The Provenance || Jon Snow | Game of Thrones

9.02

As the night progresses and more wine is consumed, the atmosphere of the Hall becomes one less restricted by politics and more like that of a true celebration. A constant thrum of pure joy pervades their senses, and smiles are more easily exchanged than ever before in the past ten years of war. They won. They defeated the Dead. Politics can wait for the morning. And with time, the people that are certainly the closest—the Northerners—find themselves huddled close together, reflecting on all their shared battles and adventures over the course of these years.

At the front, they sit like a united force of Northern strength with none other Gabrielle Stark perched on the arm of Sansa's chair, the red-haired lady laughing gaily with the rest of them. Robb stands to their side, ever merry as Jon rests happily against the table, all focused on the persistent antics of Tormund Giantsbane as he tempts Jon to drink the goat's milk.

The previous king cringes at the stench as Tormund shoves the drink under his nose, the others laughing with due hysteria as Tormund prompts, "All of it. Go on."

"No, not in one go," Jon shakes his head with laughter, feeling the effects of the wine but not so much as to not feel revolted by the other drink.

"I believe in you," Sansa pushes him, prompting Jon to look over at his cousin, laughing loudly for the first time that all can see. And her smile is truly radiant—that much is true—as Gabrielle falls into her side with her own laughter at Sansa's taunting, equally relieved to feel the absence of tension in the moment.

But with her joy—more empowering than even the strongest ales—Gabrielle feels her confidence in sure enormity beneath her cold skin, smirking at Jon with, "I'll take it if you won't."

"That's the spirit! You were always the most wildling of these southern cunts," Tormund cheers as the lot laughs, clapping Gabrielle on the back before passing her the horn. And she grins like she always used to...only widening as Tormund furthers the truth, "We have to celebrate our victory."

Robb shakes his head though a grin brackets his cheeks, biting, "Vomiting is not celebrating."

"Yes it is," the wildling responds with an utter sincerity that makes the others burst into more laughter—even as he rises from Gabrielle's previous seat and gestures to the grinning Targaryen herself, "To the Dragon Queen!"

Everyone in the room rises and cheers as the woman stands up with a wide grin—feeling the love of these people for the first time. And as such—between the praise and the wine—Daenerys sees it fit to cheer on the woman who truly made it possible, toasting, "To Gabrielle Stark, the savior of Winterfell!"

The room rises in another wave of excitement, watching as Gabrielle raises her horn of goat's milk to Daenerys Targaryen with the hate between them momentarily forgotten. Smiling lightly with intoxication, the newly made Stark watches with both disgust and humour as Tormund starts shouting nonsense and chugging his drink. But unlike the man, Gabrielle simply sips at hers without the true intention of vomiting this night, Sansa doing the same at her side though with the ale of the Northernmen. And as they watch and laugh at the wildling, neither notice the stares of Jon Snow to the new Stark, watching as her eyes light up with pure and unadulterated amusement. Hope bursts in his chest that maybe she will be okay—as if laughter is the true medicine to her condition.

And yet, it is.

But the oblivion of Sansa does not last long as her gaze casts sideways to notice both the glances of Jon towards Gabrielle and the Dragon Queen towards Jon. And yet—as if feeling the icy gaze—Daenerys turns to lock eyes with Sansa, staring with a perpetual challenge that she despises. Sansa's smile falls at what persists to always be a threat, but all the same, she does not wish to be the one to ruin the fun by reminding them of the hazard.