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The air in Winterfell had never felt heavier than the day Jon rode south.
Even now, Sansa could recall the press of snow in the courtyard, the bite of frost on her cheeks, the muffled quiet before the gates swung open to swallow him and the men who followed. The North had watched their King leave, but she had watched Jon. Every line of him was burned into her memory—shoulders squared, jaw tight, eyes flickering to hers once, twice, as though there were words between them neither could risk saying aloud.
They had been moving closer to something for months. It was never spoken, never deliberate, but it was there in the stolen glances across the high table, in the way his hand would linger a heartbeat too long when passing her a goblet, in the quiet moments in the library where they stood close enough to feel the warmth of the other but said nothing of it.
It had been enough. Enough to believe she was not alone in her wanting.
When he embraced her before leaving, she’d meant to let go after the courteous heartbeat required of kin. Instead, she’d held him. Held him until she could feel his breath against her hair, until his arms drew her in, tight and unyielding, as though he too hated the parting. She’d felt his hand press lightly against the small of her back, and when she pulled away, she thought his eyes looked as though they might hold her there.
She carried that look with her through the weeks after his departure.
Until the rumors began.
They came north with the wind, in the mouths of traders and ravens’ ink-stained wings: the Dragon Queen, the fairest woman in all the kingdoms. A queen with hair like spun silver and eyes like the sea. A queen before whom Jon Snow, King in the North, had bent the knee.
"Fell to his knees for her," one man had said, smirking into his ale.
"Thinking with his cock, not his crown," another muttered in the kitchens.
Every word was a blade, every jest another twist.
Sansa told herself she did not believe it. That Jon was not so easily swayed by beauty. That he knew his duty to the North. That she knew him.
But she stopped lingering at the window. Stopped reading the ravens’ missives the moment they arrived. Stopped allowing herself to remember the warmth of his arms in the courtyard.
And then—
The horn from the watchtower. The shout from the gates. The thunder of hooves on frozen earth.
Jon had come home.
She stood at the top of the courtyard steps as the gates swung wide. The first thing she saw was the dragon queen, cloaked in white fur over pale silks, her hair gleaming like moonlight against the dull sky. Beside her, Jon dismounted, his dark hair damp with snow, his eyes searching—searching for her.
She did not let him find her.
"Lady Stark," the queen said, smiling as though she expected warmth in return.
"Your Grace," Sansa replied, her voice a blade of ice. She turned her eyes to the queen’s face and kept them there, never once meeting Jon’s gaze, though she felt it on her like the winter sun—distant, aching.
She showed the queen her rooms in the guest wing, speaking only when necessary.
"I trust you’ll be comfortable here," she said, her tone clipped.
"I’m sure I will. You have a beautiful home," the queen replied warmly.
"Winterfell is not a home for everyone."
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.
Sansa left before the queen could respond, walking quickly, almost blindly, until she reached her chambers. There, the frost that had frozen her face melted into something hotter, sharper. The air felt too tight in her lungs. She pressed her back to the door and closed her eyes, seeing Jon beside the queen, hearing those whispered rumors echo in her skull.
By the time the welcome feast began, she was in bed, claiming illness.
The knock at her door came long past the hour when she expected the hall to have emptied. She ignored it. It came again, louder, harder.
"Sansa—" His voice.
She sat rigid in bed.
"Sansa, open the door."
"Go away."
"I’m not leaving until we speak."
The pounding resumed, his voice rougher now, urgent. Against her better judgment—against her pride—she rose and cracked the door open.
Jon didn’t wait. He pushed through, closing it behind him. Snow clung to his cloak; his hair was damp, and his breath came fast as if he’d run from the hall.
"You weren’t at the feast," he said.
"I was unwell."
"Unwell," he repeated, studying her. "You’re hiding from me."
Her chin lifted. "Why would I need to hide from my king?"
His eyes narrowed. "Don’t do that."
"Do what?" she asked, feigning confusion.
"Speak to me like you would a stranger."
She crossed her arms. "I thought perhaps you’d want time alone with your dragon queen."
He blinked, as though her words made no sense. "What?"
"Don’t insult me with feigned ignorance, Jon. Everyone in the keep has heard the stories. How you dote on her. How she returns your… attentions."
Color rose to his cheeks—not embarrassment, but anger. "We need her dragons for the fight to come. That’s all."
"Of course," she said coolly, turning away.
He moved before she could take a step, his hand closing around her arm—not rough, but firm enough to stop her. "What is this really about?"
She pulled free, her breath quickening. "You left me," she said, the words bursting from her before she could stop them. "You left and replaced me before the snow had even covered your tracks. I was nothing the moment you saw her—"
Jon’s chest rose and fell sharply, his eyes dark. She didn’t notice her own tears until he was there again, hands cupping her face, thumbs brushing them away. She tried to push him off, but he held fast, gentler than his grip on her arm, unyielding all the same.
"Sansa," he said, voice low but fierce. "When I went to her, I thought only of you. Of your safety. Of the North. We need her dragons—nothing more."
"You expect me to believe—"
"I expect you not to bend to idle gossip like it’s truth. That’s not the Sansa I know."
His nearness was suffocating, his heat wrapping around her until she could feel every inch of him without touching.
"I thought only of you," he repeated, softer now. "Long before I should have been thinking of you at all."
Her breath caught. His eyes searched hers, and for a heartbeat, she saw the man who had clung to her in the courtyard before leaving.
"Did you think of me?" he asked.
She hesitated, fear clawing at the edges of her want—but it was nothing against the truth pressing at her ribs. "Always."
He closed the distance between them, and his mouth was on hers—warm, urgent, devastating. She sank into it, fingers curling into his cloak as though to keep herself from falling apart. Between kisses, he murmured against her lips, his breath hot and uneven:
"I missed you."
"No one compares to you."
"I love you."
The words unraveled her. She whispered them back, tasting the truth on her own tongue.
When they finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, the world beyond the door was nothing—no queen, no dragons, no war. Only the North, and the two of them, standing in the quiet heat of what they could no longer ignore.
And for the first time in weeks, the cold in her chest began to thaw.