Daenerys understood the intent of it all — the feast held in her honour. It was supposed to be a joyous occasion, a welcome to the North, a display of good will and benevolence; a chance for the lords to see her and know her and revel with her before they embarked on the fight of their lives. It was a step in understanding why their king bent the knee to her. She could discern every objective Jon had with the feast but the mood of the occasion was far from warm and farther from welcoming.

Indeed, this was partly because the North did not take to her as immediately as Jon had hoped and assured her they would, but she had expected resistance. She had expected skepticism and resentment at his decision, it would have been naïve not to. What she had not expected was the silence between Jon and his sister, Sansa. Or perhaps that wasn't entirely true. From what she had been told of Lady Stark, from the way Jon's eyes brightened with a fire so different from his tired dejection when he spoke of her, Daenerys knew before meeting her that Sansa Stark was a strong-willed young woman, clever and wary — she would not welcome her brother's decision so easily. It was the type of silence between Jon and Sansa that struck Daenerys. It wasn't huffy and petulant, a squabble between two siblings. No, this silence was alive with a tension that made Daenerys feel like an interloper. There was a charge in their non-communication that was almost electric; a seething quality that if Daenerys hadn't known any better, she would think she was intruding upon a lover's quarrel. It was hard not to feel indignant. However, she could tell that where Bran was Jon's softness and Arya was Jon's heart, Sansa was his world: no one meant to him what she did and she was the one who needed to be swayed above all others.

"Lady Stark," said Daenerys looking past Jon to Sansa sitting next to him. "I must express again what an honour it is to meet you."

Sansa smiled although her eyes remained as icy as they did when they had greeted each other in the courtyard. "Thank you, your Grace."

When she didn't continue speaking and only put a piece of chicken in her mouth, Daenerys bit back her affront and swallowed her desire to rise to Sansa's strategically snide "your Graces".

She continued. "Jon has told me quite a lot about you on our journey here."

At this, Sansa stopped eating and turned to Daenerys without so much as a glance to Jon. "You must forgive me, your Grace, for you have me at a disadvantage. Jon has not told me a single thing about you."

Jon gagged on his wine and glared at Sansa who refused to look at him, which only inflamed his anger. His agitation was peculiar, a hangover from the argument they'd had in the afternoon and that surprised him. Surely, he should be angry at Sansa for insulting their guest, for disguising contempt as civility. After all he did care for Daenerys and had wanted her to feel welcome. But Sansa's contempt wasn't what bothered him, it was the accusation beneath her contempt. The accusation that Jon had acted without thinking about the North, without thinking about her; the charge that he had chosen Daenerys above his people and not for his people; Sansa's wordless allegation that he forgot her. As if he ever could. As if he ever wanted to. They had already gone one round over the subject but inside, Jon was screaming for a second.

"So then you have not heard anything about me?" said Daenerys.

"There are stories, of course," said Sansa. "Daenerys Stormborn, the Conqueror."

She picked up her goblet and a dozen lords stood up from their seats and rose their glasses to her. When Sansa raised hers as well and took a sip of wine, the lords drank afterwards and sat back down.

Daenerys was impressed despite herself. "You sound as if you disapprove."

Sansa looked at her pointedly. "I trust in all decisions my brother makes and he trusted in a conqueror, which means that I must trust in you too. Forgive me if I gave off an air of disapproval," she said.

Jon felt a sense of gratitude and appreciation that Sansa hadn't challenged or undercut his authority in front of Daenerys and the lords like she might have done not too long ago. He even felt somewhat … flattered at the protectiveness, the slight defensiveness in her tone, at the implication that she and him shared everything together and the idea of discord was absurd. However, he knew it was all for appearance, that she didn't trust his decision, that she didn't trust him at all right now and that only deepened his fury.

Sansa didn't care about his fury. She could feel it, his sense of betrayed anger. But his anger was no match for her own rage at him bringing the Targaryen woman to the North, pledging himself to her, putting her above all others. Putting her above … Sansa took another sip of wine, her eyes remaining on the room at large before her.

