Fatigue gripped him, an unrelenting force dragging Jon Snow to the brink of exhaustion. All he yearned for was the welcoming embrace of a plush bed. Tormund's company was a solace in the weariness, a rekindling of an old camaraderie that whispered familiarity. There lingered a hint of animosity, remnants of a past strife, but they slipped into a rhythm reminiscent of days long gone. The trust, though, lingered on the edge of uncertainty.
Yet, Ygritte was a different story. Her presence had become a source of irritation, a constant stream of complaints that wore on Jon's patience. As he reflected, the very reasons he once found himself captivated by her eluded him. Had captivity sparked a twisted foundation for what he mistook as love? The uncertainty hung heavy in the air. What baffled him more was the persistence of emotions, lingering like shadows long after her demise.
As he galloped from Castle Black to Queenscrown, Jon Snow mulled over the intricacies of his connection with Daenerys. A prisoner, much like he had been under Ygritte's watchful gaze. The women, both harbouring their own brands of violence, left Jon grappling for explanations—lust, stupidity, and an instinct for survival were the tangled threads in his mind.
Throughout the journey from Castle Black, this mental discourse persisted. His hasty marriage to Sansa, a pact forged in the crucible of survival, echoed in his thoughts. As the distance between them closed, questions loomed about how they would feel upon their reunion. Their union, unconsummated till now, teetered on the precipice of change, a prospect fraught with uncertainties.
In the wake of shared kisses, Jon envisioned the imminent night they would spend together. Would Sansa be gripped by fear? The realisation she would have bloomed, added another layer to the anticipation, making the prospect of their first night together a looming reality. The skies darkened as Queenscrown emerged on the horizon, a destination drawing near with each passing moment.
"You thinking about your pretty wife, little King?" Tormund's gruff voice shattered Jon's introspection.
"Aye," Jon counteracted, a touch of honesty colouring his words. "Haven't laid eyes on her in nigh on a year and a half. It's hard not to think about her."
"And thinking about her makes you hard," Tormund interjected with a booming laugh, his crude jest cutting through the air.
"Oh, give it a rest," Ygritte mocked, rolling her eyes. Jon sensed a lingering desire in her, remnants of a failed attempt to seduce him. His fidelity to Sansa was unwavering, a promise he held steadfast, even as Ygritte's presence grated on his nerves.
"I'm looking forward to meeting Lady Whitestark," Tormund cracked a smile, injecting a lighter note into the conversation.
"I'm sure she'll make you all feel welcome," Jon assured them as the scent of the village drifted along the road, the aroma of baking bread stirring his hunger.
"I hope the ale is better than the stuff at Castle Black," Tormund grumbled. "I'll have died of gut rot before the dead arrive."
"Wow, that's a big castle," Ygritte's eyes widened as she glimpsed the keep, much larger than when Jon had last seen it. The looming structure stood as a testament to the changes that had transpired since his departure.
A bridge spanned from keep to shore, leading to a secondary castle in the throes of construction. Surprisingly, the outer walls stood tall, about twenty feet high, with crenellations already etched into the stonework—a testament to the near-completion of the battlements. The keep, however, remained surrounded by unfinished walls, a work in progress. The castle, though not Winterfell's grandeur, held a substantial size, demanding a swath of felled trees that sprawled across half an acre.
"Not bad," Sigorn remarked, surveying the construction.
"If you think this is big, wait until you see Winterfell," Jon chortled as a horn resonated, heralding their arrival.
"Who goes there?" echoed the voice of a guard from above.
"Jon Whitestark, Lord of this castle," Jon announced, awaiting the relay of the message to other sentinels. The gates creaked open, and the seven of them, accompanied by the towering Ghost, passed through the formidable wooden doors. Ghost, with his unkempt mane and lengthy beard, had transformed into a formidable creature, an almost unrecognizable companion that would reveal Jon's identity to those guarding the castle.
