The Last Wolves: Chapter Two
They spend more time together than they have in the many moons since she first met him at the Trident. She accompanies him on his frequent rides to Wintertown, where their people throng the street, cheering for the man who rid them of the Others, for the daughter of the still-loved Lord Eddard Stark.
"We are to be their King and Queen, Jon," she whispers to him as the smallfolk cheer them on their way to Torrhen's Square, "They have to see us, they have to know we shall rule them justly, they have to know that there are Starks in Winterfell again."
I shall be a good Queen to them, she thinks when they ride to survey the Cerwyn and Tallhart lands and have men and women and even little toddlers come out to see them, cries of The King in the North, Queen Sansa, and Stark resounding in her ears.
And Jon shall be as good a King as Robb would have been, an able King for the North as well as the Riverlands, she decides, when she sees how loudly they cheer for Jon, even louder than they do for. But she doesn't mind that; after all, he has is the one who decimated the fearsome Boltons, the one who helped end the Long Night.
(But every time they leave Winterfell, she doesn't fail to notice how uneasy he seems, how his eyes are clouded, how sullen Ghost looks when they leave the castle behind them, and how only Nymeria can cause Jon to forget his unnatural yearning for Winterfell long enough for him to smile when the she-wolf playfully nips at his fingers and races with his horse).
oOo
They take their meals in the Great Hall together. And every day, Jon invites a new man of the castle to sit with them, like Sansa herself used to do at Riverrun. She wonders whether somewhere in his mind he remembers that it was Father whom they learnt that from, to dine with the master of horse one day, the armourer the other, and Maester Tarly the next. She tells him quietly that Father used to do the same, but the pained look he gives her makes her swallow the rest of the words she is about to say.
Most days Jon only picks at his food, flinging the biggest pieces of meat at Nymeria; while Ghost lies at Sansa's feet, watching her silently. When she offers a piece of bacon to him, his wolfs it down hungrily, his tongue licking at her palm, tickling her until she giggles, before he settles down at her feet again, watching his grey-furred sister.
When the cooks make pigeon pie one day, she tells him that it used to be his favourite food when he was younger. But he barely eats a bite of the pie. She tells him that Bran used to pester the cooks for honeycombs, just like Sansa herself would wait eagerly for the cartloads of lemons to arrive from White Harbour so that she could have her favourite lemon cakes. Jon nods, watching her as if she is a mildly interesting puzzle.
(But he smiles when she tells him that lemon cakes were Arya's favourite too, and he strokes Nymeria's fur again, the she-wolf ignoring Sansa as if she doesn't even exist).
oOo
He spars with the men every morning, Longclaw slashing through the air, his feet swift and steady, barely breaking a sweat, easily parrying the thrusts of his opponent's swords. And though she has seen him in that glorious battle against the Great Other, she still finds herself mesmerised by him, by how quick he is, how determined he seems, how his eyes are dark with a strange intensity.
"You did very well, Jon," Sansa tells him. He smiles a little at her and goes back to train the younger boys.
(But when Sansa glances at Nymeria, she sees the wolf watching Jon with a longing that Sansa cannot place, the yellow eyes following every movement of Jon's sword, as if Nymeria wishes she was the one sparring with them…)
oOo
They begin talking, more than they ever did even in their childhood – even though the talk only revolves around their dreams for their realm. For all that Jon declined sharing her right to rule at first, she finds that he is as intent on bringing peace and prosperity to their people as she is.
In the beginning, he only listens when she tells him of her plans for who should be in their Council, on who should be appointed to the Kingsguard ("the Queensguard, my lady", he interrupts her), of her plans for the new lordships that would need to be awarded to their most faithful knights, on which of the many castles of the Nights Watch to reward the new lords with, on who should rule the Bolton, Dustin and Frey lands, on trading with the Free Cities to bring in the much-needed coin for the empty treasury...
Jon barely speaks, only agreeing with most of her views, putting in a rare word or two, his hand absently stroking Nymeria, while Ghost watches Sansa curiously.
