Chapter Text
“Anyway,” Arya nearly cried out, making Sansa startle from her pleasant thinking. “What are the two of you doing?” her sister demanded as she shrugged off Gilly’s coat, the heat suddenly unbearable.
She had half a want to encourage them to keep ignoring Jon and her, and continue their conversation, but Arya’s words had brought back everyone’s attention on them. Sansa turned to her sister, disgruntled with her intervention, as Jon told them some half-lie about discussing for the preparation for the morrow’s meeting.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Arya whispered in protest, her words covered by the queen’s answering ones. “I was struggling over there. Targaryen was interrogating me on everything!”
She frowned, her displeasure quickly turning into worry. An interrogation could mean several things, and rarely good ones. Sansa remembered the shadows of the dragons she saw flying north of the castle, more clearly than she would have liked, and all they implied. “What did she want?” She pressed on, trying to get a hold on the situation while chastising herself for being distracted. There was a stranger in her home, she shouldn’t forget that.
“That we know each other better, because she heard oh so many things about me during the journey here, she felt as if we share oh so much and she wants us to be friends.” She spat the last word as if it had personally insulted her. “Ah! As if I would ever want to be friend with a Targaryen, let alone her.”
“I understand, Arya, but this…”
“I couldn’t survive it! I’m not good at making small talk with my enemies. I’m good at killing them, that’s all.”
“She’s not our enemy,” Sansa whispered back. “At least she can’t be aware of it,” she amended at the furious look her sister shot at her. “We’ve talked about that.”
“We did, but I warned you then that I didn’t want to pretend to like her. You can do it, if you want, but not me.”
“She talked with you-”
“Well, since I’ve had the oh-so-wonderful privilege to be the chosen one from the mighty queen of the seven acres, I shall die now for there will be no moment in my life when I shall be happier than this seven-blessed day.”
“You know that’s not what I was going to say,” Sansa protested in a feeble voice, trying to smother her chuckling.
“I know,” she puffed, rolling her eyes in a gesture that was very much Arya. “I say let’s Jon entertain her a bit, since it’s his fault she’s here.”
Sansa smiled conspiratorially, “Poor Jon.”
Arya’s face hardened; she lifted her chin up and pursued her mouth in a thin line. Sansa worried the inside of her cheek, nervous that she might have been too dismissive toward Arya’s favorite brother. They love each other, these two, she and Arya’s difficult reunion and the way she had witnessed them interact, before the dragon queen came here the proof of that. “He doesn’t seem to mind it that much.” Arya nodded to where Jon was sitting, behind Sansa’s shoulder.
She turned to him then, slowly, her mind half-detached from her body, dread closing her throat in that strange sensation where you know your dream is switching to a nightmare, and you are helpless to stop it. She was familiar with the feeling, were it happening at night or in reality, but this caught her off guard.
Perhaps it was the reason why, as she saw them holding hands, she only felt incomprehension.
They shouldn’t hold hands, they’re not married, they’re not betrothed. Aren’t they?
She suddenly wasn’t sure.
Why would they arrange a marriage without telling her? It didn’t make sense! Petyr couldn’t be right. He’d been wrong about her, he’d been wrong about Arya, he’d been wrong about the Starks, he must have been wrong about Jon.
She forced herself to concentrate on her earlier assured deduction, since she had been the one observing Jon. She knew him, and she knew he wouldn’t… No, not without telling her. This wasn’t about bending the knee – for that, she suspected he must have his reasons – this was about him and that… other woman. She was sure she would tell him, when she’ll think of marrying someone, without him having to ask or deduce it.
Yet their hands were resting entangled on Jon’s lap, and neither he nor the dragon queen were making a move to hide their touching. Sansa couldn’t see Jon’s face, for he was completely turning to his queen, but hers was relaxed and happy, the words she spoke blurred in the maelstrom of Sansa’s mind.
She could feel Arya’s and Tyrion’s eyes gauging her reaction, so she smoothed her face, braced her body and raised her own eyes to where Tyrion was sprawled, a single question swimming in them.
