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This night was a complete mess.
There was the usual Christmas chaos at the Stark house, of course: Aunt Lysa turning her nose up at most of the hors d’oeuvres and telling anyone within earshot about how that simply didn’t fit into her new diet that had evidently transformed her life but not her attitude one bit, her father desperately trying to talk Uncle Brandon out of lighting the latest holiday pyrotechnics he’d brought along right on the back porch, Theon lurking beside the punchbowl and sneaking as many innuendos in as he could into otherwise polite conversation.
And now, another disaster threatened as Sansa sorted through the gifts remaining beneath the tree after all of them had been distributed to their intended recipients and discovered to her horror that there was no such one left behind with a little heart drawn behind her name on the tag.
Two days ago, two days before Christmas, Joffrey had broken up with her. She didn’t want to tell her family and ruin the holiday spirit with her troubles. There would be time for that later, when she announced her New Year’s Resolution next week that she was moving on from a relationship to focusing on spending time on improving herself and pursuing her own interests. When well-meaning Jeyne and, surprisingly, Jon Snow of all people, had asked after his whereabouts, she told them Joffrey had his own family’s gathering tonight and hoped no one remembered or pointed out the Baratheons had a strict tradition of opening gifts on Christmas Eve instead.
Which brought her back to Joffrey’s currently missing present. Every time Sansa had stolen downstairs over the course of Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, someone had been there to interfere—her mother wrapping presents, Rickon shaking his, Bran sitting with his eyes closed, trying to manifest what was inside the brightly colored and glittering wrapped boxes.
She had tried not to fret, though. The plan had been for her to steal away with Joffrey’s then, and later she would toss it onto the yule logs burning in the grate after everyone left and watch it burn to embers just like the relationship that had been the last two years of her life, all that hard work—her talents, her time, her energy—gone to waste. Sansa always helped with handing out the gifts; of course this would be the one year Arya decided to assist, too.
Her sister returned to the gift table and began to pile the rest of the presents into a precarious heap.
“Have you seen the one with the lions wearing Santa hats on it?” That had been a waste too, making an extra effort to search for something Joff might find cute and funny and festive with his favorite animal.
“Don’t worry, I already gave it to Jon,” Arya said, her shrug threatening to spill the stack she lifted into her arms.
Sansa could have sworn her heart stopped. “You gave it to Jon?”
“Yeah, like I said—”
“It said Joff,” Sansa hissed. “How did you get Jon from that?”
“I don’t know! I can’t read your calligraphy!” Arya protested. “Where is Joff any—”
Sansa felt her face start to fall, and while she generally cursed Arya for always being able to read her moods so well and for taking advantage of it, at that moment she was grateful she had to say no more.
“Oh. Oh. I’m so…” Arya’s sympathy shifted to anger. “That right prick, to do that just before Christmas!”
Grandpa Hoster glanced over from beside the buffet at the outburst, and Sansa turned away before she could hear what else Arya wanted to do to Joffrey beyond running her fencing saber through his gut.
She had to get that package back—swipe it out from Jon’s stack of gifts, orchestrate a distraction, switch it with another one—
“Sansa.”
Jon turned around as she approached from behind in an attempt at stealth, and it was too late. Evidently he hadn’t bothered to read the tag or he’d made the same mistake Arya had, but either way he was somehow already wearing the sweater she had painstakingly knitted in her free time over the past few months, a sweater in a rich burgundy with a sweeping golden J embroidered on the front of it. And, despite her panic, Sansa couldn’t help but think he looked damn good in it.
“Thank you, Sansa. For the sweater. I always wanted one like this.”
Robb raised his eyebrows and wandered off to find Jeyne, leaving them alone.
Now that she saw Jon in the sweater, Sansa thought it was more his style anyway. It fits him better, too, much more snuggly than it would have on Joff—Jon’s shoulders broader, his arms muscled in comparison. He rolled up the sleeves so she couldn’t quite tell if those were long enough, but with the way his forearms looked like this, she would have been glad if they were a little short.
“It was, um, meant for Joffrey,” she admitted.
