Given Lord Jason's immense power in the North, the lords of the Riverlands knew better than to slight him. Every noble house sent a representative, many patriarchs even attending in person, to witness the grand wedding held in the great hall of Winterfell.
Sansa was a vision of pure and ethereal beauty in her wedding gown. Standing beside her, Jason looked every bit the heroic lord in a finely prepared gorgeous mantle adorned with the medals of his house. The sight of the handsome couple made it clear to every lord in attendance that House East had truly and completely risen. Though their hearts were filled with a mix of awe and apprehension, the nobles all wore smiles as they offered their blessings.
During the feast, Jason flatly refused to partake in the crude Westerosi tradition of the bedding ceremony. He had his personal guard escort Sansa back to their chambers early, a move that drew looks of disappointment from the more traditional, old-fashioned lords. Jason saw the regret on their lecherous faces and ground his teeth in annoyance. He was glad he'd prepared for this, ensuring Sansa wouldn't be pawed at by a crowd of old men. He couldn't fathom who had invented such a disgusting custom, allowing a mob to grope and humiliate a bride on her wedding night. He would never allow his wife to suffer such a vulgar ordeal.
The lively banquet raged on in the great hall, which was so packed with guests that it felt even grander than the feast held for King Robert years ago. Servants weaved through the crowd, carrying barrels of fine ale and strong wine, followed by others bearing platters piled high with sumptuous dishes. For the occasion, Jason had specially procured a vast quantity of vegetables and meats from the modern world, though the drinks were all sourced locally from Westeros—their quality was certainly not inferior.
As the groom, Jason was the primary target for every toast. Even with Jon, Kent, and Bud trying to run interference for him, he still ended up drinking far more than he intended. The Northern lords were like bottomless barrels, and by the end of it, he was thoroughly drunk. Excusing himself from the ongoing revelry, Jason stumbled from the banquet hall and made his way back to the chambers Winterfell had assigned him, where his bride, Sansa, was waiting.
When he entered the room, Sansa's handmaiden, Jeyne Poole, rushed to support him. Jason grabbed a cup from the table, took a long drink of water, and then had a servant wash his face with a cool, wet cloth, which helped clear his head considerably.
"You can all go," Jason said, dismissing the maids. "There's no need for you to serve here tonight."
Once they were alone, Sansa, who had changed into a delicate red silk gown, came to attend to him herself. Her pale face was flushed, her mind racing with the thought that from this night forward, Lord Jason would be her husband.
Jason watched as she gently used a towel to wipe the remaining droplets of water from his face. A strange feeling settled over him; he never expected he would get married here in Westeros first. He had always assumed he would marry Lin Xiaohan back in his own world. Life, it seemed, was full of surprises.
Stared at by Jason's burning gaze, Sansa's face turned as red as a summer rose, and her heart began to beat wildly in her chest. Looking at her graceful figure and delicate features, Jason felt a fire ignite deep within him. He couldn't stop himself from wrapping his arms around the tall, beautiful girl.
"Lord Jason..." Sansa whispered shyly, burying her head in his chest.
On their wedding night, a soft cry marked the passing of her girlhood, and Sansa Stark became a woman.
Down in the castle's banquet hall, the nobles celebrated all night. One by one, they drank themselves into a stupor and had to be helped back to their rooms by servants. After the wedding festivities concluded, the lords prepared to return to their own castles, but their departure was delayed by grave news from the Wall.
Ser Alliser Thorne, the master-at-arms of Castle Black, arrived with a dire report: Jeor Mormont, the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, was dead. The Watch had not yet elected a new leader, and worse, Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, had united the wildling clans. An army tens of thousands strong was now gathered at the foot of the Wall, preparing to force its way south into the North.
The arrival of the wildling army sent a shockwave of fear through the Northern lords. Their own forces were severely depleted, their best fighting men lost in the war. If tens of thousands of wildlings poured into the North, their lands would be defenseless, ripe for slaughter and pillage.
In the great hall of Winterfell, the nobles sat on both sides of the room with solemn expressions. Even the lords from the Riverlands had to pay attention. If the North fell, the Riverlands would be next. The wildlings were a common enemy.
Ser Alliser Thorne, clad in the black of the Night's Watch, strode into the hall. Seeing the assembled lords of the North and the Riverlands gave him a sliver of hope. Surely, at this critical juncture, they would be willing to help.
"My lords," he began, his voice grave and low. "The army led by Mance Rayder, numbering in the tens of thousands, has appeared beyond the Wall. The Night's Watch now numbers less than seven hundred men. We cannot possibly defend a wall that stretches for hundreds of miles."
His face was grim. "If they breach the Wall at any point, we won't be able to stop them. I fear they will seize one of the gates and let their entire host pour through. On behalf of the Night's Watch, I have come to beg for your aid. We need more men and more supplies to resist this army."
As Ser Alliser's words fell, a nervous buzz swept through the hall. The Northern lords began whispering amongst themselves, their fear palpable. They were the most worried; if the wildlings broke through, their castles and lands would be the first to be destroyed by the invaders. Their very lives were at stake.
The Riverlands lords remained relatively calm. The wildlings were still thousands of miles from their territory, so the threat felt distant.
Seated on the high seat, Bran listened to the news of a ten-thousand-strong army, and his young face grew pale with nervousness. He was just a boy, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the crisis. In his panic, Bran instinctively looked for support, his eyes finding his new brother-in-law. "Lord Jason, what do you think we should do? How can we stop the wildling army from crossing the Wall?"
"Yes, we can't let those savages into the North!" another lord shouted.
"They're a horde of barbarians who will burn our towns, kill our people, rape our women, and steal everything we have!" cried another.
"They must not get through! We have to kill them all!"
The Northern lords erupted in a chorus of agreement. Aside from the young Lady of Bear Island and Lord Wyman of White Harbor, Jason didn't recognize any of these newly appointed lords. But since Bran had asked for his counsel, Jason, who had been preparing for this very moment, stood ready to give his advice.
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