Chapter 7
"With this kiss, I pledge my love."
Jon heard himself say the words everyone expected him to say, but the voice sounded foreign to his ears. He hadn't slept much the night before, and he'd started the day with wine. He needed it, especially today, his wedding day. It was too soon.
Why had he agreed to arrange the wedding now? People had told him how practical it would be. Practical... What a wonderful reason to get married. Apparently, he had already made it through most of the ceremony, the southern ceremony. He was the King, so that was expected of him. But none of it really mattered. For a moment, he was sure he was dreaming. This wasn't real. He couldn't possibly be standing beside a woman he barely knew, vowing his love to her.
"Your Grace?" the septon said quietly, snapping Jon back to reality. People were still waiting for him to kiss his bride.
He wasn't dreaming. He had just married the woman beside him. Helena Baratheon. She looked at him uncertainly as he leaned toward her and touched her lips with his. The kiss was brief and awkward, but the hall erupted in applause and cheers.
"Long live the King and Queen!"
Jon took his new wife's hand and forced a smile as he turned to face his subjects. Helena smiled as well, her hand still resting in Jon's as he led her out of the hall. The wedding feast awaited them in the grand dining room, a spectacle unlike anything Jon had ever seen before. Thousands of candles and lanterns lit the room, and the long tables were adorned with flowers.
Servants hurried to and from the kitchen, carrying trays piled high with all manner of foods. Musicians had been playing but paused to bow as Jon and Helena entered the hall. The display was far more extravagant than Jon had wanted. He'd imagined a much more modest affair. But he couldn't complain now; he hadn't been involved in the planning. Silently, he led Helena to their table and pulled out a chair for her. They had barely spoken to each other after the breakfast they had shared a few days ago.
Jon's mind felt detached from the moment. The entire day had passed in a blur, a sequence of formalities he had to endure. The wedding feast sprawled before them like something out of a dream, or perhaps a nightmare, depending on how he looked at it. He watched as Helena sat down gracefully, her smile still in place, but he noticed the slight stiffness in her shoulders. He couldn't blame her. She was likely as overwhelmed as he was, surrounded by hundreds of strangers, their eyes constantly on the new King and Queen.
As he took his seat beside her, Jon forced another smile, knowing that people were watching his every move. His stomach churned, not from hunger, but from the weight of the day. The enormity of what had just happened hung over him like a dark cloud. He was married now, bound to a woman he barely knew, not for love, but for duty. The crown demanded it. The realm demanded it. And that was all that mattered.
The musicians started playing again, filling the grand hall with lively tunes. Lords and ladies laughed and chatted animatedly around them, clearly enjoying the festivities. To Jon, it felt like noise, meaningless chatter that couldn't drown out the heavy silence inside him. His eyes wandered over the food-laden tables, and though the aromas were rich and tantalizing, he had no appetite.
There were toasts after toasts, speeches after speeches. Jon emptied one wine goblet after another, but it didn't help. The truth was, he hated every moment of this. Once again, he bitterly reflected on how little he had wanted any of this. He had never wanted the Iron Throne. It didn't belong to him; it belonged to Daenerys. No, he couldn't think about her. Not now.
"Congratulations, Jon," Sansa said.
Her voice startled him out of his thoughts; he hadn't even noticed her standing in front of him. Quickly, he stood and greeted her warmly.
"Thank you."
Sansa looked every bit a queen in her purple gown. She was smiling at him, but it was a reserved smile, especially when she glanced at Helena while offering her congratulations.
"Thank you, my lady," Helena replied.
Jon realized he had almost forgotten his wife's presence, she had been so quiet. She was the Queen now, but she wasn't acting like one. Not that Jon blamed her; she was probably nervous.
"You look beautiful," he said, after Sansa had left. It was true, but he also knew it was something he should say as her husband. He wasn't sure if she needed to hear it, but he felt the need to acknowledge her in some way. The truth was, he hadn't really looked at her, not even during the ceremony. She was wearing a cream-colored wedding gown, and white flowers were woven into her hair.
