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Lady Stark never smiles anymore, the whispers go. Oh, she’s polite, always polite, her mouth gently curved for the briefest moment when she greets her people or hears a jest. But those are not true smiles, are they? She’s a Queen of Ice, that one. She picks at her food too, and stays up so late she falls asleep in the King’s office with her nose in a ledger, or by the fire with fabric in her lap, sewing needle dropped to the floor. And then there’s the praying. The tiny pockets of spare time throughout her busy days, she flees to the godswood and sits by the tree, looking oh-so morose. She always looks morose, they all agree, even in sleep.
The soft-footed girl hiding in the shadows slips away unnoticed, rifling through the wealth of gossip she stole and examining it against the light.
When did she last see Sansa smile? Most evenings, Arya reckons, when they longue in front of the fire and Arya tells her about her travels. But they’re never proper smiles, with teeth and sparkling eyes. When did she last see Sansa beaming? When Arya returned, she supposes, when they talked down in the crypts. As a girl Sansa smiled all the time, but this Sansa is different. This Sansa has little to smile about. When she’s not overseeing the preparations for the war, the food crisis, or listening to petitions, she’s arranging secret meetings with the bannermen where she does her best in convincing them that Jon’s not really bent the knee. That he’s playing the game, and that they all must keep up appearances once the Dragon Queen arrives.
Arya once asked her whether it was true, and Sansa let her armor shatter for a moment, uncertainty leaking through the cracks. It’s her hope it seems, as it is Arya’s, and hope is easier to come by than conviction.
Days before Jon’s expected return, Samwell Tarly and Bran invite them to Bran’s chambers.
“We shouldn’t tell you before we tell Jon, really,” Sam says, “but we thought it best you already knew.”
And then he tells them something horrible. Something that makes Arya’s stomach churn. Her eyes glide over to Sansa so that they can share in this terrible feeling, but Sansa doesn’t look horrified at all. No, the faintest smile plays on her lips. A hopeful smile. One most people would miss, but Arya’s trained to notice even the minute changes in someone’s face. The churning feeling in her stomach fades until she’s calm as still water. Calm as ice.
When Sansa leaves, Arya stalks after, slinks into Jon’s office before the door closes behind her sister’s sweeping skirts. Sansa’s already seated by the desk, pretending to be deeply focused on the work she picked up only a heartbeat ago.
“You still want to be queen.”
“I haven’t wanted to be queen since I was a little girl.”
“You want Jon’s crown,” Arya says, creeping closer.
Sansa sighs. “I thought we were past this.”
“So did I.” Arya stops in front of the desk, staring down her sister. “You never smile anymore. Did you know that? Oh, you smile politely to the bannermen. Sometimes to me and Bran. But you never smile properly. You did today, though. When you learned who Jon was. It was faint, yeah, but it was real.”
Sansa’s throat bobs and the hand holding the document trembles. “I did not smile. You’re mistaken.”
“No, I’m not. You looked happy--and why is that? The only reason I can think of is that it means you can finally seize his crown. No one’s going to support him once they learn who he is.”
“You’re awful when you’re like this.” Sansa drops the documents and looks up at her with eyes like sapphires, hard and sharp. “I have work to do. Please see yourself out.”
The next day, Arya apologizes. Not because she has anything to apologize for--she’s right about her suspicions--but because it’s easier to keep an eye on her sister in plain sight. While the news does little to change Sansa’s day to day life on the surface--she’s still busy with work and buttering up the bannermen--Arya does notice several changes. Sansa eats more, sleeps better, and often drifts off in daydreams that leave her usually pale cheeks flushed pink with excitement. Daydreaming about being queen, of course, about all the power she’ll wield. She’ll probably kick Jon out and everything, happy to finally be rid of the bastard.
But even though those thoughts are accompanied by a comfortable pettiness from Arya’s childhood, they’re also laced with doubt. They were past this. She knows Sansa well, knows she’s not hungry for power at all. It’s the only thing that makes sense, though.
Why else would she be so happy about losing a brother?
Sansa’s fluttering around her bedchambers, her handmaidens following suit. She can’t decide on how to wear her hair or what jewelry will look best with her new dress. She’s spent days sewing it from the finest silver-gray wool, and embroidered two white direwolves on the chest. Pink roses bloom on her cheeks and her eyes are glossy and even though she’s not really done anything, she’s constantly breathless, as if she’s running a fever. But whenever someone inquires after her health, she states she’s quite well. Finally, she dismisses all the handmaidens and pours herself a glass of wine, which she sips by the window.
