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I can be brave, like a lady in a song, Sansa thought desperately as the Wildling crept out of the shadows of the underbrush towards her.
She had wandered too far seeking flowers for her crown whilst seeking peace and quiet from the noisy Umbers that Father had come to pay a visit. He had brought his eldest daughter, a maid of four and ten, with him because she had said she wished to see something besides Winterfell, the castle she had known all her life.
Sansa hadn’t meant another Northern House though. She had meant she should like to see the South. She longed to see a tourney and knights in shining armor and ladies in silk dresses giving them favors. She wanted to go where there were enough singers to hear a different one every night for many moons rather than just one that might come and stay for a moon’s turn and then no more would be seen for a season. Sansa wondered what it would be like to see Kings Landing and wear her hair in the intricate styles they preferred there.
Instead, she had been brought to visit another Northern place like Winterfell…except that it was smaller and far cruder.
In her pique over the ribald comment the younger Umber had made about her beauty out of Father’s hearing, she had left the keep without any escort. Insolent oaf.
And now she felt a fool for wandering so far from safety.
The Wildling looked to be close to her in age, a man grown as much as she was a woman. In other words, still a boy in some ways though one foot at least had crossed into adulthood.
He wore naught but skins and fur. Even his boots were made of furs intricately tied with leather.
His long, curly dark hair was unkempt but swept back from his face, held by a bit of twine. Sansa’s nose crinkled as she wondered if it had ever had a proper wash.
His face was dirty and he wore a beard though it was not so thick as Lord Umber’s.
But as Sansa continued to stare, she decided he was handsome and his hair looked as though it might be soft if she were to run her hands through it.
Sansa startled at the thought. Wildlings could not be handsome. They were fierce and dangerous. His hair could not be soft and she would certainly never run her hands through it. It probably held lice. Somehow, she thought it didn’t though.
But Wildlings were enemies. Enemies were ugly, were they not? How could she find him handsome?
His eyes were soft and kind, a dark grey. He moved cautiously towards her with his hands held out to the side as though he were as frightened of her as she was of him.
Preposterous. Why should he fear me? He is the savage.
He was wearing a short sword and a knife at his belt. But the knife was rusted and the sword looked dull and chipped. It looked much less imposing than Father’s great sword Ice…but it was no doubt deadly.
I will not show fear. I am a daughter of Winterfell. I am a Stark and I can be brave.
“If you lay a hand on me, my lord father will have your head,” she said imperiously. Her voice shook slightly but she was proud that it came out loud and clear. She knew he understood her.
He did not quake with fear though. He merely smiled and asked, “Where is your father, girl? I see no man by your side.”
“He is a guest of Lord Umber. You are on Umber lands,” Sansa answered with a boldness that surprised her. “And you should address me as my lady.”
His smile widened at that. He had a lovely smile Sansa decided before she reminded herself of what he was and her peril.
“And is your father one of the Greatjon’s bannermen?”
Sansa’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. Why should she care what this Wildling thought? The misapprehension was nothing to her.
But in her pride and vexation, Sansa said, “My lord father is not one of Lord Umber’s bannermen. Lord Umber is one of his.”
“Umber is…then your father is Lord Stark?” the Wildling man said in amazement.
“Yes,” she replied haughtily just before she realized her folly. Sansa, you fool…why would you tell him that? You’d make a valuable hostage. “I mean to say…”
“What would Mance think of this? I am foraging and just happen upon Lord Stark’s own daughter alone in the wood,” he laughed to himself.
Sansa’s bravado left her then. Her hands twisted in the deep green velvet of her skirts. She was alone and unarmed, helpless and at his mercy. She had run away like a foolish girl and she was in danger now. This Wildling would carry her off to the King Beyond the Wall. Father and Uncle Benjen might send a host of men to seek her and never find her in that frozen wasteland. She would never see her family or her home again. Sansa was more frightened than she had ever been. It was then that she began to cry.
Jon’s eyes widened in surprise and concern. She was crying and the sound pierced his heart. He had never seen such a lovely girl cry like this before and he certainly had never been the cause of any girl’s tears to his knowledge.
“I don’t…I don’t mean you any harm,” he said uneasily. “I did not come to steal you…or anyone.”
He knew she would not believe him. He did not blame her. He had climbed the Wall with a raiding party at Mance’s behest. They needed better weapons north of the Wall. The Free Folk could not forge steel like these Southerners and so they came over the Wall to take some.
