for Sansa. She couldn't discern the details of what lay beneath the thick, velvet green cloak he wore. However, the expression he wore, suggested it wasn't warm enough for the icy cold winds. Beside him stood his older brother, Sam, Jon's closest friend. Sansa found solace because Dickon had a family member by his side, particularly following the recent loss of his father.
A collective hush enveloped the crowd as Margaery arrived, her arm wrapped in Lady Olenna's, who bore the responsibility of giving the bride away. Her hair cascaded down in two simple braids on either side of her head, meeting and flowing gracefully down her back. Draped in an off-white, intricately designed dress crafted from rich silks, velvet, and lace, she exuded an aura of refined elegance. The green velvet coat adorned with golden roses, the sigil of House Tyrell, served as a stunning complement. Her cloak, made of matching velvet with an ermine collar, completed the ensemble. Sansa couldn't help but acknowledge that Margaery looked absolutely breathtaking.
When she reached Dickon, they smiled at one another, before turning to Septon Walfred to being the ceremony.
"Who comes before the Old Gods this night?" asked Septon Walfred, his voice resonating through the hallowed space.
"Margaery of the House Tyrell, a Lady trueborn and noble. She seeks the blessings of the gods for a union." Lady Olenna replied.
"And who claims this fair maiden?" inquired the Septon.
A figure emerged from the shadows, stepping into the radiant circle of lantern light. "I, Dickon Tarly, Lord of Horn Hill,"
The ritual continued, the Septon. "Who gives her?" he asked.
Lady Olenna stepped forward. Despite the walking can in her hand, her presence commanded the reverence of the gathered assembly. "Lady Olenna Tyrell, her grandmother and Lady of Highgarden, and Lady Paramount of the Reach," she proclaimed, her voice unwavering.
The final question hung in the air, a pivotal moment in the timeless dance of unions. "Lady Margaery, will you take this man?" intoned Septon Walfred.
Margaery and Dickon faced each other in the glow of lanterns and the silent presence of the weirwood, exchanged nervous glances. "I take this man," said Margaery.
Dickon and Margaery knelt side by side, their heads bowed in reverence before the ancient weirwood tree. Beneath the rustling leaves of the Heart Tree, their prayers were silent, as was customary of a wedding in front of the Old Gods. The tree, a silent witness to countless unions, swayed in the wind, as if offering its blessing to the couple beneath its venerable branches.
A moment of tranquil communion passed before Dickon and Margaery rose from their kneeling position. Their eyes, touched by the sacred, met in a shared understanding. The union under the watchful gaze of the Old Gods had been acknowledged.
They turned away from the Heart Tree, to face Septon Walfred. Like the wedding of Jon and Sansa, the ceremonies were a transition from the rites of the Old Gods to the customs of the Faith of the Seven. All carried out with a fluid grace.
Septon Walfred, though not in the confines of a Sept, embodied the solemnity of the Faith. "You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection," he pronounced, his words resonating through the silent grove.
Dickon, with a gentleness that mirrored the reverence of the moment, removed Margaery's cloak. A cascade of fine green silk, with a gold rose stitched into the collar, was handed to Lady Olenna, symbolising the passing of protection from one generation to the next. The plain silver clasp of Dickon's own forest green velvet cloak, adorned with the red huntsman of House Tarly, awaited its new purpose.
As the cloak draped over Margaery's shoulders, the emblem of House Tarly embraced her. A tangible manifestation of the union now sealed not only by the Old Gods but also by the traditions of the Faith of the Seven.
"My lords, my ladies," echoed the voice of Septon Walfred, "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." "In the sight of the Seven," intoned Septon Walfred, with an authority that seemed to draw power from the ancient surroundings. "I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity." With a deliberate grace, he unravelled a thick grey silk ribbon, its hue a subtle reflection of the solemnity in the grove.
Dickon, his right hand outstretched, and Margaery, her left hand poised beside his, awaited the symbolic tethering. Septon Walfred, hands steady, wove the ribbon around their joined hands, creating a tangible link that spoke of a union blessed by the divine.
"Look upon each other and say the words," the septum instructed, inviting the couple to affirm their commitment in the language of ancient vows.
Sansa smiled at Jon, who returned her gaze with mutual affection, as they continued to watch the ceremony unfurl.
Dickon and Margaery's eyes met, and in the enchanted stillness of the grove, they spoke in unison, their voices blending like a harmonious spell.
"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger," they said, their words a sacred litany, "I am hers, and she is mine, from this day until the end of my days."
"I challenge any man or woman to speak against this marriage," proclaimed Septon Walfred, his voice carrying the weight of an ancient decree. A resounding silence rippled through the woods, as if the very trees held their breath in anticipation.
"Let it be known that Margaery of House Tyrell and Dickon of House Tarly are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder," the Septon said, sealing the union with the gravity of his words.
"With this kiss, I pledge my love and take you for my lord and husband," said Margaery, her voice carrying a sweet resonance in the sacred grove.
Dickon and Margaery turned toward each other, their eyes locked in a shared understanding. "With this kiss, I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife," Dickon replied, a knowing smile gracing his lips. With gentle reverence, he placed a chaste kiss upon Margaery's lips.
A jubilant roar of cheers erupted throughout the Godswood, the sound echoing through the ancient trees. Dickon lifted Margaery into his arms, carrying her with an effortless strength, as if she were light as a feather. Together, they made their way back to the castle, followed by those who had been privy to the ceremony in the godswood.
As the group made their way out of the godswood, a deafening roar erupted from the skies above, shattering the serenity of the night. The night sky ignited, revealing two colossal dragons, reminiscent to the indomitable Drogon from Sansa's memories. One dragon bore a darker, foreboding hue, while the other displayed a paler, more ghostly colour—Rhaegal and Viserion. Sansa turned her gaze toward Jon, whose face bore a smug satisfaction.
"You knew?" she asked, her eyes fixed on the celestial spectacle as the dragons gracefully vanished into the distance.
Jon nodded, his satisfaction undiminished. "Of course I did. They're here to help us fight the army of the dead, and anyone else we need to do battle with." he said with a low voice. Fear and wonder danced across the faces of the crowd as they beheld the magnificent creatures. "The dragons are present as my honoured guests, just as you all are. They won't bring harm to anyone."
"How can you be certain? Those dragons are under Daenerys command," Lord Royce scoffed, his scepticism cutting through the air like a chilling wind.
"Not anymore. Not only did I invite them, they answer to me, not Daenerys. They are my dragons now. I can command them from as far away as Old Valyria," Jon proclaimed.
"How?" Olenna inquired.
"I have the blood of the First Men and of Old Valyria—a potent and useful combination to have around dragons. If you know how to use it," Jon said, just as snowflakes descended from the skies.
"Let us feast," Sansa declared, changing the subject. "But first, the ritual of bread and salt for our new guests must be carried out."
"Does that include the dragons? Shouldn't they have bread and salt?" Bronn quipped, eliciting a ripple of nervous laughter through the crowd.
"They're not fond of bread. Perhaps smoked bacon should do." Jon japed, his gaze turning skyward as his hair took on a snowy hue. "I think we ought to get inside before we all freeze to death."
On cue, the crowd returned to the castle and into the Great Hall, readying themselves for the feast to come.