Jon returns today. Any moment now, they’ll gather in the courtyard to welcome him home. The castle’s in disarray, which is to be expected, but Sansa’s loss of composure does puzzle Arya. Absentmindedly twirling her dagger, she watches Sansa move to the looking glass and smooth her hands over her waist, shake out her skirts, and adjust the locks tumbling over her shoulders.
“How do I look?” she asks without taking her eyes off her reflection.
“Fine? I don’t know. Who cares? It’s just Jon.”
“And the Queen.” Sansa swallows and pretends to adjust her hair again, but Arya can tell she’s only trying to block her blushing cheeks from view. “I want to make a good first impression.”
“You don’t care about Daenerys. You only care about…”
Arya’s hand stops twirling the dagger, while Sansa’s hands never stop moving, always fidgeting or adjusting to rid herself of nervous energy when the only person she cares about in the Dragon Queen’s retinue is Jon.
Jon.
Arya’s stomach flips. Her sister's behavior is uncomfortably familiar. It's been years since she last saw it, granted, but she remembers it well.
“You’re in love with him.”
Sansa stills, the color drained from her cheeks. “That’s absurd.”
“No, it’s not. You are. That’s why you smiled when Bran told us. You were relieved.”
Sansa says nothing, but her chin is tilted high, jaw tight, and that says enough.
Arya stares at the twin wolves on her sister’s chest, the way they arch, almost forming a heart-shape. White on gray. She wants to marry him--a Targaryen prince--and now she’s made herself pretty in hopes of gaining his attention. Arya’s so appalled she struggles to find any words to give her once-again blushing sister. But Sansa’s already rushing out of her chambers.
When they reach the courtyard, she’s still blushing, her eyes still sparkle. Arya’s only seen her like this once, and that was when she was in love with Joffrey. Remembering it brings a nasty taste to her mouth of blood and dirt and friends chopped to pieces, and she spits out that taste along with resentment. This is different, though. A woman in love, not a little girl, and Arya finds herself wondering whether Jon returns Sansa’s feelings. No. He wouldn’t. He never even liked Sansa.
But then, Sansa never liked him either.
Arya’s musings come to an abrupt end when Jon and the Dragon Queen ride into the courtyard and it soon becomes clear to anyone with eyes to see with that Daenerys isn’t the Dragon Queen but his Dragon Queen. He rarely ventures far from her side, and he’s attentive and sweet and deferential in a way that leaves Arya uncomfortable. It drains the joy out of Sansa’s eyes and smile until she’s the Queen of Ice again, as cold as the pond in the godswood that keeps its chill even at the height of summer.
Once they’re in the Great Hall for the welcoming feast, Sansa’s gotten control over her emotions. Even though Jon, who hates dancing, dances with the Dragon Queen. Even though he whispers with her and gives her soft little smiles. Even though Arya remembers how Sansa once told her how Littlefinger believed Jon and Daenerys would marry, and how she and Sansa laughed at that because Jon would never. But maybe he would.
And yet Sansa stays polite all evening. Her smiles are stretched wide (thin). Her courtesies flow easily from her lips (well-rehearsed). Her demeanor is appropriately demure (restrained). And her gaze is calm (blank). But the calmer Sansa looks, the angrier Arya feels, and by the time Sansa finally gives up and excuses herself to treat a headache with fresh air, Arya storms after her so they can rant together about their horrible brother who went and fell in love with the enemy.
But when she reaches Sansa’s chambers, she finds her sister slumped on the bed with her cheeks tear-stained and her chest heaving with quiet sobs. Arya joins her on the bed, tugs her closer and, leaning her head on Sansa’s shoulder, rubs her trembling back.
“I’m so stupid,” Sansa whispers through shaky breaths. “I never learn. I thought...” Another shaky breath, deep and hopeless. “It doesn’t matter.”
“What did you think?” Arya pulls back a little to see her sister’s face. “Did he do something? Promise something?”
“I was wrong. He… He kissed me.” Sansa does something as close to an eyeroll Arya’s ever seen her ladylike sister do, and touches the soft skin by the corner of her mouth. “Here. Before he left for Dragonstone. I know it’s not a real kiss, it wasn’t on the lips, but the look in his eyes and it felt… It felt like something, but I was wrong. It wasn’t anything at all.”
