Well, feasting and dancing she could do. Maybe not so much the feasting, as her stomach had been in knots ever since the sun rose earlier that morning; nerves, her septa had assured her, which would soon pass once the frivolities were over and done with. And they were halfway gone, weren't they? Although Guinevere would only privately admit to a little bit of trepidation for the coming expectation after the feast was done, but that couldn't be helped, now could it?

Nevertheless, Jon was stroking her cheek and smiling at her, his dark eyes warm with sincerity, and it touched her, deep down. Guinevere returned his soft kiss and sat, arranging her skirts appropriately, then spied Lady Sansa on her husband's left hand, smiling at her, which the new Queen in the North returned only too gladly. A booming voice echoed across the Hall, and everyone's attention turned to the speaker, one of the Northern Lords who was holding a tankard of ale and saluting the bride and groom.

Which of course began the hearty carouse of good cheer, good wishes, and good food and drink, and Guinevere let herself be swept along in the merriment, smiling where necessary and laughing when something truly struck her amusement. These Northmen were definitely more boisterous and rough-hewn than the nobles of the Southern kingdoms, and it was different, yes, but also more genuine, and she found herself admiring that. Every so often, Jon would reach for her hand, squeeze her fingers or kiss her knuckles, and the sheer ease of his affection - which she felt she'd done nothing to earn - had her blushing like a milkmaid, but she relished it, regardless.