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“You look cold,” Jon tells her as they walk along the Chicago River.
“Hmm?” she asks, and it’s only once he brings it up that she notices it’s true, she’s shivering.
“You look cold,” he says again, and there’s something sweet about it, the way he repeats himself as though he wasn’t sure she’d heard, as though it was important to him that she did. Sansa can’t help but smile.
“Probably because I am cold,” she teases. It’s clear he is too, his nose bitten pink by the frozen wind. His breath is visible in front of him, a warm puff of steam around his mouth. Still, she tosses the question back. “How about you?”
He shrugs as though it’s nothing, puffing his chest out. “This jacket’s reversible,” he says as if that makes any sense. When she spies a glance at him out of the corner of her eye, he catches her, and his cheeks go pink. “I’m wearing the warm side now,” he admits sheepishly, and she laughs.
The sound has him turning toward her easily, smiling for a moment as if he’s proud of himself for eliciting such a reaction, and his gaze lingers on her for so long that she can feel her own cheeks heating in response. For a second, she thinks he’s going to offer her the jacket, his hands twitching at his pockets, but then he stuffs them more deeply back inside.
“You need a better coat,” he says instead.
“Hey,” she objects, because even though she knows he’s absolutely right, she’s got a fondness for this coat. “This is the first one I ever bought myself.”
She’d found it in a thrift store in Los Angeles, some dark place she’d stepped into on a whim. She’d spent an hour leafing through the racks, aimless, slipping different pieces on over her clothes, imagining various versions of herself. Her mom had done most of her shopping when she was young, and then Joffrey and his mother Cersei had taken over that task. It had felt so generous at first, the way they’d lavished her with gifts. It was only later that it started to feel like a uniform, like they were trying to dress her up like a paper doll. She’d turned 22 without realizing she had no idea what her own style was. She knew how to dress, knew what was appropriate, knew how to be what everyone else wanted her to be, but she didn’t know what she liked. The thrift store had seemed like as good an opportunity as any to find out.
The second she’d put the coat on, though, she’d felt like a small girl again, and she’d bought it without thinking. It was only when she’d gotten home that her mind had a chance to catch up. When will I ever get a chance to wear this? she'd thought. And then, Maybe I’ll just move somewhere I can wear it. She’d realized then, in a way that she had never really processed before, that just because she couldn’t go home didn’t mean she couldn’t go.
She’d packed a bag, withdrawn a few thousand dollars out of the Lannister family account she had access to, and used some of the cash to buy a plane ticket that left that night. It had been February and she’d picked Chicago, thinking, I bet it’ll be cold enough there to wear this coat for at least a few more months. It had been too cold the first few weeks, but that hadn’t stopped her. Instead, she’d simply layered the wool blend with thrifted scarves and hoodies and gloves, stubbornly refusing to buy a new coat, a warmer one. It had taken two more winters to realize why.
“I think it reminds me of my dad,” she admits, aiming for light even as she carefully looks ahead, eyes on the icy concrete sidewalk.
She can feel rather than see the way he tenses beside her for a second, then falls back into step. “Oh?” he says, voice that same level of light. “Is he —?”
He doesn’t need to finish the question for her to know what he is asking.
“No, he’s not,” she answers. “But I sort of burned that bridge a long time ago.”
“Oh,” he says again. “I’m sorry.”
She pushes out a casual laugh. “It’s not your fault.”
He doesn’t respond, doesn’t laugh back, just keeps pace with her as she keeps moving forward. In the face of his silence, she finds herself continuing.
“I actually — um,” she pauses, stammering to cover up the way her voice cracks for a second. It takes her by surprise, her throat suddenly thick and swollen. She hasn’t felt like this in so long, but she’s also never had to say any of it out loud before. She’s always just let other people fill in the gaps, but she wants to tell him. They’ve only had a few moments alone here and there, mostly by accident, but he’s so easy to be around, so easy to relax around. She’d never imagined it could happen so fast, wanting to share parts of yourself with someone you’ve just met. It’s scary, but it’s exhilarating, too.
