oncefuturequeen | for jon snow (tooktheblack)

for jon snow (tooktheblack)

Ravens had been dispatched, messages sent, and replies received. The Princess of Carhaise, one Guinevere of House Leodegrance, had been offered as bride to the new King in the North, Jon Snow of House Stark. Bastard though he might have been by birth, the former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch had seemingly done the impossible: he'd rallied all of the northern lords and the Wildlings from beyond the Wall to his banner, earned their support despite his lowborn heritage, and even now prepared the North for the Long Night hovering just beyond the horizon.

And Guinevere, only daughter of King Leodegrance and thus far bystander to the turmoil that had plagued Westeros these past several years, was to be his Queen. She'd been bitterly pleased to note, however, that this "marriage", such as it was, was costing her horrible father five thousand of his best cavalrymen, their horses and weapons, as well as several tons of wheat and grain, for the King in the North had to feed his people during the coming winter, did he not? Seemed a fair compensation for a wife he undoubtedly neither needed nor wanted.

Guinevere certainly felt the Northmen were getting the better part of the bargain, herself.

Regardless of her thoughts on the matter - her father had been adamant, as he despised both Cersei and this foolish Targaryan upstart - that when Carhaise could no longer remain neutral in the Westerosi disasters, old Leo had made the surprising choice to side with Jon Snow and the Northmen. Mainly, as far as Guinevere remembered, out of some lingering fond memory for the Stark family; Eddard, Benjen, and their poor father, slain by the Mad King not long enough to fade into memory. So it was that Carhaise packed up its Princess and her crotchety father and spent several weeks on the road, traveling with the promised dowries towards Winterfell.

The main entourage arrived one fine wintry morning, the King's carriage rolling beneath Winterfell's portcullis on the heels of four splendid horses, all stamping and steaming their breath in the chill air. Not waiting for the door to be opened, Leodegrance flung it open himself, still spry at the ripe age of sixty, but already a hard youth and old war wounds had begun to take their toll. Nevertheless, the old man's eyes were sharp and bright as he surveyed the courtyard, waving away porters and courtiers alike.

"Find my daughter," was all he commanded, and his servants bowed away to do just that, but before any of them could send the word down the line, the Princess cantered into Winterfell's courtyard, her grey gelding prancing prettily beneath her skilled hand. She'd left her long locks unbound and unbraided; they streamed over her dark cloak in a scarlet river. Rather than be gowned as a southern highborn lady, she instead wore a comfortable riding dress of thick wool and cashmere, adorned with only a jewel or two. Leo sniffed as he appraised his only child and bartering chip, but knew better than to bother; she'd inherited her bold way of speaking from him, and her temper from her mother.

She knew his disapproval; it was evident in her own sly smirk as she dismounted and joined her patron, ironically dipping a small curtsy as she approached, but he only huffed and rolled his eyes, thanking all the Old Gods and the New that she'd soon be someone else's headache!

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Now she did squeak - lightly - an involuntary giggle stifled between them, as she felt herself hitched snug and close to her brand new lord and king, and the firm hand against her rear was by far the furthermost liberty anyone had ever dared take with her. But it felt...right, she dimly realized, having this Northman's arms holding her close, his soft warm lips on hers, and Guinevere voiced a very soft moan, both of her hands now wound into thick black curls, feeling their softness against her fingertips.

It truly seemed a dream; she'd only met this man a few hours ago, but it seemed the most natural thing in all of the world, being out in the cold winter evening with him, she caught between his body and the stone wall, both hard and unyielding against her natural softness. It was enough to make her strangely lightheaded, and she had to pull her mouth from his to catch a quick breath, tilting her head to offer him the slope of her throat, and possibly, with her floating along on the first stirrings of true desire, anything else he might want.

"...Jon..." It was a single word, his name, but voiced in such a breathless tone, so unlike her, but completely willing, submissive.

It's a dangerous thing to do, honestly. Guinevere is warm and soft between him and the wall and when she offers her throat, he dips his head to lay a string of kisses along pale, soft skin. He doesn't want to mark her skin just now, fair as she is, and it would be poor form to look as if he'd bedded his wife before she was his wife. For now, he keeps his lips soft and when he reaches the crook of her neck and shoulder he inhales her soft scent.

"I can't wait until we're wed," Jon says softly. "I want to be able to do this and not have to stop. I want to kiss you and hold you and not have to worry about anyone else in the world. Is that what you want? Or something you think you might want?"

