The Night is yours

In Lyonels absence the usual introductions and warm words must have already been exchanged, because after the first dishes made the round, no big speeches followed. Only the occasional boast, followed by the usual cheering, jabbering and hushing that happened at a gathering like this.

The seats of honour his family enjoyed next to the hosts own noble family allowed Lyonel an excellent overview over the people present. And now that the party had started not everyone was looking at him, he had a chance to thoroughly scan the room himself. And now with clear sight, he could indeed make out a few guests he couldn’t quite identify in the passing glance while entering.

Below one of tables sat a small ball of white fur gnawing at a piece of meat. Lyonel would bet a gold dragon that had to be Ghost. Which only allows one conclusion: The brother in black sitting above him must be Jon Snow. Clad all in black the man sipped his ale in solitude. An achievement when left and right from you the men sit close enough to breath in your ear. But the way he held himself, it seemed like he would have come off as lonely anywhere.

Him wearing the black already means he must have already joined the Brotherhood, maybe close to when he left in the normal timeline?, but judging from the size of Ghost, he found the puppy very recently. So things in the North really are a little dissembled from what Lyonel remembers from his previous life.

Someone that does indeed appear as he does in canon, at least from Lyonel can tell, is Mance Rayder. The ranger-turned-wildling has joined the musicians and is playing the lute in the far corner. The only way the prince could recognize the turncoat, aside from his lute, was the cloak with red streaks. Red as the patch whose prohibition made him join the free folk in the first place.

After giving it a little thought, Lyonel was convinced he should engage neither. Jon was a bit of a mopper and while Mance was supposedly really fun at parties, he was about to meet his future wife on his return from this feast. So Lyonel should better not meddle with him or else Dalla might not be anywhere in sight down the line. On the other hand, he won’t go north of the wall anyway and he will try his best to keep a wildling invasion from happening, so this might be his only chance to exchange a few words wi-

“Lyonel, stop looking in the distance and turn your eyes over there”, the king shook Lyonel lightly.

“The Stark girl wants to dance with you, it would take a blind man to miss that”, the queen rolled her eyes at her husband lecturing the boy on what he himself probably messes up regularly, ”Won’t take long until the bravest lads start taking some maidens over there”, Robert gestured towards the empty space in front of the musicians.

“You don’t want to be the second or fifteenth guy asking for a dance. Do it now and thank me later.”

His fathers massive hand dug into his shoulder and urged him with an upward motion. Before Lyonel could throw back a snarky remark about how Cercei might also want someone to take her to the dancefloor, his father gave him a warm smile which even the queen joined. He was beaten two on one. So he walked past his siblings, his sister giving him a knowing and disapproving look behind his back, and in front of the pedestal the hosts and high guests were seated on.

“Lady Stark, would you do me the honours of joining me for the first dance of the night?”, the prince bowed, but never broke eye contact with Sansa.

The eye contact was dearly needed, because while Lyonel might not have noticed, but *all* the Stark ladies reacted to his request. The most mature laid her hand on her bussom and inhaled, imitating shock, while she really just wanted to softly rub over the now dried remnants of royal cum still in her undergarment. Rubbing it in not only intensified the feeling of it on her breasts, it also released that aroma again. So after making a show of fake shock, the Lady of the North closed her eyes and sharply inhaled, her nostrils flaring.

The youngest reddened in her checks for the blink of an eye that she thought she was meant and was puffing them in petulance ever since she understood that of course she wasn’t meant. And the Stark by marriage, Alys, just silently wondered about the southern gallantry the prince was showing. Proper courtship was but a mere memory for her.

The actual lady Stark in question answers Lyonels gaze with her own, acting now on what she had been playing over and over in her dreams for years. She suppressed her pressing urge to stand up immediately and run to her prince, but that is not how she has envisioned it. She smiled at Lyonel only for a moment before turning to her father and waited for him to give them his blessing.

Eddard Stark would have just nodded, in the pragmatic fashion that he is known for, if his wife wouldn’t have discreetly elbowed his side. Catelyn knows full well what her daughter is hoping for and what would make this night as miraculous as possible.

Under pressure from his wife the stern Warden of the North pushed his chair back, creaking over the stone floor, and stood up.

“Lords and Ladies, nobleman and fair ladies”, this was noticeably uncomfortable for the grown man, “a moment of your time.”

The people quieted down across the grand hall. Ned did not have to raise his voice to get everyones attention, his mere presence commanded the people into silence.

“We do not just celebrate the visit of our king today”, Ned raised his mug.

Meanwhile Robert refilled his own and stood up beside his brother in all but blood.

