It takes Jon over ten minutes to gather enough courage to get out of the taxi that's driven him from the bus station to the Bolton family's summer house in Highgarden.

He's sitting in the back seat – there is no way Ghost would ever ride in the back of a stranger's car alone and Jon never had the heart to make him – and staring up the ridiculously long driveway leading from a massive iron gate to yet another cookie cutter Highgarden mansion. Blindingly white walls lined with wide, spotless windows, a meticulously trimmed lawn and vibrant, fragrant roses that have probably won some stupid gardening contest at some point. He's passed at least ten houses just like this one on his way here. The only thing telling this one apart from the others is the elegant, white pavilion standing out back. He can only see a fraction of it from where he's sitting, but it's not his first time here and he knows that it's taking up at least one fifth of the park like back garden. Just one of the superlatives at work when the High Society of Westeros is on parade.

There is a white van labelled "Hot Pie's Catering" parked in front of the lordly entrance with its marble steps and over-the-top columns and people in various forms of workwear are hurrying in and out of the house and around the garden. Sansa really doesn't mess around when it comes to the Feast of the Maiden. It was her mother's favourite holiday and after her sudden death she took it on herself to keep the tradition of hosting a glamorous charity event on the first night of the three day celebration.

Back before everything had gone to shit they used to spend the second day at home – playing boardgames, cooking together, overall just enjoying each other's company – then went to the fairground by the river to watch the swans and the firework on the last night. Jon still remembers how enchanted Sansa used to look, staring up as the sky exploded with a thousand colours above their heads and with her hand firmly grasping that of her mother. No wonder she is giving it her all year after year. She probably never feels closer to her mum than she does during these few days.

The taxi driver awkwardly clears his throat and gives him a pointed look through the rear mirror. Jon hastily apologises and pays him – along with a generous tip – takes his duffel bag and gets out of the car with Ghost following heel like the good boy he is.

The gate opens without much of a bother. Jon's been in the yellow press more than his fair share over the past few years - "Stark Bastard Turns Out To Be Secret Heir To Targaryen Fortune" had been a headline too juicy to pass on even for the more serious news outlets throughout the Seven Kingdoms – so he doesn't even need to show his ID before the security guy waves him through.

The front door is open and Jon doesn't even get a chance to as much as think about changing his mind, before he is more or less ushered inside by two guys hurrying up the stairs behind him, carrying a massive floor vase with long stemmed white lilies – Sansa's favourite flowers.

And that's it. After roughly two thousand miles and two days on three different buses he's back where it all began. Or where it ended, depending on how he chooses to look at it. Jury's still out on that.

"Hello?"

His voice actually echoes in the wide foyer, which is almost entirely taken up by a grand, winded staircase and the biggest crystal chandelier he has ever seen outside an opera house. The sheer scale of this place leaves him yearning for the Stark's old, cosy summer house down by the river. He would always pick the rustic charm of the old log cabin over these marble halls. But Sansa has always dreamed of living in a place like this growing up. To live like a princess. Is she happy here, after all, in this ivory tower, engulfed between silk curtains and mahogany antiques?

"Jon."

It's funny. Even though he's here to see her, hearing her voice is still a shock. "You're here."

He looks up and there she is, standing atop the stairs, looking breathtakingly beautiful in something as simple as a pair of dark skinny jeans and a grey shirt, her hair pulled up in a lose ponytail. She's staring down at him with her eyes wide in what he can only describe as surprise. And that's when it hits him. That's when he suddenly gets it. Why she's been acting so... her on the phone while he's barely been able to hold it together. How she was able to go and invite him into her home when he could barely make it through that phone call. It's not that for Sansa things between them haven't changed. It's that she has been certain that things between them were so utterly messed up that he would never come here anyway. She'd thrown out a bunch of empty words – Lannister style, a tiny voice in his head spits bitterly and he would swear it sounds a little like Arya – save in the belief that they'd be without consequence. He has a feeling that faced with the consequences now, she regrets her carefree words.

And Jon? He feels lie the dumbest person alive. And even though he usually tries to keep all thoughts of Ygritte – fiery, mouthy, wonderful, deadYgritte – buried as deep as humanely possible, he now can't help and think about his late colleague and lover's first ever words to him. "You know nothing, Jon Snow."

Judging by the evidence it's true. Apparently he knows horse shit – especially when it comes to women.

