#31daysofjonsa

Jon, however, has no issue with any of it, and she takes a moment to watch him shove the knife deep into a fresh pumpkin (and perhaps she gets a bit distracted with the way his arms flex as he carves out a neat circle on the bottom of it – another thing Sansa would never have thought of, to open it from the bottom to make placing a candle inside easier). He also has no qualms about the guts, she watches him go in with his bare hand and pull out stringy masses of it before using the scraper to get the leftovers.

Jon is terrible at the rest of it, though. Sure, he can carve the face, technically, but the ones he did try look like little children made them. This is where Sansa shines – she sketches the design and then carefully carves them out. It makes her giggle, thinking back to Jon's face when he'd seen her first pumpkin, the impressed wow that had made her warm with pleasure, before he turned his own pumpkin to face her and she'd burst into laughter at it.

So now they have a system down – Jon gets the pumpkins ready for her, and she does the rest. Of course, her job is slower, so there's already a few pumpkins waiting for her that Jon's already prepped.

Why Jeyne decided she needed to make this party jack-o-lantern themed, Sansa has no idea. It had sounded nice in theory – in practice? Well, there's a reason the rest of her siblings had bailed on this project, and even Robb and Jeyne are somewhere else in the house, doing other party prep things. Jeyne just doesn't want to admit that maybe her idea was a bit over the top.

So now it's just Sansa and Jon, because of course it is. Sansa never would have said she and Jon have anything in common, but they do have this – Jon's weird, stubborn loyalty and Sansa's need to see a project through to perfection. Not exactly the same, but the end result is. They're both here, the last two standing.

“Can you hand me that little knife?” Jon asks, pointing to one of her carving tools. “I figure I can help you out with some of the bigger cuts,” and then he gestures at the waiting pumpkins that she's already drawn designs on in pencil.

“Ew, get your hand away from me,” Sansa leans back as his pumpkin covered hand waves in her general direction. It grosses her out so much, Jon had laughed at her when she gagged scooping out her first pumpkin (wearing rubber gloves that she forced Robb to find).

Jon looks down at his hand, looks at her, then says, “this hand?” And then, to her horror, he reaches out for her with it and she squeals and drops the pumpkin she's working on to scramble back. And Jon – Jon just laughs, louder than he did earlier, reaching out for the pumpkin she dropped. “Careful,” he says with a grin, “these are delicate, don't go dropping them.”

She's about to say something when Robb's head pops into the room. “Everything ok in here?”

“We're fine,” Jon says, at the same time that Sansa huffs, “get your friend under control, Robb.”

Robb quirks an eyebrow at them and Sansa turns a glare on Jon, who's still grinning.

“You want to help?” Jon then asks, gesturing at the pumpkins they still have left to carve.

“Actually, there's so much to do in the other room...” Robb hedges, backing out.

“This is your party! Coward!” Sansa calls after her brother as he disappears.

“He's a terrible friend,” Jon says with that same smile on his face as he leans over and reaches past Sansa to grab the carving tool he'd been asking for, and Sansa realizes she's holding her breath at how close he gets.

“Aren't you glad to be back?” she tries her best to sound as sarcastic as possible.

She realizes that maybe it was a stupid thing to say when Jon's smile falters – this is his first year back after being honorably discharged; after being given some medal for getting shot six times in a mutiny within his own unit.

“Yeah,” he finally says, voice low and soft. “Yeah, I'm glad to be back.”

They work in silence after that, and Sansa finds herself sneaking glances at him. He's grown out his hair, for years she only saw him with a military buzz cut, but now it's long enough that he can tie half of it up into a little bun. The beard is also new, and all she can think is that it makes his eyes look more intense, somehow, makes the grey of them brighter.

She has to shake herself out of it when she notices that she's falling behind on her carving. She and Jon make a good team, except for when he's being completely distracting (not a phrase she would have ever associated with him when they were younger).

By the time they finally finish, her hands are cramping, but Jeyne is absolutely delighted by the lineup of pumpkins.

“It's perfect!” Jeyne sighs and hugs Sansa and then Jon. “Now we just need to put them around the house!”

They all start placing the pumpkins around according to Jeyne's orders, and it's then that Robb catches her alone.

“Was Jon laughing earlier?” Robb asks as they both stand in the hallway. In the dining room, Sansa can hear Jeyne directing Jon.

“Yeah?” she shrugs. “He thought it was so funny that I don't like touching pumpkin guts.”

All Robb says is, “huh,” and he starts walking back to the kitchen.

“Why?” she asks, hurrying to catch up.

“Nothing, I just... I don't think I've seen him laugh since he's been back, is all.”

Since he was shot, is what Robb doesn't say.

“Maybe I'm just funnier than you,” she shrugs.

It was meant as a joke, but when she looks back at Robb, he's got this look on his face - something appraising. She has no idea what it's about.

“Maybe,” Robb finally says.

She has no idea what Robb meant - Jon laughs all the time, she decides, when later on they're separating the seeds from the pulp to roast (once again, Jeyne's idea). Jon laughs every single time Sansa makes an exaggerated gagging noise when she has to touch the pumpkin guts. She does catch both Robb and Jeyne watching them a few times, both like they're a bit baffled by the laughter, which Sansa thinks is ridiculous. Jon laughs so easily.

The strange looks continue through the pizza Robb and Jeyne order to thank them for their help, through the beers and movie after (Jon also finds her reactions to horror movies funny, though his laughs are softer and he at least lets her hide her face in his shoulder during the worst parts).

When they're finally ready to go and Jon pulls on his leather jacket, it strikes Sansa that this Jon is different than the ones she knew before – the quiet, sullen teenager and then the clean cut, stoic soldier she'd seen the few times he'd been back on leave. This is a new Jon, though she also thinks it's the same one – he's different now, but there's still something innately Jon about him. She can't really explain it. She also can't explain why she finds it so fascinating.

“You'll be at the party tomorrow?” he asks out at their cars (Robb and Jeyne watching them from the front door like absolute weirdos).

“Duh,” she rolls her eyes, but there's no real annoyance behind it. “I didn't carve all those pumpkins for a party I wasn't even going to.”

That gets a smile out of him, and a soft release of breath that she thinks is a laugh. “Alright, I'll see you tomorrow, then.”

Something else she can't explain? The way her heart flutters.

No, he hadn’t realized when he’d said it that she’d been standing right behind him and of course not everyone loves weddings like Sansa.

His partner, the very sweet Samwell Tarly and source of any building intel she’s accrued, had noticed her though and elbowed him in the ribs before turning to introduce themselves to their new neighbor on the fourteenth floor.

Mr. Snow, for his part, had looked away with a pained grimace the moment their eyes had met. He’d endured the introductions before muttering, ‘Good luck in your endeavor, Ms. Stark,’ and striding away.

