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Chapter Text

When Sansa sees Seabluff Keep, solitary and windworn against the lead-gray sky, dread fills her chest until there’s little room for air. It must show too, for Jon knocks thrice on the wall behind him in a wordless command for the driver to stop the wheelhouse. Outside, winds cold and briny almost bowl her over. Cloak snug around her, she moves to the lee side and leans her back against the dark wood.

Jon’s followed her, now watches her with worry lining his brow.

“They haven’t said anything,” he says. “Not a word.”

“I’m damaged goods. This is the kind of match I should expect. You know it as well as I do.”

Refusing to take the bait, Jon only shakes his head with a sigh. Since receiving the invitation for Lord Ivertusk’s weeklong nameday celebration, they’ve gone through this. Repeatedly. Jon’s grown sick of having different versions of the same conversation, of endlessly assuaging her, but she can’t help it. Her name is never needed on any invitation; the king brings whomever he likes and he always brings her. People know this. They expect her by his side. So why did the invitation make it clear the Ivertusks were eager to welcome not only the king but his lovely cousin the Lady Sansa Stark as well?

It’s all she can think about. The fear builds and builds until it becomes unbearable and then her mouth opens on its own to spill out at least some of it. 

Silent, Jon’s looking at her lips. He’s expecting another outpour, she knows, but he’s standing so close to her when rants usually drive people away. Close enough to do something for which she’s long since stopped hoping. She can’t stop the longing, though, can’t stop her thoughts from painting a different life where the prospect of losing her forever would’ve spurred him into acting on feelings he only has in her fantasies. He would never pull her close and kiss her right here, on the windy headland, in front of the driver and the guards and the carriages holding the rest of their retinue.

“Your lips are turning blue,” he says.

He wouldn’t kiss her at all.

Sansa ducks her head, staring at the yellow grass. “It’s cold out here.”

“Would another promise get you back in the wheelhouse?”

“It wouldn’t hurt.”

Jon gives another sigh and positions himself next to her, so close their arms touch, so close she could rest her head against his if she wanted, maybe hug his arm as well. But they don’t do that anymore. At least not in public. Not since the truth spread across Westeros, by raven, by word of mouth, until highborn and lowborn alike knew the name he never wanted.

“I don’t understand why you keep doing this. I’m not your father, Sansa. You’re not mine to give away.”

If I were yours, she thinks, I’d wish for you to keep me. I’d wish you wanted to keep me.

She wishes it either way. She keeps staring at the yellow grass.

“You are my king. If Lord Ivertusk’s offer is good enough, you could command me to marry. Think of all the good you could do with his gold.”

After all, his riches are their reason for attending, despite her fears, despite Lord Ivertusk's sapling of a family tree. A whole week of showering Ivertusk with the king's attention will surely make the man become his most generous self.

“Aye, our coffers would love it. But you’d hate me forever.” Jon shifts the smallest bit closer, the pelt of his cloak whispering against his beard when he turns his head to her. “I like it better when you don’t hate me.”

She resists the impulse to lean closer too, to feel his breath against her cheek, against her lips, to finally sate the longing.

“Sansa,” he murmurs, his voice sweet and dark and maybe if she turns her head after all, maybe – “Do you still believe I only let you stay at Winterfell because I owe you? I thought we’d moved past that.”

Sansa exhales disappointment she shouldn’t feel anymore.

“We have,” she says. “I know you like me, but… The North needs that gold more than I need my freedom–and you’re the king. You have to think about what your kingdom needs. Davos would tell you as much. He probably already has.”

“The North will be fine without Lord Ivertusk’s gold. But you–”

“Robb would’ve done it.”

“I’m not Robb, either.” Jon turns fully toward her now. The heat of his body calls to her, turns her despite it all so that she faces him too, moves her gaze from grass to him. He’s looking into her eyes so deeply, so sincerely, she’s pathetic enough to feel a bit weak in the knees. “I would never do that to you.”

His voice is even husky. 

Bitterness rises within and she fashions it into armor, cocking an eyebrow, lifting her chin, straightening her posture so that he has to tip his head back to look at her. 

“Go on, then,” she says. “Give me another promise. Swear it. One last time.” 

Once, her childish behavior would’ve frustrated him. He would’ve said she was starting to sound as if she wanted him to betray her. That maybe part of her wanted her mistrust to be proven right. They would’ve bickered, maybe even argued, raised voices and all, until one of them left in a huff. Now, he only stays calm.

“All right.” He scoops up her hands and holds them in both of his, the warmth of his skin chasing away the iciness of hers. “I promise. You will not leave this place betrothed. You have my word.”

Then he lets her go.

She doesn’t want to return to the more turbulent days–truly, she doesn’t–but it gave a sort of release his new calm doesn’t. It comforts and soothes, yes, but it leaves her wanting too.

It’s never enough.

He doesn’t fold her into his embrace and kiss her brow, doesn’t hold her hand when they walk back to the wheelhouse door, doesn’t offer it when she climbs up the three steps when she’s a lady in distress and any well-mannered man would’ve offered without thinking (and she knows he would've done it had they been among his people rather than his servants). Once she’s seated, though, instead is sitting too, he hesitates before choosing his usual spot, opposite her. Oh, it was brief enough she would’ve missed it hadn’t she been aware of his every breath, but he did hesitate.

After he knocks on the wall to get the wheelhouse moving again, he picks up his book and resumes reading. She lets hers be.

Was he considering sitting next to her where he could wrap an arm around her and hold her for a moment, comfort her for a moment, without any whispers spreading?

In her wheelhouse, they’re almost always alone.

Once the wars ended and everything settled, they found themselves traveling more. Meetings, celebrations, festivals, fairs. Countless invitations Jon couldn’t afford to decline when the North still kept a wary eye on him. Sansa never complained about days on horseback and nights in tents, but Jon noticed her discomfort nonetheless. One day, despite the state of their coffers, despite her nameday being moons away, the wheelhouse stood in the courtyard.

“It’s yours,” he said, with that lopsided smile of his. “What do you think?”

She took her time inspecting it, while he trailed three steps behind like an eager-to-please dog hoping for pats and praise.

While the wheelhouses of wealthy southern families are painted and gilded, decorated with silk and velvet, double-decked and sleep a whole family, Sansa’s wheelhouse isn’t so ostentatious. It has a carved direwolf on the door, Stark grey upholstery, only one floor, and sleeps two people. It has two padded benches on either side of a cedar chest that functions both as table and compartment for books, cards, dice, knitting, and other things with which one can pass the time. And it has windows covered with lacy screens within for when it’s hot, and shutters without for when it’s cold.

It’s small and plain and to Sansa there’s none lovelier.

“It’s perfect,” she said, touching his arm. “Thank you.”

All abashed, he bowed his head as if to hide how pat and praise made his smile grow–and that made her hope grow too.

For a while, it kept growing. Every time they needed to travel, Jon chose the wheelhouse over his preferred way of traveling. He was only following Davos’ advice of looking the part, Jon claimed. He needs to show his people that he takes his role as king seriously, that it truly is the honor of his life, before he forever loses the trust he’s slowly rebuilding. And he does sit on a throne, now. One matching the wheelhouse in appearance, all dark wood, Stark grey leather, and direwolf carvings. He does wear a crown at petitions, banquets, weddings, and funerals. He does wear finer clothes. 

But Sansa remembers Robert riding into the courtyard a thousand years ago. A king can arrive on horseback–especially when wearing a crown and a fine cloak. It can be a rather striking sight.

Still, every time they’re to travel, Jon follows her into the wheelhouse, opens the chest, grabs a book, and settles in on the bench that’s become his (while she often chooses to knit or sew for yet another babe that isn’t hers).

Whether Jon enjoys her company enough to endure the wheelhouse, or whether his conscience tells him he shouldn’t let her sit in here alone for hours (or sometimes days), Sansa can’t say. When she thinks about how he never was much of a reader before this, and how often hours pass without conversation, she thinks it’s the latter.

But they do talk as well. About the North, about their past, about books they’ve both read. He’s almost intense, then. Sometimes he’ll grab the book, sit down next to her, and find a page with a passage that moved him or annoyed him or confused him. He wants to hear her thoughts, wants her to hear his, all while being so close she can smell the oil he uses to groom his beard.

On occasion, the wheelhouse has rattled and he’s bumped into her, his nose poking her cheek. He always laughs, then, a bit breathily, and murmurs an apology while all she can think is: if I turn my head, will his lips find mine?  

Jon could insist on her finally acquiring a lady-in-waiting and traveling with her. He could point out their sitting in here doesn’t negate whispers just because the sun is still up, and come night, they always sleep apart despite the two bunks in here. 

Is it so foolish, then, to hope it’s the former? To hope he loves her just as much as she loves him? Some days, she even believes it.

The way she loves, though… Oh, in that she’s alone. If she turns her head the next time he bumps into her, his lips won’t find hers. He’ll shy away and return to his seat and shoot her suspicious looks for the rest of their days. She’s certain of it. Eighteen moons have passed since the wars ended. Nothing stops him from marrying her but a lack of desire to do so.

She glances at Jon, at his eyes moving over the page, at his fingers already prepared to flip the page. While her mind’s so full of him she wouldn’t understand a single written word, he has no such problem. If only she hadn’t noticed that hesitation. If only she could stop poring over the infinitesimal, pick up her book, and pore over the pages like he does.

The hope stopped growing long ago. Under the cold blanket of winter, it shriveled into a sorry little thing. Spring might be budding all around them, but that’s all that will. 

Sansa leans her head against the wall and closes her eyes. She doesn’t demand much. All she wants is to stay at Winterfell forever, safe and protected, and never ever be married off to some lord.

She’ll never marry anyone.

Chapter Text

Seabluff’s castle walls protect a small garden from the relentless ocean gusts, protect the ladies strolling it too. At least from the wind. Nothing hinders the men’s ogling from the balcony overlooking the garden. Not that Jon ogles. Aye, there’s a lady or two with cloaks framing necklines that would heat most men’s blood–especially from this angle–but his eyes are drawn elsewhere.

Sipping Dornish wine, he watches Sansa being guided through the garden by Melisia, the Ivertusks’ youngest daughter. They’ve reached a green patch dotted with pale flowers. White, possibly. From here, Jon can’t tell. He’s a selfish enough man he hopes them snowdrops, springbeauties, maidencloaks or whatever else grows this early in the season. So long as they’re not bleeding wood anemones.

Though born in spring, his first memories were of summer. Until he and Sansa fell into the habit of taking walks on rainless days, he didn’t know in what order trees blossom or flowers grow. Not that he would’ve known either way. When it came to nature, he learned the gestation periods of game, and what to hunt when and where. He learned how to build shelters and campfires, and how to find water and the four points of the compass without the use of one. He learned how to track animals and people alike, which mushrooms were edible or poisonous, and to never drop his breeches in a field of nettles unless he wanted his arse to feel blasted with fire. He learned about all things useful.

Sansa learned about all things pretty. This is her first spring too; still, she knows what flowers to look for and where, learned it from her mother while weaving a tapestry of the season. Tucked into Sansa’s dowry chest, it traveled to King’s Landing and got left behind when she fled, but she remembers every woven flower perfectly. 

“Mother taught me what grew in the Riverlands, though,” Sansa said on their first walk. “It might be different here.” A flowerless distance later she looked away, her thumb rubbing nervously against the opposite palm. “This was a stupid idea. There might not be anything yet–and even if there were… You have more important things to do than searching for flowers with me.”

“I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”

She all but rolled her eyes. “No you haven’t.”

“You think I’d rather be doing paperwork and listening to Davos nagging at me?”

There was nothing beautiful about that sentence–there rarely is when Jon speaks–and yet she lit up from within and rewarded him with a small but sweet smile he should know better than to interpret as a sign. But her smiles ring his head like a bell, and he often ends up grinning back at her for far too long, his mind blissfully empty and his heart achingly full of longing for something that suddenly feels a little less impossible.

That day was no exception. When sense finally barged back into his head, he took off toward the godswood so abruptly he still winces at the memory. Luckily, he found tender flowers sprouting through a swath of snow that had yet to melt. Sansa called them snowdrops, told him what she knew, and the awkwardness dissipated.

Since then, they’ve found coltsfoot along the Kingsroad, squills in the Wolfwood, and blackthorn in bloom framing the road between Winterfell and the winter town. Though, she awaits no flower more than the wood anemone. At bedtime, her mother would share tales of sprites living in the woodlands surrounding the river of her ancestral home. They were tiny things, the size of a thumb, with delicate white wings, green skirts, and golden crowns. Or so claimed the few who’d seen them. 

“They’re wary of us,” Sansa told him during another godswood walk. “Whenever they hear a human coming, they join hands and take the shape of wood anemones to hide. That’s why you always find them in clusters.”

“You believe that?”

From the look Sansa gave him, he could’ve just as well accused her of believing Davos the Merling King himself. Jon only grinned until she relented with a hint of amusement softening her features.

“Ever seen one, then?” Jon asked. “A wood anemone, I mean. Not the thumb creature.”

“Thumb creature.” Her affronted look returned. “You’re lucky they’re not real. They would’ve played tricks on you for calling them something so ugly.”

“What kind of tricks?”

“They’d misplace your things. Sprinkle magical dust on your face as you sleep to give you nightmares. Turn your ale into… something unpleasant of a similar color. Things like that.”

“You can’t say ‘piss?’”

“Ladies aren’t vulgar, Jon.”

Jon nodded, the corners of his mouth tugged down. “What are they called, then? Just wood anemones?”

“Wood sprites, I think, but I wanted them to be called anemones, like the flower. I found the word so beautiful. I even went to the heart-tree and vowed to name my firstborn daughter Anemone.” When Jon laughed, Sansa swatted him on the arm. “Don’t laugh. I was six.”

“At least you didn’t choose Thumb Creature,” he said to earn himself another swat just so he could stop it by grabbing her wrist, and tut at her. “I’m your king.”

“You’re an arse.”

“Hm. A vulgar word, that. Does that mean you’re not a proper lady?”

“No,” she said, eyes sparkling, “it means you’re an arse.”

When they play like that, the fool within thinks it feels an awful lot like flirting. That if only he draws out the moment instead of breaking the tension, if only he changes teasing into tender, then maybe, maybe …

Often, sense returns to him, points out the tension’s all in his head, and encourages him to pull away. But the glimmer of a smile still sparkling in her eyes was enough to make him bold. It was enough to make him stupid.

“It’s pretty,” he said, gaze locked with hers, her wrist still in his hand, and all sorts of feelings whirling about in his body. “You should name your daughter Anemone.”

He only realized his mistake when the sparkle in her eyes faded and the smile disappeared before ever fully blooming. She slipped away, then, pretending to be interested in whatever Ghost nosed at so she could distance herself from a dream that turned nightmare years ago–and has stayed a nightmare, even though all monsters have been slain. He knows it has.

When Sam and his family were visiting earlier in the year, Sansa volunteered to hold the babe every time Gilly wanted her arms empty. The joy on Sansa's face when she gazed down at Sam's little girl must’ve rung Davos’ head like a bell too for he commented on how mayhaps Lady Sansa was eager to start a family of her own. To become a wife, finally, for the third and final time. The bleeding idiot even said, “Third time’s the charm, eh?” Pale and unsmiling, Sansa handed the babe back to Gilly, told Davos she would never be a wife, and walked away with her head held high.

Jon would like to say he never forgets that day, but when titles and responsibilities are far far away and he loses himself in the moment, he does forget.

These past three days at Seabluff, he’s not forgotten once.

In the garden below, Sansa asks Lady Melisia something and stays silent as the girl rambles on like Sam. Sansa does this: she feeds people questions to keep them chatting–and to keep them at arm’s length. That’s how much she fears marriage. She wouldn’t want anyone with unwed male relatives feeling comfortable enough to suggest an arrangement. It works too. Most are too happy to talk about themselves, too flattered by the Lady Sansa’s interest in them, to notice what she’s doing. Jon’s noticed, though. He knows well the mask she wears around others. The practiced smiles she gives. Like now, when Melisia plucks a flower for her, and Sansa's lips form a perfectly pleasant curve. While the girl seems genuinely happy at having pleased Lady Sansa, Jon knows most of her smiles and this one means she's looking for ulterior motives hidden in the gesture.

Sansa brings the tender flower to her nose and breathes in its scent as they resume their walk, still with her lady’s mask on. If that flower were a wood anemone, would the excitement untie her mask and allow a true smile to shine? Would she feel even a sliver of disappointment at finding wood anemones without him?

Sansa turns her head toward the balcony, then, and without having to search the space for him, meets his gaze. But that doesn’t mean anything. She likes knowing where he is in case she needs to be rescued from an unwanted conversation, that’s all. When the distance between them grows too vast, Jon’s alone in aching for another embrace. He’s alone in feeling as if something vital’s been removed from his body. It’s been like that ever since Castle Black, even if he didn’t know then how this feeling would evolve or for how long he’d refuse to let himself understand it.

You’re staring, his sense whispers. She’ll understand too. They’ll all understand.

He’ll look away–he will–but first he has to know. He nods at the flower, lifts a shoulder in a wordless question Sansa answers with a discreet shake of her head. After letting her gaze linger long enough for his stomach to surge, she turns back to Melisia. 

Not wood anemones, then.

Jon drinks his wine to hide a face that must look far too pleased for no good reason.

Oh, he doesn’t give two stags about flowers, never did, but Sansa does. The snow melted four moons ago and for four moons she’s searched for wood anemones with Jon by her side. When she finally finds them, it should be their moment. Her smile, then, wouldn’t be polite and practiced but free and true. It would be radiant. Sometimes, when he imagines it, he’s the one to find the flowers and receiving not only a smile as thanks but a kiss to his cheek as well–

“It pleases me to see my daughter and Your Grace’s cousin getting along so well.”

With a jolt, Jon tears his eyes off Sansa. Beside him stands Lord Ivertusk, a tall and robust man who wears his wealth for all to see. Golden rings with rubies and sapphires adorn three of his fingers, a pearl dangles from one earlobe, and from a chain around his neck hangs a polished and carved walrus tusk set in gold. To dazzle people into forgetting how young his House is compared to the other highborn families in the North, Jon suspects, even though it has the opposite effect.

“I had a feeling they would,” Ivertusk continues. “But then everyone loves my Mellie. Almost as much as they love the Lady Sansa.”

Ivertusk pauses, ostensibly to give Jon a chance to say something kind about his daughter, but Jon doesn’t know her. She’s near eighteen, the family favorite, and rather sunny in disposition. That’s about it. He hates this part of conversing too. The fishing for compliments. The platitudes one’s supposed to exchange. It's so bleeding tedious. He only nods and sips more wine.

“Lady Ivertusk and our daughters mean to take the ladies on a visit to the village. They know how much Lady Sansa does for the North, always caring for the sick and the poor. As a lady should, of course. Lady Stark raised her well.”

Another pause. Jon stifles a sigh. “Aye, she did. Lady Ivertusk seems to have raised your girls equally well.”

“Indeed, she has! How kind of His Grace to notice. Our sweet Mellie in particular is so excited to share the experience with Lady Sansa. She’s talked of little else all month. It was her idea, even. She simply knew Lady Sansa would bring things from Winterfell for the poor.”

Jon acknowledges the statement with another nod. It’s hardly a difficult thing to predict. Wherever they go, Sansa brings sacks of grain, salted meats and fish, fabric and yarn, herbs and medicines, toys and books. She plays with the children, and reads to them, the sick, and the elderly. She hugs babies, carries toddlers on her hip, gives new mothers baby blankets sewn by her own hand. She spends an afternoon knitting with the village grandmothers, or a morning embroidering with brides to be. She holds the hands of the dying, listens to their final words, and promises that the family they leave behind will remain under the king’s protection.

Sometimes Jon would tell her, “I don’t know how you do it. It seems exhausting.”

She always replied, “It’s my duty,” until an evening not too long ago, when she fell silent for a breath and a confession followed.

In a near-whisper, she shared that while such duties came easily to her as a girl, when she returned to them, she’d found herself struggling. Crowds suffocated her. Men unsettled her. Strangers kept her vigilant. Conversations turned her oddly shy. She didn’t know how to act when she wasn’t surrounded by enemies, often caught herself hiding behind a cold kind of courtesy that kept people as wary of her as she was of them. But with practice, she grew more comfortable–and over time the people have grown to love her. 

The person who benefits the most from it isn’t Sansa, though. It’s Jon. It’s helped in strengthening the position he almost lost before she fought to bring him home, and it’s helped in regrowing the love and respect he absolutely lost before killing the conqueror.

“They’ll have such good fun, our girls.”

Jon jolts anew, tears his eyes off Sansa anew. Aye, Jon owes her, all right–and how does he repay her? By pining after her when it’s the last thing she wants. He doesn’t even have the decency to be subtle about it.

Jon brings the cup to his lips, glancing at Lord Ivertusk over the rim of it, but the man only has eyes for his youngest daughter and is glowing with pride over her walking arm in arm with the king’s cousin.

“Who knows, Your Grace," he says, "mayhaps we are, in this very moment, granted a glimpse into the future.”

Jon opens his mouth to give a polite word of agreement when Ivertusk’s words register.

A glimpse into what?

Walton, Lord Ivertusk’s eldest son and heir, was widowed a year ago. While his three-year-old daughter has her nurse and Lady Wylma, her late mother’s lady-in-waiting, a little lady needs a proper mother and Walton needs a new wife who can give him a son or two. But Ivertusk can’t be hinting at that, can he? So far, Sansa's worries have seemed entirely unfounded. Walton’s barely looked at her twice. The only ones taking a true interest in her are the ladies of the family.

Hm. That might be it.

Three of Ivertusk’s daughters are still unwed. No matter how large their dowries, after all these wars there aren’t enough men left for such a young House to get auspicious offers. They need connections to impress their peers–and being the ones to charm Lady Sansa into taking a lady-in-waiting at last? Word would spread like seeds in the wind. Soon, they’d be invited to more feasts, seated at better tables than before, and attract the interest of better suitors.

Aye, that’s it.

Ivertusk’s astute enough to notice Jon's lack of enthusism at the subject, and instead starts talking about yesterday's game of Ruff and Honors they lost to his son and his partner. One of the many benefits of being king, that. Unless someone’s socially inept or desperate, they won’t push when Jon keeps being unresponsive–and in this, he has to be. Ivertusk’s daughters could be the sweetest girls in the world. Sansa still won’t invite them to Winterfell–and Jon won’t push.

Perhaps he ought to, though… 

Sansa’s like this spring, in a way: slow to thaw and come into full bloom. Even with him. It took work and time to build the friendship they have today, but she needs more than him, Wolkan, and on days he doesn’t annoy her with his well-meaning tactlessness, Davos. She needs more than their southron loved ones they see only a little more often than they find wood anemones.

Perhaps Jon should stop being selfish and wish for the elusive flower to grow in that garden after all. It would be better for Sansa to share the experience with someone hoping for nothing more than friendship, instead of a man secretly wishing for so much more. A man hoping, despite his better judgment, that a day will come when Sansa Stark wouldn’t mind being a wife.

No, that’s not true. Jon wants her to want it. Want him.

He had to sit in a cell to finally understand his feelings, but now that he knows, he can’t stop thinking about it. Can’t stop feeling a bit shit for it. Can’t stop wondering whether he should tell her, give her a chance to keep him at arm’s length too. But she wants to stay at Winterfell forever. He’d sully her safe haven with his unwanted feelings. It’s not fair on her.

If he took a different keep as his castle, and gave her Winterfell, however… That’s how he could repay her for liberating him from that cell. 

At the sound of the bells marking afternoon’s second hour, the ladies leave for the courtyard, and the men leave for the parlor where cards and wine await them. Jon stays, though, following Sansa with his eyes as she walks farther and farther away, the longing growing ever stronger. He won’t see her again until supper, when they won’t even be seated together. Every day here gives a taste of what life would be like if they lived apart, and it’s bitter enough he can’t imagine ever finding sweetness in it. He’ll have to, though. He’ll have to grow used to the thought of life without her by his side.

“Your Grace,” Ivertusk says. “Walton and Lord Greylam are waiting for us to join them for another round of Ruff and Honors. I aim to beat them this time! You’re ready, I hope?”

No, Jon thinks as the coppery shine of Sansa’s hair disappears from view. I’m not sure I ever will be.

Chapter Text

On their third evening at Seabluff, at the end of supper, Lord Ivertusk rises from his seat and looks out over his guests. Once the din has settled, he clears his throat and declares it time for the men to take to the woods. Through the enormous drape-framed windows in the great hall, Sansa can see the sky, the moon hanging over the ocean, the golden stars twinkling against the darkest blue. 

Boar feed at night. It’s the best time to hunt them.

Jon and Sansa are always seated too far away from one another to talk, but when she looks at him across the table, she finds him already watching her, his eyes asking for her blessing.

No, she wants to shout. Don’t go, you idiot! Boars have gored kings before.

But Jon isn’t Robert Baratheon. He doesn’t spend his days guzzling wine and fondling serving girls. He works. Any excuse to leave the office and stay outdoors for a few hours, he’ll take it. Even indulging her in searching for signs of spring, like the ever-elusive wood anemone she's come to accept might not grow in the North.

A few weeks ago, they made a day of it. He’d been busier than usual; she’d been in a mood. At first he responded in kind, but once he realized she felt neglected, he took her and Ghost to the Wolfswood where they did nothing but search for flowers, eat good food, drink sweet wine, and talk about anything that came to mind. For a whole day, Sansa had Jon to herself. At first, guilt soured what should’ve been wonderful. She couldn’t stop worrying that he found her too demanding, too annoying. But at their first break, Jon settled down on a mossy rock, closed his eyes, and turned his face toward the sun with the most serene expression she’d ever seen him wearing.

“It’s so quiet out here,” he murmured. “Winterfell can be so loud.”

At the next break, once they’d eaten, they lay down on a blanket to watch the clouds drift on by. All three of them, side by side, with her in the middle.

They weren’t alone, of course. Guards always follow the king. But they were far away enough, their talking blended in with the wind whispering in the foliage. She listened to the birds instead, the insects, the calm breathing of man and wolf. The warmth of them surrounded her, sheltered her, calmed her body and mind. She was almost asleep when Jon’s fingers brushed against hers.

As she waited for him to pull away, she lay entirely still. It had to be a mistake, or perhaps she really did fall asleep and shifted too close. Should she move her hand? Snatch it away like you do when accidentally touching someone. But his fingers curled around hers, quite firmly too, and she thought he had to be asleep. Why else would he take her hand like this, as if they were something they’ll never be.

Yes, she decided, he’s asleep. But then he spoke.

“You awake?”

“Barely. This is very relaxing."

His hum sounded like a smile. “I was thinking. We should do this more often.” He tugged playfully at her fingers. “Often enough you don’t have to get grumpy first.”

“I wasn’t grumpy.”

Jon chuckled, his shoulder moving against hers. “If you say so.” He released her hand and folded his arms beneath his head. “I’m sorry. Should’ve known you’d feel alone.”

She anticipated him encouraging her to acquire some ladies-in-waiting, then, to help her feel less alone. But he merely said he’d do better from now on. He even promised.

The next day, his skin was browner and his eyes brighter and his steps lighter. He looked younger, smiled more. Once, Sansa would’ve hoped her company the reason, but she knows it’s not true. Jon needs the stillness, the open sky, the smell of moss and pine to stay sane–and after three days trapped in this keep, he needs this hunt. What can Sansa do but swallow her worries, nod her consent, and do what the other ladies do: follow to the torch-lit courtyard where a row of horses stand prepared.

Before Jon mounts his, though, she can’t help but act on those worries after all by grabbing his arm and pulling him back.

“Promise to be careful.” She squeezes his arm. “Don’t drink too much. Promise.”

“You’re requiring a lot of promises lately,” he says with a wry smile.

She wants to kiss him, then. Right on the lips. Kiss him and wish him a good hunt, the way some of the other wives do. But she’s not a wife. She’ll never be a wife.

She settles for a hug.

“I’ll come back, Sansa,” he says, his arms strong and warm around her. Then he turns his head, puts his lips so close to her ear she feels the heat of them, and whispers for only her to hear, “I’ll see you tonight. I promise.”

At Seabluff, they see little of one another. In the mornings, Sansa’s always invited to break her fast with the ladies of the house. During the days, the ladies do lady things and the men do whatever men do. At supper, they’re never seated next to one another and afterward, the men stay in the great hall, drinking strong spirits and playing cards, while the ladies retire to the drawing room for sweet spirits, treats, and gossip.

When night comes, she and Jon sleep in separate chambers, as they should, but those chambers lie wall to wall in the guest apartments they share, the guards are positioned outside the apartments, and Jon and Sansa can move between the chambers freely without anyone knowing. Every night so far, he’s knocked on her door.

“Just wanted to make sure you’re all right,” he always says.

But he also stays awhile. At home, they share a sofa wide enough for three, with him at one end and her at the other. Here, there’s only an oak settle with drawers and a wooden seat buried beneath thin cushions and so many decorative pillows they take up almost half the space. For two people to sit with at least a handbreadth of empty space between them, the pillows would have to be removed. But she never removes them and he’s too much of a man to think of it. So, every night when they curl up to talk about their day, like they do at home, the pillows push them so closely together, their thighs touch.

It’s not entirely appropriate. It’s not appropriate at all.

That’s why he whispered in the courtyard. To protect her honor. It wasn’t to make it feel intimate or to make her feel special and chosen and his. It wasn’t to water her shriveled up hope.

Sansa knows the exact moment she stopped watering it as well. She’d returned early from visiting a widow and her seven children in the winter town when she overheard Davos encouraging Jon to finally find himself a bride. 

“I like my life the way it is, Davos. I don’t want anything to change. But if I ever do, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Then you won’t mind if I start looking, I hope? So that we have a few names to choose from once the day comes.”

In the silence that followed, Sansa held her breath. Surely, Jon would mind. Surely, he liked his life with her so much nothing could change it for the better except a vow before a heart-tree to make it last forever. It’s what all those lingering looks meant, all those lingering touches. It’s why he’d been flirting more and more the closer they’d gotten.

“The day must come at some point, Your Grace," Davos said. "Sooner rather than later.”

When another silence followed, her closed her eyes and waited for a no. 

Finally, Jon sighed. “I know. Go ahead but be discreet. I don’t want people to think I’ve started looking when I haven’t.”

“Noted. I’ll find out what fish swim in that particular sea. That’s all.”

That afternoon, Sansa hid in her chamber for hours, weeping into her pillow like a stupid little girl.

Jon could’ve said he’d let Davos know, but he didn’t. Davos would be the first to know. If Jon had had any hope at all of marrying her, she would’ve been the first to know. Jon could’ve told Davos to leave it be, but he didn’t do that, either. It was time for her to accept Jon wasn’t secretly mustering up the courage to ask her. What she so foolishly had mistaken for flirting was only banter between friends. He flirted with her as little as he flirted with Tormund. It meant nothing at all. 

That was half a year ago, and while the hope’s shriveled up, her love only grows stronger. If only it would shrivel too. If only he’d stop watering it with his smiles and his touches and his lips so close to her ear.

In the drawing room, it’s not Ivertusk’s wife who holds court but his mother, Lady Jessamyn. She was a Redwyne before she married–and she won’t let anyone forget it (even though she was simply the daughter of a second-born taking the position of his older brother's master-at-arms). Whatever the topic of conversation, it always leads to her sharing another anecdote about her girlhood days on the Arbor. She’s in the middle of telling some story about a prank she and her favorite cousin, Olenna, played on their grandmother when a raven comes for Sansa. Instead of leaving the room to read it, she brings the scroll to the fireplace. A quick glance tells her all eyes are on her–and that Lady Jessamyn, unlike her cousin, hasn’t mastered the art of hiding her feelings. She’s displeased at the interruption, displeased with Sansa too for drawing all attention away from her.

Unbothered, Sansa breaks the seal and reads the raven with a serious expression on her face. Once she’s done, she changes her expression to slightly troubled and gazes out the window for one, two, three, four breaths. Then she throws the scroll into the hearth and watches the flames devour words about how Wolkan went foraging in the Wolfswood today, and Ghost was kind enough to join him. They had a rather lovely time!

When Sansa returns to her spot, the other ladies follow her with their eyes. But no matter how strong their curiosity, none would be so brazen as to ask about the contents of that raven.

“Please, my lady”–Sansa smiles at Jessamyn–“finish your anecdote. I’m very interested in learning how you and Olenna escaped your grandmother’s wrath.”

As Jessamyn resumes talking, Sansa makes sure to keep looking troubled–which isn’t particularly hard when she wants nothing more than to return home. Oh, nothing alarming has happened so far. Walton’s spoken with her only a little. No one’s been eager for Sansa to get to know his little daughter. His mother, Della Ivertusk, hasn’t taken an unusual interest in Sansa.

Melisia has, though. Favoring Sansa over every other lady present, she rarely leaves Sansa’s side. 

Now, Sansa’s used to this. As Jon’s yet to wed, she’s the most respected and influential lady in the North. People always quiet when she opens her mouth to speak, hosts always treat her with special care, and young ladies always want to be her friend. Melisia’s behavior isn’t unexpected, but there’s something about her that reminds Sansa of Margaery Tyrell.

