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It’s been three years since she’s seen him: the now-infamous Jon Snow. She only knows he still refers to himself by that name and not Aegon Targaryen because he addressed himself as such in the letter he had written to her a fortnight ago about his upcoming visit.
Three years since she’d seen him off on the port at King’s Landing. Longer, if you’re counting months, too. And she always does.
It never does anyone any good to worry, she knows, but that awareness doesn’t absolve her from the constant nagging in her belly. Or the chapping and soreness of her fingertips from where she’s been incessantly picking and chewing at the nails and skin around them for days now behind closed doors.
She wonders—and has had two stress-ridden weeks to do so—if she’ll even know him anymore. There’s the whole wonder of if he’ll act the same as her Jon always had, of course, but there’s also the physicality of it all, too. Will he look the same? Will he have cut his hair, or grown it out? Will he still smell of cinnamon and smoke, like she so vividly remembers he always had? Will he greet her with open arms and a smile, or will it be resentment-soaked business speak only? His letter was addressed to The Queen of the North, not Sansa. It was formal and nonpersonal—straight to the point—but that could simply be chalked up to the stretch of time that’s passed since they’d last spoken. Maybe it will be different when they see each other again—like it had been last time.
She has no time left to wonder or worry any longer, though, because he’s here at the gate; the trumpet sounds loudly to announce his arrival, with the high-pitched sounds of ungreased wheels and creaks of the old wooden gates opening, too.
Sansa digs her thumb so deep into her gloved palm she has to take in a sharp breath from the pain. She does it again to keep her grounded.
She’s been anxiously waiting all morning for his arrival, and counts herself lucky that she isn’t more exhausted from being too restless last night to sleep. But her heartbeat’s been too erratic and her body and mind alike are too riddled with nerves for her to even have the impulse to rest her head.
And now, as she makes her way from the battlements to the grounds to greet him, she’s never been more alert.
After keeping her eyes on her feet below her to keep herself from slipping on the steps, she finally takes in a breath, and looks at the man that’s dismounting his horse.
She sees him before he sees her—or, possibly, he had seen her while she was descending the steps. His eyes must not have lingered if that was the case; he shows no sign of having spotted her in the crowd.
No matter who saw who first, though, or whose eyes did or didn’t linger…right now, at this moment, she sees him. His face. Her Jon.
He isn’t looking at her yet, still; he’s speaking in a quiet tone to the stablehand, with one gloved hand still on his horse, and the other filled with thick reigns. There’s so many people around to see the Kinslayer, that she uses that to her advantage to take him in first, without his knowledge.
(Before he can do the same to her, is what she’s really thinking.)
She catches her breath in her throat and almost chokes on it when he turns enough for her to finally see his face. He’s so fucking handsome. Rugged. Manly. Her heart skips a beat or two. Or three. Probably fifty-five, if you really counted correctly. His hair is still long—longer than she's ever seen it, actually—ending a bit past his broad shoulders. It’s dark, and curly still, and pulled back looser than he had it before, but now there are braids on the underside—just a few.
The sight of him after all of this time—mixed with how confusingly-attracted she feels to him—shoots an uncomfortable thrill through her.
He’s so young, still. She feels silly for thinking he’d have aged more than he has; she blames it on the fact that time feels like it’s passed so horribly slowly since she’d last seen him. But he’s only a few years older than her, so about twenty and six, she gathers by the quick counting she attempts in her head. Yes, that age sounds right. And by the youth still in his face—save the few years of war and loss that they all wear now—he looks about that age.
Young, still, both of them, though she doesn’t feel it. She wonders if when he looks at her, he’ll see the unfairly added years on her as well. She knows they’re there, but she hardly looks at her reflection anymore—the thought’s only been a nuisance to her most days.
(Except for the obsessive way she’s been searching to see her reflection in any surface she can find for the past few weeks, knowing she’d see him soon.)
He starts to shed his riding cloak, and she quickly notices his clothing is different now, too. It’s sewn fittingly with animal pelts and animal furs like how the Freefolk wear it, but looks lighter, as if it was made just for him. Maybe it was; Winterfell is south to them, after all. Considered warm, even, so he’d need less layers.
Maybe he’s taken a wife by now; one that sews him furs and clothes and blankets from animals he’s hunted and brings home for food. Maybe he even has a babe now, or two. He’s more than handsome enough to have quite a large pick of who he’d like to marry too, she assumes, and it wouldn’t have been any effort on his part. Her heart sinks in a sickly way when she imagines all that, because if it was true, she wouldn’t know. She doesn’t know him anymore; she only has the delusions she’s made up while staring at him.
Despite her delusions of his life beyond the wall, though, he doesn’t look very happy from what she can tell. The lack of smile lines on his face are noticeable; there are clearly many more prominent frown lines. No doubt from sulking, Sansa thinks; he must have never grown out of that broodiness, even with his adolescent years fully behind him. But she doubts she looks much different—she hardly smiles anymore, either. And she doesn’t even attempt to remember the last time she laughed.
His eyes dart around and meet hers in an instant too quick for her thoughts—her heart—to catch up to. And suddenly, they’re looking at each other, and her belly does some sick, horrible, swoopy thing she quite literally assumed was impossible for her to feel ever, ever again.
A few debilitating moments pass. Longer than last time they met like this, she thinks, but that could’ve been a millions winters ago for all she knows right now. Because she’s been staring at him, yes, but now…he’s staring right back. His eyes ghost across her body, too—no doubt taking in the changes from the last time he’d seen her. Her whole body flushes under his gaze, and despite her best efforts, it’s enough to rise through her chest and neck and burn her cheeks, too.
His eyes flutter back to hers in an instant, and then he takes a step forward. The crowd parts when they realize who, exactly, it is he’s suddenly staring at and walking towards: The Queen. And then he takes another step—everyone suddenly silent—and another, and the closer he gets, the less and less she can tell if he’s going to hug her, or wring her neck.