Chapter Text
The greatest threat to the King in the North was not the Night King, nor was it the Lannister army marching from the south. It wasn't even the sudden, paradigm-shifting revelation that his name was Aegon Targaryen.
No, the greatest threat to Jon Snow was currently sitting to his immediate right, looking entirely too innocent in a gown of deep Tully blue.
Sansa Stark, his cousin… a word he had to repeat in his head like a prayer to the Old Gods every time she entered a room, she was going to be the death of him. And she knew it.
"As for the stores at White Harbor, Your Grace," Lord Wyman Manderly boomed, his jowls shaking with the earnest gravity of a man discussing the survival of the realm. "We have secured ten thousand barrels of salted cod, and enough smoked eel to see us through at least two moons of deep winter."
"Excellent, Lord Manderly," Jon said, his voice a perfect, even baritone of kingly approval. Or at least, he hoped it was. It was difficult to regulate his vocal cords when Sansa had just deliberately, agonizingly, uncrossed and recrossed her legs beneath the heavy wood of the council table.
The soft, maddening hiss of silk sliding against silk echoed in Jon’s ears like a thunderclap.
None of the lords noticed. Lord Glover was currently picking his teeth with a thumbnail, and Lord Cerwyn was nodding along to Manderly’s fish inventory with glazed eyes. Only Jon was acutely aware that the most beautiful woman in the North had shifted her posture so that her knee was now a mere half-inch from his thigh.
"We must also consider the grain," Sansa said aloud, her voice cool, authoritative, and perfectly suited for the Lady of Winterfell. "The silos at Castle Cerwyn are only half full."
"Aye, my lady," Cerwyn agreed, blinking awake. "The autumn rains were harsh. We lost a portion of the wheat to rot."
As she spoke, Sansa leaned forward to look past Jon toward Lord Cerwyn. In doing so, she braced her hand on the arm of Jon’s chair. Her slender fingers brushed against the leather on his forearms. A waft of her scent, crushed lavender, winter rose, and something dangerously, inexplicably warm, drifted over him.
Jon stared rigidly ahead at a candlestick. He was the Blood of the Dragon. He had literally returned from the dead. He had faced down a charging cavalry line on foot. He could survive a council meeting.
"We will... we will need to reallocate the barley from the Dreadfort's old stores," Jon managed, his voice slightly more gravelly than usual.
"A wise decree, Your Grace," Sansa murmured.
She turned her head, leaning in just a fraction too close, ostensibly so only he could hear her over Manderly’s sudden tangent about turnip yields.
Her breath ghosted against the shell of Jon's ear.
"You look tense, cousin," she whispered, the word cousin dripping from her lips with a devastating, velvet irony. "Are the fish negotiations proving too taxing?"
Jon closed his eyes for a microscopic second. "The negotiations are fine, Sansa."
"Good," she breathed. Beneath the table, out of sight of the snoring Lord Glover and the pontificating Manderly, the toe of a velvet slipper gently nudged Jon’s calf. It didn't retreat. It began a slow, agonizingly deliberate tracing motion up the side of his leather boot. "A king must keep his wits about him. He cannot afford to be... distracted."
Jon gripped the edges of his chair until his knuckles turned the color of fresh snow. He shot her a sideways glare, meant to be stern, commanding, and kingly.
Sansa met his gaze with wide, innocent sapphire eyes, though the corner of her mouth twitched with a suppressed, wicked smile. She took a slow sip from her silver goblet, her eyes never leaving his, a single drop of dark red wine clinging to her lower lip before her tongue darted out to catch it.
Jon swallowed hard. The room, despite the drafty stone walls of Winterfell, suddenly felt like a Dornish summer.
"Your Grace?" Lord Glover’s gruff voice shattered the bubble. "Do we have your leave to begin the transport of the oats?"
Jon forcefully cleared his throat, pulling his leg away from Sansa’s foot as if he’d been burned. "Yes. Transport the oats. All of them. In fact, double the guard on the oats. It is paramount."
Glover frowned, looking confused by the King's sudden, fierce passion for porridge, but he nodded. "As you say, Your Grace."
"I think that concludes our business for the morning," Jon announced abruptly, standing up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the stone floor. He needed cold air. He needed a training sword. He needed to throw himself into the frozen godswood pool. "We will reconvene on the morrow."
The lords grumbled their ascents, slowly pushing back from the table to file out of the solar.
Sansa rose with elegant, fluid grace, smoothing the front of her gown. As she passed him to head for the door, she paused, her shoulder brushing his chest.
"Such decisive leadership, Jon," she purred softly, a victorious glimmer in her eyes. "I look forward to discussing the... logistics... with you in private later."
