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Jon watches his new bride gracefully twirl about the hall in the arms of yet another man, some popinjay knight from the Vale who smells more like a flower than a man.
The one before him had been a loquacious young Northern lord who’d been reduced to stammers for the entirety of the dance they’d shared. Jon can’t blame him. He doesn’t know what to say to her either sometimes, especially when she’s dressed in that particular shade of blue, a touch darker than her eyes, and so breathtakingly lovely that it makes his heart ache.
Her auburn hair is unbound and sways with each deliberate step of the dance. She looks over her shoulder at him more than once to see if he’s watching her, over those shoulders which are pale and soft with a handful of fading freckles upon them.
He gives her a nod and the best smile he can muster. He’s always watching her…as well as a man with only one working eye can manage. He buries a sigh and tries to look attentive as the other dancers whirl past. He will not bring her down tonight with his melancholy. It’s more than enough that she’s bound to him for the length of their lives already.
You would think you march to another battle in an hour instead of to your bedding.
The thought of possibly bedding Sansa has him gulping for breath and holding out his tankard to a passing servant. “Another,” he says gruffly as he fiddles with his bandage.
The loss of sight in one eye seemed a small price to pay for the destruction of the Others at the time. He’s never spent much time thinking on his looks and never expected to have a wife, certainly not a wife as beautiful as his. Sansa says he looks perfectly fine to her. Somedays, he believes her and doesn’t even bother with the bandage.
But the scar and whiteish-looking eye are not pleasing to look at, nowhere near as pleasing looking as the young man dancing with his wife right now, so tonight, the king wears his bandage and sits alone at the head table.
The servant refills his ale. Jon nods his thanks and attempts to drink away the sting of watching Sansa happily dancing with other men whist he sits here being mumpish. She is only being a courteous hostess. And, his clever queen knows perfectly well how to cultivate good relations with their bannermen and the men that fought and bled with Jon. Sulking in a corner by oneself isn’t how it’s done.
He does not begrudge Sansa her enjoyment of the dance. His wife is young and the malicious threat that has loomed for so long is gone. There has been a period for mourning but tonight, that thrill of having survived, having overcome seemingly overwhelming odds fills nearly everyone present save for a few determinedly dour grey beards and their king.
Watching Sansa move, Jon wishes he could feel lighter than air as she appears to be. Part of it’s a performance, he knows, but she is also resolved to cast aside their darker hours and focus on the future. Meanwhile, he feels like he’s three times her age rather than three years older tonight.
The knight leans in, whispering something in her ear. Jon’s burned hand clenches beneath the table. Sansa pulls away from the knight’s whispering but keeps dancing, only staying half a step farther back than before.
Because of him Sansa’s admirers will always be kept at arm’s length even if she might long for it to be otherwise. She’s far too mindful of duty to allow any personal attachment to lead her astray.
And, now she’s trapped in another arranged marriage.
She’ll be an admirable queen but he hopes she will not come to regret this decision after circumstances have brought about a marriage between himself and his fair cousin.
It’s quite odd considering they grew up thinking themselves siblings. Half-siblings, Sansa would correct him.
They’d never been terribly close growing up and, since they’ve reunited, it’s been difficult for Jon to keep the lines between sibling affections and something else from blurring. Whether that’s a result of him coming back from the dead different or the years of war and betrayals that have left him broken, taciturn and withdrawn, he will never speak of it aloud since his wife is unlikely to ever love him the way he loves her.
They will do their duty to make this marriage work though. They’ll wade their way through it like an unfamiliar dance and he hopes he can keep her from regretting it too keenly in time. He’ll give her children to love if she’ll allow him the intimacy of making them. Together, they’ll serve their people and raise a family. She might even find it in her heart someday to...
“Are you going to sit there drinking all night or are you going to dance with me at least once?”
Startled by her unexpected presence, he quickly rises in an attempt to pull back her chair. In his haste though, he knocks over his tankard and he’s immediately cursing under his breath. He was not always so clumsy. Is the eye to blame or the nerves that assail him like a green boy’s?
“I’m…sorry.”
A bevy of servants have already descended, wiping off the table and his chair and putting things to rights again though the rushes at his feet are damp still.
He feels her hand reaching for his. “It’s alright, Jon. We can just sit here if you prefer.”
“You prefer dancing.”
“I do but I’d rather be with you whatever we do.”
“Why?” he cannot stop himself from blurting out. She blanches at his words and tone. Gods, he’s so hopeless as a bridegroom. “Sorry. I meant, why would you wish to sit with me when you could be enjoying yourself and…”
“Do you not know?” she asks, gently now. “If our roles were reversed and I was sitting and you were dancing, would you come and sit with me?”
“Always, Sansa.”
His admittance makes her smile and her eyes are beseeching him to understand what his heart is afraid to believe. “Then, why would you be surprised that I should choose to be with you?”
“Because I…because you’re…but you liked dancing with those other men.”
She laughs softly. “I do. I still like you more.”
“You like me more,” he repeats before nodding towards the peacock from the Vale. “He was whispering in your ear. What did he say?”
“Things he shouldn’t say to a married woman.”
“He likes you,” he huffs quietly. “He wants you.”
“Maybe so but he doesn’t love me and I do not love him.”
“Is there someone here you could love, my lady? An idiot who’s sitting here with ale on his breeches when he could’ve been dancing with you for instance? A man who loves you and has been watching you dance with other men the past half hour feeling sorry for himself? Could you ever love a man like that?”
His heart is beating so hard by the time he gets that all out. He’s nearly breathless as he waits for an answer.
“I could. Why do you think I came over here?” she asks with an endearing grin.
Soon after, King Jon leads his lady through a dance. Everyone pauses to watch the newlyweds and he’s very cognizant of it. Sansa whispers for him to pay them no heed and he tries not to. He’s not very practiced at this sort of dancing but no one seems to pay much mind with the ale running so freely. He prays he doesn’t crush her toes any.
The next dance finds them surrounded by other couples and he’s no longer focusing on his missteps so much as the beauty in his arms who sighs contentedly as he holds her.
Later that night after they’ve practiced another sort of dance together for the first time, his fears and regrets are no more than distant memories when Sansa tells him, “You needn’t worry over dances I share with other men, Jon. I fell in love with you, not them.”