Chapter Text
On cloaks spread over the yellow grass, Sansa’s handmaidens watch fluffy white clouds drifting across the soft blue sky. A couple of guards sit next to them, pointing skyward, commenting on the shapes and grinning when the women laugh. Three more guards have set up a table right on the road and play dice with as many servants. The drivers are pacing back and forth, stretching their legs and passing a waterskin between them that most likely contains something else.
None of them notice Jon and Sansa appearing until his personal attendant breaks the serene tableau by emerging from a nearby shrub. Buckling his belt, he hurries toward the wheelhouse, stumbles over a tuft of grass, springs to his feet, keeps running. The others catch on and scramble to stand lance-straight before bowing respectfully as the king and his cousin pass.
While waiting for the driver to open the door for them, Sansa glances at Jon. He’s wearing his mask–and so firmly he’s looking near-grumpy when only moments ago he was beaming and holding her hand as they floated down the path together. At least until they reached the four guards who’d followed them into the wood. Once the men were done stumbling over one another in an attempt at looking as if they hadn’t noticed the king kissing his cousin until her already-weak knees nearly gave way, Jon aimed his stern king’s face at them, one at a time.
“Lady Sansa and I are betrothed,” he said. “Only six people know–and as we’re all–” He paused, waiting patiently as one of the guards counted on his fingers while mumbling to himself. “Caught up yet, Donal?”
Donal looked up from his fingers. “Aye, Your Grace! Wanted to make sure, Your Grace.”
King’s face softened a touch, Jon acknowledged the guard’s efforts with a nod before becoming stern once more and swearing the guards to silence. They wouldn’t dare breaking their oath, Sansa knows, but when it comes to the rest of their retinue… Considering how Jon has acted today, the guards’ silence won’t stop them from gossiping. Neither will their love for their king. It only makes them more invested.
So Sansa’s worn her mask as well and wears it still, staying composed and silent even as they settle in behind the now-closed door. Only when they’re traveling again and the rattling of wheels against dirt and stone weaves a shroud of noise that muffles her voice, does she share what’s been on her mind since Jon spoke with the guards.
“You,” she says, “told the guards we’re betrothed.”
“Would you have preferred they thought we were just”--Jon gestures in the direction of the wood–”without being betrothed?”
“No.” She gives Jon a meaningful look. “But you lied to them.”
“No, I didn’t?”
“You did. We’re not betrothed.” When his brow furrows with confusion, Sansa continues, “You haven’t proposed to me.”
“I have. This morning. And you've accepted. All right, not by literally saying yes, but you've made yourself clear. You want to marry me."
"That was not a proposal.”
“You called it one. During your interrogation. You even said it was sweet.”
“I did. It was sweet, considering the circumstances. But it wasn’t a proposal. It was panic. Panic over something that hadn’t even happened. Yes, you did the honorable thing, but when it comes to this, ladies don’t dream of honor and duty, Jon. They dream of…” She sighs. “Is it too much to ask? For a proper proposal. It's how it's done.”
After a beat of slack-jawed staring, Jon closes his mouth and twists it into a sardonic smile. “You’re requiring a lot of proposals lately.”
“Only one.”
Frowning, Jon gives a few slow nods. “Well, at least I kept my word. Promised you wouldn’t leave this place betrothed.”
“We’ve left.”
He shakes his head. “We’re still on Ivertusk land. The wood is theirs. This road is theirs.” He draws himself up, looking at her with his head tipped back a little. “I’d like to remain a man of my word. You’ll have to wait.”
He’s being ridiculous. Seabluff Keep lies far behind them–and even if it didn’t, Jon breaking his promise by being the one to propose is hardly shaking her trust in his word. But he’s still wearing a mask. Not his king’s face, no, but the cocky expression that sometimes appears when he doesn’t feel good enough–and it mollifies the part of her that wants to bicker and get her way.
It reminds her of a lesson learned long ago: she needs to pull her head out of the clouds and find beauty in what’s real.
