For the first time since arriving, Jon is sleeping in.
Sansa takes the opportunity to do something she hasn't done in a long time, and go for a run. Taking Ghost with her, it feels relatively safe in a way it hasn't since before Ramsey, maybe even Joffrey. She changes into a pair of leggings and a slim fitting long sleeve top, and grabs a leash for Ghost.
Before she can even form the word outside on her tongue, the wolf is at her heels, red eyes peering happily up at her.
"Hmm." She murmurs, clipping the lead to his collar. "It's a good thing you're so well behaved. You're certainly smart enough to make things difficult, aren't you?"
His only answer is to cock his head a little further to the left. Sansa takes that as a yes.
They head out along her old route, getting more than a few stares. She supposes they make an interesting looking pair so early in the morning, this delicate pretty girl and her huge wolf dog. But with Ghost at her side, it doesn't bother her. That's freeing in a way she missed and didn't think she'd ever get back.
It doesn't take long for her body to remind her that she's out of shape. Not embarrassingly so, but enough that her legs burn more than usual and she's sure her face is colouring to match her hair. Ghost just huffs along beside her, eyeing her every once in a while as if to say is that really all you've got?
"This is more exercise than you'd manage with Jon," Sansa mutters between laboured breaths. "I could have left you at home, you know."
The red stare turns back to the path in front of them, and she doesn't bother to suppress her grin.
Instead, it falls abruptly off her face when she goes careening into something solid, the leash tugging at her waist as Ghost is jerked to a sudden halt as well.
"I'm so sorry," Sansa apologizes to the still standing stranger, pushing a stray lock of red hair out of her eyes to better see them. "I wasn't looking where I was going, and-" she breaks off as her eyes widen in recognition at the slightly rounded face in front of her. "Sam?"
A pair of startled brown eyes blink back at her.
"Sansa? And-oh! Hello Ghost." When Sam reaches down to pat the top of the dog's head, it's Sansa's turn to be startled. Ghost tolerates it, though he doesn't lean into the touch the way he usually does with her and Jon. "You alright?"
He's speaking to her now, and she suddenly remembers that she ran rather forcefully into him.
"I'm fine. Just got a little lost in my thoughts, I suppose."
He smiles easily back at her, and Sansa notices for the first time that there's a small, slightly mousy brunette standing beside him.
"Oh." Sansa blinks. "I'm sorry, we haven't met. I'm Sansa."
The girl reaches out her hand, and Sam flushes.
"Ah, yes. My apologies. Sansa, this is Gilly. Gilly, this is Sansa. She's the one Jon is staying with."
Sansa takes the outstretched hand, mind working slowly.
"You know Jon?"
Gilly shakes her head, replying with a toothy smile.
"No, but Sam has talked about him loads. It's nice that you're letting him stay."
Sansa has to fight a jolt of defensiveness at that. Gilly doesn't know her, isn't judging her. It's not her fault that the question is beginning to sound like an accusation.
"Well," she wills her smile to say soft. "He's family. How do you two know each other?" She asks, glancing between Sam and Gilly. To her surprise, Sam blushes again.
"I'm a waitress. Sam used to come into my restaurant all the time, and he was always really nice to me." Gilly offers.
"We're friends," Sam clarifies, and at that, understanding clicks into place.
But you want to be more, Sansa thinks silently. She's surprised that she can enjoy the sweetness of that.
"Where do you work?"
"Craster's Keep," Gilly answers, naming a bar Sansa has always avoided. The crowd there is rough, and she's heard stories about the owner that made her skin crawl, back when that was easier to do.
"Oh." Holding tightly to her manners, Sansa nods. "I know it."
As though reading the thoughts Sansa is keeping so thoroughly contained, Gilly smiles knowingly.
"It's not fancy, but the tips are good. And my stepfather owns it, so I have my pick of hours."
Sansa's eyebrows go up at that, she can't help it.
"Craster is your stepfather?"
The smaller girl nods, but doesn't seem to notice the way Sam's jaw has tightened at the name. Sansa, however, doesn't miss it.
"I would say you should come by some time, but I don't know if it's really your kind of place," Gilly continues, unbothered.
From probably anyone else, Sansa would be irritated by the comment. But she knows the other girl means well.