She’s seen him walking past her window and giving it more than one sour glance since that day so she’s avoided Mr. Not-So-Sunny Snow and hopes none of the couples she arranges weddings for will ever have need of his services.

Oh, she’s no fool. She understands how these things go and is aware of the divorce rate. But Sansa hopes. Sometimes, that’s all we can do.

And no, she’s not been able to avoid him completely by any means. They often ride the elevator together on the mornings that she’s in the office.

Anytime they do ride together though, he’s always so tense. Their words are stilted and few, hers because Sansa has never known how to handle someone who apparently doesn’t like her and his because…well, clearly he doesn’t like her or her profession.

So, it really shouldn’t matter that she objectively finds Jon Snow handsome, should it? That’s just silliness on her part, probably part of her deep-seated desire to be liked by everyone. He’s obviously just a crusty, bitter old man in a thirty-something’s body…a rather cut thirty-something’s body judging by the times they’ve shared the elevator when he’s been coming or going from the gym.

Regardless, if Jon Snow enjoys spending his Friday nights watching wedded unions fall to pieces, that’s none of her business. She wouldn’t know what he enjoys and doubts she ever will.

7:18 PM

Jon lays his glasses aside to rub his tired eyes. The words in this brief are running together and he should probably call it a night but, with so few of his cases actually going to court anymore (it’s all usually procedural paperwork to file at most), he wants to be on top of everything come Monday. He hopes to win Walda every last dime she’s got coming her way from Mr. Bolton.

He hears the cleaning crew vacuuming down the hall and knows he should shove off since they’ll soon be done as well. But when you’ve got nothing but an empty flat and frozen dinner to go home to on a Friday night? He sighs and puts his glasses back on.

Ten minutes later, he hears a low thump through the wall and his ears perk up. That was next door, wasn’t it? Next door where Ms. Stark’s office is.

Surely, it’s not her. Probably just the cleaning crew. She gets here early like him but she’s usually out by 2PM, likely weighing the appeal of various venues or approving iced confections. Her job requires much less time in the office which is fine…and also a shame.

What’s more of a shame is you and poor first impressions though. He does seem to make those more often than he would like.

He hadn’t meant to insult her at all and certainly not before they’d even met. His bitterness with regards to the business of matrimony has nothing to do with her and he didn’t make his statement with the intent of dashing anyone else’s enthusiasm. I’m just awkward that way.

And when he’d turned around and seen her standing there? Not only did he feel like a heel but, damn, she was beautiful. He wishes he could’ve seen her eyes when they were likely bright with pride and pleasure at the sight of her new sign.

But instead, her eyes had been narrowed having caught his flippant remark. At that point, he’d withdrawn into himself (his favorite defense mechanism) and since then it’s plain she’d rather avoid him whenever possible so he gives her her space and nurses his regrets in silence.

He rises from his desk at the sound of another thump and draws closer to their shared wall. The air unit’s duct work connects their two office spaces and he can sometimes catch snatches of conversation when she’s meeting with a client, her sunny-sweet voice filtering through to seep into his bones.

She wouldn’t be meeting someone this late, would she? Well, she could be. People work and maybe can’t meet with a wedding planner during the usual business hours and he supposes her line of work already requires some flexibility when it comes to one’s hours.

He catches just a muffled word or two. It sounds like ‘love you.’ It is her. And of course, she loves someone. Sansa Stark would certainly love someone and whoever that lucky person is would obviously love her back. He hopes he never sees her sitting opposite him in this office or in divorce court.

A file cabinet closes next door and he hears the faint click of her heels. She’s leaving. He glances at the clock. He should really leave, too. He’s done all he can here tonight.

Besides, the building’s parking garage doesn’t give off the safest of vibes at any time of day and certainly not after dark. If he can catch the elevator with her, he can at least feel some measure of comfort knowing she made it safely to her vehicle.

And I can ride down with her.

He doesn’t care for riding elevators. In fact, he hates them. He would take the stairs but it’s a lot of floors and his pride feels pricked to admit he’s afraid of riding the contraption like normal people do.

At least if someone’s with me and we fall, I won’t die alone.

Yes, he’s a regular ray of sunshine.

7:39 PM

Sansa locks the main door to her office and peers down the silent, partially darkened hallway towards the elevator. Then, she looks the other way towards the law firm where Jon Snow works. Through their glass lobby windows, she can see it’s utterly dark in there so he’s likely left by now.

She’s never been here so late. She’d seen Pia with her mop just a little bit ago she’d swear but the whole crew appears to be done and gone.

An unwelcome shiver chases down her spine but it’s just an office building. Security’s still downstairs, right?

Or are they? It’s late on a Friday and this building doesn’t keep a night watchman to her knowledge.

She chides herself and those abysmal taxes for delaying her but determines to cast away her fears, stepping out with the click-clack of her heels to keep her company upon the marble floor. Her parents know she’s leaving work, that she’ll be coming to visit them tomorrow. She’s fine. She’s not afraid of a dark hallway or a parking garage. But to be smart, she pulls her phone back out of her purse and unlocks it.

It’s a long hallway and it seems to stretch eerily onward tonight but she’s fine. She’s here alone.

Wait…

She’s not here alone.

There’s the unmistakable sound of someone closing a door and walking down the hall behind her, several paces back but not too far back. Someone who sounds like a man from the echoes of their footfalls.

Just one of the guys on the cleaning crew. Turn around and wave.

But fear renders her hesitant to, a sickening dread of discovering something undesired and dangerous.

If it’s one of the guys on the crew, they’ll speak. She knows all their names and they’re always friendly with her.

No one speaks.

She picks up her pace a touch. She’s got long legs though she’s cursing her heels. She should’ve changed into the running shoes she keeps on hand if needed. No matter. She’s pretty quick.

But the footsteps behind her speed up to match her new pace.

Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods.

She reaches the elevator on the verge of hyperventilating. She hurriedly presses the button but how long will it take to get here? Not soon enough. Does she dart into the stairwell instead? Does she have any chance of outrunning this stranger if necessary? Why didn’t she take up kickboxing when Arya had asked if she wanted to join her? Why did she scoff at Robb’s pepper spray keychain he’d bought her when she moved out?

The familiar rumble of the elevator drawing nearer sends her fight and flight reflexes into overdrive. What if he gets on with her and then tries something? She’ll be trapped! There’s video cameras but, with no one manning them, what will that matter?

Weighing the wisdom of taking off one of her heels to wield as a weapon, she yelps when the elevator dings.

“Hold the door!” a gruff voice calls.

She spins at that sound and knows she must look a vision of terror when she spies…Jon Snow?

“Gods, it’s just you,” she huffs with more venom than intended.

He strides up next to her with his satchel over his shoulder. “Yeah…sorry to disappoint.”

His jacket’s over an arm with his shirtsleeves rolled up and why must he be so attractive when he dislikes her so?