But days later, uneasy with his silence, when she insists that she wants to hear what he thinks, that she wants the counsel of the King who will rule alongside her, he begins to really speak to her: about where he thinks the boundaries of their realm should lie in the far North, leaving the rest of the lands beyond the fallen Wall for the freefolk who do not want to be part of the new kingdom; he insists that she should have women warriors too in her Queensguard ("women can be as strong in the battlefield as in childbed, my lady, I have seen that in the spearwives who fought and died for me"); he speaks of wanting to import glass so that they can set up glasshouses to grow enough food ("for winter is coming, my lady")…
But he speaks most of securing their borders in case his queenly aunt ever decides that she wanted to rule seven kingdoms and not five. He speaks of the need to train men ("and even women, those who want to wield a sword…" – like Arya, his dark gaze seems to say as he glances at Nymeria), of strengthening whatever army they have left, of buying metal and forging arms for the nearly-empty armoury, of adding to the naval force they already have…
For the first time, she sees a sense of liveliness in him – a welcome change from the pensive, melancholy look he always carries. His eyes are alight, his manner almost passionate as he vows that he shall never let their people suffer through war and carnage again, that he shall never let Winterfell fall again. Nymeria's ears perk up as he speaks, her eyes on him all the time; Ghost's white tail even wags a little, and Jon's voice is laced with fervour – something Sansa has never heard before.
He is the right man to rule with me, she thinks happily every time they speak of their realm. He doesn't thrust his views on her; he always listens keenly to her, never trivialising her opinions just because she is a lady (like some of my lords still do), never being patronising towards her, valuing what she has to say.
(But she doesn't fail to notice that for all the time she spends watching him, observing him, gaining hope from how much he seems to care for the North, his eyes only seek Nymeria, his feet always follow the she-wolf out of the room the moment he finishes his talk with his betrothed, never staying back to speak with Sansa of something other than their kingdom, never asking her about their family, never seeking to know more of the woman who is to be his wife and queen).
oOo
The day of her wedding dawns, and she finds herself standing in front of the full-length mirror in her mother's old chambers, her maids braiding her hair and dressing her in her wedding gown.
It is almost sad how she remembers so much of her past when her husband-to-be remembers nothing of his own, she muses. She remembers the gown she had worn at her first wedding, of ivory samite and cloth of silver, lined with shimmering satin, the sleeves that almost touched the ground when she lowered her arms, the deep bodice with the dove-grey lace. She remembers how beautiful she had looked as she had spun, giggling, the full and long skirts swirling around her, her giddy excitement at marrying Wilas Tyrell bringing a pretty flush in her cheeks.
As she stares at her mirrored reflection now, she looks nothing like that pretty, naive girl. But nor does she have that pale, terrified look she had gained on being told she was to marry the Imp instead of Wilas; she takes that as a good omen.
She straightens the long skirts of the far simpler gown she wears now, made of soft wool instead of cloth of silver.
She looks at the little wolves and trout running all across the hem of her skirts, honouring the two Houses that her blood belongs to, and then at the huge direwolf that Old Nan helped her embroider onto her maiden's cloak. The embroidery is a little askew in some places, thanks to Old Nan's shaky hand and deteriorating eyesight. But Sansa loves it all the more for it; she doesn't have Mother (and how she tries not to think of what they had turned Mother into) or Father or her brothers, but she still has Old Nan, one of the last people alive from the Winterfell she had grown up in... and she has grand-uncle Brynden Blackfish too – that's far more than she had at her first wedding.
"You look beautiful, my sweet girl," whispers Old Nan in her croaky voice, caressing her braided hair with a tenderness that Sansa hasn't felt in many moons, making sudden tears prick at her eyes.
"Thank you, Old Nan," she whispers, a queer feeling in her belly as Gilly fastens her cloak over her shoulders.
It has been two moons since their betrothal – time enough for all her Riverlords to arrive at Winterfell, for all the preparations for housing so many people in the castle which is still being restored, to procure coin and food for the massive wedding feast everyone expects… time enough for Sansa to ready herself for her wedding. But she still finds herself a little nervous now, almost wanting to wring her hands like she used to do when she was a little girl, afraid that Mother would be unhappy if she found out that Sansa had filched the lemon cakes made for the visiting Lord Ryswell.
I am prepared for this, she tells herself. She has had weeks to get used to the fact that she is marrying Jon; far, far longer than she had to prepare for the terrible thought of wedding Tyrion Lannister.
Lord Tyrion was good to me, she thinks of her first husband, not wanting to be unkind to the man even in her thoughts.
But she cannot help but contrast her horror of marrying the dwarf lord with the eagerness she is feeling now, hidden under the apprehension.
It is because I know Jon will be a good king and a kind husband. He is a good man, better than most.
She thinks of Jon waving at the smallfolk, modest, seeming almost embarrassed at the cheers, nothing of the arrogance Joffrey had. She thinks of Jon speaking with Lords Manderly and Glover last evening, his voice soft but carrying an innate sense of command, speaking his mind only after he lent them a patient ear. She thinks of how the lords and smallfolk alike view him with respect, with a sense of pride and trust for this man who so resembles Eddard Stark, with his dark hair and that long Stark face and those grey eyes…
You raised your son, to be a good man, Father, she thinks.
