Chapter Text
Sansa went over the letter she had written. It was succinct, penned in that commanding tone she mastered a long time ago, save for the last few remarks that wished the recipient happiness and prosperity—that had been with the personal flair of one Sansa Stark, rather than the Lady of Winterfell. She could tell that Maester Payton didn’t approve by his frown, but she expected nothing less from a student of the Citadel; on the other hand, she suspected that Samwell Tarly would have approved wholeheartedly, had he been her maester. When it came to expressing her own disapproval, she had gone easy, superfluous as it was; considering the inheritance that Alys Karstark possessed, Sansa was sure that the noblewoman would have made a better match with someone other than the man she claimed to have fallen in love with, but if there was anyone who knew the strange workings of the heart, it was Sansa.
When she finally tore her gaze off the letter, it was Jon’s eyes she locked on. Her husband sat on the other side of the desk, watching her placidly; Sansa briefly wondered if the contents of his mind were just as collected. “Do you have any last objections to this?” she asked, reaching over the table with the document between her thumb and forefinger. He studied the offering for a moment before taking it from her.
Ghost’s heavy breathing was the only thing audible while he read the letter. “You’re more apt at these kinds of matters than I am,” he pointed out. “If you think this is best, I won’t oppose it.”
A smirk tugged at one corner of her mouth, but she held it back. If only Jon had heeded her opinions then like he did now, instead of questioning, dismantling everything she suggested. Perhaps it was true after all, she pondered, watching as he dipped his quill into the ink bottle before signing the letter; a crown changes everyone, even a man as steadfast and humble as Jon.
He handed the parchment back to her to sign. With mild surprise, jealousy erupted inside of her, clouding her judgement for the space of a heartbeat until she forced it aside. There was no room for such pettiness here.
“So that settles it,” she declared, rolling the parchment up before handing it to Maester Payton, “looks like it will be a love match after all.”
Her advisor nodded. “Surely this happy union will brighten the North,” he commented in that deep, smooth voice of his, while he prepared the wax seal. The letter would likely go out tonight, when the maester tended to the ravens in the rookery, but for poor Alys Karstark, it couldn’t come soon enough; she had waited nearly a month for their decision. Had the wait been as harrowing as the request itself?
Sansa remembered when Lady Alys had stood before the court, together with Ser Gilbart Cerwyn, while they declared their love for one another and their desire to wed. And while she had listened calmly to their entreaties, she was fuming on the inside. Even plain, unassuming Alys Karstark had found a man who loved her as much as she loved him. A bond that she would never truly understand. Sansa didn’t begrudge the couple for it, but it had put her in a sour mood for most of the day, not to mention those following. Up to until she had fallen ill, the matter had been on her mind constantly, her decision swinging wildly from one end to another. Lady Alys was quite fortunate she had come out of that awful fever with a stronger desire to repent for past wrongs. If the heiress wanted to marry Ser Gilbart, so be it; Sansa could live with that, knowing that it go a long way to mend their fraught relations. She never expected Lady Alys to forget the severity with which she had treated her with when it came time to address her father’s treachery, but this surely do it.
“It will be bright for the North only if their marriage proves fruitful in the bedchamber,” Sansa pointed out, reaching for the cup of ale placed near her elbow. She took of a sip of the bitter drink, hoping it might wash down the tickle in her throat. “If we’re to make better strides, we’ll need more bodies.”
She could feel the weight of Jon’s gaze on her, but she ignored it; if he thought her comment bawdy, he said nothing. Whatever his opinions about this northern marriage were, he was keeping those to himself as well. It was true that Jon wasn’t as detached as he had been when he first came back from the war-torn ravages of the far north, but he was still a far cry from the man who had once been crowned king by his people; his drive had been exhausted, torn asunder from the fighting and losses he and his soldiers had suffered. Maybe someday, Sansa thought, tracing the patterns of her gown with one finger, maybe someday he’ll be the Jon I’ll always remember, when the ghosts have sought refuge elsewhere. It was wistful thinking that she knew she shouldn’t be indulging in, but sometimes she just couldn’t help herself. Did he think ever think about the future like she did? Did he ever think about the expansion of their family as eagerly as she wanted him to?