Admittedly, they are related and look it too. Melisia has the same impish smile and upturned nose; though, with her dark doe-eyes, smattering of golden freckles, sweeping lashes, and shapely figure, Melisia turns even more heads. She’s sweeter too. Younger. Less experienced. Her words aren’t as carefully chosen, her manners not as polished, her conduct not as graceful. Sometimes she’s even a bit clumsy. But she’s equally eager to become close. As close as sisters. Something Melisia never suggests outright, but Sansa feels nonetheless. 

As if Melisia can read her mind and want to prove Sansa right, she lays a supportive hand on Sansa’s hand, shoots her an empathetic smile as if to comfort. She bought it, then. Sansa’s little performance. Melisia believes that raven carried bad news.

Every so often, Jon and Sansa want to leave a place earlier than planned without insulting the host. The reasons differ, but the escape is always the same: once a day, Wolkan sends a raven to the keep at which they’re staying. If they need to leave, all they have to do is pretend their presence is urgently needed at Winterfell–and it’s undoubtedly starting to feel rather urgent. It’s clear as day Melisia is her brother’s favorite sister. Soon Lord Walton will start seeking Sansa out for conversations and strolls around the garden. Then, unless Walton finds her entirely unappealing, Lord Ivertusk will ask to speak with Jon. They always do, the men who nose around in hopes for an arrangement. Why waste time on the unreasonable woman so content on staying a widow when they can speak with the only man who has the power to influence her?

Sansa would love to trust Jon will keep his promise, but minds change and promises are broken all the time. For such a taciturn and brooding man, Jon can be rather impulsive and do very stupid things without consulting anyone. Simply because he believes they’re the right things to do–and marriage is always what everyone finds right for a woman. Davos certainly thinks so and isn’t afraid to say it. By now it might’ve taken root in Jon’s mind–especially if he suspects the awful truth that hides in Sansa’s heart.

(Lately, she’s noticed signs pointing toward it.)

It doesn’t matter that Sansa’s sense reminds her things are different now. That Jon never would’ve married her off either way. Right now, he's out there in the woods with Walton and Lord Ivertusk and lots of wine. They'll be gone for hours, bonding for hours. That's plenty of time to come to an agreement. No, Jon wouldn't. He wouldn't! And yet her body is panicking. It feels trapped in a golden dress, buckling beneath the weight of a lion cloak. It feels caged by white laced too firmly, forced down the path to the heart-tree–and then she can’t think anymore. Can’t remember what happened next or she’ll start crying right here, in the Ivertusks’ drawing room in front of all the ladies.

Sansa’s skin is crawling with the need to flee, but she can’t. Not until Jon has returned from this stupid night hunt.

Chapter Text

After Mother came to Winterfell, Father had a sept built for her. Lord Ivertusk’s late father did the same for his wife, Lady Jessamyn. The sept stands a stone’s throw from the keep and its bells ring every hour on the hour. When Sansa returned to her chamber, they had recently chimed eleven times. She’ll stay up to hear it ring many times more, she thinks, before Jon’s return. 

If he comes knocking at all.

Yes, he promised–and he tends to keep his promises–but according to Lady Jessamyn, her son and his hunting party usually return at dawn when they hunt boar.

“If the hunt goes well, they ride to town to celebrate. If it doesn’t, they ride to town to drink themselves jolly again. Either way, they visit the alehouse. That, my lady, we can always count on.”

Sansa could rest, she supposes, but how is she to find peace when she sees Jon speared by boar tusks whenever she closes her eyes? She tries reading, tries embroidering, tries knitting. Tries another book, the one Jon finished reading this morning and laid on her nightstand with a note folded atop it. It left him with so many thoughts, he’s hoping she’ll read it too, so they can discuss it together on their way home. She’d love nothing more, but every time the keep creaks, her eyes shoot to the door–and this windy old keep creaks annoyingly often.

She returns to the knitting needles and yarn she brought, running her fingers over the different skeins. Roslin is pregnant again. Edmure’s third child. Sansa’s already working on a cradle blanket she’ll embroider with leaping trouts and blue rivers, but she left it at home. The babe will need a wool blanket as well, to cover the swaddling clothes. Sansa picks up two skeins of softest goat’s wool, one white and one black. Perhaps an ermine pattern, she thinks, to represent the House of Roslin’s mother rather than her terrible father.

Outside, the bells start ringing. Tapping her foot in time with the noise, Sansa counts along reflexively. Midnight. This time of year, dawn breaks around four in the morning. Wonderful.

Sansa never hears the bells mark a new hour. Despite it all, sleep sneaks up on her and grabs her in the middle of her purling. When a knock finally rouses her from sleep, she’s so disoriented she forgets to comport herself. She’s practically stumbling over her feet in her haste to get to the door and pulls it open like a besotted girl longing for her suitor, breath caught in her throat and all.

Outside stands a rather unkempt Jon. A few tresses have escaped his bun, pine-needles and leaves cling to his hair and the pelt draped over his shoulders, mud stains his boots, and the scents of ale and damp moss surround him. It only makes her smile. He didn’t so much as pop into his own chamber to remove his cloak before seeing her.

He nods in greeting, eyes flowing over her nightrail before skittering away. By now, he’s seen her in nightwear countless times. When Ramsay still haunted her dreams, they occasionally shared a bed. Still, Jon’s eyes always do that turn. For far too long she believed it meant something, but his eyes never linger. It’s a reflex, that’s all, triggered by a sight that might not entice but still is forbidden enough to draw the eye. 

“I woke you."

“I was only dozing," she says, and before he can suggest they both go to their separate beds, she grabs the straps of his cloak and gives a gentle tug in encouragement. It means nothing, she knows that; yet, she can’t stop a thrill from rushing through her when he lets himself be led into her chamber with a hint of a smile curving his lips. “Jon, you’re a mess.” Tutting at him, she plucks the remnants of forest from his hair and cloak (but resists the urge to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear too). “There.” She busies herself with throwing the debris into the hearth so he won’t see what she’s certain shines in her eyes at the joy of grooming him like a wife would. “You’re back early. Didn’t you find any boar?”

“No, we did. Got some too.” He shrugs off his cloak, plonks down on the settle, toes off his boots, and leans back with an exhale. “Then the others decided to ride to town to celebrate, so I rode back.”

She sits down too and suppresses a shiver when his night-cold side presses into hers. “You didn’t want to celebrate?”

“Did at first. Until Walton said he’d turn around. Asked him why and, apparently, his father never fails to visit the whorehouse after a hunt. So I turned around too.”

“That must’ve surprised them. Many would say it's unusual for a man to…”

She feels a blush coming on and stops talking to prevent it from spreading. She shouldn’t talk about this. They never do. The few times they’ve gotten close, one of them has always steered the conversation in a different direction. But she knows Jon’s unlike Robert Baratheon in this too. It’s no secret. While Jon minds his tongue when they’re alone, he’s spoken freely about it with Davos, Tormund, and Sam at feasts, even though she’s sat at the same table. No matter how much anyone goads him, Jon never relents. He will not lie with another woman. Not until his wedding night.

“To?” Jon says.

Sansa’s so surprised at his prompting for her to continue, the blush blooms on her face anyway. “You know.”

He chuckles quietly and looks down at his lap. “Aye, so they tell me. But I told them I won’t risk siring bastards.”

Sansa leans back against the layer of pillows between her and the wooden backrest, nodding her understanding. It’s the reason he always gives. When she was still a silly girl with too many silly dreams dancing in her heart, she sometimes believed something so embarrassing her stomach churns at the memory. She sometimes believed Jon loved her so, he would not lie with a woman unless it was her.

Even now, when hope’s gone, the thought’s stubborn enough to return. But her sense scolds her instantly: you’re much too grown for this. Stop waiting for impossible dreams to come true. He won’t risk siring a bastard. That’s the truth. Accept it.

“It’s not the whole truth, though,” Jon says.

Sansa sits up straight. Did she say that out loud? The heat in her cheeks that had only begun to fade burns with renewed strength. She glances at him through the corner of her eye: he’s too busy picking at a hangnail to look at her. No, she didn’t say it. She didn’t prompt this at all. He’s choosing to share something they never discuss, and she scarcely dares breathing lest it scares him into silence.

(The silly girl within doesn’t care about the shriveled hope. She still thinks maybe. Maybe.)

“It’s stupid,” he mumbles.

She stays quiet, only encourages him with a comforting touch to his forearm to tell him she’s here, she’s listening, she will not judge. He likes that, she’s learned. After she brought him back to the North from King’s Landing, when their relationship was still tense and full of mistrust, she wasn’t as patient. Before she understood his reticence wasn’t a rejection of her friendship, it stung too bitterly. She’d sigh loudly to hide her pain, and then left the room so he could feel the same.

She knows better now.

“I just…” He turns his head to her but keeps his eyes downcast. “When I was a boy, girls never wanted me. Robb and Theon were trueborn sons and I wasn’t. I know it’s different now. I’m different. But the world isn’t. If I pay a girl, she’ll pretend to want me, even if she doesn’t.” He huffs out a hollow laugh, his lips so close she smells the ale on his breath. “I’m a king. She might pretend anyway. When I was a bastard, if someone wanted me, at least I knew they wanted me, not my title, and I’d like to be wanted.”

“That’s not stupid.” 

“No? Other men don’t seem to care. They’ll take whatever they can.”

Sansa hums. “You’re right. Ladies do the same. I suppose most do consider it stupid. They know love is for songs, that in the real world, people only care about power, gold, and titles. They’ve accepted it.”

Jon nods, stays quiet for a beat, then: “They? Not you?”

“Suppose we’re equally stupid. You know what I’m like.”

“Do I? I thought you didn’t want…”

His words strike through her like a lance. She knows to be more careful than this. On instinct, she looks away even before she feels him lifting his gaze to look at her. To scrutinize her. He does suspect it. Wants those suspicions confirmed so he can change his behavior accordingly. Keep her at a polite distance. Reject her so kindly words will never be needed. Encourage her to move on and marry someone else.

The woods lie at least half an hour away. A lot can be discussed in half an hour.

Jon’s still looking at her, waiting for an answer. The heat of his arm burns her fingers through the linen and leather. Why is she still touching his arm? Why hasn’t she removed her hand?

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” she says, clasping both hands in her lap. “Nor does it matter what I’m like. It never did. I understand that now. I might not have a crown, but King’s Landing taught me I was only as appealing as my claim. And now… I’m related to two kings. That’s the most appealing thing about me. Honestly, after marrying two enemies of my House and failing to give either an heir, it might be the only appealing thing about me.”

“No, it’s not,” Jon says with a breathy laugh that’s barely gotten her stomach to swoop before he gets to his feet. “It’s late. We should sleep. I just wanted to give you some news.”

Sansa blinks, her arms wrapping around her waist as if to hide all the feelings fluttering within and her mind thinking only one thing: what are the appealing things, then?

She wants to poke at him until he admits something wonderful, but he’d only say something a brother would say. That she might not be a maiden anymore, but she’s still a proper lady who knows how to run a castle and support her lord husband. The kind of woman any man would be happy to marry.

A man like Walton.

News, Jon said. That’s what her mind should’ve focused on. Sansa swallows. Rises too, holds her head high. I’ll run away and never come back. You’ll never see me again. That’s what she’ll say. If she means anything to Jon, he’d want to see her again. Even if he suspects how she feels.

Wouldn’t he? 

The first few months following King’s Landing, they couldn’t stop fighting. Sometimes a few calm days passed and then something would remind them of all their issues and they’d be at it again. Then, one day, even though she’d been so careful to hide how much she was hurting, it just poured out of her.

“You don’t like girls like me and you don’t like me!” When he opened his mouth to protest, she bored her eyes into him. “Don’t even try to deny it!”

“But it’s not true!”

“Yes it is! You only keep me around because you’d be rotting in a cell if it weren’t for me. You feel indebted to me. Just admit it. You don’t want me here.”

“Aye, I feel indebted to you, but I would’ve wanted you here either way.”

“Then why doesn’t it feel like it?”

Her voice broke on the last word, the lump in her throat thick and uncomfortable, and she stormed off before he could see her tears.

Part of her hoped he’d run after her. A very large part. Almost all of her, really. The very small part left was relieved that he allowed her to cry in peace before he finally sought her out. By then she’d wiped her tears and washed her face, and they’d both calmed enough to talk and listen instead of shouting at one another.

“You’re wrong,” he said. “I do like you. And I care about you. I’ve worked so hard to keep you safe, Sansa, why would I do that if I didn’t care?”

“Guilt. A sense of obligation. Honor. To please Father’s ghost so he doesn’t murder you. I don’t know.”

Jon shook his head, walked closer. “I like you. And when I’m not too busy feeling sorry for myself, I know you like me too. I know you care about me, or you wouldn’t have gone to King’s Landing for me. Neither of us did what we did because we wanted the other gone. Neither of us knew how terrible the consequences would be–and we can’t change it, no matter how much we argue.” He cupped her upper arm, the touch gentle but firm. “We need to start over, Sansa. We need to leave this behind or it’ll never get better–and I want it to get better. I want us to be friends.”

His words both stung and warmed, and he pulled her in for a long hug, it was both pain and pleasure. She wanted him to let go. She wanted him to hold her closer. She wanted to cling to him, to press her whole body against his, to show him she wanted them to be something else.

She still wants it, wants to sink into his arms and make him promise anew that she won’t leave this place betrothed. But she can’t do anything but wait in horror.

Jon looks down, shrugs. “Got to speak a bit with Walton...

He looks up at her with eyes that glitter and lips that fight a smile–and he wouldn’t look like that unless he knew she’d like the news. He wouldn’t.

Breathless, she takes a step closer, nods at him to continue.

“He’s in love with Lady Wylma. Couldn’t shut up about her. He’s loved her since he was a boy. Wanted to marry her years ago, but his father didn’t find her suitable and found a more impressive bride. Walton said he loved his wife for giving him his daughter, but he couldn’t love her the way he loves Wylma. A few months ago, Ivertusk told him he’s mourned his wife long enough. It’s time to find another bride. And Walton said, ‘Then you better find Lady Wylma, because I’m not marrying anyone else.’”

Sansa gasps, takes another step forward. “And what did his father say?”

“He cursed him to the seven hells and back. Didn’t speak to Walton for two days. Then Lady Ivertusk grew tired of it and talked some sense into her husband. They’re announcing it after the celebration. Ivertusk didn’t want the betrothal to cast a shadow on his nameday. I’m sworn to secrecy.”

Relief flings Sansa forward, straight into Jon’s open arms. They close around her, lift her off the floor for several beats of her soaring heart, and fill her with a sense of safety she’s never found anywhere else, doesn't want to find anywhere else. When he steps back, he keeps his hands on her waist for a touch longer than necessary before letting his hands drop. Or so she likes to imagine when she knows this truth too: she’s entirely alone in how she feels.

“You can enjoy the celebration now,” he says.

“Have I looked that miserable?”

“No. You hide it well, but I know you.”

“You do–and I know you and still I…” She sighs. “I’m sorry for doubting you. I know that even if he wanted to propose, you wouldn’t have said yes. I know that but…”

“You’ve been burned before. It makes trusting others difficult. I should know.”

“Stop being so understanding. I’ve been an arse.”

“I forgive you,” he says, blinking softly at her.

Words she’s never uttered lie on her tongue. She swallows them down. No matter how often she thinks them, she’ll never say them. He’d hear the full truth of it in her voice. Though she aches for another embrace, she doesn't hug him again, either. Doesn’t even touch him. It would be too much. She re-clasps her hands, keeps her distance.

“It is difficult,” she says. “Trusting others. I’m always wondering what people want, always searching for ulterior motives, like Littlefinger taught me. But should I? Lady Melisia is a perfect example. She’s the sweetest girl, who probably hasn’t manipulated anyone in her life. Yet, every time she’s mentioned how wonderful her brother is, I believed she wanted me to notice his finer qualities. Every time she favored me over her lady friends, I believed she wanted to show me what it would be like to be her sister. Every time she mentioned Winterfell, I believed she hoped for an invitation– Well. That might still be true.”

Jon shakes his head at Sansa, but it’s fondly done. “What’s Littlefinger whispering in your ear now, then?”

“You said it yourself. Because of your title, you can’t trust that someone likes you for who you are. That’s true when it comes to friends as well. For both of us.” 

“Aye, it is. But I think she just likes you,” Jon says, his eyes as warm as his voice. “If you gave her a chance, tried to trust her a bit, do you think you could like her?”

“I do like her. That’s what makes me careful.”

He breathes out, nodding. "I would be too. But if you decide you’d like to get to know her better, you can invite her to stay with us for a bit. I don’t mind. Then I could ride home instead of sitting in that bleeding wheelhouse for hours.”

“Is it that awful to spend time with me?”

“Aye, can’t stand it,” Jon says, smiling. “It’s why I come see you every night, no matter the hour. Good night, Sansa.”

Then he’s out the door while she’s stuck in the middle of the chamber, staring at the empty space he left behind. Her heart beats as if she got a kiss, her cheeks burn as if she got a slap, and her stomach surges as if she stood at the edge of the open Moon Door.

She wishes she could claim it’s a novel sensation. But lately, he’s been saying or doing things that send her heart racing only to abruptly change the subject or even leave. It’s time she accepts this too: he does know–and still cares for her, despite it all. So, every time he suspects he might’ve encouraged her, it leaves him terrified. It’s why he fled this chamber in such a rush. 

He didn’t even get his cloak and boots back on.

Sansa closes her eyes and keeps them closed until they stop stinging. Then she picks up his cloak and boots, sneaks out of the chamber, places them outside his door without knocking, and goes to bed.

Chapter Text

He shouldn’t have allowed that hug. Not when she’s dressed in nothing but a nightrail. He definitely shouldn’t have let his hands stay on her waist for so long. Granted, at times he’s done something even more inappropriate. At Castle Black and at Winterfell, but never ever since learning the truth about the blood that runs in his veins.

He’s held her. In his bed. To protect her from nightmares. A convenient excuse. Something he’s come to miss, selfish as he is. No, he doesn’t want the monsters from her past to invade her dreams. He doesn’t want her to relive her father’s execution. But being woken up in the middle of the night by a soft touch to his shoulder, seeing her standing at his bed with her feet bare, hair unbound, and body clad in nothing but a nightrail, understanding the question in her glassy eyes, answering it as wordlessly as she asked it by scooting back in bed and holding open the covers for her as an invitation.

That, he misses. Gods, how he misses it.

Sometimes, when nightmares ruin his sleep, he wants to be the one to stand by her bed, to touch her shoulder, to ask to be held. But he seeks his solar instead and sits awhile, waiting for her to appear in slippers and dressing gown, and curl up next to him on the sofa. Somehow, she always knows. They talk or read or simply sit in the kind of silence that soothes. And all the while a voice within whispers, “Ask her, ask her, ask her,” but he never does.

She’d say yes, he thinks, but he can’t be the one to ask.

(He’s not quite that selfish.)

Since coming to Seabluff, in the depths of him the longing has turned into an ugly, greedy wish. A strange place, the threat of a proposal to a man she doesn’t want… A knock on the door, a touch to his shoulder, an unspoken question wouldn’t be so unimaginable. But it’s yet to happen and now that the threat proved false, Jon knows it never will. 

From now on, they’ll only ever share a bed in fantasies he’ll never confess to anyone. Fantasies he indulges in at night, when he lies down to sleep and pretends she’s lying beside him. Such an easy thing to do. He knows how she feels in his arms when nothing but thin fabric separates them instead of all the layers they wear when they usually hug. He knows what she sounds like when she’s drifting off, when she sleeps calmly, when she has another nightmare, when she’s waking up. He knows the scent of her, how it envelopes him once she’s pressed close and lingers on both his skin and linen even after she’s gone.

The last few times this happened, he felt a green boy when morning came and he hesitated to wash her scent from his body. He felt a grumpy child when evening came and he went to bed expecting to fall asleep wrapped in her comforting scent only to find his linen changed. He feels a fool for not understanding then what should’ve been obvious–and utterly pathetic now for putting a hand to the wall and wondering whether she ever misses it too.

Their guest chambers look the same, only reversed. The headboards of their beds would’ve kissed if not for the wall separating them. She’s so close and yet impossible to touch, wouldn’t hear it if he whispered good night. She has no idea that he rolls over on his side, hugs a pillow to his chest, and pretends it’s her.

When sleep comes, his fantasies follow him into his dreams. She’s all around him, her cool hair brushing over his skin, her hands grasping at his flesh, her lips releasing his lips to find his earlobe, his neck, his chest. Every touch is so fervent, feels so real and true he thinks it might be–and then he wakes up alone and hard, with his mind lingering in the world of dreams and his hand already on the way to complete what the dreams never do.

Once he’s done, he tells himself it needs to end. That it was the last time. He always does.

(It never is.)

At breakfast, Sansa has to fight the need to yawn over and over. Last night, her mind chose to pore over the recent past instead of inviting sleep. With every remembered sign of Jon suspecting her secret, she felt more and more awake. When she realized they still haven’t spent another day in the wood, just him and her and Ghost, despite Jon’s suggestion to do it more often, she even left bed and paced for a spell.

Jon knows. He must’ve encouraged her to invite Melisia to Winterfell for mainly one reason: he wants some distance between himself and Sansa.

It hurts. It does. But she can’t pretend she doesn’t see the sense in it. How can these feelings ever go away when they work together, eat together, unwind together, stroll together, travel together, do everything together? Everything a husband and wife do except… that . She needs a friend to distract her from all things Jon.

Could Melisia be that friend?

A deeper friendship with such a young House could upset many bannermen, but the Ivertusks’ wealth might make up for it. The North needs gold to grow strong. Jon, Davos, and Sansa often discuss all the orphans the wars have created. All the craftsmen the war have stolen. Davos suggested the orphans be educated. If they had a place where they could be sheltered as well as taught letters, numbers, and different trades, they could catch two fish with one hook.

While Sansa found the whole thing strange at first, Jon was intrigued. In the evenings he kept returning to the subject. Davos shared how the Princess Shireen taught him his letters, how grateful he was for it, how helpful it’s been to not only him but the king too. Soon Sansa came around as well. Such a venture is costly, though, and few lords find it important enough to fund.

Befriending Melisia could be beneficial enough for the Ivertusks they’d open their coffers to show their gratitude. There’s no reason as to why Sansa can’t catch two fish with one hook as well. She’ll get a friend, and the North will get a good home for all its lonely children.

Resting the rim of the tea cup against her bottom lip, Sansa leans back in her chair and watches the young lady across the table. She’s discussing something with her grandmother Sansa’s been too deep in thought to hear. But if she’s to properly get to know Melisia, it’s time she starts making a true effort. It’s time she starts listening.

“Mellie, dear,” Lady Jessamyn says, “the feast is tomorrow. You must make a decision–and you know which decision I would make.”

“Yes. Yes, Grandmama, perhaps I–”

Della Ivertusk silences her daughter by laying a hand over hers, but it’s at Lady Jessamyn she aims her firm gaze. “You have excellent taste, Mother ,” she says with a smile that’s too hard to look pleasant. “But my daughter should pick the gown she likes the best. She is the one who must wear it, after all.”

Jessamyn mirrors the expression. “Melisia doesn’t know which dress she likes best, Daughter . Clearly, my guidance is needed. In the Reach, I was known for my taste.”

Sansa might not have been here long, but she’s already noticed that when Lady Ivertusk and Lady Jessamyn disagree, they shoot smiles like arrows, and brandish the words Mother and Daughter like daggers. When they get along, they call each other by their given names and barely smile at all. When they get along, Melisia doesn’t look the way she does now. Eager to please both her mother and grandmother when doing both is impossible, this vibrant young woman is wilting.

It’s an awful thing to see.

Sansa puts down the tea cup with a little more force than necessary, turning all eyes to her.

“When I was in King’s Landing,” she says, “a day or two before a feast, Margaery would invite myself and her ladies-in-waiting to an afternoon of wine and pastries”

At the mention of her favorite cousin’s favorite grandchild, Jessamyn’s eyes light up with a spark of interest. Before the woman starts regaling them with yet another anecdote, Sansa continues, “We’d show one another our dresses, help each other in deciding what shoes and jewelry to wear, and what to do with our hair. It’s some of my fondest memories from my time there.”

“That sounds so like our dear Margaery. Oh, yes.” Jessamyn’s eyebrows twist together and her bejeweled hand comes to rest on her chest. “The garden of Westeros truly lost its most perfect rose the day Cersei committed that horrible, horrible act.”

Ignoring Jessamyn, Sansa leans closer to Melisia with a smile. “My lady, why don’t we do something similar? Show me your dresses, and we’ll pick the perfect one together.”

At Sansa’s suggestion, life returns to Melisia’s wan face, her cheeks blushing and eyes shining. The other women’s smiles soften, become true. They’re glowing now, all three of them, the tension shattered and gone.

“What a wonderful idea, my lady.” Lady Jessamyn beams at Sansa before shooting her granddaughter a look of approval. “And quite the honor as well. Quite the honor.”

Lady Melisia does a slow twirl, the skirts of her gown fanning out like a bluebell in full bloom. Sipping cool tart wine, Sansa takes her time scrutinizing the garment from shoulder to toe. The other ladies, all Melisia’s friends, wait in silence. This is the last of the five dresses Melisia has tried on, and every time the others take their cue from Sansa. It’s her opinion they all want. Her approval.

It’s exhausting. How can she find friends among women who dare not speak their minds? 

The rest is quite enjoyable, though. The wine, the gossiping while they wait for Melisia to change, the pretty garments, it all makes Sansa feel a young girl again. Almost two hours have passed and not once has she been bored. In truth, she’s almost a bit disappointed this is the last dress.

“Once you’ve made your pick,” Sansa says, “perhaps we shall choose your shoes and jewelry as well?”

Melisia’s reply drowns in a river of squeals from the other girls, but Sansa didn’t need to hear it to know how Melisia feels. She looks as if she has to restrain herself from bouncing and clapping like a little girl receiving a beautiful pony on her nameday.

Head tipped back, Jon wanders through the sept. Although it seems an impossible task, someone has painted the ceiling with illustrations of all seven gods. It’s beautiful work–it is–but to Jon’s eye the Mother looks haughty, the Father judgmental, the Crone calculating, the Warrior indifferent, the Smith brutal, the Maiden anxious, the Stranger almost welcoming. He’s the only one smiling.

Jon can’t decide which he feels the most: impressed or oppressed. How can one sit in here and pray when the gods stare down at you like this? 

The heavy wooden doors open. The sound of heels on stone echoes through the cavernous hall. Jon takes his eyes off the Stranger and watches Sansa walking down the aisle, her hair glowing like copper whenever she passes through a beam of sunlight let inside by the tall and narrow windows on either side of the sept.

“I didn’t know you worship the new gods,” she says. “What inspired this change?”

He shrugs. “You just spent hours with ladies who giggle a lot. Thought you’d need a bit of silence after that. Tried your chamber at first, but then I remembered you pray when you want to be alone, but there’s no heart-tree nearby, so…”

“...you decided to bother me?”

Jon grins. “I can leave, if you want.”

She shoots him a glare she doesn’t mean and snakes her arm around his, pulling him with her to the altar. He’s barely begun enjoying the closeness before her arm’s gone. A glass jar full of spills stands next to several rows of candles, most of them unlit. When she takes a spill and starts lighting more of the candles, Jon does the same. One for Robb, one for Rickon, one for Edd. He says no prayers, though, only keeps their names and memories in his mind. The brothers he's lost. When Sansa lights a fourth candle, Jon hesitates for a beat before lighting a fourth too. For Theon. Theirs was never an easy relationship, but he was a Stark too, in a way. He risked his life to save Sansa, gave his life to protect Bran. He deserves to be honored as well.

Once they’re done and sit down on one of the benches inside the sept, Jon can finally ask what he came to ask: “How did it go? With Melisia and the others.”

“It went well.”

He turns slightly toward Sansa, his right knee touching the side of her left thigh. (She doesn’t pull away.) “Did you enjoy it, then?

“I did.” Nodding, she smiles only a little, but it’s a true smile. “It was very enjoyable.”

“Good. I’m glad. I–”

The doors open again. Another set of heels echoes in the silence. Jon scoots to the left until there’s a handbreadth of space between him and Sansa, both knees pointing forward as they should. A sigh builds in his chest, eager to rush out loudly and pointedly and send the intruder on its way, but he’s a guest here and eager to get some gold out of this visit. Gold given willingly. He won’t become the kind of king who wrings his people dry with an iron fist; so, he holds back his exasperation and Lady Jessamyn appears before them, her thin skin folding in a thousand wrinkles when she smiles.

“Your Grace.” Lady Jessamyn curtsies. “Ah! And Lady Sansa. How fortunate I am to find you in here!”

Jon listens with only one ear as the woman pads her wish to speak with Sansa alone with so much courtesy it feels as if she’ll never shut up. He should just interrupt her. He's not needed for this anyway, and he’s the king. He can do that without seeming too rude–and he does, by rising to his feet and saying, in the middle of a sentence, “I’ll leave you ladies to it.”

Then he heads for the door, his own wish unfulfilled. All he wanted was an hour with Sansa. While he sees her throughout the day at home, at Seabluff he catches only the occasional glimpse of her until supper–and he doesn’t get a proper chance to speak to her until nightfall. 

He should get used to it, really. Sharing her with others. Perhaps it’ll help him in moving on and letting go of another wish. One he knows will never be fulfilled. He needs a wife; she never wants to be one. Davos has even gathered a list of names Jon has no desire to peruse, but as Davos likes to put it: the day must come at some point–and sooner rather than later.

There are days when a voice within whispers, “Ask her. Ask her, ask her, ask her,” but Jon never does. 

She’d say yes, he thinks. No matter how many times she says she never wants to be a wife, she might agree to be his. It’s the only way to stay at Winterfell forever while also protecting herself from more unwanted proposals. But that kind of marriage would be everything he's always wanted in a way he never wanted it. It would be what people mean when they warn you about being careful for what you wish.

At the door, Jon turns around out of habit for one last look. Turns around to see her looking at him, he hopes. Can't help it. But he’s wrong. Her back is turned to him. Jon doesn’t stifle this sigh. He lets it flow and either she heard it or she wanted one last look too for she does turn around, then, and gives him a smile and a small wave of her hand. The warmth that spreads within at the small gesture isn't new. It always does, always strenghtening his attachment when anyone would advice him to do his best to weaken it. Sooner rather than later. He must train his eyes to refrain from constantly searching crowds and chambers and courtyards for her copper hair, train his body to refrain from turning around for one last look, train himself to keep a little distance regardless of whether she finds a lady friend or not.

After tomorrow's feast, they'll stay another night. But then they'll return home–and this time he'll leave the wheelhouse to her and ride the whole way back. Then, little by little, he'll do what he can to keep detaching. For the good of the North and his own damn future.

Even though Jessamyn must know her little act fooled neither Jon nor Sansa, she still keeps up the ruse by lighting a few candles, saying a few prayers, as if she truly came here for no other reason. Then she offers to show Sansa around the small garden belonging to the sept. From the glimpse Sansa caught of it on her way here, it’s a sorry-looking thing that will offer nothing but a depressing stroll. But at least the winds will disperse the cloud of heavy perfume clinging to Jessamyn.

“A choice has been made, I hope?” Lady Jessamyn wrinkles her nose as she smiles. “I’m curious. Which dress was my lady’s favorite?”

“Not the same as yours, I’m afraid,” Sansa says, nodding her thanks to the guards when they hold the sept doors open for them. “Unless my guess is wrong. Melisia never said.”

“Oh, I do love any kind of guessing game. Pray tell, which dress did my lady assume my favorite?”

The revealing one, Sansa thinks. This woman wouldn’t care that the pale shade of blue washed out Melisia’s complexion, nor that the dress wasn’t warm enough for spring in the North. She wants to show off her beautiful granddaughter, no matter how said granddaughter feels about it–and while someone like Margaery would’ve worn a gown with near-bare shoulders and a narrow but plunging neckline with confidence, Melisia looked as if she wanted to hide. 

“The one with the beautiful embroidery on the bodice,” Sansa says, describing the dress in politer words. “Pale blue with silver roses nestled among grape vines.”

“Ah, my lady knows the sigil of my House. I should’ve expected as much. Lady Forrester once told me that when you and the king visited, they held a little competition. Who knew the most sigils and House words? As expected, Lady Sansa won.”

“Not by a lot.”

“So modest as well. The king’s wise to keep you as an adviser instead of marrying you off to some nasty lord.” Jessamyn looks out over the garden with the disdain of a woman who just stepped her finest silk slippers into a cowpie. “If I were you, I wouldn’t want to leave Winterfell either. I hear the godswood is beautiful in summer?”

“Not as beautiful as southern gardens.”

“No? Well, what is? It’s what I miss the most. Even after all these years. The Reach in bloom.” Jessamyn stops, turns to Sansa when she stops as well. “Have you ever been, my lady?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“What a shame. It would’ve suited you. Lady of Highgarden. Oh, what could’ve been… Did my cousin ever tell you that we planned on making my darling granddaughter your lady-in-waiting?”