“My ex and my family didn’t really get along,” she explains after a moment. “And I didn’t leave things on very good terms with any of them when I decided to move away with him.”
He nods, and she braces herself for all of the questions she imagines she might have in his shoes. What had she said to them? Why did she leave? Had they ever reached out? And had she, especially now that her ex was an ex? Why not?
He doesn’t say any of that. He just asks, “What was he like?”
“My ex?” she teases.
“Your dad.”
She rubs her gloved hands together, cupping them around her mouth to blow a small cloud of warm air into them. “I don’t know,” she says eventually. “We were so different. I know he loved me, but I don’t think he really understood me as I got older. He could talk to my other siblings, somehow, always seemed to figure out the right words with them, but with me — It was more like he was talking to this idea of who I was, I think.”
He doesn’t bother to steal a glance, instead turning to look straight at her, and she can feel the weight of his full attention like it’s a second winter coat.
“I think he tried more than I gave him credit for at the time,” she admits. “But, when I was little, I thought he was the best dad in the world. Every now and then, he would sneak me out on these little dates, just the two of us, and we’d go to the movies and get hamburgers for dinner.” She wiggles her shoulders a little as she adds, “He had this coat he hardly ever wore, but he’d pull it out for special occasions when my mom wanted us to look nice. He’d wear it on our dates, sometimes.” She huffs a laugh. “Knowing my mom, his probably cost at least ten times as much as this one.”
“And you didn’t inherit her expensive taste?” he teases. “That’s a shame. I’m sure you’ve seen how Aegon appreciates the finer things in life.”
There’s something in his voice, but it’s the mention of his brother that nearly brings her to a complete stop. Somehow, her body keeps moving, stuttering forward a step so she’s only half a pace behind him. She’d forgotten, for a moment. It should be impossible. He is literally walking her home from Aegon’s apartment — Aegon’s apartment, where he’d taken her in his moving truck to deliver a grand statue the Martells had ordered for them as some sort of couples’ Christmas present. Because, as far as any of them know, she and Aegon are a couple. How could she have forgotten? But she doesn’t want to talk about Aegon here, not now when it’s just the two of them.
“Your family actually reminds me a lot of mine, in a way,” she responds in lieu of changing the subject. It’s only once she says it that she realizes that’s true, too. “My sister would get along really well with some of Oberyn’s girls. And my brother Bran would love Doran.”
He hmms a response, eyes back on the sidewalk before them. “It sounds like you really miss them.”
“I miss real snow,” she says, sidestepping that comment too so she can kick some of the dirty ice fracturing away from the rest of the frozen sidewalk. “This city snow is so different.”
As he walks her the rest of the way home, she tells him about what it had been like growing up in their part of the northeast, about how blizzards would leave the ground sparkling and pristine, untouched for days until the snow plows made it out to the far parts of town. Most of the more remote homes had their own in case of emergency, but the Starks had liked to let the snow lie where it fell for as long as they could, curled up inside in front of the house’s many fireplaces.
Untouched snow never lasts long in Chicago, he admits. She learns he’s lived in Chicago for most of his life, moving there with his mom when he was small. He’d only been 18 when she’d died, young, but old enough to stay on his own. The Martells had invited him to come to them, but when he hadn’t, they’d slowly started coming to him, Aegon first picking a college nearby, and then Rhaenys a grad school, and eventually they’d all followed. That had been nearly ten years ago now, he says.
It’s easy to talk to him, so easy that she feels herself slipping into autopilot as she walks, taking turns down city streets without thinking as he effortlessly keeps up. She doesn’t process how long it’s been until she suddenly finds herself outside of her building much sooner than expected. She’d thought they’d have more time — maybe she should’ve led him another route, made a wrong turn a few blocks back? She’d already insisted she’d prefer to walk rather than let him escort him the few minutes home on the train. If she’d stretched that out too, would he have put the pieces together? Would he have remembered the way back to her place well enough to realize what she was doing?