“I’ll kill him,” Arya hears herself saying as her hands tighten into fists. “I’ll kill him for this. He shouldn’t have kissed you like that.”
“Arya, don’t.”
“He hurt you! Let me at least kick him a bit. He deserves it.”
“Kick whom?”
Jon’s at the door, eyes wide, cheeks red, and mouth panting for breaths as though he ran all the way from the Great Hall. The instant he notices Sansa, he drops to his haunches in front of her, that pretty smile he wore for Daenerys transformed into a snarl. “Who hurt you?” he growls. “I’ll kick him. I’ll kill him.”
“You did!” Arya kicks him so hard in the shins he falls on his ass. “How dare you hurt her like this?”
Jon jumps to his feet and stumbles back, opening his mouth to speak, but Arya won’t have it. Her stupid brother giving Sansa kisses no brother should give only to fall in love with some stupid dragon queen and give her their homeland on a silver platter without caring at all about how it would make them feel. He doesn’t deserve to explain himself to Sansa when she’s so upset, but he better explain himself to Arya. He better tell her that it’s all a ruse, that he’s playing the game, or she’ll kick him again!
So she pushes him, over and over and over, until she’s pushed him out of the room. There she closes the door, takes a quick look around to ensure they’re alone, and hisses at him. “Are you in love with her?”
Jon frowns. “Who?”
“Take your pick.”
“I’m not in love with Daenerys.”
“Then why-- What are you doing?”
“Sometimes…” Jon heaves a sigh. “Sometimes, when you deal with people like her, you have to pretend. You have to play along, even if you hate it. Even when you hate yourself for it.”
Arya’s anger dissipates in an instant, and she sighs too, from relief, and looks up at her stupid big brother. “Well, I don’t hate you, at least.”
He nods at Needle. “You’re not killing me, then?”
“I wasn’t going to. Not really. I was just angry. You deserved those pushes, though.”
“Yeah,” Jon says with a sigh, rubbing his jaw.
“You should talk to Bran, and you should do it now. It’s important. He knows who your mother was.” She pauses, bites her lip. “He knows who your father was.”
Jon’s tired frown smooths into slack-jawed, wide-eyed shock.
“Talk to Bran. Then come back here. You and Sansa, you need to talk.”
“Aye, talk,” Jon mumbles, already heading down the hallway in a groggy sort of lumber.
“Jon,” she says and he turns around. “I mean it. You have to talk to her tonight.”
“I will.”
Sansa has always loved those boring kissing-songs, and now she sits in a chair by the hearth, humming on one while embroidering pretty leaves and birds onto the bodice of a dress. The tears are dried and the hope is once more shining in her eyes, for Arya--and she could barely believe herself when she heard the words coming out of her own mouth--might’ve given her a smidge of hope that it’s reciprocated. What Sansa feels for Jon. And every so often Sansa looks up from her work and shares an excited smile with Arya. One Arya struggles to return.
“Does it bother you?” Sansa asks. “Me and Jon. If that’s… Well, if we ever…”
Arya shrugs, shaking her head. “I thought you wanted to betray him. This is better.”
It does bother her--of course it bothers her; it's disgusting--but that truth helps no one so she keeps it to herself. Just as she keeps to herself all the questions burning on her tongue (why? when? how? why?) and does a better job at returning those smiles because it’s good, this. Sansa smiling, finally. And it is better than a betrayal. (And it sure as all the seven hells is better than Jon falling in love with Daenerys.)
Arya yawns. It’s getting late and her and Sansa’s conversation petered out into a quiet calm ages ago when Sansa’s happiness mellowed into contentment. The fire crackles and the fabric whispers as Sansa embroiders and Arya feels as though she’s little again, all warm and snuggled up in a chair while her lady mother is sewing. Jon should’ve been back by now and that does worry her a little, but knowing him, he'll want to brood for a bit, and now she’s cozy and home and the candles have burned down low and her eyelids grow heavy...
Sansa sniffles.
Arya’s eyes flies open and she sits up straight. Her sister wipes away a tear discreetly and bends deeper over her work to hide her face.
“He’ll be here.”
“Look at the candles, Arya. It’s been hours.”
“Give him time.”
