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Time freezes for the pair of them. It settles for the last few moments Jon will have before he marches off to again face the onslaught of cold death that marches towards Winterfell with no sign of reprieve for the mortals who dare to challenge it. White blankets the surface of every rooftop in the castle, sitting in heavy, thick piles on wains and piles of bricks, over the lichyard, on the battlements. The whiteness is everywhere but untouched, revealing neither the footprints of mice nor men, for the snowfall ceased its cascade from the sky in the dusky pink hours of the early morning.
The snow veils the the trees in the godswood, all except the hearttree, as Arya woke early enough to shake the frost from its long, white branches. Light from the gathered crowd’s torches reflects off the crystalline pool, throwing shadows across their solemn Northern faces and illuminating the blood-red leaves of the tree.
Sansa Stark steps into the godswood on the arm of her sister, escorted by the shorter, younger woman with the same nose and thin eyebrows. A pair of sisters, supportive and joyful together, one walking the other into her future. For all that their love frightened her, Arya has become the most ardent defender of Jon and Sansa’s right to some piece of happiness, and is the one who proposed this joining.
Only two days before, Jon arrived atop a hulking dragon, with news that the Wall had fallen after a battle meant to save it. Winterfell arose in a panic then, with clambering and crying, none too sure how to handle the end of the world. To Arya, the answer was obvious: unite the people who loved each other and share some joy before their frozen enemies come any closer.
A wedding would provide happiness for all in Winterfell, a final moment of peace before they joined the war as stalwart fighters, persevering for the survival of their race.
Daenerys arrived the morning after Jon, leading the mass of troops to escape the oncoming onslaught. She stands besides the Lord of Winterfell and Meera Reed now, who returned from their secretive far-off mission not too long before Jon’s arrival. Bran smiles brightly for Sansa and Jon, and watches with warm eyes as his sisters walk between the rows of people spread before them.
Sansa breaths in the rich scent of the godswood with each step, the earthy air and swaying trees a reminder that she is safe and loved and home. Her heavy cloak drags against the snow behind her, gliding as if in a dream.
She clutches Arya’s arm tighter when she seems Jon standing there, in all his regal black. His cloak, soon to be hers, falls down his back in rippling waves and she is sure he is all she will ever want again. For his sigil, he has impaled the grey direwolf of his mother’s family and the red three-headed dragon of his father’s, looking every inch the prince he is.
The weir wood’s branches toss shadows across the gathered people, but all she sees is his face in a patch of morning light.
Jon’s voice wavers at first but soon steadies as he meets her steady gaze. “Who comes? Who comes before the gods?”
Arya’s voice rings clear across the godswood. “Sansa of House Stark comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”
Her husband-to-be steps closer to her, and they are finally close enough that she could touch him if she just reached out. “I, Jon of Houses Stark and Targaryen, heir of Queen Daenerys Targaryen first of her name.” Jon pauses, and then smiles wide. “I claim her. Who gives her?”
“Arya of House Stark, her sister,” Arya turned to Sansa, her face as serious as she can make it. “Lady Sansa, will you take this man?”
She has never meant anything more than when she says, “I take this man.”
Finally she can reach out and take his hands, warm against her own. He clasps her palms between his as they both kneel. Sansa bows her head in tandem with his, whispering silent prayers in her mind.
She prays for Jon and Daenerys in the battles to come, for the safety of her brother Bran when he faces the supernatural forces from within the powers of his tree, for Arya and Nymeria, Brienne of Tarth and all their household guard, the wildlings and the Northmen, the Dornish and the bloodriders of the queen. She prays for peace and happiness to come at last, to override the years that have taken so much from her.
Once he’s helped Sansa to her feet, Jon fumbles with the chain on her cloak, and then finally hands it to Arya. He replaces it with the one on his own shoulders, black and smelling of him. She is under his protection now, and Sansa knows that she is safe.
“With this kiss I pledge my love.” He says the words of the South and pulls her in, and unites them good and true. Despite the solemn atmosphere that captures them all, there are a few hollers and claps from the gathered audience.
“Come back safe. Come back to me.” She whispers, once he’s pulled back but not gone so far away that she must speak so others may here her.
He squeezes Sansa’s hands. “This I promise you, my lady.”
And then, they rose together.