Work Text:
“Come back soon,” Sansa says. Her jaw is clenched, he can tell. She’s angry at him.
“Aye. I will.”
She sniffs, looking away from him. The courtyard is bustling around them. The preparations for the trip had been sudden and all consuming. It didn’t help Jon’s case.
“Sansa -” he cuts himself off. Is she going to make him beg?
“Jon.”
He stares at her, watching snowflakes melt on her eyelashes. She’s almost as pale as the white that falls around them, crowning her head in frost and ice that melts on copper.
Sansa shakes her head, water gathering at the corners of her eyes. He can’t tell if it's the melting ice, or the cold. Or - something else. Jon doesn’t let himself hope.
She sniffs, rubbing her nose with one small hand. “Don’t make this harder than it already is, Jon.”
He stares at her as she folds her arms in front of her. From this distance, he can almost smell the rosewater she bathes in.
“Aye,” he says quietly. “You’re right.”
Will she hug him? Let him hold her close, as he did that day at Castle Black?
They stand less than two feet apart.
Neither move.
“Aye,” Jon repeats, shutting his eyes to her even if she has been forever engraved into the back of his eyelids. When he opens them again, they find Littlefinger a ways off.
“Be careful, Sansa,” he says, dragging his eyes back to her. She’s as radiant as the day they had taken Winterfell back. “Please.”
“Do you have so little faith that I can lead?” Sansa asks, frowning. He tries to speak, but she sends him an icy look. “I’m not a little girl anymore, Jon.”
Jon shakes his head, licking his lips. Words won’t leave his mouth, though, and no matter what he would say, it would never make her forgive him for leaving.
“Go. Winterfell will be fine without you.”
They stand apart a moment longer. She looks a Queen, out in the snow. He wonders if she would say yes to being his.
Why would she?
A stableboy appears at his right with a black stallion held by the reins. Jon searches her face for a moment longer; desperately trying to commit her to memory.
He does not want to leave.
“I have to go,” he breathes, words misting in the air around them. Sansa nods.
“I know.”
Please stay safe. Please.
Jon bows his head, and takes the reins from the stableboy. He swings himself up onto the saddle, furs moving with him. Sansa stares up at him, something discordant about her.
“I’ll be back soon,” he promises. His limbs feel like lead; his heart a beating drum.
“Good,” Sansa says, and when her voice cracks he almost leaps off the horse to hold her again.
He directs the horse to the portcullis, where they’re being lowered. Tormund rides next to him, uncharacteristically serious. The others rally behind them, a ragtag group of ten and one. The courtyard behind them slowly quiets and the only sound being the crank of gears as the entrance to the Keep opens.
Jon has already made a parting speech; he has already said his goodbyes.
As they ride out of Winterfell, he doesn’t look back.
(He wants to.)