For all that Jon is only her cousin, he is Ned Stark's son, from his nobleness to his innate kindness to his deep sense of honour... He is like you, Father, even now, even though he is a mere shroud of the Jon we knew. He may not remember it, he may not realise it, but he still is everything that you brought him up to be, and I hope he shall be as good a lord husband to me as you were to Mother.
We even look like Father and Mother, she thinks. Lord Glover had remarked upon that – of the great resemblance Jon bears to Father and Sansa bears to her Mother.
We shall be like them, she thinks, a little flutter in her belly – a flutter of hope and keenness and another sentiment that she feels for Jon, one she cannot put a finger on. We shall be like them, happy and content.
But they weren't always happy together, a cynical voice reminds her, Mother could never forget the shadow of the woman who stood between them, even if the woman only turned out to be Lady Lyanna, Father's sister.
Suddenly, her thoughts begin to race in a direction she doesn't want them to: she thinks of Father and Mother, and the bust of Lyanna in the crypts, looking so much like an older Arya would have looked.
But Father could never forget Lyanna, she thinks, her mouth suddenly dry, Father could never forget her… for the love he bore Lyanna, Father even dishonoured Mother by claiming Jon was his bastard.
She is reminded of Jon and Nymeria, of how his longing for Arya hasn't yet abated, at how Ghost's ears twitch every time Old Nan mutters something about wild she-wolves with grey eyes and dark hair, how Jon haunts the room that was Arya's, how he stares for hours at Lyanna's bust in the crypts. I thought it was because she is his mother… but what if he watches Lyanna and looks for Arya in her? Everyone tells him how much Arya resembled our aunt… for every hour he speaks to me, he spends one in the crypts, and a dozen with Nymeria…
She sits down on her chair, the flutter in her belly replaced by queasiness.
I will not think of that now, she tells herself sternly, Jon is to be my lord husband.
Nymeria can follow Jon around all she wants, she can glare at Sansa all she wants, but Jon is to wed her today, and she shall not let the doubts, which she has tried so hard to supress over the past weeks, to take root in her heart.
A knock on the door rouses her out of her thoughts. It's Uncle Brynden. He stares at her for a long moment, blue eyes glistening. And she knows he is looking for her lady mother in her, his dearest niece. She smiles at him; but she can't help but wonder, a little unkindly, about when her last remaining family will see her for who she is instead of looking for others in her. At least Uncle Brynden searches for and finds Mother in Sansa's Tully features, unlike Jon, who stares at her when she thinks she isn't looking, searching and searching and searching, but finding nothing – but she doesn't want to think of that Jon now, the one who still spends hours in the godswood with the wolves, the one who goes nowhere without Nymeria, the one who sometimes looks at Sansa as if he doesn't know her at all, as if he wishes she were someone else…
She smiles at Uncle Brynden instead, hoping he sees Mother in her, the Catelyn Stark everyone knew and loved, not what she was rumoured to have become. The thought of Lady Stoneheart (one that she tries so hard to avoid) makes her shudder, with a pang of sorrow that almost physically pains her. And for once, she wishes she could forget things like Jon has. She doesn't want to remember Mother as the vengeful Lady Stoneheart, but as the kind, gentle, loving mother she had been to her five children.
Uncle Brynden smiles at her, kissing her with an affection that makes her feel like a little girl again, when Father would gather her in his arms and kiss her brow when she was younger.
"Come on, child," he says. She takes his arm, and they walk towards the godswood, Gilly and Old Nan following them.
"Jon is a good man," says her lord uncle, as they walk through the Great Hall, past the courtyard and into the deepening trees of the godswood. But there's something in his tone that makes her wonder whether he suspects it too, what she tries her best not to dwell on: that Jon is more wolf than man, and more of a ghost than he is Ghost. "For all his dragon blood, Ned Stark is the father who brought him up. He shall be a good husband to you, child, and a good father to your children like your father was to you."
Children. Sansa can't help but smile at the thought – a little Robb with grey eyes and dark hair who would be King after Jon and her, a little Bran with red hair and blue eyes to be Lord of Riverrun. Uncle Brynden will like that, she knows – a little boy with the Tully look to take the lordship that was meant for late Uncle Edmure and his murdered son.
