Chapter Text
Leaving the wind-swept headlands for this quiet spot of nature feels like leaving a roaring feast and closing the door behind you. At first everything is still. Then, with every step, Sansa’s ears adjust more and more until she hears all the sounds surrounding them: the woodpecker hacking away at a tree trunk; a stream babbling somewhere up ahead; the guards’ armor clunking many feet behind them; the breathing of the otherwise silent man by her side.
She stays silent too, doesn’t rush him with impatient sighs, doesn’t even shoot him besotted looks of anticipation. Yes, sense has laid down its sword, but she doesn’t need sense to tell her only fools celebrate early. She keeps her mask on, hiding from him and the guards alike how her heart skips around so joyfully her legs want to skip too. As if she were a young girl when she’s a woman grown walking on steady feet toward their future.
Oh, all right. She is a bit weak in the knees, but it no longer makes her feel pathetic. At least not at first. But now the wheelhouse is far behind them, the guards mere brownish shapes that gleam whenever the sun falls over them and catches in their swords and helms, and still Jon's lips stay unmoving. Usually, he would've said at least something by now. Sansa sighs after all, can’t help herself, and shoots him a look (although, there’s nothing besotted about it). Then another. Ends up training her eyes on him, only ever casting the briefest of glances on the path lest she trips over one of the many roots peeking through the trodden ground.
Why doesn’t he say anything?
Say something.
As if Jon heard her unspoken command, he slows his step and meets her gaze. But does he open his mouth? No. He simply motions for her to keep her eyes on where she’s walking with a nod. She’s the one who opens her mouth, then, to let him know she’s not a child. She’s perfectly capable of walking down a path full of roots, weak knees and all. But there’s something about his mouth, a faint twitching of a smile at the corners, that stops her. There’s something about his eyes too, something glimmering in the depths of them, that makes her obey and turn her attention forward when he once more nods in the direction they’re walking.
Oh.
Now, Sansa understands his silence. His true reason for returning to the wheelhouse so early and asking her to join him.
There must be hundreds of them. Thousands, even. Thousands of delicate white stars with golden crowns bobbing on a sea of green leaves stretching out between black alder and ash, all the way to the edge of a stream glittering in the sunlight. She draws in a trembling breath, blinking to clear her eyes before tears blur what she’s waited for her whole life.
He found them. Sansa smiles through her tears, wiping away a few who sneaked free. Jon found her wood anemones.
His heart really shouldn’t be beating this hard. He’s done nothing but stumbling over a patch of flowers, is just showing it to a beautiful girl. Aye, the girl he loves, but it’s not as if he’s proposed to her.
At least not in the past few hours.
He stifles a groan at his clumsy self and forces his focus back on the peace offering before them. The apology for loving her the way he shouldn’t.
“Hope that’s tears of joy?” he asks, forcing levity into his vocie to hide how his heart's still doing a nervous dance behind his scars. “They are, aren’t they? Wood anemones. The flowers. Wasn’t sure. Considered picking one and bringing it back–”
“No!” Sansa grabs his arm. “You can’t pick them!”
“Thought you didn’t believe in that tale. They’re just flowers, aren’t they? Not Thumb Creatures.”
Still holding his sleeve, she gives his arm a gentle swat with her other hand. “Don’t call them that. Show some respect.”
Despite the shame lingering at the edges of him, Jon can't help but grin at her. “So you do believe they’re sprites?”
“No, of course not, but…” She releases his arm and smooths out the wrinkles she caused in his sleeve. “What if I’m wrong?”
“Good thing I didn’t pick any, then.”
Gazing at the abundance of flowers, she exhales in awe. “There are so many of them. I knew they grew in clusters but this… I never imagined they’d be this many.” She grabs his arm again, turning toward him with excitement sparkling in her eyes. “Did you smell them?”
