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Chapter Text

Grosvenor Square, London

Colonel Jon Targaryen is a single man in possession of a good fortune who claims no interest in finding himself a wife.

Fortunately and unbeknownst to him, Fate has chosen to find a wife for him and will even deliver her right to his doorstep.

It is dreadful out tonight, pouring rain and thunder. Not at all the sort of night to welcome guests or new inhabitants to one’s home. Thankfully, Uncle Eddard’s daughter is not expected to arrive until next week as she is spending a month with her maternal aunt in Bath first.

Recently retired from the army at the age of nine and twenty after injuries honorably sustained in battle upon the Peninsula, Jon lives a quiet life avoiding the comings and goings of society when he can manage it.

That will be changing for him, he knows. Taking on the responsibility of shepherding a young lady about for a Season in London is not at all what Jon had wished to do but he had accepted out of a sense of familial duty.

The girl’s parents, Jon’s aunt and uncle, were swept away by a fever last spring. Her elder brother had died in Spain the previous year. Their modest estate in York is deserted save for a few servants as its new heir, Brandon Stark, is but fifteen and living with his maternal uncle nearer Plymouth for the time being along with his sister Arya and younger brother Rickon.

But while the younger Starks remain there, Mister Tully has lamented that there are little funds, what with his own three children and wife to support, to see Miss Sansa Stark to London for a proper season.  "She is an enchanting girl and nearing twenty.  Our circle here in Wembury is nothing grand and it would be a great shame for Sansa to remain cloistered away without the opportunity to make a fine match for herself."

As it happens, Jon has a fine town home in London but to endure a whole Season here? He shudders to consider it. Given his druthers, he would retreat to his estate in the north to hide away from it all.

He has little memory of his cousin Sansa beyond a red-haired slip of a girl standing unnaturally straight and still when he’d gone to pay his respects to Eddard after the passing of Benjen in the war some years earlier. She’d poured tea for him and her father at one point, looking half scared to death.

If she was frightened of you then, what will she make of you now?

She’ll be eager to make herself a match and escape my presence, I’m sure.

He scowls to think of the whispers and looks of pity he may encounter when he enters a ball or dinner with a young lady on his arm which he will no doubt spend tedious hours watching engage in dancing, conversing and flirting with other men in an attempt to find herself a husband.

Meanwhile, his scowl deepens at the thought of the eager mamas who will push their darlings towards himself, telling them to overlook his scars and his limp for the sake of ten thousand a year.

It is not that he is completely opposed to the state of matrimony by any means and he is not ignorant of the world he lives in. Marrying for love is a fairy tale for people of their set. True, his aunt and uncle had been happy together and his half-sister Rhaenys seems content in her match but that’s probably quite enough luck in the family though of course he hopes his cousins will settle happily as well.

For himself, perhaps he will eventually settle on a match for the sake of companionship as the years stretch on or to have an heir, a child to love and cherish in a manner that was lacking for him after his mother’s passing when he was still a boy.

It would be something to find a witty, clever lady to brighten his days. She would have to be a steady sort of woman though, a widow or spinster in the making perhaps as he cannot imagine a fresh-faced debutante ever viewing him as a desirable partner beyond his pocketbook.

For now, he is content to remain single rather than have a wife who merely tolerates him at best.

Tonight, Jon is quite cozy by his fire, sipping cognac and tempted to take a doze like his beloved dog Ghost when he hears the bell chime.

“What in the bloody hell?”

If only he were tucked away at Summerhall in Lancashire tonight. He’s certain no one would be ringing the bell there on a night like this.

He can hear his housekeeper hurrying to the door as he’s trying to decide whether or not he’s at home for whoever this horribly rude caller with abysmal timing may be.

But Mordane is already invading his study with a cloaked figure, dripping wet, on her heels before he can make good an escape.

“Beg pardon, sir, but Miss Sansa Stark has arrived.”

He blinks, astonished. She wasn’t due to arrive until next week! Is her room even ready?

He makes to rise though he must do so slowly. He is always stiff in wet weather when he’s been sitting for a long while. He reaches for his coat which he had tossed to the side after supper and then remembers something he wishes he had not forgotten even more. His damned eye patch is lying on the table behind him. Would it be more seemly to reach for it and turn his back on her for a moment or to leave it off? Embarrassed he cups one hand over his scarred eye certain he must look a complete horror.

Ghost ruffs and stands to join him, knocking his great head into Jon’s leg to help him remember his courtesies.

“Miss Stark, I’m…we’re very…I apologize for…”

She’s positively soaked and will surely catch her death standing here making a puddle on the Aubusson.

“Please, forgive me, sir,” the girl says tremulously as she dips into a perfect curtsy. “I had no wish to inconvenience you by arriving days before expected but I fear remaining with my aunt was no longer tenable.”

“No longer-”

He trails off from his query. It would be intrusive to ask for more information just now and in front of one of his servants. Best to let the girl explain when she is not shivering from the cold.

And besides, at that moment, she pulls the hood of her cloak back to reveal damp red locks clinging to her forehead and cheeks and the purest blue eyes he’s ever beheld. Jon is rendered temporarily speechless. By God, she is a beauty. He lets his hand drop from where it’s been hovering over his scars. She stares back at him with curiosity though seemingly unaffected by his disfigurement.

Ghost is not rendered insensible by a lovely girl. He goes to make her acquaintance and Jon notices her recoiling uncertainly from the enormous dog approaching her.

“He’s quite a good fellow, I promise.” He would be growling by now if he did not like you.

Reassured, she gives Jon and then the animal a radiant smile, stroking the dog’s great white head. “What’s his name?”

“Ghost,” he answers gruffly, strangely impacted by seeing this beauty greeting the beast.

“Ghost? How very appropriate,” she says, giggling quietly as Ghost knocks his head into her belly affectionately. There is something whimsically romantic to the image which tugs at his heart.

“I’m glad you approve and that you and Ghost are already well on your way to being friends. You are most welcome here, cousin.” The familial title seems to ease even more of her nervousness and also helps him remember himself.

“Thank you. I am most humbly…”

He waves away her gratitude. It is his duty to look after her and, right now, she needs to change out of her wet things. But, he’s beginning to wonder if he’ll even think of this as a duty before long.

“Mordane, see to it that Miss Stark’s room is prepared and ask Cook to prepare tea and warm some broth for her.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you wish for a bath or any comfort, my staff will make it so, Miss Sansa.”

“You are too kind, sir.”

“Not at all,” he demurs, ashamed that she should make him blush like a boy with her sweet voice and polite courtesy.

He is not a green boy and a girl like her would never see him in a romantic sense. He has no business allowing such thoughts to creep into his head.

“Did you bring your trunks with you?”

“One which is with the hackney driver who brought me, sir.”

One trunk for a girl on the cusp of her first Season? That hardly seems likely. And, a hackney driver brought her here on a night like this when she was to remain in Bath with her aunt until the end of the month? Obviously, she has not just arrived in London but where has she been? Where did she wake this morning? Most curious.

“Very well. I will see to the man and Mrs. Mordane will see you settled for the night.” She nods gratefully and starts to follow Mordane out of the room when Jon thinks to ask, “Would you care to join me for breakfast in the morning, Miss Sansa?”

“It would be my pleasure, sir,” she says, dipping into another elegant curtsy.

“Jon.” Her eyebrows quirk. “My name is Jon and I hope you will call me by my name, cousin.”

“Of course, Jon,” she replies, blushing and blessing him with another smile that would put the rising sun to shame.

As the women leave the room, Jon pulls out some money for the intrepid hackney driver. So what if she has arrived a week early? He will do his best to make her comfortable here and let her taste the delights of the approaching Season. He will also discover the mystery of her leaving her aunt’s house if he can.

“Did you remark that she never once grimaced at my countenance?” he asks Ghost as he heads to his front door.

Ghost gives a bark in reply.

“Right, quite right. We’re family. After losing her parents and brother, coming to me here in the dark of night, she would not be so easily put off by my appearance, would she?  I’m her cousin, not a potential suitor after all, am I?”

Ghost whimpers in response this time.

Chapter Text

" Have you spoken to your cousin at all since he arrived?”

“Only a few words of greeting, Mama.”

“He has grown into a fine young man since your father and I last laid eyes on him but he always had a kind heart, even as a little boy.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Go and take them some tea in your father’s study, my love.”

“Me, Mama?” she’d gulped, stunned by the suggestion.  “But the door is shut.”  Her father usually shut the door to his study when he did not wish to be disturbed.  Even Arya and little Rickon knew it. 

“Yes, Sansa,” her mother had said, still brushing out her long auburn hair.  “They are only talking and neither will bite you for bringing them a spot of tea.”  She’d cupped her cheek tenderly next and smiled.  “Your cousin has inherited a prosperous estate and someday may wish for help managing it. You are still a child in many ways but that will not always be so and even dashing young army captains will look to marry eventually.” 

It had seemed such a queer conversation at the time but it has stuck with her even with the passage of time. 

Sansa had thought her cousin devastatingly handsome in his regimentals though he had not spoken all that many words to her.  She had done her best not to tremble as she poured their tea and Jon had thanked her sweetly.

Then, Papa had left her mortified when he’d patted her head and bid her to run along, so embarrassed to be treated like a little girl when she'd been edging closer to womanhood and so keenly aware of it. 

In fact, as girls that age will do, Sansa had secretly fallen madly in love with Jon during the course of his brief stay at Winterfell that spring. 

That had been years ago though.  Now, Sansa sees what her mother might’ve meant by that conversation. Arranged matches are hardly unusual and, even if Jon would’ve barely noticed her then, she’s coming to understand the nascent hopes of a mother who wished to see her daughter well settled someday and wed to a man who will treat her with kindness. 

She begins to truly see the world through a woman’s eyes, the good and the bad.

“Don’t think I didn’t see you flirting with him shamelessly, you little tart!”

“I wasn’t, Aunt Lysa!  I wouldn’t!”

“Liar!  Petyr is my husband!  Mine!”

“I did not seek his attentions.  I wasn’t trying to-”

“We’d nearly arranged a decent match for you and this is the thanks we get?!”

“But I didn’t wish to marry Mister Bolton.”

“So, you go after my husband instead?!”

“No, Aunt Lysa.  I-“

A stinging slap across her cheek had ended the conversation and all civility between aunt and niece from that point. 

Sansa had been sent back from Bath days ahead of schedule which would’ve been alright if not for that snake.  It was her aunt’s intent to send her to her estate in Surrey and then on to her cousin Jon in London.  But her aunt’s husband had had other schemes in mind and she’d been delivered to a house in Cheapside, Mister Baelish’s town residence, two days ago by the coachman. 