Perhaps, Jon would want that too, she thinks – a family of their own making, Eddard and Robb and Bran and maybe even a Rickon. Maybe even a little Catelyn for her mother, if Jon won't mind naming his child after the woman who was always cold to him… And an Arya, she decides… a little girl who will look just like their sister, all wild and messy-haired. Jon will love that, she thinks, trying not to wonder whether he will love this Arya as much as he loves the sister he still pines for.
They reach the heart tree, her bannermen from both her kingdoms gathered around them; and before she knows it she is already midway through the wedding ceremony.
"Who comes?" asks Jon; his beard is trimmed short today, and he has donned the splendid doublet in Stark colours that she sewed for him, Longclaw at his hip, looking like one of the Kings of the North in the crypts with the crown on his head. He looks at neither her nor the Blackfish, staring at the fluttering leaves and the sad eyes of the heart tree instead.
Nymeria and Ghost stand side by side, the she-wolf's eyes staring unblinkingly at Jon with a sentiment Sansa cannot recognise. What is it, she wonders, in those golden eyes that are glimmering strangely? It is sisterly love? Or is it loss and longing? She decides she doesn't want to know, not now, not when she thinks she already knows the answer; she looks at the heart tree instead. She does not want to think of Nymeria, not when the wolf has been completely avoiding her, growling when she tries to pet her… not when Nymeria has seemed so maudlin since the day Sansa asked Jon to wed her.
"Who comes before the gods?" asks Jon.
"Sansa," replies Uncle Brynden, "of House Stark. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?"
"Me," says Jon, his voice firm but quiet; he pauses only a little before he goes on: "Jon of House Stark."
She is pleased to hear the words.
I am Jon Snow, he had told her when they spoke of the wedding vows, Nymeria's huge head lying in his lap where he sat beneath his usual place under the heart tree.
Robb legitimised you, she had retorted, you are Jon Stark, and you shall claim me as such. We are Starks, Jon, and we shall rule together.
She sees the irony of the words, of course. He cannot be Jon Stark when they are marrying claiming they are first cousins and not half-siblings. Despite Jon's parentage being wildly known and even Queen Daenerys accepting the truth of it, many Northmen still gaze at Jon in disbelief at times, seeing only Eddard Stark's long face and grey eyes and dark hair, nothing of the Targaryen's famed silver-haired beauty. Some of the wildlings even whisper about how cousins shouldn't marry, let alone two people who were brought up as brother and sister; it is a sin against the gods, they say.
But there is nothing to be done about that. He was her brother, he is her cousin, and the blood of the First Men and the Starks still flows through his veins, evident in his features that are as Stark as her own are Tully; and she is firm that he shall claim her as a Stark of Winterfell.
"I take this man," she says, her voice unwavering.
Jon takes her hand in his warm one, and they both bow before the heart tree.
Bless us, you old gods, Sansa prays, bless us to hold our kingdom, to rule over our realm well, with peace and justice. Bless us with babes who shall carry the Stark name and live long after us.
She does not pray for Jon to love her as she might have once, years ago. She isn't a little girl with her head full of naïve dreams. She is a woman grown now, and she knows that love is of least concern in matches that are made to secure the realm.
Jon unclasps her cloak and replaces it with a similar Stark one, the Greatjon bellowing for the groom to carry his wife to the castle, the other boisterous men joining him.
Jon lips twitch a little – even that smallest hint of a smile making a sudden spurt of joy blossom in her. He smiles so rarely that she treasures every one of his grins.
And then suddenly, Jon scoops her up in his arms. There's a little flush in her cheeks at the gesture, at the unexpected and welcome closeness to Jon; and Sansa thinks that they perhaps shall make a content marriage if not a loving one.
oOo
The feast goes on for hours. The North has had precious little to celebrate since her lord father first left Winterfell years ago with Arya and her. And now that there's finally a Stark in Winterfell – two Starks, to be precise – everyone is in high spirits, feasting and drinking and dancing, with richer food and more wine than Sansa has seen since she left the Vale.
Hoster Blackwood dances with Wynafryd Manderly; Lord Mallister with Lady Maege; Alys Kartstark and her Thenn husband dance too, the Magnar dancing a little unsurely, their toddler son looking so adorable as he tries imitate his parents and dances with one of Lord Wull's little granddaughters. The Greatjon seems already drunk; his hand is around a serving girl's waist as he guffaws loudly at something Old Flint says, while Lords Mallister and Vance and Glover, and even Larence, the new Lord of the Hornwood, are engaged in a cordial discussion.
These are my bannermen, she thinks, glancing at Jon. These are our people, Riverlords and Northern lords alike, and we shall lead them together.