She steps onto the elevator with him following, punches the button for G3 and realizes it would only be courteous to explain her tone from a few seconds ago. “Sorry. I heard someone behind me and it was dark. I guess I started to freak out a bit.” His eyebrows shoot upward. Now, he probably thinks she’s a paranoid scaredy-cat. “Sorry. What floor?”

“Same. G3. And I’m sorry if I gave you a scare, Ms. Stark. I didn’t mean to.”

“Sansa,” she says as the elevator doors close. “You can call me Sansa…if you want.” A completely unnecessary addition. He knows her first name but has chosen to call her Ms. Stark. It’s not like they’re friends or even business associates. In fact, they’re on the exact opposite side of their business in a sense.

“Right. Sansa. I remember your name.”

The elevator starts to descend and he’s glaring at the lighted floor buttons above the doors like he hates being here so much. He doesn’t encourage her to call him Jon either. It’s going to be a loooong elevator ride.

But secretly, she’s glad he’s going to the same level of the garage if nothing else. That place gives her the creeps sometimes and, while Jon doesn’t put her at ease with his demeanor, he doesn’t frighten her either. She’s known a few creeps and he’s not like them.

Just zone out until you reach the garage. Everyone does that in the elevator, don’t they? Zone out, get to your car and drive home. You don’t have to see him again until Monday at the very soonest and this whole embarrassing business of you freaking out can blow over.

Somewhere between ten and nine though, he clears his throat and drags her from of her zoning out. “Your name…it’s pretty.”

She blinks, her head whipping his way again. Did she just get a compliment? She’ll take it as one. “Thanks…Jon.”

He’s still staring at those lighted numbers above but she sees his lips quirking into a reluctant grin at the way she sort of sing-songed his name, a little grin he can’t quite suppress. It’s a fetching grin, a very fetching grin.

Something kind of warm and fluttery attacks her better senses and she finds herself wanting to chat with him. Probably a horrible idea. Just because he says her name is pretty doesn’t mean he likes her at all.

Still, she can’t resist turning towards him as they continue their descent, somewhere between five and four.

His head has just swiveled to meet her gaze when it happens - a horrendous, jolting shudder as the elevator comes to an abrupt halt!

7:42 PM

He reaches out for her and the wall both out of instinct with the jolt. He feels her hand closing around his wrist as the lights flicker off but they stay on their feet. She’d given a little screech and he’d bitten his tongue to strangle his own.

Did the power go out? Or is the elevator acting up? The cable about to snap and them about to plunge to their deaths?

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” he’s muttering though it’s for himself as much as her.

A loud buzzing sound like an alarm is followed by something metallic hitting the concrete pad several floors below them. What is happening?

We’re going to die, that’s what.

“Fuck, fuck.”

He hates elevators! Why didn’t he just start taking the stairs. He’s in shape. He’s never getting on one of these again.

You say as if you’re going to survive. It’s eight stories to the lowest level of the parking garage.

All those primal fears from childhood come sweeping over him; the fear of darkness, the fear of being trapped in this little box hanging by a thread, of falling to his death.

They’re twisted up with the memories of when he’d ride the elevator up to his father’s office, the smell of cloying cologne making the knot in his stomach that much worse and the stupid love songs spouting their lies playing over the speaker.

“Jon?”

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” he’s goes back to saying, wishing it were so.

But nothing’s alright. They’re trapped. They’ll die here. The building’s deserted on a Friday night and no one will know-

“It is alright, Jon. We’re going to be alright,” he hears her say softly through his panic and her hand slips into his, squeezing in a reassuring way. “It’s just a mechanical malfunction.”

“Shit, shit, shit.” He hates being afraid like this. He hates that she’s seeing him this afraid.

“I’m sure it’s nothing bad. We’ve not moved since the initial jolt. We’re okay.”

Then, as if in answer to her optimism, the emergency light comes on, a weak, yellow light but enough to cast away the darkness and banish a fraction of his terror.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

She’s a little shaky like he feels but she lets go of his hand and pushes the elevator emergency call button. Who will answer? He doesn’t know. When will they answer? He doesn’t know that either.

“Phones,” he manages to suggest.

“Oh right.”

He digs into his pocket. Hers is in her hand. Thank gods for cell phones. They’ll be fine.

“I’m not…I don’t have a signal.”

“Neither do I.” They’re in the interior of this old building where reception can get spotty. So much for fucking cell phones.

“I think we might be stuck here for a bit,” she says as calmly as she can manage and he admires that. Wishes he could be so calm…or at least fake it a little.

“I don’t like elevators,” he mutters.

“I’m not too fond of them either at the moment.”

Involuntarily, he smiles at that. She’s managed to make him smile, the wedding planner with the undoubtedly sunny outlook on life. “Sorry you’re stuck here with me.”

“Better than alone.” Gods, she’s right. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he was alone but he doesn’t think he’d be managing it well. She slides to the floor and slips her heels off. “May as well get comfortable.”

“Comfortable…yeah.”

She turned around, startled.

It was Jon.

“Jo—I mean, Your Grace.” Seeing him made her feel warm, but also jittery, alive with nerves. He wore fine, regal clothes, all black, with some dark red detailing on his doublet. Over his shoulders was the fur cloak she’d made for him, and she couldn’t help but smile to see the trace of Stark, of her, on him. Why hadn’t he come to see her yet?

She wanted to run into his arms, like she had when they’d reunited at Castle Black. But something between them was cold, broken, right now. Maybe she’d broken it, by proposing this match, even though Varys and Tyrion and Brienne and Jaime and everyone else between Winterfell and the Red Keep had said it was a good idea. The only idea that made any sense for the realm.

Sansa rose, began to curtsy, but Jon held out a hand. “There’s no need…” He trailed off, looking around, uncomfortable. “I didn’t think I’d find you here.”

Obviously he wasn’t pleased about finding her. All the color had left his face.

It confirmed what she’d believed. He didn’t want this.

She gathered up her skirts and rushed back toward the Red Keep. “I can leave, if Your Grace wants some privacy—”

“Sansa, stop.” He reached out, taking her arm as she tried to pass him. They stood like that for a long moment, him not able to meet her eyes, before he said, “Stay. Please.”

She turned back toward the heart tree, his grip loosening on her, but not letting go. She wished his touch didn’t affect her so much. She could feel the warmth of it, but also the hurt, all the way to her core. “I know now that it was a mistake to arrange something in writing, without us speaking first,” she said. “If you want to call off the wedding, I understand.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I arrived in Kings Landing a week ago,” she said, trying to keep the anger from her voice. “I never wanted to come back here—you know that. But I did. I agreed to this match because I know that our marriage will unite Westeros, and because I thought maybe I could face this place with…” She sighed, not wanting to say it, but unsure how to take it back. “With you by my side. A part of the North, to make this place feel like home.”