It's difficult to tell, knowing so little of one another, but Jon is at least soothed that he and Guinevere seem compatible in this even if they don't know one another terribly well yet. The rest will come, he thinks, and he can be confident in his bed chamber even if he can be unsure outside of it.

How was she supposed to form words, let alone coherent sentences, when he was kissing and touching her like this? Guinevere dimly realized he'd said something, but the meaning behind his murmured words against her skin didn't catch up with her for several long, breathless moments. Guinevere finally opened her eyes, lashes heavy over their deep green, and realized that she was clutching Jon's hair in tight fingers, keeping him in place so that his mouth could worship her tender skin.

She'd been kissed before, yes, groped in dark corners by a potentially interesting suitor, of course, but her responses had all been lukewarm, tolerant, and had eventually fizzled out to boredom or nothing at all. Never had she felt such heat course beneath her skin in response to a man's touch; it was beyond intriguing. Guinevere suddenly found herself wondering if marriage to this Northern bastard-turned-king was going to be as mediocre as she'd initially imagined.

Taking a moment to find her tongue once more, and lick her lips when she could, Guinevere slowly pulled away from the King - the better to think a little clearer - and a small smile appeared, a little coquettish, but no less sincere. "I think..." she mused in a husky low voice, "...I think that...I might, yes." Tapered fingers touched his cheek, drifted across his mouth, then she was pulling him right back, giving a soft whimper into heated kisses that seemed to go on and on.

It's rather like mulled wine, the way she feels beneath his mouth. It's rich and red and spicy, something that warms him to the core even when winter's chill is just outside. She isn't like any other woman he's ever known and he wonders if that bodes well for their marriage. It must, yes? It must be good that the king wants to bed his new queen so badly that he's willing to risk it before the ceremony makes it legal before witnesses.

Her mouth is still hot on his and Jon slides his hand down to cup her bottom and bring her that much closer to him. He wants Guinevere to know how much he wants her and how eager he is to make her wife and start their reign together as the King and Queen in the North. This is already better than he'd expected it to be and he wonders if Sansa, who usually handles diplomacy, had known anything about Leodegrance's daughter before coveting his calvary.

Jon thinks he'd rather not know.

"I could have you now, if you wanted," Jon says breathlessly. "But I won't risk it. Not before we're wed. I want there to be no question about our marriage and the reasons behind it. I want...there's ways to have you without consummating it, though. I swear there's ways."

The need for breath eventually broke them apart, and Guinevere rested her forehead against Jon's, softly panting with parted lips. She forced her hands to release him, but slid fingers over his shoulders to rest against the front of his tunic, warm from the heat of his skin.

"No, Your Grace," she somewhat regretfully agreed, "we shouldn't...we shouldn't risk it." Because tensions were already high enough, and adding more fuel to that fire would be folly indeed. "We must be...we must be wise, I think." Which didn't mean rutting right here against the bailey wall where anyone might see and hear. Guinevere licked her lower lip, still tasting him on her tongue.

"We...we need to wait. Your Grace. Jon." But her fingers curled just the slightest into the heavy fabric of Jon's outer tunic. "Will you escort me back to my chambers, then?" And pray to the Old Gods and the New that she had the resolve to keep from pulling him right into them with her.

Jon doesn't want to pull away from her but Guinevere has the right of it. He cannot go and risk this on some spur of the moment thing. He will be properly wedded in a few days and then he can bed his new wife as much as they both wish. It's worth the wait to do it properly.

"I shall escort you back to your rooms," Jon says, pulling away reluctantly. He still offers his arm to her, though, and intends to walk closely with her even if he's taking her to bed and putting a solid wooden door between the two of them. These rooms will only be hers for a few days, after all.

"At least we don't have to worry that we aren't compatible, aye? It seems we will be able to figure things out and the rest will come with some time. I couldn't have asked for it to go better, Guinevere. I truly couldn't have."

She laughed quietly, falling into step as she took his arm and they headed for the familiar stairwell. "I think the worst is over, Your Grace. All that's left is the formalities." And the learning to live with each other; Guinevere knew she wasn't any picnic to tolerate, and it was far too soon to tell how their public life would go. She was sure, however, that at some point, her husband and his army would ride off to war and she'd be left to tend to Winterfell, hopefully with Lady Sansa, and wait and watch for his return. If he returned.

But those darker thoughts were best left for later; they definitely had no place in mind when the King and his future Queen arrived again at her quarters, and she pressed a small, sweet kiss to his grizzled cheek, whispering at his ear her wishes for pleasant dreams and a restful night. Then she slipped out of his grasp, shared another brief, quick kiss, and hurried into her chambers, closing the door with a mischievous little smile.