Even as she watches the Blackwood boy and the Manderly girl dance, her mind is already at work. She knows how different the two kingdoms they rule are: the North bleak and stern and cold, like its people, with ice in their veins and unbridled courage in their hard hearts; and the Riverlands bright and proud, entrenched deeply in Southron culture. She shall need to bridge the divide between the two, like Robb did, she thinks. The King in the North never ruled the Trident, but they all chose Robb as their King, respected him and loved him and died for him... Lord Blackwood and Uncle Brynden even flew the direwolf banners long after Mother and Robb were dead.
She shall make them love her too, she vows. She shall knit the two kingdoms together, with justice and love, like Robb would have done, foster close ties between her Northern and Southron bannermen - our bannermen, she amends, for they are now as much Jon's as they are hers. Perhaps she can have Hoster marry Wynafryd, if she will have him. The Blackwoods have been her staunchest supporters as the Manderlys have been Jon's once Rickon was lost to them forever; she hopes to reward them both with this match.
The Magnar of Thenn suddenly twirls Lady Alys around, pulling her in for an unabashed, deep kiss that makes Sansa flush and sends some of the drunk men hollering. It isn't the physical intimacy that makes Sansa look away, but the clear affection between the pair, the love that is clear in both their eyes, their manner, the little glances and the light touches when they speak to each other, the tenderness with which the Thenn clasped Alys' hand and asked her for a dance. They are so different, a highborn lady and a wildling leader, but they seem so close… like they're in love, her younger self would have said.
I want that, she thinks suddenly, earnestly, the wine she has drunk making her voice thoughts she would never have admitted otherwise. I want what Alys and Sigorn have… the love that Mother and Father had, whispers the little voice in her mind, sounding so much like her younger self – a voice she has supressed for so many years now.
Father grew to love Mother, even though she wasn't even meant to marry him at first, and Mother slowly fell in love with Father even though she disliked the thought of Father loving Jon's mother. Perhaps, Jon shall one day love me as his lady wife, too.
It is a childish wish, she knows. Her marriage is one made to forge a new Kingdom together, not for love. But she can't help but want that – to be loved, to be wanted and cherished, not because she is Eddard Stark and Hoster Tully's heiress, not because she is one of the prettiest maidens in all the Seven Kingdoms, not out of lust or greed like Littlefinger and Marillion and all the men who desired her over the years did, but for herself, as a man wants the woman he truly loves.
I am being silly, she rebukes herself sharply.
Life isn't a song; she has learnt that over the years, since the time they chopped her father's head right before her eyes. She is a Queen now, a Queen in her own right; she has her smallfolk and her lords and her kingdom to think of, not long-forgotten dreams of the child she had been.
But despite it all, she finds herself turning to her new husband, the wine giving her courage. Unlike how Jon has been a little vocal around her recently, he has barely spoken to her today beyond a few courteous words. And she realises that she wants to talk to him now, even if it is only about the realm and their lords, she wants to clasp his hand again, like she did in the godswood that day.
"Shall we dance, my king?" she asks him.
But Jon doesn't even look at her; he is staring at something to their right. Startled, Sansa realises that Nymeria and Ghost, both standing beside Jon, are staring at the same scene, Ghost and Jon's eyes even blinking in an eerie tandem that makes gooseflesh erupt all over her arms. The three wolves (for Jon is as much a wolf as Ghost, she thinks, shivering) are watching the kitchen maid's twin boys playing in the corner, wielding large spoons like makeshift swords… like Robb and Jon used to, in the courtyard on snowy evenings, until Ser Rodrick led them back to the castle.
"Jon?" she says softly, knowing she should feel slighted at the way he is neglecting her to watch the sparring boys instead. But something in Jon's expression – the yearning, the ardour that makes him seem truly, unusually human – makes the feeble anger dissipate almost immediately.
Jon doesn't reply; it is as if he hasn't even heard her, as if he is watching and remembering – or so she thinks, and so she hopes. He keeps watching the boys, as do the two direwolves.
Do you remember, Jon, she wants to ask him; an unfamiliarly fierce hope blooms in her heart. Does it remind you of playing at swords with Robb like those boys are, Jon?
She doesn't really remember much of Jon and Robb's games. She was more interested in dolls and songs than knowing what her brothers were up to. But Arya would have known, she thinks, a little jealously. Arya was forever following the boys around, always wanting to be with Jon, always wanting to join in their boyish games than playing with Sansa and Jeyne and Beth.
"Jon?" she repeats, laying her hand on his arm.