Have they?
Please, please, please…
Tyrion’s lips stretched in a bitter smile, his head slowly went up and down, and up and down, and up and down.
“No,” Sansa breathed out, as if ser Meryn had again just slammed his mailed fist in her belly.
She kept telling herself he must be wrong, him too. She had confidence on her abilities to read Jon – they were close, she knew they were, he would tell her, she was his family – she saw his behavior this morning, in the courtyard, and then at the meetings. She saw it all. She was prepared to welcome them, to accept the wedding, yet she saw nothing of that. She can’t be wrong.
She whirled around to face Jon, her hands twitching with the sudden urge to hold herself together. She silently begged him to shake off the Targaryen woman’s hands and vehemently deny it. But his mouth, when he turned his head to her, remained closed and his eyes only showed guilt.
There was only one thing he could be guilty about, knowing him. And seeing for herself how close they were – she was practically holding his hands, and he stayed completely poised, when every time Sansa so much as brushed his arm, he looked ready to burst…
Perhaps she was the one in the wrong, after all. Perhaps she had only seen what she wanted to see, that her family would not be parted. That Jon loved her the way she loved him. That they shared a special… something.
Had he even missed her?
She knew she had talked about him a lot, had missed him a lot when he was gone, Arya made sure she didn’t forget that but what about him? He had said nothing. It hadn’t bothered her, because he had looked as if he’d missed her, and she was confident in her ability to read him but… what if he was in love? She wasn’t under any illusions, she knew he would choose his lady love over her in the blink of an eye. A brother’s duty has its limits, after all.
“But my sister,” Arya nudged her with her elbow, just as Sansa’s heart was breaking, “though, always liked the happy stories about Targaryens. Aemon the Dragonknight and Queen Naerys was her favorite; she’ll sing it better than I ever will.”
“We’d prefer hearing you sing it, lady Arya,” the dragon queen replied, her smile stopping reaching her eyes.
“That’s not going to happen. And I’m no lady.”
“Sansa has a… a very good voice, Your Grace,” Jon stated, his voice quavering a little as his eyes barely dared to meet hers. “She used to sing all the time when we were children.”
Yes, we used to make fun of Sansa all the time, and you always laughed though… Why should you want to hear your silly little sister sing about love? So that you may laugh again? She was suddenly angry and scrambled to regain control over herself. “I shan’t, Your Grace. Songs lost all their appeal to me years ago, I haven’t sung one in a long time and it is not something I wish to go back to.”
She needed to see the bigger picture. Jon wasn’t just Jon, he was the King in the North, bound to do his duty, just as she was. An alliance between the North and the South was the most sensible decision they could make.
“But Sansa you-”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t wish to hear the singing anymore, but I’ll sing for you if you want.” With that, and without waiting for Jon’s response, the queen started to sing under her breath the first verse. Jon sighed and threw Sansa a sad look before focusing his attention to his love who was singing.
Sansa tried to suppress a pang of envy in her chest, to no avail. Her anger slowly flowed out of her, and longing was taking its place. They made a beautiful picture, the two of them – to say otherwise would be outright a lie – the way two people who loved each other. If she closed her eyes, she was sure that she would be able to picture herself in the dragon queen’s place, and wasn’t that idea sweet? Oh, but she wouldn’t want a king by her side, or a knight! Just a kind man, who could grow to love her and who would listen to her.
Surely such a man existed and was high-born enough that she could marry him without everybody making a fuss. She could tie her wishes with her duty, the way it had happened for her parents.
Who were the lords she knew who were marriageable? she mused as the queen gained confidence and began singing in a normal voice. Sansa passed through the list in her head, but for each one there was always something… not quite right about them.
People said lord Dickon Tarly was brave, but not very smart. Her cousin Sweetrobin could very well have gotten wiser during his years as a ward to House Royce, but his bravery was leaving something to be desired. Theon’s uncle was said to be cruel and involved with Cersei Lannister. The Riverlands were already ruled by her blood. And Dorne, the Crownlands and the Stormlands had women as their rulers. That left the Westerlands, but ser Jaime was out of the question, for obvious reasons. The dragon queen will probably punish for the kingslaying of her father and his association with his sister, anyway, when she takes the throne.