“I agreed because I thought that it was the best way for me to protect you. But I didn’t think things through enough. Being back here… you can’t possibly feel safe.”

She gave him a tight smile. Yes, of course that was the reason he’d agreed to the marriage. Out of obligation, duty, his need to protect her. How could she have been so foolish? A week ago, she’d arrived in Kings Landing, almost… happy. It made her feel sick now. “I don’t feel safe anywhere, you know that. What happened in Winterfell—it’s not much better than here, and it’s not home anymore without you and Arya. And I’ve said before, you can’t protect me.” She shut her eyes tight, not wanting to think about pathetic she was, how she’d let herself imagine something else. “I just needed to be wanted here. But you didn’t greet me, or come to see me once.” Sansa took a deep breath, steadying herself for her next words. “The marriage is a mistake.”

Jon stared at her, his hold on her arm softening.

“I understand,” she said. “It was a good idea on paper—you always say I come up with very convincing lists, however stupid you think lists are—but it’s clear you don’t want to go through with it. It’s all right, Jon.”

“Jon,” he repeated, his voice quiet. “Nobody has called me that for awhile.” He shook his head, letting go of her arm. She felt a sudden cold where his hand had been. “Is that what you think? That me avoiding you means I don’t want to go through with the marriage?”

She raised her brows, not understanding. What else was she supposed to think?

He walked over to the heart tree, resting his hand on the bark. A soft laugh moved through his shoulders. “I’ve been afraid, Sansa. I’ve told everyone I’m too ill to leave my chambers, and when I’ve had to leave, I’ve taken detours just to keep from passing your chambers. The day you arrived, I watched your carriage from a tower. I hated myself for not being there, for leaving you alone in this damned place, but—how am I supposed to face you knowing what happens a fortnight from now?”

Her frown fell away, and suddenly she was laughing, too. “You’ve faced wildlings, giants, Boltons, the Golden Company, dragonfire, an army of the dead—you’ve died—”

“You and your lists.”

“—and you’re afraid of a marriage?”

“Not a marriage,” he said. His hand made a fist on the tree, his back still toward her. “You.”

“Me?”

“I’ve been trying to prepare myself for marrying you ever since we agreed to the match. I’ve even tried to do what you’d do, making bloody lists about it.”

She didn’t understand why he was always mocking her lists. They were helpful. “Jon—”

“I can’t think of anything else—it’s been tormenting me. The wedding is in a fortnight, but I’m no more ready than I was months ago. How do we go from being brother and sister to husband and wife? The realm needs heirs, but you’ve been through so much already, and you’re my sister. How can I bring myself to…”

“I understand, Jon,” she said again, heart sinking. “You only agreed to marry me because you felt obligated to protect me. It makes sense. I’m your sister—you can never see me in that way.”

“No,” Jon said.

Sansa nodded, even though his back was still to her. So this was it. She’d come to Kings Landing for nothing—worse than nothing—and now she was to return back to Winterfell in disgrace and accept Harry Hardyng or some other lord’s proposal. “I understand.” It seemed like the only thing she knew how to say anymore.

“No,” he said again, slower. “It’s not true that I can’t see you in that way.” His shoulders rose as he took a deep breath. She watched him, hoping, terrified, every nerve on edge. “Ever since you came to Castle Black… Everything has been different.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, her voice sounding high-pitched.

“I mean that I’m no better than the Lannisters or Targaryens, and that when I look at you, I… Gods, Sansa, I haven’t been able to think of you as only my sister for a long time.”

The godswood was silent. At home, there would be chattering birds, bubbling ponds, rustling trees. But here, in this tiny patch of wildness in the middle of the city, all was quiet.

He finally turned toward her, though his eyes were on the ground. “That’s why I haven’t been able to face you. That’s why we must call off the wedding. Because I didn’t agree to it just to protect you, or to unite the realm. It was selfish, wrong, twisted—”

“Stop it.”

“I’ll never force you to wed,” he said quietly. “Go back home and rule with Bran, or go rule the Eyrie, or Riverrun. I’ll name you Warden of the East. You’ll never marry if you don’t want to, I swear it.”

She cleared her throat, trying to summon up her courage. “And if I want to marry you, as we planned?”

He almost looked at her, but held himself in check, looking back at the ground. “Why would you want to, after what I just said?”

“I don’t trust myself anymore. Not when it comes to love. When I find myself feeling that way, I... push those feelings down.” She folded her hands over each other, squeezing her palms together. “That’s what I did with my feelings for you.”

His head snapped up and their eyes met.

“I didn’t come here to be your sister, Jon.”

The words hung heavy in the air, and right away she wanted to take them back. She didn’t feel very brave, and now that she’d spoken the words into life, she felt naked. He took one step toward her, then two, then six, all the while searching her face, unbelieving, almost pained. As if what she was saying was impossible.

“I came here to be your wife. I know what that means, what will happen between us a fortnight from now,” she whispered, because now he was close enough to hear her whisper. “And I’m not afraid.”

She took his hands, and he looked down at them, as if making sure her touch was real. Before, whenever she’d touched him, he’d always looked surprised, but this was different—as if some invisible line they’d been pretending didn’t exist had suddenly been crossed. When he looked back up, he moved closer, dipping his head to rest his forehead against hers, so gently that she wasn’t sure he was touching her at all. He was so close that all she wanted to do was breathe him in, but so close that she could barely breathe at all.

“Do you swear it? You’re not just—saying this to make me go through with the marriage? So that I don’t feel guilty or ashamed?” A shadow crossed his face and he pulled back his head. “I can’t go through with it, anyway, no matter what you say. What would Father think?” His eyes flickered down toward her mouth. “Don’t lie to me to serve the realm, Sansa, I can’t bear it.”

Even though he was king now, being raised a bastard meant Jon felt entitled to nothing. That was one of the things she loved about him, but it hurt that it meant he didn’t think he was worthy of love. He didn’t believe that someone could feel like this toward him.

There was one way to convince him. She closed the inches between them, pressing her lips against his. He didn’t move, didn’t kiss her back. Maybe he was right—he couldn’t do this; there was no way for him to get beyond his guilt, to allow himself to give in to what he wanted. Or maybe he didn’t even want her. Maybe he had confused protective, familial love for something else. Sansa pulled away, embarrassed, and opened her eyes to find his closed, his brow furrowed. His grip was tight on her hands.

“I’m sorry, Jon. You don’t want this—”

“I do,” he breathed back. “Too much.”

She let go of his hands, slowly sliding her hands up to his neck, into his hair. She felt his breathing quicken, and then his arms were encircling her waist, and he was pulling her tight to him, kissing her. She gasped against his mouth, digging her fingers into his curls as he kissed her again and again, soft and then harder. His fingers dug into her back, his tongue skimming against her lip, and she pressed herself closer and closer. It was nothing like Joffrey or Harry Hardyng. It was nothing like kissing as she’d ever known it. I want this, she thought to herself, giddy, hoping somehow he could hear her. I want this for now and tomorrow and all the days and nights and seasons to come.

