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If Sansa had to be completely honest, she wasn't very keen on celebrating her nameday –too many absences– but the lords and ladies of the North would never let her get away with it. They had always enjoyed a good feast, she remembered from her childhood, and even more so now that they were free, war-rid and prospering by their own means. There was more than enough reason to gather and drink and laugh; the Gods knew they needed it after losing so much.
She sent ravens all over the North and to the Vale, to Tarth and to the Dornish allies she had found during her first year of reign. Bran would not come, that she knew, but she sent one for him nevertheless. If only she knew where Arya was... She sent one to Gendry who now ruled over the Stormlands and was a strong ally too. And the Free Folk, of course; Tormund was very much likely to liven up the place and he would love to see Jon again, she was sure of that.
As for Jon himself...
Well, she wasn't so sure.
It had been five moons since his return and they weren't speaking much.
They still shared their meals and sometimes even sat together in the Godswood, in comfortable silence –or, she sat by his side and he didn't run away. During the first days, she had tried to start trivial conversations many times, only to be met with monosyllabic responses from him. She had bit her tongue, thought herself hated, shed some tears in private and tried even harder, to no avail. The whole situation had made her so frustrated and miserable that even her maids and the Maester noticed. Poor Wolkan even tried to offer her a piece of advice from time to time, but her ego had been hurt and she was stubborn.
I should be the one ignoring him. I should be the one who's angry.
Jon Snow seemed oblivious to her feelings, and if he did notice them in some way, he did not care much. He spent most of his days tending to the horses, taming them for riding, and with quite an audience too. Sansa had to make inhuman efforts not to roll her eyes every time she saw the group of people that would gather only to see the former king, Targaryen prince, hero of the North, ride a horse.
(She would never admit how she, too, stopped and watched sometimes.)
He didn't seem to mind the people; in fact, he ignored them. But one day, maybe looking for some sollitude, he simply disappeared with Ghost and an axe into the woods and didn't return until nightfall. Everyone asked about him that day, and Sansa could only reply how she had so many more important things to worry about than her cousin wanting to spend some alone time.
“I'm sure he's alright” she said time and time again, but deep down she wondered about his whereabouts too.
At nightfall, and to everyone's delight, he returned. She was already eating supper –or pretending to, playing for time by stirring the food repeatedly, waiting for him– and he showed up at the door carrying firewood, earning a questioning look from her.
“I noticed you were running out of... aye, I just wanted to bring you some, so you wouldn't be cold.”
Dumbfounded, Sansa spent almost a minute staring at the back of his head while he threw wood into the hearth. True, she had been a little cold until he came back. And that was probably the longest sentence he had uttered since his return from beyond the Wall. She cleared her throat.
“Thank you, Jon.”
He gave her one of those rare, quick smiles of his, the ones you missed if you blinked.
After that night, the rift Sansa felt between them seemed to slowly start to close. It wasn't perfect, but it was better, and she cherised the few words that would come out of his mouth every morning while breaking their fast, before he left her alone until the late afternoon. While he still did not talk much, he made it his duty to pull her chair every time they sat at the table and stoke the fire when he noticed she was cold.
Actions speak louder than words.
She realized then that maybe she had been too quick to judge his behaviour, her own insecurities clouding her common sense. She had been so enwrapped in her own feelings that for a moment she failed to notice that, well, he had feelings too.
Jon Snow had simply been trying to get used to Winterfell being his place again in a world where everything good, everything he held dear, had been stained by the colour of flames. His own identity, his home, his family, his memories. Many times she caught him looking up at the sky and wondered if he saw winged shadows circling him, waiting for the right moment to attack, to bathe him in fire. She could hardly blame him for not speaking, for desiring to be alone, after all he had seen, all he had done. It was characteristic of him to feel guilty, and he would probably spend the rest of his life that way. It would never cease, that she knew, but she hoped he would learn to live with it, like she with her own faults and scars. They were both wolves after all, both Starks, the strong type.