So that left her only with… Tyrion. As much as it surprised her, her first husband looked to be the only worthy option for her, in this devasted land. She knew him, she knew he was kind. He was the Hand of the Queen. Marrying him would strengthen the alliance between North and South, with two of Ned Stark’s children wed to southerners. Jon would link the North to the Throne, and she would link her home, the Vale and the Riverlands to the crone at the same time.
This is my duty, she thought as her gaze left her hands to rest on the man sitting on the other side of the room, shooting daggers at the happy future-ruling couple. The scar that marred his face had healed somewhat, in those years he spent East, but they had rendered him more bitter too. Her feelings toward him remained the same, though, and she knew that she would never love him. Care for him, perhaps? With the years, she could learn to care for the father of her children, she wondered as a shiver passed through her body. Those feelings hadn’t changed either.
But then what had a handmaiden whispered to her, once, when she’d been married to Ramsay? If she could close her eyes and imagine someone of her fancy, it might be less painful, the girl had suggested.
But Sansa had quickly found out that anyone of her fancy quickly disappeared from behind her eyelids as soon as Ramsay’s hands laid upon her skin.
She clapped politely with the rest of them when the queen sung the last words and folded the coat she finally hadn’t been working on. She felt overwhelmed by her latest resolutions and, for once, she followed her want of putting as much distance as possible between her and Tyrion – she needed to put herself together before proposing to him, or else she feared she wouldn’t be able to utter a word.
“I haven’t been the most pleasant company tonight, I’m afraid,” she said, offering an apologetic smile. “It’s probably the fatigue.” It was half a lie, but she couldn’t very well start making reproach to Jon in front of everybody. “This was enchanting, Your Grace, but, if you’ll excuse me, I think it’ll be best if I retire now.”
“A’right, see you tomorrow,” her sister grumbled. Then she raised her voice and, in a fake awed sigh, confirmed the praise “But yes, positively enchanting, Your Grace.”
“Thank you, Arya,” the queen answered, seemingly oblivious to the mockery undertone used by her sister. “It’s true that I haven’t sung in years-”
“I’ll accompany you,” Jon announced, shooting from his seat and dislodging, at least, the queen’s touch from his skin. Sansa didn’t think she would be able to stand being alone with him while her head was still swimming in uncertainty about the attitude she must adopt. But, as she was going to protest, he turned around to face her. “Don’t leave too on my account, though.” He nodded once at her and made a sign to let Sansa pass before him.
She brushed the top of Bran’s head with the back of her hand, which was a gesture they had quickly adopted between them. Or well, rather she desperately needed the contact and Bran allowed her to, because that one wasn’t quite as invasive as the others were. She smiled one last time at Arya before striding to the door, wanting to get away from the room as fast as possible.
She waited at the other side of the door for Jon to join her, half listening to the conversation that was still going on on the other side.
“You’re right, I’ll stay. This will allow us to better get acquainted, I can’t wait,” the dragon queen paused, and Sansa heard the room go silent, but for clothes rustling. “You have my heart!” She then exclaimed, much to Sansa’s incredulity. This… this was unexpected, she thought as her heart started beating wildly. A sense of dread was slowly taking possession of her, and the time seemed to stretch until she heard a response.
“You never leave my thoughts, my queen,” Jon declared and she squeezed her eyes shut. Sansa felt the words – those words she never spoken but that etched themselves in her memory – turn to ashes in her mouth. She willed herself to swallow back her tears and, when her eyes fluttered open, Ghost’s form striding to the courtyard was only slightly blurry.