Sansa had debated about sending her cousin a note, asking if she might come to his home sooner but she’d hesitated.  She knew Uncle Edmure had pressured him into taking her about for the Season and, having learnt of his injuries and heard whispers of his preference for solitude, she had been frightened of imposing on his goodwill earlier than planned. 

But yesterday afternoon, Mister Baelish had arrived in town unannounced, having lied to his wife about some business which needed his attention no doubt, and left Sansa determined to leave at once. 

“This is my room.  It is not proper for you to be in here, Mister Baelish.”

“It is my house, sweetling.  And I thought I’d asked you to call me Uncle Petyr.”

Sansa wakes with a gasp, her hands drawn up before her into fists like Arya would’ve done.  But she is not Arya.  She hadn’t hit him.  She had simply avoided him and then run away the moment an opportunity had presented itself. 

The wretched journey through the rain, half fearing that she would be pursued, had been worth it to experience the sheer relief of reaching Jon’s house and knowing that she was safe. His flustered surprise at seeing her and his obvious concern over his appearance were honestly all that had kept her from flying into his arms in that moment.

Poor Jon.  The war had not taken his life like her dear Robb's but it had taken its toll.  But Sansa, having been forewarned, had not been taken aback by his scars last night in the least.  

Admittedly, there is a good deal of scarring around one eye and she wonders if his vision is impaired any from it.  She is curious to know the story behind his scars, behind any scars he may have, but she would not dream of being so impertinent as to ask. The limp some had whispered of seems like only a stiffness to his gait, nothing to prevent him from riding or walking where he pleases. 

England has been at war with only a brief reprieve for over two decades.  Many men have suffered wounds in the name of king and country.  She hopes Jon's own wounds do not weigh upon him too heavily.  She still finds him handsome though perhaps in a different manner than she might've as a younger girl. 

Therefore, she frowns momentarily to find him wearing an eyepatch when she enters the dining room.  

“Good morning, cousin.  I hope you slept well,” Jon says, rising from the head of the table to greet her with a bow.  "There's chocolate in the pot there if you care for it.  Or tea can be brought out if you prefer..."

She curtsies and thanks him for pointing out the hot chocolate.  Is that an unusual thing for him to keep at home?  Perhaps so. Mama always had it with her breakfast as does Uncle Edmure but Papa would never touch it.  

She replies that she did sleep well as she fills her plate but a yawn escapes rendering her a liar.  She sees him studying her over his teacup which she notes contains coffee, not chocolate.  She's always found coffee too bitter for her taste but then life can be bitter, can't it?  

"I hope you're not experiencing any ill effects from your drenching last night?" 

"No, thank you, I am not.  Once I was warm and dry again, I felt as well as ever."  And safe.

She knows he is curious over her early arrival at such an unexpected hour and in such conditions.  What to tell?  What to conceal?  A young lady cannot endure much scandal attached to her name and she fears her cousin might be sorry to house her if he learns of the ugly business in Bath with Mister Bolton at Mrs. Hornwood’s party. Jon would hear her out, wouldn't he?  But what if he won't?

Pondering the matter silently, she slices off some sausage and hears a plaintive whine from her side.

“Ghost, let her eat.”

“I do not mind," she says, smiling at the dog who is thumping his tail.  A sweet dog though enormous, he reminds her of the dogs they always had about Winterfell when she was younger.  How does he find the city?  Surely, he would prefer the country and open fields.  She looks to Jon with the bit of sausage between her thumb and forefinger.  “May I?”

“He will never let you eat in peace again.”  But she can tell by his tone he does not mind.

“I like his company so I will not consider his presence a hardship.”  She slips the bite to Ghost, giggling at his warm, wet tongue nimbly licking her fingers for every savory bit. 

Jon is smiling fondly at them both when she raises her eyes to his again.  She feels her cheeks warm and Jon clears his throat. "Allow me to offer my condolences to you and your siblings for the terrible loss last year.  I should've spoken last night when..."

"Not at all.  We received your very kind letter last year and were all quite touched by it."  Well, in truth Rickon and Bran had asked who Jon was but she and Arya had appreciated him taking the time to write.  "I wrote a reply but fear it might've been misdirected." 

"Oh?  I'm sorry I didn't receive it but my regiment was moving quite often." 

She suspected as much.  She also fears that dear Edmure might've failed to post it as promised.  He is a good uncle but a little disorderly in his affairs and prone to forgetfulness.  Even now, her letter to Jon might be sitting at the bottom of some stack of papers in his study.

“I hope everyone is well in Wembury,” he says next.  

“Quite well, thank you.”

“Your sister is eighteen now, I believe?”

“Yes.”

“But she did not wish to come to town as well?”

“She was not…my uncle didn’t think you’d…”

He grimaces, immediately berating himself.  “Of course, of course.  My apologies for implying either of you would’ve presumed.  I should’ve extended the invitation to you both.  I was remiss not to-”

“Not at all,” she interrupts, wishing to set his heart at ease.  “Arya would not have wanted to come, not for the Season anyway.  She is quite happy in Plymouth surrounded by friends.” 

Her sister does not think the same way Sansa does or most girls of their station for that matter.  She has no great desire to find a husband at all, saying she will help Bran manage Winterfell when he is of age and that she will raise horses for riding.  

It is fine.  Arya has only just turned eighteen.  Some girls are out younger than that but Arya can avoid London and its marriage mart.  She can avoid marriage altogether at least for a few more years and not be censured for it. 

A small part of Sansa envies her for it though, for herself, she will admit she should prefer to find a good man to marry than remain single forever.

A good man in need of a wife’s tender loving care, she thinks as she watches Jon cutting up another sausage and sharing bites with Ghost.

It would hardly be unusual for a man to propose marriage to a cousin.  He is only nine years her senior, not the twenty plus years that had been between Aunt Lysa and her first husband, Lord Arryn. 

The Starks have long been a well respected family in Northern England but their estate would be considered modest by some. Her dowry is not especially large but it is a respectable sum tied to a good name and she is aware some would name her a beauty. Would Jon? 

A marriage of convenience between the two cousins would avoid the whole business of seeking a spouse among strangers at balls and assemblies if he were so inclined.  In time, he might grow to love me. Even if he could just a little...

Don’t be silly.  He has agreed to give you the Season in town.  If he was seeking a wife, he might’ve suggested as much to Uncle Edmure. If he even wishes to marry, a man of his wealth and standing could have his pick of ladies.  Why would he want you?  And, isn't a Season in London everything you'd claimed to want anyway?

Yes, she is still young enough to long for the romance of a proper courtship and even harbors hopes of falling deeply in love but Sansa is no fool.  She knows that in her sphere finding a well-situated man to make her an offer of marriage is viewed as the zenith of any young lady’s accomplishments. 

“There’ll be balls before too long but there’s a levee at Court next week if you should wish to go to it,” Jon says as if he’s been pondering on that accomplishment as well.  She will need to be formally introduced at Court at some point, she supposes, but is Jon eager to get on with this so he may be rid of her all the sooner?  She hopes not. 

“At Court? I had not thought to…”  Soldiers, sailors and civilians all busy gossiping and hoping to curry favor. 

“It can be quite crowded at those affairs though and most of the men are boors.  Some of the women as well.”

Her lips twitch at the blunt truth of his words and his obvious wish to rescind the offer.  “I am new to London.  I have seen nothing.  What would you suggest?”

He scratches at his chin, his visible dark grey eye seeming to size her up.  “The theatre.  I think you might enjoy that.”

She could almost clap with joy.  “I would very much.”

“I’ll get us a box for whatever’s worth seeing.  I should like to introduce you to my half-sister as well if you don’t mind.” 

Jon’s father had married Jon’s mother shortly after his first wife’s passing.  Rhaegar Targaryen’s other son and daughter had been mostly raised by their mother’s family though while Jon had spent his childhood at Summerhall with his mother.    

After Lyanna’s untimely death, Jon had been sent away for school while his father had become something of a recluse, she’d heard.  Aegon, Rhaegar’s heir, had died in a duel not long after Jon had been purchased a commission in the army at seventeen.  As the new heir, Jon could’ve resigned the commission but had not.   

“Rhaenys knows everyone and entertains frequently.  Her circle is far wider than mine.”

“I would be pleased to meet Lady Martell.” 

She knows Miss Rhaenys Targaryen had married her cousin Quentyn Martell, now the Earl of Sunspear, in an arranged marriage a dozen years ago which has fortunately turned out quite happy just as her own parents' match had.  She secretly cherishes hopes of having similar luck.  And I would not be opposed to marrying a cousin like she did. 

“I have posted an advertisement seeking a lady’s maid for you as well.”

“Oh, I…when?  I mean, thank you.”  She had not expected him to be so attentive and had wondered if she must trouble Kyra the upstairs maid every time she changes her dress. And, while she gets by well enough on her own in general, she would like having someone to help dress her hair for balls and such. 

“I posted it last week in anticipation of your arrival.  I hope that's alright."

"Of course." 

"I’ll be interviewing three candidates today for the post but you are welcome to sit in if you like.”

“I may have a say?”

“Of course.  She will be your maid and companion.  I had only thought to have it arranged ahead of time for the sake of convenience but this should be your decision, shouldn't it?”

Would he think her silly if he knew how she inwardly swells with pride at the prospect?  No one ever lets her make decisions or have a say. 

“And may I ask if there are any more trunks that need to be brought here?  My man can see to that if so.”

She looks down at her hands, clasps them in her lap to keep from making fists again.  Ghost softly whines by her side.  

“There are a few things left at the Eyrie, my aunt’s estate, and a few things at his house.”

“His house?”

“My aunt’s husband’s town home.”

“Petyr Baelish.  Is that where you were prior to coming here last night, Sansa?”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

His tone is clipped and she glances up to find him studying her again.  Do you?  His jaw is clenched now and she would almost guess he is making a fist beneath the tablecloth, too. 

"Sansa, may I enquire what prompted you to leave his house so suddenly last night?"

"My aunt and I quarreled in Bath.  She sent me away." 

She feels her face flaming.  It's embarrassing to admit being sent off like a disobedient child for angering or displeasing one of her elders, but she is at the mercy of her relations until Bran comes of age or until she marries.  Then, she will only be at the mercy of her husband's wishes.  The realization does not bring her much comfort, certainly not if they do not enjoy a harmonious union.  

"I was supposed to return to my aunt's estate but Mister Baelish had the driver bring me here."

"A long journey from Bath."

"Yes, I slept the whole of the first day after I arrived.  I thought I would have the house to myself until it was time to join you here next week but Mister Baelish arrived unexpectedly yesterday afternoon.  He was...impertinent."

"Impertinent?"

"Improper."

