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“Her? You think so?”
“That’s what I’d heard.”
“No, it won’t be her. It’ll be the other one.”
Sansa pricks her finger as she attempts another stitch and wants to shout at the three hens across the way to be silent. She bites her tongue and keeps working instead.
But her ladies and their words are like nettles getting under her defenses today when she’s already feeling raked and raw from tossing and turning all night.
It’s silly, so very silly and she knows better than to let it bother her. She should anyway. She wants him to be happy.
Can he not be happy with just me?
Of course not. He’s a king. He requires more than a counsel. He’ll need a queen…and heirs.
Her cheeks bloom with color at the thought of making those heirs with Jon but, just as quickly, she pales. She will never be the woman who gives him heirs. Even if she might wish to be, he doesn’t feel that way about her, she’s sure. Ever since he’s returned from his latest journey to the Wall, he’s been distant in a way he wasn’t before he left. Why has he pulled away from her?
Because his heart is occupied elsewhere.
Meanwhile, the rumors have been swirling that soon King Jon will announce his betrothal to…someone. Everyone is convinced he’ll say something tonight at the feast. The castle cannot seem to speak of anything else when Jon is out of earshot. Who will the king marry? Who will be their new queen? A bannerman’s daughter? Some Dornish beauty? Or that Wildling Princess Val?
Val. Jon’s friends with her, has known her a good while. He’ll choose her, Sansa’s sure, even though he’d once made a jest about having no wish to steal a woman so quick with her steel.
One thing is for certain, he’ll never marry his former half-sibling turned cousin despite naming her Lady of Winterfell. The thought has surely never crossed his mind no matter how often he’s come to sit with her before her hearth at night and no matter how readily they might talk, bicker or tease one another about whatever was on their minds. She will miss that when he marries. She will miss him and the closeness she’s stupidly allowed herself to believe was more than what it is.
Frustrated with her sewing, she rises from her place to pace over to the window. She hears whispers in her wake. Let them whisper. They do not know her heart.
Below in the courtyard, she can see him slashing and spinning with his sword, still honing his skills that far surpass anyone else’s who calls Winterfell home. What battles does he picture fighting now that the fighting is done? Is he happy or does his crown not suit him?
She spies Val entering the courtyard. The wildling woman stands back for a time watching Jon practice and not speaking. Sansa observes them both and wonders if Val looks at him with the same longing that Sansa does. It’s hard to be sure from up here.
When he notices Val, he stops to speak. They share a laugh and it makes Sansa ill with jealousy…and fear. If Val becomes his queen, will Sansa even have a place here? Jon has said that Winterfell is hers and always will be but will anyone else see it that way? Will she be expected to marry, too? Or what if Jon and his bride go elsewhere and leave her all alone with her ghosts and her gossips?
She cannot bear this not knowing. She leaves her chambers in a flurry of skirts, shocked silence ringing in her wake.
Mercifully, he’s alone when she finds him in the armory pulling off his armor.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
His smile is surprised but not displeased when he turns to face her. “I’m readying to return to my chambers so I may prepare for tonight’s feast. I believe you’ve been telling me not to be late for it since I returned home. Or rather you’ve been sending me messages via the maester and servants to that effect.”
“What choice do I have? I’ve barely seen you.”
“I know, I’m sorry for that. I needed a little time to…think some things through,” he tells her with his head bowed.
“What things?”
There’s so much reluctance in the way his grey eyes rise slowly from the floor to meet hers. Why does he look so sad? So fearful?
“Do you have some news to share with me?”
“News, aye…or perhaps more like a wish.”
“A wish,” she repeats, dully.
What duty will he ask of her? Is she to hold Val’s flowers when he takes her hands beneath the heart tree? Will her heart splintering make any sort of audible sound when that happens? She must steel herself for this.
“If you have something to tell me, I wish you’d tell me now in private rather than later in front of everyone.”
“I…I’m not sure what you mean, Sansa.”
“You’re planning to marry, aren’t you? This feast is where you plan to announce it, isn’t it? Don’t lie to me.”
“I would never lie to you. I do hope to marry but I do not know that any announcements will be made tonight even if the lady might be agreeable.”
“I’m sure she’ll say yes,” she snaps, unable to disguise her hurt and petulance in the face of this misery.
“I’m not sure of it at all when you seem so cross with me at present.”
“Why should my being cross make any difference to…oh!”
His hand has grasped hers unexpectedly and those grey eyes are studying her, begging her, willing her to see the truth.
“I told Val I was thinking of asking and she told me I was being stupid for delaying, said the lady was sure to say yes.”
“Who were you thinking of asking?” she asks softly, her breath hitching with emotion and her heart pounding with hope.
“You, Sansa. I was thinking of asking you if you’ll…”
His grin his infectious just before she cuts him off with a kiss.