Helena blushed slightly, looking down at her hands. "Thank you, Your Grace," she murmured. "You… you look very handsome as well."
He wasn't used to compliments, especially not from a new wife. He nodded, unsure how to respond, and silence fell over them again. Around them, people laughed, drank, and reveled in the merriment, but it felt as though Jon and Helena were on the outside, watching the spectacle like strangers.
Jon smiled and gently touched her hand. The gesture felt forced, but he wanted to do something to reassure her. Helena smiled too and twined her fingers with his. Thankfully, she seemed calm. More and more people approached to congratulate them. Arya hugged him, Bronn patted his shoulder and joked about the night ahead, Sam wished him happiness, Davos complimented Helena, and Tyrion told him to be a good husband, and so on.
Jon felt the weight of each congratulation like a stone being added to an already heavy burden. As more people approached, offering kind words, warm smiles, and well wishes, he found it harder and harder to maintain his composure. The forced smiles, the polite nods, the repetitive "thank you" felt like another part of the role he was playing today, a role he never wanted but had no choice but to fulfill.
Helena remained by his side, quietly accepting the endless compliments and toasts, her hand still intertwined with his. Jon glanced at her again. She was composed, but he could see the faint tension in her shoulders, the tightness in her smile. She was handling the attention well, perhaps even better than he was.
After what felt like hours, the flow of guests finally began to slow, and Jon took a deep breath, hoping for a moment of peace. His head buzzed slightly from the wine, and his thoughts drifted once again to how out of place he felt in this lavish setting. He would have given anything to be anywhere else, north of the Wall, perhaps, or even back in Winterfell, where things were simpler.
But that life was gone now. This was his reality, for better or worse.
He had drunk more wine than he had intended, and it had made him comfortably numb. Finally, some of the men cheered for the bedding, but both Jon and Tyrion stopped them right away. Jon stood up as his wife left the hall, accompanied by a few noblewomen and maids. He knew they were going to prepare her for the wedding night.
He drank some more wine before heading to his bedchamber. The entire small council, along with a couple of other nobles, joined him. Apparently, it was customary to escort the King to his chamber on his wedding night. Jon had heard that in the old days, the whole court would have watched the King and Queen consummate their marriage. Thankfully, that wasn't the case anymore. The noblewomen who had accompanied Helena were already standing in front of the door to Jon's chamber; they curtsied as he approached them.
"May the gods bless you with a son, Your Grace," one of them said.
"Yes," Jon murmured, hoping for some privacy.
One of the guards opened the door and bowed respectfully as Jon entered his chamber. He felt nothing but relief when the door finally closed. Helena was standing beside the bed, wearing a long white nightgown, her hair down. She was still smiling.
"Well…" Jon stated after a brief moment of silence. "That was a long day."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Jon," he corrected, pausing for a moment. His eyes searched for wine, but it seemed there was none in the room. "Is everything alright?"
She nodded, still smiling. "Yes."
He sighed before walking over to her. "Helena… I know you must be nervous…"
"I'm not," she assured him.
"Alright… Good. Perhaps we should…" Get this over with. Thankfully, he managed to stop himself before saying that out loud. It seemed that he really had drunk too much. "Since it is expected."
She nodded, still smiling. "Yes."
Jon took a deep breath, his gaze shifting awkwardly around the room. The silence between them felt heavy, filled with unspoken expectations. Helena continued to smile politely, though there was an undercurrent of tension in her posture, a reflection of his own unease. He could sense it, despite her efforts to appear calm.
The room, beautifully decorated and fit for royalty, felt like a prison at that moment. Jon had faced countless battles, made decisions that weighed heavily on his conscience, and yet this, this simple act of marriage, the consummation of it, felt like a different kind of weight altogether. One that he was ill-prepared for.
He met her eyes again, and though she said she wasn't nervous, Jon wasn't sure if he believed her. How could she not be? They were strangers, bound together by duty, not love. And now they were expected to act like husband and wife in the most intimate of ways.
Jon reached out, gently touching her hand. "Helena… I don't want to force you…"
"You're not," she assured. "I'm ready."