Jon’s eyes widened. “Oh—I…” He moved to pull it off.
“No!” Sansa said quickly, though some other part of her mind, that which had been much neglected by Joffrey, wished he would. “You can keep it.”
Jon smiled, a real, true smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and threatened to dimple his cheeks. It was a rare thing for him, and she thought that was a shame since Sansa found herself stricken by how handsome he was with it. She tried to push away how Jon’s soft smile made her flush more than even Joff’s most passionate kiss, which now that she thought about it, wasn’t all that romantic to begin with. She bet Jon would be a good kisser, though, with those lips and his hands that looked like they could span her waist…
“Ygritte won’t think it’s strange to see you in another woman’s sweater? I mean…” Her nerves got the better of her as she felt something flutter in her belly that had been dormant for a long, long time, and she giggled at the mental picture of Jon in her sparkly, silver sweater adorned with snowflakes, even though she imagined he would look good in that too, or anything else, or nothing at all.
“We broke up a while ago.” She caught his eye, and something glinted there in the dark grey, reflecting back at her, and if she hadn’t already made a complete and total utter fool of herself, she would have maybe called it attraction.
“Oh! That’s good. Well, it’s not good, but you know…” She waved her hand as though he knew exactly what she meant, which was near impossible considering she wasn’t even sure herself. Perhaps Theon’s constant presence beside the punchbowl would be her savior tonight after all, someone who would refill her drink and would be almost assured to say something even stupider than her. “Excuse me.”
“Sansa,” Jon called after her, and she turned. “I… didn’t get you anything.”
“That’s all right. I don’t need…”
“How about coffee sometime? Or tea and lemoncakes?”
She tried not to let it show how thrilled she was that he had recalled such a detail about her after all this time. She smiled, and she hoped she looked half as happy as Jon did when she nodded. “I’d like that.”
Two Years Later
This morning was perfect.
They had been waiting for the ideal conditions to take these photos for weeks, ever since Jon had dropped to one knee a month ago, trying to take advantage of the perfect moment when the light fell just right, when it wasn’t snowing, sleeting, raining, or when the temperatures hovered somewhere above freezing.
Finally it dawned two days before Christmas, and just in time, too. Sansa would have a full day to get the announcements formatted and printed so they could hand out their announcements at the Starks’ annual Christmas evening gathering the day after tomorrow, but this time she felt excited by such an abrupt turnaround in plans.
Snow had fallen overnight, and now it shimmered prettily in the sun. Sansa marveled at the way her diamond ring sparkled on her hand, seeming to catch the light and refract it into a thousand different colors, while she waited for Jon to emerge from the house where he’d gone to change, not wishing for his clothing covered in layers of Ghost’s fur to feature in their special pictures.
At last he stepped out onto the porch of the Stark house to join her, and instead of the button-down she saw him put into his garment bag this morning, Jon wore the sweater, the one he’d accidentally received in the mix-up from the utter disaster two Christmases past, and the one he’d worn to meet her for tea and lemoncakes days later when they’d sat and talked for hours, the one he’d worn out on date nights since, and the one she’d fallen asleep against more times than she could count as they sat curled up together on the couch.
She blinked for reasons that had little to do with the bright sun. “You’re… you’re wearing that for the photos?”
Jon shrugged. “Why not? I love this sweater.”
Sansa had already patched up a couple of holes in it from wear and tear, but whenever she suggested perhaps he ought to retire it or limit it to light use, Jon said that her little fixes just gave it more character.
“And I love you.” He grinned and swept her into his arms, and Sansa supposed all was forgiven, even if only because after nearly two years together, his smiles still managed to make her melt a little bit inside.
They posed beneath the mistletoe hanging above them and snuck a kiss that was not so secret. Arya catcalled, at least until they were rudely interrupted by one of Rickon’s errant snowballs, and Robb and Jeyne seemed blissfully unaware of it all from where they looked on, entwined together.
And finally, at last, in between his griping about whether it truly was necessary for them to kiss every other moment, somehow Bran managed to snap the perfect picture after all.