“You’re right,” she says, softly. “I’m being difficult to please for no good reason. You did offer marriage this morning and I did find it sweet. I accept. We’re betrothed.”
“No. You’ve been married twice. Against your will. You deserve better than panic.” Jon shifts in his seat, tugging at the fabric of his breeches that strain over his knees. “Still have to wait, though.”
He resumes staring out the window, leaving her to sit in a tense silence that gnaws at the joy in her chest. At her conscience too. They were so happy, and now they’re sitting on opposite benches with a wall of expectations between them she chose to erect when she knows he’s not prepared to climb it. He’s not a man of grand gestures.
Come to think of it, is it truly what she wants? The words just slipped out of her. As if she’s still a little girl with fixed ideas on how things should be when she’s not. She’s a woman who’s come to associate grand gestures with deceit, ulterior motives, and insincerity. That’s not what she wants.
Oh, why did she open her mouth?
There’s no point in tearing down the wall herself, though. He’d assume her lying as to not be a bother. And he’s already retreated into himself, anyway. Stewing, she would’ve thought once, but by now she knows the minuscule changes in his expression and the way he sometimes lifts a hand mean he’s practicing what to say.
Observing his process won’t help him, and she’s too absent-minded to knit, doesn’t want to rip row after row because she discovers too late she’s counted wrong and made a bunch of mistakes. Rest, then, she thinks, closing her eyes and leaning her head against the wall. It’s uncomfortable and unsteady and she can’t stop imagining the bunk: its comfortable mattress and plush pillows and lavender-scented coverlet; its cozy alcove and lack of windows, lamps, and candles providing a sense of privacy. They could hide in there for a spell, she and Jon. They could cuddle and kiss until everything was good again. They could… explore. A little. They could be a tiny bit naughty so long as they stop before they become too naughty.
The thought heats up her cheeks, stirs an echo of that strange, buzzing feeling that filled her in the woods when Jon kissed her. It was wonderful.
It was frustrating.
She wanted more than kisses, wanted to feel his naked skin against her naked skin. Wanted to let her hands wander, allow his hands to wander too. She was ready for it–and so was he. She could feel him. Strangely, it didn’t frighten her, didn’t make her recoil, only increased that buzzing feeling, the frustration, the need. Had he laid her down right there on the pine needles and moss, she would’ve let him have his way with her, didn’t remember the four guards who would’ve seen it all. Didn’t remember that anything existed but her and Jon.
Smoothing a hand down her bodice, she eases out a breath. Perhaps exploring is too risky, but they could still lie down in the bunk for a cuddle. For a whispered, heartfelt conversation in the safety of darkness. Perhaps he’d believe her then.
She’s still a lady, though. She can’t suggest something so inappropriate, has no boldness left to fight her ingrained modesty. But he’ll understand her hints. He will. Now that he knows how she feels.
With a sleepy hum, she flutters her eyes open. “Did I nod off?”
It takes Jon a breath to drag himself out of his head and blink at her. “What?”
“I think I nodded off. But then we didn’t get enough sleep last night. I’m surprised you’re still awake.” She pauses to let him say something, but he’s the picture of bewilderment. An entirely silent picture of bewilderment. “This isn’t very comfortable.” She rubs her neck a little. “The wall makes a poor pillow.”
Understanding smooths out the furrows on his brow. “It’s all right.” Jon gives her a kind smile. “You don’t have to keep me company when I’m like this. You can have a quick kip in the bunk. I’ll wake you later.”
Sansa licks her lips, massaging her hands. “That doesn’t seem fair. I got more sleep than you.”
“I don’t mind,” he says, with another kind smile. “After everything you did for me, you’ve earned it.”
