queen in the north.

The celebrations are a bit much, if you ask him, but Sansa insists it’s what the realm needs. A celebration, she had said the third time she’d brought it up, looking at him over a goblet of spiced wine, it means more than just your nameday, Jon. 

And so he allows her to arrange it all- the masques, the feasts, the jousts- all to celebrate his nameday. His first one as King and his first since the war had ended. His first since they had found peace. His first one since life had changed in every possible way but one.

Well, save for one.

And that one thing is coming towards him now, striding down the corridor in a beautiful gown of pale pink, the golden stitching along the sweeping sleeves delicately telling a story of falling leaves. “Sansa,” he greets with a grin, slowing his steps so she can come to stand in front of him- despite the empty corridor, she curtsies prettily, though he always tells her she needn’t do such a thing, and rises up with a wide smile of her own. “Your grace,” he corrects, for she’s only just returned from the North with a crown of her own, one she deserved far more than he deserved his. “Your gown… It is quite lovely.” 

She blushes to the roots of her red hair and looks down at her feet. But when she looks back up, she’s grabbing hold of her skirts, swinging them slightly as he’d seen her do dozens of times before. “The fabric you had sent to me,” she reminds him and he nods, for of course he’s not forgotten. “I think the blue and green silks will be done just in time for your nameday celebrations.” It had not been long after Jon’s crowning that he’d sent her several bolts of beautiful silks and damasks, from which she’d begun to make the gowns she wore now in King’s Landing. Though he had offered her the best of the capital's dressmakers, she’s continued to make them herself, as she’s done since they had been children back at Winterfell. “Speaking of which,” she continues as they fall into step beside one another, she sliding her arm in with his, her hand warm on his skin. “I have arranged for a jousting tourney like they used to do,” she looks sidelong at him, blue eyes sparkling. “All of the best knights will compete, it will be quite grand.” 

Jon chuckles as they turn the corner, arriving at the main stairs that will take them down to the main hall. “Then so will I,” he says and her eyes widen, her surprise evident. For a man who had not wished to be King at all, she’s genuinely surprised at these words. 

“You needn’t if you don’t want…” She begins, but Jon is shaking his head. 

“You have put so much work into these celebrations, how would it look if I just sat on the sidelines?” Besides, he imagines for a moment looking up at the queen’s box where she surely would sit, smiling down at him. “Besides, when was the last time a King did more than just attend these things?” Sansa nods, understanding, for Joffrey surely never had, and if Robert Baratheon ever had, it’d been decades before. 

“Then it is settled,” she declares and they continue on, all the while talking about the days that would come. It was sweet, he thinks, to have a moment as normal as this one, a moment he never dreamed could ever be. 

[ x x x ]

The crowds are cheering, louder than he’s ever heard before.

It seemed as though Sansa was right about this celebration being just what the realm needed- a day to celebrate everything they had survived and everything that they now had. He looks out from where he sits just off stage, on his gray stallion, waiting to emerge and surprise the crowd with his participation. Across the way, settled into the Queen’s Box, Sansa sits now, he can see her fire kissed hair and sees the glimmer of the green silk she wears. 

“Your grace, it’s time,” it is Davos at his side now, gesturing for him to move forward, which as soon as his horse is in motion, the gates open, revealing him to his people. They begin to cheer, louder even, though he’s not sure how it’s even possible. Pulling on the reins, he guides his horse along the length of the jousting arena, waving as he recalls Sansa instructing him to do so, until he reaches where she sits in the Queen’s Box. 

When he approaches, she’s smiling, her ivory cheeks stained pink, the glitter of the gold necklace she wears striking in the sunlight. “My lady,” he calls out, hyper aware of how every pair of eyes in that arena were watching them closely. “May I wear your favor?” Sansa eyes him skeptically for just a moment before she unties the green silk strip from her wrist, leaning over the box to give it to him with a wide, but knowing smile. “Thank you,” he says as he ties it around his own wrist, looking up into that beautiful face, knowing he’d have fought another war just to keep her looking that happy. 

And then… It strikes him that once, his father had this very same moment with his mother, and it fills him with a strange sense of understanding. 

He loves her. 

“Be careful, your grace,” she calls out, bringing him back to the present. He nods and she sinks back into the chair she was once seated in, and he rides off to the end of the arena, where in mere moments the jousting would begin. 

[ x x x ]

On the last day of the joust, when he comes around on his horse, it isn’t to ask for her favor, as he’s done every day since the first. Instead, when he stops at the Queen’s Box, it is to call out for her, where as she’s done each time, she leans over the box expecting to hand him a token to wear as he jousts. 

Instead, it is he who offers her something. 

“A crown for the most beautiful of queens,” he says, offering to her a crown woven from the beautiful blue winter roses of Winterfell. She’s smiling faintly as she accepts the crown and places it carefully upon her head, the blue of the petals bold against her copper colored hair. “For your honor, I will win the joust today.” He has learned, or perhaps recalls from childhood, the expectations of a knight in these tournaments. Once upon a time, it had been all Sansa ever spoke of- the romanticism of it, the beauty of it, the chivalry of it all. 

And later, when he does indeed win the tourney, she is cheering loudest of all. 

[x x x ]

When the jousting tourney ends, there comes a feast. 

And with a feast comes drinking and dancing, the celebrations lasting long into the night. 