"Improper?  Sansa, I must beg you to speak plainly for a simple soldier.  Did he touch you?  Threaten you?  Injure you?"

She shakes her head, ashamed of the hot tears welling in her eyes.  "No, sir.  Not directly."

"But he frightened you?"

Her voice is soft as a kiss when she answers, "Yes.  He entered my room without permission.  I had just finished dressing.  I don't like the way he looks at me.  My aunt accused me of...but it was always him who was looking or speaking inappropriately." 

There is something so steely in Jon's countenance, a swelling ferocity bubbling beneath the surface.  She would never dare cross him when he looks like this.

His next words however are spoken ever so gently.  “I'm very sorry for all of that but I promise he will trouble you no longer.  If I had known sooner..."

"I didn't wish to be an imposition to you or..."

"You are not an imposition, you are family.  If there is anything you want returned to you from his home or your aunt’s estate, tell me and it will be done.  You need not worry over it.  And if there is anything you are lacking for your upcoming Season, we will see to that, too.”

With that announcement, he excuses himself from the table almost sharply as Ghost lays his great head in Sansa’s lap.  "Thank you," she says quietly to the man who has already departed whilst finding comfort stroking the dog's soft fur.  

Chapter Text

Jon had spoken briefly to the hackney driver last night and had learnt of how he'd picked up his charge standing with her sole trunk in the rain near St. Mary-le-Bow.  He admires her courage but shudders to think of what may have occurred if a decent fellow hadn't picked her up.

“She’d got as far on foot as I reckon’ she could manage when she hailed me, sir. I could see she weren’t the sort of fare I’d normally pick up ‘round that time of night at the Bow Bells an' wasn’t sure I’d get my fee out of ‘er.  But she was tremblin’ like a leaf in a breeze an' I got a daughter of my own 'round 'er age so...”

He had thanked the driver profusely, quadrupling his standard fee, and been tempted to go to her and find out more last night. But, upon reflecting that she had clearly been through some manner of harrowing experience, he had decided to leave it until today.

However, Sansa’s words over breakfast had confirmed some of his worrisome suspicions.  He is only grateful that she had escaped without further 'impertinence' as she would put it.  Would she deem it impertinence if I pinned the wretch against a wall by his throat? 

No, he will not go quite that far without a conversation first.  A very specific conversation where I will speak and he will listen...or rue the day.   

He does not know how Petyr Baelish had managed to worm his way into Lady Arryn’s affections early last year and convince the widow to marry him but, while the man carries a certain veneer of respectability, Jon has heard his name spoken with disfavor far too often in trusted private circles to doubt the veracity of all of those tales.

“Colonel Targaryen to see Mister Baelish, if you please,” he says sharply when a servant opens the door.

“I’m afraid my master is not at home, colonel.” The fiery look he gives has the wide-eyed maid hastily adding, “He arrived just yesterday but left posthaste this morning, sir. Urgent business back in Surrey with his wife, I believe.”

That simmering boil of temper which has carried him from his breakfast parlor to this doorstep spikes and he is tempted to barge his way inside. 

"I'm sorry, sir," the maid adds fearfully as if Jon would act with violence towards her.

He sucks in a slow breath to rein in the anger.  This woman is not to blame for her employer's behavior.  "No, I was not expected, madam, and I am not the one owed an apology in this matter."  Drawing on what patience he possesses, he thinks to speak of something which can readily be handled now.  "My cousin, Miss Sansa Stark, was here just yesterday and may have left without some of her belongings."

The woman shuffles uneasily where she stands, a conscious discomfort.  Servants nearly always know what's afoot.  "Yes, sir.  Miss Stark is a lovely young lady and so kind to us all.  We were sorry to see her leave as unexpectedly as my master arrived yesterday afternoon.  Bess and I have packed her remaining things this morning in the trunk she left behind."    

“Very well and thank you.  My man shall come later to collect them. And, I shall call again upon Mister Baelish at a later date,” he says with finality, leaving his card in lieu of a bloody glove.

The tether of patience at its end and barely giving his limp a thought, Jon storms back down the steps to his waiting horse, climbs into the saddle and gives the residence a final searching look, checking to see if the second story window possesses a pair of eyes. It does not. The fiend has fled back to his wife.

“Long may you remain hiding behind her skirts,” Jon grumbles as he wheels his steed about.

Two hours later, Jon stiffly enters his study. He had been far too heedless racing through the park to burn off his irritation and he’ll pay for that the rest of the day as there’s no time to be soaking in a hot bath.

To his surprise, he finds Sansa waiting for him there in the same white muslin gown she’d been wearing this morning at breakfast with a blue spencer jacket added. 

She’s perched on the edge of his chair, leaning over to look at whatever he’d left on his desk when he’d last been working and yelps when he opens the door.

“Please, excuse me if I’m intruding. Mrs. Mordane said you would likely conduct the interviews in here and I wasn’t sure what else to do with myself until your return.”

“Yes, quite. And there is no need to apologize. This is your home for the foreseeable future, Sansa. I want you to feel comfortable in it. There are books in here which are of course at your disposal and I hope you’ll always feel free to seek me out as it pleases you.”

Except perhaps when I soak in the tub later…or perhaps then, too.

Easy, Jon. Are you no better than that reprobate?

Nervously, she nods and murmurs her thanks. He’s not sure how else to put her at ease feeling somewhat disordered himself. He had hoped to catch Baelish at home and to make himself very plain to the man at once and see to it that Sansa is troubled no longer. Now, he must wait.

“Is this Summerhall?” she asks, breaking into his discontented thoughts.

He strolls over to join her beside the desk. Sure enough, there is a sketch of his father’s family seat, or his seat now, in the book of northern estates he’d purchased a few days ago on a whim.

“Yes, that is it,” he answers as he discreetly tries to identify the florals of her fragrance. Bluebells? Lily of the Valley perhaps? It’s intoxicating whatever it is.

“It’s lovely.”

No, you are. “It’s dreary.” Her eyes cut to him curiously and he regrets sounding argumentative. “Sorry, it is a fine house. It was just never a very happy one after my mother’s passing.”

“I’m sorry, Jon.”

“It’s fine. I didn’t mean to sound…”

He trails off, losing his thread. It still wounds him to recall, the worried servants keeping the lanterns burning, the doctor arriving well before dawn and declaring it hopeless. The angry voices outside his bedroom as he’d hidden beneath his covers, wanting his mother to come and tell him everything was fine, wanting the rest of them to go away.

“I was ten when she passed.” He feels her soft hand slipping into his own and closes his eyes, thankful for her sweetness but ashamed of his distress. “I’m sorry. You lost both your parents and your brother far more recently and…”

“A painful loss is still a loss no matter how much time has passed. That must’ve been very hard for a boy of ten. My brother Rickon was that age when…”

It is her turn to break off. She’s blinking rapidly. How is it possible that it should make her eyes appear all the bluer? Of course, he’s blinking himself. He reaches up with his free hand to adjust his eyepatch which he had fixed back into place upon entering the house again.

Sansa’s free hand reaches up as well, almost as if she means to still his movements or even pull the thing away. Surely, she would not wish to do that though. Even if she did not grimace at his scars last night, he knows they are unsightly.

She must know it too for her hand stills and drops to her side again though her other hand is still holding his.

“It may sound mad but there was a strange comfort in Mama and Papa passing together for I cannot picture one without the other. I’m sure your father was quite bereft when your mother passed.”

“I suppose so.”  He clears his throat uncomfortably and wonders how much she might've learnt from her parents before their passing or how much gossip has reached her ears.  "My mother and father were not ultimately well suited for one another.  I don't believe my father was well suited for anyone in truth.  His first wife was devoted from all I've heard but my father only waited long enough to remarry to fall just short of scandal.  And as for scandal, there were mentions of me being an unusually healthy babe to have been born prematurely."

"Oh."  A flare of pink blossoms upon her cheeks, understanding his meaning.  He wishes to protect her but she is not a child.  

"As a boy, I saw very little of him.  I saw very little of him afterwards as well.  He sent me away to school within a month of her burial and we only met a handful of times between then and his death."      

Her lovely face crumples up in remorse and he doesn’t want that, doesn’t want her pity when he would rather make her smile even though he should like to keep holding her hand.  We are family.  It is not so wrong of me to enjoy holding her hand, is it?  

But he extracts it instead to turn the page and point. “Look, here is Winterfell.”

The Starks’ estate in York is grand but on a different scale than Summerhall. It is a drafty place from an earlier age when moats and towers were built for defense rather than aesthetics but Jon has always liked it. He thought the sketch was a fair rendering which was why he’d purchased the book.

Sansa looks down at her childhood home and he can hear the hitching sound of her breath as if she has been caught quite off-guard.

You fool. She has lost half her family and was probably sent away from the house after their passing like you were. What were you thinking to show her that?

Clearly, he has no business trying to draw smiles from lovely girls. He is abysmal at it. He should send for Ghost to entertain her.

But no, she does not seem overwrought. More like she is just caught up in remembrance.  He breathes in deep and can nearly taste it; Winterfell, his mother's childhood home and Sansa's.  Winterfell, full of booming laughter, childish arguments and the crunch of fallen snow beneath one's boots.  

“I hope to see it again someday.”

Her soft words break her reverie and his own. Some time has passed which may have been a few seconds or several minutes for all Jon knows. He was lost in watching her eyes dance with the memories, alive with the past whether it be bitter or sweet.

That tender tugging sensation is back in his chest, the one he felt last night upon her lowering the hood of her cloak and meeting Ghost and again this morning when she shared a bite of sausage with the dog.  It is madness to encourage too much of that tenderness though.  It might easily grow into love and where will that leave him when another man captures her heart?  

“Why should you not see it again someday? Brandon will reside there when he's a little older and I cannot imagine his sister will not be welcome.”

“Yes but will my husband allow me to go? Or wish to visit himself? It seems strange that so many of my decisions will be made by someone I have yet to meet.”

She tries to conceal it but he can hear the bitterness under the sweetly spoken words. And he cannot blame her. He would be embarrassed to admit aloud how grateful he is to have been born a man in this world, a world where a bright young woman like Sansa must heed her husband’s word in all matters, great and small, even if the man is a bloody imbecile.

“Well, as your closest male relative within two hundred miles and as someone who most earnestly wishes for your happiness, I could not possibly approve of any suitor who would keep you from your family or home.”

He had meant that playfully and, at first, there's a tenderness almost like a longing in her expression.  But he worries he’s failed to hit the right note when her eyes narrow.

“Where did you go earlier?”

“Earlier? Um, I…” Should he tell or not? Will she be displeased? “I saw my man of business and then arranged for our theatre visit next week.”

