Marry Me In Some Old-Fashioned Way
"Jon!"
Sam waddled his way across the yard to where Jon and the young Lord of Winterfell were sparring. In his haste, his maester chain swung wildly around his considerable girth.
"There was a rider at the gate," Sam said, breathing heavy, his face red from the cold. "Lord Glover will be here by supper."
They had been expecting Lord Glover for over a week now. No doubt the heavy snows had slowed his party.
As the long winter dragged on, keeping the smallfolk fed and supplied had become of paramount importance and increasing difficulty. While game was plentiful in the northern Wolfswood, grain stores there were depleting fast. It was Sam and Sansa's hope to establish an ongoing exchange between Deepwood Motte and Winterfell: game in trade for grain. Lord Glover was riding for Winterfell to discuss terms.
"Thanks Sam." Jon nodded to his friend, sheathing his sword. Training would have to wait for another day.
He held out a hand for Rickon's blunted blade. The young lord relinquished it with a scowl.
"I don't want him here!"
"Rickon!" Jon warned.
"Lord Glover is your bannerman." Sam chided. "He's been a good and loyal friend to your family."
Rickon looked somewhat shamed, but the petulant set of his jaw remained.
"He's boring," Rickon grumbled, arms crossed across his chest. "And he's always staring at Sansa."
Jon almost laughed, but thought better of it when he caught the steely look on Rickon's face.
He could hardly blame the lad. Too often a visiting lord or knight (well into their cups) took certain liberties with Sansa that had Jon's hand itching to draw steel, guest rights be damned.
But to think Lord Glover had any designs on Sansa was absurd. Galbart Glover was a steady if somewhat dull man, and old enough to be her father.
"I'm sure he only means to be kind." Jon reasoned.
Rickon's brow furrowed.
"Well he should stop. Sansa's yours. You stole her!"
Silence filled the yard.
The boy's indignant pronouncements hung heavy around them, knocking the air from Jon's lungs.
Sam looked equally shocked, his eyes comically popping out of his head, his jaw slack.
Rickon seemed to sense he had said something amiss. His scowl disappeared as he anxiously looked between Jon and the maester's stunned faces.
Sam finally broke the silence, taking hold of Rickon's shoulder.
"I think that's enough sparring for today, my lord. It's time for your lessons."
He steered his charge towards the keep, sparing Jon a worried glance. For once, his pupil did not put up a fight, allowing Sam to lead him from the yard.
Jon's head felt hollowed out, Rickon's words rattling against his skull.
Sansa's yours. You stole her.
Was this Osha's doing? The wildling woman certainly filled Rickon's head with enough nonsense. But for all her disdain of kneelers, Jon didn't think she would speak of her mistress in such a way.
Rickon had spent as much time among the Free Folk as he had within the walls of Winterfell. He must have come to this conclusion on his own.
Jon could see where Rickon might be confused.
Since Winterfell was restored to the Starks, Jon and Sansa had worked together to oversee its keeping in Rickon's name. Offices that had once been Lord and Lady Stark's now fell to them. It would make sense if this had led Rickon to make certain assumptions.
Then there was the matter of how Jon had found Sansa.
Jon knew Sansa often included their flight from the Vale among the tales she told Rickon before putting the young lord to bed.
Jon was always uncomfortable in her telling of it.
By Sansa's accounting, he was a hero right out of a song, gallantly freeing the maiden from her vile captors.
In truth, he had come to the Gates of the Moon a disgraced former man of the Night's Watch. He was sent to seek aid for Stannis' cause. Finding Sansa was incidental.
For as much as Sansa's version made Jon's face heat in shame and embarrassment, he had never considered what Rickon might make of it. How the boy might interpret Jon taking Sansa back North…Jon stealing her…
It was the innocent misunderstanding of a child.
Jon had no claim on Sansa. Not even that of a half-brother, if Howland Reed was to be believed. He was her bastard cousin. Nothing more.
. . .
That night, a feast was hosted in the hall.
Though not as grand as those before the war, everyone seemed to be grateful for distraction from the harshness of winter.