He feels terribly awkward standing there like this. Like somehow the grown man serving in what's inarguably the most dangerous job in Westeros has been transformed back into a clumsy teenage boy with arms too long for his body and a weird stubble on his upper lip. Goes to show that special training and a steady trigger finger does crap for you unless you find yourself staring down the barrel of a gun. He would trade this moment with another trip north the Wall without missing a beat.

"I thought you really wanted me here..." It almost sounds like he's apologising – maybe he is. For being here. For not getting it sooner. For making the situation hard on both of them. He's almost ready to just turn around and bail when the strangest thing happens.

Sansa takes a tentative step down the stairs, then another, her eyes still fixed on him.

"Jon", his name falls from her lips in something like a strangled sob and suddenly she's all but racing down the steps; dumb luck and a complete disregard for the laws of physics the only two things keeping her from falling and then she's right there with him, hurling herself at him with so much force that she almost knocks him over. Her arms wrap tightly around his shoulders and she buries her face in the crook of his neck.

"I did", she whispers and the sensation of her warm breath against his neck sends a shiver down his spine. "I did want you to come here."

He senses a big, ugly but behind her words. But I didn't know if after everything you'd come. But I was afraid this is a terrible mistake.

Whatever it is, though, it will have to wait. Right now the feeling of her in his arms leaves no room for much else. She smells like lemony shampoo and a flowery, expensive lotion and Jon's very distinctly aware that he's giving off the typical smell of a man who went two days without a shower, but if she notices, she doesn't seem to care. In that moment it's just them, holding on to each other like people drowning. Jon feels her shaking against him and wonders if she's crying.

But when she finally takes a step back – Jon has to fight the impulse to wince at the sudden loss of contact – and kneels down to greet Ghost, who has been spending the past moments wailing and wagging an exited tail against the back of his legs, she's smiling brightly at the giant direwolf. "Hey, my beautiful boy. I've missed you, too."

As she's running both hands through thick, white fur the sunlight catches in the impressive princess cut stone adorning her left ring finger. He wouldn't be Jon Snow, Certified Knower of Nothing, if he doesn't find exactly the right words to ruin this precious moment.

"So, where's Ramsay?"

That little prick's name alone is enough to leave a stale taste in his mouth and it's not lost on him how Sansa stills in her movements for the briefest of moments, her features clouding over before she quickly catches herself and slips back into that perfect facade she's learned to wear at King's Landing. Strong Sansa. Runway Sansa. Everybody's darling. She's smiling again, but this time it doesn't reach her eyes. He doesn't know what's going on exactly, what about the mention of her fiancé has her reacting this way, but part of him is afraid of what he will do the day he finds out.

When that git Joffrey Baratheon had done the world a solid and OD'd during one of his family's extravagant outings, Jon had been oddly relieved, thinking that things were finally looking up for Sansa with her abusive on-off boyfriend out of her life for good. But then along came Ramsay Bolton.

To this day Jon doesn't understand what Sansa sees in that guy, let alone why she accepted when he proposed to her a little over a year ago. She never talks about it, but that much Jon understands – Bolton is treating her badly, even if he can't be sure what exactly that means. And if only half the rumours going around Westeros are true, he makes Joffrey Baratheon look like a harmless school yard bully.

For all the selfish, shameful reasons Jon has to hope for this wedding to never happen, no reason speaks louder than the taught set of Sansa's shoulders as she stands up now with one hand still absent mindedly stroking Ghost's back.

"Ramsay's on a business trip to Riverrun", she replies with a dismissive wave of her hand. "He called this morning. He won't be here until after the party." She doesn't seem too sad about her fiancé missing her favourite holiday.

"You must be starving", Sansa says in a very thinly disguised way to change the subject. "There's eggs and leftover pancake batter in the fridge. Let me fix you something."

"Sounds perfect", he gives back with a smile. He then follows her as she makes her way out of the foyer with Ghost trotting behind her like Jon's suddenly become invisible. Typical.

Jon knows full well that this is Sansa's way of declaring the subject 'Ramsay' off the table, but he is far from done. Maybe he's overreacting. Maybe he's reading too much into something that is actually nothing. And maybe he is actively looking for anything to distract him from the real issue he and Sansa will have to face sooner or later. But no matter his ulterior motives, one of these days he'll make her tell him what Ramsay Bolton is doing to her.

And whatever it is she'll tell him, he will make sure that there'll be hell to pay.