Jon stood, taken aback by the transformation within the castle walls. Stables, a smithy, kennels, an armoury, and two substantial buildings sprawled around him, all marked by his sigil—the white direwolf with red eyes against a black backdrop.
"This is your castle?" Tormund's disbelief echoed Jon's own astonishment.
"It wasn't this big when I left. Only the keep in the middle of the lake existed. My wife has been... busy," Jon pointed out, his voice tinged with a mix of surprise and pride.
"Sounds like a special woman," Tormund grinned.
"She is..." Jon began, his words trailing off as a flame-haired woman materialized in the distance.
"A beauty, kissed by fire, that one," Tormund cut short, but his grin widened as he noticed Jon's expression fixate on Sansa. "That is your wife?"
"Aye," Jon nodded, his steps quickening as he made a beeline toward Sansa. Without hesitation, he scooped her up into his arms. "Gods, I've missed you," he muttered, burying his face into her hair, the taste and scent of familiarity overwhelming his senses.
"I've missed you too," Sansa murmured, her words lacking in enthusiasm, leaving Jon to wonder if he had been too presumptive about their reunion. He set her down and took a moment to scrutinize her. She appeared more like the woman he remembered, no longer the little girl. Tall and slender, she now boasted curves, though hidden beneath her cloak.
"You've been busy," Jon admitted, a nervous smile playing on his lips.
"This isn't half of it," Sansa beamed. "Don't you think you ought to introduce me to your friends first?"
Jon nodded, leading her toward the waiting group. As he began the introductions, Sansa's eyes fell on familiar faces. She already knew Tormund, though she pretended otherwise. Sigorn was new to her, but Sansa acknowledged them in the same manner. Jon sensed that Ygritte, with her warrior spirit, might not warm up to Sansa's prim demeanour.
"From Jon's description, I would presume you are Ygritte," Sansa smirked, a diplomatic exchange masking potential tension.
"Aye. You must be his pretty wife," Ygritte mocked, a crooked smile laden with sarcasm.
"Ygritte," Tormund warned, sensing the brewing tension.
"What, Tormund? I doubt a lady like this could give the pretty king the fun he deserves," Ygritte assessed Sansa with a scrutinizing gaze. "She's too delicate and la-di-da to take a man's cock in her mouth."
Jon, frustration etched on his face, ran a hand down his face. Sansa, however, slipped into her Queenly mask, a shield against the crude remarks. It was then that Jon noticed the silver-haired gentleman standing beside her.
"No!" Ygritte rebutted. "Is there anywhere I can take a piss?" she asked, breaking the uncomfortable tension.
Fortunately, Gilly intervened, becoming the unexpected saviour. "I'll take you. I'm Gilly. I'm from north of the wall too," she offered, leading Ygritte away, providing everyone with a much-needed reprieve.
Sansa gestured toward the silver-haired man. "Jon, this is Ser Barristan Selmy. I'm sure he needs no introduction," she said, introducing a figure of honour amid the lingering echoes of Ygritte's brashness.
Jon's gaze lingered on the man before him, a momentary hesitation in the stranger's stance. Sansa's glance prompted a nod instead of a bow. "My lord. I am ever grateful to Lady Whitestark for accepting me into your household. I hope to serve you well," the man offered with a hint of formality.
Ser Barristan the bold—Jon hadn't been informed of the legendary knight's presence. The weight of the moment hit him; he was raised on tales of this man, now, here he stood, to join Jon's Kingsguard. Overwhelmed by the unexpected honour, Jon struggled to find words.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Ser Barristan. I have heard many impressive things about you. I hope Sansa has not given you too much trouble," Jon managed, a genuine smile breaking across his face. He couldn't help but wonder if Bran had the chance to meet the legendary knight; after all, the boy hero-worshipped him.
"She has been a joy," Ser Barristan responded, casting a paternal look at Sansa, a warmth spreading through Jon's heart.
The rest of the introductions were made, and everyone, including Ygritte, was escorted to their quarters. Sansa, demonstrating her thoughtful hospitality, had arranged for baths to be drawn, a comforting gesture that eased the group into the unfamiliar surroundings.