"Well-" She hesitates for only a moment before the words tumble out, seemingly of their own accord. "Actually, what are the two of you doing Thursday evening? Jon was so glad to see you, Sam, I thought it might be nice if we all did dinner."
The pair blink at her, clearly surprised. Ghost just shifts beside her, resting his warm weight against her leg.
"At yours?" Sam asks, eyebrows still slightly furrowed in confusion. Sansa almost mentions that, actually, she meant she'd take them out, but instead she just shrugs.
"Yeah, I think Jon would love to see you again. And this way he can meet Gilly."
Additionally, the dinner gives Sam an opportunity to get closer to Gilly, but she keeps that to herself.
The brunette's smile turns shy.
"I have Thursday off," she murmurs, turning to look at Sam. And, unsurprisingly, his answer comes swiftly after that.
"I don't have any plans after classes end," he confirms. "I think-we'd love to."
"Great!" Sansa is a little surprised that she doesn't have to feign her enthusiasm. She likes the easier, less mopey Jon that came out the night before in Sam's presence.
They exchange numbers, with Sansa promising to text them a time and an address after she's spoken to Jon. When she waves goodbye and lets her pace fall back into just above a jog, she can feel Ghost's eyes on her again.
"What?" She murmurs, pointedly staring straight ahead. "I know what you're thinking, but I'm not meddling. I'm just trying to socialize Jon. Gods know he needs it."
A rough snort puffs across her leg, and she swears she can almost hear the canine version of laughter over the beat of her sneakers on the pavement.
"No," Sansa pinches the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. "It's fine, Danaerys. It's a little short notice, but I can manage an appearance for a few hours."
From somewhere in Iceland, her boss murmurs a staticky expression of gratitude, and hangs up.
Dropping onto the other side of the couch, Jon frowns at her.
"Everything alright?"
The sigh escapes before she can think better of it.
"Mmm. Just a work thing tonight. It's black tie, so I'll have to rent or buy a dress and get my hair done and-" Sansa cuts off abruptly, acutely aware of Jon's eyes on her. "I shouldn't complain. There are thousands of women who would kill to go to events like this, and I'm paid to do it."
He just shrugs.
"Sounds like a lot of effort, honestly. I always assumed you enjoyed that sort of thing, though." It's more a question than an apology, but she appreciates it anyway. That he has the sense not to sound so sure.
"I used to. The novelty wears off after a while," she says a little distractedly, still thinking of all the errands she'll have to run now. When Jon's voice draws her gaze again, she catches on the way the scar running down the right side of his face is already turning pink and silver in the late morning light. He seems to be healing well, certainly looks better than he did when she saw him right after the accident. And he's hardly complained about his injuries at all, though he's clearly still sore enough that any exercise warrants a grimace and a grunt.
He doesn't look worse off for it, though. Margaery would surely say something about how the scars add character to his face, but it's more than that. It's almost as though the image of Jon Sansa has always had in her head should have had scars all along.
"I used to think it'd be like that with the fires," Jon murmurs. Sansa blinks at the admission. They haven't talked about his job, or even the accident, at all since he's arrived. "But every call was still-the adrenaline got me every time."
"Do you miss it?" She asks. He sounds wistful, but there's something else there too. Fatigue maybe.
"Yeah," he nods, then his mouth slants sideways. "And no. Kind of depends on the day. Obviously I wouldn't be up to it right now, but…when I first got into it I thought it would feel more…" He trails off, apparently searching for the right word.
"Victorious?" She offers. His eyes sweep over to her again, that curious surprise in his gaze. Jon always was one for competition. She suspects now that he was really just trying to prove his value in a house full of children with a stronger claim to parental attention. She can imagine that the drive to prove himself never really went away.
"Yeah." Still staring at her, he nods again. "But it doesn't really. You can't save everyone, and even if you do, they've lost everything. It's like-" Jon stops abruptly. "Nevermind. It's stupid."
They've come so far, Sansa thinks, from where they were before. But it's easy to forget that he's still Jon and she is still Sansa, and they grew up in different worlds underneath the same roof.
If anything, their time apart has nudged them a little closer to common ground. But he doesn't know that.
"I doubt it." She says with a sigh. "And anyway, I've said plenty of stupid things in my life. I won't judge you."
