It takes Jon a moment to figure out what has woken him up. Or where he is to begin with.

A quick glance around tells him he's back in his apartment at Castle Black. The clock by the bed shows 3:05am in red, angry digits. He's been back in Westeros for less than four hours. That same time yesterday night he and his team mates had been buried waist deep in snow, waiting to be flown out from yet another mission north of the Wall. He rubs his face with a tired groan while his phone continues in the offensively loud act of buzzing its way across the night stand. Ghost, who is occupying roughly eighty percent of the bed, whimpers softly in his sleep. Jon sits up and grabs the phone, silently cursing whomever decided this was an appropriate time to call. Who cares if they don't know that he's been asleep for less than an hour? It's still three o'clock in the bloody morning and there is – a second Northern Invasion aside – absolutely no excuse to be calling at such an ungodly hour. He gives another heartfelt string of curses before finally taking the call and Gods, he hopes it's not yet another mission. They haven't even been debriefed on the last one and he really needs some time to take care of his apartment. Even after almost a year there are still unopened boxes lining the walls and – there's really no sensitive way to put it – his laundry basket reeks. Not to mention that he hasn't had a proper day off in months. In short, Jon Snow is in desperate need of a little down time.

"Yes...?"

"Hey, Jon. It's me."

And just like that all thought of sleep or laundry or work are lost. Suddenly it doesn't matter what time it is or how tired he is. Not when it's hercalling. Not when he's hearing her say his name for the first time in over six months.

"Sansa", he breathes and he's surprised how steady his voice sounds when his hands are shaking and his heart is beating a hundred miles per second. He tells himself it's merely the surprise at having her call him, maybe worry at the unusual time she picked to do it. Nothing more. After all, who knows the terrible meaning of late-night calls better than they do? "Is everything okay? Has something happened?"

"No, I'm fine." She is slurring her words again. She tries to hide it by speaking particularly articulated, but Jon still notices. He always does. Sansa has taken a lot of leads from Cersei Lannister during her years spent in King's Landing following their... her parents' accident - most of which have made her into the successful and adored fashion icon she is now. Jon just wishes she hadn't also adapted the former First Lady's habit of drowning her sorrows in too much alcohol.

It doesn't take too much for him to picture her - and somewhere deep down part of him is ashamed at how easy it is to conjure her image - lying on her bed, still clad in some obscenely expensive designer dress, her bare feet propped up against the mahogany headboard and her hair a fiery halo against white, pristine bedsheets. He swallows hard and closes his eyes, willing the image to disappear.

There is a lingering silence and Jon half wonders if maybe she hung up when she speaks again and her voice sounds so small and so frail it leaves his heart aching for a way to comfort her, his hands longing to touch. But her words pain him even more. "Do you think I'm cursed, Jon?"

Maybe it's the early hour and his lack of sleep or maybe it's the fact that he hasn't been able to form a coherent train of thought around her for quite some time now. Maybe it's the fact that he tries not to think about his family's tragedies too much for fear that the pain of it all will crush him. Whatever it is, it leaves him at a loss for words.

He's not a particularly spiritual person. And yes, he – along with Sansa and Bran and Arya – has more reason than most to feel like something – destiny, dark forces, a curse or whatever else they want to call it – has had a hand in making their lives as tragic and difficult as they are, but that's not what he believes.

Jon believes in principles and he believes in the law. Why else would he have volunteered to serve in the Night's Watch? He believes in knowing right from wrong, even though he feels like he's been struggling lately. He believes there are good people and bad people and that sometimes people need time to figure out who they are. And he believes that sometimes, for no reason at all, life fucks you over. The good, it seems, more so than the bad and Jon suspects it's because the good play by the rules. Life is made miserable by much more complicated things than curses. He suspects that's not the answer Sansa is looking for.

"Why would you think that?", he asks instead, knowing it's terribly inadequate.

"It's just... I don't know. It's just been a shitty few weeks, I guess", Sansa gives back weakly and Jon can tell there is a whole novel hidden within these vague words.

Well, I wouldn't know. The words are dancing perilously close to the tip of his tongue, but he swallows them. He knows full well that he's also to blame for the fact that they haven't spoken to each other in months. It is possible that he alone is to blame.

If he had chosen a different path after what happened between them at the Feast of Light, maybe things wouldn't be so messed up now. If only he had been less of a coward... But there is no point in dwelling on what could have been. Things are what they are and right now they are messed up. He and Sansa will probably never be back to the way they've been half a year ago and he has no one but himself to blame.

"Will you be coming home for the Feast of the Maiden?"

"The Feast of the Maiden, right", he repeats lamely, realising he completely blanked out on Sansa' favourite holiday. Mostly because deep down he's been absolutely positive that after everything she wouldn't want him there. To say he's surprised by her asking is an understatement. "It's in... two weeks?"

"Try two days", Sansa gives back with a little chuckle that should delight him – used to delight him for as long as he can remember – but does nothing now to ease the tension between them, because he can tell it's not genuine. "Arya's already bailing on me and Bran... well, you know. Don't tell me you've forgotten."

"No! No, it's not that", he lies, because this stupid day means so damn much to her that he doesn't have the heart to tell her otherwise, even though he doesn't think it would be a good idea to go. Be around her for days on end. Play happy family. Live under the same roof, separated by nothing but a few doors...

"I know you're under a lot of pressure with your job and all, don't worry", she says and he thinks that maybe this is the worst – asking himself if she is putting up a front or if she really doesn't feel like things between them have changed, because he's sitting there with his thoughts all but tripping over each other in an attempt to make sense of the past few minutes while she went and turned an awkward drunk-dial into an innocent case of "casually asking my ex half-brother turned dark family secret to join the annual Sansapalooza" and he's struggling to keep track.

"Half of Westeros is coming and I just thought it would be nice to see each other again. I miss you, Jon."

The rational part of him tries to reason that this is for the best; that things between them should not, cannot change. Ever. But when it comes to Sansa reason has been lost on a cold night in Brightwater six months, four days and three hours ago. He can already feel this god damn ache again – this primal pull – even hundreds of miles haven't been able to soothe.

Still, it doesn't really hit him until he finds himself not even two hours later, staring out at the King's Road passing by the first bus heading out to Highgarden with Ghost snoring gently at his feet.

He is truly, utterly, irrevocably fucked.