Jon hesitated, longing for more wine, although he was quite drunk already.
"Right… If you're sure…"
"I am," she said quietly.
He cleared his throat and touched her hair before cupping her chin. She really was short; he had to lean down in order to kiss her. As he closed his eyes, he was kissing someone else. Daenerys. He buried his fingers in her silky white hair, tasted the fire in her soft lips, felt her perfect body pressing eagerly against him. He removed her nightgown and threw it on the floor in one swift motion.
Daenerys. He circled his arm around her waist and his lips crashed against hers again as they fell on the bed. He landed on top of her, his lips still devouring hers.
"Jon…"
He smiled as he heard her calling his name. How he had missed her voice. She was here now, and he wasn't going to ever let her go again. His hands explored every part of her body, caressing her beautiful breasts and touching the soft and sensitive folds between her legs. He wanted to give her pleasure, make her wet for him.
"Jon…"
Her sensual moans turned him on even more; he needed to have her right now. Quickly he lowered his pants and spread her legs open. She was ready for him. Daenerys. She let out a muffled cry of pain as he thrust into her.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "Am I hurting you?"
"It's alright," she murmured so quietly that he could barely hear her.
"You're so beautiful," he hummed as he built up a faster pace. "So beautiful…"
Her fingers were squeezing his arms, her nails sinking into his skin, but he barely noticed. He let out a groan as he finally finished inside of her.
"I love you," he murmured, blinking a few times as he looked at the woman beneath him. It wasn't Daenerys; it was Helena. His newlywed wife. She wasn't looking at him, but he saw tears glistening in her eyes. The sight was more than enough to sober him up. What had he done?
Jon's heart clenched as he saw the tears welling in Helena's eyes. The words he had spoken moments before, words that should have never left his lips, echoed in the silence between them.
I love you.
But it wasn't Helena he had meant to say those words to. It wasn't her face that had been in his mind. It was Daenerys.
Jon's throat tightened as the realization of his mistake hit him like a wave crashing against a cliff. What had he done? He felt sick, the weight of his actions pressing down on him with crushing force.
Helena lay still beneath him, her body tense, her gaze averted, as if she couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes. The tears shimmered silently, but they didn't fall. She was holding them back, holding everything back. Perhaps she was trying to be strong, or perhaps she was simply in shock.
Jon pulled back slowly, his hands shaking slightly as they hovered over her, unsure of what to do next. His breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling heavily. This wasn't supposed to happen like this.
"Helena…" His voice broke, thick with regret. He could barely speak, but he had to try. "I'm… I didn't mean… I'm sorry."
The huge bloodstain on the sheet made him feel even worse.
"Are you… are you alright?" he managed to ask.
She nodded, but didn't look at him. "I'm alright," she murmured absently. "I… I hope I didn't disappoint you."
Jon's heart sank even further at her words. Disappoint him? The thought cut through him like a knife. How could she be thinking of his expectations in this moment, when he had so clearly failed her?
He shook his head quickly, struggling to find the right words. "No… no, Helena," he said, his voice thick with guilt. "You didn't disappoint me. I'm the one who…" He trailed off, unable to finish the thought, his eyes darting to the bloodstain on the sheet. The sight of it filled him with an even deeper sense of shame.
This wasn't how it was supposed to be. It wasn't supposed to be like this, awkward, painful, and filled with regret. He had wanted to do right by her, to be the kind of husband she deserved, and instead, he had already hurt her. The weight of his failures, past and present, pressed down on him like a heavy cloak.
He reached out to touch her hand, but hesitated, unsure if his touch would bring her comfort or make things worse. "Helena," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. "I'm sorry… for everything. This isn't… you deserved better tonight."
Helena remained quiet, still not meeting his gaze. Her fingers toyed with the hem of the sheet, her mind clearly far away from him.
"I… I would like to wash up," she murmured. "May I?"
"Of course. Please, let me help you."
She smiled as he offered her his hand. "You're very kind. Did I do good?"