“He doesn’t feel the way I do. And he shouldn’t. I shouldn’t. I have to stop.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“Dramatic?” Sansa laughs out the word, but there’s nothing happy about it, and when she looks down at her body, at the dress with the beautiful direwolf embroidery she worked so hard on, pain twists her face and Arya feels that pain too, deep in her chest.
“Will you help me out of this?” Sansa moves to Arya and turns her back to her. “I don’t want to wear it any longer.”
“If he doesn’t love you, he’s an idiot. He can’t do any better.”
Sansa’s shoulders rise and fall with a deep, shuddering sigh, and when she speaks, her voice is so small and quiet. “Can you please forget I ever said anything? I just want to forget. It’s humiliating.”
“It really did sound like he…
“Did he say he loved me?”
“No. But he didn’t not say it.”
“Arya…” Sansa shakes her head. “Why did you tell me he felt the same?”
“Because… I don’t know. I promised he’d come back, though. Maybe he fell asleep?”
“If you loved someone, someone you thought you couldn’t have, and then you learned that you could, would you fall asleep?”
“Suppose it depends on how tired I was.”
Sansa exhales in an exasperated yet good-natured chuckle that hiccups to a stop when someone knocks on the door. She spins around, eyes round, and calls out a, “Just a moment!” before rushing to the looking glass, smoothing out her dress, finger-combing her hair, and pinching her cheeks until they become flushed.
“Can you tell I’ve been crying?”
“No,” Arya lies easily.
“How do I look?”
“You’re very pretty.”
Sansa shoots her a nervous, excited smile and checks her reflection again before schooling her features and walking to the door with a dignified air. Calm, she lets inside a glassy-eyed Jon whose nose and cheeks are red from the cold, and hair is dotted with melting snowflakes.
“It’s late,” he says in a hoarse voice, staring at Sansa as if she were an apparition. “I should leave.”
“But you just came here.”
“I saw a candle burning. In your window.” He gestures vaguely nowhere near the direction of the window. “Reckoned you were still up.”
“I am. Still up.”
“Aye.”
Jon shuffles awkwardly on his feet while Sansa stands all proper and ladylike with her back straight and her hands clasped before her, and Arya wishes she had someone with whom she could exchange annoyed glances and roll her eyes over her dumb siblings.
“I took a walk. Lost track of time. Was a bit much. To take in. Do you want me to leave?”
“No!” Sansa takes a step closer to him. “No. I don’t. I want you to stay.”
“Bran said that you know. The both of you.”
“Yes, we’ve known for a while.”
Jon nods, swallows, keeps his eyes somewhere to the right of Sansa. “Daenerys and I… It’s not what it seems. We’re not.”
“You don’t love her?”
“No. I don’t.” Jon inhales deeply and meets Sansa’s gaze without wavering. “I don’t love her.”
Sansa breathes out in a long, soft ooh, and then they just stand there, staring at one another as though love has rendered their brains useless. Jon’s mouth works for a bit as he unsuccessfully searches for something to say and Arya’s this close to saying something helpful when Sansa finally ends Jon’s struggles by linking her arms around his neck and pressing her lips to his. Jon’s eyebrows fly up on his forehead and his hands move as if they don’t know where to settle, but then he wraps an arm around the small of her back and slides the other up her spine to nestle in her hair, and Arya sneaks out of the chamber before she gets an eyeful of things she’d rather not see, thanks.
He’ll want to talk to her soon, she knows, about who he is and what it means. He’ll want her to assure him he’ll always be her brother. And he’ll want to talk to all of them to figure out what to do next. Now, though, it seems he needs the comfort and love only Sansa can give. But tomorrow, when he needs a sister--a proper sister--Arya will be there.
Lady Stark often smiles, the whispers go. She even beams. Many marvel at it, how this Queen of Ice thawed long before spring. But those who survived the Ironborn and the Boltons and the wars, who remember the days before, only nod sagely and say Lady Stark’s always been a happy girl. And on the day after her wedding to the king, when Lady Stark shines brighter than any star in the sky and walks as if on clouds and blushes a deep pink whenever she meets her husband’s proud gaze, the whispers veer into a territory a little too disgusting for the soft-footed girl hiding in the shadows.
It’s true, though, Arya thinks. The bit about the smiling. Sansa does smile, all the time, and so does Jon. Good smiles, warm and tender, and perhaps it isn’t so bad after all. Jon and Sansa in love. Not if it makes them this happy.