“What show?”

“The Brotherhood Without Banners.”

“I’ve heard it is quite amusing.”

“As have I.  We'll see if we agree.”

“Yes.  You were gone a long while though.  What else did you do?”

“Before that, I went for a ride in the park. I may have overexerted myself.”

She gives him a sympathetic look.  Strangely, it doesn't feel like pity, just concern.  “You were limping more when you walked in than I’d seen you do thus far.”

“Yes, my fault.  It will improve with some rest.  I was aggravated and rode too hard.”

“Why?” she asks, those big blue eyes searching again.

In most cases, honesty is the best choice, Jon, his mother would’ve said. “I attempted to pay a call upon Petyr Baelish this morning.” He follows her surprised gasp with, “He was not at home. The servant said he’d left town again already.”

Her lips are pressed together and there’s fire in those blue eyes now. She is displeased.  She steps away from the desk, her alluring fragrance following her and leaving him only faint echoes to savor.

"I spoke to a maid there who said your belongings had been packed and I'll send Halder to..."

She is pacing and interrupts his tale to ask, “Why did you call upon him?”

“To make it plain that he will not be welcome around my home or near your person again. Sansa, have I done wrong?”

She has stopped her pacing. She looks relieved in fact. “You weren’t there to...to...you weren't thinking to...”

“To call him out?”

“NO!  I mean, yes!”

Raking a hand through his curls, dislodging his queue and knocking the eyepatch awry, he quickly fixes them while answering, “If it came to it, I will not lie and pretend I would refuse a meeting with him but that was not why I went, Sansa.  Not specifically.”  I wanted to see if he would make you an apology first and agree to avoiding you from here on.  

She crosses her arms over her chest as if she means to comfort herself.  Is she frightened?  He should like to comfort her.  “I will not stand for you putting yourself in harm's way over me." 

He gives her an apologetic though settled look.  He has no intention of being in harm's way if it comes to a meeting but, though he respects her concerns, this is the way of things.  A gentleman cannot allow a blow, an accusation against his character or an offense against a lady under his protection go unanswered without some sort of reconciliation or a meeting.  He says as much.  

"Men!" she huffs irritably at his explanation. 

"Yes, you're quite right.  We are a sorry lot."  He hangs his head in a feigned remorse.   

Her lips twitch as if she may laugh.  It is bewitching but then her expression is regrettably downcast once more.  "I’d rather they just left me alone, the both of them.”

“I can understand that but they may be here during the Season." 

She looks alarmed though surely she's thought of that.  Lady Arryn always had a circle here and Mister Baelish has friends at Court and in trade.  A sliver of suspicion grows.  Was Baelish's unexpected arrival last night the only imposition Sansa has suffered?  She said her aunt had accused her of impropriety towards her husband though Jon doesn't believe that of his fair cousin for an instant.  What else happened in Bath which led to her early return? 

"Is there anything more I should know of your time with your aunt and her husband before we cross paths with them, Sansa?”

All her earlier anger has evaporated. She tugs at her spencer, replying evasively. “Not really.” 

Should I simply ask him for a meeting instead of wasting my breath warning him away? he starts to ask but hesitates. 

Something troubles her which she has not shared yet.  He suspects charging off to the field of honor with sword or pistol will not lead her to share it with him.  Cooler heads must prevail in this instance.  

And he is no longer in the army where these things occur with shocking regularity.  Granted, Jon was never one to go out all that often.  In truth, he's gone out only once where honor, or what two hot-headed boys of seventeen had deemed honor, had been satisfied with the drawing of first blood.  Theon had cried like any babe and Jon had nearly cried, too. 

But if it came to Sansa's safety or honor, he is certainly not shy of going out again and playing the deadly game in earnest this time.     

Nevertheless, the question is not asked nor answered for Mordane comes in the next moment to announce the first candidate for lady’s maid has arrived. 

Ghost trots in beside the young woman who looks frightened to death of the beast as she's being shown in by Mordane.  Sansa and Jon settle to welcome her, exchanging genuine smiles of understanding between them for her nervousness. 

"Please, don't be frightened of Ghost, miss," Jon says, snapping his fingers so the dog will settle on the floor. 

As the prospective maid is drawing out her reference, Sansa slides a sheet of paper towards him from the desk which he had not noticed earlier.  "Some questions I wished for you to ask her," she murmurs as their guest takes a seat.

"You may ask them yourself if you like," he murmurs back before guiding Sansa into his chair behind the desk which seems to please her greatly.  "Ah, Miss Wilde, is it?" he says next, accepting her paper.

"Yes, sir.  Gilly Wilde."

"Oh, Gilly is such a pretty name!  Are you named for the gillyflower?" Sansa asks sweetly and, within the space of a minute, something tells Jon that their first candidate for the post may already be the chosen one.

Chapter Text

The garden is overgrown, its path long and twisted. Her heart is hammering in her chest. She was a fool to follow Mrs. Hornwood’s cat this far. What will everyone think if she returns to dinner from the veranda with grass stains on her dress and Mister Bolton trailing behind her?

And will he even let me return without trouble?

“Heeeeeerrrre, little puss. Where are you hiding? Come out, come out wherever you are!”

Sansa startles awake as his chilling cackles subside with her hands raised defensively in front of her once more.

A long shuddering breath when she realizes it was just a nightmare. She stupidly feels like weeping. Instead, she rises, splashes tepid water from her basin in her face and draws on her wrapper over her nightrail.

A quiet whine draws her attention to the corner. “Did you wish to go out?” she asks Ghost.

She had liked him joining her and Jon hadn’t seemed to mind but she supposes that the dog might not wish to remain shut in her bedroom all night.

She quietly opens the door, figuring the house might all be slumbering. There is a lantern burning on the landing so she suspects someone is still awake. Besides Jon and herself, there is Mordane, Kyra, Satin, Halder and Cook here. Soon there will be Gilly as well.

She was so pleased when Jon and her readily agreed that Gilly was the best of the candidates for lady’s maid. It will be lovely to have a companion for her outings when Jon is not able to escort her. There is part of her which wishes Arya could be with her. Perhaps she will write to her and see if she might be willing to join them for a spell since Jon has made it clear he wouldn’t mind.  Her sister may give her a resounding 'no' in reply but she can ask anyway.  

Ghost slips down the hall and, for reasons she cannot explain beyond being unprepared to face her empty bed again after the nightmare, Sansa follows him.

A cup of chocolate might put me to rights if there is still a bit to be had in Cook’s pantry.

Jon had said this is her home and she is free to go where she pleases. She can fetch herself a cup of chocolate, can’t she?

“Sansa?”

She whirls to find Jon standing in the doorway of his bedroom in a grey and red banyan with his hair loose and damp. Has he been bathing? Is he wearing his nightshirt under that or breeches at all? Merciful heavens.

Both conscious of their state of undress, she clutches at her wrapper as his eyes quickly fall, one hand already cupping his exposed, scarred eye.  Does he fear she finds it unsightly? 

“Forgive me. Did you need anything? Was Ghost troubling you?”

“No, I thought Ghost might need to go out.”

“I can take him down to the door for you.”

“No, I…I woke from an unpleasant dream and wished to stay up for a little while. I thought of having some chocolate,” she adds, flushing.  Does she flush because of the bit of his bare chest she can see? Certainly. Her cousin is well muscled, a man in his prime. The sprinkling of hair there intrigues her innocent eyes. The hint of a scar nearer his heart hurts her own.

He tugs at the lapels of his banyan and clears his throat before taking a step forward, his eyes still turned towards her soft bed slippers. “An unpleasant dream?”

She nods in reply, feeling half a child for admitting to a bad dream.  Does he think her a little girl?  Nine years is not so terribly much now that they are grown but years of war and hardships may make a man think otherwise.  

“I was awake anyway if you should like some company. I took a late soak because my leg was troubling me. I can fetch my eyepatch and perhaps we might find a cup to share together.”

“You needn't worry with the eyepatch unless it is needed for your comfort, cousin."

"You...you do not mind...looking at me?"  The vulnerability in his tone stirs some great ache in her chest.  He does fear that she finds it unsightly.  

"I do not mind at all." 

He looks up from her slippers, his expression causing that ache to shift and increase, to swell in some way.  Oh, my dear man.  I do not mind one jot.  Have others made you think otherwise?  Or is that all your doing? 

"Does it pain you?  Do any of your wounds pain you beyond your leg?" she asks, hoping he can hear the sincere concern in her voice and no trace of false pity. 

She lifts her hand, tempted to touch his face just as she was in the study earlier today but hesitates.  Even wishing to give comfort, it would be too forward an act.  She cannot tell if he is relieved when she drops her hand again or resigned would be a better word. 

"No, not truly.  Scars are only scars.  They do not cause me physical pain anymore, only the leg."

Do the memories of how they were received pain you though?  It is not a question she's brave enough to ask yet.  

"So shall we fetch some chocolate?" he asks before she can say anything more.

A grin starts tugging at the corner of her mouth.  "But you do not care for chocolate. You prefer coffee or tea.” She had noted it this morning and during their dinner.

“I can manage one cup of chocolate for you,” he says in a tone which makes it sound like the greatest personal sacrifice.  "But if I prepare it, I fear it may be undrinkable," he adds, causing her to laugh. 

Kind. Jon is kind and he is her kin. Keeping secrets will not avail her here.  Even if he may never view her the way she could easily, and might already, view him, they can be friends, can't they?  

She agrees to the chocolate and they make their way below, letting Ghost into the small, enclosed back garden where Jon reminds the animal to remain.

“Does he ever wander?”

“He did once. On the estate, he may roam for miles and never get lost but here in the city? He went missing for a day the last time I was in town.  I was frantic and he seemed nearly the same when he finally found his way back. His tail didn’t cease to wag for an hour.”

“He was happy to be home,” she says fondly as they enter the kitchen.

Cook is asleep nearby so they are quiet as mice…or try to be. But Jon is no great shakes when it comes to preparing chocolate. Even with Sansa trying to take over, they make more noise than they wish to.  This leads to giggling.  She starts it, of course, but soon he cannot help joining, his deeper chuckles seeming to vibrate from his chest and throat.  The rumbling sound is...alluring.  She can feel her cheeks growing warm but thinks the laughter can be blamed.  

At one point, the dear old woman snores so loudly from her room that they gasp and then their giggles threaten to become hearty guffaws.  Sansa feels like they are naughty children stealing cakes and making quite a mess.

"Cook will give me a tongue lashing at breakfast if we don't clear all this up," Jon snickers.

"She would never!" Sansa squeaks with a hand covering her mouth.  

"Wait until she gets to know you better and you'll see what I mean.  She means no harm though." 