It occurs to her after the words have left her mouth that he has no reason to believe that. All she did when they were children was judge him, judge everyone. Apparently despite that, he hesitates for only another moment before speaking.
"Sometimes I think it's a bit like war, in that aspect." He murmurs, eyes casting down to settle on Ghost, sleeping happily on the floor after his walk. "Even when you win you've lost."
"That's not stupid at all," she says softly, and his eyes come back to hers. "I'm sure it's called firefighting for a reason."
Seconds pass in silence, Jon's brow drawn only slightly, and then Sansa remembers that she's made plans that involve him.
"I went for a run earlier." Unsurprisingly, she's the one to break the silence. "And ran into Sam."
"Oh?" Those furrowed brows go up.
"Mmm." She nods. "I sort of…invited him to dinner. Him and a friend of his."
His eyebrows disappear now, into the slightly wild dark curls that Sansa is beginning to recognize as his bedhead.
"Wh-here?"
"Yes, I-" She pauses. "I hope it's alright. I thought it would be nice to get to know him, and it seemed like a good opportunity for him to spend time with a woman he obviously likes."
"A…what woman?" Jon blinks at her, apparently more surprised by that than the invitation as a whole.
"Her name was Gilly," Sansa says with a shrug. "She works at a bar, apparently that's how they met."
Still looking distracted, Jon hums.
"Never really known Sam to date."
"They're coming over on Wednesday." Her phone rings again. "Sorry, hold on."
It's Myrcella. More bad news, more work for Sansa.
She hangs up, ignoring Jon's eyes still on her and letting out a rare indulgent groan.
"You get a lot of calls," he observes. "Considering it's the weekend."
"Weekend…" She rolls the word slowly over her tongue, as though it's unfamiliar. "Should I know what that is?"
He cracks a grin, that crooked one that scrunches his eyes, and always makes her feel like she's won something.
"It was just a heads up." Her voice falls weary again. "They've added a speaker to the program and he's…kind of a pain in the ass. I've learned that it's better not to show up alone anywhere he's going to be. Which means I need to find a date."
Because otherwise he'll hit on her mercilessly and aggressively, and she doesn't have the patience to deal with it these days. She runs through a mental list, people who would be available so late, and the only one she can think of is Loras, Margaery's brother, who's both openly gay and quite publicly engaged to someone else. So he wouldn't be of much use to dissuade Roe anyway.
Jon shifts in his seat, shoulder cracking. His gaze has wandered to the wall.
"Can't imagine that'll be difficult for you."
Her eyebrows go up.
"I've got about ten hours to materialize a man who owns a tux and will put up with drunk cougars molesting him all night. Surprisingly, the pool of eligible and willing bachelors is not terribly deep."
"Is it so bad if you can't find anyone?" He asks, still staring at the wall. Sansa briefly follows his glance, wondering what exactly has caught his attention. There doesn't seem to be anything, aside from a small chip in the paint from when she was hanging a painting, so she assumes the conversation is simply no longer holding his interest.
"It's not the end of the world, I suppose." She says it because he probably expects her to. "But I can't imagine Daenerys would be pleased if I sucker punch one of our biggest donors because he's grabbed my ass again."
That gets his attention, concern lining his eyes when they snap back to her.
She waves it off.
"The point is that I'm less likely to have to deal with if I've shown up with someone, because he's a misogynistic son of a bitch but he seems not to like encroaching on other men's territory."
She gets to her feet, figuring the longer she sits here she's only putting off all the things she has to get done.
"I guess I won't be seeing much of you today, then," he says eventually. There's a note of something almost resembling disappointment in his voice, but she's not foolish enough to believe that's what it really is.
"No," she shakes her head, listing her new to-do list on her fingers. "Dress shopping, hair, makeup, date-wrangling…and the event starts at seven although I doubt I'll be there on time. I guess you'll be on your own for dinner."
He shrugs.
"There's leftover stew."
"Mmm." That's a little surprising given how much they ate last night, it was good stew. "And what about you? Any weekend plans?"
Something like a smirk crosses his lips, but she suspects he's laughing more at himself than her.
"Nah. Take Ghost out later, probably, and not much beyond that. The union sent me some paperwork, so I s'pose I could get some of that done."