It is Ghost who turns to her first, and then Jon, who looks as if he had forgotten she was even there beside him, as if he had forgotten this is their wedding day; Ghost nips softly at her hand, but Nymeria doesn't even spare her a glance, as if Sansa doesn't even matter to her at all, like Arya did after she got into a fight with me, she remembers almost sadly.
"Shall we dance, Jon?" she asks him again, though her eagerness for the physical closeness to him is subdued now. Instead, her mind is brimming with curiosity; she wants to know what Jon is thinking, whether he is remembering. She wants to talk to him of their family, of Father and their brothers – something Jon never seems to want to do.
"Yes, my queen," Jon says, and they walk to the centre of the dancing couples, cheers resounding in the Great Hall when the assembled people see their King leading their Queen for the dance.
Jon puts his hand on her waist, the heat of his palm making her skin feel warm, and they begin dancing to the music.
She waits as they dance, for Jon to begin a conversation, to say something to his new wife, to speak of why he was watching those boys. But he only smiles politely at her – more to oblige their guests, she thinks, like he did when he carried her out of the godswood in his arms.
"When we were little," she says, deciding to take the first step of speaking of their childhood. "You used to practice dancing with me, sometimes. You are as clumsy as it now as you were back then."
"I doubt I got many opportunities to dance at the Wall, my lady," he says, his tone light. He is looking at her now, unlike the vacant, absent looks he gives her at times, making her smile in delight.
She watches him eagerly, not even minding that he steps on her toes twice; she wants to speak, to make him speak. It is so rarely that she hears him talk of things other than the castle and their lands and people and their plans for the future of their realm.
But when he says nothing, she decides to take the lead again, to talk of the last big feast they had before King Robert's arrival, on Rickon's first nameday, when the songs and drinking had gone on well past midnight – a time when they were all together and happy… a family… because Jon deserves to have happy memories of the past.
But she barely gets a single word out when Jon looks away from her, looking at something behind her, a sudden flicker of emotion in his eyes.
"Jon?" she says, but when his gaze returns to her, that earlier familiarity he looked at her with is gone.
"Yes, my queen?" he says.
But before she can speak, Jon twirls her around, and she sees what he had been looking at, what had brought that flicker in his eyes: it is Nymeria; the she-wolf is staring at Ghost so intensely (more like a girl than a wolf, Sansa thinks with a chill up her spine) that she has to look away, just like she did when the Magnar kissed Lady Alys.
I am imagining things, she tells herself sternly, Nymeria is a wolf; she is not Arya. But she remembers Lord Reed's words as clearly as if he had told them to her just yesterday: about Wargs leaving a part of themselves behind in the beast they warged into… more girl than wolf, more Arya than Nymeria, says a sickening voice in her mind.
And when she looks at Ghost, there's no mistaking that those blood-red eyes, gleaming redder in the light from the many torches, contain the same look that Jon's did barely moments ago… more man than wolf, more Jon than Ghost, repeats the voice; and this time, she finds it harder to ignore it.
If Ghost is Jon and Nymeria is Arya and they are looking at each other like this… with this yearning, with such intensity and love — she cannot complete the thought, she fears to complete the sentence.
"When you were younger," she says swiftly, though her mouth is dry and her heart is racing, collecting her thoughts and herself, wanting Jon to look at her again, wanting to refute her own suspicions and fears, "Robb and you used to play like those two boys you were watching."
Jon glances at her now, a little eagerly. "We did?"
"Yes. Ser Rodrick—our master-at-arms," she adds hastily, before Jon can remember that he has forgotten Ser Rodrick, "He allowed you only wooden swords when you were younger. And Robb and you used to spend all evening playing with them… you were little boys, but you both thought yourselves mighty knights and heroes…"
She had only watched them a couple of times, but she tries to embellish her memories with her own imagination now, wanting to tell Jon of the times he had shared with their brother.
I want to fill his heart, she thinks earnestly, with joy and smiles and the happiest memories of our family.
"Robb always loved to be Aemon the Dragonknight," she goes on. In her eagerness, she even forgets that she usually doesn't mention any Targaryens to him; it only serves to make Jon brood more. But he doesn't seem to mind it now; he watches her eagerly, as if he is hanging on to every word she utters. "And you would say you were the Young Dragon, or Ser Ryam Redwyne of the Kingsguard, and Robb would—"
"And Arya?" he interrupts her.