Daenerys glanced at Jon and Sansa. They sat next to each other and yet made no contact, they may as well have been sitting by themselves and yet. And yet Daenerys could sense the wordless conversation between them. She would be truly shocked if the entire room couldn't sense it as well, their passion was loud. Although, she thought to herself, they would never qualify this as passion, they would see it as anger. But what they were silently exchanging was anything but anger. It was love masked as outrage.

"Are there any dances at these feasts?" she asked.

Jon raised his eyebrows. "Dances? Er, well …. perhaps, but we don't usually—"

"I'm sure we can make an exception for Her Grace," said Sansa, finally looking at Jon. "This is a feast in her honour after all. We should adhere to her requests."

Daenerys smiled and bowed her head courteously and Sansa bowed her head in return before looking to the musicians to signal a change.

There was a flurry of footsteps as servants rearranged certain tables to make space for dancing and once the floor was cleared, the music picked up to a tempo for a dance. Applause erupted from the other guests and Jon smiled in response.

Cley Cerwyn suddenly approached the table. He bowed in front of Jon. "Your Grace."

Jon nodded. "Lord Cerywn."

He turned to Daenerys who raised her head slightly. Cley lowered his head in response but turned to Sansa before waiting for a response from Daenerys.

"Lady Sansa," he said.

She regarded him.

"Would you do me the honour?"

Sansa smiled and moved to push out her chair. A servant stepped behind her and pulled it out for her.

"Most certainly, my Lord," she said, as she stood up.

The other guests clapped once again as Sansa made her way to Cley but Jon couldn't bring himself to join the applause. There was a faint ringing in his ears and he somehow felt as if he couldn't breathe, like his chest tightened.

"They make an attractive pair," said Daenerys to Jon.

He didn't respond.

Cley bowed and Sansa curtsied and they began to dance to the music, twirling around each other, while the guests watched, enraptured. It was odd to Jon that his first reaction to seeing Sansa's hand in Lord Cerwyn's was … it wasn't exactly protectiveness, it was something baser. Something he couldn't pinpoint.

He picked up his goblet and gulped down the wine.

Sansa looked beautiful out there. Then again she had always been a graceful dancer; poised and dignified but still looked as if she were genuinely having fun. It had been that ways since they were children. For a brief moment, Jon imagined himself as her partner and wondered if she would look nearly as happy dancing with him. As quickly as the thought entered his mind, he cast it out, puzzled as to what it was doing in his head in the first place.

For the next few moments, Jon wasn't lulled into that bizarre vision again but now that he had pictured it, he couldn't watch Sansa smile and move with Cley without that baser emotion grabbing hold of him. He could hardly sit still. His heart pounded, the room was too hot, he felt faintly nauseous as if he had eaten his food too quickly. He needed to leave, he couldn't stand to stay seated for another second.

"Forgive me, my Queen," he said, turning to Daenerys. "I must step out for a few moments. Only a few." He kissed Daenerys's hand and after the servant pulled out his chair, left the table.

In her periphery, Sansa saw Jon leave his seat and felt a rush of vindication but now that he had left the room, she no longer felt the need to dance. Truth be told, she wasn't all that sure why she had insisted on Daenerys's request, why she took up Lord Cerywn's offer at all. She just knew she had wanted Jon to see her and was pleased when he could no longer watch — if that was the reason he chose to leave. Her reactions and emotions had been confusing her all day and as if to intensify her confusion, she now felt the urge to stop the dance midway to fulfill the need she felt to find Jon and confront him. But she knew she couldn't do that and continued to smile and move with Lord Cerwyn.

Finally, the melody ended and Sansa curtsied once more as Cley bowed to a loud applause. A few lords and their ladies started walking to the open space and Sansa took the opportunity to follow Jon to what she assumed would be his room.

When she walked in, it was to find Jon pacing, his face taught, his hands clenched into fists. She shut the door but spoke without any preamble.

"You cannot leave your guest in the middle of a feast, it is rude," she said, her voice hard.

He continued to pace. "Our guest," he corrected sharply. "And don't act like you care about being rude to her."