Jon eased into the warmth of the hot water, grappling with the uncharted territory of Ygritte and Sansa. He had hoped for a semblance of order, a peace that seemed elusive. Ygritte's persistence, obvious in her refusal to let go of the prospect of bedding him, loomed over him like a shadow. The impending conversation with her about his marriage to Sansa was a daunting prospect, one that Jon couldn't avoid for much longer.
As the water cooled, Jon rose from the bath, wrapping a linen towel around his waist. He made his way to the mirror, studying his reflection. There was nothing kingly about him; his hair had grown unruly, and his beard, untouched for months, hung long and dishevelled. A knock interrupted his thoughts.
"Who is it?"
"It's me, Sansa."
"Come in," Jon said, and Sansa entered the room. Her initial reaction, a fleeting desire to retreat upon seeing him in such a state of undress, did not go unnoticed.
"Stay and close the door," Jon requested, turning to her.
Sansa's gaze traced over Jon's almost bare form. "You've lost weight," she observed.
"Aye. The food is scarce up there, and what can I say about Castle Black?" Jon laughed, attempting to lighten the mood.
Sansa smiled and shook her head. "Ser Barristan wishes to form a Kingsguard for you. He knows who you are but is prepared to say nothing. The guise of his purpose here is to guard me." Despite the smile, Jon detected a chill in her eyes and voice. "He wishes to see you as soon as you have finished bathing. There are other matters, but they can wait," she concluded, turning to leave.
"Sansa," Jon called out, prompting her to stop and glance back. "I've missed you," he confessed.
"Is that so." she raised an eyebrow, a hint of scepticism in her expression, not convinced by his words.
Jon's brows furrowed, a mix of confusion and frustration welling up. He had poured his heart into that letter, attempting a touch of romance even. "Did you not receive my letters?" he queried, his voice tinged with genuine concern.
"The ones where you told me to tell everyone else that you missed them?" Sansa's inquiry, accompanied by a mask Jon recognised but often despised, hung between them.
"What about the one I sent, dedicated to how much I missed you?" Jon pressed, his hope diminishing.
Sansa shook her head. "I never received such a letter."
"Fuck!" Jon swore, the frustration slipping into his words. "I promise, I did. I wrote a letter telling you how much I missed you," he argued.
"I know. Sam told me," Sansa acknowledged. "Although that was a long time ago."
Jon closed the distance, reaching for her hands. "Why are you upset with me?" he asked, his tone a mix of confusion and earnestness, holding onto bridging the emotional gap that seemed to widen between them.
"Do I have to spell it out for you?" Sansa's cold gaze bore into Jon. Confusion clouded Jon's expression, prompting a slow shake of his head. Sansa rolled her eyes. "Do you remember when you went to Dragonstone? You came back with Daenerys."
It clicked for Jon, a sudden realization. "Ygritte," he nodded. "Except this time, it is very different."
"Is it? She was your lover, Jon. Did history repeat itself?" Sansa probed, her words slicing through the air. "I mean, I know we aren't married yet. But you promised you'd wait for me."
Jon couldn't believe what he was hearing. "No. I promised I wouldn't. Anyway, I just found her annoying. I just don't want her to die. But she just got on my nerves the entire time. So no, I couldn't go back to her. It's not the same."
"So, why did you bring her here?" Sansa's tone held a challenge.
"Because the question would have hung over our every conversation. I made a stupid mistake with Daenerys. I know that. I won't let history repeat itself. The only way I could do that was for you to see her for yourself," Jon pointed out.
"What am I supposed to see?" Sansa pulled away, arms folded in a defensive stance.
"Why I would never choose her over you," Jon frowned, a trace of annoyance seeping into his tone.
"Oh, I don't know. Why shouldn't you? I mean, she was there and willing. Oh, and she's not too delicate and la-di-da to take a man's cock in her mouth, whereas I am," Sansa's words, laced with such shocking vulgarity Jon had never heard from her, hung in the air.