Holding back the exasperated sigh that wants to flow, Sansa only looks at him. Waits for things to slot into place. But when he remains willfully obtuse (or possibly very thick), she makes her way to the back of the wheelhouse and its no-longer desirable bunk. Slowly, she unlaces her boots and pulls them off. Lets out her hair. Removes her belt and necklace, lays them on the top bunk for now. Moves her fingers to the laces of her dress. Hesitates. No, she can’t remove her dress. Her stockings, though. She hates sleeping in stockings. Sitting on the edge of the bunk, she lifts her skirt and starts rolling the left stocking down her leg. Then she moves to the right, only to hesitate again.
Did Jon not understand her? Surely, he knows now to read between the lines, can’t expect her to be so daring as to give such a suggestion out loud. She’s a lady! A lady currently wondering whether she should tug off her small-clothes too while she’s at it. In case she’s brave enough for a second–and actually successful–attempt and he joins her and his hands start wandering and she wants him to know, without having to be so vulgar as to say it, that he’s allowed to touch. That she would like him to.
That, he would understand. Wouldn’t he? He’d like it too, she thinks. He’s no prude and in no position to judge her for wanting to explore a little before they lay their vows.
Before she can think better of it, Sansa tugs off stocking and small-clothes both and puts them in the top bunk. Then she lies down beneath the coverlet and stares into the dark. Waits for time to pass until he decides to wake her. Wonders whether she should stop waiting–it could be hours for all she knows–and find some brazen streak within to help her in opening her mouth.
She’s still deliberating when the bench creaks. Boots shuffle against the floorboards. Footfalls come closer.
“Er,” Jon says, appearing by the bunk. “Did you mean…” Squinting, he waves a hand in front of him. “Were you…” Chin tucked, he looks at her with wide, dark eyes, his brows nearly at his hairline. “Hoping for… company?”
“Yes. I was.”
Smiling, he breathes out in an, “Oh.” His smile grows and she can tell, even in this scant light, that he’s blushing. “Sorry. Not very sharp today.”
“Today?”
“Aye, you’re hilarious,” he says, sitting down and starting to remove his boots. “Maybe you should be my court jester instead of my wife.” A loud sigh leaves him and he stills, one boot in hand. “This is a bad idea, Sansa.”
“I hope you mean the nap, not the wedding.”
“The nap,” he says. “We shouldn’t. When two people share a bed, things can happen.”
“True, but we’ve shared a bed several times and nothing’s ever happened.” She hears him swallowing. “What? Nothing has.”
She can’t see his face, only the sad slump of his back and his shoulders moving with another sigh.
“Have to tell you something,” he murmurs, tapping a finger against his boot. “This morning…”
He puts down the boot and turns around to face her. She can just about make out his features. The troubled crease between his eyebrows, the haunted look in his eyes as he tells her, in words slow and carefully chosen, about the dream he had and how he woke up. Why his hand was on her hip, under her nightrail. What he was so very close to doing.
Once he’s done, his head hangs as if he were a dog waiting to be scolded.
“You were asleep,” she says, and he nods. “And the moment you woke up and realized what was about to happen, you moved away from me?” When he gives her another nod, she reaches out and lays her hand over his. “I’m glad you did. Move away from me. That’s not how I’d want… That’s for our wedding night.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“Nothing happened. You woke in time–and I am glad you did. But, Jon, this changes nothing for me. If that’s what you feared. It sounds to me as if, when we slept, our bodies acted on feelings we didn’t dare acting on when awake. ”
His eyes flick up to meet hers. “Our bodies?”
A sudden bout of shyness steals her voice. She’s all too aware of her lack of small-clothes, of what not-too-naughty things could happen if he were to lie down next to her. Yes, she’s glad nothing happened this morning. But the thought of it, the fantasy… It’s thrilling enough her body tingles with anticipation.
“We still shouldn’t do this,” he says, turning his hand to hold hers. “Nap together.”
“No, probably not.”
“Want me to return to my bench?”
She shakes her head.
“You sure? You’re not just trying to… make me feel better?”
She gives his hand a light tug. “I’ve missed it,” she whispers. “Sleeping in your arms. Remember?”
With a nod, Jon starts unlacing his doublet. “I’m keeping my breeches on. To be safe. I will not dishonor you.”