Jon thinks about testing the door after she slips away from him but decides not to, in the end. He can wait. It isn't so terribly long and weddings in the North during winter are often solemn affairs.

His wedding to Guinevere does warrant a moderate feast, if only because Leodegrance and his army has come from so far away, but the ceremony is held by candlelight in the Godswood. Jon stands at the end of the path alongside the weirwood while he waits on Guinevere to come. Sansa is the one who announces her arrival, asks the questions; Jon thinks this is best since it means no one will end up tripping on their words. Once he's standing before the tree with his wife, though, he has eyes and ears only for her.

Her gown is snow white and trimmed in fur with a hood in lieu of a veil. Jon takes Guinevere's hands in his own to warm them and when they finish exchanging words, he kisses her softly. He wants it to be more of a true kiss but they are in public and he can restrain himself somewhat.

He picks her up to carry her into the Great Hall and there's already a feast laid and ale poured. There's a seat for them at the high table and Jon takes great pleasure in setting Guinevere on her feet and pulling her close for a slightly more intimate kiss than the one to seal the vows.

"How does it feel to be Queen in the North, then?"

Guinevere had always expected that when her marriage finally came about, she'd be wed in a sept in either her father's kingdom, or that of her potential husband, and hadn't bothered to think any more about it. But upon learning of her impending nuptials to the King in the North, she'd had to revise her opinions of a wedding ceremony, as the Northmen mostly still worshiped the Old Gods, and their traditions were worlds different than those with which she'd been reared.

The weirwood was, she realized, stunningly beautiful. Blanketed all in white, lit by softly glowing candles here and there, the Princess of Carhaise came forth to meet her husband through the silent assemblage of nobility, both of the North and South, and managed to repeat her vows without stumbling over any of the still-unfamiliar words. Their brief, soft kiss cemented both their marriage and the alliance of their Houses, but Guinevere did gasp in a bit of surprise when Jon swept her into his arms and led the throng back towards the keep; apparently that too was tradition.

The feast had been prepared within, and it was to the raised table that her husband took them, setting her on her feet in a mild whirlwind of snow-dusted cloaks and long skirts. Before she could chide him for such behavior, Jon had pulled her close and found her mouth with his, unabashed now that there could be no judgment for doing so. Feeling slightly giddy and a little girlish - her septa would faint if she realized such - Guinevere drew back with a breathless little laugh, replying, "A little strange, to be honest. I'm not entirely sure what that even means, just yet."

"Well, for tonight, you need only to think of feasting and dancing," Jon promises her. He's happier tonight than he's been in a long while and his smiles have come easier and easier. Even Sansa has noticed the difference, teasing him lightly, and Jon doesn't even have a way to refute it. He is happy and while he hadn't wanted to get married before, he cannot imagine remaining unmarried with Guinevere as his wife.

Jon brushes his fingertips along the curve of her cheek. "You'll be a wonderful queen, Guinevere. I know you will. You're clever and brave and not afraid of doing things - the men in the North admire that. We prefer a woman who knows how to ride and feels comfortable outdoors. Winter is hard on all of us. You need strength to survive it, physical and mental, and I feel you have both."

There's no denying her beauty, either, and Jon kisses her once more before pulling out her chair so she can be seated and begin the feast.

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.

Jon wonders at how easily they seem to fall in with one another. Guinevere is bolder in some ways than he is and finds it easier to talk to those she doesn't know. There are lords in the North that Jon doesn't know very well and only when they're asking something of one another but Guinevere seems to navigate them with an ease rivaled only by Sansa. It's an enviable quality and one he's glad both his wife and his sister possess.

He keeps her hand in his as they eat and occasionally takes a moment to kiss her or lean in and say some sweet thing against her ear. The crowd cheers whenever he does and now that he's several tankards of ale in, he's a little bolder with his affection. There's a honeyed cake in the dessert course that he likes and he holds a bit up with his fingers, tempting Guinevere to eat from his hand.

"This one is my favorite," he murmurs. "They made it for me, especially, but it tastes bitter compared to you."

It was a little dizzying, all of the revelry, and Guinevere did feel a bit overwhelmed with the boisterousness of it all, but she rallied well, calling upon all of her Southern diplomacy and charm to keep from running out of the Hall in a panic. Her sister-by-law was a welcome balm, sprinkling subtle hints throughout the conversations to assist the new Queen in the North, and Guinevere was silently grateful for her assistance.