Jon had climbed the Wall half a dozen times now. It frightened him every time but he would never admit it. It was what was expected of raiders and he did what Mance said.
But some of his party meant to carry off some women as well. Jon had no interest in stealing a Southern girl against her will though and taking her North. There were women amongst the Free Folk he could steal if he wanted a woman. He was only five and ten though and there was time enough for that.
I should like to steal her though.
The thought came unbidden and Jon chastised himself for it. He would not steal the proud and pretty maid. Some other man would challenge him for such a treasure and what would happen to her if he failed to keep her? Passed from man to man and mistreated more than likely. Jon preferred to leave her here, unspoiled and free.
He had watched her for several minutes from the shelter of the trees as she sang to herself and collected flowers. She had sat on a stump and began weaving the flowers into a crown.
Her gown was a dark green and the fabric was rich and soft looking. He wondered what it would feel like to touch it…and to feel the warmth of her skin under the fabric as he touched it.
Her thick, long hair was a deep auburn shade, kissed by fire. Her eyes were as blue as the sky on a sunny day from atop the Wall. She was more beautiful than any woman Jon had ever seen and he wondered if all highborn maids in the South could possibly be this lovely. Somehow, he doubted it.
He stepped closer as she cried and she leapt back from him. “I don’t mean you any harm,” he said again.
He took a careful step forward, approaching her like he would a wounded animal. Ghost came out from the underbrush just then and the girl startled. Her tears ceased at least though in her shock at seeing the massive white direwolf.
“It’s alright,” Jon said gently. “He won’t harm you either. Not while I am here.”
He beckoned the wolf to come forward. Ghost padded silently along the forest floor, his red eyes glowing in the shadows from the trees overhead. The maid’s face no longer looked afraid but curious.
“He’s a direwolf,” she said.
“He is.”
“The direwolf is the…”
“The sigil of House Stark. Everyone knows that.”
“How did he climb the Wall?” the girl asked.
Jon threw back his head and laughed at the thought. The lady was vexed by that he could tell. “I’m sorry,” he chuckled as he tried to stop laughing. “It’s just the thought of...” Jon wiped his eyes and said, “He lives here in the South. He’s been my friend for a couple of years now but he does not live in the North. I don’t know how but he always seems to find me when we come over on a…”
“A raid,” the girl said in an accusing tone. “And this is not the South. This is the North.”
“It’s the South to us,” Jon replied simply. “Everything south of the Wall is the South to my people. And aye, we are here for a raid. We need good steel and other things we cannot make for ourselves.”
He liked the way her cheeks flared with color when she grew cross. He did not like her next words though.
“So, you admit that you are nothing but thieves?”
Perhaps we are, Jon thought as a scowl formed on his face.
But Jon did not like to think of himself as such. He could quarrel with this girl about the real struggles his people faced that a pampered princess such as herself would never understand. Instead, he asked a question.
“What’s your name?”
Her cheeks bloomed with color once more but Jon did not think it was anger or accusation he saw in her eyes now.
“Sansa,” she replied.
“Sansa,” he repeated, testing it out on his tongue. “It’s pretty,” he said. And it was. A pretty and fanciful name for a pretty and fanciful girl.
“What’s his name?” she asked, pointing to Ghost.
“He’s Ghost,” Jon answered, feeling strangely put out that she cared more to learn the wolf’s name than his own.
“Ghost,” she said…and smiled then. Lady Sansa’s smile…a precious and beautiful thing, Jon decided. “What’s your name?” she asked next.
“Jon,” he replied and smiled at her in return.
A gentle sort of quiet had descended upon them. Sansa stroked Ghost’s white fur. Jon thought she seemed quite pleased with Ghost and he enjoyed the radiant smiles she bestowed on him when she’d look up from Ghost and into his eyes.
“He’s softer than I thought he’d be,” she said.
So am I, Jon thought, knowing what the others would think if they knew he had Lord Stark’s own daughter in his grasp and did no more than pet a direwolf with her.
Jon’s hands joined hers in stroking the wolf’s fur. At times, their hands touched. His were rough and callused and hers were mostly smooth with only a rough spot along her fingers where she held her needles to mar the perfection of her skin.
