Sansa, Jon muses, has always been most at peace while doing chores.
He knows that sounds weird – somehow sexist – but it doesn't change the fact that she never looks as calm and collected and... yes, content walking the catwalks or taking the floor at fancy parties as she does now, standing in this vast, glossy white kitchen, whipping up eggs and covertly feeding Ghost bacon strips. Jon can't help but notice just how much she reminds him of her mother in that moment. Not just her auburn hair and piercing blue eyes, but her whole nature as well.
True, Catelyn Stark had never made the biggest effort to make him – her husband's bastard son – feel particularly welcome under her roof, but he still can't help but remember her as a natural born home maker. Whenever he thinks of her, he sees her standing in the kitchen humming a song under her breath or sitting in the salon and mending something with Sansa sitting by her feet. She might not have treated him like a son, but Jon has yet to find a depiction of The Mother that reflects the essence of what it means to make a home half as much as Catelyn Stark had. Maybe that's why her rejection hurt so much. Because she embodied everything Jon grew up wishing for in a mother. And Sansa is the same, whether she realises or not ad no matter how many times she crosses the Seven Kingdoms pretending to be someone else.
She is so much more than some hollow fashion icon, even if she's easily one of the most beautiful women he's ever known. And she's too good – and much too clever – to wither away as somebody's trophy wife.
And first and foremost she is so much kinder than she lets on. She's led a life that would have – should have – turned anyone else hard, but not her. Tomorrow, when everyone else is at home sleeping off the party, she'll be at the local orphanage with presents and spend the day with the children before heading to the Soup Kitchen and serving Maiden's Feast dinner to the homeless and the poor.
Sansa is guarded and marred by years of loss, abuse and tragedy, but first and foremost she is warm and loving and caring. She is – and Jon doesn't know if it's ever gonna become her reality or forever remain a figure of speech – a mother.
He doubts Ramsay Bolton cares much for this side of his fiancée. Try as he might, Jon can't shake the suspicion that there is an angle to this whole engagement that he doesn't understand. Or maybe it's just wishful thinking, because his stomach churns at the mere thought of Sansa exchanging vows with this man. Or any man...?
And once again Jon feels himself get sucked back into the same dark circle of thoughts. Things that happened and the things that almost happened. Things that can never happen again. The things he wants and the things he knows he cannot have. I made a mistake, he thinks. Coming here has been a terrible mistake.
He's been naive to believe things could be normal if he just pretended hard enough. If the past hour has proven anything, it's that when it comes to her, things will never be normal again. And with each passing moment it's becoming harder and harder to leave. And he has to leave, if he wants a chance at saving what little there is left of his sanity. Leaving is the logical thing to do. But what he feels for Sansa has very little to do with logic – in fact, his feelings for her stem from the place furthest from anything logic – and he couldn't leave even if he wanted to. Not when it took him over six months to find the courage to see her again.
I'm a fool...
He actually jumps a little when Sansa places a plate in front of him, pulling him back to reality.
"Are you alright?", she asks and is he imagining things or is she really scanning his face for any clue that would tell her what he's been thinking about? "You looked a million miles away."
"It's nothing. I'm just tired and hungry. It's been a long trip." At least that's half true, because while right now he's feeling like he might never be able to sleep again, he really is unbelievably hungry and the lovingly arranged plate of chocolate chip pancakes, scrambled eggs with bacon and fresh fruit makes his mouth water.
"This looks amazing, Sansa. And it smells like Sundays in Winterfell."
She quickly turns her face away, but not before Jon notices the tears in her eyes and he knows he's made yet another mistake by bringing up the lost home of their childhood. But once again she gathers herself remarkably quick. She blinks back against the tears and when she turns back to him she's wearing that fake smile again. Jon isn't sure if she used to be more genuine with him before... before, or if somehow his long absence has made him more attune to the fine nuances in which she expresses her emotions.
"It's mom's old pancake recipe", she says softly. "I always feel better when I cook something of hers. It comforts me."
"Do you need comforting?" The question slips before Jon even has a chance to think about it. He's too worried. And much too eager to ease whatever pain she might be feeling. "You can tell me anything, Sansa."
She's been reaching to refill his coffee mug, but his words still her mid-movement, her hand awkwardly hanging in the air between them for a moment – close enough for him to reach out and touch it, if only he was less of a coward – before dropping back to her side. She watches him with her head cocked slightly to the side and the look in her eyes is some place between a question and a challenge. Can I, Jon?
Yes, can she...?
He realises with a pang of guilt that this claim is as ripe with hypocrisy as his disdain for her empty words and fake smiles. Isn't he the one who ran away? Hasn't he moved to the other side of the continent and thrown himself into mission after mission after mission, because he had found that it was easier to risk his life beyond the Wall than to face what they have done? He opens his mouth to say something, closes it again. There really isn't much that he can say, is there?
For once the Gods decide to show a little mercy on him. A young woman with a tablet and a headset – classical party planner gear – bursts into the kitchen and saves them from yet another moment of heavy silence. Jon recognises her from his Aunt Lyssa's preparations for the Feast of Light. It seems like the harder he tries to forget about those days, the more every little thing keeps bringing them back.
"I'm so sorry to interrupt, Lady Stark", the pretty brunette tells Sansa. Her eyes come to rest on Jon for a moment, but barely long enough to tell if she, too, recognises him or not and then something on her tablet catches her attention and he's all but forgotten. "The florist needs you to take a look at the centre pieces for the pavilion now or else he won't be able to make any last minute changes."
"I'll be right out, Jeyne", Sansa replies, but the other woman is already half out of the kitchen, mumbling into her headset with about hundred miles per second. When she turns back to Jon, he sees the same sense of relief he's feeling mirrored on her face. "I'm sorry, I have to go. You can finish your breakfast while I have someone prepare a guest room for you."
Jon watches her leave and knows this is his final chance to back out. Come up with a paper thin lie about why he cannot stay and be on his way. He could be home in time to celebrate the last day of the feast by getting trashed in his favourite bar with his friend Tormund. But who is he trying to fool but himself? He's not going anywhere.
"Thank you, Sansa."
She stops once she reaches the door, facing away from him. Her gaze is fixed on something down the hall or on nothing at all and her fingers are tapping nervously against the wooden door frame. The light shining through the kitchen window paints her auburn hair a fiery red against the ivory of her skin. She is so beautiful that Jon finds himself holding his breath.
"Please, don't leave while I'm gone", she pleads softly and then she's gone.