When he pulled away, she felt weak. She opened her eyes, and it was too bright. He was still holding her, his eyes heavy-lidded and his breathing heavy.

“Do that again,” she said.

A slow smile found its way to his face. “I’ve been told a king should only take commands from his queen.”

Her eyes widened. Did that mean…?

“You’ll have to wait a fortnight until I follow your orders, my queen.”

He would marry her, after all. Relief filled her, and she laughed, at what he’d said, and out of the dizziness of the kiss, but mostly out of joy. She threw her arms around him, nuzzling into his shoulder. “A whole fortnight? That’s enough time to come up with some commands.”

“Lots of commands,” he murmured against her ear, sending a chill through her. “A long, imaginative, detailed list of commands.”

“I thought you hated my lists.”

And even if Gendry had asked Davos – probably the only person Jon thought will give a decent enough guidance – it wouldn’t do Gendry any good. Gendry has his work cut out for him. Arya will not so easily relinquish her freedom. Not that Jon thought Gendry would hinder her, but still, at her age, Arya would be willfully against any sort of romance. She’d be more embarrassed at having tender feelings towards anyone.

Jon already felt a little sorry for Gendry but he was in an even worse situation. At least Gendry and Arya were not blood related. Jon despondently shook his head. He could not veer the conversation towards a different subject as everyone around the table had answered eagerly, sharing stories, murmuring and cursing names, depending on their experiences. The men had enthusiastically warmed up to the conversation, almost as though in a desperate attempt to try and forget that tomorrow will be another day of preparing for their battle against the army of the dead.

Mornings were spent relentlessly training, trying to effectively wield their dragonglass spears. Most of them were more adept at sword fighting and it was an entirely new skill using a spear; its length and weight was so very different from the swords that they were used to. But it was impossible to start making swords made of dragonglass. There was a severe shortage of blacksmiths at the castle and there were too many Lords and knights and soldiers that needed to be armed. A spear was more practical and easier to make.

Gendry had fashioned himself a hammer with dragonglass for its edges, testament to his cleverness at being a blacksmith. Even Arya had been envious. She wanted to fight with them but Jon had tasked her to lead the defense at Winterfell should they fail. She hated agreeing to this but there was no other choice. All able men will fight with him, the few that will remain and guard Winterfell needed a fierce warrior to lead them and Aryad had to concede that she did fit the description. She will protect Winterfell and Bran and Sansa. And if needed, if Jon turned into a wight, at least he was certain that Arya will be able to put a sword through him. She might not like it, she’ll hate him forever for it, but she was, before anything else, a wolf and a wolf will always protect her pack no matter what.

After their training, in the afternoon, they all had to sit down and listen to Free Folk’s story about the wights. They needed to know who they were up against and none of them have ever seen a dead man walking, had never fought someone who wasn’t afraid of any weapon, who didn’t bleed and didn’t get hurt, who will keep coming at you even after you’ve hacked off half of their body. Free Folks’ tales were gruesome, the stuff nightmares were made of – clawing bones skittering and scraping at the snow-covered land, jaws snapping as you stab them inside empty eye sockets, a torso dragging its way towards you – Free Folks liked telling these stories, liked the way the Southern kneelers shuddered at every horrifying detail of how they have constantly fought against the wights. In the end the Free Folks had to admit that they had not been able to defeat the dead, instead they had lost friends and family, children and wives and husbands and had to flee past The Wall. The only chance they all have at surviving the Night King and his army is if they fought together and even that wasn’t an assurance of success. The Night King now has a dragon wight.

Jon winced at the thought. Whatever advantage he had hoped they had with Dany’s dragons had significantly decreased and every one of them knew that. It was a daily struggle trying to tamp down their fear and desperation and Jon could not deny the men their right to drink themselves into stupor at night.

Sometimes, he wished he could do the same, but he was afraid what he might say or do once he gained the courage brought about by too much ale. There’s a certain room he’d be sure to visit. He wouldn’t even knock, he’d come barging in and wordlessly, desperately take her into his arms, crush her against his body, smother her with kisses. He would beg for her forgiveness, would demand that she look at him, would gently ask her if she could love him back, he would make her peak as he drink her in, lapping up her sweetness, pulling the auburn hair on her mound to make her whimper his name, beg him for more…

“Probably his sister too, eh, Snow?” Tormund asked, playfully elbowing him.

Jon snorted ale out of his nose, the burn instantly bringing tears into his eyes. He wiped his face and swallowed hard. What? Fuck. Had he said anything out loud? Did he moan her name?

Tormund looked at him in utter disgust and disappointment, grunting angrily. “Snow, you’re embarrassing yourself.”

“What?” He asked in a strangled gravelly voice.

Davos peered at him from his cup and decided to rescue him from himself. “It’s quite common and not completely unheard of. Siblings grow up together, have built enough trust to try and,” Davos coughed delicately, “experiment...” he finished, his voice slightly fading as he arched his eyebrows at Jon.

Jon didn’t meet Davos’ enquiring gaze. Davos never got drunk, was always clear headed. He would remember everything that was said and done and while that was something Jon had encouraged and relied upon, tonight he wished Davos would conveniently forget about this. He felt his face was too open right now and Jon was certain that he would not be able to hide this ever growing feeling that had somehow taken root at his very core, slowly growing stronger regardless of how he constantly tried to fight against it. The tension between them didn't just suddenly spring up, it had always been there. Buried underneath layers upon layers of memories and years spent apart, thinking each one dead and lost and to have found her again, it stirred something inside Jon that was both familiar and terrifying. He couldn't understand it. It was like he had known these feelings for Sansa long before he had been able to hold her close and that it wasn't just him. Behind the calmness in her blue eyes, Jon could sometimes glimpse of a storm raging there, one that he could so easily drown in on. Jon felt as though he had lived thousands of lives: as a bastard boy, unloved by a woman with dark auburn hair, one as a sworn brother that lived on the edge of the world, another as a traitor, holding on to a dead girl with fair on her head, once as King and now as weary warrior ready to give up. And where was Sansa in all these lives he had lived in? Always in the shadows, fleeting and fluid, he was unable to take hold her her and pin her to him.

Jon shook his head, tried to clear his thoughts. “You’re forgetting I’m a bastard. Hardly allowed near Lord Starks’ precious daughters.”

A lie. One that Davos was quick to catch. And from where Gendry was seating, Jon could sense his stare. Gendry knew that he and Arya shared a strong bond and Jon wondered if perhaps Gendy was wondering if he shared any kisses with Arya when they were younger. Jon felt his lips twitching up. If he had tried, Arya would have laughed at him and then made him bleed. But Sansa…

“What are you talking about? I wasn’t even asking about your first kiss, you bloody idiot.” Tormund gave him another dirty look.