“She did not.”

“Really! Well”–Jessamyn takes Sansa’s arm and continues their stroll–“Olenna sent me a letter expressing the joy she felt at marrying her grandson to the lovely and beautiful Lady Sansa. I too felt joy for I miss the Reach terribly. I’ve always thought my granddaughter would do rather well in the Reach. Mellie, of course. Oh, I love the other ones dearly, but, well…”

She clears her throat and lets her expression reveal what she values the most: while Melisia’s sisters are all well-mannered and sweet, no one would call them comely. Not even their grandmother, apparently.

“A grandmother is allowed to have her favorites,” Jessamyn continues, “and Mellie’s such a lovely girl. Those who’ve known me long say she looks just like I did in my youth. Aren’t they kind to say so? When she’s so beautiful. As beautiful as a Highgarden rose. So I said to myself: once Lady Sansa and Loras are wed, I shall bring Melisia to Highgarden myself! We had yet to meet, of course, but everyone said Lady Sansa’s the perfect lady, and yes, Melisia is a few years younger, but I knew in my heart the two of you would be the best of friends. The very best. Just as myself and Olenna were as girls, despite her being a little older. And then”--Jessamyn’s lips curl with distaste–”they married you to the Imp. I mourned what could’ve been, that day. I did.”

Not as much as I did, Sansa thinks, but she only smiles politely.

“Well, the gods always make things right in the end, don’t they?” Jessamyn pats Sansa’s arm. “I daresay Melisia has grown quite fond of my lady already. As I knew she would.”

The old woman peers up at Sansa with a too-sweet smile, ostensibly waiting for an invitation Sansa isn’t prepared to give. It’s not difficult understanding why Della Ivertusk doesn’t get along with her husband's mother. While the reserved and direct Della is Northern through and through, Jessamyn would’ve fitted the King’s Landing of Sansa’s youth much better. She’s a schemer hiding behind a poorly crafted mask of affability, unconcerned with how her actions will affect anyone else.

“I’ve always wondered,” Sansa says. “The grapes on your grandfather’s sigil, are they a certain type of grape?”

“Oh, yes! That particular variety is called Gilberts, after the founder of our House. They produce the finest wine you could ever imagine. Oh, I simply must pour my lady a glass once we return to the keep!"

"That sounds wonderful," Sansa says with another polite smile, and starts feeding Jessamyn question after question to make her forget about Winterfell and get lost in memories of the Arbor and its splendor.

It’s what Jessamyn wants for her son, her grandchildren, and her great grandchildren. A touch of splendor. She’ll do anything she can to help House Ivertusk in one day becoming as prominent as the House in which her father was born. Even if she won’t be alive to see it come to fruition. 

Melisia could be a friend, it’s true, but if she came to stay at Winterfell, Jessamyn wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of the situation. She’d visit often, ensuring her hold over her granddaughter remains strong, and during every visit, Melisia would whisper secrets and gossip into her ear like an obedient little bird.

No, Melisia mustn’t be a friend. Not with that grandmother. How could Sansa let a weed like Jessamyn into Winterfell’s garden?

Chapter Text

On their fifth evening at Seabluff, at the end of supper, Lord Ivertusk rises from his seat and looks out over his many guests seated at too many tables to count. While Jon, Sansa, and a rather large party of selected guests are here for the whole week, last night a steady stream of carriages delivered those invited only to the feast--from all over the realm too. Some are even Essosi. The din's so loud Sansa just about hears the clink of Ivertusk's knife against the stem of his cup, and takes a good while to settle too. 

"My lords, my ladies, my liege"--Ivertusk beams at Jon--"it's time to dance!"

As always, Jon and Sansa are seated too far away from one another to talk, but she doesn’t need words to know why he’s already leaving his chair. She sits back, waiting, noticing the many ladies following the king with hopeful eyes. They don’t bother hiding their wishes and wants behind a lady’s mask the way Sansa must day after day. No, they straighten their backs and adjust their curled hair, their lace-trimmed necklines, their glimmering pendants, all designed to draw attention to their bosoms, as though they need only showing off their figure to inspire the king to deviate from his usual routine.

They’re all awaiting it, after all. Thanks to the guidance of both Littlefinger and her little sister, Sansa’s become rather adept at eavesdropping. At feast after feast, she's overheard enough speculation to know the consensus: when the king finally does deviate, it means he’s ready to wed and looking at all young ladies with an appraising eye.

The day will come, Sansa knows that–sooner rather than later, too, if Davos has his way–but it’s not here yet. Jon won’t dance with his future bride tonight.

“My lady.” Jon stands before her, proffering his hand. “Shall we?”

Sansa accepts his hand with a controlled smile, knows better than to let her joy shine when a whole ballroom is watching.

In the early days of his second chance at ruling, Jon never danced and neither did she. Whenever someone asked why, they gave the same answer: “I’m not fond of dancing.” Only Sansa lied. Then came her nameday feast. Uncle Edmure attended. Though other men had tried their luck that evening, he was the first with whom she felt comfortable enough to say yes. So she accepted. The next dance she returned to merely watching. The one after that as well and the one after that. Then came Jon.

To her conceited self, he looked as nervous as a boy asking for his first kiss rather than a simple dance, and she fancied herself the reason.

“I thought you hated dancing,” she said with a sweet enough smile her teeth ache at the memory.

“Aye. But you don’t. When I saw you with your uncle, it took me back a bit. Robb’s sixteenth nameday. You danced all night.”

She searched his eyes. He remembered that? He noticed that? They barely existed to one another back then.

“Can’t believe you remembered ,” she said, ducking her head to hide a blush.

“You can thank Arya for that. The day after, she wouldn’t shut up about how annoying you were for complaining about your sore feet. ‘She can suit herself,’ she said. ‘If she’d turned down at least one boy, maybe her feet wouldn’t be so sore.’”

Sansa hummed. “I remember. She accused me of pretending my feet were sore so I could brag about how many boys I’d danced with, but I wasn’t pretending. My feet really were sore.”

“Because you love dancing.”

“Yes, I did.”

“You do,” Jon said, prompting her to lift her gaze and meet his. “Doubt that’s changed. I think you’ve been lying. So I thought I’d ask. What with it being your nameday and all.”

“You’re the one lying now. I saw Davos and Edmure whispering in your ear.”

Jon grinned, red-cheeked, and looked away. “They encouraged me, is all.” He cleared his throat and nodded at Davos. “He thinks I need to start dancing at feasts. That it’s my duty. Said this is as good a time as any.”

"He's not wrong. You should."

Jon held out his hand. “Come on, then. Before the song ends.”

“I appreciate the offer. It’s very thoughtful of you. But you don’t have to indulge me.”

“Don’t I? Isn’t that what one should do on someone’s nameday? Unless…” His smile faded in time with his hand dropping. Before her very eyes, he shifted from crowned king at ease in his own hall to bastard boy ever worried about not being good enough for the trueborn surrounding him. “You don’t want to dance with me.”

Or perhaps, she wondered with a fluttering heart, worried about not being good enough for her when she wanted no one else. 

“Of course, I do.” Fire blazed through her stomach when she took his hand and he looked up at her, surprised. “I was only trying to save you from doing something you hate. You do realize you'll have to dance with other girls as well, if you dance with me.”

“Not tonight.” Jon’s smile returned. “I’ll start at the next feast.”

That night he was all hers. Well, for two more dances, but she’d been so certain he wouldn’t dance with her at all she hadn’t so much as hoped for one dance let alone three. He was good at it as well. Despite not having danced in a decade, he remembered all the steps and performed them with such grace and confidence, she’d never felt in better hand on a dance-floor. 

"You're enjoying yourself," she said during their second dance, but he only laughed and shook his head. "You are. I'm not the only one who's been lying, am I?"

"All right. It's not as boring as I remember."

"That's fortunate. You'll be dancing a lot from now on."

"Yeah, we'll see," he said--but he has.

They both have.

Whenever a feast features dancing, the routine is always the same: the king dances the first dance with his cousin. Then, as to not insult their hosts, he dances with the ladies of the House, starting with the wife and ending with the youngest daughter. On occasion, he might dance with a spry grandmother as well. After that, he indulges Sansa in one more dance. Then, even though the music plays on and many ladies would love to dance with the king, he spends the rest of the feast drinking, eating, and chatting with his people, oblivious to all the feelings he’s stirred by dancing with her–and only her–twice in one evening.

It’s one of the reasons as to why she thinks he does love her, but it doesn’t mean he’s in love with her. He’s never again looked nervous to dance with her nor does he ever dance with her thrice. When the feast is held at Winterfell, or at a keep where no ladies live, he doesn’t dance at all. Not even with Sansa.

Time grants clarity. When she looks back on her nameday feast, she knows the true reason for Jon's nerves: he hadn’t danced in a decade, and only rarely before then. It would’ve left anyone nervous. And she did see Davos and Edmure whispering in his ear that night. Yes, Jon might've remembered Robb's nameday feast, but he  never would've asked her to dance on his own. Come to think of it, Davos is the one to thank for every dance she's shared with Jon. After he made it clear he'd agree to dance if he got to dance as little as possible, Davos suggested the routine. A good compromise, he called it. Apparently. Sansa wasn't there to hear it, but she has no reason to doubt Jon's retelling of it.

They're all sobering thoughts keeping her shriveled up hope drier than bone. Yet, none of them dims the furtive light sparkling within her. To him this might be mundane by now, but she feels just as she did that first night. As humiliating as it is–and it truly is humiliating; she wouldn’t even admit this with a knife pressed to her throat–no matter how many times Jon takes her hand and leads her onto the dance-floor, Sansa always feels a princess.

“Have you decided yet?” Jon asks when the steps bring him close enough she can hear him over the music. “About Melisia.”

“Would you be very annoyed with me if I said I have and that I won’t. Invite her.”

“No, but Sansa–” They move apart, turn around, clap their hands, reunite. “I think it would be good for you. To have a friend. Someone you can do lady things with.”

“I don’t disagree. But I don’t trust her grandmother.”

Jon chuckles under his breath. “You wouldn’t be inviting her. Only Melisia–and only for a little while. She doesn’t have to stay forever. You don’t have to make her your lady-in-waiting. It can be a visit. That’s all.”

They stop, standing face to face, palm to palm, while the other pairs dance around them. His eyes are so earnest, so warm, so caring. He might want some distance, it’s true, but he wants what’s best for her too.

“Only a visit,” Sansa says. “A week or two?”

“Aye. And if it goes well, you can always do it again.”

“Invite her?”

“Her. Someone else. Anyone you want. Winterfell is your home too.”

Only for as long as you remain unwed, Sansa thinks, but she only smiles and tells him she’ll think about it.

The king dancing always draws a crowd. Once Sansa’s first turn is over, she likes finding a dimly lit corner from where she can study the room unnoticed. When wine flows and music soars, people forget themselves. They say more than they should, notice less than they should. Every so often, she leaves her spot to weave through the crowd until an interesting conversation slows her step. Depending on the subject, she’ll either position herself in full view so she’ll be invited into the conversation, or blend into the throng so she can eavesdrop.

She’s learned a lot this way: the people’s views on their king; the occasional tidbit of news from the south; and, above all, gossip about bastards, betrothals, betrayals, and everything else that sends tongues wagging with fervor. 

Tonight, though, despite half the world attending Ivertusk’s nameday feast, she’s too deep in thought to notice much at all. Her mind refuses to leave the subject of Jon’s future bride. For all Sansa knows, that particular lady might be in this very hall. And when he marries her, it doesn’t matter that Winterfell’s a grand old keep large enough for several families to live comfortably. Even if it doubled in size, it still wouldn’t be large enough for Sansa and Jon’s wife to coexist. Not if she still loves him by then.

At least she knows what she’ll do if the day comes.

He doesn’t, though. She can’t tell him without it confirming what he already suspects–and once he knows, truly knows, their friendship will be ruined forever. She couldn't stay at Winterfell, then. Not even for one more day.

There are moments when she believes they have years together, still. Other times she doubts she’ll so much as see a new year arrive before leaving the North forever. Davos has written a list, after all, and now that Jon surely suspects what she’ll never ever confirm, now that he's encouraging her to find new friends… 

No, Sansa doesn’t trust Jessamyn, but what damage can the woman do in such little time--and from afar, no less? Jon's probably right. Sansa should invite Melisia. If the idea is for them to spend fewer hours alone together every day, to become less... intertwined, Melisia is the perfect addition. When Sansa allows herself to get out of her own head, she enjoys Melisia's company–and so does Jon. 

Last night, at supper, he mentioned the book he’s been reading (the book Sansa’s yet to start), and Melisia got so excited she actually did clap her hands and bounce a little in her seat.

“Oh, Your Grace! It’s my favorite book in all the world!”

Had another lady claimed it, Sansa would’ve assumed it a lie to impress the king. But Melisia’s enthusiasm rang true; she and Jon must’ve talked about it for over an hour. 

In truth, Jon did most of the talking while Melisia asked most of the questions–and Sansa did her best to hide how she observed them. It’s unwise, she knows, to compare. But the difference in how he engages with Sansa in the same situation is too stark for her silly mind to ignore.

Sansa's discussions with Jon are intimate. Alone in his solar or her wheelhouse, they huddle together with the book in her lap or his. Sometimes, when she’s the one holding the book and he leans closer to point at a sentence written on the page farthest from him, his arm snakes behind her back. (Even if it never stays for long.) Other times, when something dawns on him, he’ll touch her thigh to get her attention. Yes, it’s the lightest and briefest of touches, but it doesn’t make it any less inappropriate (or any less welcome). When she speaks, he watches her intently while nodding along. When he speaks, he wants to hear her thoughts once he’s done. They discuss, exchange opinions, pick one another’s minds as equals.

With Melisia, on the other hand, it was closer to a lesson. Jon went on and on until he noticed Sansa watching them. He received her pointed look with a barely-there but undeniable smile, cleared his throat, and graciously let Melisia share her thoughts for a bit.

Yes, the difference is stark, but it’s not a sign of something wonderful. It simply means Jon sees Sansa as a woman grown whose opinion he values, while he sees Melisia as a young girl who might grow and learn under his guidance. He enjoys that, Sansa knows. She seen it countless times, how engaging with younger people as if their tutor excites him. It's so easy, then, to understand why Luwin thought Jon would make a good maester, why Mormont thought Jon would make a good Lord Commander, why many think Jon would make a good father. 

Why Sansa does.

Why she still, despite it all, all too often indulges in daydreams of a future where he's the father of her children and she is his wife.

Passing a servant carrying a tray of wine cups, she takes one and resumes weaving through the great hall. The song ends and another starts. On the dance-floor, the second youngest Ivertusk daughter leaves Jon’s side and is replaced by Melisia. 

Sipping wine, Sansa watches them awhile. She’s an eager but clumsy dancer, Melisia. At every mistake, she giggles nervously and shoots her grandmother an anxious look before peering up at Jon with an apology in her eyes. But he stays patient, keeps talking to her, keeps guiding her, all with a friendly, almost fatherly, expression on his face.

It’s a sweet sight, really. Della certainly thinks so; she watches her daughter fondly. As does Lord Ivertusk. But when Melisia shoots her grandmother yet another nervous look, discomfort settles deep in Sansa’s gut. She can practically hear Littlefinger whispering in her ear to pay attention, can hear Arya too, and lets instinct guide her closer to Lady Jessamyn. She's nestled in a flock of silver-haired matrons Sansa’s encountered at many feasts. Caring little about the wine and the food, they crave gossip and the chance to outshine their peers by bragging about the latest accomplishment of a child or grandchild. While searching the area for the perfect spot to eavesdrop, Sansa observes their behavior, their pattern, as they half-shout comments to one another about the dancers. They barely take their eyes off the many pairs, and if they do, it’s to read one another’s lips. They’re all too old, comfortable, and widowed to bother casting glances left and right to ensure no one overhears.

Still, it never hurts to be careful.

A towering, portly lord stands right behind them and is too busy drooling over the jiggling bosoms of dancing ladies to notice the modestly dressed cousin of the king hiding in his shadow.

At first, the widows say nothing interesting. They express admiration for their wonderful king for being so patient with poor Melisia and her two left feet. They even laugh, as if Melisia were a puppy tripping over her too-long ears, while Lady Jessamyn curls her hands into bony fists behind her back. As the least prominent of the widows, she must accept her place in the pecking order and swallow the humiliation lest the others expel her from the flock. All she can do is defend her granddaughter by saying she’s usually a graceful dancer. Something Sansa doubts. Melisisa’s a girl with many wonderful traits, but gracefulness isn’t one of them.

“Her nerves have gotten the better of her, that’s all,” Jessamyn says. “He is the king. And such a handsome king at that.”

The matrons all agree, repeating phrases Sansa’s heard annoyingly often. Jon’s so handsome. With a face like that, what does his height matter? And look at those hands! They’re rather large! (Teeters always follow.) He’s graceful and thoughtful and nothing like that brute Baratheon who’d manhandle serving wenches in front of his queen and all. Small wonder every girl in the North dreams of marrying the king! If only they were fifty years younger… And so on and so forth.

But tonight Lady Ryder, who’s the oldest of the flock but still sharp as a blade and nosier than a shrew, deviates from the usual script: “What do our ages matter? The North has young ladies aplenty; yet, none's betrothed to the king. Does the man not know his duty? Has a little prince not been born in Winterfell by my ninetieth nameday, I might take our dear king by the ear and scold him some sense into him! He’s neither too old nor too big for it.”

“A prince first, yes,” another matron says. “And then a little princess! I cannot wait to see all the beautiful gowns Lady Sansa will sew for her. Her talent’s incomparable. Whenever there’s a feast, I’m desperate to see her latest creation. If the king has a daughter, it will be the most well-dressed little girl in all the realm.”

“If the future queen lets her,” a third matron says. “I was quite possessive of my first child, I must say. I couldn’t stand the idea of another woman holding her let alone dressing her. I didn’t even employ a wetnurse, in spite of my good-mother’s screeching. She thought it horrendous.”

Lady Ryder taps a finger thoughtfully against the polished ivory pommel of her cane. “Sometimes I do wonder… What if the little prince or princess will be dressed by Lady Sansa without a fuss from the mother, for they are one and the same?”

Jessamyn lets out a loud enough scoff, the whole flock looks at her. Sansa shrinks back a touch. Lady Ryder says something about Jessamyn’s reaction Sansa can’t quite hear. Cupping her ear’s not discreet enough. Even if her hand’s hidden beneath her hair, someone might notice the awkward angle of her arm. After a quick glance around the room, she instead positions herself so that the tall, portly man blocks out the brunt of the noise coming from the dancers. It’s the best she can do.

“...wanted to marry her, he would’ve done so already,” Jessamyn says, echoing Sansa's own thoughts so perfectly it's painful. “That being said, I do believe Lady Sansa the reason for his staying unwed.” When the rest of the matrons show their piqued curiosity with an oooh in unison, Jessamyn stand a little taller. “You see, as I always say, the king will never choose a woman over his family. He’s made that violently clear. If a lady wants to win his heart, she must first win the approval of Lady Sansa. But, as we all know, Lady Sansa’s approval isn’t easily won. After what that poor girl’s gone through, she will only allow a true friend to marry her cousin and stay at her Winterfell.”

"Unless she marries him herself," Lady Ryder says. "She really ought to. It would save us all the headache of wondering when he's settling down already."

“My grandniece and her husband arrived the same day as the king,” a matron says, turning to Jessamyn. “She told me Lady Sansa and your Melisia have become quite close during the week. Is that true? You are Ivertusks, after all, and my grandniece is known to embellish.”

“Oh, Jessa, dear”–Lady Ryder lays her free hand on Jessamyn’s arm–”you would tell us, wouldn’t you, had Lady Sansa invited your darling granddaughter to Winterfell? It would be terribly greedy to keep such news to yourself.”

“Had I such news, they wouldn’t be mine to share but… Between us–even though my Mellie is an Ivertusk–they do get on rather well.”

Sansa’s heart plummets to the depths of her stomach, her eyes gliding back to the dancers just in time to see Melisia stepping on Jon’s toes, and Jon’s shoulders bouncing with laughter as he shakes his head at the hopeless girl.

It’s not a sweet sight this time. At least not to a woman with a bruised heart who can’t help but see a man under the spell of a pretty girl he finds endlessly charming. A man who, last night, didn’t slip into the role of tutor but tried his best to impress this pretty girl with his clever insights about her favorite book. A man who so basked in her admiration he would’ve spent all night feeding it hadn’t he realized Sansa was watching him.

“Oh, dear. Again?” Lady Ryder says. “Had I stepped on my husband’s toes like that, he would’ve slapped me well into tomorrow.”

“Well, the king is not her husband,” Lady Jessamyn practically purrs, the at least not yet never uttered but loudly implied.

The tall, portly man finishes his tankard of ale, swallows a burp, and leaves. Sansa should leave too, but shock’s nailed her feet to the floor. Whatever the matrons say next escapes her notice. She hears nothing but Jessamyn’s awful words ringing in her head as she examines in a new, much harsher light what she can remember of her every interaction with Melisia Ivertusk. Only when a tray crashes to the floor somewhere behind her, startling both her and the flock, does Sansa manage to rip her feet free. As the matrons turn toward the noise with craned necks, Sansa spins around too, slips into the crowd, and lets it swallow her whole.

All this time, she’s been too worried about Walton proposing to her to see the obvious: the Ivertusks were never hoping to gain a daughter; they’re hoping to give one away.

Chapter Text

Lady Melisia Ivertusk has bouncy curls, glittering eyes, plump lips, and a laughter infectious enough it could brighten the dullest of rooms. She also has the gall to be thoughtful, friendly, and warm. Only yesterday, Sansa enjoyed helping her in picking a gown, shoes, and jewelry to transform beautiful into breathtaking. Only a moment ago, she believed they could be friends. 

Now, though, it’s not so easy to feel friendly. Not when Melisia and her two left feet keep making Jon laugh. 

The Ivertusks aren’t alone in having ulterior motives, Littlefinger whispers in Sansa’s ear. Why haven’t you asked yourself why Jon truly wants her Winterfell? I taught you better than this. You can’t trust him. You can’t trust anyone. But Arya’s perched by Sansa’s other ear, reminding her that Jon wouldn’t manipulate his own family in such a way. That’s not him. When Sansa asks herself, she can’t help but reply, Jon might want to catch two fish with one hook as well: a friend for her–and a chance at better getting to know a pretty girl for whom he’s falling.

The thought is a punch to the stomach, but Arya’s still there, guiding her.

The night before she left Westeros, when they stayed up late to drink wine and talk and reminisce, Arya suddenly told her, “You’ve become rather good at hiding your emotions. Much better than when we were little. Not all your emotions, though. Some need work.” A vague statement Sansa never needed clarified. She knew why Arya said it, remembered all the times she’d slipped up with enough shame to blush for a lifetime. But Sansa won’t slip up this time. She just needs a moment to comport herself, to hide from gossip-starved eyes until this need to weep fades.

Why is everyone so bleeding tall? Moving through the mass of guests, Jon pushes himself up on his toes, cranes his neck, scans the myriad of faces in search of the only one he wants to see. Since she always stands amongst the onlookers as they grow closer to their final dance for the evening, her absence almost drove him off the dance-floor.

She’s caught up in conversation, he told himself as he flexed his sword-hand to the rhythm of the bleeding music that never seemed to end. She wasn’t being accosted by someone too drunk to remember her relations. Jon had to stand there, waiting for the last notes to ring out, or it would’ve looked as if he couldn’t escape the stumbling Melisia quickly enough. He would’ve insulted her, would’ve set an example too, inviting the whole hall to comfortably mock her in her own home. He couldn’t do that to the poor girl and now Sansa’s nowhere to be found and his worry isn’t unfounded. It’s not! He’s not being ridiculous. On occasion he’s noticed men making Sansa uncomfortable enough he’s rushed to her side. Nothing’s happened, really. His mere presence’s enough to put manners back into the men; he’s never had to threaten or fight. So far.

Eyes still trained to find copper, he finally catches a glimpse of her hair against–

“Your Grace!” A cloud of heavy perfume stuns him. Despite her years, Jessamyn slides into his path with an impressive grace her poor granddaughter didn’t inherit, and smiles with her whole face. “My, what a dancer you are. I hope you’re not done dancing for the night? Your Grace wouldn’t deprive us of that pleasure, would you?”

“I, er”-- he gestures vaguely as he sidesteps her–“I’ve promised Sansa.”

But he no longer sees her. Sansa's gone and Jon’s steps slow--until he notices a draft rippling through skirts, table cloth, and heavy drapes, and smells the cool dampness of northern air that follows.

The balcony is as quiet as the garden below, as moon-lit and empty. With a sharp exhale, Jon rests his hands on the railing and allows himself a beat to think–

“Jon.”

When he turns toward the sound of her voice, Sansa steps out from the darkness between two pillars and into the moonlight that paints her skin silver-pale and casts inky-dark shadows under her eyes. He can’t discern her mood at all.

“If you don’t want to dance with me”--he gives a self-deprecating shrug--“just say so. No need to hide out here.”

To his great relief, a faint smile reaches her eyes. “I needed some air, that’s all.”

“Come on, then.” He holds out his hand. “Before the song ends.”

“I’m sorry, Jon. I don’t feel like dancing.”

He looks out over the garden, nodding. “You were hiding from me.”

“Of course not.” When a gust of wind weasels into the balcony, she draws a shuddering breath. “Did you come out here looking for me?”

“Aye, I was worried.” When she shivers again, he reaches out to touch her arm. It’s cold as snow, her skin prickled with gooseflesh. “Seven hells, Sansa. The Wall's warmer than you.”

Instead of doing what’s right and ushering her back inside, his body acts on an innate need to keep her safe and warm, wraps his arms around her, and tucks her close. Only when he feels her pressed against him does sense return and order him to let go. He’s about to obey when another shiver shudders through her and she chases away sense entirely by burrowing closer with her arms folded against her chest so that they're trapped between them. Then, with the softest sigh, she rests her temple against his, relaxes in his arms, and lets her body soak up the warmth he so happily (so foolishly) offers.

He sighs too, feels his eyes drifting closed and his lips forming a content smile and his arms holding her even more firmly.

“I slept poorly,” she murmurs. “And there are too many people wearing too much perfume in there. It gives me a headache.”

“Might just be Jessamyn. She smells like she poured a whole bottle over her head.”

He feels Sansa laughing, quietly, and can’t help but turn his head the slightest bit so he can smell her hair. Whatever she uses to scent herself is always faint, discreet, and lovely. It beckons him to come closer, to nose at her skin and get more than simply a whiff. To fill his lungs with it. But he can’t breathe her in, can’t brush a kiss to her cheek, can’t pull back and let her see the question in his eyes. The truth. He can only hold her and he does, slowly stroking a hand up and down her spine in time with the music playing inside.

They even sway a little, as if dancing after all.

As if she’s warming up to the idea of him and her. Together.

If someone walked out and saw them now, would this look as intimate as it feels?

Jon stills, opens his eyes. Someone could walk out any moment–and by the end of the night, the whole bleeding castle would assume such tawdry things of the king and his cousin, he’d have to marry her just to save her honor and she doesn’t want to get married and what the hell is he doing! 

“We should go back inside.” He releases her and turns toward the door to hide the heat crawling up his neck. "Don’t want you to get a cold.”

Sansa says nothing. Doesn’t make a single sound. He hears only the ever-present wind and the budding branches dancing in it. When he looks back at her, he finds her watching him as if trying to peel off his skin and flesh, crack his skull open, and rifle through his thoughts until she finds the sordid desires he keeps a secret from everyone.

Jon held her for too long. Released her too quickly. She’s starting to understand. But then he has been reckless lately, gazing at her too often, touching her too often, letting stupid comments and questions slip out of his stupid mouth that now hangs open instead of saying something clever to distract her from asking things he doesn't want to answer. But despite his silence, she only keeps staring. His body’s telling him to vault over the railing and run away from this silent scrutiny, but fleeing would only confirm everything she suspects.

“Perhaps I’ll dance with someone else, then,” he hears himself say. Sansa’s eyes widen, but still she says nothing–and while he knows her smiles, he doesn’t know what to make of this bleeding staring. His desperate heart says she wants him to dance with no one but her. That this hug they shared felt… different. His sense says she’s only surprised at his sudden desire to dance. But his stupid mouth keeps being stupid and says, “Unless you’ve changed your mind? About dancing.”

It even smiles. Awkwardly.

It takes Sansa a beat to shake her head. “I’m not in the mood. And Lady Forrester’s here tonight. I’ve yet to congratulate her on her son’s betrothal. At least in person.” Sansa takes a step closer, lays a hand on his shoulder. “Jon,” she says, softly. “If you want to dance with someone else, you should. I won’t be offended.”

Then she pats his shoulder and leaves.

With another exhale, Jon returns his hands to the railing and watches the garden mocking him with its unpredictable dance. What the hell kind of excuse was that? Lady Forrester will be here all night. No, Sansa’s not starting to see him in a new light. Had that hug felt different to her, wouldn’t she have hugged him back instead of keeping her arms between them like a shield? Wouldn’t she have wanted another dance? She loves dancing. It’s him she doesn’t love. At least not the way he loves her.

His body still wants to vault over the railing, but he steers it back inside. After the fresh air outside, the miasma of perfume, warm bodies, and red wine is dense like a wall. Small wonder Sansa has a headache.

If she did.

“Your Grace.” Jessamyn pops up again like a damn pimple, and he has to swallow down an exasperated sigh. “Why are you not dancing? Did Lady Sansa turn you down?”

“She didn’t feel like dancing.”

“What a shame! She’s so graceful–and so are you! Our king truly shines when he dances. You must enjoy it immensely. If you’re still in the mood, I’m sure any of my granddaughters would be happy to step in.”

Happy to step on my toes as well, Jon thinks, scanning the chamber reflexively for anyone but this leech of a woman who can deplete a man’s energy with even the briefest of conversations. But he can’t undo a week’s worth of buttering up Ivertusk by insulting the man’s mother. Jon could ask her to dance, he supposes. She’d be flattered beyond belief and his toes should be safe. But that means he’d have to talk with her and only her. Luckily, the only two Ivertusks whose company he enjoys stand not far from them, chatting with Lady Wylma.

“I’ve danced enough for tonight,” Jon says, gesturing for Jessamyn to join him as he starts walking toward Walton and Melisia. “Never been my favorite part of a feast.”

“Really! I heard Your Grace spent half an evening dancing at Castle Black some weeks ago.” 

That was a Free Folk feast, though, and as Tormund likes to put it, when they dance, they don’t prance about like perfumed twats. They jump and kick and whirl and toss blades in the air until they're sweaty and breathless. Granted, like the dances south of the Wall, they’re still mating dances at their core, but they're designed to show off agility, dexterity, endurance, and strength. To intimidate rivals. To let girls know you’ll be able to steal them no matter how hard they fight. Or, if you’re a girl, to let lads know you're quite the challenge.

“Wouldn’t that ward men off?” Melisia says once Jon’s explained it all to her and the others. “Wouldn’t they prefer a girl who only pretends to protest?”

“Oh, Mellie, my darling girl,” Jessamyn says. “It makes her an even more worthy prize to steal. The unattainable is always attractive, you see. Isn’t that so, Your Grace?”

Habit guides Jon's eyes to Sansa standing half a world away. When his feelings started becoming more clear to him, that’s what he told himself. That, just as the bastard he once was coveted a role meant for his trueborn brother, the king he'd become wanted the one thing he couldn’t have. She was still hiding behind armor of polished ice back then. Not all the time, no, but often enough he craved her smiles, her approval, her warmth. Once she thawed, he wouldn’t feel that way anymore. He was sure of it.

He was wrong. Once she thawed, the melted ice only grew what he’d hoped was nothing but a shallow puddle and now he finds himself floating in an endless sea when it's well beyond time for him to swim to shore, drag himself up on land, and move on.

“The Free Folk think so,” he says, returning his attention to the conversation. “But the men in my kingdom better prefer a willing bride.”

Walton and Wylma share a look with eyes so full of longing Jon’s own eyes does the same damn turn they just did when he knows better than to gaze at Sansa in public. But he can’t help it. He wants what Walton has: a lady who’ll walk toward the heart-tree on light feet with her heart full of love. A lady who can't wait to share a life and a bed with him, crown or no crown.

Jon almost laughs at himself still coveting the impossible. Kings don't marry for love. No matter how vividly he dreams, he won't be an exception.

With the king busy entertaining their hosts, Sansa spends the night mingling with people desperate for her near-royal light. Behind her trusted old mask, she converses with lord after lord, and lady after lady–all while sending surreptitious glances Jon’s way.

The way he held her earlier... Perhaps it was the music or the cold or her silly imagination, but it felt different. It did. But he'd barely set foot back in the hall before he'd returned to Melisia's side. Admittedly, throughout the evening they've drifted apart every so often, but each time they find their way back to one another. It could be Jessamyn’s doing–it could–but what if they’re simply surrendering to the pull of mutual attraction? He seems so happy in Melisia’s company, chatting, laughing, allowing her to stand awfully close to him, to touch his arm, even.