Jon shakes his head. When he saw the flowers, when he realized what they most likely were, so many thoughts swarmed his mind, it couldn’t command his body to move. He simply stood there, staring at what the loudest thought insisted was a sign from the gods telling him to propose, truly propose. But the gods aren’t real. They don’t speak to men through flowers. And even if they did, they wouldn’t have steered his feet this way to encourage him. They would've done it to mock him for his impossible dreams and remind him to be careful what he wishes for. Aye, sometimes Jon thinks he’d get his wish. That she'd give him a yes–a sober and practical yes–because it would save her from unwanted suitors and let her stay at Winterfell forever. But that’s not enough. Not for him.
“I never thought to ask when I was little,” Sansa says, “what their scent is like. And once we started our walks, I didn’t want to ask Wolkan. I wanted to find out for myself. I bet they smell lovely. Sweet.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” Jon asks.
For a beat, she only looks at him. Then she shakes her head, laughing under her breath, and draws a long and loud sigh before raising her skirts an inch and sinking to her knees. Nose dipped into the sea of tiny flowers, she inhales deeply, filling her lungs with their scent. A surprised noise escapes her. After breathing them in again, she sits back on her heels with another sigh.
“Well, that’s disappointing,” she says.
“Didn’t smell sweet?”
“They don’t smell like anything. They don’t have a scent.”
“Thought all flowers had a scent.” Jon proffers his hand and helps her stand. “Maybe you’ve lost your sense of smell.”
Head titled to the side, Sansa considers him. Still holds his hand too, when that’s not necessary at all–but he’s barely finished that thought before her hand slips from his. To chase away the disappointment gathering in his chest, he starts filling himself with air too. But then her hand returns to him, resting on his shoulder now, and that breath hitches in his throat. When she turns fully toward him, her blue eyes locked with his, the air rushes out of him while an old daydream rushes back into his head. She’d thank him with a kiss on the cheek for finding her flowers. That’s how he used to imagine it. A wish he hasn’t dared entertaining in spite of the sea of wood anemones at their feet. She’d never thank him in such a way. Not now that she knows. She’ll be careful around him from now on, won’t risk encouraging him, so why is her hand on his shoulder? Why is she leaning in closer and closer and–
Jon turns as still as the Wall when he feels the cool tip of her nose against his neck and hears her breathing him in. Deeply.
“I can still smell you,” she says, pulling back. “My sense of smell is fine.”
If she expects a comment, she’ll have to wait forever. Once more, there’s nothing but dust in his head. But she’s already back to looking at the flowers, doesn’t notice how his mouth hangs open, how his hand touches his neck as if she left a trace there and he has to touch it. To know whether it was real.
It was real, though. Trace or no. Sansa smelled him. She smelled him when, only a moment ago, she sat in the damn wheelhouse interrogating him for smelling her! All right, and for doing a few other things, but still. And now she’s looking at him again, looking at him instead of the flowers she's been talking about all spring. Her face is even softened by that fond smile of hers he never sees aimed at anyone else. She knows how he feels and still she smelled him. Held his hand. Touched him. She knows and still she smiles at him this way.
Jon’s heart turns into a fool in a mummer's farce, tumbling to and fro as if his chest were a stage. Does Sansa… want him? Is that why she interrogated him?
Should he expect a kiss to his cheek, then? Or should he ask her how she feels? No, that's too forward. What would he dare asking her?
Jon doesn’t have a chance to figure it out before she wordlessly lets him know he and his heart are fools alike by turning back to the bleeding flowers and leaving his cheek unkissed.
No, she doesn’t want him. If she wanted him, she wouldn’t let him sweat this way. If she wanted him, she would’ve thanked him in a much sweeter way for finding the–
Hang on. She’s not thanked him at all.
Frowning, Jon moves the smallest step closer to her, his arm brushing against hers. This is their moment. One for which they’ve waited moons to experience. Together. She could at the very least hold his hand for half a heartbeat and thank him. That's only polite. What is she waiting for--
Hm. Jon scratches his jawline. Why does that sound so familiar? RIght. He asked it just now, didn’t he? And she laughed and shook her head. At herself, he thought, but perhaps she's waiting for him. To ask. Properly, ask. Maybe that’s why she interrogated him. Not because she wants him, mind you, but because his strange proposal this morning sent her thoughts running and somehow they reached the conclusion that it wouldn’t be so bad. To share a life with him. She’ll be safe and at home and adored, and he’ll get the woman he loves. A good marriage many would call it. A fair exchange.
