Jon's wedding day seemed to pass almost unbearably quickly. First, there were the vows before the laughing Heart tree, and then the far more complicated ceremony in the Sept where he tried and failed and tried again to recite his vows properly.
All he remembered of the feast was the tight knot in his stomach that made him feel sick when he tried to eat and made him actually think he would vomit when he attempted to sip his Arbour Gold. He did his best to dance, and probably wrecked his bride's feet beyond repair. When the bedding was called, he avoided everyone's eyes, felt a flush rise on his face. Gods, he could not believe he was doing this, could not believe that everyone currently gathered in Dragonstone was going to know. As the Tyrell ladies gathered around him, pulling at his clothes, it was all he could do to even keep breathing.
He was deposited in the bridal chamber, and he could only imagine what a sight he must have presented, stripped down to his smallclothes, struggling to breathe, eyes probably wild with the panic that made his heart pound and his hands shake.
Margaery was there all of a sudden, dressed in just her shift and smallclothes, and just as beautiful as she was in her elaborate dresses. She reached out, trailed her hand down his cheek, and Jon felt his breath catch. He could not help but feel small before her, unworthy. Once again, all he wanted was to disappear into the shadows, but there was nowhere to go. "Come on," she said, voice soft, as she pulled him towards the bed.
How was she so brave? And how was it that he could not find it within him to be the same? Still, he let her pull him with her, up onto the bed and closer, until he was hovering over her, her small hand on the nape of his neck pulling his face down. Then he was kissing her, or she was kissing him, and it was nothing like it had been in the Godswood or the Sept. This made something fiery blaze alive in the pit of his stomach, made his hands tremble with something more than just apprehension.
He wanted to touch her, he realised, but he did not know how, did not know if she would let him or if it would even be proper. And if he did something wrong, he would have to live with her scorn for the rest of his life. He did not dare, he realised, did not dare to do anything more than keep kissing her, and by the Gods, he almost thought he could do that for days without tiring of it. Her fingers carded through his hair, and he could not help but groan at that.
Shivers raced down his spine as he broke their kiss, gasping for breath he had not even been able to tell he had grown short of.
After a few moments, she pulled him back down. He tasted wine on her lips, and the sweetness of the desserts that had been served at the banquet. He wanted to tell her he did not know how, wanted to tell her they did not need to do this tonight, that they might wait, like most couples wed as young as they did. Before he got the chance, his smallclothes had somehow ended up pushed down to his thighs, and she, he realised, had not been wearing any, regardless of what he had assumed.
She was the one who pushed at the small of his back, and suddenly all he knew was a tight, pressing heat. She let out a pained gasp, and Jon fought to hold himself still, make sure she had not been hurt, but his head was a flurry and he could not remember how to think, how to, well, anything really.
It took maybe five thrusts before he was panting his relief against the silken skin of her neck. Her fingers were still absently smoothing through his hair, and Jon felt at once as though his whole body had melted with more pleasure than he had known he could feel and a humiliation that made him want to die. He wanted to roll away, to be alone, but she held him fast. He could have broken away easily, but he had embarrassed himself enough for one night. Throat almost painfully tight, he hid his face in the crook of her neck and let her hold him until he fell into an uneasy sleep.