Jon likes her. That’s undeniable. But does he want her?

Melisia is tipsy. That’s undeniable too. She’s giggly and a bit unsteady and that could explain why she’s forgetting their respective stations. Jon’s a lenient man as well. (Too lenient for a king, at times--which both Sansa and Davos have told him--but Jon is Jon.) And he still hasn’t danced with Melisia. Nor does he return her touches--and she isn’t nearly highborn enough for a king. Only a few generations ago, the Ivertusks were wealthy merchants with an unremarkable name who saved Syril Locke from financial troubles. In return, he gave them land and a title and a new House was founded. To marry an Ivertusk, Jon needs to be more than simply smitten. He needs to fall so helplessly in love he’ll propose against his better judgment.

Jessamyn believes Jon’s already teetering on the edge. It’s why she wants Melisia at Winterfell. So she can charm him into losing his balance. But is he teetering on the edge?

Jon's changed since the war: he talks more, broods less. By now, Sansa’s seen him chatting and laughing with plenty of women from all walks of life–and he’s not fallen for any of them. None has been as pretty as Lady Melisia, though. None has been so effortlessly charming.

Yes, he likes Melisia–and she might just be pretty enough he wants her too.

Sansa throws them another glance. Melisia’s laughing, shaking her head, and one of the thousands of pearls adorning her curled hair detaches and falls to the floor. When Jon picks it up for her, Melisia looks as if he handed her the moon, while Jessamyn looks like a rat who’s stolen cheese from a trap without setting it off.

He is teetering, isn't he. Happily too. He won’t need a push; he’ll jump right in, all of his own. Sansa grabs the back of a chair to steady herself. You can’t let them see, Arya whispers in her ear. And they will if you stay here. Everyone will know. 

A visit to the balcony isn’t enough this time, Sansa knows. This is where the night ends for her.

Usually, she lets Jon know lest he worries, but he won’t notice her absence tonight. Not while in the presence of the mesmerizing Melisia. Sansa can leave in peace. Grieve what never was possible in the privacy of a bed that isn’t hers. 

It’s for the best, really. That Jon’s falling in love with–

“Sansa.” His familiar scent reaches her only a breath before she feels his warm fingers closing around her arm, the thumb stroking the crook of her elbow. “You look pale.”

His worried eyes gaze up at her, the warmth in them soothing the jealousy, the heartache. He noticed. She’s barely turned around to leave and he’s already by her side.

“Sansa?” He guides her to a quiet corner, eyes roving over her face. “Is the headache back?”

His hand is still on her arm. She takes it, gives it a squeeze, doesn’t let it go. Holds it in both of hers.

“It’s stubborn,” she murmurs. “I’m quite tired.”

“Do you–” Jon takes the smallest step closer and looks so deeply into her eyes, it pulls a veil over them that diffuses the world without: the din softens into a murmur, the guests blur into a mottled mass, and the countless candle flames merge into a hazy glow. “Do you want us to turn in early?”

Us? Her heart leaps in her chest. He doesn’t look tired. His eyes are bright from the wine and the merriment, his face a bit flushed from it too. He looks the way he always looks when the night’s still young and he’s imbibed enough to forget his worries for a spell. He’s still tankards away from crashing into bed.

“You’re not tired yet,” she says. “Are you?”

“You’re feeling poorly. If I stayed here and let you go to your chamber alone, I’d really be an arse.”

Sansa rolls her lips into her mouth to tamper down a smile. “We can’t both go to bed early. How would that look?”

Jon ducks his head with a breathy laugh. Then he shrugs and looks up at her, face scrunched up in a way so adorable she can’t help but smile after all.

“It wouldn’t look great,” he says.

And neither does this, she realizes, the veil disintegrating. The world returns, bright, noisy, and full of people who might be watching, whispering. Jon’s had a bit to drink, it’s true. He has an excuse for standing so close to her. Plenty of people in here do the same when they're drunk. She’s seen lords stand so close to one another their eyes cross when they converse, seen ladies press their noses into their friends’ cheeks when they share secrets, seen Melisia spending half the evening encroaching on Jon when he's her king.

But she didn’t hold his hand when she did it.

Sansa backs away, releasing Jon’s hand and clasping hers. “You’re the king. Ivertusk’s honored guest. You’d offend him.” When Jon opens his mouth to protest, she adds, “Think about all the motherless and fatherless children. The home you want to build. You have to stay.”

“Was only going to offer to escort you to your chamber.” When she’s the one opening her mouth to protest, Jon adds with a smug grin, “You said it yourself: I’m the king. You can’t refuse.”

Yes, I can, she thinks. And I should . But I don’t want to.

“Tell Ivertusk first,” she says. “So he knows why you’re leaving and that you will return.”

So that word will spread until everyone in this hall does.

It’s a long walk to the apartments, but when they're away, Jon always offers his arm for her to lean on and when they reach her door, she wishes the walk would last twice as long, wishes she could hold onto him for just one moment more, hold onto him forever.

Do you like her? Sansa lets go of his arm and positions herself at the door, one hand on the handle. Do you want her? Are you eager to return to her? Would you rather follow me inside? Share a bed. It’s been so long…

If he asked her, she’d say yes. To hell with Ivertusk and his gold.

“Do you need anything else?” Jon nods at the door leading to the chamber her handmaidens share. “I’ll get Minna for you.”

“I think I can manage to fetch her myself if needed. I’m fine. Go have fun.” Sansa pushes his chest playfully, her tone playful too when all she wants is to grab him by his doublet and pull him into her chamber. “You can’t offend our host, remember?”

She’s almost impressed by herself.

“I remember. Been hard at work, haven’t I?”

“You have. And if you’re still eager to dance,” Sansa says as casually as she can to hide how her heart’s pounding, “you could always ask Melisia. Her father would like that.”

“Aye, but my toes wouldn’t.” Jon grins. “Doubt I’d be able to fit in my boots tomorrow.”

The relief blooms within so fiercely Sansa must look away before he sees it in her eyes, but there’s something in his that arrests her. A softness that steals her breath away. When his gaze drops to her lips for a fraction of a moment, anticipation flickers alive deep in her belly and suffuses her with such heat, her skin must feel scorching to the touch.

“You do look better.” Jon’s hand comes up to her face, fingers resting against her jawbone, thumb dragging down her cheek and lingering at the corner of her mouth for almost two heartbeats before continuing its journey to her chin. “Gotten your color back.”

She’s too stunned to speak, still feels the imprint of his thumb against the corner of her mouth, the track it left across her skin. He’s never touched her like that before. Not ever. His hand falls away, his feet take him a step back, his throat bobs with a swallow when he looks away and she remembers.

He’s drunk. Not so drunk he’s slurring and stumbling around, no, but drunk enough he forgot he shouldn’t encourage her unwanted infatuation with him. Drunk enough his thumb slid toward her lips by accident.

Drunk enough he forgot to hide how he truly feels about her–

No. Stop it. You’re done with all that.

“Well,” she says, “we are away from the noise.”

“Aye.” As if they can hear the noise from here when the hallway’s quiet as an empty sept, he looks over his shoulder. “You’ll be all right, then?”

“Yes.”

Nodding, he turns back to her. “Should I stop by? Before I turn in.”

Yes. I don’t care how late it is. Yes, yes, yes.

“By the time this feast is over, I’ll probably be asleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Perhaps we should leave tomorrow,” he tells his feet. “Go home.”

“A day early?

He shrugs, a lopsided smile playing in the corner of his mouth. “I like being home.”

“So do I.” Her heart surges with a sudden rush of foolish bravery. “When we’re away, I barely see you.”

Jon looks up at her with wide brown eyes, the hint of a smile gone. Oh, she messed up. She has to say something. Quickly. Smooth it over. Her licks her lips, parts them to say the first thing that pops into her head, but all she can do is gasp when his arms close around her in a firm embrace and one of his hands find the small of her back and pushes her closer to him. Stunned again, she doesn’t have presence of mind to return the hug before he whispers, “Good night, Sansa,” into her hair and lets her go.

He’s turned around in an instant, his feet already carrying him to the door.

Legs unsteady, she leans against the wall to catch her breath and wait for the butterflies in her stomach to still. She’s never truly been kissed. Not the way lovers kiss. But if it feels anywhere near the way this hug made her feel…

He’s at the door, now. Soon he’ll be gone. He pulls it open. Hesitates. As if he’s longing to turn around for one last look. No, she’s delusional. That hug spun her about so thoroughly everything impossible felt possible when she knows the truth: he doesn’t love her.

The words have barely finished forming in her mind when Jon feeds her delusions by turning around after all. With one hand holding the door open, he gives her a little wave with the other, gives her a concerned smile too. Then he leaves.

Still leaning against the wall, Sansa stays in the hallway until the sept bells start marking the tenth hour, the noise of it breaking the spell Jon’s hug put her under.

If only Arya were here she could’ve helped in making sense of his confusing behavior. This is why Sansa needs a friend, she supposes, but right now she has only her own scrambled mind and her scrambled mind can’t help but think that maybe, maybe…

It can help but make a decision: if he stops by after the feast after all, she'll give him a hint. One less subtle than the ones she’s given so far.

If Jon comes to her chamber tonight, everything will change.

Chapter Text

When the bells mark midnight, Sansa’s already washed, cleaned her teeth, changed into a nightrail, and started the bloody book Jon wants her to read, even if she keeps having to turn back a few pages to reread what she couldn’t retain the first time around.

When the bells ring anew, he’s still not come. While she has heard movement in the hallway once or twice, it must’ve been servants. She knows the sound of his footfalls by heart. He’s having fun, then. Possibly by spending time with Melisia, yes, but a smitten man wouldn’t have noticed the color of another woman’s cheeks or insisted on walking her to her door–and he certainly wouldn’t have wanted to leave a day early.

No, it doesn’t mean he loves Sansa. The hugs only pushed her back into her delusions for a bit. But it doesn’t matter in what way he loves her, only that he does. Jessamyn was right about at least one thing: Jon’s not going to choose a woman over his family. Davos can write as many lists as he likes. So long as Jon thinks Sansa needs his protection--

Oh, what's wrong with her? Sansa closes the book and lays it on the nightstand. She’s the arse. Horrible and selfish. One by one, she blows out candles and oil lamps until only the hearth burns, and returns to her empty bed. So long as she stays at Winterfell, she’s keeping Jon from choosing to find the happiness he so deserves. 

As a young girl, Sansa would sometimes wrangle Arya into playing septa and little lady with her. A rather frustrating game, granted, as Arya wasn’t eager to play-pretend what she did her best to avoid in life. But Edmure has a sweet little daughter, and perhaps his third child will be a girl too. Becoming a septa for true, moving to Riverrun, and governing the little Tully girls? It wouldn't be like playing with Arya. It would be different. Lovely, even. Yes, Sansa will quite enjoy teaching them sums and sewing and how to be a perfect lady. She’ll enjoy telling them the tales Mother told her and maybe even finding wood anemones together. She’ll enjoy no longer fearing another proposal. She doesn’t need children of her own. Edmure’s girls are her kin; she’ll love them with all her heart.

Though, when Sansa closes her eyes and attempts falling asleep to images of her picturesque plan for a safe and peaceful future, Riverrun fades to black. Instead she sees the great hall of Seabluff Keep with its candles and windows and elegant guests. She sees the King in the North entirely unable to tear himself away from the beautiful Melisia.

And why would he tear himself away? He no longer has Sansa to worry about, knows she’s safe in her guest chamber, with her handmaidens nearby. He might already be discussing things with Lord Ivertusk and–

Sansa scowls at herself. Stop it. Stop. 

Riverrun. Edmure’s red-haired daughters in tiny silk dresses and tiny silk slippers. Embroidery hoops and harps and slate stones. The rushing river with leaping trouts. Stories of Lady Catelyn as a girl. Woods full of white flowers.

It takes a good while for Sansa to drift off.

The hallways of Riverrun never end. Sansa’s feet slap against the flagstones. Every opened door leads to another chamber, another door, another hallway. There’s no way out. She’s stuck. Forever.

When her eyes fly open, she’s breathing so hard it takes a moment for her to hear the rhythmless footsteps coming closer. Something that would send most hearts racing with fear, but Sansa knows Jon’s drunken shuffling by heart too. It only calms her.

Sitting up in bed, she searches for the fire striker in the dim hearth-light. It should be on her nightstand–

“Sansa?” Jon hand fumbles over her head, falls to her shoulder. “Need you.”

Her heart skips a beat before starting to race after all. “What?” she whispers, trying to search his eyes. But with the hearth behind him, his face lies in shadow. “What did you say?”

“Help.” His fingers wrap around her arm and pulls at her. “Come.”

She slips free from his grip. “Let me light the lamp.”

Once light falls over Jon, he scrunches up his face and lifts a hand to shield his eyes His doublet’s open, the shirt beneath untucked, and his hair as unkempt as after the hunt. A sight that usually makes her blood run hotter, but not tonight. Something’s wrong.

“Want to sleep," Jon mumbles. "Can’t sleep.” He tries pointing at the wall separating their chambers but ends up looking as if drawing mysterious signs in the air. “Not while she’s… She’s there.”

“Who?”

“‘Lisia.” Jon sways on his feet. “In my bed. Naked. Want her gone. Tell her. Please?”

His words wash over Sansa like water from the ever-cold godswood pool and seeps into her veins until it feels as if the Shivering Sea itself flows through them. Her blood will never run hot again. She no longer remembers how it feels to be in love, why she ever loved this man she clearly doesn't know. All she feels is the deepest contempt mingled with the prickling sensation of humiliation.

“Jon, if you invite a woman to your bed, you have to tell her to leave yourself. I will not clean up your mess. Now, get out.”

Jon sinks down on the edge of the bed with an undignified pout and fails miserably at looking into her eyes. “Didn’t. She was there.” He points again. “ Naked.”

Sansa repeats his answer in her head, takes in the meaning of it, takes his hand too, watching him carefully as she asks, “Did you invite Melisia to your chamber?”

“No,” he whines. “Opened the door. She’s there. Help me. Need you. Help.”  

“Jon. Focus. You opened the door and, what, saw her in your bed?”

Jon nods. “Naked.”

“And what did you do?”

“Nothing! Came here.” He taps his fingers against her thigh at the last word. "Can't think. You. You think." 

“What about your clothes?”

“Huh?” Frowning, he looks down at his body (and she tries ignoring that his hand remains on her thigh). “Oh. Got hot. Taught the lads. Wildling dance. Didn’t touch her. Swear.”

“Did you say anything? Did she?”

He shakes his head at both her questions.

“Did you enter the chamber at all?”

He whines out another, “No,” and tips forward to rest his head on her shoulder, his hand moving with him, traveling up her thigh. Even though she feels the drunken weight of him, the clumsiness in his usually so graceful movements, and knows he only supports himself on that hand, she still can't help but gasp when his thumb reaches her hipbone, (can't help but feel disappointed too when his hand slides down the side of her hip and presses into the mattress as he lifts his head from her shoulder). “Please. So tired.” He looks at her with wounded eyes. “Don’t be mad. Didn’t do anything.”

Smiling, she holds his sad little face in her hands. “I’m not mad.”

“No?”

“No. I'm glad you came to me. You did the right thing.” 

The Ivertusks on the other hand…

Sansa’s blood does run hot, then. It blazes. Small wonder Jon’s so drunk. They must’ve poured ale and wine into him all evening, priming him to fall for the trap they’ve set with their pretty daughter as the bait. When did their plan form, she wonders. When Jon shared he’d never risk siring a bastard, perhaps. Or were they already aware?

Did they plan this all along?

Sansa gestures at him to get up, then gets up too. He doesn’t step away, though, even though she has to squeeze past him to make her way to her dressing gown. When she reflexively lays a hand on his chest to keep her balance, he leans into her touch, even grazes his fingers along the back of her arm as she moves away as if desperate to keep her near, to keep touching her.

(She blushes at her own thoughts, at what might be nothing but her silly heart reading intent into something unintended.)

“I’ll take care of this.” She keeps her head ducked as she shrugs on the dressing gown, doesn’t look up until she feels her cheeks cooling. “You stay in here. Don’t go anywhere. All right?”

Jon nods, standing awkward and disheveled in her chamber and watching her cinching the dressing gown at the waist--and it’s all too easy to remember why she fell for him, why she loves him still. Allowing herself to act on an impulse she’d otherwise stymie, Sansa rushes forward and gives him the briefest of hugs before stepping back again.

“What?” he says, blinking, smiling, swaying.

“I’m proud of you.”

His smile grows until he’s beaming. “Thank you, Sansa.”

Jon’s door is left ajar, letting out sounds that mollify Sansa’s temper in an instant. Melisia’s sobbing. She’s still lying in Jon’s bed, wrapped up in the quilted coverlet. Only her dark hair spills out over the pale linen. Every time she sobs, the cocoon she’s made jolts.

“Melisia,” Sansa says, softly. The sobs quiet, but the cocoon keeps jolting. “Melisia, it’s Sansa.”

Sansa sits down on the bed, waiting for the cocoon to release the wounded butterfly. But Melisia remains hidden until Sansa lures her out with encouraging words and soothing strokes over her hair. The dark powder Melisia uses to paint her eyes have mingled with her tears and stained her cheeks, her perfect, glossy curls have become frizzy on one side of her head and flat on the other, and several of the pearls have fallen off. Still, she’s beautiful. Beautiful and utterly heartbroken.

“Melisia.” Sansa takes her hand, holding it gently. “The king has asked me to help you return to your chamber.”

Melisia’s chin quivers. When she sucks in a shaky breath, fresh tears spill from her eyes. “He didn’t want me. I thought he wanted me.”

Her breath reeks of wine, and while her words don’t bleed together quite as much as Jon’s, she’s still too drunk to enunciate properly. Too drunk to fight the way her grandmother tugs at her puppet strings. Sansa’s disdain for the horrid old woman raises her temper again, but she pushes it back down, keeps her voice calm and level, her demeanor soft and comforting.

“Melisisa, I need to ask you a few questions.” She gives the girl’s hand a friendly squeeze. “Is there a secret way into the apartments or did you walk past our guards?”

“The guards.”

“Do you know when? What time.”

“Before midnight. Lay here a long time.” Melisia wipes her nose with the back of her other hand. “Almost fell asleep.”

“And what reason did you give for entering?”

“That I…” Melisia stares at her lap. “That I wanted to ensure my lady was all right, since you left the feast so early. The king-the king said you had a headache.”

“That’s good, at least. That was clever of you.”

“Wasn’t even my id–” She slaps a hand over her lips as if she could shove her words back into her mouth, staring at Sansa with round, glassy eyes.

“No,” Sansa says, “I don’t believe any of it was.”

“Oh, it was my idea, my lady. All of it. The king stole my heart and my wit.”

“It was your grandmother, wasn’t it.”

Melisia’s cheeks turn red beneath the black tear-tracks. She shakes her head so emphatically more of the pearls loosen and tumble to the mattress.

“It’s sweet of you to protect your grandmother. Sweet but unwise. You’ve tried to entrap your king. To force him to marry you, I presume.”

Melisia averts her eyes, shame bending her head to her chest.

“Right now, very few people know what you’ve done. But if that changes, how do you think the rest of Westeros would feel about you and your family? It would do you well to be completely honest with me from now on.”

Melisia’s bottom lip trembles. Then her mouth opens with a choked wail. Grabbing the coverlet, she uses it to hide her sobbing and muffle the sound. 

Sansa sighs. Learning everything now instead of giving the Ivertusks time to weave this tangled mess into a more flattering tapestry is preferable. But so long as the girl’s this inebriated, this heartbroken, getting a sensible word out of her is impossible.

“All right.” Sansa gets to her feet and holds out her hand. “Up you get.”

“Are you–” Melisia hiccups. “Are you throwing me out?”

“I’m trying to help you.”

With a whispered, "Oh," Melisia lets herself be pulled to her feet. Then she stands all forlorn and shuddering with quiet weeping while Sansa helps her back into undergarments, corset, dress, and slippers, washes the tears off her face, finds all the pearls, and gathers them in a decorative box that stood on the mantelpiece. She can’t bring Melisia’s curls back to life, though. Jon doesn’t have the tools needed and she’s neither letting Melisia out of her sight nor into the chamber where Jon is. At least he has a brush.

Sansa gestures at a chair, ordering Melisia to sit. There’s no time for gentle untangling, but Melisia doesn’t let out so much as a peep of complaint at the harsh brushing. She simply sits quiet and still and lets Sansa braid her hair, then watches dull-eyed as Sansa braids her own in a similar style until they look as if they spent the evening playing with one another’s hair and giggling like young ladies should.

At least it’s how their hair looks. No one would assume the slumped and despondent girl before her just spent a few hours in the company of a good lady friend.

Sansa gives Melisia the box of pearls before cupping her shoulders and locking eyes with her. “Melisia, it’s time for you to put your lady’s face on. Do you understand me?”

Melisia sniffles. “Don’t know if I can. I love King Jon so much. He’s so handsome. And brave and strong. We get along so well. We like the same things and I make him laugh and he finds me beautiful and he asks about me, he asks about me all the time.”

Sansa’s hands slip from Melisia’s shoulders. She swallows, takes a step back. Stays quiet and listens.

“I thought we would marry,” Melisia mumbles, “and have lots of beautiful children. I’d give him however many he wants–even if he wants twenty! I’d do anything to please him, my lady, but now I’ve ruined it and he’ll leave tonight and I’ll never be happy again and–”

Her face screws up. Soon she’ll start bawling again. Sansa sighs. Heavily. Empathy and frustration fight a silent war within, but no matter how clearly she sees an echo of her much younger self in this naive girl, it’s nothing compared to her need to protect Jon.

“I don’t want to slap you, Melisia, but if that’s what it takes to make you sober up and behave like a lady, I will.”

Clutching the box to her chest, Melisia gapes at Sansa, a faint squeak leaving her throat. Then she closes her mouth. Gulps. Nods repeatedly and starts gathering herself.

“If we took off in the middle of the night,” Sansa says, “people would talk. But you’re right: we will leave. Tomorrow, after breakfast. A day earlier than planned, that’s true, but we’ll say we were needed at home. We all have to act as if nothing’s happened. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lady.”

After another once-over to ensure Melisia looks entirely untouched, Sansa leads her down the hallway and to the door. Outside stand two guards. Farther down the hallway, a servant carries a steaming cup on a tray. In her kindest voice, Sansa thanks Melisia for being so sweet as to checking in on her and spending a few hours chatting and gossiping–and thankfully, Melisia brightens more and more with every word.

“It was just what I needed,” Sansa says. “I can’t believe how late it got! I lost track of time entirely. I’m sorry for keeping you up.”

Melisia does a rather good job at smiling convincingly. “Not at all, my lady,” she says, speaking more slowly than usual, enunciating every word. “I had such a nice time, I didn’t even hear the bells.”

Sansa smiles too. “Good night, my lady. I’ll see you tomorrow at breakfast.”

“Good night, Lady Sansa.” Melisia curtsies. “Sleep well. And thank you for… For braiding my hair. I feel very pretty.”

Forcing her lips to stay pleasantly curved, Sansa gently scolds Melisia for walking to the guest apartments alone, points out no lady should move unattended through a keep full of drunk guests--not even when said keep is her own home--and orders one of the guards to escort Melisia back to her bed chamber. For everyone’s sake.

While Sansa would love to slump against the wall for a moment, there’s no time for rest. Gods know Jon shouldn’t be left unattended in this keep, either. With the help of an oil lamp, Sansa searches his chamber as quickly but still thoroughly as she can to make sure there are no lacy underthings or glittering jewelry or gleaming pearls forgotten somewhere. She even picks from his sheets long chestnut-colored strands of hair, balls them up, and throws them in the hearth.

It’s tedious work that allows her mind to wander, to pick apart and examine tonight’s events.

Melisia claimed Jon’s asked about her. It didn’t sound like a lie, but it might still be one. If the lie came from the lips of someone she trusted, why wouldn’t she believe it? Her grandmother or even her father might be responsible for the lie. For all Sansa knows, the whole family is in on this. Della’s involvement would surprise her, granted, but Sansa stopped assuming the best of people she barely knows a long time ago.

Melisia also said Jon finds her beautiful–and that Sansa can’t argue. He’s never breathed a word about it, but why wouldn’t he find her beautiful? Most men would. Most men would’ve happily taken what she offered as well–especially when drunk. So why didn’t Jon? Because it wasn’t right–or because he didn’t want her? It could be both.

Hopefully, it’s both.

Sansa gets off the floor, dusts off her clothes, and leaves Jon’s chamber for her own. Speculation is pointless. She’ll have to ask him–and she’ll have to apologize.

If only she’d told him what she suspected, this might never have happened. They need to talk. Tomorrow. First, she needs to get his drunk self into bed so he can sleep it off.

Her fingers close around the door handle. He better still be standing in there, looking awkward and disheveled, or so help her.

Chapter Text

Jon’s not standing awkwardly in the middle of Sansa’s chamber. In his place, between his kicked-off boots, lies a heap of clothes, while the man himself’s sprawled across the bed on his stomach with his face smushed into a pillow. Her pillow. Fast asleep beneath her coverlet. In nothing but his small-clothes.

Sansa closes her eyes with a groan.

Well, at least he’s not careening through the keep near-naked.

After a fortifying breath, she reaches for his shoulder to give it a gentle shake but retracts before touching his skin. The coverlet’s only pulled up to his waist. She’s never touched a man’s bare shoulder. Whenever nightmare’s driven her to his chamber, he’s worn a sleep tunic and now the lamp-light’s painting his bare back in yellow gold and inky black and she really shouldn’t be gawking like this.

Sansa closes her mouth. Clears her throat. It’s only skin.

“Jon.” She rustles his shoulder with the tips of her fingers. “Wake up. You’re in my bed.”

Jon pries open one eye. “What…?” Head lifted, he squints at her. “Nightmare? Is all right.” His head sinks back onto the pillow, his hand patting the narrow space next to him. “Can sleep in my bed. I’ll hold you.”

“This is my chamber.”

When he makes a noise of disagreement, she repeats the statement. Firmly. 

“No,” he says, propping himself up on his forearms to look over his shoulder. “This is…” Confusion digs furrows between his eyebrows. With a grunt, he labors over on his back. “Why is everything…?” He flaps a hand back and forth. “Looks wrong.”

“It looks reversed, because you’re in my chamber. You came to me for help, remember?”

“Did I?” He starts pushing himself up to sit only to collapse with a soft moan. “Head’s spinning. Can I stay? I’ll hold you.” He gropes at the air in front of her. “Come. I’ll protect you. From nightmare.”

“I didn’t have a nightmare.”

He dismisses her words with another flap of his hand. “Still hold you. Is all right.”

Biting her lip, Sansa shifts her weight from one foot to the other. She did have a nightmare earlier. Heart racing and all. But the nightmares that haunted her after she escaped Ramsay left her damp with sweat and trembling with fear. Whenever she tried falling back asleep, she kept startling awake at Winterfell creaking, the hearth crackling, the wind sighing outside. The shadows in her chamber grew and twisted and hunted her from her bed to his. When morning came, she always felt stupid. Always vowed to never let fear rule her again. But at night, fear overpowered will and sense. She didn’t stop visiting Jon until the nightmares stopped visiting her.

The dream about escaping Riverrun didn’t leave her too frightened to think clearly, though. She’s not frightened at all. The nightmare’s just a convenient excuse to sleep in his arms for the first time since everything turned so complicated–and what would he think of her, then, when morning comes and his mind’s no longer muddled by wine?

No. She can’t. It wouldn’t be right.

Jon’s bed is available. But how could she leave him all alone and vulnerable? If she has a servant from their retinue guard him, there will be talk. The settle, then. It’s too short for her but no matter. Sansa’s suffered worse beds–

“Please?” Jon’s eye opens, just a touch. He shimmies closer, takes her hand, gives it a soft tug. “Don’t trust them.”

“Me neither. You can have the bed. I’ll sleep…”

His expression distracts her from finishing the sentence. He’s blinking up at her like a lone pup left after all his littermates have been chosen. It’s an echo of the Jon she sometimes finds at night, in his solar. He always claims he couldn’t sleep and she always pretends to believe him, never tells him she knows he has nightmares too for Ghost woke her and led her to Jon. She always wishes he’d ask her to sleep in his bed and protect him from memories of ashes and blood and a dark, damp dungeon, the way he’s protected her, but he never does.

But what if he’s suppressed the wish because he’s supposed to be the strong one? What if the trap he just avoided has left him feeling so unsafe he needs her?  

“All right,” she whispers. “We’ll share. Like before.”

Perhaps it’s only her imagination, but when he relaxes back in bed, he looks entirely at peace. As his eyes are closed, she allows herself to admire his face for a breath. He does look peaceful. She’s not imagining it. The corners of his mouth even curl up the slightest bit.

Sansa nods to herself. This is the right decision.

They were given no keys to the doors, but there is a slide bolt on the inside. Once the door’s secured, Sansa untangles her braids and starts untying the robe. She’s in one of her sleeveless nightrails, its straps thin and bodice rather low-cut in the back. She never shows this much skin. Heart beating a bit harder in her chest, she looks at him through her lashes. His eyes are still closed. A mixture of disappointment and relief swirls in her chest. At least he misses how her fingers tremble, how she struggles in putting out the oil lamp.

“Make room,” she whispers.

Jon rolls over on his side, scoots back no more than an inch, and holds the coverlet open, inviting her into the darkness underneath. She glances at the hearth-lit heap of clothes on the floor. Swallows. Why couldn’t he have kept them on? This is too intimate. Surely, he’ll think so once he’s slept off the wine and ale. Choosing the other side wouldn’t help, either. He’s lying in the middle of the bed. Whichever side she chooses, the space is scant.

“Are you sure?” she asks. “You might regret this tomorrow.”

Jon looks up at her with utter bewilderment. “What?”

“Sharing a bed. We never do anymore. Not since..." She massages her palm with a thumb. "Jon, if you hadn’t been drinking, you wouldn't have asked.”

“Won’t regret it. Never did.”

“But it’s different now.”

“Not to me,” he mumbles. “Is the same. Just didn’t know, is all.”

Right. It meant nothing then, means nothing now. Not to him.

It’s fine, she tells herself as she joins him. She’ll simply lie with her back to him, as close to the edge as she can without falling off the bed. Sharing a bed doesn’t have to mean cuddling. They’ll sleep, that’s all.

When Sansa closes her eyes, though, it’s not sleep that pulls her in. It’s Jon.

As if they were lying in a cold, dark cave in the middle of winter, desperate to ward off the biting chill, he's wrapped an arm around her and tugged her so close you couldn’t fit a sheet of parchment between them. Once he's draped the coverlet over them both, he even snakes one of his feet between her calves and nuzzles the top of her spine. Sputters when her hair must’ve gotten caught on his lips. He tries brushing it out of the way with a careless enough hand it'll tangle. But she doesn’t complain. She simply lifts her hair and drops it above her head so that it lies on the pillow, cool air flowing over her bare neck. With a murmured thanks, he nuzzles her back anew, tickling her shoulder blade with his beard. A wave of pleasure shivers through her body, spreading goosebumps from top to toe.

“Smell nice,” he whispers.

Then he breathes her in again, slowly, deeply, making her shudder in his arms, and she doesn’t know what this means. How can sharing a bed be the same as before when it’s never been… this ? His fingers have never danced along her forearm, found her hand, and twined with her fingers like they do now. She’s never lain like this, holding her breath and waiting for… she doesn’t know what. Another gesture incredibly difficult to take as anything but what she’s not supposed to believe anymore.

She waits and waits but nothing happens. She lets out the breath.

He’s just drunk–and she’s just a soft, warm body that doesn’t stink. When her chest rises and falls with a big sigh of disappointment, the wonderful weight of his arm reminds her to enjoy this for what it is and go to sleep. Gods know she needs it. Tomorrow, when they face the Ivertusks, at least one of them needs to be sharp.

Sansa closes her eyes. "Good night."

Jon’s hot breath wafts over her back. Her eyes fly back open. 

“Good night, Sansa,” he murmurs and presses his warm lips against her shoulder blade.

She can’t help but gasp, can’t help but hope after all. Holding her breath again, she waits for another word, another touch, another kiss, anything.

All she receives are soft snores.

Oh, how can she sleep now? He’s holding her like he’s never held her before, even gave her her first good night kiss. Not on the lips, no, but isn’t the shoulder blade in a sense so much more intimate?

Butterflies flutter tentatively in her belly as if fearing the wet blanket of sense bearing down on them if they dare to soar too high. She can feel it waiting in the wings, can hear it whispering. Jon’s determined to never sire a bastard. Why would he leave one bed full of temptation only to fall into another? If Sansa tempted him even a little, why would he insist on her joining him? He wouldn’t. 

Unless… He could be too drunk to fight his feelings. Maybe. Hopefully.

