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“Do you remember what I told you when you were only a young girl?”
“Yes, Father,” Sansa nods her head, though her arms begin to ache as she continues tying the ribbon around her hair. The long red locks graze the back of her neck, and she feels shivers run up her spine at the sensation. “I remember.”
“I promised that I would make you a match with someone worthy of you.” Ned Stark remembers her, once again, this time with an old tea plate in his hand and a frown shadowing over his face.
“Someone brave, and gentle, and strong.”
It’s a mimicking tone, and her Father does not approve. She has never wanted what he offered her; never wanted to find a keen and decent man and settle down. She has never wanted to resign herself to a lifetime of household chores and procreational duties.
“Yes, Sansa.” He places the old plate down on the rickety old table in the corner of the room, just beside the doorway, and he releases a harsh cough into his handkerchief. “It may have taken some time, but I made good on my promise.”
She is his eldest daughter, and yet his only child of age that has yet to be married. Even the younger girl, Arya, had left her parents’ comfortably tranquil abode to settle down with a local farmer by the name of Gendry. The younger girl had found stability and love in her marriage, but Sansa had never found either.
She’d had her courtships, of course; young men with sand blonde hair and their deceased parents’ fortunes to live off of, and of course they had been too demanding wherein her father was concerned; young men with reddening dark hair who had laid hands upon her when nobody had been watching, who had tried to force a hand up her skirts until she had screamed for mercy; and old men with a mining empire at their feet and financial stability that could shelter her from many harsh winters to come.
Her father had refused them all, though, and soon word began to spread of the eldest of the Stark girls, the red haired one who refused any and all husband, the tall one who sought money and power and nothing else.
The latest rumours around the quiet neighbouring village told of her supposed adventures down in London during the Summer. Her father was a Lord, and therefore the young woman must have used this title in order to advance herself along in society.
New word around the townsfolk was that she had laid with two men while in the South; one a Duke, and the other his tailor.
There was no truth to the claims, though, and nor were the sources credible; a couple of girls of her age whom she’d spoken down to once or twice.
Sansa had been trying to reason with her Father ever since she had come back from her visit down in the south part of the country, but he paid her little mind.
Refusing to believe - or hear - his daughter’s cry for justice, he had been fooled by the rumour mill’s latest spin, and Ned had decided that he would find her a husband, for once and for all.
As speculation over her maidenhood increased over time, he’d had a good mind to marry her off to the elder mine owner once or twice. The man, Petyr Baelish, had visited their home three times since Sansa’s return, and each visit encouraged a new round of goosebumps to cover and coat her ivory flesh.
He’d almost pleaded with her father on the day of his final offering; a rather ludicrous amount of money - no penny spared - in exchange for their rambunctious daughter.
Fortunately for Sansa, her father had seen past the lonely man’s very obvious greed and perversion, including the way he had peered down her dress whenever her towered over the back of her chair
“I thought you had broken off such a promise long ago.” She pulls at the ties of her ribbon, makes sure it holds her braided tresses securely, “You believe me to be an adulterer, don’t you, Father? I’m surprised any man being gentle would be such a requirement for you now.”
“Sansa-”
“Because, as they say, I have already had two disgusting men between my legs. What’s one more brute?” Her tone is harsh, her eyes daggers when she turns to face him.
Ivory skin glowing in the afternoon sunlight, she stands from her seat and runs soft hands down the sides of her dress. It’s a fair blue colour, much like her icy stare, and the lacy neckline itches at the skin of her breasts.
“Go on, then. Who is this one? A builder, perhaps. Gods know you haven’t sent any of those my way yet.”
“A military man, Sansa.” He informs her, greying hair softly shaking as he nods once, twice, “An old friend.”
“Of yours?”
“Of yours.”
Unable to remember such a man, Sansa tilts her head back so she can focus on the elegant ceiling of their salon. “Of Robb’s, you mean.” She confirms for herself, closes her eyes at the thought, “Could he not find a nurse unfortunate looking enough for him? He’s decided to pull above his weight instead.”
She knows her worth, her beauty’s value.
“Sansa.”
“Send him in, then. We can’t leave him waiting. I’m sure even you would like an answer sooner rather than later.”
He does as she asks then, leaving his daughter in the room for a moment or so while he goes to fetch her latest admirer, as though he’s readying pray for the hunter to catch. She doesn’t bite, though; never does, despite her father’s protests and demands.
She recognises him almost immediately, but it takes a moment to confirm her suspicions. His aura is darker now, but she expects it to be this way for every man returning from the wars.
His face is soft, a thin beard cloaking his chin and jawline. His hair is darker, though hints of the brown she remembers peek through at the roots of his head, where he has combed and groomed.
