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The wooden chair that Jon settles himself onto creaks against his weight. A fire is lit in front of him and he can feel the warmth of the flames licking against his legs, arms, and face. He’s tired-- no, he’s exhausted. It’s a miracle that he even survived the battle... A miracle orchestrated by none other than Sansa.
He should be upset... He should be angry at a number of things that took place and he should feel frustrated that Sansa withheld information concerning something that could have saved lives out on the field. He should feel a lot of things, but the only things that he feels are the weariness in his bones and that he feels much older than he really is.
He did a number of things wrong on the battlefield-- he fell directly into Ramsay’s trap, risking the lives of his men, losing his little brother. The battle before the Knights of the Vale had arrived was only blood and death. He’s rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers when he hears the door open slowly behind him, followed by footsteps. He closes his eyes, not quite ready to face Sansa.
What a coward he is.
He hears her move around in the room before coming in front of him. He cracks an eye open to see her standing above him, a worried look on her face. She’s holding a bowl filled with hot water and she sets it down on the small table next to him. She purses her lips and suddenly he’s an awkward young boy again, making a mistake, and seeing Sansa gaze at him with narrowed eyes.
But her eyes aren’t nearly as cold as they were before-- before the battle and the Wall and beyond. She looks at him with a kind of warmth that the young Jon could have only ever wished for from her. She kneels in front of him and he wants to tell her not to, that she shouldn’t kneel to anyone, especially not him. But she silences him with another look of hers and gently reaches out for his hands.
His hands are covered in dried blood and dirt and they’re entirely too filthy for her to be holding them. Her hands are soft, skin like cream, and kind as she reaches for a rag in the hot water and begins to clean his hands. It’s the kind of work that he guesses she would have sneered at before, but she’s changed and he has too he supposes. The fire behind her casts an orange glow around her, almost like a halo. The strands of her copper hair cling to the orange light, making her look as if she’s on fire. Or maybe that’s just how he feels with her here with him, close to him.
Wanting to be by him.
She was always a pretty girl; when they were growing up, everyone in Winterfell would shower Lord Eddard Stark’s lovely daughter with compliments and flattery. He would be lying if he said that it never crossed his mind how nice he thought she looked in her dresses and all. Everyone knew she would grow up to be lovelier, but he doesn’t think anyone could have imagined just how beautiful she is now.
He watches her face as she keeps her eyes low to her task, slowly cleaning every line and wrinkle in his hands. If she can feel him staring at her, then she doesn’t comment on it. He's always worn his heart on his sleeve and he wonders what she would see on his face and in his eyes were she to look up at him and catch his gaze.
He doesn’t know the extent of what happened to her after he left for the wall and she to the south. She gives him scraps of information, but it’s enough to know that she’s faced a number of her own injuries, physical or not. It fills him with a kind of anger that he hasn’t felt in quite some time. In fact, Sansa makes him feel a number of things, right from the moment he first saw her in the courtyard of Castle Black. He was numb and ready to go off into a life of blissful solitude, until she came to him. It was as if she had brought him back to life and not the Red Woman.
It wasn’t very difficult to piece together what happened to her while she was under Ramsay’s captivity... and to know that such a vile creature had laid his hands on Sansa had Jon seeing red.
“Do you wish to speak about it?” She asks him softly, sweetly, kindly, and it makes Jon close his eyes to hear her voice.
He’s silent, but she doesn’t push him. So unlike the Sansa in the tent the other night, yelling at him to listen to her. Maybe he should have; she was right about most of what happened on the battlefield.
“I almost died,” he says when she leans back and tosses the dirty rag back into the equally dirty water. She’s still kneeling in front of him, close enough that his knees brush against her chest and arms. She stops all movements and looks at him head on, even though he keeps his eyes on her hair.
“We were surrounded. I was under bodies... dead... alive,” he says with a shake of his head, remembering the crowd of men all trying to fight and survive. “I could have just laid there and died and it would have been over. I would have been done fighting.”
He hears her sharp inhale, but he still won’t look at her. He can’t just yet. “I’m sorry Jon,” she says but he interrupts her from continuing.
“All my life I’ve fought,” he says as if she hadn’t just spoken to him. He needs to get this out now, while he’s still running on empty fumes, he needs her to know. “I fought for a place at Winterfell, I fought for a place at the wall, with the wildlings, against my own brothers,” he trails off and rubs a newly cleaned hand against his jaw. “I could have ended it out there on the battlefield, but I didn’t, because I told you I would never let him touch you again.”
His words hang in the air as she fully rocks back and he finally looks at her. Her pink lips are parted in surprise and he wonders if he’s made a right fool of himself.
“Oh Jon,” she says softly and comes back in front of him, between his knees, and there’s that nagging feeling to tell her to stand up because she shouldn’t have to sink lowly again for any man. She brings her hands up to both sides of his face and he closes his eyes at the cool touch.
He feels her press her forehead against his and he reaches a hand up to take hers in his. He turns his head to place a chaste kiss against her wrist, right where her veins stand out against the white of her skin.
“I told you I would protect you,” he says more confidently now that she hasn’t pushed him away. The true weight of his words are not lost upon her-- at least he thinks they aren’t, because suddenly his face is pressed into her hair by her shoulder and her arms are wrapped tightly around his body.
He’s still covered in the blood and grime from the battle, but neither of them pay it any attention as they cling to each other. It’s much like the hug when they first saw each other at Castle Black, except now it’s more familiar. Warmer. And his face is nestled against her neck where he can smell her more strongly and feel the racing pulse of her veins. She pulls back to look at him and there’s an emotion in her eyes that he’s seen before, but he can’t quite place from where just yet. But it doesn’t matter because she’s looking at him as if he were the only person in the world. Their foreheads meet again and he keeps their clasped hands against his mouth.
Behind them, the fire continues to flicker and dance and cast shadows across the room. The wind howls outside, but all Jon can focus on is Sansa’s steady heartbeat and the relief he feels in knowing that she’s safe now from Ramsay Bolton and that she’s with him; not pushing him away, but pulling him closer.