A sweet thing to say. Annoying too, when she didn’t keep her protective layer on. Should she tell him? When she imagines telling him her small-clothes are currently above their heads instead of where they should be, her self-preservation knocks that thought out of her head to spare her the humiliation and seals her lips shut.
“Turn around?” he murmurs. “So I can hold you.”
So they won’t kiss while lying down together. That’s what he means.
She pouts to herself in the dark, but oh, he’s right. The best way to avoid temptation is staying far far away from it. Well, somewhat far. And this isn’t so bad, she thinks, as he molds himself around her and finds her hand, twining their fingers together like he did last night. This isn’t bad at all. This is what she’s missed, only better, and she’d be a fool to pout about it instead of enjoying something entirely new: napping with Jon. From the sound of his calm, steady breathing, he’s already asleep. Smiling, she closes her eyes to join him when the wheelhouse turns left and she feels his chest expanding against her back with a big breath as if he’s not asleep at all but about to speak.
For a few turns of the wheels, he holds that breath, but then he murmurs, “We’ve left their road. No longer on Ivertusk land. And I…”
Faintly, she feels the heat of his tired exhalation through her dress.
“...still don’t know what to say. Well. I know the words. Never thought I’d ever have a reason to say them, but I spent my whole childhood following Robb around. Did learn a thing or two.”
“Jon, I don’t want another proposal. I was being–”
“Let me say this. Please.”
The wheels turn and turn. Outside, someone cackles out a laugh barely audible through the thick walls. She keeps Jon’s hand firmly in hers, stroking her thumb along his in a soothing motion.
“Those words,” he says. “‘Will you do me the honor,’ and all that. It doesn’t feel… It might not be panic, but it’s duty and honor too. It's rehearsed and not from the heart and that’s not what you want. But I don’t know what else to say. I’m not a bleeding poet. Never was. I don’t know how to find the perfect words, Sansa. I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Nothing. I don’t need you to be a poet. Nor do I need another proposal. I was being stupid.”
“No. I remember. I remember you, Beth and Jeyne giggling and whispering. I remember because Arya thought it was stupid and so did I and we might’ve, er, laughed about it. Your father would arrange something. Everyone knew that. There’s no need for a proposal, then. But you wanted it anyway. Something magical. And you deserve that. I want to give you that. To make you happy.”
“But–” She turns around so she can look at him. “Jon, I was being stupid. Really stupid. You gave me a magical moment. The most romantic moment of my life.”
“I did?”
“The wood anemones. That was better than any proposal I ever could’ve imagined as a little girl.”
“I didn’t plan that. I had no idea I’d find them out there.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she says, cupping his cheek. “You could’ve told me right away, and you didn’t.”
“I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Yes.” She smiles at him. “Because that’s more romantic.”
“It is?”
“You’re better at it than you think. You saw an opportunity and took it. That means a lot–a lot more than perfect words.”
“Should’ve proposed then. Would’ve been perfect." He shakes his head at himself. "It even occured to me. It did. But you were being very distracting. Not easy to think, is it, when you’re kissing the most beautiful woman in the world.”
“Stop it. I’m not.”
“You are to me.” He lifts one corner of his mouth in a half-hearted smile. “Want me to turn the wheelhouse around? This time, I’ll remember.”
“No. I wouldn’t change that moment for anything. It was perfect. I’ll remember it for the rest of my life.”
"You will?" he asks, hoarsely, eyes searching hers.
"How could I not?" she whispers.
Before the woods, she'd only ever received dry, closed-lipped kisses. She didn't know how to truly kiss, is only now beginning to learn, would prefer it if he kept initiating until she grows a little confidence. But there's still a hint of disbelief in his eyes, as if he still doesn't feel good enough, so she pushes her nerves aside and kisses him anyway. Kisses him because he needs her to, kisses him to distract him from should haves and calm his worries, kisses him to remind him she wants him and only him. If he finds her kissing as clumsy as she does, he doesn’t let on. No, ee returns her kisses with such an infectious hunger, it eclipses all her doubts. It eclipses everything. It's only him and her again and how he makes her feel. Her body acts on its own, pressing her closer to him, lifting her leg to hook it over his hip, shifting her hips to feel if–
Jon breaks the kiss, panting. “Right. Turn back around.”
