DAGGERS TO THE HEART Part 1 - GAME OF THRONES

Sansa XI

The final chapter of part one. Next up is Daggers to the Heart Part 2, Clash of Kings

Sansa's gaze was fixed upon the flames, an almost mystical radiance emanating from the dragon egg nestled within their midst. The early evening cast a gentle glow, and Jon, having recently completed the final touches on his travel plans, emerged from a bath. Sansa, adorned in a white night shift underneath a blue and grey woollen robe, stood by the fire, allowing its warmth to dry her hair before they gathered in the great hall for dinner.

"Thinking of offering prayers to the Lord of Light?" Jon's voice, unexpected, broke the silence, causing Sansa to start. "Their temple lies in Volantis, should you wish to set sail via Dragonstone." His arms enveloped her neck from behind.

"Speaking of the Lord of Light, what would you do if you found her on Dragonstone?" Sansa raised her head, and Jon lowered his, his wet hair leaving a trail of droplets down her neck, chest, and shift. "Jon!" she exclaimed.

"My apologies, my lady. Allow me to rectify that." Jon's smirk played on his lips as his tongue traced the paths of water along Sansa's throat. However, his damp hair persisted in bestowing droplets upon her shift.

"I'm only getting wetter and wetter," Sansa teased.

"Are you now?" Jon growled. "May I take a closer look?"

"Jon, cease your mischief!" Sansa laughed. "I am attempting to engage in a sensible conversation here."

Jon nonchalantly shrugged. "Tell her she's welcome to come north, but the whole burning people alive bit is off the table. Though, I reckon she's got Stannis on her mind. She'll be a valuable ally in the long night, but no funny ideas. Can we skip the talk about her? She's a bit... off-putting." Jon circled Sansa's chair, then crouched in front of her, resting his head on her knees in a manner reminiscent of Lady when she desired something. It was then that Sansa noticed he wore only his breeches, his chest bared—an undoubtedly unfair move, considering Jon's awareness of her penchant for touching his chest.

"What's gotten into you?" Sansa furrowed her brow. "Your behaviour is peculiar. We have a feast in the great hall soon; we can't skip it, and time is of the essence."

"We'll make it down in time," Jon assured, his expression turning serious. "This is our last night together for a while. I want to push the parting from my mind. Let's relish tonight. Enjoy, laugh, play, and... well..." He shrugged, a smirk playing on his face.

Sansa grasped his unspoken desire. He sought distraction, and she was more than willing to oblige, but not before the feast.

"After the feast," Sansa promised.

The feast unfolded in the Great Hall, a modest affair with only around a hundred attendees. The majority either gathered at the Inn, accommodating thirty individuals, or engrossed in the preparations for the feast, each group to have their own celebration in the smaller hall before converging for the shared revelry of music and dance later in the evening.

In the North, the distinction between a feast and a regular supper lay in the number of courses served. While supper typically comprised two courses, a feast could span as many courses as the Lord deemed fit. Given the northern terrain, the feast tended towards a frugal affair compared to the opulence of the southern regions, where fertile lands flourished. The farming of the gift, was another motivation for bringing the Freefolk through the Wall.

Sansa, usually responsible for such affairs, found relief as her mother volunteered to manage the feast preparations. She, along with, Jon, Arya, and Robb had been engrossed in transferring ledgers, making her mother's offer especially appreciated. Sansa insisted on a modest feast of seven courses, and, crucially, one of those courses had to feature lemon cakes.