Jon had pursed his mouth and his shoulders were squared as he stormed out of the room and practically slammed the door shut behind him. The sound seemed to resonate in the empty corridor, only accompanied by their heavy breathing and the decreasing pitter-patter of Ghost’s claws hitting the stoned floor. Then, after a moment of complete silence, Jon raised the eyes he had kept lowered back on her, and his entire body visibly relaxed.
He even lifted one corner of his mouth to a small smile. “Are you alright?” he gently inquired.
And somehow the whole picture of it made her eyes glisten the same way his previous words did. He had a way with her that would scare her would he be anyone else. He was capable, with one gentle word, one kind thought, to drain all her anger, all selfishness from her. She shouldn’t feel heartbroken about the situation. Her brother was in love – because he was, there was to be no doubt about that – this should be cause for celebration and happiness, not wistfulness and fright. He held her hands, he said sweet things to her, he called her ‘my queen’. This was a chance, that he could fall in love with the woman he was supposed to marry.
And if it left a bitter taste in her mouth, well, she would have to fake ignorance until she achieved it. Jon didn’t have to know.
“I am,” she assured him, hoping her voice wasn’t quavering too much. He’d attribute it to the cold or the tears in her eyes, she reassured herself, quickly brushing away any that might have fallen. “I’m tired, that’s all. And it’s probably the sewing too – it always strains my eyes if I’m at it for too long.”
Which would be the case, if she had actually spent the last few hours working instead of looking at him.
“Where did Ghost go?” she asked after a moment of silence, as they had both been lost in their thoughts as they started walking back to her chambers.
“I sent him to the kitchens,” Jon waved a hand dismissively. “Given the size of it, you’ll probably have to eat hare for the next few meals.”
“I don’t know if… I mean the hunts will grow scarce and it’s probably the last good piece of meat that we’ll have in a long time.”
“He hunted it for you,” he pointed out, nearly insisting, but there was a hint of pride in his eyes.
“It’s decided then, if it’s alright with you,” she agreed, linking her arm to his, like they were sealing a pact. She heard him take a sharp intake of breath, but he didn’t dislodge her arm, didn’t pat her hand dismissively, didn’t comment on it, so she figured that it wasn’t bothering him.
After a few steps, he even bent his arm and she let out a contented sigh, covered by him clearing his throat, as his body heat warmed her tucked hand. Jon seemed to always radiate heat when she was close enough to feel it and, in the cold of the night, it was tempting to just press herself against him.
Of course, the dragon queen would love him.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” He had asked in a hoarser voice – just before he cleared his throat – and it only occurred to her that he might expect an answer. It took her a few seconds to recall what the conversation was about.
“He’s yours.”
“Ah but I’ve been away a long time. Perhaps now he prefers your company to mine and seeks to please you first.”
“He’d never!” She immediately protested, internally wincing at the turn the conversation was taking.
“Are you saying Ghost doesn’t have good manners?”
“I-” She stopped when she finally took a look at his face, and realized he was teasing her. She made a point of rolling her eyes, but the desired effect was lost when she couldn’t stop chuckling instead of huffing. “That wasn’t a very good joke.”
“I can see that,” he said as they walked around a corner, their smiles lessening as they passed by a couple of guards who looked at them strangely, surely because they could hear us joke like children in the middle of the night, Sansa thought guiltily, suddenly mindful of the sleeping people they might have woken up.
Jon seemed to share her thought, for they went across the hallway in a hurry and in silence, huddled close together to fight back the cold.
There was no time for conversations about trivial matters, she reminded herself. There was, however, the time for important ones – and precisely the most important one she thought about this evening. Sansa pulled herself together and, after having chosen her words and making sure her voice would sound even, spoke the dreaded but necessary words in a light tone. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking that we could marry at the same time. I don’t think we could withstand two feasts in a short period of time, especially if-”
Jon whirled around, his eyes wide open, the movement tugging her by their linked arms so close to him they were practically touching from chest to knee. Their sudden proximity silenced both her words and every thought she might have had, and she was suddenly aware of everything of him. The way the light turned his eyes practically dark, to contrast with how pale his skin looked, the way his nostrils nearly flared – she couldn’t think of a better fitting word at the moment – and his mouth twisted to show a hint of his teeth.
