Jon’s anger boiled as he watched you—blade resting between his legs—as you got ready for the last dinner before your wedding with Balon Wargraven. He swallowed his confession of how much he disliked you being married to someone other than him.

From countless nights of him and you tangled in your bed—your leg being held on his side as his hips met yours, whispering softly into your ear— going on a walk through your garden, watching you pick the fruits he and you grew together. Only for you to be married. He knew you did not agree with the marriage—your parents following tradition and forcing you to marry royalty to keep the royal heritage alive—but it didn’t hurt any less.

And you saw the contrast between him and Balon. Where Balon was brash and immature, Jon was soft and careful with you.

Jon stares at you through the vanity mirror, waiting for you to notice his stare. It’s been long enough that you’ve ignored him since your engagement. “How can you expect me to stand here with my mouth shut, to not say anything about you being wedded in less than a day? You won’t even look at me, my love.”