He watches her from his place on his throne, a vision in her blue gown- she’s never been more beautiful than she was now, with the wilting blue roses still upon her head. 

“You should ask her to dance.” 

Jon jumps, startled, and turns towards the voice that has approached him; it was Tyrion, who despite everything that had transpired at the end of the war, remained in King’s Landing. It was easier to keep him close, Jon had decided early on, and after many more months of knowing him, he decided the last living Lannister really was no harm. “I don’t dance,” he replies, thinking back to the dance lessons he’d dreaded back in Winterfell as a child. 

“Don’t dance? How unbecoming of a King.” Tyrion jests, though he cannot even recall the last time a crowned King danced in this hall. “I fear the Dorneish prince will keep her occupied all night, then,” he casts his green eyes towards where Sansa now stands, occupied by the very man he’s just mentioned. “It would be quite the advantageous marriage, I suppose…” 

That does the trick.

Jon rises, draining his goblet of ale before he strides down the dais, crossing the room until he approaches where she stands. “Jon- I mean, your grace,” she dips him a curtsy, giggling, her wine glass in hand. 

“May I have this dance?” He asks and she nods, handing her goblet to the prince and taking the hand Jon offers to her. They make their way to the center of the room and for a moment, a hush falls across the room, but then the music begins and others make their way out to join them, so the dance could begin. 

“Do you recall the steps?” She asks as he puts his hand at her waist, she too recalling the days of childhood dance lessons. Lessons she’d loved, of course, quite the opposite of Jon and Robb. Jon laughs and swings her out and back, proof that he did indeed recall the steps of this particular dance. “Your nameday celebrations have been quite the success, it seems,” she says when she’s close again, her hand squeezing his. 

“All thanks to you,” he reminds her and she blushes, but they continue to dance, the time for talking perhaps another time. 

When they finish, he does not release her, rather, he holds her closer, thinking he’d rather do anything else than let her go. “Jon…” She says his name so softly, so gently, that he remembers they stand in a room full of people, so he steps back, bowing to her as any good dance partner might do. “Shall we go again?” She asks as the music strikes back up and Jon nods, grinning, laughing, drunk on ale, but drunk on happiness too. 

[ x x x ]

In his rooms that night, he strips from his finery, down to his white rumpled shirt and black breeches. His shirt is one Sansa had made for him back in Winterfell, her tiny, careful stitches evident on the sleeves; it is one of his favorites, in truth. 

He’s drunk, as was most of the court, after a long night of celebrating, so he does not hear the first knock upon his door. But then it comes a second time and he turns, listening, wondering, perhaps secretly hoping, who will be behind the door when he calls for them to come inside. 

She’s crazy for coming like this, she knows it, but she stands at his door all the same. 

When he calls for her to enter, she pushes the door open and steps inside, surprised by the brightly lit room, despite the late hour. “Sansa,” he breathes her name at the sight of her there and she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, uncertain now that she’s here. The flower crown he’d given to her earlier in the day is gone but she still wears her blue silk gown, still wears a golden pendant at her throat. Her hair is long and loose, lost of its pins, its braids. As if she'd begun to prepare for bed and thought better of it. 

They’ve been here before, many times, too many to count; trapped between doing what they knew they both wanted and not doing anything at all. He’s faced death so many times, but none of those moments frightened him as much as this one did. “Jon…” She says his name in a way that undos him, that sends chills racing his spine, yet somehow it still calms the racing of his frantic heart. “I have a gift for you, I just did not know when to give it to you,”she speaks slowly, tilting her head, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She steps closer, so close that when he leans in, their lips just barely brush and he cannot stop himself from sliding a hand into her hair, marveling at the softness of it against his skin. “I worried… For what does a girl get a King?” Her giggle makes his heart turn and she leans into his touch, her own hand sliding into place over his. “May I present you with your gift, your grace?” 

Unable to speak, Jon merely nods, and it is then that she kisses him.

The kiss is long and slow, so long in fact that when she finally pulls away, they are both breathless. His hand slips from its place in her hair to instead cup her cheek, her ivory skin softer than even a rose petal. “Sansa…” All he can muster is the syllables of her name, which brings a soft laugh from her smiling lips. 

“I wanted to give you such a gift for far too long,” she admits, emboldened by both the wine she’s consumed and his reaction to her kiss. She recalls those days from so long ago, days full of fear, of war… Days they’ve finally left behind, for good, she hopes. 

Jon leans in, forehead to forehead, the closeness of her body overwhelming; yet, it’s all he’s ever wanted. “I’ve wanted that for far too long,” his admission is soft, he too recalling those days she’s thinking of. Darkened days he thought they’d never escape from. But those days are long gone and he’ll never allow darkness to cloud their world again. “I love you,” he admits next, he too is bolder than usual thanks to the ale he’s consumed, but in truth, these words have longed to leave his lips. “I love you, Sansa.” 

“Then kiss me.” 

It is enough for him, so he does as she bids, kissing her as she had just done to him- but this time the kiss intensifies, his hands in her unbound hair, her hands tugging at his shirt. When they fall into his bed, he peers over her simply so he can look into her blue eyes, marveling at the beauty of her face. She was perfect in every way possible. Beyond that, he thinks as she smiles up at him. 

This was the moment he’d been waiting for his whole life.

This was the moment he’d fought wars for, that he’d come back from the dead for.