“Who?” he snarled, his voice breaking in the middle of the sound, and the second question sounded more like a frantic whisper than an angry growl. “Who do you want to marry, Sansa?”
His eyes turned pleading, and he grabbed her other arm, the one that wasn’t still tucked with his, his hand wide and as hot as if he was directly touching her skin, without the leather of his glove and the wool of her dress as a barrier. It was this thought that scared her, not than his attitude. Her voice, when she answered, did not sound composed anymore, “Tyrion.”
Jon, her brother, backed away from her, snatching his arm from her own grip, leaving her alone and cold. “No,” he growled. His eyes were still intent on her face, probably witnessing the contradict reaction that instilled in her, a buried part relieved that was his answer, another stunned about it.
“No?” Even her voice oscillated between the two.
He precipitately shook his head, “You don’t want to marry him. You can’t.”
She blinked slowly at him, once, twice. She felt that her next words would be the ones to throw her down the cliff, and him with her. “It’s not about what I want,” she croaked, “it’s what honor demands.” She told him, then, about the fact that Tyrion Lannister was the only lord she could marry, that it was alright with her, that she would do her duty, that he was a decent husband, all things considered.
“I won’t let you settle for a decent husband!” He seethed, talking between his clenched teeth, his tone almost warning.
“It’s what I want!” What else did he think she hoped for? After marrying a monster, nearly two, decency was good, it was safe.
“Its not!” He shot her a look of utter betrayal. “You want happiness and- and love and all those pretty things you dreamt of, when you were a child.”
She reciprocated his look, anger filling her heart and making her choke on her own voice as tears threatened to spill on her cheeks. Why do you say that? She wanted to ask. Why do you remember? “I was a little girl. A silly, stupid little girl, who’s only there for a good laugh.”
“What?”
“But it’s alright, I don’t hold it against you,” she said, barely aware that he had interrupted her, her voice turning hoarse as she tried to restrain her sobbing. “It’s not like you were the only one, anyway.” She could still hear the laughs of the noblemen and women of King’s Landing, Cersei’s, Joffrey’s, Ramsay’s, mixing now with her siblings’. We used to make fun of Sansa all the time, and you always laughed!
That cacophony of laughs in her head was the last straw to her attempt at composure so, in order to save the last bits of pride she had left, she stormed off to the stairs. She climbed the steps not as quickly as she would have liked, her vision too blurry to walk properly without falling and breaking her neck, and Jon was at her heels after only a moment, having caught up with her.
“Sansa, wait!” He called out, but she stubbornly kept on. She didn’t want to stop, for he would want her to explain and she wasn’t sure herself what exactly had come to her, to tell him that. Those stairs were close to her chambers, and Brienne was sleeping near, she would come outside should she hear a ruffle, and then Sansa could think of an excuse to send the both of them away. “I don’t- What are you talking about?”
She felt him get past her as soon as she stepped away from the stairs and so she ducked her head to brush her tears away, wishing she had thought of taking gloves as she had to wipe her hands on her dress in a very inelegant gesture, instead of letting the leather take it. Jon turned around once he was in front of her, a decided look on his face that wavered when he took on her distraught one. “Sansa,” he softly repeated, his hands hovering between them as if he had no idea what to do with them. “Sansa, I never thought… that.”
She made a shaky derisive sound, “You used to laugh, though. Arya and Bran just said so, you don’t have to deny it,” she added when it looked like he was about to protest. “As I said, it’s alright. Now, I really am tired, so if you’re quite finished…”
“I’m not. Sansa, that was years ago – we were all children. I laughed at japes made at you, just like I did to Robb, or Greyjoy, or even Arya. To everyone. Just like you did, too! Don’t tell me you’ve never made fun of me, or of anyone else.”
“You’re right,” she admitted, shame lightly coloring her cheeks.
“But,” he paused and swallowed thickly, “for what it’s worth, I’m not now. I don’t want you to marry him.”