For several sunlit moments, the Wildling youth and the highborn maid sat companionably together upon the forest floor with the albino direwolf between them. Each searching the face of the other, seeking something they did not know they had been missing.
He is not so different than any other man. Perhaps Father would like him if he met him.
She is more beautiful than any girl I can name…but she is still a person and not so different than me.
Jon asked Sansa for a Southern song, something his people might not know.
“Mance is fond of songs. I should like to sing one for him that perhaps even he has not heard.”
Sansa thought and thought. So many songs in her head, in her heart…but the handsome young man’s request had sent them all fluttering off as a leaf on a breeze. At last she thought of one.
“There is a song I fancy. Perhaps you should like to hear it,” she said shyly, ducking her chin and feeling the cursed blush creep up her throat again.
I am a lady. I should be frightened of such a man and keep him at arm’s length. I should not be singing him songs.
But she wanted to all the same.
Jon smiled and his eyes widened in expectation. “Go on,” he urged. “Sing me a song and I’ll sing one to you.”
Sansa thought she would like that. His voice was deep and husky. Not at all like the singer’s that had come to Winterfell many moons ago. And yet, she preferred it.
But it was then that the stillness of the afternoon was shattered by the sound of men and horses and the baying of dogs. They were still a fair way off but they were headed this way, Jon was sure. Ghost snarled and bolted for the underbrush at once.
Sansa’s face paled and she gasped, “Go! Run! It’s my father and his men…or Lord Umber and his! If they catch you, they’ll kill you!”
They rose from where they had been sitting together. Jon knew that she spoke the truth but he was reluctant to leave, he was frozen by her side. He took her hand without thinking.
“I didn’t get my song,” he said.
“Forget the bloody song and keep your head instead,” she exclaimed.
“And if they took my head, would you weep for me, Lady Sansa?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes at him and gave him a shove to make him go, making Jon howl with laughter.
“Be silent, you fool! Run! Before it is too late!”
“What if I meant to steal you though? You said I was a thief. I could not bear to leave without you if that were my plan.”
“You would already have stolen me if that were you’re intent,” she said assuredly.
Her courage had returned as they had sat together and stroked the direwolf’s fur. He would not harm her. She was certain of it. But Father was coming and she did not want this man…she did not want Jon to be hurt. She knew that she would indeed weep if he were captured and killed.
“Go!” she shouted again as the horses were coming nearer.
“A kiss,” he said desperately. You’re a fool, Jon. You’ll be a dead man if you linger much longer. But he could not leave without trying. “I’ll go if you’ll give me a kiss.”
Her eyes widened and her mouth parted. She was shocked. She should be shocked…and appalled. But she was not appalled…not at all.
“If you are a thief, perhaps you could steal one,” she said with a smirk upon her lips.
It was all the encouragement he needed. He pulled her to him and wondered at the sweet scent that seemed to surround her. No spear wife or free woman smelled like this. She smelled like flowers and other sweet things. He looked into her clear blue eyes and then down at her soft pink lips.
“I’ve never kissed a lady before,” he breathed. Heat flooded his cheeks as soon as he said it. “I mean…”
“Are you going to kiss this one or not?” she asked cheekily. Jon leaned forward and brushed his lips to hers, soft and gentle and oh, so sweet. “No man has ever kissed me before,” Sansa sighed as he pulled back.
“I should like to kiss you again.”
“You will get a steel kiss if you stay,” she said though she still let him hold her.
Jon leaned in to claim one more kiss, this one on her forehead, as soft and gentle as the first kiss.
“Good-bye, Lady Sansa,” Jon said then and dashed into the brush the way that Ghost had went.
Sansa stood in the forest, her fingers to her lips and a smile upon her face as the men and horses came crashing through the clearing moments later. Her father swung down off his horse his face tense but easing as he saw his daughter was unharmed.
Lord Stark sat his daughter in front of him on his horse and held her tightly, telling her how afraid they had all been when she had been discovered to be missing. He told her that a group of Wildling raiders were known to be about and admonished her not to leave the Umber’s keep on her own again.
She solemnly nodded and begged her father’s pardon for causing everyone such worry. But as the horses moved through the wood, Sansa caught a glimpse of white in the underbrush and a shadow at its side.
“Farewell,” she whispered to the woods and to the direwolf.
“Till we meet again,” she murmured as she thought of Jon, the Wildling…the first man to kiss her.