Jon scoffs.
Out loud.
Well, fuck.
“What?” Sansa says, looking at him.
“Er”--he gestures vaguely in the direction of Seabluff–”just thinking.”
She offers him a look of sympathy. “I’m sorry that happened to you. You didn’t deserve that.”
And she doesn’t deserve his grumpy self ruining this moment. This is enough. Watching her admiring the flowers. Etching into his memory the faint freckles on her nose, the shadows cast by her lashes, the pink of her lips and how they're parted as if she’s still bit in awe.
And that’s when Jon feels it, Sansa’s hand searching for his. To give him a squeeze of gratitude after all.
When she doesn't let go but weave their fingers together instead, Jon ducks his head, smiling to the ground. She's not letting go. Several heartbeats have come and gone and she's not letting go.
You should, though. You should let go of her hand--and stop grinning while you're at it, you bleeding idiot. Why do you do this to yourself?
Because he can’t help it. Can’t quell that overwhelming need to feel her skin against his skin. Can’t resist the temptation of getting as close as she’ll let him. Can’t stop himself from offering something he shouldn’t when she hugs his arm with a little shiver. It’s second nature, extending his free arm and inviting her into his embrace. He's promised to protect her and protect her he does. Even from the cold. It's only when she looks at him standing there with his arm out and all that he realizes he can't do this anymore. She'll reject the offer. It's too much.
It's accepted. Stunned, he feels her snuggling closer, pillowing her cheek on his shoulder and tucking her arms between them. It takes him a beat to free himself from his stupor, but then he wraps one arm around the small of her back and runs the other hand up and down her spine to warm her up. It’s only right. She’s cold because of him. Their cloaks are still in the wheelhouse. He’s fine without his, didn’t think to remind her to put on hers, even though he knows he runs hotter.
“I hate it when we fight,” she murmurs, lips so close to his neck he can feel her breath against his skin.
“Me too,” he whispers.
“Are you still angry with me? I’m sorry for asking so many questions. You were uncomfortable. I should’ve stopped.”
“It was all my fault. I never should’ve come to you last night. I put you in an awful situation.”
“I told you. You did the right thing. I’m glad you came to me.”
When she lifts her head from his shoulder and leans back, he lets his arms drop, enabling her to step out of his embrace, wouldn't dream of keeping her trapped there against her will. But she stays close, even lays a hand against his chest so tenderly, he’s certain she can feel his heart starting to race against her palm.
“I mean it,” she says, still staying right where she is, and Jon hurries to lift his arms and link his hands at the small of her back lest she feels rejected and steps away after all. “I was the only person who could’ve helped you. Guards or servants were too risky. They could’ve gossiped.”
“Aye, but I didn’t have to crawl into your bed–and certainly not naked. It wasn’t right to make you sleep a whole night with me… like that.”
“You didn’t make me.”
“Apparently, I insisted.”
“I didn’t mind.”
She didn't? He searches her features for any sign of insincerity but finds none. Still, shame creeps back. Doubt. No, Jon thinks, looking away with a shake of his head. She’s only kind. She knows and loves him anyway. Trusts him so much she feels safe in his arms despite it all.
“I didn’t,” she says. “I liked it.”
His gaze snaps back to her, searching her features again, waiting for the “but” will follow. For the rest of the sentence that will turn what came before into horseshit.
“It makes me feel safe,” she says, softly. “Sleeping like that. I’ve missed it.”
“You have?”
It was barely a question. To his ears, it sounded more like he accused her of lying. She doesn’t take the bait, though, doesn’t drive this into an argument. She lifts her other hand to rest on his chest as well.
“If it were up to me,” she says, “we’d share a bed every night.”