Though most present were swilling ale by the tankard, Guinevere only allowed herself a few sips of wine, knowing that all eyes were definitely upon her, even more than the man beside her, and falling over in a drunken faint simply wouldn't paint the best picture, would it? Her father, she noted with a bitter twist to her lips, was so deep in his cups that he was laughing and pounding Northern lords on the back as if they were his own bannermen; she supposed he was profoundly relieved to be leaving for Carhaise minus his troublesome daughter.

But then Jon was turning towards her, a silly little smile on his face, and holding out a bit of sweet cake for her to taste. A little nonplussed by this uncharacteristic boldness, she nevertheless obediently leaned in to let him feed her the morsel, a bit surprised by its rich sweetness. "Mmmm," she had to respond, "it's delicious." The blatant compliment had color dusting her cheeks, and she lowered her lashes demurely, ducking her head a bit modestly. "You flatter me, Your Grace."

"I think you should be allowed to flatter your own wife," Jon says, laughing softly. As he does, he dips his head toward her, quite close, and whispers against the soft skin of her cheek. It feels strange to be this open with his affections in front of everyone but he's just enough in his cups to not be embarrassed and he's rapidly becoming smitten with his new wife and queen.

"I cannot wait to flatter you more when we're alone," he says, voice low and husky. He wants to bed her desperately; Jon has only ever been with a woman he's loved and while he's not in love with Guinevere just yet, he feels it will not take long. She seems to be well-matched with him, more than he'd expected, and he's glad that Sansa had taken the initiative to broker the marriage and speak with Leodegrance on his behalf.

"I want to see and touch every inch of you, wife."

Now, she definitely colored, grateful that the loose locks of her hair managed to conceal the blush on her cheek, tantalized even further by the soft rasp of her husband's scruff. "Your Grace," Guinevere admonished him with a small smile, glancing about just in case anyone was paying the monarchs a little too much attention just then. "I didn't realize my husband was so bold in front of his own bannermen."

But it was a gentle tease; truly, he was within his rights to take her right here atop the high table, if he wished. And wouldn't that just be quite a show. But Sansa was smiling at them from a little ways down the table, Jon's younger brother Bran, beside her, doing the same, albeit a bit distantly, and the others in the Hall were laughing and carrying on as if they were all the best of old friends.

While she wasn't entirely sure how things were done here in the North, Guinevere was nevertheless determined to Do Her Duty, as her septa had insisted upon calling it, and gently touched her husband's cheek with light fingertips. "The food is all but done," she told him, leaning back just enough to gaze into Jon's dark eyes. "And everyone will be deep into the ale barrels before long." A moment's hesitation, then she inquired, "...shall I retire to your chambers to await you?"

"I'll bring you. They know not to call for a bedding," Jon says, having rejected that and made his feelings known on the subject before Guinevere had even arrived at Winterfell. The status of his wife's virginity is no one's business but his and Guinevere's. Jon intends to bed her tonight, as he feels they like one another well enough and he burns hot for her, but he doesn't need the rest of the castle poking their noses in it.

"If we slip away now, perhaps Tormund won't notice me," Jon says, laughing softly. He loved the big Wildling, he did, but sometimes he got a bit too enthusiastic on the subject of Jon and bedding a woman. Considering Tormund likely heard he and Ygritte more than once, Jon supposes his jokes are warranted, but they still embarrass him and aren't fit for a lady to hear. He squeezes Guinevere's hand before helping her stand.

"Come on, let's go before they notice us." It feels like something he might have done as a boy, sneaking along corridors, and his eyes are bright with it.

The crude tradition of a "bedding" was something she'd been dreading ever since she'd learned of this arrangement, if Guinevere were honest. To stand by and have men chortle and guffaw over such a thing - even if it were to cement alliances between great Houses - was, frankly, horrifying. Yet she was aware that some bannermen still insisted on such things, particularly from a high ranking marriage. To hear Jon say that that particular tradition wouldn't come to pass lifted a great weight from the new Queen's shoulders, and she exhaled a deep sigh of relief.

But she still held a little bit of a maiden's fear, although she had to admit to a burning curiosity about the entire thing. Her septa had schooled her with the brutal facts, of course, and Guinevere had finally resigned herself to the fact that she'd have to suffer through her wedding night, no matter what, but she hadn't anticipated this strange...desire towards her new husband. It was puzzling. But she supposed the only way to understand was to do it, so to speak, so her hand only trembled lightly when she nodded to Jon and let him pull her out of her chair and quickly lead her from the Hall, leaving behind the noise, the revelers, and the remnants of her old life.

