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Jon alights from the carriage with a queer trembly feeling in his belly. It is quite ridiculous. Though they’ve not seen each other in years, she is his kin and he’d promised Uncle Ned, hadn’t he?
Adjusting his hat and cravat, he rings the bell of Number 3 and practices what he means to say in his head once more.
“Good morning, Miss Sansa. You may not remember me but I am your cousin Jon Targaryen. I’m a solicitor here in London and I’m here to offer my assistance if you have any need of it at the behest of your esteemed late father.”
Nice and to the point.
He hears someone approaching the door and stands up straighter. He sucks in a deep breath for courage and prepares to sweep his hat from his head.
He fears his countenance falls slightly when a man answers instead. He looks a little ill-at-ease in his butler’s uniform. He looks more like a prize-fighter to be honest. Nonetheless, he is obviously a manservant. Jon should’ve expected as much. She was bound to have servants after all and it would hardly be fitting for a young heiress to open her door to just anyone.
Jon smiles and reaches into his waist pocket to offer his calling card.
The man looks him up and down with a fearsome scowl, ignoring the card before speaking. “I’m sorry, sir, but suitors are received on Saturdays from 10 till 11 in the parlor. You’ll have to return to see Miss Sansa tomorrow,” he states in a monotone voice as if someone has drilled the phrase into him.
“I’m not a suitor.”
The monotone tone is absent when the man responds with clear sarcasm. “Sure, you ain’t. We’ve had a regular spring flood tide of ‘em since Miss Sansa got to town and word spread about her beauty and wealth. Left and right, they come at all hours with their cards and their neatly tied cravats looking to have a leer at ‘er.”
Jon’s jaw clenches. He had heard that his cousin was an uncommonly lovely young lady through some acquaintances. She’d been a very pretty girl so it wasn’t so surprising. And, added to the lure of her dowry, he doesn’t doubt that all the unmarried rakes, libertines and fortune-hunters in London have been drawn here like flies to honey. He doesn’t like it much and suspects this is precisely the sort of matter Uncle Ned had hoped he might help Sansa manage.
“I’m sure you’ve had several such men descending upon your household but I assure you, I am not one of them.”
“Oh, that’s likely,” the man responds, punctuating it with a very undignified scoff.
“I most certainly have not come to call as a suitor,” he says again but the man is distracted by someone else.
“Who is it, Jory?” an older female voice asks from within.
“Some younker callin’ on Miss Sansa, Mrs. Mordane.”
“Did you tell him to come back tomorrow?”
“Of course, I did. What d’ye take me for? That’s the butler’s job, ain’t it? And I’m filling in while Uncle Rodrik’s off with his bum leg!” the man, Jory, shouts over his shoulder before giving Jon a conspiratorial wink.
Meanwhile, Jon is flummoxed as to how to proceed. Younker? “My good man, I’m not a suitor. I’m a solicitor…”
“Ooh, are you now?” He’s back to giving Jon a less that friendly look. “We seen a few of your kind ‘round here too, sniffing after Miss Sansa’s fortune.”
“Sniffing after Miss Sansa’s fortune?”
“Just like that nasty Mr. Baelish.”
“Mr. Baelish?” Jon’s brow furrows. He’s familiar with who he is but he does not acknowledge the foul cockroach when he spies him at the club.
“If that’s who’s at the door, show him the pavement, Jory,” the woman within says.
“It ain’t him. It’s…”
Jory doesn’t finish before a woman well in her middle years and wearing a housekeeper’s apron and cap comes to stand next to him, giving Jon the same impertinent look.
“Jon Targaryen, madam,” he says, naming himself with as much urbanity as he can muster under the circumstances and sweeping his hat from his head. “I have come to call upon Miss Sansa Stark at the behest of her…”
She doesn’t let him finish. She gives him the same answer Jory had to start with. “I’m sorry, sir, but suitors are received on Saturdays from 10 till 11 in the parlor. You’ll have to return to see Miss Sansa tomorrow.”
Is this the equivalent of ‘not at home’ in this household? Does every bloody man who has the misfortune to ring the bell at Number 3 receive this level of contempt and disdain?
“I assure you, I am not a suitor, madam. I am Miss Sansa’s cousin.”
“Oh, her cousin, is it? We had a cousin of hers call before, didn’t we, Mrs. Mordane?”
“That’s right. Young Master Robin Arryn’s her cousin, too,” Mordane states in clear disapproval of the relation.
“He’s a foul little shi-“
“Jory? Mrs. Mordane? Who’s come to call?” a sweet young voice asks.
“Some suitor, miss. We’re seeing him off.”
Before Jory can slam the door in his face and provoked into speaking intemperately at last, Jon roars, “For the last time, I AM NOT A BLOODY SUITOR!”
The fill-in butler and housekeeper look astounded but Jon doesn’t even notice. He’s far too transfixed the moment the owner of that sweet voice comes into view and he can understand perfectly well now why they have been so brusque towards him. He thinks they need an increase in wages perhaps, too, especially if Jory will show Baelish the pavement the next time he calls…with his fists.
He remembers himself enough to bow but little else. The rehearsed speech he’d meant to give her when he was received has been forgotten.
She’s an angel. Lovely and fresh-faced with sparkling blue eyes that match her morning gown. She has waves of elegantly coiffed auburn hair (which he’d love to see spilling down her back.)
“Cousin Jon? Is that really you?” she gasps.
Half-dazed, he manages to nod. He’ll catch flies if he doesn’t close his mouth soon.
With a delighted squeal (one that brings the most ill-timed and libidinous thoughts to mind) she rushes to him, right into his arms. It would hardly be polite to not return her embrace, right?
God, she feels so wonderful wrapped up in his arms with her face tucked into the crook of his neck as she’s chatting away about times long past and that queer trembly feeling in his belly is back. She’d always been so sweet as a girl but she’s grown now. She smells like lavender and vanilla and he’s…
He takes a step back from her abruptly. “I have a good friend named Mister Samwell Tarly who is an excellent solicitor should you need one to assist you.”
She shakes her head in bafflement at his sudden announcement. “I…thank you, Jon. That’s very kind of you to recommend him but won’t you come in for tea?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” he says as he puts his hat back on and gives her a bashful smile. “My apologies, Miss Sansa, but I’m afraid I’ll need to return tomorrow morning at 10 o’clock sharp.”
Jory and Mrs. Mordane both give him a satisfied nod at last and Sansa’s laughter follows him as he returns to his carriage.
But, when he glances over his shoulder for another look at her, she’s crooking one of those slim fingers he’s already wrapped around and beckoning him to come back. He can hardly refuse a lady no matter what the visiting hours for suitors are.