He stared at her, unable to understand what she was saying. "What?"
She finally looked at him, her eyes widened with fear. "Please, don't lock me up," she pleaded desperately. "I can do better, I promise. I'll make you proud."
Jon froze, his heart sinking as Helena's words registered. The fear in her voice, the desperation in her eyes, he could hardly comprehend it. He had never imagined she might be thinking like this.
Lock her up? The thought horrified him.
"Helena…" he began softly, trying to steady his voice. "I would never do that. I would never hurt you, or punish you." He gently guided her to sit back down, his hands trembling as they hovered over her shoulders. "You don't have to prove anything to me. Not now, not ever."
Helena looked up at him with confusion, as if she didn't quite believe his words. Her eyes were still wide, her fear so raw it pierced through him. It wasn't fear of him exactly, it was deeper, older. A fear she had carried long before this night.
"I won't lock you up," Jon promised, his voice firm but gentle. "You don't need to be afraid. You've done nothing wrong, Helena. You don't need to make me proud or do anything else. You're my queen, but you're also my wife, and I… I'm sorry I've hurt you."
Her eyes flickered with uncertainty as she processed his words, her fingers still clinging to the hem of the sheet as if it were a lifeline.
"I just want you to be safe," Jon continued, kneeling beside her now so that he could look into her eyes. "No matter what, I want you to feel safe. I don't care about anything else."
Helena's lip quivered, and for the first time, a tear slipped down her cheek. Jon caught her hand before she could pull it away. He held it gently between his, feeling how small and fragile she seemed in that moment.
"You're safe with me," he whispered, hoping she would believe him.
For a long moment, she didn't respond. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely audible. "Thank you," she whispered, though Jon wasn't sure if she truly believed him.
He helped her up, guiding her gently to the washbasin, his heart heavy with the realization of just how much pain and fear she was carrying.
As she began to wash up, Jon stepped back, giving her space. But in the silence, his mind whirled with regret, with anger at himself for not realizing sooner how deeply wounded she was.
He had a responsibility not just to be a king, but to be a husband, and somehow, he needed to figure out how to earn her trust, to heal the wounds neither of them could yet see the depth of.
"I did good," she murmured. "I won't be locked up. The bad man can't hurt me anymore."
Jon's chest tightened at Helena's words. Her soft, broken murmur, so full of fear and pain, echoed in the room, making him feel helpless. He wanted to reach out, to comfort her, but every instinct told him to tread carefully.
The bad man can't hurt me anymore. Her voice, though barely a whisper, felt like a scream in his ears. He didn't know who or what she was referring to, but the weight of her trauma was unmistakable. How much had she endured before this? And how had he, in his own clumsy, thoughtless way, added to that burden tonight?
As she washed, he stood by, lost in thought but alert to her every movement. He watched the way her fingers trembled as she rinsed her hands, the way her shoulders sagged ever so slightly, as if the weight of her past pressed down on her even now.
When she spoke again, her words tore at him. "I did good… I won't be locked up."
He had seen that look before, the one that hinted at hidden scars. He had seen it in the men at the Wall, in the faces of those who had suffered unspeakable cruelty. But seeing it now, in his wife, broke something in him.
Slowly, carefully, he stepped closer to her, his voice as gentle as he could make it. "Helena… whoever hurt you… whoever made you believe you had to be afraid, or do anything to stay safe… they're gone now. I swear to you, they can't touch you anymore."
Her hands stilled, but she didn't turn to face him.
"Whatever you've been through," Jon continued, "it's over. You're not going to be locked up. You're not going to be punished. You're free. You're the Queen, and I'll protect you, no matter what."
Helena's shoulders trembled slightly, and for a moment, Jon wasn't sure if his words had reached her. But then she turned, slowly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She looked at him, really looked at him, for what felt like the first time since their wedding night began.
"You don't have to be afraid of me," he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. "I swear, I won't hurt you."
A single tear slipped down her cheek, and she quickly wiped it away, as though she were ashamed of it. But she nodded, just barely, and whispered, "Thank you."