“Lord Snow is beneath this kind of talk.” The lazy drawl came from the farthest end of the table as Jamie Lannister very casually tilted his head and gave him an all-knowing smirk.

Jon tightly clenched his fist, glaring at The Kingslayer. He hated him with a force of a thousand winter storms and he wanted nothing than to throw him out of the castle. Always so sure of himself, so certain of his place in Winterfell. It galled Jon like nothing else. It had nothing to do with Jaimie swearing his life to Sansa and Sansa accepting him in front of everyone in the castle. The almost present urge to take off Jaime’s other hand wasn’t because Jon once caught him fingering the ends of Sansa’s hair. Of course not. No. He loathed Jaime for all those reasons and more.

“Don’t have to tell us who was your first kiss was, Kingslayer,” some knight from the Vale said, obviously too drunk to realize who he was talking too but Jaime didn’t seem to mind. He let out a long slow smile and shook his head in amusement.

“If you’re thinking of my sweet, sweet sister, then I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you.” He chuckled lightly his eyes gleaming merrily, “and if you think I’ll give you the pleasure of sharing the information, like we’re friends, apologies good knight, for I will have to dissatisfy you once again. We are not friends. I do not engage in juvenile conversations such as this.” He paused, soaking in the tense silence that suddenly surrounded them. “But if you asked me who I first fucked, though…”

There was an uproarious laughter all around as everyone cheered and some even heartily clapped Jaime at the back. Tomorrow they will all regret these friendly gestures but nothing would dampen their good spirit. This was the only time they could laugh and forget the monsters they would soon have to face.  

Jaime very discreetly gave Jon a small salute and Jon wanted to tear his throat open, (also not because Jaime seemed to always know what to say to Sansa to make her smile, of course not) instead he abruptly stood up, silencing the table once again. “Forgive me my Lords, but I will have to excuse myself. I need to look at some of Sam’s weapon designs that we can use to bring down a dragon wight.”

His pronouncement immediately sobered everyone at their table and the men grunted in reply, slightly exasperated at being reminded of what they were about to face. Some sent Jon unmasked glares as they slouched into their chairs, staring into their cups in morbid, contemplative silence. Jon briefly felt guilty but he didn’t have any ready excuse and it was the only thing he could think of. It wasn’t a lie, anyway. He was supposed to meet Sam earlier. He did not have the time to try and soothe them, he had suddenly grown weary and he wanted nothing more than the solace of his room, Ghost’s calming silence.

He turned and immediately took his leave, desperately trying to escape Gendry’s question.

“Who was your first kiss?”

Because Jon suddenly remembered. He remembered everything.  

*** 

Sansa had always been beautiful.

Ever since he died and was brought back to life, Jon’s memory had been tangled up, like threads that snagged and pulled. There were things he remembered clearly but some were like the faded tapestries in Winterfell, there were colors he could point out but everything else was a blur. If he tried to remember anything in particular, he couldn’t recall it correctly. It would start off with as something familiar, a smile, a laugh, red hair shining like fire, a brotherly hug and a dagger to his hear and then abruptly it would end with darkness or the blankness of white snow. His memories were incomplete. Muddled up with other memories, with dreams and nightmares and it was like patches of clothes that had been sewn together that did not make sense and did not fit together.

But when Gendry asked his question: “Who was your first kiss?”

Jon was slammed by the memory of her and spring and the scent of something fresh and citrusy and suddenly, everything about Sansa was so easy ­– too ­- easy to remember. As though a dam had burst inside of him and he was flooded by the memories he had thought he had forever lost.   

*** 

Sansa had always been beautiful.

He could remember that as clearly and as surely as he was of how he had discovered the direwolf puppies years and years ago. Jon could not remember Sansa being born though, he was only three years old at that time. He didn’t remember anything about Sansa except she had been a precious bundle that Lady Catleyn always lovingly carried around the castle. Jon’s first memory of her was her blue eyes. I had captivated him. Robb’s eyes were blue, but it was a darker shade. Sansa’s had been luminous, the blue of far-off snow-capped mountains that he could see on clear days. Or the blue of winter roses that grew on Winterfell’s glass house. Like the wings of a common blue butterfly that he’d see during a lazy summer afternoons, perched on the outside walls of Winterfell.

Jon remembered wanting Sansa to be his. Not the way he wanted her now, it was different then. Sansa being his meant that he was a true part of father’s family, not a boy born so far from the North, he should not have even been called “Snow”, not the boy who could not call Lady Catelyn, “mother”. If Sansa had been his sister, he would have been allowed to hold her hands the way Robb held hers as they walked around the castle’s premises.

Jon remembered being a broken hearted little boy who could only quietly trail behind Robb and Sansa, he could make the best flower crowns but it did not matter, Sansa only wore the ones Robb made, he had stronger legs than Robb and could easily carry Sansa on his back whenever they played deep into the forest and she got tired of walking back home, but she only sleepily snuggled into Robb’s back as they emerged from the trees.

Jon had always kept his distance. He felt it was what Lady Catelyn wanted and expected of him and Jon did everything to avoid slighting his father’s lady wife. In the end, he had to give up whatever affection he had felt towards his sister. He was not allowed to love her the way Robb did and it was the first time Jon truly felt that he was a bastard son.

Years passed and he and Sansa had grown up distant towards each other. They did not fight (as he and Robb sometimes did) but they did not spend time together either (as he and Arya and Bran and Rickon always did). She was never mean or cruel to him and he never cared for any of her girlish dreams and sorrows. Arya complained about it all the time though, so Jon was always aware of how Sansa would grow despondent every time she wasn’t able to sew something delicate and beautiful. Jon knew she fancied some Night’s Watch ranger, Arya thought at least that was an improvement from being fond of dead knights in silly songs. When King Robert arrived in Winterfell, Arya had gritted her teeth, savagely rolled her eyes at the very idea of wanting to be married to the idiot-looking, pale faced Prince of Nothing.

“Seven Kingdoms,” Jon had corrected her and Arya spat at the ground, looking extremely proud of herself as she looked down at her work. “And don’t ever do that in front of your Lady Mother.”

“Sansa is an idiot. I wish she’d stop being so foolish and annoying and that she wasn’t my sister at all!”

“You can’t mean that.” Jon had murmured gently, ruffling Arya’s hair, but deep down, Jon had wanted to tell her that he wished differently and that if he had the chance, he wanted nothing more than to be Sansa’s brother, to be allowed to feel indignant at their father’s choice for her betrothed, because surely their father did not think that Baratheon boy deserved Sansa? But he could not voice this out loud. He was meant to blend into the background, huddled in the dark corners of Winterfell, away from Sansa’s radiance.