Unsurprisingly, their son came to mind. Her heart twisted painfully at the mere thought of Bran—his sweet face and red curls, the way his cries, whether they were made to express delight or sorrow, echoed against the stone walls of his nursery. Maester Payton wanted to be sure that the fever was well and truly gone before mother and son could reunite, but the wait was excruciating. Time and again, Sansa experienced a phantom ache in her arms, so desperate was she to hold him again like she always did, rather than watching him from the other side of her window, tears of yearning making her vision swim. Bran was her little pride and joy; he would always be, from now until the day he buried her corpse in the Crypts.
Jon didn’t share in the same powerful sentiments. He just didn’t feel that way about him, or anyone, for that matter. Sansa used to blame it all on her, until it became too much. There came a point when the dead could no longer offer any consolation for those still living.
She let out a shaky breath. “We’ll have to start thinking about wedding gifts soon,” she said, when there was nothing better to talk about. “No doubt Ser Gilbart will be honored if you were to present him with a sword that you commissioned yourself. Perhaps you should see Elyot about that? He’s always over the moon whenever you come by to see him.”
“All that can wait,” Jon replied. “Nobody’s planning a wedding feast while the Lady of Winterfell is still convalescing.”
Sansa opened her mouth to protest—instead, she burst into a loud fit of coughing so treacherous she couldn’t even bury them in her sleeve. A chair screeched against the stoned floors, but she didn’t need to look up; she knew it was Jon.
“It’s nothing,” she gasped, shaking her head vigorously, “I’m f—” Another round of hackling knocked the air out of her lungs. A goblet appeared in front of her; Sansa accepted it gratefully, bringing it to her lips as soon as she felt she could swallow. The drink was smooth as silk, sliding down her throat and offering sweet respite. She took a few more sips for good measure, her breathing returning to its normal rhythm without any threat of being compromised by another round of coughs.
Jon was kneeling before her, his face tight with fear and worry. He took the goblet from her hand while she took several deep breaths; if she had suffered another round of coughing, Sansa was fairly convinced that he wouldn’t hesitate to bring the goblet to her lips himself. And here she thought the fever had taken its toll on her.
“It’s all right, I’m well now,” she insisted, closing her eyes for a moment before opening them again. I need to be, for Bran.
When she glanced at Jon, he was still on his knees, watching her with an intensity that had never been directed at her before. Sansa shuffled in her seat. “What is it?”
She didn’t understand what he was doing until it was too late; without warning, Jon pressed his thumb against the corner of her mouth, dragging it slowly along her skin to wipe away drops of ale that clung to the side of her mouth. A lover’s caress. The very thought made her panic; almost childishly, she swatted his hand away. “I said I’m fine,” she snapped, glaring at him.
He didn’t say anything in response, but there was a stubborn glint in his gray eyes that left her even more perplexed. Worse, her skin still tingled where he touched her. Sansa turned back to the documents strewn across the table, trying to block out the sensation.
“Maester Payton,” she called, eyes fixed on the ledgers she had reached for, eager to lose herself in the figures and notes, “you’ll see Lady Alys’s letter off as soon as you can, will you not?”
“I’ll see to it right now, my lady, if you like.”
“Please do.”
The maester’s departure was swift, but that wasn’t at all surprising; the air in their solar had shifted perceptibly, thick with tension borne between husband and wife. Jon was back on his feet now, dawdling in the periphery of her vision. She wouldn’t deny it: his concern for her was sweet, even if it was terribly off-putting as well. The ravages of war and death didn’t make him any less kind-hearted, but his more recent behavior was another thing altogether. A different version of herself, one more optimistic about love, would have blossomed at all the attention her husband was lavishing on her as of late. The woman she was, this skin she now wore with comfort and ease, was wary. Jon’s demeanor was throwing everything off-kilter, tilting the world she’d crafted for herself on its axis, and she didn’t appreciate the change.
“I think it’s in your best interests to see Elyot,” she advised. There was no mistaking the command in her tone. If Jon wasn’t going to leave her of his own accord, Sansa would make him. The blacksmith’s apprentice worshipped the ground that Jon walked on; let the boy indulge him with his attentions, because she would not. “Tell him about the wedding gift for Ser Gilbart—he’ll manage to come up with something grand, I’m sure of it.”