There is naked hunger in his gaze now, she observes with a little jolt; his hand on her waist tugs her a little closer, making her inhale his scent that smells of weirwood leaves and snow and man and wolf. "Did she play with Robb and me, too? What did she want to be, when she and Bran played at swords with branches in the godswood?"
Her breath hitches somewhere in her throat.
How can he know that? she asks herself, her extremities seeming suddenly cold despite the warmth Jon exudes. He remembers nothing of his past—and most of the people who knew Arya and Bran are long dead. How does he know this, when even I had forgotten?
"Did Old Nan tell you that?" she asks him casually, as if nothing is amiss, her expression unchanged, but her heart fluttering in her chest, her gaze moving to Nymeria despite herself.
"No," he replies shortly; she feels his shoulder tensing under her palm, and she knows him enough by now to know he won't speak of this again. She swallows her unease, her questions and even the little anger.
Did Nymeria tell you that? she wants to scream at him. Arya is my sister too, not only yours! I want Arya back too! Does Arya still live in Nymeria? Is Arya still alive? If she is, why isn't she coming back to us? And if she is dead like the rest of our siblings, why is it that you talk to her wolf but not to me, your living, breathing sister, the last of your family, your wife now?
She blinks back the sudden moisture pricking at her eyes.
I'm being unkind and unfair, she tells herself. Lord Reed told me what happened to Jon when he came back to life… how he only remembered Arya and Winterfell and nothing else… how he wanted nothing else. He isn't the Jon I knew. But he is trying… he even spoke so much to me in the past few days… he is trying, and I have to give him time. I have to be kind to him… he is my husband now… the last of my family…
Family, Duty, Honour, she chants in her mind, the words of her mother's House...
But she cannot help push away the feeling of loneliness, of being alone despite being in the arms of her brother… her cousin… her lord husband now…
Family, Duty, Honour, she chants. And when Uncle Brynden comes to ask her silent husband for a dance with her, she doesn't mind the loss of Jon's warmth at all, as she watches him go back to his place with his wolves.
oOo
The merriment finally draws to a close. She has danced with most of the noblemen, spoken to everyone from Lord Bracken to the lord from Skaagos who told her a little about Rickon in his strange, garbled version of the Common Tongue (she has stored every word about Rickon safely in her memory – she means to tell it to Jon, to remind him of the brother who was barely three when they both saw him last); she has drunk rather more wine than she should have, and sent the choicest bits of the feast to her lords. Sansa hasn't eaten much herself, her belly too full of doubts and fears to have place for the delicious food.
Jon hasn't eaten much too… but for an altogether different reason, she suspects.
He doesn't eat, he doesn't sleep, he isn't a man anymore, she remembers one of the maids whispering last moon. She had sent the maid away, of course… she couldn't have anyone speak ill of their King. But she knows there was some truth to the maid's words. Jon barely eats, and she has never yet seen him sleep.
"Bedding! Bedding!" the shouts begin, and her heart skips a frightened beat.
She isn't frightened, really. She is a Queen now, a married woman, and she has to be bedded… she is far more eager to consummate her second marriage than she ever was for her first… she wants those babes she dreams of, an heir to their kingdom, of little sons and daughters to sing lullabies to… and somewhere, deep within, despite herself, she wants to feel Jon, to know how his warm mouth will feel on hers, to feel his warm hands on her...
But now, with the chants for the bedding increasing, she doesn't relish the thoughts of unwanted hands touching her again, hungry eyes staring at her breasts in that lecherous way like Joffrey and his courtiers had, she doesn't want them tugging at her gown like Littlefinger used to do, doesn't want them seeing her naked, scared and vulnerable…
But she lifts her chin. I am a Stark of Winterfell and courage runs in my blood.
"Bedding, the bedding!" the chants are louder now, the lords getting to their feet as Sansa does too, hoping they don't see the trembling that she cannot stop.
I am a Stark of Winterfell, she tells herself.
She finds her chair pulled away, as the men gather around her.
The women around Jon who is suddenly still, she notices, his eyes on Ghost.
She prepares herself to feel the groping hands, the hungry eyes. She is a little thankful that the Greatjon is in the huge crowd of men; he is her staunchest champion since she rescued him and the Northern prisoners from the Twins, and she knows that a simple command from her would make him send anyone who seeks to harm her flying. But she will not ask him to.
I am a Stark of Winterfell.
But before Lord Hornwood's hand even moves to her sleeve, Jon speaks, loud and clear: "There shall be no bedding, my lords."
There is a collective sigh of disappointment, even from the women. But Sansa doesn't quite care about it as Jon leads her to their room, taking her hand in hers.