One early morning, a fortnight before her nameday, Sansa followed him into the woods. She found him with rolled-up sleeves and his hair loosely tied in a bun, so focused that he didn't see her coming. She stood there for some time, watching until he successfully cut down a particularly difficult log and put the axe to rest on the snow. He sighed, tired, and turned around to find her staring intently at his every move. He jumped a little and his eyes widened, and she couldn't help but let out a hearty laugh at the sight. It was the first time in years she caught him off guard, and eventually he joined with his own laugh.
(That night, she would stay awake wondering if he, too, had been taken back to the night they reunited for the first time and she choked on that distateful ale.)
“Have you been there long?” he asked, his body swaying so slightly, as if he wanted to get closer but his feet were nailed to the ground.
She dared to take two steps forward. He didn't run, a good sign. “Not really. Enough to see that was a tough one.” Her eyes moved to the log in question. “I hope I'm not intruding.”
Jon smiled, no teeth showing, but it was warm nonetheless. “No, not really... It's not exactly a private place.” Then he looked down.
Determined not to let silence ruin the moment, she spoke again.
“I'm holding a feast for my nameday.” It came out in a blurt, but she needed to get his attention, to stop him from being distant again. “I sent ravens to Tormund, and Sam. too. I thought you would like to see them.”
Jon opened his mouth a little and then pressed his lips together again. Was he mad? Had she been wrong to invite them? But his eyes were kind, and when she looked closer, she thought she saw a hint of self-doubt. It couldn't be about Tormund. Sam. Maybe he thought he would be rejected by his friend, but Sansa knew better. She had had her share of correspondence with the lord of Horn Hill.
“Thank you, Sansa.” He finally responded, his voice quiet and meek. And just when she thought the conversation was over, there he was again. “Will there be lemoncakes?”
The corners of her lips went up in a heartbeat. An indescribable feeling at the thought of him remembering such trivial fact made her cheeks a little rosy. She had not had lemoncakes since Aunt Lysa had given her a few during her days at the Vale. Years. And even more years had passed since Jon had seen her eat one. How did he remember? So many childhood memories were brought back to her mind. She hadn't planned on the lemoncakes, but perhaps she could indulge herself after so long.
“And dancing.” She grinned when she caught sight of his frown. “Such a shame you have two left feet.”
“Well, I was never taught to dance properly.” He replied with a shrug. Of course, he was a bastard after all. No one cared enough to have him dance with others at the feasts, and her mother didn't allow it. “Theon and Robb tried to show me once... They weren't exactly successful.” The mention of those names made her heart shrink, but then it stopped and she felt warmth. She could picture them dancing with each other and cackling like the stupid young boys they once were.
“I can teach you.”
The words left her mouth before she could even comprehend why she had thought them in the first place. Well, Gods damn her. He didn't seem to know what to do either and another moment of awkward silence fell between them. She distracted herself by petting Ghost, who showed up with perfect timing to ease her nerves.
“I wouldn't want to bother you, you have so much to do...” His voice was weak and a little strained. He cleared his throat after hearing himself. “You don't have to, really.”
“I'm not that busy, you know?” She could be honest. Yes, she would be. “Sometimes I just hide in the library and pretend to work when I actually have nothing to do.” Fidgeting, she started to pick at her fingers. Thankfully, she was wearing gloves.
“Do you like to be alone?” He sounded as someone who understood the feeling very well.
“I don't know. Sometimes I do. But I like when you keep me company, Jon.”
The next morning she went to the woods again, but this time they were together and she was dressed accordingly, with a simple dress and a simple braid. He was carrying the axe, but she knew he'd have no need of it. There was plenty of firewood in the castle already.
“It's to keep an image.” He told her, and she rolled her eyes, amused.
“Are you worried they'll find out about mighty Jon Snow and his dancing lessons?”
He giggled, and so did she.
Gods, she was nervous. They both were. She could tell by the way he averted his eyes and avoided her gaze every time she accidentaly –because she was trying to avoid him too– looked his way.
The soil was wet but hard enough, and the layer of snow was very thin; they were enjoying warmer days in the North, she didn't know how long they would last but she hoped spring was on its way. He discarded the axe at the foot of a tree and suddenly he appeared to have no idea what to do with his hands, so he put them to his sides and unconsciously started to open and close his fists. Sansa hid a smile while she looked for a clean place to leave her coat. “Do not fret. This is not the first time I give you lessons in gallantry.”