She swept out of the room, leaving a trail of lavender and absolute chaos in her wake. Jon sank back into his chair, rubbing his temples, realizing with a heavy heart that winter had come, but it was going to be entirely too hot.
The corridors of Winterfell were famously drafty and after that meeting it's a fact Jon had never been more grateful for. He practically inhaled the freezing northern air as he marched toward the courtyard, hoping the biting cold would extinguish the distinctly southern heat still burning under his collar.
Struggling to keep pace with his long, urgent strides was Ser Davos Seaworth. The Onion Knight was bundled in a heavy bear-fur cloak, puffing slightly as he hurried alongside his king.
"Slow down, lad… Your Grace," Davos huffed, holding up a hand. "The training dummies aren't going to march on us. They'll wait."
Jon forced himself to reduce his pace. "Apologies, Davos. I just need to swing a sword. Clear my head."
Davos shot him a deeply sympathetic, thoroughly paternal look. He clasped his shortened fingers together behind his back, his brow furrowing. "I see it, you know. You don't have to hide it from me."
Jon froze, his heart leaping into his throat. Gods, he saw the foot under the table. Davos knows. "You... you see it?"
"Aye," Davos said gently, his voice thick with earnest concern. "The sheer weight of it all. The crown, the grain stores, the army of the dead, this Targaryen business... It’s wearing on you. You were sitting at that council table looking as rigid as a petrified weirwood. I thought your jaw was going to crack from clenching it so hard."
Jon released a relieved breath. A hysterical, dark laugh threatened to bubble up in his chest. "Yes. The... the weight of it. It’s a heavy burden."
"Too heavy for a man to carry alone," Davos agreed sagely. "You need to find a way to relax, Your Grace. If you snap like an overdrawn bowstring, we're all doomed."
"I am trying, Davos," Jon muttered, staring straight ahead. "But there are... constant distractions."
Before the Hand of the King could inquire further about these distractions, a small figure darted out from an intersecting corridor. It was a young serving girl, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold, holding a small, polished wooden box. She dropped into a hasty curtsy.
"Your Grace. Lord Hand," she squealed. "A gift. From the Lady of Winterfell."
Jon stared at the box as if it were a live scorpion. "A gift?"
"Yes, Your Grace," the girl said, holding it out. "Lady Sansa asked me to bring this to you before you began your sparring."
With great trepidation, Jon took the box. He popped the bronze latch and lifted the lid. Inside sat a small glass jar, and a neatly folded square of parchment sealed with a drop of pale blue wax.
"What is it?" Davos asked, peering over Jon's arm with genuine curiosity.
Jon unscrewed the lid of the jar. Immediately, the potent, intoxicating scent of crushed winter roses, mint, and a rich, spicy oil hit the air. It was Sansa’s scent, amplified and distilled.
"Ah," Davos said, sniffing the air appreciatively. "Muscle balm. And an expensive one, by the smell of it. Essosi, perhaps?"
Jon ignored him, breaking the wax seal on the parchment with his thumb. The handwriting was elegant, looping, and painfully familiar.
Dear Cousin,
I noticed how remarkably stiff you were during the council meeting today. It will not do for the King to be so agonizingly rigid, especially when surrounded by so many people.
Please use this oil after you train. It warms the skin wonderfully upon application. Should your own hands prove insufficient to rub it deep into the flesh, do let me know. I would be more than happy to come to your chambers tonight to help work out all of your... tension.
Yours,
S.
Jon felt a heated flush creep up his neck despite the freezing courtyard winds. He snapped the parchment shut, crushing it in his leather-gloved fist.
"Well?" Davos asked, oblivious to the fact that his King was currently experiencing a minor cardiac event. "A kind gesture, isn't it? She’s a good lass, your sister. Er, cousin. Always looking out for your health. What does the note say?"
Jon cleared his throat, his voice dropping very low. "Just... instructions. On how to apply it."
"Good, good," Davos nodded approvingly. "Make sure you use it. She’s right, you know. You're carrying far too much tension in your body, Jon. You need a good, hard rubbing down."
Jon closed his eyes, praying to the Old Gods, the New, and the Lord of Light for strength. "Thank you, Davos. Your counsel is, as always, invaluable."
He shoved the jar back into the box and thrust it under his arm.
"Tell the Lady Sansa," Jon said to the waiting serving girl, his voice tight and overly formal, "that the King thanks her for her generosity, and that he is perfectly capable of handling his own tension."
The girl curtsied again and scampered off. Jon turned toward the training yard, his grip hard on Longclaw's pommel.