“But we’re not finished here.”
She lifted her head to look at him. Jon’s eyes were dancing between her and the letters on their desk.
“Those can wait till tomorrow,” she insisted. “I’ve some personal correspondence I’d rather catch up on now, if you don’t mind. I’ll see you at supper.”
Silence hovered between them while she waited for his response. Jon’s face was solemn and unreadable; it was like looking onto the surface of a calm lake and wondering if anything simmered beneath. Sansa wanted to probe through his head and discover what he thought about, but that was before she realized it would leave her heart just a little more damaged than it already was. She never considered herself a curious person, but even then, it had taken some time for her to accept that, sometimes, things were simply best left buried.
“Supper it is,” Jon acceded. “But you’ll keep Ghost with you at all times.”
At the mention of his direwolf, Sansa couldn’t help but smile. “Ghost must be fed up with me by now,” she said, looking at the animal in question. He was lying before the hearth, his face perched on his forepaws, watching her with his great, red eyes. Maester Payton told her that Ghost never left her bedchamber once while she’d fought through the fever that nearly took her.
“Loyal to the very end,” she murmured.
“Pardon, my lady?”
Sansa shook her head. “It’s nothing.” She lowered her gaze to the ledger in her hands. “I’ll see you at supper.”
Jon lingered about for another moment, his eyes still fixed on her. When he was gone at last, she placed the ledger back onto the table and leaned against her seat, sighing loudly. At times like this, Sansa wondered if his near-suffocating presence was the reason she was still caught in the last branches of her illness. His concern wasn’t surprising, but his newfound attachment was. Sansa found it more jarring than she would have ever imagined; wasn’t this what she had wanted from him all along?
It was, she realized, except she didn’t know how long it was going to last for. His attention was normal, all things considered, but Sansa had a feeling it was all temporal, fleeting. She had had a close brush with death, and Jon had experienced a lifetime’s worth of loss already. Maybe it really didn’t even matter that it was she who lay dying; a calamity like that would only be another blow that he wasn’t ready to take.
Sansa was true to her word; she tried to pen a few more responses that had been neglected for too long, but the motivation dissipated as rapidly as it had appeared. Feeling restless, Sansa rose from her seat after finishing the last of her ale. Her joints sang with relief after such a long time sitting; she walked over to the only window in their solar that looked out to the fields beyond the tall, granite walls. The kingsroad disappeared into the horizon, past the forests and rolling hills laid across her view, cutting through the greenery like a divine hand had slashed through the landscape. She used to imagine a scene like this when she looked out of a window in the Red Keep, when all she saw were tight stretches of urban life, houses and buildings crowded against each other, visible even from the top of Aegon’s Hill. Sansa had dreamt of the freedom and sparseness of home like someone who dreamt of water while they wandered through the desert. Some of those dreams, if not all, were reality now—laid out before her, like a feast was laid out for the most gluttonous. Was it wrong of her sometimes, when she thought it wasn’t enough?
She looked away, eyes resting on the documents strewn across her desk—no, not just hers, but Jon’s as well. It was built with the idea of accommodating two people, the length nearly equal to its width. Their solar was her home within a home, but a sudden desire to escape it, escape the great keep and its inhabitants, was overwhelming. Bran was the only person she had any desire to see right now, but she couldn’t. Sansa wanted her eyes to feast on something beautiful…
There was a place, though. She hadn’t been there since falling sick with that awful fever, but it was exactly the kind of alternative she needed. A quick interlude before returning to her letters, and that was all.
What if he finds out you’re not here?
Sansa blinked. That voice—it was never there before. Or, if it was, she never paid any attention to it. She wasn’t planning on starting, either. She was mistress of her home, and she would go where she wanted. Jon couldn’t stop her.
AN: Considering the climate of this fandom right now, I was hesitant to post this story, until I decided I was going to dive headfirst anyway, boo at the consequences. I mean, this is what fanfiction’s about, I guess—exploring all those avenues, those nooks and crannies, even those dark places you know might be dangerous. This story deals with a lot of the dynamics in Season 7 and 8; this includes Jon and Dany’s relationship, especially. Even then, I want to make it very clear that this story is about Jon and Sansa. Thanks for reading, guys. Any feedback is greatly appreciated! =D