Jon hated when Sansa felt vulnerable. Despite her icy exterior, he could discern the underlying issue. Her limited, painful experiences in matters of intimacy contrasted with his own. Ramsay had inflicted lasting damage, and Jon wondered if she was beyond repair.
"Sansa, I am not Theon. I don't need a woman to warm my bed because I have... urges. I was a man of the Night's Watch and I can control myself. Ignore her. Why would I want her?" Jon asked, his frustration rising.
"Because you loved her." Sansa lowered her eyes, the vulnerability clearer than ever.
"Aye, I did, once. A long time ago. But being around her this time gave me time to think and to understand things about myself. I loved her, but not as a man should. It was forced. I had to do things to survive. I thought it was love, but it wasn't. The same happened with Daenerys. It wasn't real, although it felt it at the time." He admitted, laying bare the choices he had to make for survival rather than genuine emotion.
"Then you were forced into a marriage with me." Sansa said, closing her eyes.
"Aye. Best day of my life." Jon asserted, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it.
Confusion lingered on Sansa's face as she looked at him.
"I've married the most beautiful woman in Westeros." Jon insisted. "She is smart, kind, and fierce, everything I could ever want." He enveloped her in his arms, pulling her close. He leaned into her ear, "If it were up to me, we'd be in bed right now and not leaving it for another forty-eight hours. Only stopping for a brief sleep, to eat, and to drink. No other distractions." Sansa's mouth formed an 'O,' and her cheeks blazed with embarrassment. "But you have been through too much, and I know I will have to wait. If you would have me, I will wait until you are ready. If I have to wait a long time, I will take myself in hand. I will never seek another to warm my bed. Only you, Sansa. Only you."
Sansa nodded, her throat swallowing. "Mother is pushing for an annulment. On the grounds of non-consummation."
"Aye, I thought she might. It doesn't surprise me." Jon acknowledged. "Do you want to go down that route? Do you want to annul our marriage?"
"No." she said. "I would prefer to make sure that is not an option."
"Soon?" Jon's question carried a hopeful undertone, a spark igniting in his chest.
"You need to tidy yourself up a bit." she huffed. "That beard looks awful you."
Jon couldn't help but burst into laughter. "I thought you liked my beard." He tugged at it, Sansa swiped at his hand.
"Not like that. You look like Tormund." she gave him a playful smile gracing her lips. "I like it when it all nice and neat."
As Jon tucked a strand of her loose hair behind her ear, an idea formed in his mind. "I've got the meeting with Ser Barristan. After that, would you like to help me trim my beard?" The proposition hung in the air, a subtle invitation for a shared moment.
Sansa planted a kiss on Jon's cheek, her voice a soft whisper near his ear. "I'll be waiting for you. Don't be too long." She said.
Jon's brow furrowed. "Sansa, are you sure you are ready?"
"I think I've been ready since the moment you first kissed me." She admitted cheeks tinged with a blush. "I just hadn't flowered."
"I'll not force you to do anything you don't want to, I promise." Jon assured her, his heart racing with both excitement and a hint of apprehension.
"I'll not know what that is until I try." Sansa stated, a mixture of curiosity and anticipation in her tone.
"Do you trust me?" Jon asked, his gaze searching hers.
"Implicitly." Sansa said with conviction.
"Then you have nothing to worry about. I'll make it good for you, I promise." Jon gave her a tender peck on the cheek before pulling back, excitement radiating from him. "I'll get ready now, have a meeting with Ser Barristan, and I'll be back before you know it."
"I'll be waiting in our solar." Sansa gave him a smile.
Jon gave her one last chaste peck on the lips and rushed out to see Ser Barristan. He wanted the meeting to be over and done with as quickly as possible. To make Sansa his true wife and ensuring no annulment could be granted was his priority, yet in the back of his mind, he still had doubts it would take place. Jon would cross that bridge if it came to it.