Started writing this in February, and so far have wrote 14 chapters. But tell me what you think? I should point out there is a reason why I keep referring to the septon as conductor, because half of the ceremony is of the old gods.

Sansa must have looked apprehensive, that wasn't her intention. She normally had the gift of composure; she was able to mould her face into that of someone devoid of will. Submission had kept her alive for so long. And now, a time Sansa should feel safe, she felt the strain. Perhaps it was a glorious break down, after years of abuse. But this shouldn't be happening now; this was her wedding day, her third to be exact. They say third time's a charm.

Her ladyship was being chaperoned towards the godswood by a man she had only just become acquainted with, he seemed nice enough. But this man had been as insistent as the others who had called for her to be wed. She dwelled on how this was an improvement to her situation; how not only would she be safe, she should have a good rapport with the person she would belong to. But they would never be husband and wife. That was why she was apprehensive, this was political, if not that, this was their way of putting a wax seal on her, and so she couldn't be used by anyone else. To keep her safe supposedly, or take away another's advantage, and that's political too.

Sansa's recently betrothed gave off an air of unease, which surely mirrored her own. Those grey eyes looked as sad and as stormy as ever. To her, this clearly wasn't what he wanted, it reminded her of her wedding to Tyrion. It was devoid of passion, and held so much awkwardness, and a few apologetic glances. Well he isn't Ramsay.

She spied their guests close in around them, as she glided under the canopy of trees, perhaps to hinder any chance of escape?

A leather glove took her hand, and she was drawn back to the heart tree and her betrothed. He had big hands, though, hadn't he always? Her hands had grown from dainty and childlike, to long fingered. There was a murmuring and chuckling behind them, and Davos, the man that had escorted her suddenly spoke. "Hang on, lad, I haven't officially given her away yet."

Jon sheepishly released her hand. "Sorry, first time." He gently returned her hand to her side.

"I admire his keenness." Further chuckling ensued. Sansa couldn't believe how the kafuffle in such an important ritual had defused the tension.

The man conducting the ceremony grimaced "Enough, this isn't a play!"

Sansa hadn't been smiling before, but she was now, and the very hand that had been returned to her- she used to mask her face.

"Ser Davos, if you please- who comes before the gods this night?"

"You've answered your own question." Davos jibbed, but quickly realised how he was playing right into the hecklers' hands. "Ser Davos Seaworth, of house…. Seaworth." Oh dear. He didn't know how to start, he could see the conductor shaking his head."-The knight of….Onions?" Sansa was sure she could hear swearing. "Give away my…." He looked at Sansa, he finally seemed to twig what he was supposed to say. "Oh- my liege's cousin." Questionable. "Sansa of house Stark, trueborn of Winterfell has come to ask for blessings from the gods in her union with…." He looked annoyed with himself, he had said it in the wrong order. "Our new King, whom I would say is a good match…that's if he does wish to claim her…." Strange question. With hesitation he retreated, leaving Sansa's hand to be taken for the second time by Jon, she noted this time his hands were bare, Davos's slip up had given him time to remove his gloves.

The conductor didn't call Davos back to do it properly, since he had said everything- despite it not being in the correct way.

Sansa couldn't look at Jon, at that particular moment- she was sure she would read from his expression how much of a farce this was. She instead looked at the conductor's feet disappearing into the snow. She should be standing before a septon, her mother would have wanted this. She finally looked up when he asked her a question.

"I take this man." Lady Stark said automatically, as if someone had poked her. She heard Jon expel air, as if he had just realised this was going ahead. She looked at the weirwood weeping for them. Well, that's what it was doing. She turned her head upon feeling her hand being raised along with Jon's. To her surprise their hands were being bound like in a faith of the seven ceremony, and a tweaked verse was being uttered. He is really allowing him to do that? Jon smirked, setting her at ease. So he knew what was to come?

"Look upon one another and say the words."

It was highly unorthodox to speak another faith's words in front of a heart tree. They turned, their hands loosely bound. Their eyes met and she couldn't help but feel they had been raised up high into the sky and were poised to be dropped straight into a bed… of snow.

"Father….Smith….Warrior….Mother." Sansa looked at the storm in his eyes, he was trying so hard to remember "-Maiden….Crone….Stranger ." And she noted he was trying to keep in time with her, since he was staring avidly at her mouth.

"I am hers. And she is mine. From this day… to the end of my days." He appeared to find that part the easiest. She was relieved he had succeeded, his face looked less harsh. He inclined to the septon. Well the conductor. "Done."

Her slight smile soon left when she realised he was probably relieved the farce was over. Sansa felt like she had been doused with cold water. She found everyone staring at them with a look of triumph. Davos pressed down onto her shoulders, he was encouraging her to honour the King's faith and pray for blessings from the old gods. At least it wasn't Rhollor. Jon had angled his cape and sword to one side so he could kneel, bringing Sansa with him. It only seemed fair. The snow moistened her knees as she closed her eyes and tried to word her silent prayer.

Make our marriage, a kind and safe marriage. Let us be content. She took a peek at her new husband, he was still deep in prayer. She'd better try harder, if he was putting in a good effort. Um…Give us blessings… make us strong for the fight ahead. She grimaced. The fight in the coming war, not a fight between us, of course. She gandered at Jon again, he was still asking for blessings, his face scrunched up, as if he was pleading with the gods. Perhaps he was asking for the gods favour in the upcoming battle as well? She closed her eyes again. Give him strength to succeed in his endeavours. Allow him to triumph against evil. She had to pad her prayer out more. Help me honour him, give me courage. Make me as strong as my mother, make me- Jon was pulling her to her feet. -Amen.

Sansa felt the urge to step back as Jon moved towards her, but her ladyship remained perfectly still, her face didn't betray her as his hands rose up. They levelled with her neck, and she realised he was only unthreading her cape, which Davos then removed from her. Oh. She felt silly not recognising something she had already gone through. The air was cold and crisp, and she welcomed her new cloak that she was anointed with. Jon swept it up and around her, his thumbs grazed her neck as he tried to make it secure. Her neck was a sensitive feature of hers, callous fingers on delicate skin was ticklish, she developed goose pimples as the contact continued since the weight of the cloak made it pull away, and Jon fought with it to keep it on. She crossed her hands so she could hold it on, ending the hassle. "Thank you." Though she wasn't sure why, it was part of the ceremony.

She expected the man at the tree to say something final, to confirm them as man and wife. But a rapturous applause broke out among their guests. Sansa didn't understand how she forgot they were there, they had all brought her here, to bear witness. But it terminated the ceremony, and reminded her that northern folk needed no pomp to wed people.