Chapter Rating: T
Chapter Word Count: 2340
Chapter Summary: It's quite nearly true that Jon doesn't smile, and Sansa regrets the truth of it. Not simply because she is struck by how handsome he is when he does smile at her, how his eyes crinkle, how his full lips curve.
Author's Note: The asoiafkinkmeme totally distracted me, but I think I might make some people happy in this chapter. Thank you for being patient, my lovies. :)

Chapter Ten

Jon is quiet, so very quiet since his victory. It barely feels like a victory, though the men in camp celebrate loudly enough, and Sansa can tell that everyone in Jon's council is afraid to seem too pleased with the outcome. It is as if they are all pretending that Aegon never existed. They have buried his memory as well as his body in a matter of days, and now they direct their attention towards the last remaining problem—Daenerys' invasion—as they march towards King's Landing. They all walk with care, all except for Asha, whose crooked smile speaks volumes about how little she thinks of the great tragedy of Aegon's death.

Asha isn't the only one: Sansa cannot bring herself to regret it, for Jon is here, safe, and whole, but she regrets the effect the victory has had on him.

He is silent, but when she sat alongside of him today, while the men discussed potential allies and those who have already rallied to their side—today a raven arrived from Dorne, where they are not friends of Daenerys or her fire breathing dragons and are amenable to siding with Jon with Aegon dead—she could feel his pain. It radiated through her, burning like a fever behind her eyes. It made her feel heavy and listless, and it kept her quiet, as quiet as her solemn brother.

That is why she asked Jaime to sit fireside with her as the sun dipped beneath the blanket of snow that once again covers the ground, the world donning white, making black hulks of the men who range the camp. She invited him, because she can count on Jaime to speak, and she has wine to share with him, which loosens his tongue more. The sound of his familiar voice—lazy and deep—helps distract her from her worries. So too do his japes, though they are all tinged with a hard edge, as if he too is not unaffected by the events unfolding around them. She knows he doesn't have a stake in Jon's claim; it must be something else that causes his disquiet. Perhaps it is the thought of King's Landing. She can certainly understand and commiserate on that point.

Their halfhearted banter is not long lived, however, for Jaime nods towards something behind her shoulder, and she turns on her camp stool to see Jon's squire walking towards them with Ghost at his side.

"It looks like your Black King means to summon you. What merriment do you imagine he has planned for you?"

"Ser," she murmurs too tenderly to be mistaken for a real scolding.

"I've never seen him smile," he says a little too loudly before taking a swig from his wineskin, as the boy stops before their fire and shifts on his feet.

It's quite nearly true that Jon doesn't smile, and Sansa regrets the truth of it. Not simply because she is struck by how handsome he is when he does smile at her, how his eyes crinkle, how his full lips curve.

"Excuse me, milady."

The boy stops his awkwardly shuffling, freezes like a prey animal, and she sees that Jaime is giving him a rather fearsome scowl, as if he means to scare him away. He might succeed if she doesn't speak up.

"Yes, go on," she urges gently.

"The King would request," he says slowly, as if he practiced these words, perhaps repeated them back to Jon, "your presence at dinner. If'n you like."

Ghost comes to sit beside her, looking up at her with eyes that have a nearly preternatural glow and otherworldly intelligence. Jon sometimes dreams that he is Ghost as he sleeps—his confession occurred to her as the great beast curled into her side the night of Jon's victory over Aegon, and she whispered things into his white fur she wished she could say to Jon if he had not gone to his tent alone.

"Yes, of course," she says with a lightness she does not feel, directing her words more to the direwolf at her feet than Jon's jumpy squire.

She would never deny Jon her company, should he want it. Indeed, that he has not sought her out before this has been a source of concern, but if he wants her for her counsel, she doesn't know whether she is up to giving it. She feels as if her last advice to him has brought him nothing but grief, that he can take no satisfaction in the swell of his army, as men flock to his side, and the likelihood that King's Landing will open its gates to them.

"Dinner smells good," the boy adds, and Sansa raises her eyes to him to see him rub his flat stomach.

Jon doesn't eat better than his troops, but, perhaps with the intention of dining with her, he has had something special made. The little squire always gets a portion from the King's own table, so he stands to benefit as well. He is skinny enough that he could use a good meal. Her own clothes are beginning to fit somewhat loosely as the days since they left the Vale stretch out behind her and the number of mouths to feed grows instead of diminishing, but tonight she doesn't feel much like eating.

Nonetheless, she stands, meaning to change into a gown that's hem is somewhat less stained with mud or at least hides it somewhat better than this light grey woolen gown does before she seeks Jon's tent and provides him with whatever company or advice he might seek.

"Tell the King that I'll be along in a moment," she says, as she spares a tired smile for Jaime, though he will not meet her gaze and stares into the fire, the muscles in his jaw clenched, and then raises the flap of her tent, Ghost following at her heels.

…

She can tell that he was falling asleep at table, when she enters the tent, Ghost brushing her skirts, trotting over to the straw bed that has been made for him, by the way his head jerks.

"Jon," she says, coming towards him and motioning for him not to stand, though he does anyway, his fingertips pressed into the table as if that alone keeps him upright.

She looks up into his eyes and the circles there worry her. "Are you not sleeping?"

He doesn't respond, not aloud, but she feels his answer, as much as she felt his pain today. How can I?