Not wishing to invoke anyone's ire here, Sansa is sure that every trace of their endeavors are removed.  

Once the chocolate is prepared and placed on a tray, they retreat to the infrequently used drawing room to hide out. This feels so terribly indulgent to Sansa, like something she might’ve done with her siblings back when they were children and her parents were still alive.

And yet, it is different.

There is an awareness with Jon seated across from her that never would’ve been there if he were Robb.

Because he is not my brother.

The thought of Robb and days long past at Winterfell sobers her.

“Would you wish to tell me of your disagreeable dream?” Jon asks, stirring his chocolate. Will he ever drink it, poor man? And if she dares to try his version of it, will she ever wish to drink it again?

She raises her eyes to find him staring back at her. With no eye patch, both grey eyes study her. She wonders if he’s feeling conscious of its absence. She hopes not. 

Deciding to share the full truth of her experiences in Bath with him, she begins. “Have you ever met a Mister Ramsay Bolton?”

He lays his cup aside and is immediately scowling. “No, though we both served in Spain around the same time. We never met there and have never been introduced here. To be honest, I have not heard much good said of him.  Quite the opposite in fact.”

“I had never heard of him at all until my aunt and Mister Baelish introduced me to him upon my arrival in Bath. His father and Mister Baelish have some business dealings with one another.”

“I see.” That same tone he’d used this morning when she’d mentioned Mister Baelish’s unexpected arrival last night which led to her fleeing his house in a tempest.

Nervously, she looks to him, wondering what he will think of the whole business. “My aunt and Mister Baelish encouraged us to meet at various functions.  My aunt said they thought we might make a good match.”

“I would disagree and can only wonder why they would ever think so.”

Ever straightforward, she cannot be surprised by Jon’s answer. The Boltons are well-off but their connections are admittedly inferior to her own. From a society standpoint, it would be seen as a step-down for the Starks. She is not destitute and, until the whiff of scandal that had attached itself to her name in Bath appeared, she’d had no cause to believe she could not make a very fine match. What had made them so eager to push her towards Ramsay?

Regardless, Sansa had refused the offer when it came.  Whatever sway Aunt Lysa had imagined she might carry, her aunt is not her mother or her father.  Her husband is not Sansa's blood uncle nor her brother or her male cousin.  She holds no true power over Sansa's decisions on matters of matrimony.  It had left Lysa exceedingly vexed when Sansa had said as much.  

As her silence stretches on, she realizes Jon is watching her intently. “Anything you wish to share with me will be kept in confidence. Despite your worries over me behaving rashly this morning in paying my call on Baelish, my first interest will always be your well-being.”

Finding comfort in those words, Sansa draws a deep breath and proceeds to give her narrative of her dealings with Mister Bolton in Bath; from their first dance at an assembly, to a declined courtship a fortnight later, to the frightening business in Mrs. Hornwood’s garden shortly before her removal from Bath.

“He did not assault you?” Jon asks for the third time, very determined to know the full of it as he visibly struggles to maintain his composure.  His wrath must be a frightening thing to behold, she thinks.

“No, he frightened me coming out of the hedge that way. I fell backwards and landed in the grass. But, even though I may have imagined it, there seemed to be something in his eyes that night which made me even more uneasy than his earlier anger over my refusal of his offer. I scrambled to my feet and fled on an impulse.”

“I would argue that was your instincts more than an impulse and that they served you well.”

“Yes.  He chased me, acted as if it were a game, but it terrified me.  I feared what might happen if he caught me.”

“That goddamn…forgive me, that miserable wretch of a…”

But Jon’s warm words and his embarrassment over them fade away.  Suddenly, she is alone in the garden again trying to still her fluttering heart and quiet her panted breaths. ‘Come out, come out wherever you are!’ echoes in her mind and she shivers.

When she looks up, Jon has joined her on the settee. “I’m sorry. I was so stupid to…”

“I’ve not heard one stupid thing come from your mouth, Sansa. A gentleman, which clearly he is not, would never seek to startle a young lady in the dark in that manner nor would he pursue her. You were right to run.”

“But if I hadn’t been out there in the first place…”

“What harm would you expect to find following a friendly cat down into your hostess’s garden?”

“I knew he was expected to arrive.”

“And did you think he would seek to find you there before he ever joined the others?”

“Well…no. But, when I went back inside Mrs. Hornwood’s, as I had little choice but to go back inside eventually, they all looked at my grass-stained dress and the man who followed me and gave each other knowing looks. I was so mortified.”

A young lady caught alone with a man who was not family, the damning stains and the hints that a courtship had been proposed and declined, it was enough to ruin a girl in this world. What would happen if it were known here?  That underlying fear of failing in her essential task of finding a suitable husband and of shaming her departed loved ones haunts her as much as his heavy footfalls and cackles in the dark.  

“Mister Baelish seemed sympathetic and upheld my story of the cat I had petted on the veranda, saying he had seen it as well before it scampered into the garden where I had followed. Still, there were several whispers following that dinner and my aunt said it would be best if I accepted Mister Bolton’s offer if he made one again and then, when I said I would not, she accused me of…she said I…forgive me,” she finishes in a strangled tone, angry at the unfairness of it and ashamed as well.  

“Shh, my darling girl.  It’s alright.”

My darling girl.  His sweet endearment brings forth tears, silly girl that she is.

His arms are warm around her. He smells nice, like cedar and bergamot.  He presses a handkerchief which can only have come from the pocket of his banyan into her hands.  

She sniffles one last time and wipes the tears away before falling into the comfort of his arms again.  It is so hard to resist.  She thinks she could stay here forever if that were possible.  Yes, she can see some of his chest again but, this time, she is not thinking of the scar near his heart or that sprinkling of hair.  She feels safe.  She feels cherished.  This is the first true comfort she has known since that whole horrible business, since she left her Uncle Edmure’s house in truth.

But, if someone were to walk into Jon's drawing room at this moment, she would be far more ruined than a grass-stained dress and moonlit garden might've made her in Bath. They are not engaged.  There is no understanding between them.  Alone in their night things is scandalous enough without this close contact.  

"Forgive me," she murmurs again, pulling away self-consciously this time. 

And even though she smiles at him, he looks self-conscious as well, hurriedly rising from the settee and claiming he needs a dash of spirits in his chocolate to make it palatable.  She has made him uncomfortable with her tears, no doubt.  Whatever stirrings she may feel for him, she fears they will never be reciprocated.  Of course, they are not.  He has kindly offered to show her a Season in London and it has yet to truly begin.  He was only being her kind cousin to comfort her in her distress.  

When he sits again, he has taken the chair across from her once more.  An air of awkwardness descends and she sips the now tepid chocolate.  It is not so very bitter as feared.  In fact, Jon has added a good deal more sugar than she'd realized. 

"It's quite horrid, isn't it?" he asks of the cocoa.

She shakes her head and disagrees.  "I think you find it so because you never liked it to begin with.  It is very sweet...but I do not mind that."  

Bidding him goodnight at last after he lets Ghost back indoors, she lies back down in her bed with her arms wrapped around her trying to recapture the sensation of being held by him earlier.  It will not do.  Her arms are not his.  His scent has faded. 

She wishes for sweeter dreams and, like a besotted fool of a girl, for other occasions when she might feel Jon's arms around her once more.  Perhaps for always.  Oh, it would be so sweet...

Chapter Text

“This is too much, Jon.”

“Not at all. Your first evening outing in London deserves a new dress, doesn’t it?”

He'd overheard her lamenting to Gilly that her prettiest dress has not yet been forwarded from her aunt’s estate. And how could he resist purchasing it at the dressmaker’s shop when her eyes had been glowing like that, fit to put the soft mauve silk confection to shame?

He looks forward to seeing it on her and not just hanging in a shop window. He looks forward to wrapping her cloak around her shoulders and escorting her to the carriage and then escorting her from the carriage to their box. He secretly begins to covet the thought of her sitting beside him during the performance, even going so far as to nurse absurd fancies that this could become a regular part of his life.

But the theater performance is tomorrow night where fiction will live, a merry fiction in his head to go along with the entertainment upon the stage. He is too old for these fancies and he will only break his heart on them and yet he persists.

Instead of dallying with daydreams, he would do better to remind Satin that his rarely used evening clothes will need airing…except Satin is certain to be three steps ahead of him as usual. His valet has lamented more than once how little he has to do in town now that Jon no longer goes about in uniform nor goes much anywhere at all beyond the club or the park. At least, he won’t be so bored in the coming months.

It will be Sansa’s first trip to the theatre in London and her first public outing since coming to town. He wants Sansa’s memories of this Season to be happy ones but, first and foremost, he means to keep her safe and well.

Speaking of which, what the devil was he thinking allowing them to go for a stroll without him?

Ghost is with them, he thinks to reassure his conscience. And wasn’t this why you wished to hire a lady’s maid? So Sansa might take outings without feeling constrained by your schedule or your damned limp? Surely, she and Miss Wilde can manage a stroll through the park without you slowing them down.

Admittedly, he would probably not slow them down at all today. His limp which had been aggravated the other day by his heedless ride is far better. The bath had helped and then a day’s rest had seen him back to his usual mobility.

He is very glad of Gilly coming to take up her post. She is a pleasant young woman, even more so as her initial shyness wears off, and it’s clear she and Sansa are swiftly becoming confidantes. Sansa has already spoken of Gilly finding some sort of match though her prospects are quite bleak from what he’d learnt of her situation. But if anyone can make a match for Gilly, it would surely be Sansa.

All the same, Gilly is but one young woman, nowhere near as formidable as Cook, and though the park seems safe enough, what if there are scoundrels about? What if that scrub Mister Baelish should return to town? Or if Mister Bolton should show his unwanted face here? He should’ve gone with them or sent Halder with them to follow at a respectful distance.

Of course, if he had gone along, he would’ve missed his caller this morning. She is very welcome and he is not remotely surprised that curiosity has gotten the better of her, bringing her to call upon them sooner than expected for an introduction.  Though they saw little of one another as children, they have always been cordial in their relations and, after Aegon's death, they had grown as close as any full-blooded siblings.  

"I'm glad to see you without your patch today," Rhaenys says from behind him.  "I've been telling you it isn't necessary though you've persisted in wearing it."

He grimaces at the reminder.  He'd returned to England for good after his most grievous wounds including a musket exploding in his face during the heat of battle which had nearly claimed his eye.  He was lucky to have escaped with his vision intact but the scarring around his left eye was ghastly, especially early on when it was still red and puckered.  

