#she briefly considered naming him after another stark king and he was almost a theon

[thevalleyisjolly]

I'm pretty firmly on the "Jon Snow doesn't have a "real" Targaryen name, it's actually pretty important that he is Jon Snow and if Lyanna gave him a name, it'd be more likely to be a Northern name" train. However, if he did have a secret Targaryen name, the most correct answer is Aemon because that makes two Aemon Targaryens sworn to the Watch, having given up everything in actual service to the realm. The second most correct answer is actually a Velaryon name but you know what, it would be fucking hilarious if there was a second not-so-secret Targaryen bastard named Jacaerys who's nevertheless the most employed Targaryen of his generation. Also, Jacaerys is an objectively better letter J-starting namesake compared to the low, low bar set by Jaehaerys I (trades title of Westeros' worst father back and forth with Tywin Lannister) and Jaehaerys II (reinvented sibling incest after several generations of doing marginally better).

[dresupi]

Winter wedding - Theonsa

1,808 words Rated T

Canon era, everything’s the same except Theon didn’t die

~~~~~~~~~~

Theon swallowed thickly and looked around the Godswood. He was standing before the heart tree and for the first time in what felt like weeks, the winter sun was shining down through the bare treetops, and the air was clear of snow. The only flakes that swirled were the soft powder stirred up by the wind.

Jon told him that was a good sign. That snow during a wedding indicated a cold marriage ahead. No snow meant that he and Sansa would always find warmth in one another, and it brought a lump to his throat that he hadn’t wanted Jon to know about, but there was no mistaking the cough and sniffling.

Jon clapped his hand on his back and it shook him enough to make the lump dissipate. “You’ll do, Greyjoy,” was all he said.

He’d do?

Sansa deserved the world, but he’d do? He was so far from what a woman such as she was merited. Her father had promised her a lord-husband who was worthy of her. Someone brave and gentle and strong.

Not some coward, carved up and broken. With fingers he had to hide behind gloves because they were so scarred and horrific, she’d likely be frightened at the reminder of where they’d come from.

That was another time he’d prefer to forget, and yet he couldn’t.

He could have made his peace with offering her what was left of his gnarled and broken body if he’d only been a brave man. Some man fitting of being married to the Queen of the North.

Then again, Sansa was the one who’d proposed this and Theon couldn’t help but give her everything she asked for. He loved her.

He loved her far more than he’d ever even felt kindness for another. Body and soul and mind and everything in between. They had no secrets. And he couldn’t imagine living and not loving Sansa Stark. Not worshipping the ground she tread upon.

And he’d continue to do so until the day he died anyway, so when she suggested that they marry, he agreed readily.

There would be no bedding ceremony. But the entire affair was archaic anyway. This was a love match, so no one cared if they consummated or didn’t.

He’d, of course, heard the talk. The whispered conversations that ceased the second he approached.

How could the marriage be consummated? When Theon was...

When he wasn’t a man?

It wasn’t a sore topic for him anymore. It had been at one time, but he’d made his peace with it. He felt no less a man than he had before Ramsay, which led him to believe that being a man wasn’t connected to what one had in his britches, and instead amounted to some unquantifiable something in a person.

The subject was broached only once in front of Sansa, to his knowledge. And it was Jon who’d brought it up.

And she’d snapped at him so roughly, Theon was surprised Jon didn’t fall to the ground prone.

If anyone doubted that Sansa was Stark-enough to be the queen of the North, they need only ask Jon Snow, who knew exactly how ferocious the she-wolf could be when someone close to her was threatened.

Of course, consummation simply meant that the marriage was finalized through intimacy. And intimacy wasn’t something beyond him. If Sansa wanted intimacy, he’d happily provide it. There were other ways of doing so. And bedding ceremonies were often the least intimate affairs of his recollection. So one had to wonder, how any marriage could be considered consummated when something as barbaric as bedding marked the beginning.

Obviously, intimacy aside, there would be no heirs, but Sansa told him the thought of pregnancy made her sick anyway. She didn’t want to give her body to another soul as long as she lived. Not in that all-encompassing, physically challenging, and likely dangerous way. She said she knew that the prospect of motherhood should fill her with joy, and while motherhood itself did make her happy to think upon. It was just the childbearing that made her quake with fear.

She said that there were plenty of orphans they could adopt and that King Bran would legitimize them as their heirs if they so chose.

Theon had to wonder if that was the only quality that endeared him to her. That he could never, would never force her into something for the good of the kingdom and to assuage his own toxic masculinity. Year after year, some of the Northern brides were with child constantly.

But Sansa didn’t have to worry about that with him. Because he was safe.