For the first time in many moons, a spirit of good cheer descended upon the people of Winterfell. The kitchens had outdone themselves, with pies, stews, roast pheasants, and joints of mutton being passed among the tables. Casks of ale had been brought up from the cellars as well as several flagons of spiced wine.
Jon was seated at the far end of the high table, between the Blackfish and Lord Glover's younger brother Robett.
Lord Robett was regaling them with how he recently tracked a massive bear through the Wolfswood who had been terrorizing nearby villages. It was a tale well told, if not a little exaggerated.
Jon liked Lord Robett, despite all of his bluster, and tried to listen attentively, but his eyes continued to drift further down the table.
Lord Glover had been afforded a seat of honor at Rickon's right, with Sansa at his other side.
Though tall for his age, Rickon was dwarfed by Eddard Stark's great chair, his legs not even reaching the ground. He was currently slouched in his seat, picking mulishly at his food. Sansa had barred Shaggydog from the feasting hall and his master was none too pleased about it.
But Jon's attention was not held by the surly little lord, but by the lady next to him.
Jon watched, mesmerized, as Sansa divided her time between speaking with Lord Glover and reminding a sulking Rickon of his courtesies.
This was her domain.
While banquets and feasts put Jon ill at ease, Sansa flourished, charming their bannerman and the smallfolk alike with her smiles and attentions.
Sansa's grace and kindness had a way of unmanning the gruffest and most stoic of men. She had even made the King smile, (Well smile might be too generous a word for it, but it was the least dour Jon had ever seen Stannis Baratheon).
Jon frowned as she laughed at something Lord Glover said, her voice floating like a bell over the din of the crowd. The lord's ears tinged pink but he looked pleased with himself.
In spite of his Northern reserve and the grey in his beard, Lord Glover was as smitten with her as all the rest.
Sansa's yours. You stole her.
Unbidden, Rickon's words from that morning echoed in his head.
Jon sipped from his mug of ale, hoping to wash away the strange, possessive feeling that had settled deep in his gut.
He turned back to his companions, and did not look at his lady cousin again.
That is, until the dancing began.
As the piper's played, Sansa took the floor with Lord Glover. Whatever deficiencies her partner had were masked by Sansa's elegance and skill.
Sansa looked beautiful, dressed in Tully blue with silver fox trimming her collar and sleeves. She had unpinned her auburn hair and it hung loosely down the back of her gown. With each spin it whipped about flashing like live flames licking at her shoulders.
Kissed by fire.
She danced with several other men, her eyes bright, a flush to her cheek, as she spun in their arms.
For the first time in his life, Jon wished he had spent less time learning swordplay from Ser Rodrik and more time learning to dance.
"It seems our celebrations were too much for Lord Stark," Lord Robett said, pulling Jon from his thoughts.
Jon followed Robett's gaze to where the Warden of the North, belly full and exhausted by the excitement of the day, had begun to nod off.
Ser Brynden gathered his great-nephew in his arms and carried him from the hall. Jon couldn't help but envy the little lord, wishing he might be so easily excused from the night's festivities.
It was a strange thing. Before the war, Jon was rarely permitted at a feast such as this, and never was seated amongst the family at the high table. Now, not only was his attendance expected but should he leave early his absence would be seen as an insult to their guests.
You're still Jon Snow, though. Still just a bastard.
When Sansa finally returned to the high table, she did not take her own seat, but instead moved to the one her great-uncle had vacated…the seat next to Jon.
As she settled beside him, every muscle in Jon's body felt as taut as a drawn bow.
Sansa paid Jon little mind, instead turning her attention to Lord Robett and asking after his children.
This close Jon could see the slight glimmer of sweat on her temples from the exertion of dancing, and the filigree combs pinning her hair away from her face, and the light dusting of freckles across her nose. Worst still, he could smell her. The sweet tang of sweat mixed with rosewater and lemons. A smell so familiar and so distinctly Sansa.
Jon felt ill.
He willed himself to think on anything else, the sigils of the great houses, the history of the First Men, the names of all the Watch's past Lord Commanders.
It was of no use.
The misunderstanding of a seven-year-old had transformed him into some sort of deviant that lusted after a sweet lady who, until a year ago, had been his sister.
Perhaps it's been this way all along. Perhaps these foul longings have always been there.