She has to swallow the urge to make some comment like riveting, especially since after a moment it occurs to her that his evening actually sounds far more enjoyable than her own.
By the time she's found a dress and had her hair done, Sansa still hasn't found anyone to go with her to the dinner. Her list was short to begin with, seems she can only get one event out of a friend before they realize how boring it is and pledge never to go another.
And it's not that she has many male friends, more like acquaintances, and ones that aren't eager to break their pre-existing Saturday night plans to go to some charity thing with Sansa.
She stumbles as she pushes through the front door, tripping over the garment bag in her hand. She braces herself for the impact of the floor, but it doesn't come. Instead, she feels a strong arm wrap around her waist, stopping her fall.
"Oh," she blinks up at the riot of raven curls and brown eyes frowning down at her. "Thanks, Jon."
His lips twitch, just slightly.
Righting herself, she tosses the garment bag over the back of the couch, freeing a hand to smooth over Ghost's forehead as he comes to nudge her legs.
"Wouldn't have wanted you to ruin your hair," he says evenly, gaze flitting to the deceivingly simple half up-do that fades into curls that fall down her back.
She almost cut it, after. But after everything Ramsey had taken from her, it felt almost rebellious to keep something.
"Ah, well." One hand itches to touch it, suddenly self-conscious. "My stylist thanks you for it."
Her own gaze goes to the clock on her microwave display, and the numbers there draw a disappointed groan.
The dinner starts in an hour, and not only does she not have a date, but she'll have to do her own makeup. It's too late to get an appointment with anyone reputable at this point.
Not for the first time today, she curses Daenerys for foisting this off on her.
She looks back at Jon, her eyes catching on the white of his t-shirt and the black of his jeans, and suddenly she has an idea.
A bad one, almost certainly, but she's desperate.
"You said you didn't have any plans tonight, didn't you?" She asks innocuously, slipping out of her boots.
"Mmm?" He's already wandered back into the kitchen, snatching an apple out of the fruit bowl. When he turns back toward her, his mouth is full. "Oh, yeah."
Her smile turns blinding, and it's a little funny the way he literally starts at it, eyes widening in alarm.
"Jon," she says, advancing on him slowly, still smiling sweetly. "Kind, handsome Jon."
His blinking goes erratic, then stills as he realizes what she's after.
"Ah." His groan admittedly outdoes her previous one, drawn out and long suffering.
But also, she notes with heady relief, resigned.
"It would only be a few hours, we can go late and leave early since it's not one of my events-"
"I don't have a tux," he interjects, panic obvious in his voice. Sansa just waves a hand, phone already out.
"Easily taken care of," she murmurs dismissively, fingers tapping away as she texts.
"…I can't dance-"
"I know."
He huffs an exasperated sigh.
"No, I mean I won't be able to, I'm still-" He gestures at his ribs with a wince. Sansa softens.
"I know. I just don't have anyone else this late who could step in for me. Otherwise I'd never ask. And as much as I don't want to go alone, if you really don't want to go I won't ask again. I'm a big girl. I can handle Roe if need be."
His dark eyes have to cast down slightly to see her, she hadn't realized just how close she'd gotten. She can smell the cheerios he must have just eaten, mixed with that fresh snow and pine scent that seems to be his own personal scent. It reminds her of home, and she has to stop herself from burying her face in his shoulder just to breathe it in.
Her cheeks must turn red at the thought, because he quirks his scarred brow at her.
A few more seconds pass in silence, and she lets her gaze wander to give him time to think it over.
"You can get a tux in the next hour?"
Her attention snaps back to him, grin already pulling.
"Or so. We may be a little late."
This time his sigh is dramatic, but light.
In a rare moment of impulse, she throws her arms around him. His sharp intake of breath reminds her that he's delicate, for the moment, but when she moves to pull away he places a hand on the small of her back.
There's not force behind it, but it anchors her there, lingering in the embrace, breathing in his scent and wondering how she's never noticed just how warm he is before.
"Thank you," she whispers, and then she does pull back, unable to read whatever sits just under the surface of his expression.
He shrugs.
"S'fine."
"Now," she claps her hands together, diving entirely into the business at hand. "Do you happen to know how long your inseam is?"