"You'll still see me wearing it among wider company." He'd had too sharp a lesson regarding that to do otherwise just yet.  "But Sansa does not mind me forgoing it."  Sansa does not mind and how it had filled him up to know it.  "And if I didn't listen to you before it's because I thought you were only being protective of me like usual.  I have no wish to...what were her words?  Put everyone off their dinner with my grotesque disfigurement."

"If I'd been there that night, I would've scratched Cersei's eyes out for saying that," Rhaenys snaps. 

"I'm sure you would've," he says with fondness, "but perhaps it is best you were not."  Mrs. Baratheon is married to a powerful man and her father is one in his own right.  She's friends with Lady Jersey as well...or was.  

"Words spoken in spite, Jon.  You know she hated your mother, viewed her as a rival, don't you?"

Perhaps he does recall hearing that but the poisonous dart had still made impact.  "I know that my ten thousand a year was enough for her to overlook my scars until I failed to show the proper level of interest in her girl." 

He hadn't asked Myrcella Baratheon to dance that night due to his limp though it had left her without a partner for 'Mr. Beveridge's Maggot.'  He had offered to fetch the young lady some punch instead but her mother had already detected a slight and swooped in with her sneering comment.  And, despite his brave front, it had most certainly stung. 

"Miss Baratheon's a sweet girl though a bit too silly for you and who will wish to marry her knowing how foul her mother can be?"

"Yes, but they weren't the only ladies present and Mrs. Baratheon didn't laugh at her own wit alone."

"That scheming tart is no lady and I'd gladly name the others present all graceless, witless bit-"

"Really, Rhaenys," he chuckles, half amused by his sister's free way of speaking when they're alone and half afraid she'll shock Sansa with it.    

"Well, I'm glad to see you without it today.  I've said it isn't necessary for your family but you've always insisted on wearing it."

"I wouldn't want my niece and nephew to be frightened of me."

Rhaenys sighs sadly.  "They weren't frightened of you, not truly.  They are only children, Jon.  It is natural for them to-"

"I do not blame them.  I remember what it was to be a child."

"They would grow used to it in no time, I promise you.  But what finally persuaded you to go without today?  Miss Stark does not mind, you say?"

Avoiding Rhaenys' leading questions, he mumbles incoherently and returns to his vigil by the drawing room window, his eyes fixed on the street below watching for signs of their return.

“I’ve been meaning to ask since you let this place, who decorated this dreadful room?”

“Hmm?”

“This drawing room, who decorated it for you, brother?”

Still busy woolgathering, he asks in puzzlement, “Who was decorated?”

“The room, not someone! Oh, for shame, Jon! I’ve seen nothing but the back of your head since I arrived, it seems! Are you attending me at all?!”

Chastised, he turns away from the window once more to behold his somewhat vexed but thankfully more amused sister. “My apologies, Rhaenys. I haven’t done any decorating since I let the place so as for who chose what I cannot say. I fear I find myself easily distracted this morning and am less tolerable company than usual even as a result but I do beg your pardon.”

She sniffs and then gives him a warm smile. “You’re forgiven and you are perfectly tolerable company in general but I suppose that particular window there with a view of the street is quite fascinating, isn’t it? It is surely the highlight of the room and, since Miss Stark is on a stroll in the park, it faces a convenient direction, doesn’t it?”

Her lips twitch impishly and he rolls his eyes at her before resuming his seat on the settee, the very same settee where he’d held Sansa in his arms a few nights ago. God, he’s been plagued by that night for various reasons ever since.

He’d known an unholy fury building inside of him at that thoughts of Bolton and Baelish’s insufferable behavior along with the gossip she’s lived in fear of thanks to them. Barely over a month away from her uncle’s house and Sansa has already been preyed upon twice by unscrupulous men, vile wretches both.

And the poor girl had been so distressed that night. He had wanted to calm her fears and comfort her…but he hadn’t been able to stop himself from inhaling her alluring fragrance as greedily as his arms had held her soft, warm body close to his own whilst neither of them had been properly dressed for mixed company. Yes, his heart and mind had been focused on her words and worries but his traitorous body had been all too aware of other things.

Easily distracted indeed. I must protect her.

And does that include from your own heathen desires?

Yes.

He is ashamed that he'd clung to her so desperately, forcing Sansa to break their second embrace at last.  Oh, she might've welcomed the embrace and even initiated the second one but guilt still festers in his mind, knowing all the ways he should've liked to hold her if allowed.  

And what about your heart and the things it might desire?

He clenches his hand in an effort to strangle the foolish thought as Rhaenys prattles away about the drawing room and how she could see it made over into something more airy and fashionable.

“It’s much too dark and dreary in here, dearest Jon,” Rhaenys says with a gentleness that makes him glance her way. “Your guests will worry they’ll go blind from all the black damask in here.”

“Sansa has not complained. Or perhaps she’s simply not said anything not wishing to appear impertinent,” he says in the next breath, scowling. “She is polite to a fault at times, I fear.”

Is it undesirable? Does she find it disagreeable? She would probably have an eye for that sort of thing. Young ladies are all so accomplished at things like this and he knows nothing of them.

A miserable bachelor edging towards a hermit, you are. Are you already an old man?

No, I am not.

“Is it so bad, Rhae? Do you think Sansa would prefer something else?”

“Jon…” she chortles, her throaty laughter is building and building upon that one syllable until she is nearly breathless from it. “My dear, dear Jon, you’re quite smitten, aren’t you?”

“What? Smitten? Whatever do you mean?” he snaps, perfectly concealing his horror at the thought of Sansa finding his home dreary and hopefully the fact that he is smitten from his sister. “Are you always such a riddle this early? What does Quentyn think of that?”

“My husband does enjoy my riddles,” she says, wryly. “Men enjoy a bit of an enigma in their beds after all but do you really wish to hear of that, brother?”

He colors for no, he does not wish to inquire about that. “What did you mean by ‘guests’ earlier? I have one houseguest. One. Singular. Though she is more family than...”

“You are avoiding my question with your own, I believe.”

“Is that the door?” he says, hopping up again and peaking out the window.

“The door? Oh, what stuff, Jon. You are avoiding my question!”

It is the door though, the back door, and he is rescued from his sister’s probing, her all-too-useless probing, with noises coming from the hallway. Even if he is smitten with Sansa, there is no reason to believe she might ever be smitten with him. He’s just glad she does not recoil in horror from him when he neglects to wear his eyepatch.

The drawing room door opens and in sweeps Ghost with no ceremony whatsoever to greet his auntie and a somewhat windblown Sansa and Miss Wilde follow him. Both ladies sport rosy cheeks from the windy March outdoors and Sansa’s blue eyes in particular seem to shine with rapturous delight.

She is normally so polished and correct in her appearance and apparel which he admires but there’s something utterly charming about her looking a little disheveled like she did the night she arrived. It’s even more bewitching when she is clearly overflowing with good spirits like this moment.

He stands to greet her and make introductions but cannot for the life of him recall so much as his last name, let alone the time or place, as she begins to chatter like a magpie. “Oh, it was so lovely out this morning, Jon! Ghost had such a merry time chasing squirrel after squirrel until Gilly and I thought our sides might burst from laughing. I wish you would’ve gone with us to…”

The rapid flow dries up as quickly as it had begun, her sun-dazzled eyes likely adjusting to the gloom within enough to realize he is not alone. She hurriedly sweeps her bonnet from her head and clasps it between her hands in front of her, tall and erect and overly conscious of some imagined misstep, he fears.

And, not for the first time, Jon finds himself temporarily mesmerized by her beauty. There’s a few fire-kissed locks loosened from her bun grazing her shoulders and he stands there staring stupidly at them like a besotted mooncalf until someone clears their throat.

All three women are appraising each other with avid interest; keen on Rhaenys’ end, dutifully patient on Gilly’s and a little uncertain on Sansa’s. Meanwhile, it’s his bloody job to make the introductions.

“Ah, you’re back! Very good,” he says, jolted into courtesy at last by one sardonically arched eyebrow from Rhae. “Lady Rhaenys Martell, permit me the honor of introducing my cousin, Miss Sansa Stark, and her attendant, Miss Gilly Wilde. Miss Stark, this is my half-sister, the Countess of Sunspear, who has been most desirous of making your acquaintance.”

“My lady, it is a pleasure to meet you.” All uncertainty seems to have vanished as she blesses the room with a lovely smile and dips into a perfect curtsy. “Jon has spoken most affectionately of you.”

Has he? Well, he did ramble on over dinner a good while last night. His usual reserved manner seems to be diminished around Sansa. She has a knack for drawing things out of him. She could have the statues around St. Paul’s kicking up a merry din with her if she chose to, he’s sure.

“Has he?” Rhae smirks before returning the compliments and adding unnecessarily, “She is indeed a most radiant young lady as you said, Jon.”

Gilly’s eyes widen as Sansa’s drop to the floor though it doesn’t hide her blush. Jon can feel his own cursed cheeks warming and he would have some warm words for his sister if they were alone. She would use that particular phrase he’d used at random when distracted by the window earlier and asked to describe Miss Stark. It seems I ramble on to Sansa and about her as well.

“And now that we are introduced, Miss Stark, I must beg you to entreat Jon to do something about this dreary, wretched drawing room which seems to live in a constant state of mourning. Mourning for people is natural enough for a period of time but it’s unnatural for a house to be in mourning, don’t you think? There should be some lively colors in here to brighten things up, some softness to show that ladies are welcome, I believe.”

“Oh, I…it is his home, of course, my lady, and I would not presume to…”

“It is your home as well,” he interjects before quickly amending that to, “It is your home for the time being as I have said and I’m sure it could use some brightening. I’ve never had much use for this room but a drawing room should make guests feel welcome, should it not?”

Sansa nods but is prevented from saying more when Rhaenys jumps back in. “Yes, guests! I’m so glad you’ve come around to the notion.”

“Notion? What notion?”

“Why, that you should host a dinner party, of course, as a means of introducing Miss Stark to some of our circle!”

“I should host? But I thought you might wish to…”

“But, I will host something! I’ll happily host a lovely ball as soon as Quentyn joins me from the country and I will even hold it in Miss Stark’s honor if she does not mind…”

“Oh, my lady! I couldn’t possibly have you going to any trouble on my account.”

“You’re here to make a match, are you not? And what better way to meet people who might be acceptable partners than at a dinner here in your home and then at a ball to follow? It’ll be quite splendid, won’t it?”

Rhae shoots him a challenging look which he recognizes. She is testing him since he would not answer her earlier question, damn her. And poor Sansa looks at a loss for how to answer.

“I am sure a ball would be very welcome by all the young ladies fortunate enough to be invited and several of the young gentleman, too, Rhaenys,” he says, hoping Sansa won’t feel quite as much on the spot that way. The grateful smile she turns his way makes him think he succeeded.