She sighs for the thousandth time tonight. She stopped letting herself be torn between hope and defeat months ago for a reason. It’s time she finds out whether anything hides in his heart–without revealing too soon what hides in hers.

Oh, she'll have a day tomorrow, won't she?

She’s all around him, setting his body aflame with a hunger never sated. He’s always left wanting more, always chasing after her, allowing her to entice him again. He’s chasing and catching and letting go, chasing, catching, letting go, chasing, catching, collapsing into bed with her in his arms.

The wonderful weight of her pins him to the mattress. Her head’s on his shoulder, her arm’s across his chest and her leg’s slung over his thigh. One of his arms is wrapped around her, keeping her flush against him, while the other hand holds her thigh in place. His fingers dig into her flesh, so warm, so soft, so bare. His hand slides up her thigh, finds an equally bare hip, finds the bunched-up skirt of her nightrail gathered at her waist when she really ought to be as naked as he is.

With a quiet moan, he grabs her leg and hoists it up to his waist as he rolls over on his side to face her. He’s hard. Wants to slip inside her. Needs to. He cups the curve of her arse to bring her closer so he can thrust his hips forward, find the damp heat of her, and slide–

Wait. This feels almost too real, but Sansa would never. Jon drags himself from the lust-filled fog clouding his mind so he can determine whether this is another one of his dreams. But his hand truly is full of naked hip, a leg truly is wrapped around his waist, and when he opens his eyes, Sansa truly is lying so closely he can count all her freckles in the morning light sneaking in through the gap between the curtains.

He truly is hard too. Hard and dangerously close to doing something that can’t be undone.

Unless they already… What happened last night?  He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to remember, but his head feels stuffed with a tangle of wool and thorns–and all he can think about is her naked hip in his hand and her leg wrapped around him and her lips close enough to kiss.

Has he kissed her?

The bleeding sept bells start clanging, then, shattering his thoughts. Sansa stretches out her whole body with a yawn she’s not awake enough to cover, her arm lifted over her head and her leg sliding down from his waist. Once she's done, she curls up with a content noise, one hand tucked under the pillow and the other finding the side of his neck. Her thumb caresses his jawline, his beard rasping against her nail, and he’s still hard. 

Is she aware? As far as he knows, their respective parts never got close enough to touch. At least not now. Last night, though–

“Not again. Make them shut up,” she murmurs without so much as opening her eyes. “I’m too sleepy.”

“Why are you in my bed?”

“Hm?”

“Why are you in my bed.”

“I’m not. You’re in mine.”

He is?

Sansa blinks her eyes open; the morning light colors them such a pale shade of blue it makes him dizzy. Or maybe he's just a bit drunk, still. Oh, who is he kidding? It's both.

“Was it seven or eight?” she asks.

“What?”

“Chimes.”

Chimes? Who gives a shit? Could’ve been forty for all he knows.

“Last one I remember was, mm”--she scrunches up her face in a way that would’ve been adorable any other day but now only frustrates him–”six. When I went to the privy.”

Wait. She left to make water and then returned to his bed? When she knew morning was galloping toward them? How bleeding careless can one woman… No. Not his bed, she said. He’s the one who’s in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Sansa,” he says, “why am I in your bed?”

“You came in here last night.” Her hand leaves his neck, falls to small space separating them. “You woke me up, said you needed me. Remember?”

Needed her?

Sansa breaks out in another yawn while he’s so engulfed by red-hot shame it might leave burn marks on his skin. Skin that remembers the feel of her hair, cool and silk-soft and tickling. She licks her lips. He can’t takes his eyes off them.

Stop staring and think, you bleeding idiot.

He came to her chamber, aye. He remembers that. Vaguely. Remembers sitting on her bed, his hand traveling up her thigh as he leaned in to… what? Kiss her? All evening, he thought about it, wanted it. Needed it. Needed it so badly he almost kissed her in the hallway when they said goodnight. Is that why he came to her? He remembers the warmth of her skin against his lips, the scent of her, the little shudder she gave. The gasp.

Aye, that's why he stopped by, then. To satisfy that need. To do even more than that.

“Are you sure?” her voice echoes in his head. “You might regret this tomorrow.”

Jon’s heart sinks to the miserable depths of his stomach. Gods, forgive him. What has he done?

“You were really drunk and when you returned…” Her eyes flit between his. “You look nauseated. If you're going to throw up, you have to leave the bed.”

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, increasing the space between them as much as he can without falling off the bed. “I’m so sorry, Sansa. I’ll make it right. I promise. As soon as we get home, we’ll marry.”

She lifts her head off the pillow, brow creased and mouth echoing his last word soundlessly. Mindful to keep his thankfully softened manhood covered, he sits up with his back against the headboard, doesn’t care that the knobbly rails dig into him. Then, staring at his lap, he allows guilt to open his mouth and let words pour out in a rush. 

“I know it’s not fair. I never should’ve-- And I’ll never forgive myself for it. I don’t expect you to either, but it's not all bad. At least you’ll stay at Winterfell. Forever. Like you want. And you can keep your chamber. I won’t make you share mine. I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. And I’ll spend the rest of our lives trying to make you happy. To earn your forgiveness. I promise.”

The bed creaks when Sansa sits up too. “You think we’ve been intimate.”

He makes himself meet her astonished gaze. “Haven’t we?”

It takes her a breath to scoop her chin up from the mattress and answer. “We slept in the same bed, that’s all. Like we have many times before.”

“Then why am I naked?”

“You’re naked?”

When her gaze drops to his crotch, Jon snatches the coverlet and tucks it firmly around his lower body. “Aye, I’m naked. Care to explain that?”

“I thought you kept your small-clothes on! Why did you take them off?”

“Why did you take yours off?”

Sansa gasps, pulling up her knees to her chest and tugging the hem of her nightrail to her ankles. “How do you know I’m not wearing any?”

“Because I woke up with you sprawled all over me and I had my hand on your hip and it was naked.”

“But… Why did you have your hand under my night–”

“I don’t know!”

She’s gaping at him, her chest heaving with loud breaths, her cheeks deepening in color. But then she’s in good company. He’s panting too, and his face feels so hot it could light up the darkest of caves. With a sharp breath through her nose, she changes the way she sits, knees folded demurely to the side now, and carefully arranges the fabric to cover every inch skin. Even her feet. Acting the lady suddenly, even though her hair’s so fucking tousled they can only have done one thing.

“When you came to my chamber," she says, "I was already asleep. And I don’t sleep with my small-clothes on. Mother taught me it… It needs air.”

“Oh, aye, it has lungs, has it?”

“I know this is uncomfortable, but you don’t need to behave like a child. We didn’t—” The blush fades from her cheeks. Her head whips in the direction of the door. “Shh,” she whispers. “Do you hear footsteps?”

“What?”

“Get dressed,” she hisses. “Someone’s coming.”

Jon scrambles out of bed. Pain sears through the side of his head. He smacks a palm against it. Stares at the empty floor. Where are his bleeding clothes? He whirls around to ask, finds a frozen Sansa gawking at him. Seven hells! His hands fly to cover the damn nakedness he managed to forget at the worst possible time. He gives her a pointed look. She blinks, shakes her head as if to clear it, aims her eyes at the ceiling, pointing at the floor on her side of the bed. 

Just as he reaches the other side and bends down to grab his clothes, a knock comes. A woman’s voice follows. Minna. One of Sansa’s handmaidens. Panic arrests him, steals his already weakened ability to think. He's staring at the door, useless.

The few times they shared a bed at Winterfell, Sansa always woke up before dawn and returned to her own bed with at least an hour to spare before her handmaidens came knocking. They must’ve overslept. Jon still can’t remember how many times the bells chimed, but it’s certainly light enough to be eight. Well, fuck him. 

Although… She already did that, didn’t she?

The rustling of fabric behind him frees him from his stupor and flings him back into action. While he struggles with his clothes, Sansa slips into her dressing gown and sneaks to the door where she presses an ear against the wood. When she turns halfway toward him and motions for him to hurry, he motions at her to send the girl away. Sansa only shakes her head.

“What the hell,” he mouths, still struggling with his damn clothes.

Did he always have this many bleeding limbs? Where the fuck is the damn trouser leg? Thank the gods he at least didn’t unbutton his shirt more than necessary last night, even if the sleeves are bleeding impossible.

“Are you still drunk?” she whispers, gesturing at the shirt he just managed to wrangle himself into.

Jon looks down at it. Oh, to hell with everything. It’s inside out.

“Just a moment,” she calls toward the door.

Once the shirt’s back on, right side out, and he’s sticking his arms into the sleeves of the doublet, he looks around for somewhere to hide. Under the bed, maybe?

Before he's started crawling on the floor, Sansa nods at the settle and whispers, “Lie down. Pretend you’ve blacked out. That you’re still asleep.”

“Why?”

She glides toward him on quiet feet, her jaw tight. “Don’t argue. Settle. Now.”

He scowls at her. “Your hair.”

After a glance in the mirror, she starts finger-combing the tousled mess and gives him a firm look. Nothing makes any sense and his head’s doing him in, but he obeys like a good little boy, shoving a few pillows to the floor and draping himself over the settle in the most drunken way he can. Then he closes his eyes and lets his mouth fall open. A mere heartbeat later, Sansa unlocks and opens the door.

“Good morning, my lady,” the handmaiden says.

And then… nothing. Why isn’t she saying something? Why isn’t she moving into the chamber? Can Minna see him? Is she so shocked that– No, wait. Brisk footfalls are coming closer, the heels smattering against the flagstones. A woman’s gait. Another handmaiden, then.

“The green dress, Minna,” Sansa tells the first handmaiden.

Jon hears the girl stopping after only a few steps. Noticing him, then. The sound of her footsteps resumes and the wardrobe creaks open, while the brisk steps in the hallway come to a stop. 

“Good morning, Lady Sansa.” 

Della Ivertusk’s voice, brighter than he’s ever heard it.

“Good morning,” Sansa says. “Please.”

To Jon’s absolute horror, Sansa invites Della into the chamber. But he can’t show just how much he disapproves, has to keeps his eyes closed and his mouth open, focusing on producing the deep, loud breathing of a drunken man asleep. No snoring. He shouldn’t overdo it. Just make his body as heavy and limp as a fat rope.

“The king had a lot to drink last night,” Sansa says. “He knocked on my chamber in the middle of the night to tell me he meant to go boar hunting again, but that I needn’t worry. He’d make it back in one piece, he claim. He knows it worries me. After what happened to Robert Baratheon. ”

“Oh, yes. Yes. Who wouldn’t worry?”

Sansa draws a little sigh, as if shaking her head at how hopeless he is. “Luckily, he fell asleep in the middle of a sentence. I thought it best to let him sleep.”

“Indeed. Men always get the wildest ideas when they drink, don’t they?”

Della’s voice is still too bright, with a slight nervous tremble to it. Does she know he’s awake? That Sansa’s lying?

“I came to invite my lady to breakfast. Not our usual breakfast in my good-mother’s solar, but a breakfast in my private apartments. With myself. Only myself. And yourself, of course. My lady.” Della swallows audibly. “Unless the king is in a rush to return to Winterfell? I heard something about leaving a day earlier than planned?”

“Yes, I mentioned it to your daughter last night. We’re leaving today, but I believe we have time for breakfast. The king will take his in his chamber. Too much noise bothers him the morning after a feast.”

“My husband is much the same. He won’t rise until we’re well into the afternoon. Last night was rather… wet.” Della clears her throat. “I will see to it, my lady.”

“Now, if you excuse me,” Sansa says, “I need to wake the king and get him back to his own chamber so I can get dressed.”

Once Lady Ivertusk is gone and the door closed, Jon almost springs to his feet, but the noise of Minna’s pottering around reminds him of her presence. He stays limp.

“Jon,” Sansa says, jostling his shoulder. “It’s morning.”

Not a whole lot of him wants to face this day; pretending it’s difficult to rise is hardly a feat. He drags himself up to sit and rubs his head while sweeping a groggy gaze over the chamber like a man lost. Which isn’t exactly a feat either, considering he still can’t remember why he ended up in Sansa’s bed. Nor can he explain why he was naked, why she was lying in his arms like a lover would, and how in all the seven hells he was that close to doing something unforgivable. Hadn’t he woken up in time… 

He can’t even think it.

Why was she sprawled over him like that, though? Why the lack of small-clothes? Has she been bare beneath her nightrail every time they’ve shared a bed? 

Oh, those thoughts are for when he’s alone. He rubs his head harder, as if he can erase them if only he tries.

“Jon?” she says. “Are you all right?”

“Everything hurts,” he mumbles, glancing at the handmaiden. “Bit drunk, still.”

Minna’s back is turned to them. She’s by the vanity, sorting brushes and hairpins and little jars of Jon doesn’t know what, looking awfully busy, but if listening made your ears noisier the more you strained, hers would be screaming.

“Why did I sleep on this bleeding thing?” he asks. “Think I ruined my back.”

Sansa only repeats the explanation she gave Lady Ivertusk. But then what else can she do? So long as Minna’s in here, Sansa can’t tell him the real reason—and he can’t demand answers. He can only drag himself to his chamber with his tail between his legs and think about what the hell he’s done.

Chapter Text

While servants are usually present at every meal, ever prepared to wait on the highborn, none stand at the wall of Della Ivertusk’s solar. None pours her and Sansa tea or fills their plates. Della does it all herself, with unsteady and damp hands she discreetly wipes on a napkin so often it quickly stops being discreet after all.

Once everything’s set, she rests her hands in her lap, her eyes on her full plate and tea cup, and bends her lips into an unconvincing smile. “I hope my lady slept well.”

Sansa drapes her napkin over her lap, but like her hostess, leaves the breakfast be for now. “Is this why you’ve invited me to a private breakfast? To exchange pleasantries?”

“If only it were so,” Della almost whispers, her eyes flicking up to meet Sansa’s only to falter somewhere around her nose before falling away. When Della lifts her hands to the cutlery, it’s not to dig into her breakfast but to adjust them until they lie perfectly aligned. She adjusts the cup as well, takes breaths as unsteady as her hands, returns her hands to her lap. For a beat, she sits frozen. Then she clears her throat, raises her lowered chin, and starts talking. “I’ve invited my lady to discuss what transpired last night. Events of which I had no knowledge until this morning, when my daughter came to my chamber, so upset she could scarcely speak. I had to call for the maester. Ask for a calming tonic. Once I’d helped her drink it and held her for a bit, she was sufficiently sedated and ready to speak. She confessed the whole terrible thing.”

Della’s voice wavers, her hands fluttering to her cheeks with a shaky intake of breath. But she forces her hands and herself to calm and continues, “She also told me of my lady’s kindness. You spared my daughter a terrible fate, out of the goodness of your heart, when you would’ve been perfectly in your right to let the world know of her… misstep. I can never thank you enough, my lady. I am forever grateful.” Tears form in Della’s eyes. She dabs them with the napkin. “And the king…” She folds the napkin into a neat square and dabs her nose too. “Most men wouldn’t have hesitated to take advantage of a smitten girl. I am forever grateful to him as well. He’s a good man. My lady was kind to lie this morning about why he slept on the settle, but I don’t struggle to understand why he didn’t return to his chamber last night. Nor do I struggle to understand why you and the king are eager to leave our home. Believe me, I am loath to ask for more of your time, but I am a mother first. And as a mother, I humbly ask you to hear my daughter’s apology.”

“I will,” Sansa says, “but the king will not.”

“No,” Della says through a breathy laugh. “And that is for the best. If Melisia had to face him, I believe she’d faint from the sheer shame of it. It will be difficult enough to face you. She’s long admired you, my lady, and now… Well.” Della lifts her shoulders in a hopeless shrug and leaves the table, opening the door to her bed chamber and letting in a wan and glum-faced Melisia who drags herself two steps into the solar before stopping. With a sigh, Della wraps an arm around her daughter’s back, ushers her to the table, and pulls out a chair. “My lady must have many questions,” she says, encouraging her daughter to sit by pushing gently at her shoulders. “Rest assured, I’ve instructed her to answer them all–and truthfully too.”

When Della makes for the door, Sansa needs only one look at the poor girl to stop her mother from leaving. 

“You should stay,” Sansa says. “In a situation like this, a daughter might need her mother’s support.”

The first true smile of this morning brightens Della’s features. She rushes back to them and sits down next to her daughter, takes her hand under the table.

“Thank you, my lady. Thank you.”

Poking at breakfast that only makes his stomach turn, Jon stares at the water carafe before him. The candle-light gleams in the glass, in the crystal of the stopper. He drops the fork, grabs the stopper instead, and holds it between thumb and forefinger, turning it this way and that so that it casts flashes of golden light across the table. Last night, something flashed like this. Another carafe, wasn’t it, sealed with a crystal stopper and containing a bright blue liquid. An Essosi drink poured into tiny glasses they threw back, one after the other. A gift from one of Ivertusk’s merchant friends who’d sailed all the way from Pentos to attend the feast.

Jon can’t remember the man’s name, but he remembers the taste of the drink burning on his tongue, honey sweet and spicy hot. He remembers the blaring sound of men laughing, remembers his arms slung over shoulders keeping him upright, remembers his feet stumbling over one another.

He remembers a vision of Sansa standing by his bed in her night clothes, as if driven to his arms by nightmares--

Outside, the bleeding sept bells announce an hour he can’t be bothered to note. They jog another memory, of her leaving bed for the privy. Though he didn’t count the chimes that time either, he does remember rolling over on his back. Too tired to open his eyes properly, he saw only a pale blur vanishing through the door. Saw it returning a short while later. When she lay back down, it felt so natural to snake an arm under her neck, offer his shoulder as a pillow. 

Warmth filled his chest when she snuggled close–and warmth fills his chest now too at the memory. When he closes his eyes to relive it, he feels her hand resting over his heart, feels her breath as she speaks and how it tickles the few chest hairs he once was so proud of for finally sprouting. What she said never registered, though. He was too distracted by her fingers mapping out his scars, by his fingers tangling in her hair, by the heat rising within. He took her hand, kissed her knuckles, kissed his way up her arm, moved her onto her back, kissed her neck, her mouth, moved with her in a wonderful rhythm. She was naked beneath him. Gloriously naked. But she wasn’t, was she?

Groaning, he massages his forehead. The memories floating in his mind are too fuzzy, like charcoal sketches smudged at the lines until the shape becomes difficult to discern. They mingle with countless dreams of her naked and hot in his arms until he can’t separate them, can’t tell which are real and which are fantasies.

His head hurts too much. He’s too tired. His eyes are begging for him to keep them shut. His mind is begging for him to lie down, sink back into the sea of dreams and memories, and drift ashore in a few hours, pain-free and clear-headed. Maybe then he'll know. To accomplish that, though, he needs sustenance. Ignoring his lack of appetite, he empties carafe and plate the way only a man of the Watch can. Then he moves his body from chair to bed. The servants left the chamber dimly lit and quiet, shutters and windows closed. He’s barely settled in before he falls asleep.

When Jessamyn Redwyne was seventeen years old, she fell deeply in love with a handsome young lord already betrothed, and he fall in love with her. At feasts, they’d cast long looks after one another, find any excuse to talk and touch, slip each other hastily written notes full of secret wishes. Time marched on. The eve of his wedding grew closer. Desperate to replace his bride, Jessamyn turned to her recently–and very happily–married cousin for help. After all, Olenna had managed to win Luthor Tyrell, the man promised to her sister.

After teaching Jessamyn how to secure a husband, they chose the evening of a feast, where wine and ale flowed and men drank until their characters were as weak as their flesh. When the evening was still young, Olenna sneaked Jessamyn into the man’s chamber, helped her undress, and wished her good luck. Though, hours of waiting ate at Jessamyn’s bravery. She was a good girl! Surely, the gods would reward her for it, granting her wish a more appropriate way. As her love had yet to arrive, she threw on her clothes, found her mother, and confessed the whole sordid plan. Surely, her mother would reward her as well, praising her for doing what’s right.

Alas, Jessamyn was wrong. Fearing a second attempt, her mother quickly arranged a match with a northern lord of no consequence. A month later, Jessamyn was an Ivertusk, wedded, bedded, and miserable. And miserable she stayed. With her heart forever trapped in the Reach, she had none left to give her husband. Every day since, she’s mourned what would’ve been had she only been braver. Only her children and children’s children have ever given her joy.

At least, that’s what Jessamyn told Melisia last night while pouring wine into her.

“She only tried to help, my lady.” Melisia wipes her already chafed nose with a handkerchief. “She knows I’ve loved the king from afar ever since we attended his coronation feast. I’d never seen a more handsome man. Oh, how I envied you, Lady Sansa. To sit by his side…” A dreamy smile spreads across Melisia’s face until her red-rimmed eyes sparkle. “I wanted nothing more than to speak to him and never believed I’d ever get the chance. But now I have–and he’s even more wonderful than I ever could’ve imagined. So brave and strong and kind. He’s so patient with me, even when I’m terribly clumsy. And we get along so well. We love the same book! And Grandmama says I make him laugh more than anyone else, that he looks at me as if he finds me the most beautiful girl in the world, that he’s asked Father about me every day and–”

“Asked what?” Sansa says before she can help herself.

“Oh! Well, about my character. How accomplished I am. Whether I can sew and sing and embroider and play any instruments. Whether I’m good with children, with strangers, with the sick and the poor. Things like that. He never said, ‘Would she make a good queen?’ but it was implied. And I truly did believe…”

Melisia’s dreamy smile dies a slow death. A quivering bottom lip and teary eyes take its place. A similar expression threatens to break through Sansa’s carefully wrought mask, but she subdues it. Melisia believes what she’s been told, that much is clear, but that doesn’t make it true. Jessamyn could’ve lied. There's no point asking Della either way; there's only one person whose answer Sansa would trust. It'll have to wait.

“I should’ve known better,” Melisia whispers, letting the tears trickle down her cheeks unwiped. “He’s much too good to bed a woman before marriage. That is not the kind of man he is.”

It takes Sansa a good portion of her willpower to stay collected rather than informing this girl that she doesn’t know what kind of man Jon is. She hasn’t spent years by his side, working and arguing and talking late into the night. She’s never seen him sulk about something silly, nor teased him about it until he laughed himself into a better mood. She’s never seen a simple cold render him an annoying boy, nor put her frustration aside and done her best to ease his discomfort anyway. She’s never seen him so weary he’s close to tears, nor supported him until he found new strength and better solutions. She’s never washed his wounds, never sat with him in silence a whole evening, never lain in his arms until morning. She’s never woken up in the middle of the night from scratches on the door by a wolf knowing his best friend needed her presence to keep nightmares at bay.

Melisia doesn’t know Jon. Jon isn’t hers to know. She’s just a sheltered girl infatuated with a dream–and that’s what Sansa reminds herself of over and over to keep the possessiveness simmering within from boiling.

She’s you, a lifetime ago. A much older version of an equally naive you. And Jon isn’t yours, either. He might prefer Melisia for all you know. He might’ve fled to your chamber and your bed so free from temptation because he wants to do this the right way.

When Sansa feels Della’s eyes on her, she fears jealousy’s slipped through her mask. But when their gazes meet, she finds only a look of exasperation over a young girl’s exaggerated emotions. A look Della’s hoping to share, as if they're both old and wise. Still, Sansa shares it. She might be younger in years, but in experiences…? Oh, she has more in common with a woman close to fifty than one close to twenty.

“Do you know what the worst part is?” Melisia blinks her big brown eyes, releasing more tears. “His rejection only made me love him more. For he is good and kind and unlike any other man in this realm. But now I have ruined my chances, haven’t I? The king will never see me the same way again.” She aims those big eyes at Sansa. “Will he?”

“That’s not for me to say.”

“But what did the king say?” Chin dipped, Melisia speaks in the sweet voice of a shy maid. “Surely, you spoke with him last night? Did he speak of me? Does he hope to--”

“I will not reveal my private conversations with the king.”

“No, of course.” Head ducked, Melisia finally wipes her pink cheeks before twisting the handkerchief in her hands while moving her lips soundlessly. It takes her a good five breaths to muster up the courage to add sound to her words. “My lady, will you please let the king know I… I never meant to… Please let him know I hold only love and admiration for him in my heart. That my love for him is so strong it made me foolish and desperate. That I wanted only to be his wife. That I still want it. That I would do anything required to prove myself and my love. And please know, Lady Sansa, that I should love to call you sister. Truly.”

“Jon and I are cousins. Whomever he chooses to marry, she’ll not be my sister.”

“No, but… Friend, then. I do believe we could become the best of friends. At least I’ve long hoped we’d be. All my life, I've heard of the beautiful, kind, and intelligent Sansa Stark. That she's what every lady should aspire to be--and I know now that it's true. Not just something people say. My wish to be your friend was never insincere.”

Nor are her words insincere, but what does that matter now? Sansa won’t ever see Melisia the same way, either. She can offer sympathy but never ever friendship.

“I will share this conversation with the king, as is my duty,” she says. “That is all.”

“I understand,” Melisia whispers at her lap. “Please don’t be too cross with Grandmama. She only wanted to make me the happiest girl in the world. I swear it, on the old gods and the new.”

“Thank you, Melisia.” Sansa smiles as kindly as she can. “You may leave. I’d like a word with your mother.” 

She’s all around him, her hair splayed over his chest, her cheek resting over his heart, her bare legs tangled with his. When he breathes in, there’s nothing but her scent. He’ll smell of her forever.

“You have to get up.” She lifts her head and looks down at him, her hair glowing like a halo in the hearth-light and her smile so loving it makes him ache in the best sort of way. “Jon.” She strokes his hair from his forehead. “Wake up.”

“I don’t want to,” he murmurs, struggling to open eyes glued shut by fatigue. “So tired. Let’s stay in bed.”

“We can’t stay here.”

She’s gone from his embrace, now seated on her side of the bed and dressed in something green instead of being beautifully naked. Jon frowns, his eyes falling shut again. When did she get dressed? He just wants her naked and back in his arms so they can sink into dreams together. So he can sink into her. Why won’t she lie down? With an almost whiny noise low in his throat, he strokes a hand up her thigh and grabs her hip–

“Jon.” Sansa removes his hand from her body and holds it firmly in both of hers. “Wake up.”

His eyes fly open, heart pounding in his chest as reality rushes back into his sleep-addled head. Sansa is there, holding his hand. But she didn’t return from breakfast to fall into his arms naked and hungry for something else. She’s dressed in green, he’s still in last night’s garments, and all his blood pulses where it shouldn’t.

“Sorry.” He springs out of bed so quickly it makes his head spin, and he has to grab the back of a chair to steady himself. “I was dreaming.”

He could bite his damn tongue clean off. If she asks him what he was dreaming, what is he supposed to say? Oh, I dreamed about lying naked with you in bed. That’s why I was hard. Because I wanted to take you all over again.

Did she even notice? Maybe she didn’t notice. How can you miss tented fucking breeches, though? Jon grunts, pressing the heel of his palm against his eyebrow and waiting for a question he doesn’t want to answer. Waiting for answers too he’s not so sure he wants.

She rises, smooths out her skirts, touches her hair as if he tousled it again with his damn fingers when it’s perfectly curled by her handmaiden.

“It’s all right,” Sansa says, her cheeks much pinker than usual. “Does your head hurt?”

Jon exhales his frustration. “Forget about my head. I want to know what happened.”

“Well”--smiling, Sansa presses her hands together–”Della and I had a long and very fruitful conversation over breakfast. I think you’ll be quite pleased with how it all turned out.”

Sansa’s proud of herself. He can tell from the quirk of her mouth, the arch of her eyebrows, and he has no bleeding idea what the hell she’s on about, can only stare at her in disbelief. 

“What?” she says. “I took care of it.”

“Sansa! What happened between us? And why the hell did you let Della and your bleeding handmaiden into the chamber? Now everyone will know we…” He gestures between them.

“Slept in the same bed? No. They won’t.” Sansa licks her lips. “Jon. She knew.”

“So we did-- Wait. What? How?"

“She knew about Melisia.”

Jon shakes his head. “What? What does Melisia have to do with–”

When he can’t find any words, he gestures at the bed (even though it’s the wrong one), at his now clothed self, at the bed again–and a fragment of last night floats through his memory. His eyes slide from Sansa to the bed and its rumpled linen. Naked flesh; wide brown eyes; an extended arm beckoning him to join her. It blends together with his other fragmented memories, and for one sickening moment, he fears he’s done something even worse. 

Eyes squeezed shut, he goes through the memory again. The door to the chamber sliding open. Melisia in his bed. A sweet voice saying words he didn’t stay to hear.

“I didn’t touch her,” he says, almost to himself. He looks up at Sansa, takes two angry steps closer and flings out his arm, pointing at the bed. “I didn’t touch her!”

“I know. You told me–and she has not contradicted it. Neither to me nor her mother. She’s heartbroken because you rejected her.”

Jon sighs, rubbing at the mild headache simmering under his brow. “So you invited Della into the chamber because…”

“At the time, I didn’t know how involved she was or what she’d been told. Had I invited neither her nor Minna, and your chamber had been discovered to be empty, people would’ve talked–and they could’ve made up any kind of lies. But now Della saw you, fully dressed and asleep on the settle, and learned you stayed there all night rather than entertaining her daughter. And a servant was there to witness it. Sometimes, displaying the truth–”

Jon huffs out a breath, glaring at the bed that still isn’t the right one but it’ll have to do! 

“All right,” Sansa says. “Sometimes displaying a version of the truth is better than trying to conceal it.”

A version of the truth. Is that what she’s given him? With everything still so fuzzy, he can’t make sense of it. The fragments he’s grasped and cobbled into something barely coherent don’t form the image Sansa’s presented. They don’t fit the image of the two of them sharing a bed because of her nightmares, the way they have so far. He was naked, she wasn’t far from it, and her hair’s never looked that way when they’ve woken up together. When he searches her eyes for answers or at the very least some kind of hint, she blushes again. Fidgets. Looks away. But she’s not shying away from his touch. She doesn’t seem uncomfortable with him.

Perhaps she wanted it, then. Ladies have needs too. It’s just him she doesn’t want. At least not as a husband.

Aye, that could be it. She doesn’t want to marry him.

He closes the rest of the distance between them and lifts his hands to gently cup her arms, but that’s a terrible idea, isn’t it. He shouldn’t touch her now; he lets his hands drop and raises his gaze instead, looking deeply into her eyes so she knows his words are true. But while he’s still gathering himself to get them out, she starts speaking again.

“You should change. We’re leaving in half an hour. I’ve already told the servants. They’re waiting outside to pack your things.”

“But…” Despite his better judgment, he takes her hand and says, quietly. “Sansa, if something happened, and you’re not telling me because you don’t want to marry…  I offered because it’s the right thing to do. I’d never force you.”

“And I’d never keep something like that from you,” she says, just as quietly. “You have not dishonored me. We slept. That’s all. I promise.” She gives his hand a comforting squeeze before letting go. “I want to tell you about my breakfast meeting. I have a lot to share. But I’m not staying in this keep longer than I have to. We’ll talk in the wheelhouse.”

Chapter Text

Since stepping aboard the wheelhouse, Jon’s not made a single sound. Besides confirming with a glance she was seated before knocking on the wall to get the wheelhouse moving, he’s not looked at her either. He’s too busy staring through the airy lace at their retinue preparing their departure. 

If Sansa could peer into his mind, though, would she find the same thoughts whirling in there that whirl in hers?

He had his hand on her hip, he said, underneath her nightrail. But she can’t remember it. She only remembers slowly coming to and finding that they no longer cuddled, as though he’d woken, and aghast at their intimacy, put the desired distance between them, quicker than a gasp. As disheartening as that is, she remembers something else too.

When she returned from the privy early this morning, she found him on his back. Disappointment settled in her chest as she settled in and he remained unmoving. Her untouched back felt so much like an invitation rejected, every blink of her eyes seemed an eternity. How could she sleep like that? Gingerly, lest she touched him, she rolled over on her other side. Facing him, yes, but she didn’t so much as glance at him before closing her eyes–and that’s when he moved after all. Perhaps he was only stretching out his arm–where else would it go but across her pillow, right above her head?--but she wanted it to be an invitation to cuddle close so badly she couldn’t help but lift her head. Just to see what he'd do.

He slid his arm down and wrapped it around her so fluidly, pulled her close so quickly, she didn't have time to get nervous until she pillowed her head on his shoulder and her heart started to race. Soar, really, filling her with a rare touch of boldness. Despite his lack of nightshirt, despite never having done so before, she rested a hand on his bare chest.

“Where did you go?” he murmured.

“I had to make water,” she whispered.

Then she explained how he needn’t worry. She’d passed the chambers her handmaidens occupied, let them know she didn’t need them until nine when they usually wake her at seven. To give Jon two more hours of sleep before she’d rouse him and get him back to his chamber. An hour was more than enough to accomplish that.

She didn’t realize she was running her fingers along his scars as she talked until he laid his hand over hers, stilling it.

“Tickles,” he said.

“I'm sorry.”

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “Forgive you.”

After returning her hand to his chest, he fell back asleep while she lay awake, listening to sense doing its best to beat down hope, telling it he didn’t know whose knuckles he kissed. That, even if he did, he stopped her from touching his scars the way only a lover would touch them.