"Gods have mercy," wheezed Hosther, while The Winterfell training yard rang with the brutal, frantic clatter of steel against castle-forged iron. He was a veteran guardsman with a chest like a barrel, as he barely raised his blunted tourney sword in time to catch Jon’s descending strike. The impact rattled Hosther and sent him stumbling backward into the packed snow.
To Hosther’s immediate left, a younger, much greener recruit named Pate was practically using his shield as a hiding place.
Jon Snow was a storm. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his breath pluming in the freezing air like dragon’s fire. He pivoted, bringing his heavy practice blade around in a devastating arc that knocked Pate’s shield entirely out of his grasp. The boy yelped, scrambling backward.
"Again," Jon barked, his voice ragged.
He didn't want to hurt his men, but the sheer, unadulterated frustration coiled in his gut demanded an outlet. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw a velvet slipper. Every time he took a breath, he smelled crushed winter roses and expensive muscle balm. It was maddening. He needed the exhaustion. He needed his muscles to burn so fiercely that his brain would finally stop working.
"Your Grace, please," Hosther panted, leaning heavily on his pommel. "We've been at this for an hour. You fight as if the Night King himself owes you coins."
Jon lowered his blade, taking a deep breath of the icy air. The exertion was working. The frantic drumbeat in his chest was finally starting to slow. He felt more like himself, powerful, entirely in control of his own body.
Then, he heard the soft, deliberate creak of the upper gallery floorboards.
Jon’s eyes darted upward without his permission.
Sansa stood at the railing of the wooden balcony overlooking the yard. She was wrapped in a thick cloak of dark grey wool lined with silver fox fur, the deep collar framing her face perfectly. The wind whipped a few loose strands of copper hair across her porcelain cheek.
Jon swallowed, his throat suddenly bone-dry. Look away, his brain commanded. His eyes utterly ignored the order.
Sansa leaned forward against the heavy wooden railing. The movement caused her cloak to part slightly, revealing the snug, intricately embroidered bodice of her dress beneath. She rested her elbows on the wood, interlacing her fingers, and watched him.
She wasn't looking at him the way a lady watches a tourney. Her gaze was heavy, slow, and predatory. It tracked the sweat dripping down the line of his jaw, lingering on the exposed skin of his neck where he had loosened his tunic, before dragging lazily down the broad expanse of his chest.
When she finally met his eyes, she offered a slow, wicked smile that sent a jolt of pure lightning straight down Jon’s spine if not lower.
"Don't stop on my account, Your Grace," Sansa called down, her voice carrying easily over the quiet yard. "It is entirely... fascinating to watch a King at work."
Hosther and Pate exchanged thoroughly bewildered looks. To them, their lady sounded perfectly polite. To Jon, every syllable dripped with hidden meaning.
"Guards," Jon snapped, gripping his sword so hard his forearm cramped. "Positions."
Pate scrambled to retrieve his shield, looking like he wanted to cry.
Jon forced himself to look away from the balcony, squaring his shoulders. Focus. Footwork. Balance. He charged Hosther. The older man braced himself, bringing his sword up. Jon feinted left, preparing to strike right… but out of the corner of his eye, movement caught his attention.
On the balcony, Sansa had raised a gloved hand. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she caught the tip of one velvet finger between her teeth, pulling the glove off with a languid, deliberate tug.
Jon’s brain completely abandoned him. His foot caught on a patch of uneven ice. His devastating right-handed strike turned into a clumsy, overextended flail.
Hosther, acting entirely on pure, seasoned reflex, brought his blunted blade around and smacked the King in the North squarely in the ribs with a resounding thwack.
Jon grunted, stumbling sideways and dropping his sword into the snow with a loud clatter.
The yard fell dead silent. Hosther stared at his own sword in absolute horror, looking as though he expected to be beheaded on the spot. "Gods, Your Grace! Forgive me! I… you stumbled, and I…"
From the balcony above, a sound drifted down like silver bells. Sansa was laughing. She covered her mouth with her bare hand, her shoulders shaking with pure, delighted amusement.
"An excellent parry, Hosther!" she called out, her eyes dancing with triumphant mischief as she looked down at Jon. "It seems the King's stance was a bit... distracted. Perhaps he is carrying too much tension in those shoulders."
Jon glared up at her, rubbing his bruised ribs
"That will be all for today," Jon bit out, not taking his eyes off his cousin.
Hosther and Pate practically sprinted from the yard, deeply thankful to have survived their monarch's strange, erratic wrath.
Sansa leaned over the railing one last time, tossing her removed glove so it fluttered down, landing softly in the snow mere inches from Jon’s boots.
"Do not forget the balm I sent you, Jon," she purred, turning to walk away. "I suspect you will be needing it tonight."
Jon stood alone in the freezing yard, staring at the velvet glove in the snow.