Guinevere thought she might have heard a cheer as they rounded the corner near the stairwell, but perhaps that had been only the thudding of her heart, now racing a bit wildly. Jon seemed enthusiastic as a boy; his eyes bright, cheeks flushed, and smile ever present, so it wasn't surprising that he didn't seem aware of his wife's growing trepidation. But when they finally reached the King's quarters, fire already crackling in large hearth, warming the room comfortably, Guinevere froze, sidling over to the fireplace and rubbing her chilly arms, all too aware of the large bed in the corner of her eye, and what she was required to do in it.

Jon is slightly in his cups, yes, but it still doesn't escape his notice that Guinevere looks different than the gay, charming queen she'd been at the feast. She looks apprehensive, eyes darting toward the bed and hands rubbing her arms. Jon draws close to her and cups her face in his hands. They're the same height, more or less, and he brushes a thumb against her high cheekbone.

"Naught will happen to you in that bed that you don't wish to happen. You have nothing to fear from me, Guinevere. I'm not a barbarian who'd take you against your will. You may be my wife but you have no duty in that bed save to find pleasure and happiness."

He kisses her forehead softly, wanting to assure her he doesn't mean to hurt her, and looks back into her eyes.

"Would you like to sit and talk for a while? I know we've had a little while to come to know one another but we're still strangers in many ways. I'd love to learn you, wife, and let you learn me as well."

Involuntarily tensing when Jon came close, Guinevere forced herself to relax, to calm down, when he only placed his hands against her cheeks and rose up to kiss her forehead, and a bit of her chilly trepidation eased at the tender gesture. She circled his wrists with her fingers, forcing a small, shaky laugh, and shook her head.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, I..." Then he was reassuring her again, and Guinevere gripped his hands in hers, meeting his gaze with soft eyes and a small girlish smile. "Gwen," she told him gently. "You may call me Gwen, Your Grace, if it pleases you." Only one other person had ever used that shortened form of her name, and it still brought the slight gleam of tears to the corner of her eyes.

"My mother used to use it for me," she confessed, taking his offer and slowly folding down atop one of the small divans near the fire. "'Little Gwen', she used to say, sitting with her sewing in her tower at Carhaise, 'you'll be Queen someday, I know you will'." Still holding Jon's hand, Guinevere stared into the fire, trying to remember. "She died when I was so young, I can hardly remember her face. Her voice I can recall, but not her face, her eyes, or her mouth." A melancholy smile. "I do remember that she too was 'kissed by fire', as your Free Folk say."

Then she blinked out of the brief trance, shaking her head with a rueful chuckle. "Forgive me," she said again. "This is our wedding night and here I am speaking of childhood memories and nicknames..."

"No, it's fine. And I have to insist you call me Jon," he says, sliding his hands along her arms to help warm her. "I am your husband now, before the eyes of gods and men, and I'm your equal in this room. If you are to be my Gwen, I insist on being Jon."

Jon takes her hand and leads her to sit on a couch that's close to the fire. It's not exactly the bed but he thinks it might put her more at ease to know that he doesn't intend to rip her dress off and have his way with her. He wants to talk to her and know her. If bedding doesn't happen tonight, so be it. There's many more nights other than this one to get to that.

"I would hear more about where you grew up. For all that we're married, we do barely know one another. I want to know you and have you know me so that we've no secrets between us."

She nodded acquiescence. "Very well." Guinevere made room for him to sit beside her, grateful for his both his support and his warmth. She let herself nestle against Jon's side, pulling up a fold of his cloak for cover. "Have you ever been South?" Before he could answer yea or nay, she continued on.

"The southern kingdoms are far different from those in the North. They are smaller, for one, and more densely populated. The nobility there is much concerned with appearances, and even the slightest insult can result in hostilities." She sighed, not for the first time realizing how stupid most southern customs actually were.

But Guinevere went on to speak about her home, the high castle on the hill overlooking a sea of grass, with very little trees or hills breaking the line of the horizon. Of how her father's cavalrymen had kept Carhaise safe for many, many years, and were considered to be paramount to even the Dothraki hordes of the east. She spoke briefly of the castle, a soaring structure of pearl, stone, and marble, of the gilded halls where she'd grown up, motherless, a scion of a dwindling House, but groomed to become Queen, regardless of her own wishes. It was a daughter's duty to obey her father, after all.