She frowned, rubbing her hands together as the subject of their impending marriages made her shudder with dread. “Why?”
“Because he’s Tyrion Lannister.”
“You told me that he was your friend, before you left,” she pointed out to him, resuming walking to her door. “You two were akin, remember? All dwarves are bastards in their father’s eyes, or something.”
“Exactly. I promised that I’d protect you, it’s certainly not to let you marry him. He doesn’t deserve you. He’s a bitter old man, and a drunk, and a kinslayer, and he frequents brothels and is obsessed with revenge. And… and… your lady mother would never have agreed to it!”
She chuckled despite herself, puzzled. “My mother?”
“She wanted the best for you, and the best is who you shall have.”
Not everyone gets to be as lucky as Daenerys Targaryen, she thought with a pan in her chest. “Yet, I think you just described the majority of the men in Westeros,” she sighed as she stopped in front of her door, turning to face him. “If I don’t marry him, I don’t think the lords would agree to let you marry the dragon queen.”
“There won’t be any wedding – neither yours nor mine. The war is upon us, there’s no time for any of that.”
She smiled a little as relief washed over her. “And what about after?”
He took a step closer, his eyes soft and intent all at once, and she felt warmth timidly flow back in her body. “After…” he repeated, his voice raspy. He came nearer and nearer, his brows slightly furrowed, until they mimicked the position they found themselves earlier, pressed against each other. until she had forgotten all about her question. The heat of him made her shiver slightly, though she did not feel the cold anymore.
Still, he felt it, and mistook it for something it wasn’t because he instantly backed away, muttering an apology. Except this time, Sansa grabbed his hands, keeping him close.
He looked down at their clasped hands, and so she did the same. Her breathing quickened as he moved his, so he could gently rub warmth into her bare skin, the feel of the leather gloves freezing her even more than she already was at first before the motion reached its desired effect and the leather warmed in time with her hands. She still found herself wishing the gloves would simply disappear. After all, she was certain his skin was even warmer when it was not hidden beneath the material, and that would allow her to cool his otherwise burning touch.
She twisted her hands in his grasp, so that the back of them would now benefit from being pressed against his entire palm, and not by the constant strokes of his thumb. Yet, as soon as she did that, the motion made her wince in pain and it immediately stilled. She sighed longingly, already regretful that the nice moment was over, but he didn’t let her go.
“What happened?”
She narrowed her eyes, barely making out the tiny colored spots dotting her right hand and the fingers of her left, the result of her fighting back tears over her concerns by squeezing a needle with all her strength. “Feelings,” she simply answered, her voice barely louder than a whisper.
The corner of Jon’s mouth quirked up. “Aye, those…” he breathed, tilting his head on one side. At this instant, Sansa believed he was going to kiss her, the thought making her wet her lips and leaving them parted, ready to be caught by his. She watched him look down at them, his tongue mirroring the motion.
The moment quickly disappeared, however, flying away before she could realize that she couldn’t think of… her brother doing this to her.
Still, it left her nearly breathless, her head spinning, his name ready to leave her lips as she watched him raise her hands to his mouth. He pressed a kiss first to the palm of her right hand, and then to the tip of her left fingers where the worst of the bruises were. His eyes never left hers, his beard and whiskers scratching deliciously against her tender skin, making her insides twist in the most pleasant of way.
“It’s getting late, my-” he interrupted himself, and she saw the change, the realization of their actions occur in his eyes. He quickly let go of her hands and took several steps back as if she was the one who had burned him while the color drained off his face.
Her heart lurched in her throat as a sudden flow of panic threatened to submerge her and twist and snatch away what had just happened. “You can say it! Please Jon, I… I don’t mind.”
He returned her gaze and, slowly, as he saw for himself that she spoke the truth, his posture lost the most of its hesitancy. He sighed longingly, murmured “Should Ghost comes this night, don’t let him in, my love,” bowed his head and left her, leaning on her door as she understood why and as the memory of his kiss etched itself on her hands and of his last word on her heart.