His hat is placed on the side, and she takes in his suit. Tailored and brown and expensive; he sure has come a long way from the boy she remembers goofing around in the mud with her brother. He's inherited a fortune, been named the successor in an empire he hadn't known he'd belonged to. His mother had never told him much about his father, but somewhere, sometime, his name had been written down as the sole heir to the Targaryen Smoking Corporation, and now here he finds himself.
“Jon.”
It has been five years since she has seen him; she’d been sixteen and he twenty.
Her father leaves them alone as soon as his name has escaped past her lips, and Sansa wonders at this. He has stuck around at every one of these other conventions. Is it because he knows him, because he trusts him, because he watched him grow from a boy to a gentleman?
“Miss Stark.”
“Sansa. My name is Sansa. You know this.” She nods to herself, claps her hands in front of her skirts and watches as he does the same, hands moving to rest behind his back, and his crisp shirt rises beneath the belt of his breeches.
“Right.” He accepts her reminder, and nods to himself much as she had done moments ago, “I do apologise. It’s been a while since we last saw each other.”
“Yes, you were riding off into war with my brother, if I remember. Only, you came home, and he didn’t.”
It’s the harsh truth, and she doesn’t speak it to hurt him. Jon flinches at her words, though, and she watches his pink lips suck in as he sighs. He has always been charmingly brooding.
“Was this your idea then, or Father’s?”
“Your father suggested I drop by to say hello, two weeks ago. We spoke of it then.”
She remembers him, holds certain memories dearly in her heart. He had been her second kiss, after that stupid boy down on the docks. He had been the first person to console her after her dog - Lady, only a pup - passed away.
“How is it that you haven’t already found yourself a suitable wife then?”
“I’ve only just returned from my service, you see.” Jon informs her, the slightest of frowns to his face as he talk, gently uneven browns lowered to soften his somber features, “And while I do admire certain aspects of married life, I’m not entirely sure it will suit me. Nor you, if I am not mistaken.”
If neither one of them are cut out for this kind of life, then what is there to lose?
“What my Father thinks of me and what I may or may not have done bears little significance on the way I view marriage. It is a union, one I do someday wish to embark upon. But only with someone suitable, only with a husband who will suit me and no other woman.”
“You’re quite demanding for someone whose reputation proceeds her. One would expect you to be rather humble at the very idea of a man willing to engage with you.”
Her hands slide from her front to her sides then, and her eyes widen at the supposition. “Whether a man pays me any attention or none at all is of little concern to me, Mr Snow. I would have you know I have been rather content living all these years by my lonesome.”
“So the rumours aren’t true then?”
“No. They aren’t true. They are horrible lies made up by stupid girls with nothing to do and nobody to love them.”
“Well, if you are so perfectly happy being alone, then why even bother seeking a husband at all?”
“You must know just as well as I do that a woman’s place in society is based on her husband’s place, and that without a man at her side a woman is practically useless in the eyes of the people. Furthermore, I would hope to provide some peace for my parent; it must have been terribly cruel to have to put up with me for all of these years. But, hear me, Jon Snow. I do not want a husband so I can provide him with children and wash up after him. I want a husband because it is asked of me, much to my dismay, and someday I would like to teach, an opportunity that would land far more easier in my hands if I had the assurance and support of a keen man behind me. But I do not need the man himself behind me.”
He doesn’t seem vexed, or appear insulted by her revelation. Only, his cheeks suck in for a second as he contemplates her words, “So the rumours are lies?”
“Yes.” She sounds frustrated, and he cannot blame her. He has just repeated his same question that spurred her admission. “Is that all that matters to you, that I’m still dry between my legs?”
“I never said such a thing,” Sansa can’t tell if he’s mocking her, “Whether you are dry or damp is of no importance to me. I would just like to know what baggage you bring with you.”
Baggage? She would slap him if he was not so polite and harmless.
“The rumours are false. My legs have been sealed shut ever since I was born, save for a night or two wherein I have let my own curiosity sate itself,” She doesn’t elaborate, and he blinks back a breath at her suggestion, “The baggage you speak of doesn’t exist.”
She cannot blame him for inquiring about something that follows her. He is all somber and long-faced, and she cannot hold a grudge for long.
“I recognise that I am perhaps not the most sought-after bachelorette. Or, rather, I am the sole bachelorette left that no man seeks out at all.”
Her thin brows have knitted, and her lips are shifting so her lower curls in towards her teeth for a moment. It’s a pensive look, and she wears it well.