"We've never been close," she admitted, Jon's fingers gently laced with hers, resting in her lap. "He's an old, vain man, far more concerned with his status than his family or his people. Thank the Gods for our steward, who handles everything from feeding the peasantry to arming the soldiers." She gave a small, tight smile. "And he taught me well, I am glad to say."

Jon lifts their joined hands so he might kiss hers, paying close attention to her story. The description of a high hill and grass where horses might graze and run is beautiful to him. Even in the spring and summer, there's a harshness to Winterfell that makes it much different from the stories he's heard of the South. Their trees are weirwood, their grass bitter roots that grow through snow and rock and their harvests hard-won.

"He seems to have taught you very well, Gwen," Jon agrees. "So much so that you'll dance circles around me in this marriage. I was raised to not expect a marriage or children, being a bastard, and going to the Wall was the best I could hope for as a bastard. As they say, a bastard might rise high in the Night's Watch. I ended up as a spy among the Free Folk for a year or so, trying to get a bead on Mance Rayder, but I eventually came back to the Watch and was elected Lord Commander."

Jon pauses for a moment, unsure. Should he tell her how he'd been murdered by his own brothers for allying with the Free Folk against the dead? Should he tell her how he was raised from that blank, nothingness back to life by the Red Woman and her queer magic? Jon isn't sure. The last thing he wants is to frighten Gwen on their wedding night.

"I ended my Watch when my sister fled from Ramsay Bolton. We took back the castle and we're still building our numbers but there's a Stark in Winterfell again. Truthfully, I thought they'd make Sansa Queen in the North. She's trueborn. I'm not."

"You've seen many adventures, Jon," Guinevere remarked, listening with growing fascination. "And have risen high indeed, given your linage. Although as Eddard Stark's son, why does that surprise you? Even in the South, the honor of House Stark is legendary. And to have his blood in your veins, surely that is a wondrous thing." Although she realized that Jon might not believe it so, given the sadness she'd heard in his voice when he spoke about his childhood here.

"Truebirth doesn't seem to matter much, when it comes to ruling," she mused, staring back into the fire. "Look at Joffery Baratheon, and then look at you. Both of you bastards, but he was a sadistic tyrant, or so the stories insist, while you have proved your worth more than once." She squeezed his hand. "And have been elected, no less, to kingship by some of the hardest-bitten men in all of Westeros." Guinevere met his eye, plaintive. "Surely that is worth something, is it not?"

Her words have the ring of truth to them, much like when Sansa says these things of him. Sansa is swift to express her disagreement and to correct him if she feels it necessary but she believes him to be a good king and able commander. Sansa loves him, without conditions, and it's something Jon's never experienced in his life. It's always been that he's the bastard son, he's the lord's ill-gotten get, and to be looked at as something else is so new that he cannot wear the mantle of it easily.

Gwen is different. She's never known him as anything but the King in the North and it's clear she admires him and thinks him good at his job. And, as she says, he'd been chosen by the lords of the North and had not inherited this seat. He'd won it on his own merit and not his birth.

"Nobody has really pointed out the elected bit," he says, laughing softly. He's slightly embarrassed at the praise but mostly because it comes from his own wife. "Gwen? May I kiss you?"

They've kissed before, most notably in the corridor when everyone was feasting her arrival, but this will be a kiss as husband and wife. It's different, especially behind closed doors.

"Only if you wish it, though."

"Well," she replied, a bit firmly, but a smile hovered about her mouth, "perhaps someone should have. For it's nearly an unheard of thing, when dealing with the headaches of succession." Although she knew that Cersei Lannister would see it as rebellion, and the Northern secession could only succeed if it was to completely cut ties with the South, and that meant beheading the red and gold lion. Then there was the added Targaryan threat from the east, a mad girl intent on taking what was "hers" and liberating all of Westeros from the yoke of nobility, although Guinevere had her doubts along those lines.

No, not a very fruitful discussion for a wedding night, was it.

But then her husband was asking permission to kiss her, and Guinevere stared at him a moment before slowly nodding, and even leaning towards him so that their lips might easier meet. She enjoyed his kisses, and the touch of his hands, and with the fire at her back and Jon at her side, she was warm and more comfortable than she'd been before. Of its own accord, one of her hands stroked his cheek then slipped into his dark hair, feeling the curls wind around her fingers eagerly.

"...I wish it..." she whispered into the growing heat between them, eager to taste him again.

for jon snow (tooktheblack)

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