The soft sound of his sigh draws her back to the present. He’s still staring out the window, watching the gray stone of the keep get replaced by the yellow grass and dove-blue skies of a rainy spring that’s yet to truly bloom.

Barely a week ago, Sansa arrived at Seabluff Keep fearing a betrothal. Now, as the gently rocking wheelhouse carries her and Jon through the gates and away from this horrid place, she wishes she’d left betrothed after all. Jon did propose to her. Not in any of the thousand ways she’s dreamed of, no, but he offered her marriage and a good life. He offered to make her happy.

Barely a week ago, she sat in this exact spot, glancing at him while poring over the infinitesimal, wishing she could finally stop–yet here she sits again, glancing, poring…

It didn’t feel infinitesimal, though. What he did last night. That’s the thing. It watered her shriveled up hope until it rose back to life and started to bud. It’s frail, though, and whenever she remembers Jon laughing and smiling at Melisia, sense grabs a sharper blade and throws itself back into a battle that’s getting louder and louder. It’s unbearable. It's exhausting. It keeps her lips sealed shut lest she parts them and the battle decides to jump out and take place inside the wheelhouse rather than her mind. She can’t be the one to confess.

He could be waiting for you to confess, hope whispers. Last night might’ve meant nothing, it’s true, but what if it meant everything?

There's a chance--even sense will admit that--but Sansa can’t risk being yet another woman throwing herself at him and suffocating him with her neediness and unwanted desires. She’d never forgive herself. If he wants her, he'll have to tell her.

Jon tears his eyes from the world without, then, and finally looks at her. “We’ve left the courtyard.”

His eyes are so dark, so intense, it makes her stomach flutter, makes her believe he is thinking about it too. How he almost broke his promise that she wouldn't leave this place betrothed when he offered to make her happy.

“Does that mean you can finally tell me what you learned from Lady Ivertusk?”

Oh.

“Or do you want more distance?” he asks. “We can wait.” 

“No,” Sansa says. “I’ll tell you.”

When Jessamyn Redwyne was seventeen, she wanted much more from life than what the daughter of a second-born son could expect. At her favorite cousin’s wedding feast, after a lot of wine and giggling, Olenna told Jessamyn how she’d managed to get Luthor Tyrell to propose despite his being promised to her sister. Then she encouraged Jessamyn to do the same with the lord of her choosing. Thaddeus Tarly was neither handsome nor Jessamyn’s love, but he was his father’s heir and Jessamyn wanted nothing more than to become the Lady of Horn Hill.

After listening to Olenna’s instructions on how to seduce a man and pleasure him so thoroughly he wanted no one else, she sneaked into Thaddeus’ chamber, undressed, and waited for his arrival. She didn't lose her nerve, didn't flee, and he didn't hesitate to spend the rest of the night enjoying the naked beauty in his bed. When morning came, he told her he’d never let such a loose girl become Lady of Horn Hill. Then he threw her clothes into the hearth and Jessamyn out of the chamber, as naked as on her nameday, in someone else’s keep, the morning after a grand feast half of Westeros attended.

It takes Jon a good few breaths to take in everything he just learned, put his chin back in place, and find his voice. “That’s Sam’s grandfather,” he hears himself saying, as if that’s the important bit.

“Yes,” Sansa says. “He sounded about as nice as Sam’s father.”

“But she told Melisia they were in love? Jessamyn and Sam’s grandfather.”

“Deeply in love. But then the truth wouldn’t have been very encouraging. While trying to get back to her guest chamber, Jessamyn was spotted by quite a few people before someone took pity on her and helped. She didn’t name Thaddeus, but a maid found remnants of her clothes in his fireplace, and that was enough. Whispers spread and ravens flew. Within days, most of the south knew. Jessamyn was ruined. Before it spread farther, her mother looked north and found a wealthy lord with a young enough family tree, he found her much older tree very impressive. Once he learned she was beautiful too, he didn’t care about her lost maidenhead. She was given moontea and shipped off.”

“And now she encouraged her granddaughter to do the same? What if I’d been like Thaddeus?” Jon closes his eyes with a sigh. “The hunt. I told the men I wouldn’t sire a bastard. Lord Ivertusk must’ve told her.”

“Or they already knew. People gossip. Perhaps the whole North knows you’d never sire a bastard. This could simply be the first time someone took advantage of the fact.”

The first? Jon groans.

“Honestly,” Sansa says, “I believe they planned it from the start. Not what happened last night. If that were the plan, they never would’ve wanted me here. I believe they wanted me to become so fond of Melisia, I’d invite her to Winterfell. That would’ve given her an opportunity to get closer to you. A slower seduction. One less risky and more likely to succeed.”

“Della said that?”

“No. She claims she only knew her husband and his mother wanted Melisia to become my lady-in-waiting. That Jessamyn kept telling all the Ivertusks to ensure you felt even more spoiled than the nameday boy himself. Something neither Della nor her husband took issue with as it would've helped their standing in society. They would’ve taken issue with this, though, which is why Jessamyn didn’t tell them.”

“Ivertusk didn’t know? I find that difficult to believe.” 

“It’s what Della believes. As Ivertusk had a lot to drink last night and is far from a joy when hungover, she didn’t want to rouse him that early to deliver such upsetting news. According to her, Ivertusk and his brothers were raised to be very protective of their daughters’ maidenheads. Because of what happened to their mother. Della was quite shocked to learn that Jessamyn of all people encouraged her favorite granddaughter to take such a risk.”

“She must've really believed it, then. That I..." Jon clears his throat. "Can't imagine she'd take that risk otherwise.”

“I believe she felt confident it would work, yes, but I haven't spoken with her and neither had Della. Once Melisia had shared everything, Della went straight to the guest quarters to salvage whatever she could of their relationship with the crown.”

Jon tugs down the corners of his mouth. “Seems to me it escalated rather quickly. You don’t abandon a carefully laid plan like that unless–” When a blush blooms across Sansa's cheeks, Jon exhales, tired. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!”

“Sansa.” 

“I didn’t.”

“But?”

“But,” she says, clasping her hands in her lap, “I overheard a conversation between Jessamyn and her friends. It was clear she was hoping for Melisia to become your bride. I think she might’ve seen me, assumed Melisia’s chances of becoming my lady-in-waiting ruined, and decided to move things along.” 

Jon scoffs. “A quicker seduction.”

“I should’ve told you. I’m sorry. If I had, this might've never happened.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Girls are sent away in hopes of securing husbands every day, Jon. It was hardly so alarming it couldn’t wait until morning. I really didn’t think they’d stoop this low.”

Hadn’t he looked at her, Sansa's calm and collected tone would’ve been enough to move on, but the angle of her chin, the still-pink blush of her cheeks tell him there’s more to it. Elbows on his knees, Jon leans forward and locks eyes with her. “Why didn’t you tell me, Sansa?”

“I…” A shuddering breath escapes her. She licks her lips, shaking her head, and looks at him as if he should know the answer already. “Why do you think Jessamyn was so certain it would work. When you danced with Melisia, she saw something. I saw it too. And I know I’m your adviser and that she isn’t the best choice you could make, but she’s not the worst, either. If it weren’t for her family, she could’ve made a lovely wife and queen. And if you were falling in love with her–”

“You would’ve, what, let me marry someone who wants me for my crown? Aye, you’re my adviser, Sansa, but I thought you were my friend first, and a friend would’ve understood what I meant when I said I want to be wanted. A friend would’ve cared.”

“I do,” she says, quietly. “You’ve got it wrong. When a man looks the way you look, women get very silly. Women want you, Jon. The crown makes them more likely to show it, that’s all. Melisia’s in love with you. It’s why she was so easily manipulated by her grandmother. She loves you and she thought you were falling as well, and I honestly can’t blame her for it. You seemed to find her rather fetching.”

“Aye, she’s a pretty girl, but that doesn’t mean I have feelings for her.”

“At the time, I believed you did. What was I supposed to think? Despite my reservations, you kept asking me to invite her to Winterfell. I didn’t think it was my place to interfere. Nor that it would’ve been appreciated.”

Her tone’s all sensible again, but the look in her eyes sends him back to last night, to a warm hug on a windy balcony. She was upset. A headache, she claimed, but she must’ve just overheard the conversation. Why else would Jessamyn have kept interfering when he tried to find Sansa?

Sansa didn’t, though, did she. Interfere.

She fought for Winterfell, for the North, for their family. She even fought for his freedom and his crown. It's what she does: protecting what she loves and fighting for what she wants. But if she perceived Melisia neither as a threat to their safety nor as a rival… She'd do nothing, and nothing is what she did-- No. That's not true. She did do something, didn't she. She encouraged him to dance with someone else. To dance with Melisia. Jon catches his mouth twisting into a sad smile and stops it by biting his bottom lip, nodding to himself. Sansa really doesn't want him, then. Not in any way.

But if that's true, why did she look so sad?

Oh. Jon could kick himself for not seeing the obvious: he’s not the only one they deceived.

“The balcony,” he murmurs. “You felt used, didn’t you?”

“I felt stupid. I was so afraid of ending up betrothed to an Ivertusk, I couldn’t see which Stark they really wanted.”

Jon does smile, then. At least with his mouth. “Still not a Stark.”

“I failed you. I’m supposed to be good at this and I failed you.”

“You didn’t. You sensed something was wrong and I talked you out of it.” He heaves a sigh. “And then I made you clean up my mess. I really am the arse.”

“Unless you did something or said something to make Melisia believe–”

“I didn’t! What do you take me for?”

“I didn’t say you did. I’m only trying to tell you that they created that mess. And I’ve made them pay for it. Literally.”

“Ah. That’s why you looked so proud of yourself this morning. Memory’s a bit fuzzy,” he says, scratching his jaw, “but I think you said I’d be pleased?”

“I did.” Sansa straightens her back a little, the proud arch of her brow returning. “Toward the end of my conversation with Della, I happened to mention some of the things you want to accomplish. I told her you were eager to return home because Davos had possibly found a few prospective patrons. She understood what I was really saying, let me know she found it a noble and worthwhile cause, and said Lord Ivertusk would be happy to part from some of his gold if it meant helping the North’s orphans. I assumed you would prefer that over punishing an old woman and the poor girl she manipulated.”

“Aye, I would.”

“It struck me as well that it might be for the best to separate them. Melisia's too eager to please her grandmother to stay under her influence. The south might be a better place for her. I wouldn't struggle in finding someone happy to take her on as lady-in-waiting. I don’t think her mother would protest, either, but I didn’t mention it. In case you wanted Melisia to stay in the North. But with your permission…?”

She pauses, then, as if waiting for him to protest when he’s already made himself clear--or as if so afraid of that protest, she needs reassurance.

No, that can’t be it. If anything would’ve finally made Sansa see him in a new light and realize that maybe, maybe she wanted him for herself, this would’ve been it. But jealousy didn't ignite a desire to fight for him. She practically gave her bleeding blessing.

“You have it,” he says. "My permission."

As the words leave him, whatever’s kept Jon running after so little sleep does too. Leaning his head against the wall, he lets his stinging eyes drift shut. This truly is the worst week he's had in a good while.

“Do you need to lie down?” Sansa asks, softly.

“Aye, maybe,” he mumbles.

“I don’t think the top bunk is made, but you can have mine. You probably shouldn’t be climbing, anyway.”

He agrees with a hum–and then his eyes fly open. Her bunk? Where he’ll wrap himself in her scent and slide into dangerous dreams when she’s an arm’s length away and probably will be the one to wake him by sitting down on the bunk and touching his shoulder and…

Aye, what a brilliant idea that is.

“Nah.” He forces another smile. “If I don’t keep you company, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

She rolls her eyes at him, fondly. “I won’t mind. I promise. After the night you’ve had, you deserve some rest.”

“I deserve some rest? You did all the work. Can’t reward you for it by letting you sit here alone for hours, can I.”

“I was happy to do it. You might not remember, what with your memory being fuzzy, but…”

When she looks at him with warmth, a small smile rounding her cheeks, he does remember. He remembers her hands cupping his cheeks, her lips offering kind words, his lips wanting to capture them, taste those words, taste everything.

They didn’t, though. They behaved. For a while. Unbidden, his fingers move to his lips to wipe them when that would only make him look as guilty as he feels. He clenches his fingers into a fist instead, forcing his hand back down.

Can’t do shit to suffocate the guilt smoldering in the pit of his stomach, though. Can’t stop it from spreading until he’s hot with it. Painted a furious shade of red too, no doubt. His palms are damp with sweat. He drags them over his thighs. Like he dragged them up her thigh. Gods, her skin was soft.

“...I meant what I said last night. I’m glad you came to me. It was the right thing to do.”

“Was it?” He wipes his hands again. “Almost made an even bigger mess.”

He doesn’t realize what his useless mouth said until he sees the surprised look on her face. One he probably mirrors. Only much redder. Well, at least his useless mouth didn’t tell her exactly how big that mess could’ve been hadn’t he woken up before doing something unforgiveable–

For fuck’s sake, don’t think about that. Not now. Not ever.

“I just meant. If I’d been found in your bed,” he says–and then he goes quiet. Can’t finish that sentence. Can’t venture into a territory that perilous. He’s not sharp enough for it.

“That wouldn’t have been on you,” Sansa says. “When Minna had breakfast with all the other handmaidens, she learned Lady Ivertusk was planning on visiting my chamber. She rushed back, arriving a mere moment before Della did–and an hour before I’d told her to wake me. If it weren’t for Della, I would’ve gotten you out of my bed and into yours without anyone knowing a thing.”

Jon rubs at his forehead. “Shouldn’t have been in your bed in the first place.”

“You thought it was your bed.”

Aye, he did. But what does that matter? He still invited her to join him. To lie in his arms, her warm body pressed against his, her fingers woven with his, her naked hip in the palm of his hand, the heat of her so close it nearly burned him.

Had he not woken up in time, had he sunk into her– No. Stop.

Jon tugs at his collar, slides a hand underneath his hair and lifts it from his neck to let some air flow over his damp skin. Sansa’s staring at him. Though he can’t bring himself to look at her, he feels her piercing blue eyes poking holes at him, trying to find his secrets–

Shielding himself with anger, he flicks his gaze up to meet hers after all and glares at her. “Will you stop looking at me like that!”

Sansa’s piercing blue eyes blink. “Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to read my damn mind!”

“If you told me what’s on your mind–”

“What’s on my mind is none of your concern!”

When she draws a shaky breath and averts her eyes, a wave of shame washes over him, taking with it his anger and leaving only defeat behind. She doesn’t deserve this. After what he’s put her through, she deserves the truth. She probably suspects it, anyway. Wants it confirmed so she can keep her distance. But he won’t let her move away. Winterfell belongs to her, not him. He’ll be the one who leaves–and until that’s arranged, he’ll have to walk through the same halls as her, eat in the same chamber as her, unwind in the same solar as her... No. He can't. Once she knows, how could he face her? He'll have to arrange a seat for himself first and then he'll tell her. Aye, that's better. And as for today… What was is she said earlier? Something about displaying a version of the truth. Aye, he can do that. He’s done that enough times in his life, it’ll hardly be a challenge.

“Just ask,” he says. “I’d rather you ask.”

Sansa regards him for longer than he’d like before looking away, hands smoothing out her skirts over her thighs. Jon swallows and drags his hand over his mouth as if that would wipe away the hunger still simmering in his body. The hunger shame and guilt seem entirely unable to kill.

“I only wanted to know,” she says, her voice small and soft, “why you insisted on staying. Once I told you it was my chamber.”

He takes a deep breath, nodding, adjusting the way he sits on the bench when his discomfort is so deeply rooted he could shift all day without it doing a bleeding thing.

“I was afraid she’d return and try again.”

“You could’ve locked your door. Yours had a slide bolt, just like mine.”

“Aye, but this thing wasn’t working as it should, was it,” he says, pointing at his damn head that isn’t working that great now, either. “I didn’t remember a bleeding slide bolt. I just wanted to sleep and if I’d gone to sleep in my bed, alone, and she’d returned and crawled into bed with me, I’m not so sure I could’ve resisted.”

That confession’s met with silence. The gulp when he swallows is loud enough the driver must hear it. 

“So you were tempted,” Sansa says. “When you opened the door and saw–”

“No. No. I wasn’t. That is not what I meant. Had I gone to bed and woken up to–” He growls out a sigh. “If a beautiful woman starts touching you like that and you’re drunk too? It’s been a while, Sansa. I’m still a man.”

More silence. Well, this is going bleeding fantastic. 

When he glances at her through the corner of his eye, he finds her looking at him in a way that makes him want to crawl into the chest and rot.

“I see,” she says. “That’s why you believed we’d been intimate. You thought I took advantage of you. That I started touching you and you were too drunk to resist.”

“No! Seven hells, Sansa. Why do you think I came to you? I trust you. I know you’d never do anything like that.”

“Then how did you think it happened? When you woke up, you were so sure we’d been intimate, you offered to marry me even before making certain we had.”

“I was naked and we were–”

He clamps his useless mouth shut before it says too much. Tugs at his collar again. Why’s the air in here fucking impossible to suck down into your lungs?

“We were what?” she asks.

“We were in the same bed and I thought… I just thought it had happened. All right? It does sometimes! Happen.” He folds his arms over his chest and slumps in his seat, glaring at the wall instead of someone who doesn’t deserve it. “Sometimes it just happens.”

“I wouldn’t know. I grew up believing that only happened between a husband and his wife. Who loved one another. And I know now it’s not true, that you only need desire, but…”

Jon huffs out a laugh. “You don’t even need that. It’s like hunger. If you could choose whatever you wanted for supper, you’d choose something you love. But if you can’t, if you’re hungry enough, you’ll eat whatever you’re served.”

That penetrating look returns to her eyes and maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if it could poke holes in him and put him out of his misery. Or at the very least let some of the damn heat out of his body before he’s soaked through with sweat.

“That’s why you slept in my bed,” she says. “Naked. Why you insisted on holding me. Because you’re starving–and last night you were drunk enough to think I’d do. That’s why you thought it happened.”

“What? No! How–” He gapes at her. “I didn’t say any of that! If I just wanted a woman, I could’ve taken her!”

“You would’ve had to marry her.”

“I would’ve had to marry you!”

The words came out so loud, he sucks in a terrified breath and half-expects the wheelhouse to stop and the whole damn world to come running, fling the door open, and stare at them. Stare at them with curious eyes rather than the strange way Sansa looks at him now, all inscrutable anew when she’s supposed to be shouting back at him. She’s supposed to raise her voice and stand opposite him with heaving breaths and fire in her eyes. What the hell is he to make of this? Why is she so damn calm?

“It was rather sweet, your proposal.”

The sudden shift in tone scrambles his mind so thoroughly, every thought he has disintegrates until there’s nothing left but dust. All he can do is gawk at her.

“You could’ve been angry with me,” she continues, “for letting it happen when I wasn’t drunk and you were, but you weren’t angry. You offered to marry me and make me happy. You didn’t so much as hesitate.”

Jon gestures vaguely with his hands to give his mind time to sweep up the dust and form it into something resembling a brain.

“I…  I thought I’d done something awful. The least I could do was offer to make you happy.” He exhales and shakes his head, mumbling, “As if I know how to make a wife happy.”

“You don’t?”

“Why would I? Never had one.”

“But… You’ve had women.”

“It’s not the same. I’ve never shared a life with someone, lived with her every day, gotten to know her–truly know her–and love her for it. I’ve never done that.”

“You live with me every day.”

As he slowly lifts his head to look at her, he’s pretty damn sure he’s never looked dumber in his life because it’s true, isn’t it? 

“We’ve had a lot of days together," she says.

That’s true as well–and with every day, his love has grown stronger and stronger. Strong enough to develop roots instead of eating at the ropes that bind him in place until they break and he can escape.

“After all this time,” Sansa says, “you don’t know what makes me happy? I thought you knew me.”

“I know you.”

“And yet you don’t know what–”

“I’d find you some bleeding wood anemones. How’s that?” 

He receives no reply. Sansa simply sits there, as quiet as snowfall, trying to read his damn mind when she knows him too. Knows it’s making him squirm, know he’s not lost his temper like this in ages, knows how little sleep he’s gotten, can’t’ve been more than five hours put together, and he’s fairly certain he’s still a bit drunk, which isn’t fair when you think about it, and his knee’s bouncing, the heel of his boot tap-tap-tapping against the floorboards.

His eyes don’t know where to land, flitting around like a moth trapped beneath a dome of glass.

Stop fucking staring.

“You held me really close.” Her voice is so low he can barely hear it over his restless tapping and the wheels creaking and rumbling against the dry road. “Really close.”

“Thought you had a nightmare,” he says in a voice so hoarse it’s mortifying. “I was confused.”

“You smelled my neck. Said I smell nice. You…” She swallows, blushing again, and he knows he is too, knows he looks like a pink fish trapped on land and gaping after water. “I don’t know for certain," she says with a small shrug, "but I think I felt your–”

Panic shoots his hand upward, raps his knuckles thrice against the wall, hard enough his skin smarts. He’s on his feet and by the door before the wheelhouse has groaned to a stop.

“What are you doing? Jon–”

“I’m talking a walk.”

“But,” she says, rising too. “Please stay. I want to talk.”

“I need air! Alone.”

He stumbles outside, leaving the road with angry steps, replacing the suffocating wheelhouse and questions he doesn’t want to answer with the open sky and the chirping of birds filling the woods warding off these blasted winds.

He’ll just walk. Walk until his head stops pounding and starts working, walk until his body cools and calms, walk until he can bear to face her after all. Now that she knows.

Through the lace-covered window, Sansa watches Jon vanishing into the woods with four guards following twenty steps behind. If only Ghost had joined them; he could’ve shot after Jon and offered some comfort. When he’s like this, only Ghost will do. If she were to chase after Jon, demanding answers, he’d only clench his jaw even harder to trap the words inside, and she’d have to wait even longer to hear them.

Opening the cedar chest, Sansa picks up her knitting and the two skeins of goat’s wool. 

Jon will return once he’s ready; he always does.

Sansa’s holding up her knitting, inspecting the ermine pattern and searching for any potential mistakes, when the door opens and Jon returns, much sooner than expected. He doesn’t sit, though. He stands in the middle of the wheelhouse, not quite looking at her.

“Will you please take a walk with me,” he says, eyes trained on the wall. “You wanted to talk. We can talk. But not in here.”

Not in here?

Slowly, she lowers the knitting. If he wants even more privacy than what the wheelhouse can offer…

Discreetly, she takes him in, the taut way he holds his body, the restless flexing of his sword-hand, the king's mask hiding his emotions from their retinue. From her. If she allows hope to talk, Jon’s figured out she wants him and realized he wants her too. If she allows sense to talk… Honestly, Jon's demeanor has convinced it to lay down its sword and finally agree with hope and it’s so exciting she has to hide behind her mask too.

"I'd love a walk," Sansa says with her most amiable lady voice.

Then she follows Jon out of the wheelhouse and into the woods.

Chapter Text

Leaving the wind-swept headlands for this quiet spot of nature feels like leaving a roaring feast and closing the door behind you. At first everything is still. Then, with every step, Sansa’s ears adjust more and more until she hears all the sounds surrounding them: the woodpecker hacking away at a tree trunk; a stream babbling somewhere up ahead; the guards’ armor clunking many feet behind them; the breathing of the otherwise silent man by her side.

She stays silent too, doesn’t rush him with impatient sighs, doesn’t even shoot him besotted looks of anticipation. Yes, sense has laid down its sword, but she doesn’t need sense to tell her only fools celebrate early. She keeps her mask on, hiding from him and the guards alike how her heart skips around so joyfully her legs want to skip too. As if she were a young girl when she’s a woman grown walking on steady feet toward their future.

Oh, all right. She is a bit weak in the knees, but it no longer makes her feel pathetic. At least not at first. But now the wheelhouse is far behind them, the guards mere brownish shapes that gleam whenever the sun falls over them and catches in their swords and helms, and still Jon's lips stay unmoving. Usually, he would've said at least something by now. Sansa sighs after all, can’t help herself, and shoots him a look (although, there’s nothing besotted about it). Then another. Ends up training her eyes on him, only ever casting the briefest of glances on the path lest she trips over one of the many roots peeking through the trodden ground. 

Why doesn’t he say anything? 

Say something.

As if Jon heard her unspoken command, he slows his step and meets her gaze. But does he open his mouth? No. He simply motions for her to keep her eyes on where she’s walking with a nod. She’s the one who opens her mouth, then, to let him know she’s not a child. She’s perfectly capable of walking down a path full of roots, weak knees and all. But there’s something about his mouth, a faint twitching of a smile at the corners, that stops her. There’s something about his eyes too, something glimmering in the depths of them, that makes her obey and turn her attention forward when he once more nods in the direction they’re walking.

Oh.

Now, Sansa understands his silence. His true reason for returning to the wheelhouse so early and asking her to join him.

There must be hundreds of them. Thousands, even. Thousands of delicate white stars with golden crowns bobbing on a sea of green leaves stretching out between black alder and ash, all the way to the edge of a stream glittering in the sunlight. She draws in a trembling breath, blinking to clear her eyes before tears blur what she’s waited for her whole life. 

He found them. Sansa smiles through her tears, wiping away a few who sneaked free. Jon found her wood anemones.

His heart really shouldn’t be beating this hard. He’s done nothing but stumbling over a patch of flowers, is just showing it to a beautiful girl. Aye, the girl he loves, but it’s not as if he’s proposed to her.

At least not in the past few hours.

He stifles a groan at his clumsy self and forces his focus back on the peace offering before them. The apology for loving her the way he shouldn’t.

“Hope that’s tears of joy?” he asks, forcing levity into his vocie to hide how his heart's still doing a nervous dance behind his scars. “They are, aren’t they? Wood anemones. The flowers. Wasn’t sure. Considered picking one and bringing it back–”

“No!” Sansa grabs his arm. “You can’t pick them!”

“Thought you didn’t believe in that tale. They’re just flowers, aren’t they? Not Thumb Creatures.”

Still holding his sleeve, she gives his arm a gentle swat with her other hand. “Don’t call them that. Show some respect.”

Despite the shame lingering at the edges of him, Jon can't help but grin at her. “So you do believe they’re sprites?”

“No, of course not, but…” She releases his arm and smooths out the wrinkles she caused in his sleeve. “What if I’m wrong?”

“Good thing I didn’t pick any, then.”

Gazing at the abundance of flowers, she exhales in awe. “There are so many of them. I knew they grew in clusters but this… I never imagined they’d be this many.” She grabs his arm again, turning toward him with excitement sparkling in her eyes. “Did you smell them?”

Jon shakes his head. When he saw the flowers, when he realized what they most likely were, so many thoughts swarmed his mind, it couldn’t command his body to move. He simply stood there, staring at what the loudest thought insisted was a sign from the gods telling him to propose, truly propose. But the gods aren’t real. They don’t speak to men through flowers. And even if they did, they wouldn’t have steered his feet this way to encourage him. They would've done it to mock him for his impossible dreams and remind him to be careful what he wishes for. Aye, sometimes Jon thinks he’d get his wish. That she'd give him a yes–a sober and practical yes–because it would save her from unwanted suitors and let her stay at Winterfell forever. But that’s not enough. Not for him. 

“I never thought to ask when I was little,” Sansa says, “what their scent is like. And once we started our walks, I didn’t want to ask Wolkan. I wanted to find out for myself. I bet they smell lovely. Sweet.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” Jon asks.

For a beat, she only looks at him. Then she shakes her head, laughing under her breath, and draws a long and loud sigh before raising her skirts an inch and sinking to her knees. Nose dipped into the sea of tiny flowers, she inhales deeply, filling her lungs with their scent. A surprised noise escapes her. After breathing them in again, she sits back on her heels with another sigh.

“Well, that’s disappointing,” she says.

“Didn’t smell sweet?”

“They don’t smell like anything. They don’t have a scent.”

“Thought all flowers had a scent.” Jon proffers his hand and helps her stand. “Maybe you’ve lost your sense of smell.”

Head titled to the side, Sansa considers him. Still holds his hand too, when that’s not necessary at all–but he’s barely finished that thought before her hand slips from his. To chase away the disappointment gathering in his chest, he starts filling himself with air too. But then her hand returns to him, resting on his shoulder now, and that breath hitches in his throat. When she turns fully toward him, her blue eyes locked with his, the air rushes out of him while an old daydream rushes back into his head. She’d thank him with a kiss on the cheek for finding her flowers. That’s how he used to imagine it. A wish he hasn’t dared entertaining in spite of the sea of wood anemones at their feet. She’d never thank him in such a way. Not now that she knows. She’ll be careful around him from now on, won’t risk encouraging him, so why is her hand on his shoulder? Why is she leaning in closer and closer and–

Jon turns as still as the Wall when he feels the cool tip of her nose against his neck and hears her breathing him in. Deeply.

“I can still smell you,” she says, pulling back. “My sense of smell is fine.”

If she expects a comment, she’ll have to wait forever. Once more, there’s nothing but dust in his head. But she’s already back to looking at the flowers, doesn’t notice how his mouth hangs open, how his hand touches his neck as if she left a trace there and he has to touch it. To know whether it was real.

It was real, though. Trace or no. Sansa smelled him. She smelled him when, only a moment ago, she sat in the damn wheelhouse interrogating him for smelling her! All right, and for doing a few other things, but still. And now she’s looking at him again, looking at him instead of the flowers she's been talking about all spring. Her face is even softened by that fond smile of hers he never sees aimed at anyone else. She knows how he feels and still she smelled him. Held his hand. Touched him. She knows and still she smiles at him this way.

Jon’s heart turns into a fool in a mummer's farce, tumbling to and fro as if his chest were a stage. Does Sansa… want him? Is that why she interrogated him?

Should he expect a kiss to his cheek, then? Or should he ask her how she feels? No, that's too forward. What would he dare asking her?

Jon doesn’t have a chance to figure it out before she wordlessly lets him know he and his heart are fools alike by turning back to the bleeding flowers and leaving his cheek unkissed.

No, she doesn’t want him. If she wanted him, she wouldn’t let him sweat this way. If she wanted him, she would’ve thanked him in a much sweeter way for finding the–

Hang on. She’s not thanked him at all.

Frowning, Jon moves the smallest step closer to her, his arm brushing against hers. This is their moment. One for which they’ve waited moons to experience. Together. She could at the very least hold his hand for half a heartbeat and thank him. That's only polite. What is she waiting for--

Hm. Jon scratches his jawline. Why does that sound so familiar? RIght. He asked it just now, didn’t he? And she laughed and shook her head. At herself, he thought, but perhaps she's waiting for him. To ask. Properly, ask. Maybe that’s why she interrogated him. Not because she wants him, mind you, but because his strange proposal this morning sent her thoughts running and somehow they reached the conclusion that it wouldn’t be so bad. To share a life with him. She’ll be safe and at home and adored, and he’ll get the woman he loves. A good marriage many would call it. A fair exchange.

Jon scoffs.

Out loud. 

Well, fuck.

“What?” Sansa says, looking at him.

“Er”--he gestures vaguely in the direction of Seabluff–”just thinking.”

She offers him a look of sympathy. “I’m sorry that happened to you. You didn’t deserve that.”

And she doesn’t deserve his grumpy self ruining this moment. This is enough. Watching her admiring the flowers. Etching into his memory the faint freckles on her nose, the shadows cast by her lashes, the pink of her lips and how they're parted as if she’s still bit in awe.

And that’s when Jon feels it, Sansa’s hand searching for his. To give him a squeeze of gratitude after all.

When she doesn't let go but weave their fingers together instead, Jon ducks his head, smiling to the ground. She's not letting go. Several heartbeats have come and gone and she's not letting go. 

You should, though. You should let go of her hand--and stop grinning while you're at it, you bleeding idiot. Why do you do this to yourself?

Because he can’t help it. Can’t quell that overwhelming need to feel her skin against his skin. Can’t resist the temptation of getting as close as she’ll let him. Can’t stop himself from offering something he shouldn’t when she hugs his arm with a little shiver. It’s second nature, extending his free arm and inviting her into his embrace. He's promised to protect her and protect her he does. Even from the cold. It's only when she looks at him standing there with his arm out and all that he realizes he can't do this anymore. She'll reject the offer. It's too much.

It's accepted. Stunned, he feels her snuggling closer, pillowing her cheek on his shoulder and tucking her arms between them. It takes him a beat to free himself from his stupor, but then he wraps one arm around the small of her back and runs the other hand up and down her spine to warm her up. It’s only right. She’s cold because of him. Their cloaks are still in the wheelhouse. He’s fine without his, didn’t think to remind her to put on hers, even though he knows he runs hotter.

“I hate it when we fight,” she murmurs, lips so close to his neck he can feel her breath against his skin.

“Me too,” he whispers.

“Are you still angry with me? I’m sorry for asking so many questions. You were uncomfortable. I should’ve stopped.”

“It was all my fault. I never should’ve come to you last night. I put you in an awful situation.”

“I told you. You did the right thing. I’m glad you came to me.”

