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“Are you certain you want to go through with all of this?” Jon asked, sliding his arm around her waist from behind. “We could still elope.” He rested his chin on her shoulder, rough stubble tickling her neck.
Sansa smiled as she turned her head to kiss his cheek. “And deprive the public of its crown prince on television in his dress uniform? That’s no way to begin a relationship. They'd loathe me. Probably demand a divorce.”
“Mmm, annulment, surely,” Jon said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Divorce is for Americans. We’re royalty.”
“I'm not royalty yet.” She paged through the catalog the florist had sent over that morning. “What do you think about snowdrops?”
Jon dropped into the seat beside her at the table. “If you like them, I'm sure they're lovely.”
Sansa shook her head fondly. She pointed to the picture in the catalog.
“Like I said, I'm sure they're lovely.” Jon grabbed her glass of grapefruit juice and stole a sip. He pointed to another picture. “What’s this one?”
“Fausse Beauté roses,” Sansa said. “Do you like them?”
“They remind me of my mother.”
“I thought they might.” Lyanna had loved blue roses. Featuring some in the wedding might be a nice way to honour the woman who had protected her son’s life at the cost of her own reputation, who had kept the secret of Jon’s paternity so well it had outlived her. Sansa would always wish she could thank Lyanna for that. “I thought perhaps fire king crocosmias for the name, but the wedding planner talked me out of red. Not my colour, she said.”
“Nonsense. Every colour is your colour.” Jon helped himself to an apple from the perfectly-curated fruit bowl. “Can't have blue and red both though. We’d look like fireworks.”
Sansa laughed. It was a sound that was coming more easily to her the farther into the past the war receded. “We could have fireworks to match! I'm sure there will be fireworks anyway.”
Jon grimaced. “Absolutely no fireworks. I love you, but not that much.”
She nodded. Neither of them was much for the sound of explosions these days. “I'll pass your concerns on to the wedding planner, but don't be surprised if she insists.”
“I thought the royal was the one who insists. Last I checked, that was me.”
“That’s precisely why there must be spectacle.” Sansa brushed a stray hair off her forehead. She gazed thoughtfully at her future husband and future king, a man who didn't care much for spectacle. “Did you mean what you said, about eloping?”
Jon blinked. “Would you like me to have meant it?”
She considered it a long moment, head at a tilt. “No,” she said finally. “I’m enjoying this. But I'd sneak off with you this afternoon if it was what you wanted.”
“Let your sister and my aunt read about it in the tabloids,” Jon chuckled, leaning forward to kiss her earlobe.
“Oh, yes, and have them band together to hunt us down. Sounds very restful.” Sansa pressed her palms on Jon’s warm chest, feeling safe and protected in his embrace.
“They'd probably make us have a big televised ceremony anyway, so we may as well follow through with this one,” Jon sighed. “I despise royal functions.”
“I know you do.” Sansa rested her cheek against his heartbeat.
His arms tightened around her. “I like to think of you at a grand party, though.”
Her stomach fluttered. “Oh?”
“In a beautiful gown, smiling at everyone.” She knew without looking that he was smiling himself. “You deserve that. You deserve lemoncakes and dancing and a banquet hall full of people attentive to your wishes.”
Sansa pulled back and tucked her hair behind her ear. “You deserve what you want, too.”
“All I want is you,” Jon said, face very serious. “To be at your side for the rest of my life. That’s what I want.”
She pulled on the front of his shirt until her mouth met his in a hungry, passionate kiss, the like of which they could only share in the most extreme privacy for fear of reporters. Her heart pounded as her tongue flicked along his lips and his fingers curled around her upper arms. It was a top-tier kiss. But then, with Jon they were all top-tier.
“I was thinking we could use mistletoe for greenery,” she gasped when she let him go. “It's pretty and romantic but it's strong and hardy. It flourishes in inhospitable environments. It survives. Like us.”
Jon nodded wordlessly. He looked a bit dazed. “Anything that’s like you will be lovely.”
“That attitude right there is why they call you Prince Charming in the press.”
He frowned. “I don’t think that’s sincere, Sans.”
“Well, it ought to be,” Sansa said, and craned forward in her seat to drop another kiss to his lips. It was easy to reach. There were benefits to being tall, even if it did restrict her options for wedding shoes.
“Mmm,” he hummed against her lips. “How long is it until this wedding, again?”
Sansa went back to her catalog and turned a page. “Eight and a half months.”
Jon groaned. “Is it too late to take back what I said about elopement?”
“It is,” she laughed. “I’ve got my heart set on it now. You wouldn’t want to break my heart, would you?”
His hand settled atop hers on the page of the catalog and stayed there until she turned again to face him. His grey eyes intent upon her, he said “No one will ever break your heart again. I promise you that.”
Sansa flipped her hand so she could give his a squeeze. “Put that in your vows.”
His mouth twitched into a gentle half-smile, the shyest of all his smiles. “If I can remember it eight and a half months from now.”
Eight and a half long months of menus and seating charts and gown fittings and dance classes. But when the day finally came for Sansa to come down the aisle and formalise her promise to be partner and princess, all the logistics in the world would be worth it.
And the wedding day would be nothing compared to the day after it, or the one after that, or all the days of her life she would get to be married to this man.
“The honeymoon,” she blurted. “I haven’t so much as glanced at the list of acceptable destinations your aunt sent.”
Jon rose from his seat and gave her forehead a soft kiss. “We can look over those together.”
“I suppose you’ll have an opinion about where we’ll go, at least.” Sansa let go of his hand. “It doesn’t really help for you to like all the flowers equally.”
“I don’t like them equally. I just said I liked those blue ones best.” Jon’s quarrels were always good-natured. “Let’s have the honeymoon ideas with a bottle of wine. Dinner tonight, just us?”
“Always,” she said.
"I'll make the arrangements." With one last warm smile, he left her to her planning, which she resumed with the same light heart that accompanied her so often these days.
Eight and a half months could not pass soon enough.