“Well, yes. In the meanwhile, I’m sure Jon will let us have a go at this drawing room and make it into the sort of place where ladies and gentlemen might happily flock for conversation, eh?”

“If it is your wish to redecorate, I would be most happy to assist in any way I can,” Sansa says to him, making him smile in return.

“I should enjoy that. Perhaps we might talk it over later and Lady Martell can see to any improvements that may be needed at her own home for a ball.”

“At my home? Pfft!” Rhae huffs before carrying on with plans for the upcoming dinner he’s to host.

He has never in his life hosted a dinner.

Should be…mortifying. But at least the theatre awaits tomorrow night.

Chapter Text

“Oh. Isn’t it lovely?” she gasps as they turn the corner at last.

At her unintentional utterance, Jon glances her way from inside the carriage where he sits opposite her and Gilly and smiles fondly, the sole lantern within making his visible dark grey eye appear black.

Sansa feels herself flushing. Whether it be from his attention or how handsome he is in his evening attire, it is hard to say. They have spent the entire afternoon together discussing plans for making over the drawing room and yet she feels shy of him now. Why is that?

They’d had their heads together, deep in discussion like old acquaintances for some time when Mordane had brought in afternoon tea and said they had a caller at the back door.

They had welcomed the very kind tradesman Lady Martell had sent along with her personal recommendation for furniture design.  However, Jon had grown amusingly vexed over the plethora of fabric swatches sent with him. Declaring that his sister was turning a straight-forward task into something akin to transporting a regiment across the sea, Jon had sat himself in the corner for a time holding his head whilst Sansa had managed things. Soon enough though, Jon had been chuckling to himself and complimenting her over handing the matter so skillfully.

When the carpenter had taken his leave, they’d fallen into a happier discussion, quite comfortable and content in one another’s company again.

“I’m sorry for my taciturn behavior.”

“You were not so very taciturn,” she’d said, hiding her grin as she worked on a bit of embroidery. “Mister Hill was not frightened away at least.”

“It is benevolent of you to say so but I was a being a bear.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say a ferocious bear. A wolf perhaps, a hungry one.”

He had been quite ravenous eating up the cakes Mordane had brought in to go along with tea while she’d been speaking to Mister Hill. He’d laughed heartily at her sauciness, though it was accurate sauciness. She’s grown very fond of his laughter.

“My father once said an army marches upon its stomach and I’m sure that’s true of individual soldiers and can readily effect one’s mood. I know I grow peevish when I have not eaten in several hours.”

“Your father was right and you are as wise as you are lovely, Sansa. You charm our talented carpenter and draw me from my sour mood as effortlessly as a bee buzzes among the flowers.”

“Thank you,” she’d replied sunnily, pleased by his compliments. Jon is not a man to speak superfluous words nor given to false flattery from what she can tell. Therefore, his praise is all the more meaningful.

But the comfortable ease between them had shifted into another variety of warmth with his next words.

“Soon our drawing room will no longer look as if it is ready to receive mourners, Ghost, and it’s all thanks to Sansa. Alright, it was Rhae’s idea initially but it’s good that I have help. We’re quite a lucky pair of fellows to have her here, aren’t we?  We shall have to persuade our darling girl to stay, won't we?”

Darling girl. Had he meant to call her that? Had he realized he had said it? She doesn’t think so. And can he truly wish for her to stay?

He’d been busy conversing with his dog as he will do, causing that great white tail to thump the rug and wag happily.  She’s noticed how he dotes upon Ghost which she finds most endearing. She notices how he tends to ramble when speaking to Ghost as if no one else might hear his private thoughts.  Certainly, he has no idea that his simply spoken endearment had left her breathless just as him describing her as radiant to his sister yesterday had done the same.

Get your head out of the clouds, Sansa, she warns herself.  You may indulge in the fantasy of the stage in the coming hours.  It will serve you as well as sighing over Jon’s sweet words.  Sweet though they are, it was not a proposal.     

She is looking forward to this.  She’s seen a couple of plays in York and a little home stage production in Wembury but this is so different, so much more.  She is nothing short of awe-struck as Halder brings the carriage to a halt.  Covent Garden’s Theatre-Royal is all lit up outside to match the hundreds of candles which surely burn within. 

She feels she can barely contain her excitement but she is a little embarrassed to carry on so over it to Jon.  He is a man of the world, well educated and has traveled to foreign lands.  A theatre performance likely doesn’t leave him this enthused.  She fears that she may seem quite the country mouse compared to the other ladies he must know.  His half-sister is very elegant. She must have some very elegant friends.  Are any of them Jon’s particular friends as well?

Yesterday, when she did not know who Lady Martell was initially, she’d had the most disagreeable feeling surface at the sight of Jon alone with a beautiful woman.  She’d laid abed last night trying to identify the feeling and could only settle on jealousy. She’d named herself a ninny for it and tossed and turned for another hour afterward. 

Even after discovering the lady’s name and her relation to Jon, which she is quite an affable woman and Sansa hopes they shall be very good friends, Sansa fears she must’ve looked positively wild coming in with windblown hair carrying on over squirrels like Arya or the boys might do.  She must remember to behave as expected in company.  She does not wish to embarrass herself or him.  And she most earnestly doesn’t wish him to think her a child.    

“Isn’t it marvelous, Gilly?” she whispers quietly in her companion’s ear of the theatre. 

“Yes, miss.  ‘Tis a fancy establishment,” Gilly says with a benevolence which does not disguise her own good-natured amusement over Sansa’s enthusiasm.  Gilly has lived in London all her life so Sansa supposes she is no more impressed by the structure than Jon would be.

“It was rebuilt five years ago after a fire destroyed the old one, you know.  I’ve never been inside it until tonight and, even if the play does not amuse us greatly, at least I’ll be able to say I’ve seen a performance here now.” 

Country mouse or not, Sansa simply cannot help grinning upon hearing Jon’s addition. 

“Ah, here we go, ladies.” Jon alights from the carriage, his limp thankfully seeming to give him little trouble this evening, and turns to help them both down before a waiting footman may do so. 

Placing her gloved hand in his, she takes another moment to absorb the whole atmosphere of the evening before descending.  Silly girl that she is, she almost feels as though she stands upon a stage like Miss Kitty Stephens would with admirers waiting with bated breath for her first word or next move.   

But then she looks down to see Jon gazing back at her and she believes this might be even better than any play.

One strong hand hovers at her waist for a moment and she is the one who waits with bated breath for...something.  As she takes her step down onto the pavement, he is sure that she has her footing before he releases her once more. She catches a hint of his scent upon the breeze and feels her heart expanding in her chest.

She imagines she can still feel the presence of his hand even when he pulls away to assist Miss Wilde.

Gilly is in service but Sansa cannot think of her simply as a maid.  She is so dear to her already.  Gilly’s practical and knowledgeable about things Sansa knows little of but she does not lord it over her either or treat her like a fool.  Between her and Rhaenys, Sansa might almost feel as though she has two older sisters watching over her here.  

Unfortunately, and unlike Rhaenys, Gilly’s lot is a common one for girls of no fortune with few connections.  Her dear mother has passed and her father may have as well for all poor Gilly knows since he sailed away to America years ago and has not returned. She will live and die a maid and perhaps a maiden as well if no good-hearted, respectable man comes along to marry her. 

But Sansa has already determined that Gilly would make someone a very fine wife, someone who is not seeking a match purely for his societal or financial gain.  Well, not seeking it for those reasons at all.  If only there were such a man…

She glances at Jon but her selfish heart instantly revolts at the half-formed thought when it appears.  Jon is not for Gilly! 

Because you want him for yourself. 

She bites at the inside of her cheek as punishment for allowing her matchmaking interest to get away from her and for pining for a man who may never view her as anything more than his kin.   

“Shall we go inside, ladies?” he asks, offering his arm to her.  

“Yes, please,” she answers, attempting to recapture her earlier joy.

Inside, he helps remove her cloak since it is warm as Gilly removes her own.  “You look lovely, Sansa,” he murmurs, looking at her new dress again, and the deep, husky timbre of his voice stirs her in a most indecent manner.  Must he be so kind and equally alluring? 

“Thank you,” she replies, blushing yet again.    

He had said as much earlier when she’d come down prior to their departure.  Perhaps he's forgotten. 

She has never considered mauve a good color on her but she loved it as soon as she clapped eyes on the dress at the shop.  Paired with her long silk gloves and with her hair freshly styled by Gilly's skilled hands, she thinks she doesn't look a country mouse tonight at least. She does look forward to the arrival of the blue dress she'd spent so much time working on in anticipation of her season.  She hopes Jon will think she looks lovely in it as well and tell her so.  She may wear it for their dinner.

They make their way to their appointed box where she is seated between Jon and Gilly.  There are so many people milling about below and in the other boxes and for a time she is lost in watching it all. 

“Will the play be half as amusing as our fellow patrons, do you think?”

She giggles at his wry jesting and replies that it remains to be seen when a vibrant emerald green gown catches her eye adorned with gold trim.  The young lady wearing it is quite lovely with golden brown hair and eyes.  She is flanked by two rather handsome gentlemen, one of whom seems vaguely familiar. 

She realizes she's been staring when Jon whispers out of the side of his mouth, "Those are the Tyrells." 

"Do you know them?"

"Only Garlan, the gentleman in uniform, and only a little.  Their family has made quite a fortune in sugar and rice over the past thirty years or so," he adds with a disdainful growl. She knows Jon's disapproval doesn't come from snobbery over 'new' money but his very vehement views against slavery, views she agrees with. "His sister there, Miss Margaery Tyrell, is an acquaintance of Rhaenys.  The other young man is Mister Loras, who is rumored to be contemplating the church as a vocation though not very seriously from what I've heard."

"Loras Tyrell," she repeats, feeling the blood draining from her face.  She recalls him now.  She had heard of him in Bath when she was there.  He did not move in the same circles as Mister Baelish but he had been present at an assembly she'd attended.  Surely, you would be unknown to him though...and you did nothing wrong, she attempts to remind herself.  

"You look paley all of a sudden, miss.  Are you alright?" Gilly asks.  

Jon's full attention is on her now when she assures Gilly she's fine.  But Jon knows of her worries.  She takes a deep breath and whispers in his ear. 

He clasps her hand in his and gives a much-appreciated squeeze.  "Do not worry over Bath tonight, darling girl.  Let's enjoy the play."

"I am being silly to worry."

"No, not silly but I would say that anyone who takes the trouble of getting to know you will see you for who you are and not believe those tales."

"And who am I that makes you so confident?"

"You're a lady, pure of heart and astonishingly beautiful," he replies with a smile, leaving her breathless just as a draft behind them indicates that someone has entered their box.