When she lifts her head from his shoulder and leans back, he lets his arms drop, enabling her to step out of his embrace, wouldn't dream of keeping her trapped there against her will. But she stays close, even lays a hand against his chest so tenderly, he’s certain she can feel his heart starting to race against her palm.

“I mean it,” she says, still staying right where she is, and Jon hurries to lift his arms and link his hands at the small of her back lest she feels rejected and steps away after all. “I was the only person who could’ve helped you. Guards or servants were too risky. They could’ve gossiped.”

“Aye, but I didn’t have to crawl into your bed–and certainly not naked. It wasn’t right to make you sleep a whole night with me… like that.”

“You didn’t make me.”

“Apparently, I insisted.”

“I didn’t mind.”

She didn't? He searches her features for any sign of insincerity but finds none. Still, shame creeps back. Doubt. No, Jon thinks, looking away with a shake of his head. She’s only kind. She knows and loves him anyway. Trusts him so much she feels safe in his arms despite it all.

“I didn’t,” she says. “I liked it.”

His gaze snaps back to her, searching her features again, waiting for the “but” will follow. For the rest of the sentence that will turn what came before into horseshit.

“It makes me feel safe,” she says, softly. “Sleeping like that. I’ve missed it.”

“You have?”

It was barely a question. To his ears, it sounded more like he accused her of lying. She doesn’t take the bait, though, doesn’t drive this into an argument. She lifts her other hand to rest on his chest as well.

“If it were up to me,” she says, “we’d share a bed every night.”

He laughs, a short incredulous burst of air. “To do that, we’d have to…”

He can’t even say it. Wants it too badly. Knows she couldn’t possibly have walked into this wood hoping for another proposal because she wants what he wants. Finding the wood anemones, finally, that was not a sign.

“Would that be so terrible?” she asks. “You didn’t make it sound terrible. This morning.”

The sun doesn’t move and yet eons pass, taking his ability to speak with them. His ability to think too. He can only gape at her as she turns a little in his arms and takes in the wood anemones again. Her chest expands against his with a big breath she releases with a content hum.

“Thank you for finding them,” she says. Then, she dips her chin and looks into his eyes so deeply, it sends his heart into another wild dance. “It made me very happy.”

Her lips part. Her eyes drop to his. She licks hers, bites her bottom lip, as if deciding whether or not she should–

He loses his train of thought entirely when her warm lips press against his cheek, linger there for longer than necessary, even make a sweet little sound when they leave him.

Sansa is waiting for him. He can see it in her eyes when she pulls back, can see the question in them, the invitation. She is waiting, for he’s no longer a bastard boy who can’t ask for what he wants. He’s a king–the king–and she’s a lady. And ladies wait to be asked.

Still, when he lifts his hand to cup her cheek, something within screams at him to retreat before she pushes him away and tells him she doesn’t want that kind of marriage. When his thumb caresses the apple of her cheek, though, her eyes shine with something that once seemed impossible and it makes him brave enough to gently tilt her face down to his. Then he stills. They're so close now. So close to something that will change what they are to one another forever and still her eyes shine. So Jon closes his and captures her lips in a soft, soft kiss.

It’s an innocent thing, as shy and chaste as the flowers at their feet bowing whenever a breeze flows over them. It’s wonderful, it is, but does little to answer his biggest question. He has to know.

Releasing her lips, he leans his forehead against hers. “Sansa, when I said I want to be wanted, you did understand what I meant, didn’t you?”

She slides her hands up his chest and locks them behind his neck. “What makes you think I didn’t?”

“I just want to know you’ve thought it through. We’ll have to share a bed sometimes. The… naked kind of sharing. If we want children.”

She laughs, breathily. “I know how babies are made, Jon.”

“You know what I mean. I don’t want you to be fine with it. I want you to want it.”

Me. I want you to want me.

“Jon.” She leans back to look at him, fingers toying with the hair at the nape of his neck in a way that makes his skin prickle with pleasure. “Last night, after finding you in my bed, I decided to sleep on the settle. But then you asked me to join you. And, no, I didn’t know you were naked, but it doesn’t matter. I could’ve said no. I should’ve said no. But instead of doing what a lady should’ve done, I did what I wanted. And I wanted to fall asleep in your arms and pretend that maybe…”

She averts her eyes, lashes fluttering, cheeks blushing. She’s done that a lot today. Blush. A lot more than usual. So has he. As if they’re a green boy and an innocent girl stumbling their way through the most wonderful confessions. Because that’s what she meant, didn’t she? That she wanted to fall asleep in his arms and pretend that maybe, maybe he loved her too.

“Pretend what?” he rasps out, and a shy smile curves her lips, rounds her pink cheeks. “Sansa. Pretend what?”

A flash of pink draws his attention to her mouth. Her tongue flicking out to wet her lips.

“Will you kiss me again?” she whispers. “You said you’d make me happy. And that would make happy. Very happy.”

Aye, he did say it, wants nothing more than to make it a promise and keep it too. Smiling, he lifts his chin and makes her happy, kissing her again and again, pressing her body so close to his, he feels it responding when he deepens the kiss. A subtle tilt of her hips against his when their tongues meet. A faint moan-like gasp when he sucks on her bottom lip. A needy whimper when he breaks free for air, breaks free to ask her too.

“So you do, then?” he says. “Want me.”

Sansa gives him that look of hers, the one she has when she finds him very very stupid but likes him anyway. Loves him, even. Loves him the same way he loves her.

“Again,” she whispers, her hands clutching at his back as if she can’t get close enough. “Kiss me again. Please?”

It’s the only answer he needs.

Chapter Text

On cloaks spread over the yellow grass, Sansa’s handmaidens watch fluffy white clouds drifting across the soft blue sky. A couple of guards sit next to them, pointing skyward, commenting on the shapes and grinning when the women laugh. Three more guards have set up a table right on the road and play dice with as many servants. The drivers are pacing back and forth, stretching their legs and passing a waterskin between them that most likely contains something else.

None of them notice Jon and Sansa appearing until his personal attendant breaks the serene tableau by emerging from a nearby shrub. Buckling his belt, he hurries toward the wheelhouse, stumbles over a tuft of grass, springs to his feet, keeps running. The others catch on and scramble to stand lance-straight before bowing respectfully as the king and his cousin pass.

While waiting for the driver to open the door for them, Sansa glances at Jon. He’s wearing his mask–and so firmly he’s looking near-grumpy when only moments ago he was beaming and holding her hand as they floated down the path together. At least until they reached the four guards who’d followed them into the wood. Once the men were done stumbling over one another in an attempt at looking as if they hadn’t noticed the king kissing his cousin until her already-weak knees nearly gave way, Jon aimed his stern king’s face at them, one at a time.

“Lady Sansa and I are betrothed,” he said. “Only six people know–and as we’re all–” He paused, waiting patiently as one of the guards counted on his fingers while mumbling to himself. “Caught up yet, Donal?”

Donal looked up from his fingers. “Aye, Your Grace! Wanted to make sure, Your Grace.”

King’s face softened a touch, Jon acknowledged the guard’s efforts with a nod before becoming stern once more and swearing the guards to silence. They wouldn’t dare breaking their oath, Sansa knows, but when it comes to the rest of their retinue… Considering how Jon has acted today, the guards’ silence won’t stop them from gossiping. Neither will their love for their king. It only makes them more invested.

So Sansa’s worn her mask as well and wears it still, staying composed and silent even as they settle in behind the now-closed door. Only when they’re traveling again and the rattling of wheels against dirt and stone weaves a shroud of noise that muffles her voice, does she share what’s been on her mind since Jon spoke with the guards.

“You,” she says, “told the guards we’re betrothed.”

“Would you have preferred they thought we were just”--Jon gestures in the direction of the wood–”without being betrothed?”

“No.” She gives Jon a meaningful look. “But you lied to them.”

“No, I didn’t?”

“You did. We’re not betrothed.” When his brow furrows with confusion, Sansa continues, “You haven’t proposed to me.”

“I have. This morning. And you've accepted. All right, not by literally saying yes, but you've made yourself clear. You want to marry me." 

"That was not a proposal.”

“You called it one. During your interrogation. You even said it was sweet.”

“I did. It was sweet, considering the circumstances. But it wasn’t a proposal. It was panic. Panic over something that hadn’t even happened. Yes, you did the honorable thing, but when it comes to this, ladies don’t dream of honor and duty, Jon. They dream of…” She sighs. “Is it too much to ask? For a proper proposal. It's how it's done.”

After a beat of slack-jawed staring, Jon closes his mouth and twists it into a sardonic smile. “You’re requiring a lot of proposals lately.”

“Only one.”

Frowning, Jon gives a few slow nods. “Well, at least I kept my word. Promised you wouldn’t leave this place betrothed.”

“We’ve left.”

He shakes his head. “We’re still on Ivertusk land. The wood is theirs. This road is theirs.” He draws himself up, looking at her with his head tipped back a little. “I’d like to remain a man of my word. You’ll have to wait.”

He’s being ridiculous. Seabluff Keep lies far behind them–and even if it didn’t, Jon breaking his promise by being the one to propose is hardly shaking her trust in his word. But he’s still wearing a mask. Not his king’s face, no, but the cocky expression that sometimes appears when he doesn’t feel good enough–and it mollifies the part of her that wants to bicker and get her way.

It reminds her of a lesson learned long ago: she needs to pull her head out of the clouds and find beauty in what’s real.

“You’re right,” she says, softly. “I’m being difficult to please for no good reason. You did offer marriage this morning and I did find it sweet. I accept. We’re betrothed.”

“No. You’ve been married twice. Against your will. You deserve better than panic.” Jon shifts in his seat, tugging at the fabric of his breeches that strain over his knees. “Still have to wait, though.”

He resumes staring out the window, leaving her to sit in a tense silence that gnaws at the joy in her chest. At her conscience too. They were so happy, and now they’re sitting on opposite benches with a wall of expectations between them she chose to erect when she knows he’s not prepared to climb it. He’s not a man of grand gestures.

Come to think of it, is it truly what she wants? The words just slipped out of her. As if she’s still a little girl with fixed ideas on how things should be when she’s not. She’s a woman who’s come to associate grand gestures with deceit, ulterior motives, and insincerity. That’s not what she wants.

Oh, why did she open her mouth? 

There’s no point in tearing down the wall herself, though. He’d assume her lying as to not be a bother. And he’s already retreated into himself, anyway. Stewing, she would’ve thought once, but by now she knows the minuscule changes in his expression and the way he sometimes lifts a hand mean he’s practicing what to say.

Observing his process won’t help him, and she’s too absent-minded to knit, doesn’t want to rip row after row because she discovers too late she’s counted wrong and made a bunch of mistakes. Rest, then, she thinks, closing her eyes and leaning her head against the wall. It’s uncomfortable and unsteady and she can’t stop imagining the bunk: its comfortable mattress and plush pillows and lavender-scented coverlet; its cozy alcove and lack of windows, lamps, and candles providing a sense of privacy. They could hide in there for a spell, she and Jon. They could cuddle and kiss until everything was good again. They could… explore. A little. They could be a tiny bit naughty so long as they stop before they become too naughty.

The thought heats up her cheeks, stirs an echo of that strange, buzzing feeling that filled her in the woods when Jon kissed her. It was wonderful.

It was frustrating.

She wanted more than kisses, wanted to feel his naked skin against her naked skin. Wanted to let her hands wander, allow his hands to wander too. She was ready for it–and so was he. She could feel him. Strangely, it didn’t frighten her, didn’t make her recoil, only increased that buzzing feeling, the frustration, the need. Had he laid her down right there on the pine needles and moss, she would’ve let him have his way with her, didn’t remember the four guards who would’ve seen it all. Didn’t remember that anything existed but her and Jon.

Smoothing a hand down her bodice, she eases out a breath. Perhaps exploring is too risky, but they could still lie down in the bunk for a cuddle. For a whispered, heartfelt conversation in the safety of darkness. Perhaps he’d believe her then.

She’s still a lady, though. She can’t suggest something so inappropriate, has no boldness left to fight her ingrained modesty. But he’ll understand her hints. He will. Now that he knows how she feels.

With a sleepy hum, she flutters her eyes open. “Did I nod off?”

It takes Jon a breath to drag himself out of his head and blink at her. “What?”

“I think I nodded off. But then we didn’t get enough sleep last night. I’m surprised you’re still awake.” She pauses to let him say something, but he’s the picture of bewilderment. An entirely silent picture of bewilderment. “This isn’t very comfortable.” She rubs her neck a little. “The wall makes a poor pillow.”

Understanding smooths out the furrows on his brow. “It’s all right.” Jon gives her a kind smile. “You don’t have to keep me company when I’m like this. You can have a quick kip in the bunk. I’ll wake you later.”

Sansa licks her lips, massaging her hands. “That doesn’t seem fair. I got more sleep than you.”

“I don’t mind,” he says, with another kind smile. “After everything you did for me, you’ve earned it.”

Holding back the exasperated sigh that wants to flow, Sansa only looks at him. Waits for things to slot into place. But when he remains willfully obtuse (or possibly very thick), she makes her way to the back of the wheelhouse and its no-longer desirable bunk. Slowly, she unlaces her boots and pulls them off. Lets out her hair. Removes her belt and necklace, lays them on the top bunk for now. Moves her fingers to the laces of her dress. Hesitates. No, she can’t remove her dress. Her stockings, though. She hates sleeping in stockings. Sitting on the edge of the bunk, she lifts her skirt and starts rolling the left stocking down her leg. Then she moves to the right, only to hesitate again.

Did Jon not understand her? Surely, he knows now to read between the lines, can’t expect her to be so daring as to give such a suggestion out loud. She’s a lady! A lady currently wondering whether she should tug off her small-clothes too while she’s at it. In case she’s brave enough for a second–and actually successful–attempt and he joins her and his hands start wandering and she wants him to know, without having to be so vulgar as to say it, that he’s allowed to touch. That she would like him to.

That, he would understand. Wouldn’t he? He’d like it too, she thinks. He’s no prude and in no position to judge her for wanting to explore a little before they lay their vows.

Before she can think better of it, Sansa tugs off stocking and small-clothes both and puts them in the top bunk. Then she lies down beneath the coverlet and stares into the dark. Waits for time to pass until he decides to wake her. Wonders whether she should stop waiting–it could be hours for all she knows–and find some brazen streak within to help her in opening her mouth.

She’s still deliberating when the bench creaks. Boots shuffle against the floorboards. Footfalls come closer.

“Er,” Jon says, appearing by the bunk. “Did you mean…” Squinting, he waves a hand in front of him. “Were you…” Chin tucked, he looks at her with wide, dark eyes, his brows nearly at his hairline. “Hoping for… company?”

“Yes. I was.”

Smiling, he breathes out in an, “Oh.” His smile grows and she can tell, even in this scant light, that he’s blushing. “Sorry. Not very sharp today.”

“Today?”

“Aye, you’re hilarious,” he says, sitting down and starting to remove his boots. “Maybe you should be my court jester instead of my wife.” A loud sigh leaves him and he stills, one boot in hand. “This is a bad idea, Sansa.”

“I hope you mean the nap, not the wedding.”

“The nap,” he says. “We shouldn’t. When two people share a bed, things can happen.”

“True, but we’ve shared a bed several times and nothing’s ever happened.” She hears him swallowing. “What? Nothing has.”

She can’t see his face, only the sad slump of his back and his shoulders moving with another sigh.

“Have to tell you something,” he murmurs, tapping a finger against his boot. “This morning…”

He puts down the boot and turns around to face her. She can just about make out his features. The troubled crease between his eyebrows, the haunted look in his eyes as he tells her, in words slow and carefully chosen, about the dream he had and how he woke up. Why his hand was on her hip, under her nightrail. What he was so very close to doing.

Once he’s done, his head hangs as if he were a dog waiting to be scolded.

“You were asleep,” she says, and he nods. “And the moment you woke up and realized what was about to happen, you moved away from me?” When he gives her another nod, she reaches out and lays her hand over his. “I’m glad you did. Move away from me. That’s not how I’d want… That’s for our wedding night.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Nothing happened. You woke in time–and I am glad you did. But, Jon, this changes nothing for me. If that’s what you feared. It sounds to me as if, when we slept, our bodies acted on feelings we didn’t dare acting on when awake. ”

His eyes flick up to meet hers. “Our bodies?”

A sudden bout of shyness steals her voice. She’s all too aware of her lack of small-clothes, of what not-too-naughty things could happen if he were to lie down next to her. Yes, she’s glad nothing happened this morning. But the thought of it, the fantasy… It’s thrilling enough her body tingles with anticipation.

“We still shouldn’t do this,” he says, turning his hand to hold hers. “Nap together.”

“No, probably not.”

“Want me to return to my bench?”

She shakes her head.

“You sure? You’re not just trying to… make me feel better?”

She gives his hand a light tug. “I’ve missed it,” she whispers. “Sleeping in your arms. Remember?”

With a nod, Jon starts unlacing his doublet. “I’m keeping my breeches on. To be safe. I will not dishonor you.”

A sweet thing to say. Annoying too, when she didn’t keep her protective layer on. Should she tell him? When she imagines telling him her small-clothes are currently above their heads instead of where they should be, her self-preservation knocks that thought out of her head to spare her the humiliation and seals her lips shut.

“Turn around?” he murmurs. “So I can hold you.”

So they won’t kiss while lying down together. That’s what he means.

She pouts to herself in the dark, but oh, he’s right. The best way to avoid temptation is staying far far away from it. Well, somewhat far. And this isn’t so bad, she thinks, as he molds himself around her and finds her hand, twining their fingers together like he did last night. This isn’t bad at all. This is what she’s missed, only better, and she’d be a fool to pout about it instead of enjoying something entirely new: napping with Jon. From the sound of his calm, steady breathing, he’s already asleep. Smiling, she closes her eyes to join him when the wheelhouse turns left and she feels his chest expanding against her back with a big breath as if he’s not asleep at all but about to speak.

For a few turns of the wheels, he holds that breath, but then he murmurs, “We’ve left their road. No longer on Ivertusk land. And I…”

Faintly, she feels the heat of his tired exhalation through her dress.

“...still don’t know what to say. Well. I know the words. Never thought I’d ever have a reason to say them, but I spent my whole childhood following Robb around. Did learn a thing or two.”

“Jon, I don’t want another proposal. I was being–”

“Let me say this. Please.”

The wheels turn and turn. Outside, someone cackles out a laugh barely audible through the thick walls. She keeps Jon’s hand firmly in hers, stroking her thumb along his in a soothing motion.

“Those words,” he says. “‘Will you do me the honor,’ and all that. It doesn’t feel… It might not be panic, but it’s duty and honor too. It's rehearsed and not from the heart and that’s not what you want. But I don’t know what else to say. I’m not a bleeding poet. Never was. I don’t know how to find the perfect words, Sansa. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Nothing. I don’t need you to be a poet. Nor do I need another proposal. I was being stupid.”

“No. I remember. I remember you, Beth and Jeyne giggling and whispering. I remember because Arya thought it was stupid and so did I and we might’ve, er, laughed about it. Your father would arrange something. Everyone knew that. There’s no need for a proposal, then. But you wanted it anyway. Something magical. And you deserve that. I want to give you that. To make you happy.”

“But–” She turns around so she can look at him. “Jon, I was being stupid. Really stupid. You gave me a magical moment. The most romantic moment of my life.”

“I did?”

“The wood anemones. That was better than any proposal I ever could’ve imagined as a little girl.”

“I didn’t plan that. I had no idea I’d find them out there.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she says, cupping his cheek. “You could’ve told me right away, and you didn’t.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Yes.” She smiles at him. “Because that’s more romantic.”

“It is?”

“You’re better at it than you think. You saw an opportunity and took it. That means a lot–a lot more than perfect words.”

“Should’ve proposed then. Would’ve been perfect." He shakes his head at himself. "It even occured to me. It did. But you were being very distracting. Not easy to think, is it, when you’re kissing the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“Stop it. I’m not.”

“You are to me.” He lifts one corner of his mouth in a half-hearted smile. “Want me to turn the wheelhouse around? This time, I’ll remember.”

“No. I wouldn’t change that moment for anything. It was perfect. I’ll remember it for the rest of my life.”

"You will?" he asks, hoarsely, eyes searching hers.

"How could I not?" she whispers.

Before the woods, she'd only ever received dry, closed-lipped kisses. She didn't know how to truly kiss, is only now beginning to learn, would prefer it if he kept initiating until she grows a little confidence. But there's still a hint of disbelief in his eyes, as if he still doesn't feel good enough, so she pushes her nerves aside and kisses him anyway. Kisses him because he needs her to, kisses him to distract him from should haves and calm his worries, kisses him to remind him she wants him and only him. If he finds her kissing as clumsy as she does, he doesn’t let on. No, ee returns her kisses with such an infectious hunger, it eclipses all her doubts. It eclipses everything. It's only him and her again and how he makes her feel. Her body acts on its own, pressing her closer to him, lifting her leg to hook it over his hip, shifting her hips to feel if–

Jon breaks the kiss, panting. “Right. Turn back around.”

She makes herself bite back a, “But you’re not naked this time,” but once she’s done as she's told, her mouth opens to speak anyway and let out another question that’s been on her mind: “Jon. Why were you naked? Last night. In my bed.”

“Er…” He lets out a breathy laugh. “Wish I knew. It’s mostly a blur. We were drinking this…” Humming, he settles in behind her (but not as firmly as before), finds her hand, and plays with her fingers as he talks. “Can’t remember the name. It was blue, from Essos, tasted great. Made me feel great. And I did feel spoiled. As if the feast was for me, not Ivertusk, and I liked it. Stayed longer than I should’ve. Drank more than I should’ve. Despite being warned it’s stronger than what we’re used to. I didn’t listen.”

“Because you thought you could handle it?”

“Aye. Felt confident. Even decided it was time. To tell you how I feel. But then it really hit. I was too out of it. Needed help to get back. Must’ve had some sense still because I knew it wasn’t right. To tell you, when I was like that. But then I found Mel…” He clears his throat. “And after you left to help, you were gone so long, everything got muddled. The bed was empty. You weren’t there. I wasn’t supposed to be in your chamber. So it had to be mine.”

“I suppose that makes sense. It doesn’t explain why you were naked, though. Which is what I asked.”

He gives another laugh. “I always sleep naked.”

“You didn’t use to. Whenever I came to you, you wore a sleep shirt.”

“After Castle Black, when I knew there was a chance you’d come to my bed, I started wearing one. But after… everything, you stopped coming. So I started sleeping naked again. I like how it feels. The linen against your– Hang on.” She feels him propping himself up on an elbow, hears his voice coming closer to her ear. “It’s my turn to interrogate you, Lady Sansa. If you don’t wear small-clothes when you sleep, does that mean that every time you came knocking in the middle of the night…”

She’s glad he’s behind her, then, glad for the dark hiding how she blushes. “I never reflected on it nor did it ever occur to me to put something on. Jon, ladies don’t wear small-clothes all the time. On hot summer days, we rarely wear them at all. I don’t need small-clothes to feel dressed–”

She strangles the rush of words by pressing her lips together before she says too much–and before her rambling makes her sound like a liar. She’s not. She didn’t think of it. Back then. Her lack of small-clothes didn’t mean anything. Back then.

Now, though… 

She has to find something else to ask before he–

“Do you remove them before a nap as well?”

Sansa bites her lip, her stomach surging at his question, at his dark voice reverberating in her chest.

Tell him to lift your skirts and find out, a naughty voice whispers in the back of her mind, but the shame that follows that suggestion is so strong, Sansa can’t speak at all. Using her lady’s voice to tell him it’s none of his concern is practically an admission of guilt. Telling him she did remove them, for she believed he wouldn’t join her, would not only be a lie but a discouragement too. In case he’s reconsidering being all honorable and annoying.

Deflection, then. That’s all she has.

“Are you trying to change the subject?” she asks.

“No, but you are.”

Even though he can’t see it either way, she suppresses a smile. “I wasn’t done,” she says. “I have more questions. About last night.”

He lies back down, his arm snug around her. “Another interrogation, then.”

“Would you prefer sleeping?”

He leans his forehead against her spine and laughs into the fabric of her dress. As if his thoughts can penetrate that layer, penetrate her skin too, and wander all the way to her mind, she knows what he’s thinking: he’d prefer something else entirely.

Then say it, she thinks. I’d prefer it, too.

But his honor is too strong a shield. Her thoughts never reach him. When he finally answers, all he says is, “Fine. I'm all yours, my lady. Interrogate me.”

Chapter Text

While waiting for Sansa to continue her interrogation, Jon can think of only one thing: why didn’t she answer his question?

If she always sleeps without small-clothes, that could include naps. Thinking he wouldn’t join her after all, she might’ve removed them out of habit and now fears he’d see that as encouragement to do things she wants to save for their wedding night.

Unless…

When women want him, they do what they can to take him, but Sansa’s not like the others. Is she waiting for him to–

“Why did you insist on staying?”

Jon shakes his head to disperse the tantalizing images of lifting her skirts and finding bare skin beneath. “What?”

“After I told you it wasn’t your bed. Why did you insist on staying? Did you tell the truth before?”

He can’t for the life of him remember what he said before, has to squeeze his eyes shut and think. The memory of his stupid mouth saying stupid things slams into him. He groans, inwardly. Out of all the things he could’ve said, why in all the seven hells did he say that? 

“I know you don’t want her,” Sansa says. “I know pleasure can be… tempting.”

Jon’s ears perk up. Pleasure? Tempting? Does she find pleasure tempting? Or is she referring to his dumb fucking blathering on about starving men eating what they’re served. Perhaps he could–

“But,” Sansa continues, “was avoiding temptation the only reason?”

Avoiding temptation, she says, when she’s the true temptation, lying all warm and soft in his arms and smelling better than anything.

“Jon?”

It takes him a beat to remember the question–and when he does, he rolls his shoulders at the discomfort. No, it wasn’t the whole truth. The whole truth’s so embarrassing heat spreads within–and not the good kind of heat. He’s glad he’s behind her, then, glad for the dark hiding him and making the truth easier to share.

“The state I was in,” he all but whispers. “Anyone could’ve done anything to me. I felt... unsafe and there was only one person in the whole keep I trusted.”

“You trust me?”

A breath rushes out of him at her question, at the gentleness in her voice. He didn’t think she’d mock him, of course he didn’t, he didn’t think she’d scoff and push him out of the bunk, but relief loosens the tension from his body all the same.

“You know I do,” he says, resting his forehead against her back.

“You didn’t always.”

“No. But I do now. Don’t you trust me?”

“More than anyone.” Sansa lifts his hand to her lips and kisses his knuckles. “Is that the whole truth? I’m asking because…”

She gives his knuckles another kiss before cuddling his hand to her chest as if it were a doll, and he’d like nothing more than to rip the corset off her so he could feel the curves of her breasts against his arm. Does she think about it too? How intimate this is? What can she feel through that thing? If he dragged his nail over–

“Well,” she says, “you seemed very set on our sharing a bed.”

“Er…” He chuckles, quietly. “I really wanted to hold you. I’ve missed it too. Sharing a bed. But I wasn’t hoping something would happen.”

“No?”

“I wasn’t thinking at all, really. Thought you had a nightmare and I was–” Scrunching up his face, he cringes. “Is it awful to say I was happy? Because it meant I could comfort you. And once I had that thought in my head, it was difficult to give up. I’ve dreamed of it. For eighteen months, I’ve dreamed of it.”

“That long?”

“Started in the cell. I was angry and lonely. Kept having conversations in my head with you and Tyrion and Sam and Arya. A lot of people. But at night, when I lay down, I couldn’t stop thinking about all the times you came to my bed. Kept imagining you were there with me. That you’d come to me in the night, crawled into my bed, and…”

Held him. Let him lay his head on her chest. Combed her fingers through his hair until he fell asleep. Something he’d never experienced and his body craved nonetheless. Whenever the crown or his guilt are too heavy, whenever everything’s too much, it still craves it. Yearns for it. Needs it, really, to be met with love and care instead of derision when he’s feeling small and exposed and inadequate. But he’s already admitted he felt unsafe at Seakeep, can’t admit all this as well, just wants her to understand, somehow, so he doesn’t have to say it.

“I wanted to hold you,” he says, instead. “So, I was happy that you’d had a nightmare. As awful as that sounds.” 

“Hm. It’s a bit awful, I suppose, but… It’s wonderful too.”

“More wonderful than awful?”

“Yes,” she says, a smile in her voice. “What you said this morning, about my keeping my chamber? I don’t want that. I want to share.”

“Aye, I got that.” Grinning, he burrows closer. “Since you want to share a bed every night, it’s only practical to share a chamber as well.”

He feels her body moving when she laughs and her laughter still feels like such a rare thing, he has to see it. Her mouth open and curved happily, her eyes creasing with joy. With a light tug on her shoulder, he motions her to roll over on her back. Then, supported on one forearm, he gazes down at her. Only a little light reaches them in here, but it’s enough to soak up her smile. Enough to know where to move his lips to kiss her cheeks, her nose, her mouth.

“Jon?” she asks, between his kisses. “There’s something I’ve been wondering…”

He stops his loving onslaught to aim a look of disbelief at her. Has she saved up every question she’s ever wanted to ask him for this moment? When he’s kissing her?

No, she’s tugging at the reins before they get carried away. As she should. She wants to save it all for their wedding night–and he needs to behave. Avoid temptation– No, that would mean leaving this bunk. Resist temptation. Aye, that’s it.

“What?” he says, stroking her cheek, tenderly. “What have you been wondering?”

She flutters her lashes, sweetly. “What is the most appealing thing about me?”

“What?”

“When I said the most appealing thing about me is that I’m related to two kings, you disagreed. But you never elaborated. Rather rude of you.”

Jon breathes out in a laugh. “I don’t know,” he says, curling a strand of her hair around his finger. “Everything?”

“Everything.” She gives him a blank stare. “Really.”

“I think so.”

“You can’t do better than that?”

“Thought you didn’t need me to be a poet.”

“Not asking you to be a poet. I only wanted to know what you found appealing about me. Besides the way I look.”

Jon tucks the curl of hair behind her ear and pulls back with a thoughtful hum, his hand now resting on her stomach. “I really like your confidence and how you never fish for compliments.” When she lets out an affronted gasp, he just grins, nuzzles his head into the crook of her neck, and kisses her warm skin until she giggles. He loves the sound of it, how novel it is, loves the feel of her stomach twitching against the palm of his hand with each giggle.

“Sansa?” He leaves her neck to look into her eyes, his fingers drawing circles across her belly. “Do you still want to name your daughter Anemone?”

“Don’t you mean our daughter?”

“Aye,” he says, and he knows he’s beaming when her glittering eyes reflect his happiness, even in this faint light. “Our daughter.”

“I haven’t thought about it in a long time. We’ll see. We haven’t even–”

“Made her yet?” his lips say on their own.

She gives him a light slap on the arm. “We haven’t even married.”

“We will. The moment we’re home. We’ll get Wolkan and Davos and go straight to the godswood.”

Her nostrils flare with a measured breath. “I might not need a proper proposal, but I want a proper wedding. This is the first time I’m willingly– Oh. You’re teasing me.”

“Aye. I’m teasing. I want a proper wedding as well. Need one too. I am a king.”

It’s only when she doesn’t retaliate, when all she does is staring up at him with wide eyes, that Jon notices that his fingers no longer draw circles over her belly. They’re mapping out the sharp hill of her hipbone, so very close to a valley he's yet to explore. As if he’s so eager to make their daughter now, he can’t wait for their wedding night like she wants.

Like he wants. He does. All right, his body has a different idea, but his body’s not the ruler of him and he makes it lie down on his back and fold his arms beneath his head. 

“How much time do we need?” he asks. “To plan our wedding.”

“Three months, at least, but...”

She snuggles closer and pillows her head on his shoulder so carefully, it feels like a question. When he answers it by moving his arm to wrap around her and keep her where she is, he feels her relaxing with a sigh. She even rests a hand on his chest and wraps her leg over his thigh and he can’t help but wonder whether that’s a question too. The same question he’d like to ask her: do you want to save everything for our wedding night?

When she lay still beneath his touch, was it because the touch was unwanted or because she wanted to see where his hand would wander–

“Three months is a long time,” Sansa says. “If we send invitations within the next few days, I do believe two months could work. It should give people enough time to make whatever arrangements they need and travel as well. I don’t want to wait too long.”

She doesn’t?

Is she eager to be wed–or to be wed and share a bed? Our bodies, she said. And when they kissed earlier, when she wrapped a leg around him and got awfully close– 

“I need fabric for my dress, but whatever they have in White Harbor will do. I’ll find something. Blue, perhaps. I haven’t thought about what I’d like in a wedding dress since I was a little girl and my taste has changed since then. Nothing gold or white, at least. I know that.”

Jon hums, glancing down at her leg slung over his thigh. Maybe he wasn’t the one who tugged her leg up to his hip when they slept. Maybe that was all her. 

Heart beating a little faster, Jon lays a hand on her thigh just to see how she’ll react.