He didn’t want to think of why. It was a heavy weight around his neck and prevalent in every discussion he had with anyone. He could be training in the yard or simply strolling the streets of Winter Town and the knowledge of what he was hung over his head as if Ramsay took the knife to his forehead and inscribed the word into his skin instead of where he’d actually cut him.

Theon wasn’t brave or strong, but he was safe. Gentle. He was at least one of the things her father had promised her.

Gentle. He had no other way to be.

But even as he thought the words, they soured immediately, left a bad taste in his mouth as if he’d spoken them. He had no reason to believe Sansa was settling. That was just his own morose, self-sabotaging mind, concocting reasons why he didn’t deserve happiness.

Sansa told him she loved him. Told him all the time, in fact. He had no reason to doubt her words. Especially when she worked so tirelessly to make him happy.

And he was happy with her.  Never more so than when they stole little moments alone, or when he snuck into her chambers late at night to cuddle up close under the furs on her bed until morning’s early light. He never felt so happy as he did with her head heavy on his chest as he cradled her in the dark.

And after today, they wouldn’t have to sneak around anymore. They could touch each other in public. Would be expected to, in fact.

He supposed that was what he was looking forward to the most.

Theon took in a deep breath and let it out in a white puff in front of him. “Alright, Theon?” Yara asked.

He’d almost forgotten she was here. It always surprised the fuck out of him when people did things for him. Expecting nothing in return. And Yara’s presence here was no different.

He nodded. “Aye. Never better.”

“I’ve stood beside many men awaiting their brides, and asked that same question of all of them. And they always said the same as you. ‘Never better.’ Never believed it until now.”

He could feel her smiling as he turned away from her. “What other way should I be, Yara?”

“None other, Theon.”

“Aye, they’ll be happy. Now that they’ll have free reign to be as disgustingly in love as they wish at all times? Both of them will be as happy as you’ve ever seen,” Arya said from where she was leaning against a tree.

“I forgot you were here,” Theon sighed. “My day was almost perfect... and there you are.”

Arya snorted. “You’ll be more polite to me once I’m your sister.”

Theon chuckled. “Whatever you say, Arya.”

There were footsteps approaching, and he turned to see two others standing in the clearing.  Jon in his black, and Sansa, wearing what looked to be a new dress.

He’d assumed she would wear the one she’d worn at her coronation, but it appeared that she’d made an entirely new one for this occasion and it brought that lump back in his throat again.

He couldn’t see the intricacies from here. Most of them were likely covered by her maiden cloak. But from what he could see, the gown was lighter grey than she normally wore. There was embroidery upon the skirt, but he couldn’t it out from where he stood.

The gown was beautiful. Not that any she’d ever worn were anything less than beautiful.

Her auburn hair was braided in the traditional Northern fashion, but it shone in the sun like spun gold and her lips looked as deeply red as the Weirwood blossoms.

She was wearing a dark cloak with the Stark sigil. It brought his attention to his own cloak. Also a dark cloak, with the Greyjoy sigil embroidered lightly in gold. Sansa had given it to him as a gift on his last Nameday, it made sense that he’d be using it to cover her now.

As they drew closer, he could see she was talking to Jon, smiling brilliantly.

Happy.

Truly happy.

And then she looked at him and her smile widened. “Ser,” she said, dropping her head slightly.

“Your majesty,” he replied, making her giggle at his bow. “What?” he asked.

“You don’t have to bow to me, Theon.”

“What if I wish it?” he asked, offering his hand as Jon led her closer.

“So long as you keep it up, Sansa should be the happiest woman in the seven kingdoms,” Jon replied, giving Theon a nod as he let his arm drop and left Sansa with him, taking a step back to observe the ceremony.

“Get on with it, I’m hungry,” groused Arya.

Sansa closed her eyes briefly and sighed, turning towards her sister. “Don’t ruin the one wedding I actually want, Arya.”

Whether it chastised her or not, she was silent for the rest of the ceremony, except where her voice was needed.

“State your names.”

“Sansa Stark.”

“Theon...” he coughed. “Theon Greyjoy.”

“And who gives this woman to this man?”

“I do,” Jon said. “As does her brother, King Bran.” He nodded up to a tree where a one-eyed-raved peered down at them all.

“And you, Sansa, do you accept Theon as your husband?” Arya asked

“I take this man,” she replied, smiling warmly at Theon.

Jon stepped forward, removing the cloak from her shoulders and draping it over his arm.

Theon quickly removed his own cloak and draped it around her shoulders, hands lingering as he secured it. One gloved hand trailed up under her chin, hooking there and tilting her head up so he could kiss her lips.

She was so warm and she opened up for him, stepping closer and pressing both hands to his chest.

Arya cleared her throat deliberately and Sansa pulled away from him, rolling her eyes. “Let’s get on with it then,” she said, a small smile gracing her lips.

“Let’s get on with it indeed.” He dropped his hand from her and promptly turned to scoop her into his arms. She giggled as he carried her to the Great Hall.