Whenever a lady tells you her name, you should tell her how pretty it is.
He smiled awkwardly; he remembered.
“Aye, you were always really good at that. It proved to be very useful.”
She raised her eyebrows, pleasantly surprised. “I'm glad to hear that,” she admitted, and then found herself silently hoping he hadn't used that trick with a certain someone.
“The women of the Free Folk loved it.” It felt as if he had read her thoughts somehow. She sighed, relieved, and turned to face him. As she made her way towards him, she felt her legs shaking under the skirts of her dress. Gods help me. He came to stand right in front of her and she had to take a deep breath of morning air to calm herself. Why? She knew why, she had known for a long, long time.
“Now...” she took one of his calloused hands into one of hers, and placed her free one on his shoulder. “You should take my waist”
He swallowed hard and loud, struggling to lift his free hand and do as she said. Sansa decided to give him time, as terribly nervous as she was. When he finally complied, she had to ignore the thrilling shiver that went through her spine. “L-like this?” he stuttered.
“Yes, very well. Now softly, sway with me.” She pushed him slightly and took the lead until he caught the rythm. His eyes were everywhere, distancing himself from the situation. “Look at me, Jon. Your partner will not like that you distract yourself instead of holding her gaze.” Still jittery, he took a deep breath and their eyes finally met. Perhaps she should have let him look away, because now it was her who was struggling.
“It's difficult to dance with no music.”
“Oh, it's the same as fighting, Arya would agree with me.” The mention of the sister they both missed worked as a way to ease the tension a little. The kept on swaying slowly. “You have a technique for fighting, don't you? And you got better with practice.” Jon seemed skeptical. “You have to pay attention to your partner's moves, just like you have to with your opponents in combat. And... both are instruments of communication, I think.”
“Are they?”
“Yes, in battle you show off your skills, your determination. Your moves tell your opponent what to do or not to do. It's a dangerous, bloody and messy way of dancing. Plus the swords, I guess.” She shrugged. He snorted, but something in his eyes made her believe he understood her in a way, even if superficial. “All that happens when dancing, and more.”
“More? Like what?” His grip of her waist was firmer now, more confident, and she couldn't be more delighted. Small talk apparently did the magic.
“Feelings. You can tell how two people feel about each other when they dance together.” She moved her feet for the first time and prompted him to do he same. “Follow me. One, two, three.”
He stepped on her too many times and the amount of sorry's he cried out were truly impossible to count. But they laughed as they swayed and spun around, and their boots got dirty from so many misteps. And suddenly his grip didn't feel so foreign, and he was relaxed and genuinely happy and she knew right there she would never regret it.
As her nameday got closer and closer, he improved greatly. She would never tell, but many times she found him dancing on his own, his partner the air itself, when he believed no one could see him. And she giggled and giggled like a little girl alone in her room. Sometimes she would remember it when speaking to one of her handmaidens and burst out with laughter, leaving them shocked and confused. It was the talk of the castle, how the queen was starting to show her teeth and not in the wolfish way so characteristic of her when someone disrespected her.
“Will you dance with me, then?” She asked him one night as they finished supper and she resumed to her knitting. Her eyes didn't meet his, but she could feel his stare.
“Now?”
“No, during the feast.” She was sure his answer would be no. Of course, the dancing lessons had been fun, but Jon Snow dancing in public? He would rather sit in the corner and drink his ale in peace with some friends.
“Of course, if you'd have me.” She jerked her head up and he was smiling. “I will try not to embarrass you.” At that moment, her expression mimicked his.
“You'll do great. I'm a good teacher, don't you think?”
“The best.”
When the day arrived, no one failed to notice how Jon Snow out of all people was the first to ask the queen to dance. Although Sansa Stark danced with many other lords –it was her duty, and a courtesy– they kept coming back to each other and the guests, especially Tormund and Sam, were surprised at how much he seemed to enjoy such social practice. The perfect dancing partners, everyone agreed, not oblivious to their fond looks and beaming smiles.
After all, you can tell how two people feel about each other when they dance together.