As Sansa and Lord Robett continued their conversation, Jon sought a way to extract himself from the hall. Better to insult the Glovers and leave early then to stay do something truly foolish.
Before he could act, Sansa shifted in her seat and casually moved her hand to rest on his forearm.
There was nothing elicit about the touch. It was an innocent gesture of affection from a sister. A cousin. One she had bestowed on him countless times before.
And yet, underneath the weight of her hand, his skin felt burnt, his blood alight.
He needed to leave. Now.
Muttering some half-formed excuse, Jon dashed from the hall.
. . .
The next night found Jon in Eddard Stark's solar looking over the keep's accounts.
A rough trade agreement had been made with Lord Glover earlier in the day, but the details of the exchange still needed to be drafted.
Jon rubbed his eyes, worn from squinting at columns of numbers for the past hour.
It was ironic. Since he left Winterfell to join the Watch, he had risen to a position of command, fought countless battles against the living and the dead, and liberated the North, only to wind up a glorified steward once more.
Of course, some things had changed. When he was Lord Commander Mormont's steward, he shared his work with his brothers; bastards and criminals. Now, at least, the company had improved.
Jon stole a glance across the desk to where Sansa was bent over a ledger, her quill scratching gently against the parchment.
He had not meant to find himself alone with her. In fact, he had spent most of the day trying to avoid her, hiding away in the training yard and the godswood like a craven.
But when she approached him after supper with a plea to look over the inventories from Winter Town, he could not refuse her.
The two of them had spent many nights in this solar, heads bent over missives, ledgers, and plans for Winterfell's reconstruction.
The familiarity and domesticity of working alongside her, stirred the same longing he had felt the night before.
Sansa's yours. You stole her.
He wanted it to be true. He wanted Sansa to belong to him, and he to her. He wanted to stay at her side, to be the gallant hero from her stories to Rickon. He wanted to share her bed, and to fill the halls of Winterfell with their children.
He wanted her.
"Are you well Jon?"
Jon's face heated, embarrassed to be caught staring at her so openly.
"I'm fine," he mumbled, praying to the old gods and the new she could not divine the direction of his thoughts.
Sansa eyed him skeptically, before returning to her work.
He was being selfish. Under other circumstances, she would be long married now, with a life and children of her own. Not living in her father's keep, raising her brother, and playacting as Lord and Lady of the household with Jon. It was unfair of him to expect her to stay.
"You should wed."
The words rushed out of his mouth before he could think better of them.
Sansa looked up, visibly stung.
"Am I such a nuisance you'd be rid of me, Jon?" Her tone was light, but he could see the hurt in her eyes.
"No!" Jon rushed. "I only meant…if you should wish to…I don't want you to feel you are obligated to remain here." He finished lamely.
"I see."
Sansa regarded him coolly, her face guarded.
"I'm sorry," Jon said, cursing his idiocy. "I didn't meant to…It's just you always spoke of it. Before."
Before you left for the capital. Before the Lannister's took your father's head. Before Littlefinger stole your innocence.
Jon remembered that Sansa. The one who acted out songs with little Jeyne Poole. The one who dreamed of marrying true knights and handsome princes.
Jon wanted those dreams for her still. Even if it meant letting her go.
Sansa stared at him, a little of the ice gone from her gaze.
"I'm not that silly little girl anymore," she said quietly, an expression Jon couldn't quite make out on her face. "Things have changed, Jon."
"Not everything has to," Jon urged. "You should have a husband and children of your own. You deserve to be happy, Sansa."
The words felt as if they were torn from his flesh, but Jon held her gaze, willing her to see he meant them.
Sansa stood.
Jon prepared himself to watch her flee the room, to have her rail against him, to be commanded to leave her sight.
Instead, she moved to kneel at his side. Reaching out she took hold of his hand (the scarred one) and pressed it to her cheek.
"Then I'm precisely where I should be, Jon Snow."
Author's Note: I know this was a little bit on the too fluffy side, but it was fun to write. Hoping to put out more JonxSansa one-shots in the future.
The title is pulled from what I was jamming to while writing: Sleeping At Last's cover of The Police's 'Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic'.