 ***

Two days before they were set to leave Winterfell, Jon had packed his few belongings; he was headed to The Wall with his Uncle Benjen. He felt utterly torn about it: on one hand, it was something that he felt he needed to do, to forge his own path. There was nothing that was for him in Winterfell, it all belonged to Robb and though he did not begrudge Robb of that, he was saddened by the fact that he had to leave everything behind so that he could be a man that his father would be proud to have. It wasn't a difficult choice, really. It was, after all, a Stark that had had built The Wall and for thousands of years the Starks had supported and respected The Wall and those who had bravely chosen a life of Night's Watch. The Wall was part of the Stark’s legacy. Being sworn into the Brotherhood that protected the realm was something noble and at the very least, Jon hoped, would be filled with adventure.

If he stayed in Winterfell, he would be nothing but a bastard for all his life. At The Wall though, he could be more than just Ned Stark’s bastard son. He wasn't quite sure what he'd be able achieve, but he vowed he will never go back to Winterfell without accomplishing something significant. Maybe becoming the youngest ranger ever in history of The Wall, or something far greater than that. Jon day dreamed of coming back to Winterfell and being welcomed with cheers, affectionate hugs and even the proud hard thumping on his back or chest. A part of him wanted to come back here as an equal to Robb when he becomes the Lord of Winterfell. Did that make him seem petty and jealous? He didn't think so. But he still felt slightly guilty for wanting more and then angry for feeling like that he didn't deserve it, just because his mother was some unnamed woman that Lord Eddard Stark had not married. 

Jon had been filled with conflicting thoughts that he had failed to realize that he was not alone and that he was almost upon Sansa, who was kneeling beneath the weir tree, her long auburn hair brushing the fallen autumn leaves on the ground. She had her forehead pressed against the tree and Jon almost turned away, intending to let her have her privacy as she prayed to the old gods, when Sansa very slowly brought her hand to her eyes and Jon saw the tears shining on her face.

He swallowed hard. She had looked radiant at the feast; he could still see her smiling face as she sat at the dais, but the afternoon sun did wonderful things to her and radiant seemed like a sorry, inadequate way to describe her. There was a coppery shine to hair that made her look warm and something inside Jon’s chest painfully clenches.  Before he knew it, he had taken a step towards Sansa, gently calling out her name.

She looked up, startled, her watery blue eyes brimming with tears. “Sansa, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?’” Jon watched as Sansa shook her head, sniffed daintily, wiping the tears from her trembling chin. She looked so incredibly vulnerable, Jon felt his hands clenching into tight fits. “Did someone--” Jon stopped, dropped to his knees so he could inspect her for any wounds.  When it was apparent that she was uninjured, he looked back up to her, surprised to see her looking so intently at him. Jon immediately realized that this was the closest he had even been to her an as he tried to read her face, he noticed the dark curl of Sansa’s eyelashes, the small barely-there flecks of grey in her irises. He was suddenly breathless and unsure of what to say next. “Please tell me you aren’t hurt.”

“I- I’m fine, Jon. I’m not… It’s not like that.” She stammered prettily, a faint pink flush blooming from her cheeks.

“Would you like me to call Robb?” He asked. She would probably be more comfortable talking to him and Jon felt he’d be more comfortable too if he could escape her sad soft sighs as she shook her head and shifted away from the tree, sitting down on the ground as she very gingerly smoothed out her gowns.

“No. I—Robb would not be very helpful right now,” and before Jon could open his mouth, Sansa gave him the smallest of grins, “and definitely not Arya.”

Jon had to fight back the smirk threatening to spill from his lips. He was going to suggest Arya, but now that he had thought about it, it seemed incredibly silly of him. “Is there anyone you would like me to fetch for you? Or would you rather be alone? Do you want me to go? I didn’t mean to intrude or…”

“Stop, please. It’s fine. I just…” Sansa looked down at her clasped hands, as though trying to organize her thoughts. Finally she looked back up at him and slightly tilted her head, “you’re leaving Winterfell, too. To The Wall, with Uncle Benjen.”

“Aye, I am.” Arya or Robb had probably told her. She had never really shown any interest in him and this was quite new. Unexpected but not unwelcome. 

“Aren’t you scared?” Sansa asked, her blue eyes widening. “I – we have never been so far from Winterfell, and now all of a sudden we’re leaving and sometimes I… I can’t wait to go, I want to see the South and the King’s Landing and the Lords and the Ladies and Knights...”

“From the songs?” Jon asked, startled at his sudden boldness, at how easy it seemed to talk to her. He hadn’t tried and now he thought he had been both a coward and an idiot for misjudging Sansa. Because of course, it would be easy to talk to her. Just because Lady Catleyn looked down at him, didn’t mean Sansa would do the same. He was sorry to realize the time had had wasted being quiet and sullen, trying to avoid Sansa.

Sansa snorted and even her snort seemed so lady-like. So queenly. “Yes, from the silly songs.”

“They’re not all that silly. You like those songs; it’s alright to like them.” Jon felt Sansa thought that he would be like Arya and that he would make fun of her and her tenderness and her girlishness. He didn’t want her to suddenly leave, at least not without telling him what was bothering her. “I am scared.” He said finally when it looked like Sansa was not going to say anything else. “I’m scared I won’t be good enough at The Wall and it would shame father.”

Sansa looked away, suddenly shy. “You’re better at Robb in fighting.” It was a mumbled praise, but a praise nonetheless and Jon liked hearing her praise him, even when she quickly amended that Robb was better at swordfight and Theon with arrows. “You’ll never shame, father.”

Jon was sitting too close to her and he could see the edges of her sleeves fluttering at she trembled, trying to fight off her tears. “Not like me…”

“Sansa,” he couldn’t help it. He didn't want to see anyone upset. Girls most especially. They all seem so impossibly fragile and Sansa wasn't just any girl. She was his half-sister and if Robb wasn't around to comfort her, Jon was more than willing to do so. Strangely, it all was seemed so natural for him. He reached out to very quickly, but gently brush her knuckles, getting her attention but not enough to scare her away. “Why would you think that?”

Robb and Sansa spent most of their days being trained and groomed. Robb was to be the next Lord of Winterfell and Sansa’s future as a Lady of a great house by way of marriage was already certain. No doubt, their father and the King had spoken about joining their houses, why else should the king bring his whole family to Winterfell? It was never implicitly said, but everyone knew that Sansa would not be marrying some Northern Lord or minor Lord from the South. She was born to become a Queen. Sometimes, Jon would secretly watch her as she followed Lady Catleyn around the castle, gracefully waking behind Lady Stark, meek and demure when there were Lords and knights around; charming and sweet to the wives and children of the Northern Lords. Sansa always stood with her back straight, the elegant line of her neck accentuated by the stubborn lift of her chin every time she and Arya argued. Sometimes Jon would forget that she was just but a girl of eleven.  Of course, she still had childish whims, as Arya would often grumble about it, but the same could be said of Robb and him and even Arya too.