She is struck by the most inappropriate urge to offer to stay with him tonight, to see if she might help him sleep, the way Ghost helps keep the nightmares at bay, when he sleeps in her bed, and as she feels her face begin to flush at the thought, he reaches up and smoothes her hair back. His eyes search hers for a moment and then turn to the table already set before them.

"I hope it hasn't gone cold."

"I'm sorry," she says, as she takes her seat opposite him. "I was told how good it smelled, and it does, but I wanted to change. I looked…well, you saw me earlier, I looked a fright," she babbles nervously.

There is a goblet of wine set beside her bowl, and she reaches for it, brings it to her lips, and swallows quickly.

She can only hope he doesn't think her a frivolous woman, worrying about her dress, when he is her brother and king and surely does not care for such things.

He watches her, his eyes dark in the dim light of the tent, as she replaces the goblet.

"You always look the same to me."

His voice is deepened by an unnamed emotion she feels echoing inside of her, and in her confusion she can't hold his gaze—this time it is she that looks away, fumbling for her spoon. She should taste this stew, which she can smell is venison and thick with barley, unions, and parsnips, although she has very little appetite. She brings the spoon to her mouth, and she can see that Jon still watches her, tearing off a chunk of his trencher in observant silence.

"You were quiet today, Sansa."

She swallows the warm stew, spiced well enough that her belly warms, and she's thankful for it, though she knows she won't finish half. It would be better for his little squire to have it.

"So were you."

"My squire tells me you're not feeling well."

She blinks. "He did?"

"The Kingslayer said something to him."

Sansa sighs. Jaime must have noticed that her cheerfulness was feigned, that the day of riding and council meetings had worn on her.

"I'm fine," she whispers, but she isn't really. As long as Jon is unwell, she is too.

He scratches at his beard, staring off as if the lie makes it difficult to look upon her. He is looking towards his camp bed, where she once tended him, and Sansa's gaze follows his. She hadn't felt his cut then. The thought of losing him brought her acute pain, but it wasn't as if she was burdened with his as well. "It wasn't like this before."

His brows knit together, when he asks, "Like what?"

"When you're in pain, Jon…I feel it. I know how deeply you're hurt by what you had to do." She presses her hand to her breast. "I feel it."

Something inside of her has changed or she is more aware of it than before. Her dreams are more vivid too, and Jon is always there, holding his hand out to her.

"Your hands are cold," he says.

Though it is true and she regrets not having brought her gloves, Sansa doesn't know why he's said it. She glances down at her hand to see if it is tinged blue with the cold.

"I feel it too," he continues. "You think you should have worn your gloves."

Then perhaps it is not only Sansa that has changed. It doesn't startle her, this admission, the way it should, for she can feel it: the tug of his need for her, how his mind seems to reach out to her, drawing her closer. They barely need words, and as he lays his hand on the table, palm up, she finds a place to warm her hand. He is almost hot to the touch.

"Have you always been this warm?" she muses.

"No. I thought I'd die of the cold when I first got to the Wall. It was after."

After he was stabbed. After he was reborn. The whispers she's heard about his death and rebirth that mark him as the Prince. Now it feels as if fire burns in his blood, she thinks, drawing her thumb over the inside of his wrist. The need she feels pulsing between them changes at her touch, and Sansa draws a slow breath.

No, there is no need for words: she can feel what Jon thinks of her, how he sees her, and it is not as a sister. She is not instantly put off by the silent suggestion. That might be the most overwhelming discovery of all. Jon is a good man. She has been wanted by much worse. She might not even deserve such goodness, having certainly not earned it when she was cool to him as a girl.

She wonders if the signs were there all along; if she was merely blind to them in her desire to have her brother back. But, no, surely there were things, incontrovertible moments, when he proved himself to be just a brother to her.

"You spoke someone's name," she blurts out, as her eyes skitter to Jon's bed once more. "In your fever," she adds quietly.

"Not yours?" he asks, and she can just see the small quirk of his lips.

She attempts to withdraw her hand, but he holds it fast.

"Yes, mine," she admits, "but someone else's too. A woman's."

"Ygritte."

Yes, that was the name.

"She was a wildling." His eyes go to her hair, draped over her shoulder, and he says, "She had red hair. They say it's good luck." She watches his Adam's apple roll above the neck of his black leather jerkin before he murmurs, "Not good enough though: she's dead now."

He doesn't know it, but this touches on one of her most deeply rooted insecurities: her fear that men only want to pretend she is someone else. That they only need to blow out the candle and cover her in darkness, so as to love her as another. But he doesn't know that Petyr made her pretend at being more than his daughter. He doesn't know that Jaime makes silent comparisons with his sister every time they are alone. That is her problem, not earnest Jon's, and she fights the painful flutter in her heart, fearful he will hear her thoughts.

As he shifts in his chair, she can sense his roil of distress and unease, and she feels sorry for having pressed the issue when he is already burdened as it is. She's glad there was some woman Jon could love. Truly. Or she will be eventually. She only wishes she hadn't been red of hair.

"Sansa, I…"

"It's all right, Jon," she interrupts softly. "I'm not a maid either."

He huffs, looking down at his untouched meal. "I hadn't meant for us to discuss this."

"Of course not. What did you want of me, Jon?"

"I need you," he says simply, but she already knows that, just as she knows she needs him, and should she lose him, she would be well and truly lost. "I'll be forced to fight yet more kin I've never met soon enough, and I need you as a reminder to me."

"Of what?"

"Of what I am. Of what I might stand to win."

"Oh, Jon," she says squeezing his hand. He doesn't need a throne to have her.