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The summer snows haven’t stopped in five days. Sansa’s back hurts from sitting by the fire with Septa Mordane, she has decided to restart her work. She wants to make sure the embroidered Winterfell she’s doing looks very realistic and when she’s done she’ll frame it. It must be ready to give it to father on his name day so he can hang it in his chambers.
She steps outside and the blinding white of the snow makes her squint her eyes for a moment, Robb and Jon are at the end of the courtyard, laughing and patting each other backs. “Sister,” says Robb, “let’s go inside the kitchens for supper.” She walks inside with him, Jon following a step behind with his wolf like pace. Jon sits at the far end of the table nibbling at his bread and butter without making eye contact with her.
Mother tells Old Nan, “give the children the lemon cakes left from last night,” and then she leaves. Sansa feels the tartness in her tongue and the sugar sprinkled on top of it in her upper lip. She sticks her tongue out and licks. Absentmindedly she gazes to her right and Jon’s eyes are fixed on her lips. When he notices she’s looking at him he looks away and blushes bright red.
Everyone gulfs down their cakes and chatters loudly, Arya laughing with baby Rickon and Bran, Theon and Robb sparring with their forks. There are three tiny morsels left on her plate. She sighs and with her finger puts them in her tongue. Everyone gets up and leave. She remains in her seat lingering in the warmth and the sweetness. Maybe she closed her eyes for a moment because she’s startled by a soft brush on her right cheek.
She opens her eyes and sees Jon standing next to her, the fur of his cloak touching her shoulder. He’s so close she can see the seams of the trimming falling apart. It was Robb’s cloak probably. Worn and stitched over and over. His dark eyes give nothing away as he silently puts his plate on the table. Sansa looks down and sees his lemon cake untouched on the plate in front of her.