"Thank you, Jon," she tells him quietly, when the door is shut and they are seated on the featherbed. "What you said, about the bedding—"
"You didn't want it," he says quietly, staring at something behind her. "I wouldn't have you do anything you do not want to, my queen."
The concern in his tone almost makes her heart leap with hope again. "How did you know I didn't want the bedding to happen?" she asks him softly, a little curious now, wondering if he had been observing her, if he cares about her enough for him to have guessed her mind.
"I didn't know," he says, meeting her gaze now. "Ghost was watching you," he murmurs almost inaudibly, as if the words aren't even meant for her to hear. "Ghost knew."
Ghost told him? The direwolf must have sniffed it, felt it – my discomfort, my fear.
But if Jon is Ghost… Jon was watching me too, along with Ghost, she realises, her earlier hurt at his behaviour abating, as she clings on to this little thing that gives her hope for their future together.
She has noticed Ghost watching her often these past two moons, not following her everywhere like Nymeria used to in the Riverlands, but with his red gaze always on her, watching, observing mutely, letting her pet him sometimes, being kind to her when Nymeria has been ignoring her so studiously.
Was that you, Jon? Were you watching me from within Ghost?
After all, even Lord Reed says Jon is one of the most powerful skinchangers – his ability reaching unforeseen proportions due to the time he spent in Ghost after he was stabbed. Do you watch me, Jon? Is that why Ghost never seems to take his eyes off me when I am around him? Is that why Ghost seeks me out when I am feeling lonely? Is that why he lets me caress him when he doesn't let anyone else even close to him?
It has been so long since Jon has shown any kind of sentiment towards her, any kind of interest in her; even if he is doing it through Ghost now, she finds herself suddenly delighted, suddenly eager.
She looks at Jon, in a way she never has before, feeling suddenly light-headed. She sees his long, dark hair and somehow doesn't see Father or Arya in those dark locks. She sees how tall he is, taller than Father was, how lithe his built is – like his real father, like Rhaegar, she thinks. She looks at his long face, but she knows that his nose is different than Father's was… and his grey eyes suddenly don't remind her of her family, but she finds herself wanting to delve into those dark pools of grey, she finds herself wanting him to keep looking at her, finds coils of desire unfurling gradually in her belly.
It is the wine, she tells herself. But she doesn't care anymore. She wants him, her husband, not her brother or her cousin… she wants to love and be loved, she wants to divest herself of her maidenhood that she so painstakingly defended from Petyr and Harry the Heir's lecherous advances.
Should I undress, my lord? she wants to ask him, but unlike the last time she asked that to her lord husband, she finds that she isn't asking it merely out of a sense of duty. She wants Jon to kiss her lips, she wants Jon to touch her in ways she blushes at imagining…
"Jon," she says quietly, and before she can get nervous again, she reaches out to him, clasping his hand.
His eyes bore into hers, thinking, watching.
He reaches for the locks of her hair that have escaped from her braid, slowly, hesitantly, staring at the red strands he holds between his thumb and fingers, watching and watching and saying nothing. But when he takes his gaze off her hair and looks at her again, there's something different in Jon's eyes, something nice, something that makes her heart beat faster – and for the first time since she met him, she finds herself thinking what she never thought before: more Jon than Ghost, she thinks, more man than wolf.
His hand reaches for her face, cupping her cheek gently, her skin feeling warm where his palm touches her, warmth beginning to pool in her belly, his eyes still gazing into hers, darkening with desire.
Do you feel it too, Jon, she wants to ask him. Do you feel what I am feeling? What you felt for that wilding woman you broke your vows with? What you felt for the wildling princess they say you bedded? Do you feel what I am feeling for you now?
"Jon," she whispers, watching his pupils beginning to dilate, her heart thudding madly.
She wants him; she wants him like she has never wanted him before. She wants him to utter her name in his deep voice, not the my queen or my lady that he calls her, but Sansa, like he did in the godswood two moons ago. She wants him to touch her, she wants to feel him, and she wants him to lie with her – not for duty, but for the desire she is feeling for him.
"Jon," she says, as his hand moves to her chin, tipping her face upwards, his breath warm as it falls on her lips. "Jon—"
There's a loud howl, seeming to come from the godswood.
But before she can even realise that it is Nymeria who is howling, Jon pulls back from her as if scalded.
"Jon?" she whispers, taken aback, and then aghast as he backs away from her. "Jon, we are married now. We must—"
"Forgive me, my queen," he says, turning away from her, as Nymeria continues to howl.
A/N: A Jon POV next, to make things clearer :)