“Um, this is me,” she says, though she’s sure he recognizes it, if not because he’d picked her up here earlier than at least by the way she’s slowed to a stop. “I really enjoyed getting a chance to talk with you tonight,” she adds. “Thank you for walking me home.”
“Well,” he says, ducking his head and rubbing at the back of the neck. “You’re not quite all the way home yet.” He nods at the sidewalk, the snow packed hard turning it to slippery ice. “I’d hate for you to fall and hurt yourself on this fake city snow just because I didn’t make sure you got all the way to your door.”
He holds an elbow out to her and she takes it, clutching it with both arms. It’s greedy, to tuck herself that close to him, but she’s grateful she did when she follows him out onto the ice. She’s the one that slips first, but he jerks his arm in an attempt to keep her upright, flailing his other arm, and then one of his feet goes out from beneath him. It’s only her own sudden counterbalance that keeps them upright, and he grabs onto her waist as she bends backward, startling a surprised laugh out of her.
“Careful!” she pleads, but she’s giggling now as he holds on tight, wobbling as he tries to stand without knocking her over. “You’re going to take me down with you!”
He laughs too, lets out a low groan once he’s finally upright, head tilted back. “And I was supposed to be the city snow expert,” he says to the night sky instead of her. “What use am I to you now?”
“You’re doing great,” she lies, tugging on his arm until he turns his face back to hers. He raises his eyebrows, she grins, and then she’s using his arm as a steadying point as she slowly creeps down the sidewalk, small steps at a time as he tries to move with her without messing up her balance. “See?” she asks. “Look how well you’re —”
He snatches her out of the air before she fully realizes she’s slipped again, a mistimed step from him sending her feet sliding. This time, though, instead of leaning into her, he pulls her tight to him, and her boots skate across the icy ground frictionlessly until she bumps into his chest, one hand leaving his arm to steady herself against his opposite shoulder. She’s never been so grateful for what an awful job Theon does shoveling the snow and salting the concrete outside the building.
“Sorry,” he says, and he’s close enough that she can feel the warmth of his breath across her lips. If she leaned in, she could brush her nose against his.
Kiss me, she thinks, sudden but strong, and she holds onto him tighter, willing him to hear her thoughts somehow. She knows she’s supposed to be dating Aegon, is only here with Jon because she’s pretending that she’s dating Aegon, that it would be awfully low to make a move on your comatose boyfriend’s brother, and yet, in the moment, she can’t think of any good reason why he shouldn’t kiss her, because she’s not dating Aegon. She doesn’t even know Aegon, has never had a conversation with him, not like she has with Jon. And Aegon doesn’t know her either.
I want you to kiss me, she thinks, as if she can telegraph it through the space between them. Maybe he hears it, because his cheeks are suddenly flaming red, but all he says is, “I don’t think I’m helping very much.”
She laughs, balances her hands on his chest to lean back a little, lifting her chin to get a better look at him (lifting her mouth in case he wants to kiss it).
His hands find her arms, and for what might be one of the longest seconds of her life, he just holds her — and then he helps her straighten up, his hands dropping away once she’s standing steady on her own a few inches further from him. “I think I need to let you take it from here,” he says. “Clearly it’s safer for you to go alone.”
“OK,” she says, because for all that she’s disappointed, she’s still giddy, her body still zinging where his touched hers despite all the layers of fabric that separate their actual skin. “Well, goodnight, then.”
“Goodnight,” he says back, and neither of them move for another second. “I’ll, um,” Jon says, still a little flushed. “I’ll watch to make sure you get inside safely.”
She smiles, nods, turns around to carefully scoot the remaining few steps to the building’s front door. She turns back in the threshold to wave, and he waves too, and then she lets the door swing closed between them. The lobby is small, and she practically runs up the staircase to get to her apartment and press her face to the window, peeking through the blinds. He’s down the block by the time she makes it, but still there, and she waits and watches until he rounds the corner and disappears out of sight.