A/N - Written for midnightblack07 for the Christmas Gift Giveaway 2012.
Prompt : Place a kiss on my cheekbone, then you vanish me, I'm buried in the snow, but something tells me I'm not alone, but lovers hold on to everything, and others hold on to anything...
Winter's Mistress
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They marry at the end of winter while the new summer blossoms and the ice melts from the weirwood. It is a small ceremony with family and a few friends. There are more men in black than there are Starks, more dragons than there are children of the once Lord of Winterfell, and Sansa stands straighter than she ever has when she knows that she is the only one kissed by fire.
His hand is gloved and warm against her cool skin. And when he smiles softly at her, his eyes full of sadness, Sansa looks away. He is new to her. Older, harder, with a scar that mars his face. They have not spoken more than a few words and he is yet to share her bed. Perhaps it is right that they marry, she thinks. Perhaps it is a way of bringing the past closer to her heart.
She is tired most days. She walks along the walls of Winterfell, her fingers tracing the charred rock as she remembers little moments that used to give her such joy. The place where Arya fell and twisted her foot, only to stick her tongue out when Sansa said the ever familiar, "I told you." The place Robb used to hide her dolls when she displeased him, only to relent quickly when she pretended to sob in pain. The place where Bran showed her his new practice sword with blunt edges, his feet moving quickly as he imitated the moves Sir Rodrick once had taught him. And the place where she used to sit quietly, embroidery in hand, and let Rickon yawn sleepily in her lap after a day of running after his big brothers.
He watches her when she relives her former life. She knows that grey eyes follow her as he works tirelessly to rebuild what was once magnificent. More than two moons pass before she realises that he has not touched her, not even kissed her save for a chaste meeting of the lips during the marriage ceremony. He leaves her to her own as he stays in his own chambers, his days busy with the work of a lord who tries and tires.
She does not seek her husband nor does she avoid his company even if she feels the need. Her dresses are plain, her hair no longer twisted in an intricate style but loose around her shoulders. She eats simply, brushes her hair less each day and her gaze is usually far from those around her as if she is trapped in a distant memory. Her fingers become numb before long, and her throat closes from lack of speaking.
She lives her life like a ghost of Winterfell, rarely speaking, never laughing, and spending her days touching things that remind her of a happy life that is deeply rooted in the past. Every day she wonders why she is the only Stark to survive.
He brings her a flower one day. It is a small thing, barely bigger than the tip of her finger and she stares at it until it wilts. It is the first flower to bloom in Winterfell since the winter, he tells her. She deserves something beautiful, something to remind her that there is still hope. He hesitates a moment before placing a gentle kiss on her cheek. His lips are chapped and cool against her skin. Her eyes close briefly only to open and meet grey eyes pleading with her for something.
"Thank you, Jon," she whispers, because that is what a lady should say.
His smile is sad before he leaves. It is the first time she has ever said his name since they were children.
He asks her to sew him a quilt, and she relents. It is tiring work; her fingers become numb as she bites her lower lip in concentration while trying to master a skill she does not remember. He brings her a flower each day to thank her, his eyes less pained as he watches the way she becomes irritated.
She has a temper now, sometimes small, most of the time aimed at him. He gives her one goal after another, goading her when she refuses, giving her flowers and lemon cakes when she succeeds. He frustrates her and annoys her. And when she gets particularly angry, he laughs only to kiss her. She yields to his kisses and takes a few liberties with her own.
Before long, she stops spending her days walking around Winterfell. She does not have the time to spare.
It is five moons past when he begins reading to her. His voice is soothing in the evenings when they sit by the fire. Sansa listens more to his voice and less to the words, her eyes studying the flames as they dance to the lilt of his tone. Sometimes, she sits beside him, her feet under her and her head lying on his chest. Sometimes, he coaxes her to read to him, while his fingers trace her hand that he places in between his own. And sometimes, when her chest tightens and she feels a certain need inside her, she kisses him gently, her heart soaring briefly when his smile widens. It gives her hope, maybe happiness. It gives her the courage to take his hand in hers and lead him to her bed.
Her heart is still as cold as winter, but slowly and surely, her husband is bringing back warmth into her being through the loving touch of his smile.
.
Fin.