“No, today we celebrate the joining of the two greatest houses in all of Westeros”, the king boasted. After a moment of thought, the room erupted in cheers. Both Starks men and the kings southern entourage toasted each other over the isle.

Lyonel broke his bow to look over to his father mildly shocked. The older man smiled from ear to ear, putting his chest (and his belly) forth in pride and satisfaction.

“Our alliance, forged in dragons blood, shall be formalized by marriage. I could not be more proud to announce my eldest son Lyonels betrothal to Lady Sansa Stark”, the king let his deep voice ring through the room.

“Yes, we feel honoured that our eldest daughter has now found the man to spend her life with”, Eddard joined in, “Let us begin the celebration of this momentous day with the first dance of the evening.”

Sansa was beaming and only now rose from her seat, the eyes of the assembly on her, and walked in front of the table, joining her prince. She laid her hand in his and together they walked, with due ceremony, towards the dancefloor.

Lyonel led his bride to be on to the small clearing in front of the musicians and, with elegance unknown to him, started a dance his body knew by heart. The two shortly bowed towards each other, enlaced their left hands and circled twice. They moved close, Lyonels right arm slung around Sansas waist and hers put upward on his back. Neither of the two could tell if the room was clad in silence or if people were still talking, there was no “around them”, only “between them”. And each inch was one too many.

Sansa looked up into her princes eyes and found… shelter. From her dull life, from the suitors either boring, brutish or both, from the cold and the wind, from the North itself. Her prince was all she had dreamed of and this moment in reality surpassed her dreams tenfold. She closed the shrinking hap between them, put her head on his shoulder and savoured the moment, forever burning *it* into her memory and *him* deeper into her heart.

Throughout the room women of all social standings envied the Stark girl beyond measure. From the servant girls holding their place instead of delivering more ale to the thirsty Northmen, up until the very queen quivering in her seat remembering what must have been a trick of the light. A huge, thick and veiny trick of the light.

Some of Lyonels admirers were blushing virgins while others were trapped in long and loveless marriages (at least devout of physical love), but rare few were fresh in love. Alys was among these. Their wedding had been years past and they already had conceived their first child, but still the love between her and Robb seemed as fresh as ever. At least it did until the royal entourage visited Winterfell.

Sure, they had had their troubles. Her husband inherited his fathers dutiful mind, he was never a man of many words, romantic or otherwise, and tokens of affection had lessened considerably since she had become his wife. But what really hurt Alys were her husbands words ever since their daughters birth.

It had started cautious and considerate, “Can you feel me?”

Had gotten irritated over time, “Am I in yet?”

And become downright insulting when he had a few ale, “It’s like the grand hall, how am I ever going get release?”

As if that had ever been a problem, the future lady of Winterfell mused. Robbs barely visible little… thing, only needed to get in touch with her skin for a few moments and their moment of intimacy would be over. A grimace rushed over Alys angelic face, but she suppressed her sour thoughts.

The gist of them stayed true however. Ever since the guests from Kings Landing arrived, Alys had witnessed more affection from afar then she had experienced close and personal in the longest time. The way the prince and Sansa looked at each other, now and during their tour around the castle, had her swooning in sweet memories. When she saw them walking through the halls and corridors on their grand tour, Alys *accidently* crossed their path three times, just to bask in their infatuation, if only by proxy.

Alys wanted what they had. To restore her lost love, she would need the insight of those freshly experiencing it. Their dance came to a close and several couples followed their example and replaced them in front of the musicians. While Sansa, always the cheerful maiden, departed from Lyonel with a longing look and rushed over to her circle of friends collecting at the rim of the dancefloor, he took a second to collect himself.

Robb would certainly spend the evening drinking with his already glowing future bannerman. He might already be there or join them any second, Alys did not throw a look over the aisle to check. Instead she excused herself from her seat neighbour, the youngest Stark barely registering that, and marched with dedication towards the prince. A lot of people would certainly be squabbeling over his attention tonight, better be the first than loosing that chance.

She made her way at the side of the room and motioned for the prince, still on the dancefloor, to join her. They had to have a heart to heart conversation and the hall was already too loud for that. So she opened the door behind her and waved Lyonel to follow her. But he was having none of it. He made a half-step back and offered her his hand for a dance from the distance.

It seemed like Alys would be denied her audience right now. But Alys was no quitter, she’d at least get a chance to exchange a few words with the prince and maybe they could talk in the morrow. Still determined, she walked on over to Lyonel, but seconds before she got to lay her hand in his and accept the dance, someone patted her on the shoulder.

“Shouldn’t his next dance rather be with me?”, the woman intoned from behind Alys.