She makes herself bite back a, “But you’re not naked this time,” but once she’s done as she's told, her mouth opens to speak anyway and let out another question that’s been on her mind: “Jon. Why were you naked? Last night. In my bed.”
“Er…” He lets out a breathy laugh. “Wish I knew. It’s mostly a blur. We were drinking this…” Humming, he settles in behind her (but not as firmly as before), finds her hand, and plays with her fingers as he talks. “Can’t remember the name. It was blue, from Essos, tasted great. Made me feel great. And I did feel spoiled. As if the feast was for me, not Ivertusk, and I liked it. Stayed longer than I should’ve. Drank more than I should’ve. Despite being warned it’s stronger than what we’re used to. I didn’t listen.”
“Because you thought you could handle it?”
“Aye. Felt confident. Even decided it was time. To tell you how I feel. But then it really hit. I was too out of it. Needed help to get back. Must’ve had some sense still because I knew it wasn’t right. To tell you, when I was like that. But then I found Mel…” He clears his throat. “And after you left to help, you were gone so long, everything got muddled. The bed was empty. You weren’t there. I wasn’t supposed to be in your chamber. So it had to be mine.”
“I suppose that makes sense. It doesn’t explain why you were naked, though. Which is what I asked.”
He gives another laugh. “I always sleep naked.”
“You didn’t use to. Whenever I came to you, you wore a sleep shirt.”
“After Castle Black, when I knew there was a chance you’d come to my bed, I started wearing one. But after… everything, you stopped coming. So I started sleeping naked again. I like how it feels. The linen against your– Hang on.” She feels him propping himself up on an elbow, hears his voice coming closer to her ear. “It’s my turn to interrogate you, Lady Sansa. If you don’t wear small-clothes when you sleep, does that mean that every time you came knocking in the middle of the night…”
She’s glad he’s behind her, then, glad for the dark hiding how she blushes. “I never reflected on it nor did it ever occur to me to put something on. Jon, ladies don’t wear small-clothes all the time. On hot summer days, we rarely wear them at all. I don’t need small-clothes to feel dressed–”
She strangles the rush of words by pressing her lips together before she says too much–and before her rambling makes her sound like a liar. She’s not. She didn’t think of it. Back then. Her lack of small-clothes didn’t mean anything. Back then.
Now, though…
She has to find something else to ask before he–
“Do you remove them before a nap as well?”
Sansa bites her lip, her stomach surging at his question, at his dark voice reverberating in her chest.
Tell him to lift your skirts and find out, a naughty voice whispers in the back of her mind, but the shame that follows that suggestion is so strong, Sansa can’t speak at all. Using her lady’s voice to tell him it’s none of his concern is practically an admission of guilt. Telling him she did remove them, for she believed he wouldn’t join her, would not only be a lie but a discouragement too. In case he’s reconsidering being all honorable and annoying.
Deflection, then. That’s all she has.
“Are you trying to change the subject?” she asks.
“No, but you are.”
Even though he can’t see it either way, she suppresses a smile. “I wasn’t done,” she says. “I have more questions. About last night.”
He lies back down, his arm snug around her. “Another interrogation, then.”
“Would you prefer sleeping?”
He leans his forehead against her spine and laughs into the fabric of her dress. As if his thoughts can penetrate that layer, penetrate her skin too, and wander all the way to her mind, she knows what he’s thinking: he’d prefer something else entirely.
Then say it, she thinks. I’d prefer it, too.
But his honor is too strong a shield. Her thoughts never reach him. When he finally answers, all he says is, “Fine. I'm all yours, my lady. Interrogate me.”