"I care about appearances."

"Your actions would prove otherwise," he muttered.

Sansa's eyes widened. "And what does that mean?"

Jon shook his head dismissively. "Nothing."

"No, Jon," she said, walking father into the room. "What does that mean?"

Jon stopped pacing and whirled on her. "You are the Lady of Winterfell—"

"Am I?" she said, cutting him off. "I thought you had given that title to Daenerys Stormborn."

"Is that what this is about then?" said Jon. "Are you trying to - to upset me because of her?"

"And how would a dance with Lord Cerwyn upset you, Jon?"

He was wrong-footed by the question but quickly rallied. "It is not that you danced with him, it is the manner with which you did!"

She laughed harshly. "It can't be any worse than the lovesick way you look at her."

"Sansa, I do not—"

"Oh you are not stupid, Jon, you know exactly what I mean. I've watched you and her and—"

Jon blinked. "You've watched us?"

"I—" Panic swelled in Sansa's chest.

"I am only saying that you have made it plain that you forfeited our freedom because you find her beautiful!"

"Do not start that again," said Jon dangerously, closing the gap between them. "I did not forfeit our freedom, I solidified it and diminishing my efforts to keep our people safe, reducing the decisions I have made to whether or not I find a woman beautiful is insulting to me as a king and as a Northerner."

"It is insulting to me as a Northerner to see the way you look at a foreigner."

Jon stared at her incredulously. "Your mother was foreigner."

"Is that your excuse? Father did not bend the knee to my mother!"

"You are changing the issue!"

Sansa cocked her head. "The issue?"

"Yes! The issue of the manner in which you danced—"

"Jon, I smiled—"

"I did not like it!"

There was a pause.

"My dancing with Lord Cley was merely a gesture of good faith," said Sansa, trying to ignore the curious flutter in her chest. "If you do not remember, the Cerwyns needed a bit of persuasion to pledge fealty to us, I simply want to maintain the relationships we have."

"Oh is that what were you doing?" said Jon bitterly. "You weren't preening, trying to get yourself a husband?"

The air shifted dramatically and Sansa stilled at Jon's words. A rush of guilt took over him and he suddenly hated himself.

"Sansa, I—"

"Do you—" she clenched her jaw. "Do you truly believe that I am anywhere near ready to be married again?"

He shook his head frantically. "I'm sorry."

Sansa didn't look fragile, she looked hardened, like she walled herself in, the coldness that only seemed to dissipate in his presence cocooned her again and Jon knew he would stab himself in the gut if it would make any difference to her.

"Sansa."

He rushed up to her and took her hands in his. "I am sorry. I spoke without thinking," he said desperately. He held onto her tighter. "Sansa, please forgive me." He pressed his forehead against hers and squeezed his eyes shut. "Please forgive me."

Sansa sighed and after a few seconds closed her eyes too, her thumb stroking his as they clenched each other's hands. It was surprisingly easy to forgive him, to feel safe even when they argued like this, to … to … to drink him in …

The door wrenched open and Sansa and Jon sprang apart. Arya was too busy nagging to see them. "Do you know we can hear you yelling all the way down the—"

She stared at Jon and Sansa, feet away from each other, breathing heavily, faces red. She narrowed her eyes. "What are you two doing?"

"Nothing," said Jon.

"Arguing," said Sansa. "You said you heard us."

Arya kept her eyes narrowed.

"I should get back," said Jon.

"Of course, can't keep our guest waiting," said Sansa sardonically.

Jon glanced back at her, jaw clenched like he was gaining a third wind but he shook his head and walked out of the room. Arya was here now and — and Sansa knew that having an audience meant they couldn't let their passions take ahold of them like they did in private. She exhaled deeply and then looked at Arya who still regarded her with a shrewd look.

"What are you looking at," she mumbled.

"I suppose there was never anywhere to notice before now," said Arya. "But no one quite nettles you like him. Not even me."

Sansa shook her head. "You and I … we have a different relationship." She smiled. "You're annoying in an entirely different way." She pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. "An entirely different way…"