With a brush of hair off of her shoulder, Sansa resigns herself, shoulders raising momentarily to lower with her deep breath, “I suppose you may no longer consider me an eligible candidate for your affections?”
It’s a daring move, question, and she knows it.
“Not that your affections are directly tied into this union… nor should they be. My own certainly won’t be.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Why wouldn’t you what?”
“Why would I not still consider you an eligible candidate for my affections?”
He takes a step closer; it’s a daring move, and they both know it.
Jon retains his distance, though, and his hands remain firmly clasped behind his back. She can see the muscles of his arms clench, unclench, and she chews at the inside of her cheeks. His face, formerly void of any expression of emotion, is illuminated by the smallest of smiles dancing along his full lips.
“I don’t believe you were to blame for the crimes committed against you. I don’t believe you are guilty of the sins they say you have committed. Therefore, I cannot hold said crimes, or sins, against you. In addition, I find your honesty to be quite refreshing. Unless,” he pauses, polished shoes walking toward her as he sweeps old soles along the wooden floorboards, “you’ve been fibbing. In which case,”
“I haven’t.” She interrupts him, unexpectedly, her breath short. Sansa swallows, licks her lips for strength, “I would never fib about such horrid things.” Something has changed, and she can feel it. Perhaps she has given herself permission to fall with her confession.
“Well, then,” Jon clears his throat, makes to move only an inch closer until he catches sight of her face - flushed and focused on his own - and then he stops himself, lean shoulders rigidly stiff. “I don’t suppose you know where your father has wandered off to.”
Sansa’s blue eyes seem to shine, then, shifting from frost to cobalt, “My father?” She does not want to sound too hopeful, too enchanted at what he may be proposing, at the notion that he may in fact be proposing.
“Yes.” He smiles, and the amused look on his face reaches his dark eyes this time, reminding her of a puppy with a chew toy, “I would rather like to have this on paper, you see.”
“Have what, on paper?”
“Would you like to marry me, Miss Sansa?” He doesn’t refer to her only by first name - as she asked of him - but she will settle for this appellation… for now.
“That’s a rather difficult question, you see. My father would very much like me to marry, and I’m reasonably certain that he’s going to tie me to this chair to force a decision from my part very soon. It’s rather difficult, you see, because… while I would quite contentedly marry you, I don’t believe you would be very happy marrying me.”
“Why would marrying you not please me?”
“Rumours of my past liaisons are surely going to haunt me for many years to come, and I’m not certain you would be apt at ignoring them.”
Jon does what he has stopped himself from doing then; he moves two steps closer and places a hand on her forearm. His skin in warm above the sleeve of her dress, and
Sansa glances down to watch his touch, “No, I don’t suppose I would be.”
Before she can stop herself, there’s a sweltering sensation of heat rushing to her cheeks when his hand jumps from her arm to her waist, and he is looking at her as though to ask if he can do such a thing.
She can only nod, and lean in closer when his voice lowers and he husks, “But I’m fairly certain all rumours of your supposed past liaisons will diminish rather quickly once I accidentally let slip that my wife bled on our bed sheets on our wedding night.”
His suggestion has her breath hitching, and Sansa backs away a fraction of an inch. He doesn’t loosen his hold, though, and she is fairly certain she does not want him too.
“I would ruin your pristine white sheets.”
“My pristine white sheets will be ruined for me as soon as you lay down on them.”
“And is that a good thing?”
His hand curls, fingers digging into her waist comfortably, “I supposed you will have to find out.” He grins, small smile charmingly turning upward, “Should you choose to marry me.”
She can feel the ties of her ribbon begin to loosen, and she frees herself from his grasp to pull them tighter, half turning her back on him. She can see him out of the corner of her eye, and she holds her breath after asking, “How soon could we marry?”
She wants to be free of the curse that befell her, of the hurtful lies that surround her name. She wants to move on, and move out, and move in with someone who will ignore anything that has ever been said of her.
“How soon would you like?”
“Not tomorrow, but the day after.” An hour ago, she had been belittling her Father’s attempts at pawning her off on any man who would take her. Now, she is willingly making arrangements. “I would need to pack my dresses, and my un-”
“Other items.” He finishes for her, toothy smile gone and replaced with the darkest look she has ever seen upon his face.
“Yes.” Spinning back around on short heels to face him, “Shall I go and fetch Father then?”
“If you’re certain.”
“I am. Are you?”
“I am.”
“Good. Then I shall go and fetch Father.”
“Sansa?”
“Yes?”
“Stop,” there’s a hand wrapped around her wrist, and her skin tingles at the slight burn, “Wait.”
“Are you going to be my third kiss, as well as my second?”
“Wouldn’t you prefer I be your last?”