Sansa shook her head, nervously wringing her hands on her lap. “I know I have done everything mother and the septa’s have taught me. I can sing and dance and sew and write poetry... but I… what if… what if the prince isn’t pleased with me? What if they make father return to Winterfell because I… because I’m not as lovely as the other Southern ladies who…who… knows things that I don’t!”

Jon could feel his muscles tensing. “What do you mean? What sort of things?” He narrowed his eyes, feeling strangely protective and angry. “Did anyone tell you… did Joffrey…” that little prick. If he had said and or did something inappropriate with Sansa, he was going to tell Robb and they’re going to beat the shit out of him. He didn’t care if he was a prince.  

Sansa was shaking her head, “No. It’s…Joffrey didn’t…but what if he… what if he tried to…to-”

“To what?” Jon asked, unable to hide the snarl in his voice. “If he tried anything, I can teach you to punch him or something…” Jon voice faltered and slowly faded at the horrified look Sansa gave him. “You don’t want to hit him, of course.” Jon was dismayed. He would’ve loved giving Sansa lessons on how to inflict pain on anyone who would try to steal her innocence away.

“What? Jon! No!" Sansa looked utterly scandalized, "Why would I – don’t ever say something like that out loud, ever again!” She cautiously looked around them, suddenly fearful.

“Well, if he was forcing you to do anything that you don’t want to do, I don’t see why you can’t hit him.”

“Shush! I wasn’t… what I mean was,” Sansa looked at him exasperated, before closing her eyes and with a sigh and through gritted teeth mumbled something incoherent.

“Kick him?” Jon asked, confused.

“No! Gods! Kiss him! I said what if he tried to kiss me and I don’t know how?”

Jon felt his stomach squeezing painfully at the thought. “Do you… do you want to kiss him?” There was a mildly horrified tone in his voice and he watched as Sansa winced.

“I don’t know. I mean, I… what should I do? How… how do I kiss someone?”

And now Jon understood why Robb would not be the best person for Sansa to talk about this. Robb would probably have wrapped his fist around Joffrey’s neck by now. Arya would be in tears laughing and teasing Sansa and Theon will be… well, Theon, would probably volunteer to practice with… Jon gulped. Was that? Did Sansa want? – something inside Jon stopped functioning altogether and he couldn’t form a coherent thought because he was suddenly aware of inappropriately close he was sitting next to Sansa – his half-sister, for fuck’s sake! ­­ - and that if he took a deep breath (which he did) he could smell her clean, citrus-y scent.

Nothing in the castle smelled quite like her.

And yet, she really seemed deeply troubled by this fear and he wanted nothing more than to reassure that this wasn’t something she was supposed to be afraid of. But for her to kiss Joffrey – or any other man for that matter – how could Jon be certain that they would be kind and gentle with her, that they will not make her feel uncomfortable, or worst, hurt her?

“Have you—I mean, with…anyone?” Sansa’s brows were scrunched up as she struggled for words. She shifted her position, making small nervous gestures with her hands.

Jon felt his whole face heating up. “What? No. I haven’t. I mean… no.” He stated it as firmly as he could, wondering why exactly, but he just wanted it to be clear that he had never kissed anyone as well. And it shouldn’t worry Sansa. It would – it should not be that hard. Just lips against lips. There was nothing to worry about it.

“But how?” Sansa practically wailed and Jon wanted to shush her just as she had earlier.

There has to be a reason why he had found her and not Father or Lady Catelyn or Robb or Arya or thank the gods, Theon. There were more than a hundred people in the castle right now and yet here he was and he was Sansa and all Jon could think of was that he would be gentle with her. And it wouldn’t be like an actual kiss, wouldn’t it? He didn’t want to kiss her. Not…really.

Heart hammering inside his chest, blood pulsing inside his head, Jon very slowly took Sansa’s hand, giving her enough time to tell him no, to stop him, to snatch her hand back from him. She did none of those, instead she looked up at him, her blue eyes, bright and shining and when Jon shifted closer, her irises darkened. Jon swallowed hard. “Gently,” he answered, “he shouldn’t rush you or make you feel scared or when he sees you trembling, he’d squeeze your hands to let you know that you can always change your mind and not want to kiss him…”

Jon watched as Sansa nodded her head, her tongue suddenly darting out to wet her lips and Jon thought he might go to hell for this because now – now – he wanted to kiss her.

“And if I don’t change my mind?” Sansa’s voice had become softer, barely a whisper.

Jon suddenly found himself almost panting, unable to properly breathe. He felt like a steel band had wrapped around his heart, slowly tightening as he leaned ever closer. Mirroring Sansa’s action, he licked his parched lips, scrapping his teeth as his tongue retreated. He watched fascinated as Sansa's eyes followed the movement of his mouth. “He would keep his eyes opened, looking at how beautiful you are and how wonderful the light from the sunset makes your hair glow like rich copper and he would want to touch you but he wouldn’t because it’s your first time and he wouldn’t want to scare you off, so instead he would reach out to touch the ends of your hair...your hair is so soft…”

Jon had inched closer and now, if he dipped his head, he could easily capture Sansa’s lips. He wasn’t aware of anything anymore. It was just him and her and the sound of their mingled breathing. If he did this…it would not change anything. She would still head south, be married to a Lord or maybe yes, a prince and he would ride north, swear his oath and he would only have this memory of her and of this sudden inexplicable madness.

Would that be so bad?

“Sansa…I…” Jon closed his eyes and he could feel Sansa trembling and he knew she could also feel his hand shaking. 

“Jon…” There was something about the way Sansa said his name: a gentleness that he had never heard before, it surprised him, it made him want to hear it said that way again. Over and over and over and maybe it was the knowledge that this would be the first and last time for him that made finally close the distance between them and it was just Sansa’s lips now and her sweet sigh of surprise and Jon would have pressed harder, would have lifted his hand to cup her face…but he was his father’s son and honor was so deeply ingrained within him that he pulled back.

The kiss didn’t last a whole second. It could not have.

But still, when he opened his eyes, Sansa was staring at him, her face so filled with tenderness it made everything inside of him ache but in a lovely bitter-sweet kind. “Like that,” he finally said, his voice sounding deep and so very solemn.

Sansa nodded her  head, the faint flush coloring her cheeks made her look lovelier and Jon was both thankful and regretful that this would be his last memory of Sansa. He was about to say something, to ease the tension that he felt would surely creep up on them, when Sansa suddenly lunged herself at him, hugging him tight. She thanked him, told him to please, please, take care of yourself and then softly, lips moving against his cheeks: “goodbye, Jon.”

Before he could say anything, Sansa scrambled up and ran towards Winterfell, leaving him with her warmth and her scent the memory of their kiss.