He laughs, a short incredulous burst of air. “To do that, we’d have to…”
He can’t even say it. Wants it too badly. Knows she couldn’t possibly have walked into this wood hoping for another proposal because she wants what he wants. Finding the wood anemones, finally, that was not a sign.
“Would that be so terrible?” she asks. “You didn’t make it sound terrible. This morning.”
The sun doesn’t move and yet eons pass, taking his ability to speak with them. His ability to think too. He can only gape at her as she turns a little in his arms and takes in the wood anemones again. Her chest expands against his with a big breath she releases with a content hum.
“Thank you for finding them,” she says. Then, she dips her chin and looks into his eyes so deeply, it sends his heart into another wild dance. “It made me very happy.”
Her lips part. Her eyes drop to his. She licks hers, bites her bottom lip, as if deciding whether or not she should–
He loses his train of thought entirely when her warm lips press against his cheek, linger there for longer than necessary, even make a sweet little sound when they leave him.
Sansa is waiting for him. He can see it in her eyes when she pulls back, can see the question in them, the invitation. She is waiting, for he’s no longer a bastard boy who can’t ask for what he wants. He’s a king–the king–and she’s a lady. And ladies wait to be asked.
Still, when he lifts his hand to cup her cheek, something within screams at him to retreat before she pushes him away and tells him she doesn’t want that kind of marriage. When his thumb caresses the apple of her cheek, though, her eyes shine with something that once seemed impossible and it makes him brave enough to gently tilt her face down to his. Then he stills. They're so close now. So close to something that will change what they are to one another forever and still her eyes shine. So Jon closes his and captures her lips in a soft, soft kiss.
It’s an innocent thing, as shy and chaste as the flowers at their feet bowing whenever a breeze flows over them. It’s wonderful, it is, but does little to answer his biggest question. He has to know.
Releasing her lips, he leans his forehead against hers. “Sansa, when I said I want to be wanted, you did understand what I meant, didn’t you?”
She slides her hands up his chest and locks them behind his neck. “What makes you think I didn’t?”
“I just want to know you’ve thought it through. We’ll have to share a bed sometimes. The… naked kind of sharing. If we want children.”
She laughs, breathily. “I know how babies are made, Jon.”
“You know what I mean. I don’t want you to be fine with it. I want you to want it.”
Me. I want you to want me.
“Jon.” She leans back to look at him, fingers toying with the hair at the nape of his neck in a way that makes his skin prickle with pleasure. “Last night, after finding you in my bed, I decided to sleep on the settle. But then you asked me to join you. And, no, I didn’t know you were naked, but it doesn’t matter. I could’ve said no. I should’ve said no. But instead of doing what a lady should’ve done, I did what I wanted. And I wanted to fall asleep in your arms and pretend that maybe…”
She averts her eyes, lashes fluttering, cheeks blushing. She’s done that a lot today. Blush. A lot more than usual. So has he. As if they’re a green boy and an innocent girl stumbling their way through the most wonderful confessions. Because that’s what she meant, didn’t she? That she wanted to fall asleep in his arms and pretend that maybe, maybe he loved her too.
“Pretend what?” he rasps out, and a shy smile curves her lips, rounds her pink cheeks. “Sansa. Pretend what?”
A flash of pink draws his attention to her mouth. Her tongue flicking out to wet her lips.
“Will you kiss me again?” she whispers. “You said you’d make me happy. And that would make happy. Very happy.”
Aye, he did say it, wants nothing more than to make it a promise and keep it too. Smiling, he lifts his chin and makes her happy, kissing her again and again, pressing her body so close to his, he feels it responding when he deepens the kiss. A subtle tilt of her hips against his when their tongues meet. A faint moan-like gasp when he sucks on her bottom lip. A needy whimper when he breaks free for air, breaks free to ask her too.
“So you do, then?” he says. “Want me.”
Sansa gives him that look of hers, the one she has when she finds him very very stupid but likes him anyway. Loves him, even. Loves him the same way he loves her.
“Again,” she whispers, her hands clutching at his back as if she can’t get close enough. “Kiss me again. Please?”
It’s the only answer he needs.