“Suppose that rules out a Thumb Creature dress,” he says, hoping she can’t hear the nervous tremble in his voice or how his palm has started to sweat because she’s neither moved away from his touch nor brushed away his hand.

“Wood anemones,” she says, tapping a finger against his chest at each syllable. “It’s not a terrible idea. White and gold, yes, but if the dress is green…” As if his chest were paper and her finger a charcoal stick, she starts sketching her design as she speaks. “Green dress. White embroidery. Floral. And, perhaps, you can give me a golden crown? Now that you wear one.”

Jon laughs. “Suppose I’ll have to. You’ll be a queen.”

Should he try to tug up her dress a little? What if the fabric’s trapped between their legs and only yanking will free it? Would that seem too violent? Would it rip apart this cozy little cocoon they’ve created inside her bunk and drive her back to the bench?

She does talk a lot for someone desiring something else. Unless she’s talking to hide how she’s longing to feel his touch on her body. Or even his mouth. Has she thought about it? His mouth on her. 

He has. He’s thought about it a lot.

“I wonder how people will react,” Sansa says. “Lady Ryder seemed to expect it. And Jessamyn… She feared it. It’s why she got so desperate. She can’t’ve told Melisia about her suspicions, though. It never felt as though she saw me as a rival. Not even this morning. She even asked me to speak to you. About her. She hadn’t let go of hope yet.” Sansa sighs. “I’d feel so stupid, if I were her. She’ll probably be happy to leave the North once she learns.”

Jon removes his hand from Sansa’s thigh and takes her hand instead, holding it close to his heart. This isn’t the time. She needs his ears, not his mouth unraveling her.

“You liked Melisia, didn’t you?” he asks.

“I’m sure most do.”

“But you think she could’ve been a friend.”

“We’re in love with the same man. We could’ve never been friends.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what? Being too pretty?”

“I’m sorry it turned out the way it did. Still think you need a lady-in-waiting or two.”

“It’ll be easier once we’re wed. I won’t have to fear proposals. Nor will I have to fear someone befriending me in hopes of becoming your queen. Suppose some might befriend me in hopes of becoming your lover, but I doubt anyone would be stupid enough to attempt what Melisia attempted. If I found a lady naked in the bed I share with my husband…?  I wouldn’t be very kind.”

“No, she’d suffer the wrath of Sansa Stark.”

“Yes, she would,” Sansa whispers, hugging him tightly.

She doesn’t tell him he’s hers, only hers, but he feels the possessiveness in her hug, and it stretches his smile from ear to ear. “Doubt you’ll have to worry about anyone seducing me. By now people should know better than to make Sansa Stark their enemy. She always wins…”

Jon feels his smile fading. She didn’t this time. Win. Aye, she got him, but she didn’t win him. She didn’t so much as try.

“What is it?” She lifts herself up a little and looks at him. “You went quiet.”

“I don’t know,” he mumbles with a shrug.

She cups his cheek, stroking her thumb over his beard. “Don’t do that. Please? Tell me.”

“Just…” Another shrug, corners of his mouth downturned. “Why didn’t you fight for me?” 

“I fight for you every day. Everything I did this morning, everything I did last night, I did for you.”

“That’s not what I meant. You were jealous, weren’t you? Of her. When I danced with her. It’s why you left for the balcony, isn’t it.”

“I thought you were falling for her.”

“But there was no… wrath.”

“You expected wrath? Actual wrath?”

“I’m not saying I expected you to claw her eyes out or…”

When he closes his eyes, old nightmares dance in the nothingness. Nightmares that left him well over a year ago, of hungry flames and blistering flesh and a horrifying fate he ensured would never happen. 

“What did you expect, then?” Sansa asks, so soft and warm in his arms. So alive.

He holds her a little closer. “I don’t know,” he whispers, voice too hoarse to carry. “Another woman made eyes at me and you did nothing. A bit surprising, is all.” 

“You weren’t mine.”

“You could’ve fought for me.” His hold on her loosens a touch all of its own, his gaze turning to the dark instead of her. “If you wanted me, you could’ve fought for me. But you just gave up.”

As if you don’t want me badly enough.

“I did want you. But I didn’t think you wanted me. I thought you wanted her. I thought she was making you happy. You looked happy. And you didn’t. Last time. With...”

“I wasn’t.”

“I know. But around Melisia, you did look happy and… It hurt, seeing you with her. It did. But in what way would ruining your happiness make anything better? You don’t do that to someone you love.” Gentle fingers find his cheek and with the lightest touch encourage him to look at her. When he complies, he finds so much love in her eyes he barely remembers why he felt so sullen. “All I want for you is happiness,” Sansa says. “You deserve to be happy.”

Happy? She cares about what makes him happy? What he wants?

“Jon?” A crease of concern forms between her brows. “Are you all right?”

He hears airy laughter bubbling out of him. All right? He’s… He has no words for what he’s feeling, can only cup the nape of her neck, bring her mouth to his, and show her. He kisses her until he feels drunk from it, his head so blissfully empty his body takes over. Suddenly, she’s on her back while he’s atop her, his hips nestled between her legs, and he has no idea how they ended up like that. Whether he flipped her or she rolled over and pulled him with her. Or maybe they moved as one. He only knows he’s exactly where he wants to be, knows he’s kissing her with wild abandon because no one’s ever loved him like this before.

She loves him. Sansa loves him–and wants him too. Even though she must feel how much he desires her, she’s not pushing him away or turning stiff in his arms. She’s returning his kisses with equal passion, her hands tangled in his hair and her legs wrapped around his waist as if they’re–

Our bodies, she said.

Jon’s hand returns to her thigh, slips under the bunched up fabric, travels higher and higher and higher until he reaches her hip. Her naked hip.

She hasn’t stopped him.

He releases her lips with a wet pop and looks down at her, panting. Her eyes dark and hungry, her mouth half-open and panting too, instead of offering an explanation about her missing small-clothes. But then she’s already told him, hasn’t she? She’s told him without telling him. The way a lady would.

Still. He has to make sure.

“Do you…” Jon closes his dry mouth, swallows. “Do you want to save all of it for our wedding night?”

It’s almost imperceptible, but he does catch it. The tiny shake of her head.

“Then…” He rubs his thumb over the soft skin in the crease between her thigh and the place he’s dying to kiss. “What do you want to do?”

Biting her lip, Sansa gives a small shrug. Hands the reins to him, he thinks, and what a good thing that is. With a low growl rumbling in his throat, he descends on her, spreading kisses from her lips to her neck, to the hollow of her throat, to every inch of skin above her modest neckline until her breathing is jagged and fast, and her body moves restlessly against his. Like it did in the wood.

Oh, she wants him, all right. Smiling, Jon kisses his way to her ear. “There’s something I think would make you happy,” he murmurs, feeling her shiver when his lips brush against her earlobe. “I could do that. I’d love to do that.”

“What?”

He’s barely gotten the words out before Sansa sucks in a sharp breath and leans her head back, gaping at him. 

“With your mouth?”

Jon bursts out laughing, can’t help it, not when she’s looking at him as if he suggested he stop the wheelhouse again, carry her outside, and pleasure her in front of their whole retinue for coin.

“Why are you laughing?”

“You’re funny.”

“Not intentionally,” she says, but she looks so adorably grumpy it only makes him laugh even more. “Stop it.”

Pouting, she attempts to swat at his chest, but he catches her hand and brings it to his chest, to a heart so full he can’t contain it. 

“I love you,” he says. “I love you so much.”

A breathy, “Oh,” escapes her and he feels such a fool for not understanding it sooner.  How much she loves him. He can feel it, feel it in his whole body, and it makes his desire to bury his head between her thighs that much stronger.

“Would you like me to?” he asks, not caring in the least that his voice trembles with eagerness.

“You were being serious?”

Jon nods.

“And you… want to do that?”

“I’d love to. Dreamed of that for a while now too.”

She’s gaping again, but he could swear there’s an excited flush to her cheeks.

“Yes?” he whispers, moving slowly down her body while keeping his gaze locked with hers, searching for any sign of discomfort, but she’s only craning her neck to watch his descent, her chest still heaving with breaths and her lips still parted.

Once he’s arrived, he stills, resting his hands on her bent knees. The dress is gathered at her hips, draped over her most private place, leaving it in shadow. After kissing first her left knee and then her right, he gives the inside of her knees a light push; she lets them fall to the side, opening herself up to him.

Still looking into her eyes, he ghosts his fingers up and down her thigh while gathering the hem of the dress in his free fist. Then he waits. A shuddering breath leaves her. She licks her bottom lip. Bites it. Releases it with another shuddering breath. Nods her consent.

With a grin he hopes looks as wolfish as it feels, Jon folds the fabric to lie over her waist. Only then does he look down.

Oh. She’s bare and beautiful and glistening in the scant light. As eager to be tasted as he’s eager to taste.

“Sansa,” he says. “I’m about to make you so happy.”

He’s all around her, one arm her pillow, the other holding her so close to him he wonders whether she can feel his heart beating against her back. With his nose, he nudges her hair out of the way so his lips can trail kisses along her neck. So he can feel her shivering with pleasure. When he reaches her jawline, she turns around and kisses him back with lips that don’t taste of him like his do of her. She offered, shyly. Asked him to teach her. But the thought of it was so overwhelming, he feared he’d make a mess all over her face before her lips had so much as touched him. So he shook his head, lay down by her side, and guided her hand instead while kissing her languidly and lovingly until he was spent.

They drifted off after that, together, and now they’re waking up the same. He smiles into the kiss. This will be their life now. Well, once they marry. Until then, they’ll have to sleep apart, refrain from cuddling on the couch in their solar where Davos or Wolkan could show up at any moment, stop any impulse to kiss when Jon’s fairly certain he’ll want to kiss her all the time (and everywhere too).

“I can’t wait,” he whispers and nuzzles her nose. “I can’t wait to marry you.”

“I can’t wait, either,” she whispers back. “I’ve waited for you for so long already.”

He feels his smile growing and that’s not good. He can’t walk around beaming like an idiot. People will wonder what’s gotten into him. They’ll whisper and speculate and then it won’t matter how well he and Sansa behave.

“We should probably announce it tomorrow,” he says. “Start planning it tomorrow. Perhaps, if it’s all we do for a week, we can get it down to one month?”

Her tongue peeks out between her teeth when she grins at him. “Oh, you really can’t wait?”

“No, I really can’t. Can you?”

She shakes her head. “We’ll announce it tomorrow. Spend all week planning it. It might mean fewer guests, though."

"I don't care."

"Me neither," she murmurs, beaming.

Once they’ve helped one another look presentable again, even though he’d love to cuddle the rest of the way home, they return to their respective seats. A quick search among the books yields one he’s never read before, while she chooses the knitting.

“Want me to read to you?” He shows her the title. “Would it make you happy.”

Sansa lowers the knitting, smiling at him. “You don’t have to spend every moment of every day making me happy.”

“Not every moment of every day, no. I am a king. Rather busy.” Jon rubs his jaw. “And if I spend all day doing that, my jaw will lock.”

“Jon!”

“What?” He looks at her, as innocent as a lamb. “You can’t claim it didn’t make you happy. Sounded like you were having the time of your life back there.”

The blood drains from her face. Horrified, Sansa leans forward and whispers, “Was I loud?”

“No,” he says. “No, you weren’t. You mostly gasped and whimpered.”

The color returns to her cheeks in a haste. She lifts her chin, one eyebrow arched, as if that would hide how beautifully she blushes.

“Well,” she says, “you panted and grunted. Like a hog.”

“Aye, I did. Most beautiful woman in the realm had her hand around my cock. What man wouldn’t pant and grunt then?”

She blinks, all scandalized lady for half a breath before she gathers herself. “The mouth on you.”

“Thought you liked my mouth.”

When she sucks in a gasp, touching her chest and all, and glances left and right as if fearing half the retinue heard them, guilt softens his cockiness. 

“Is it too much?” he asks, quietly. “This kind of flirting. Do you dislike it?”

Lips pursed, she regards him for a beat. It could’ve worried him, could’ve sent a wave of shame to replace the confidence their moment in the bunk instilled, but he’s starting to understand the true meaning of her looks. And this one tells him she enjoys it, even if she can’t admit it out loud yet. It’s the look she has whenever she’s about to give him a playful swat on the arm for being so impertinent, because she can't do what she really wants to do. Or couldn't, anyway. She can now--and would like to as well--but to reach him, she’d have to climb on top of the chest and from there he could grab her and pull her onto his lap and then she’d be all tousled again when a look out the window tells him they’re half an hour from home.

“I’ll only talk like this when we’re alone,” he says. “I have some manners.”

“I should hope so.” She narrows her eyes at him, but they’re not icy with disapproval but warm with love. “Read.” She nods at the book. “Please.”

“I do aim to please.”

“Aim to tease, rather.”

Jon just grins, and starts to read.

Returning home’s always the same. Jon and Sansa part, bathe, dress, and sup. Separately. As ruler of their castle, Sansa sups with their two stewards in the small dining chamber. As ruler of the North, Jon sups with Davos and Wolkan in his office. Despite how everything is different now, tonight remains unchanged. 

Well. Jon has to drag his mind from inappropriate thoughts much more often, but other than that…

Once Davos and Wolkan are done filling him in and Jon’s read all the ravens he’s missed, they’re half an hour from midnight. Sansa must be abed already. Perhaps abed in nothing but a nightrail, waiting for his knocking on her door. 

“That all?” he says, the need to run to her chamber so strong he can’t stand still, can’t stop his hands from flexing with impatience.

Davos leans in closer, his whole face full of crinkles from his wide grin. “Is it?”

“What?”

“There’s something about His Grace this evening. Isn’t there, maester?”

Wolkan blinks, looking less like a highly educated and respected maester and more like a stable boy asked to recite the words of every great House of Westeros when he’s received not a single lesson on the subject.

“Well… Er…” He gulps. “I must say His Grace looks to be in excellent spirits.”

“Oh, I should say so. I’d even go so far as to say he’s in the very best of spirits! And will Your Grace, perhaps, share with us the reason for this sudden but welcome lack of brooding?”

“I don’t brood.”

“Less so the past year, aye, that’s true enough. But there’s always something brooding about you. Unless you’ve had a lot of ale. And I suppose you and Lady Sansa could’ve spent the journey home drinking a lot of ale, but His Grace neither slurs nor stumbles, does he, maester?”

“Well”--Wolkan tucks his hands into his sleeves, head ducked–”the king does look entirely sober to my eye.”

“To his professional eye,” Davos says, his own eyes sparkling with mirth. “Now, go on, Your Grace. We’re all ears.”

Once Jon finally manages to tear himself from the office, it’s really much too late to go knocking on anyone’s door, let alone a lady’s; still, he listens to his heart instead of reason. Sansa’s waiting for him. He knows it, can so easily see her holding up her covers in a wordless invitation, and it hastens his steps until he’s close to flying down the hallways. Outside her chamber, he must force himself to knock and wait for an answer rather than bursting through the door, diving into her bed, and snuggle close.

Is it so strange, then, that he feels a fair bit disappointed when he does find her in bed–in nothing but a rather revealing nightrail, at that--but with needle and thread in hand, and that red blanket she often works on in the evenings draped over her lap?

“Your meeting ran late,” Sansa says. “Has something happened?”

After assuaging her worry with a shake of his head, Jon saunters closer to the bed. He’s never seen that nightrail before. He would’ve remembered a neckline that low. It would've followed him into his dreams.

“It is late. Really late. Were you”--he tears his eyes off the swell of her breasts–”waiting for me?”

“Yes.” She watches him with an amused quirk to her mouth. “On my way to my meeting, I saw you with Davos. You were walking across the courtyard together–and the way he was observing you? I assumed you’d stop by to let me know he managed to coax something out of you.”

“What if I just wanted to see you?”

“Are you telling me Davos didn’t manage to coax something out of you?”

With a laugh, Jon sits down on the edge of her bed. “No, he did. He could tell something had happened and wouldn’t let up. I know I could’ve told him to leave it, but...”

“I understand. He loves you. As if you were his. Of course you wanted to tell him.” Eyes trained on a half-finished silver trout, she resumes embroidering. “How did he react?”

“He asked me what brought on this decision. Told him this pretty lady at the feast really wanted me and you got so jealous, you decided to make it clear who I belonged to.”

Sansa’s hand stills. Slowly, she moves her attention from blanket to Jon. “For your sake, I hope you’re teasing me.”

“Aye, I’m teasing you.”

“You’ve done that a lot today.”

“I enjoy it.”

“Why?”

He shrugs, smile lopsided and just a little bit smug. “Because you get this look. Always did. Just didn’t know until today that it means you want to kiss me. You have it now. That look.”

As if her lips are too busy fighting a smile to speak, she gives him only a, “Mhm,” and returns her eyes to the embroidery.

“I didn’t tell him any of it,” Jon says. “What happened last night. Or today. Told him we’ve decided to marry because we want to. That’s all he needs to know.”

“That must’ve made him curious.”

“No, he knew. He just laughed at me, pulled out that list of his, and tossed it into the hearth. Said he’s been hoping to burn it ever since he started working on it. Apparently, he’s been waiting for me to get my head out of my arse, but after your nameday feast, he feared I wouldn’t. Not without some prodding.”

“That’s why he keeps bringing up marriage? To provoke a reaction.” Sansa heaves a sigh, which makes not ogling her breasts quite the challenge, but Jon locks his eyes on her face like a good little boy. “I’ve been so rude to him when he’s only been trying to help.”

“You’ve had good reason to react the way you have. He knows that. You’re family to him too, Sansa.” When she looks unconvinced, Jon scoots a little closer. “You should’ve seen him. Once the list was burning, he gave me a hug and…” Jon smiles at the memory, at the warmth that spread within when Davos pulled back and patted him on the shoulder, tear-filled eyes and all. Like a proud father. “He couldn’t have been happier. Wolkan’s happy as well. He didn’t say much, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him beaming like that.”

Sansa smiles too, then. “That’s a good start.”

“Aye,” Jon says, nodding, and throws a furtive glance first at the blanket still draped over her lap, then at the empty space beside her he’s more than willing to fill. If only she’d ask him. “Er, told them we’d like to marry in a month. That we should start planning everything tomorrow. First thing. Announce it as well. Write ravens and all that. Wolkan’s already working on a speech for me. Said he’ll have it ready for my approval by breakfast.”

Quite on their own, Jon’s eyes dart back to the empty space that very soon will be his. Should he ask? No, she might feel obligated to invite him when she worries about being caught in a compromising situation. Jon forces his eyes to the blanket instead, indicating it with a nod.

“That for your uncle’s baby?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.

Silent, Sansa keeps her scrutinizing eyes on him instead of the blanket, and Jon feels himself sweating beneath his layers.

“I think he’ll be happy as well. Your uncle. Davos said he noticed. At your nameday feast. That you and I, er… felt things. For each other. They spent all evening whispering about it.”

“I did notice the whispering. They encouraged you to ask me to dance. You were so nervous. You hadn’t danced in years.”

“That’s not why I was nervous.”

His confession colors her cheeks a lovely shade of pink and she’s so beautiful he aches to kiss her. But she’s still holding that bleeding needle, hasn’t left the bed to shove the blanket into her sewing basket. She keeps it all between them, the way a knight from a song puts a sword between him and his lady love when they must share a bed. To protect her honor.

Perhaps she didn’t choose this nightrail to entice him. Perhaps all her more modest nightrails are with the laundress.

Jon should leave, then, like the honorable man his uncle raised him to be, but this is the first time he’s looked toward the future and found a blue sky clear of dark and heavy clouds. There’s no threat looming at the horizon, no terrible cost waiting to be paid. Can Jon truly be faulted for wanting this day to last a little bit longer?

“Should go to White Harbor as soon as possible,” he says, just to keep the conversation going. “Look at fabrics. For your dress. Should-should I wear something new? Aye, I should.” He scratches his beard. “How long does it take to sew a–”

“Jon. You never talk this much if you can help it. Are you hoping I’ll invite you to stay?”

“Er,” he says, his traitorous face hot as guilt.

“You can. If you’d like.”

He tampers down his smile before he ends up grinning like a loon. “You sure? I know you worry about…” He gestures at the door. “Someone could walk past and hear us.”

“I see.” She looks him up and down. “You think sharing a bed means we’ll do something inappropriate?”

He practically feels his chin hitting his lap. “No. I…” He blinks. “I’d be happy to stay either way.”

When he notices the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, he knows he's the one being teased, now. She was waiting for him, hoping he’d stay and make her happy all over again. Just look at the nightrail she chose, when she so often opts for something more demure. As if she needs something like that to tempt him. 

Not that he’s complaining.

When she starts securing the needle and folding the blanket carefully, Jon wastes no time. He’s out of his clothes and between the sheets before she’s finished tucking her work into the sewing basket and locking the door to her chamber. 

“That was very quick,” she says, returning to bed.

He slaps a cocky grin on his face. “I’m a very quick man.” As Sansa joins him between the sheets, Jon’s words return to him. He’s a very quick man? Aye, what a bleeding brilliant thing that is to say to your future bride. He clears his throat and blurts, “I’m not quick when it comes to everything. I can last. If needed.”

Sansa looks at him, bemused. “What does that mean?”

“You know…”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t have needed to ask.”

Jon gives a vague gesture with one hand. “It’s something men worry about. Spilling too quickly. Women like it when you can last.”

“They do? I find that very hard to belie–” Her mouth stills, eyes blinking, blinking. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

He must look as worried as he feels, though, most look as guilty as he feels for impatiently waiting for what she might be dreading, for she guides him to curl up next to her and rest his head on her shoulder as if to soothe that worry and guilt away. She even combs her fingers through his hair so lovingly his skin prickles with pleasure all over and his eyes nearly roll back in his head.

He could lie like this forever.

“I don’t know why I said that,” she murmurs. “I can believe it. What we’ve done so far…” Her hand joins his where it rests on her stomach, her fingers caressing his as if she’s remembering how it felt when he had them inside her. How she gasped at the strokes, and clenched around them when she peaked. “I think I’ll like it. Doing that. With you.”

“I hope so. But we’re not in a hurry. We’ll wait until you’re ready.”

“But I think I am. I want to. On our wedding night.” 

“You’re not just saying that, are you? I’m happy to wait, if you need me to.”

“No. I hadn’t truly thought about it, that’s all. But now that I do… I don’t feel frightened. Not at all. It’s…” Her voice lowers to a whisper. “It’s a bit exciting.”

Jon exhales his relief, smiling. “We’ll go slow. And I’ll make you feel good first. And no bedding ceremony. I won’t let anyone touch you. If anyone so much as thinks about it, I’ll have Tormund knock them out.”

“Do you think he’ll be surprised? Once he learns. Or do you think we were the only ones who didn’t know?”

“You never suspected anything? Don’t think I’ve been that good at hiding it.”

“I did, sometimes,” she says. “But then you did or said something that made me dismiss it.”

“But you have suspected. And still…” Jon leaves the comfort of her shoulder to look at her as he speaks. “I understand why you didn’t fight. But why didn’t you at least ask before giving up?”

“But I didn’t give up. Not really. And I did ask. In a way. I encouraged you to dance with her. That wasn’t entirely selfless. I wanted to see your reaction. And what I saw renewed my hope. I even decided I’d give you a hint if you came to my chamber--and I did. I gave you a lot of hints.”

“If I hadn’t come, then, you would’ve, what, said nothing? Looked on while I chose some lady from Davos’ list and married her?”

“I used to think so. I used to think I’d leave without telling you why, but…” Sansa shakes her head. “I don’t think I would have. I don’t think I would’ve left Winterfell forever without first letting you know you had one more lady to choose from. In case I was lucky enough to be your choice.”

“You wanted me to choose,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

“Of course. I wouldn’t have forced you to marry me.”

No, not Sansa, he thinks, returning to her embrace, resting his cheek against the steady rhythm of her heart. She could’ve pressured him, used his feelings of guilt by pointing out he owes her his freedom and his crown, that Winterfell truly belongs to her, not him, and that by marrying her, he would make things right. She could’ve told him it’s what her father would’ve wanted, and that as her husband, Jon could keep his promise and protect her until the end of his days.

Sansa could’ve done what she needed to get what she wanted, no matter his feelings, but after everything she’s been through, everything people have done to her, she knows the importance of choice. She wouldn’t take that from him. Even if she wouldn’t be his.

“You went quiet again,” Sansa says, untangling a knot in his hair with fingers as gentle as her voice.

He nods to acknowledge her, so he can stay quiet a moment longer and gather his thoughts, sort them through, decide on what to share tonight and what to save for another night when they lie like this, all wrapped up in one another and whispering in the dim light.

“Not looked forward to much in my life,” he says. “Never been much to look forward to. Not since learning what a bastard was and what kind of life a bastard could expect. But a future with you, marriage and children and all of it…” Jon raises his head so she can see the sincerity in his eyes. “Choosing you, Sansa, it’s the best choice I ever made.”

At first she only stares at him. Then she shakes her head, her face is aglow with a joy he’s only ever seen glimpses of before he found her flowers and his bravery in a small stretch of wood and finally kissed her.

“You’re so stupid,” she whispers.

“For… choosing you?”

“No,” she says through a laugh, her eyes glittering with tears. “You couldn’t think of a single thing to say to propose to me. But all day, you’ve kept saying the loveliest things.” She shakes her head again and wipes away the tears that spilled. “I’ll try very hard to be a good wife to you. I promise.”

“I don’t think you’ll have to try very hard.”

“But what if I’m awful? What if we start fighting all the time? What if I drive you half mad by arguing too much and undermining you and, I don’t know, being an arse.”

Jon only laughs. Two years ago, he would’ve feared marriage with her as much as his heart secretly desired it. But it’s so different now. They’re different, both apart and together. Stronger, happier, a little closer to whole.

Some day he’ll tell her all of it. How the women who’ve claimed to love him truly treated him. How they only ever cared about their own wants, their own happiness. Sansa would rather see him happy with someone else than miserable with her, but they would’ve sooner chained him to a wall than let him go, and a girl found naked in his bed wouldn’t have lived to see dawn.

Some day he’ll tell Sansa he believed it meant they loved him so much more than he could ever love anyone. That he’s carried such guilt over it, it’s sometimes made him buckle beneath the weight of it. And that now, as he’s starting to understand what it is to love and be loved, the guilt is finally easing. Some day he’ll tell her, but not tonight. Tonight is only about them, he thinks, as he kisses his way down Sansa’s body. Tonight, he wants only to indulge in happiness.

Sansa wakes to sunlight spilling into her chamber and the lovely weight of Jon’s arm across her body. They have no sept bells here to tell the time, but she left the candle-clock burning all night. It’s early, still. They can enjoy some time together before she has to sneak him out of her chamber and erase any traces of his inappropriate presence.

“Jon,” she whispers. “Are you awake?”

“Barely.”

He’s hard, the way men are in the morning; she can feel it against her bottom. A naughty voice in the back of her mind urges her to reach behind her, slip her hand into his small-clothes, and wrap her fingers around him. Last night she did even more than that. But sleep stole her boldness and this stinging sunlight keeps it from finding its way back.

“Did you sleep well?” she asks instead.

With a hum, he nuzzles his face into her hair until it parts, his beard rasping against her skin. Kisses follow, trailing down her spine, until the bodice of her nightrail stops him. 

“Once we’re wed”--he starts kissing his way back up–”will you sleep naked? Think about all the air it’ll get. Lungfuls of it.”

She laughs, quietly. “I think I can be persuaded to sleep naked, yes.”

When his kisses reach her neck, Sansa lifts her hair out of the way before it catches in his beard and becomes even more of a mess than it was yesterday morning. Although Minna didn’t ask and never would, her curious eyes were full of unspoken questions. 

“This is why it was so tousled yesterday,” Sansa says. “You kept rubbing your face in my hair. If you keep doing that, Minna will catch on.”

“You smell good.” Jon breathes her in, deeply. “Better than anyone.”

“You only think that because you’re in love with me.”

When he chuckles against her skin, holding her so very firmly, she feels herself beaming like a silly little girl. But she’s not. Not anymore. She’s a woman who dreamed of her man all night and now needs him to be the bold one again. To touch and invite her to touch. Quickly too. Before the candle-clock burns too low.

Touch me, she thinks, pull up my nightrail and touch me. But Jon's no better at reading her mind today than he was yesterday. He just relaxes against her with a content sigh, finds her hand to hold, and starts talking again.

“Last night you said you’d leave. If I married someone else. Sounded as if you’ve thought about it. But then Sansa Stark would have a plan. What was it? Can’t imagine you’d return to King’s Landing.”

“No. I’d stay with my uncle.” 

“To find a handsome southern lord and make him fall helplessly in love with you?”

“No,” Sansa says, resting her eyes on the basket with the red blanket. It stands in the river of sunlight flowing across the room, its single completed silver trout gleaming. “To be a septa. I would spend the rest of my life shaping my cousins into perfect little ladies.”

Jon’s quiet for far too long, his silence uncomfortable from what feels like pity, and that’s not what she wants from him. Why linger in the sadness of a bleak future she’ll never see when they could be happy, here and now? She snatches back just enough boldness to arch her back and push her bottom closer to him.

“What,” she says, all sweet and playful, “don’t you think a septa’s robe would suit me?”

He might not have been sharp yesterday, but now he catches on instantly and brings his lips close to her ear. “Bit difficult to imagine my wanton woman in a septa’s robe, yes.”

“I’m not wanton.”

“You are.” His breath is hot against her skin. “It’s one of the most appealing things about you.”

When she opens her mouth to retort, nothing comes out but a gasp for he flips her over on her back and fits himself between her legs that parted for him so quickly, so willingly she ought to scowl at him. But all she can do is melt beneath his gaze, melt in the shower of his kisses that rains down on her face and throat and chest. 

All conscious thought leaves her mind, then, to give way for pleasure. It’s not until they’re cuddling again, damp with sweat and a little bit winded, that conscious thought returns. He’s so affectionate. Much more than she ever could’ve imagined. As if he’s been desperate to show her how he feels for so long it’s difficult to stop. Even now, as they’re curled up together and entirely satisfied, he’s buried his face in the crook of her neck and cupped his hand over her breast.

And yet all those months passed without him saying anything. Not until she took her hints and beat him over the head with them. What if she hadn’t? Where would they be, then?

“Jon?”

“I know.” He sighs. “It’s time.”

When he moves as if to leave, she pulls him back to her. “Not yet,” she whispers into his hair and he relaxes against her, his face returning to her neck and his hand to her breast. “I was wondering. What if I had lost hope? What if I’d decided to leave Winterfell and become a septa? Would you have let me leave without saying anything? Without doing anything?”

“I’m sure Davos would’ve pulled my head out of my arse with his own two hands before it went that far.”

“So you wouldn’t have said anything? On your own. Did it really never occur to you that, maybe, I felt the same?”

Jon pulls back a little and looks at her with soft, brown eyes, his hand moving to her cheek to caress it. “You kept saying you never wanted to be a wife. That you’d never marry again.”

“Yes, but only because there was only one man I wanted to marry and it never seemed as if he’d get his head out of his arse.”

Jon grins. “The mouth on you.”

Before she can think better of it, she snatches back even more of her boldness. “I thought you liked my mouth.”

Surprise knocks his grin off his face for barely a beat before it returns, bringing an adorable blush with it. “I do,” he says, brushing the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. “I don’t think I could’ve. Let you leave. Not without asking why. And if we started talking about it…”

“The truth would’ve become clear.”

“If you left to become a septa because I was marrying someone else… I know I’m not clever when it comes to women, but that’s a bit obvious, isn’t it?” 

“We would’ve ended up here anyway?”

“I think so. A bit later, that’s all.” He dips his head and kisses her again, slowly this time. “I have to go. Before we repeat yesterday morning.”

“And tonight?”

“I’ll sleep in your bed as often as you’ll let me.”

Sansa’s barely finished helping him look proper again before he winds his arms around her and gives her such a passionate kiss it feels like a desperate goodbye before a long separation, even though he’s only going one door down and they’ll see one another again in an hour, at breakfast.

Not that she’s complaining.

After finally tearing himself away and heading for the door, he pauses by the sewing basket. Since the wars ended, she’s sewed and knitted too many baby blankets to count–and always for other people’s children. 

Jon says nothing, doesn’t need to. When they share a smile, Sansa knows they’re sharing a thought as well. On an impulse, she springs forward, tugs him closer by his doublet, and gives him a lingering kiss on the lips before unlocking her door and watching him sneak off. 

In four moons time, they’ll travel south to hold the latest little Tully in their arms. But even if it’s a girl, Sansa won’t be her septa. She’ll be a wife, then–Jon’s wife–and the blanket she’ll occupy herself with during long days in the wheelhouse won’t be meant for someone else's child, and full of another House’s sigil. Sansa knows just how it'll look, can see it so clearly. Inspired by a conversation with her husband-to-be and the wedding dress she'll soon wear, it’ll be embroidered with a Stark grey wolf pup wearing a golden crown and sleeping sweetly among a sea of wood anemones, in a quiet northern wood, on a beautiful day in spring.

Smiling, Sansa moves to her desk, finds paper and a charcoal stick, and gets to work.