“By God, I thought my eyes were going!  You really are here!  Who got Jon Targaryen away from his hearth, I said to my sister.  Didn’t I say that, Talla?  Didn’t I say I ‘Who got Jon Targaryen away from his hearth?’”

Jon is on his feet in an instant, greeting the rotund man with a jolly countenance and dressed very finely who had spoken.  By his side is a young lady in pale yellow satin. She stares at Jon with wide eyes and nods a little absently at her brother's words.  Jon doesn’t appear to notice.

“Sam!  It’s good to see you here!  I had no idea you were in town,” Jon says before turning to make the introductions.  “Lord Samwell Tarly, Miss Tarly, may I present my cousin, Miss Sansa Stark, and Miss Wilde?  Lord Tarly is the Viscount of Hornhill..."

"...and this fellow's very dear old friend from school.  If it weren't for Jon, I never would've survived," the man adds with an engaging grin and Sansa isn't entirely sure if he's being serious or not.  

Curtsies and a bow between Sansa, Gilly and Lord Tarly and then Sansa shakes hands with Miss Tarly and is very pleased when the young lady shakes hands with Gilly as well. 

A brief conversation ensues between the two men but they are sure to include the ladies.  And Sansa notes how very often Lord Tarly's eyes drift over to Gilly who stands just at Sansa’s shoulder, smiling shyly to be included. 

Interesting, Sansa thinks with approval. 

She nearly yelps with surprise the next moment though when she feels Jon's hand hovering at the small of her back.  It’s a light touch but impossible for Sansa to ignore. Does he realize he's doing so? Of course, it’s not as though they never touch. Still, it feels almost...intimate, a touch possessive even. Shockingly enough, she desperately wants his hand to stay there but alas, it is soon gone again. 

“Since you’re here Sam, I may as well give you warning that I’ll be hosting a dinner in a couple of weeks or so.”

“You hosting a dinner?  Well, blow me down as the sailors say, eh?  Of course, of course, I shall jolly well be there!  Jon Targaryen hosting a dinner party.  Ain't that fine, Talla?”

"Very fine, very jolly.  A most jolly party, I'm sure," she says with a tremulous, hitching giggle which Sansa finds mildly uncouth for some reason.  

“You would be welcome as well, Miss Tarly,” Jon says, politely.

The lady flushes scarlet in her pale yellow satin and thanks him profusely, perhaps almost too profusely for a simple dinner party. 

Interesting, Sansa thinks with concern.  But is Jon affected? 

He does not appear to be.  He briefly smiles at her before turning back to Sansa.  “Of course, I shan’t manage it without Miss Stark’s aid.  We’re redecorating my drawing room, would you believe?  I was quite at sea earlier today with all the fabrics lying about, I assure you, Sam.”  Lord Tarly chuckles though his eyes dart back to Gilly.  “But Sansa had matters well in hand from the start and I'm quite relying upon her.  I’m sure she’ll be great help at keeping me sane during a dinner.”

“You do not give yourself enough credit, sir,” she says light-heartedly to Jon.  "We make a fine pair of partners for planning out renovations.  I distract the tradesmen whilst you eat up the cakes." 

He laughs, flushing somewhat, whilst toying with his eye patch.  She wishes he had not worn it if it bothers him.  She wishes he didn't feel he had to wear it at all but that is his business.

Meanwhile, she is pleased by his compliments same as earlier of course but perhaps pleased a bit by Lord Tarly's interest in Gilly and Miss Tarly’s uncertainty of what to make of Jon’s remarks regarding redecorating as well.

Before more of the matter may be discussed, the curtain opens again and they have yet another visitor to the box.  Though taller than Lord Tarly and far slimmer, there is an undeniable resemblance between him and the other two Tarlys.  

“Well, here you both are.  I was beginning to wonder if I was to be left to sit alone all evening after Sam made a point of dragging me along to this silly farce.”

"It is not a silly farce, Dickon," Lord Tarly argues.  "It is quite witty."

Sansa is not pleased to hear their new arrival speak negatively of the play but she will admit he does seem an affable gentleman.  "I would still rather have remained in the country to do some more shooting," he says as he turns Sansa's way to bow gracefully. 

He is rather handsome in his red officer's coat but perhaps a bit puffed up?  It is hard to tell.  She'd thought Ramsay cordial at first but her first impression had soon been dashed so perhaps she is mistaken.    

His eyes still rest upon Sansa when he says to Jon, "I beg pardon for intruding on your box, Colonel Targaryen.  I hope you are well, sir?"   

“Ah…Lieutenant Tarly.  Yes, quite.  It's good to see you again,” Jon says in a tone that makes Sansa wonder if he truly means it. 

Once more, she can feel Jon's hand hovering at the small of her back and her toes are nearly curling in her slippers in anticipation of his touch.  But it is only for a moment.  The heat of his hand and its promise disappears as Jon makes the introduction.          

Later that night, Sansa will experience yet another period of twisting and turning in her bed, trying to settle for sleep. She will recall that anticipation of his touch, the earlier moments when he did touch her, when he held her by the waist as she stepped from the coach. She hears his husky voice calling her ‘darling girl’ and remembers the smoldering look in his eye by the coach's interior lantern.

Her cheeks flushed pink and with panted breaths, she imagines the heat and touch of his hand again though somewhere else besides her lower back. With her nightrail rucked up, her toes curl and her tummy clenches as her fingers grows damp whilst she quietly moans his name into her pillow.

Thankfully enough, she is too sleepy afterward for shame to plague her greatly. But however will she face him at the breakfast table in the morning?

Chapter Text

Mornings were never so lively before Sansa came to stay.  

He would sit at his table, slipping bites of sausage or bacon to Ghost and reading the newspaper without generally speaking at all...except to Ghost.  Sometimes, Cook would come in and admonish him not to get grease on his cuffs or breeches.  He rarely does.  Otherwise, Satin will be muttering under his breath. 

Regardless, it was a rather dull time of day for Jon in general since his return from Spain.  Honestly, whether he’s in London or Lancashire, most of his days were just variations of dullness from hour to hour depending upon the day’s business. 

But now?

“Surely, that was the nightingale I heard an hour ago and not the lark,” she sighs, gliding into the breakfast parlor like a breath of fresh air.

“Alas, it was the lark, fair Juliet,” he teases in reply.   

“But if it was the lark than I am unpardonably tardy for breakfast this morning.”

You are unpardonably beautiful this morning.  “Not at all, not at all.  I shall name it the nightingale if thou wilt have it so.” 

She giggles with delight and he knows sharp relief after spending over an hour last night fretting.  He had feared some lingering awkwardness, not at all sure that he’d managed to keep his sulking as discreet as he’d desired with the Tarlys departure from the box at the theatre.

He knows he has no right to sulk.  Sansa is his cousin and here to have her first Season.  Many young men will wish to be introduced to her and make a spectacle of themselves once they are.  Dickon Tarly is only the first of them.  He has no right to harbor jealousy over it. 

And what right did you have to take yourself in hand as you laid abed thinking of her? 

His cheeks burn with the memory of taking the small bottle of oil from its spot and rubbing a few drops into his palm before he allowed his baser desires to carry him away.    

He glances up at her but her bright-eyed innocence causes him to immediately glance away again. 

Well, at least I managed to get some bloody sleep after watching Tarly gaze at her like that.     

Why, even Sam had seemed to stare and laugh a good deal more than usual when they were in her presence.  If there was a match to be made between Sansa and a Tarly, that would be the more ideal one in Jon’s opinion. 

He does not base that merely upon the fact that Sam, as first born, is Lord Tarly and Dickon is likely soon to be a half-pay lieutenant with the war coming to an end.  Oh, Dickon may be the more handsome of the brothers but, in this matter, Jon bases his opinion upon what he knows of Sam’s impeccable character and kindness.  His brother may be a good fellow but he cannot hold a candle to Sam in Jon’s eyes.

But I don’t want her to marry either Tarly, dammit!

Well, you’d best come ‘round to the notion in general because someone’s going to want to marry her without a doubt.

But not yet.  She’s still here…still mine for now, a primal longing within whispers. 

To cast away his hopeless longings, he allows himself to thoroughly admire Sansa’s hair as she goes to the sideboard.  She often leaves it partially down this early.  The sunlight is streaming through the window just so, setting her auburn locks aglow.  She is dripping with her own inner sunlight which warms him through and through on a parky March morning.  Another line from that particular play comes to mind.  It is the east, Sansa is the sun and I am indeed quite hopeless.

“Are there any eggs left?” she asks, casting a glance at the covered platter before him. 

“Certainly.  And we do not stand on ceremony here, cousin.  No bugle’s call or ship’s bells to wake the sleepers.  It was a late evening but here is chocolate waiting to rouse you and the newspaper if you wish to be vexed.”

She grins but then glances at his empty plate.  “You’re not leaving already, are you?” 

Then, she pouts.  She’s pouting at the thought of him leaving.  She does not wish for him to quit her company so soon.  Yes, she is used to dining with others, he supposes, and may not like breakfasting alone but does she have any notion how it moves him to know she enjoys his company?  Likely not but she needn’t fear.  Her pout could command armies, he believes, and he has no desire to quit her company.   

“No, I have only had coffee thus far.”  I waited for you. 

“Has Gilly come down yet?”

“She did.  I believe she took breakfast with Mordane.”  Would you prefer her company to mine?  He is being too hard on himself.  He is glad the two women get along.  “Ghost has graciously left a whole sausage for us to share.”

Ghost thumps his tail at the mention of his name and sausage in the same sentence.

Sansa joins him at table and, after some discussion of last night's entertainment, they tuck in and enjoy a companionable quiet…if one excuses the noisy chomping of Ghost which of course, they do. 

“Did you see this bit about a quarrel between Mrs. Baratheon and Lady Jersey in the paper?  Oh bother!”  Distracted by the latest gossip, she finds herself knuckle-deep in the butter. 

Meanwhile, Jon finds himself distracted by the delicate sucking motion she’s making to remove it.  “Hmm?” 

With her well-buttered finger, pert, pink mouth and shining bright blue eyes, Jon’s mind is agreeably engaged elsewhere before he snaps himself out of it.  He doesn’t wish her to think him inattentive.  Or a complete libertine if she could read my thoughts.

“Oh yes, I did.”  Cersei Baratheon is suddenly a pariah thanks to some scandalous business involving her twin brother.  Jon can't say he's sorry to hear it.      

“Mister Hill says the drawing room should be finished week after next.”

“Yes, he told me the same.”  The cessation of hammers and workmen coming to and fro will be a relief but may lead to a greater pain.  “We will have to send out invitations for our dinner soon, I suppose.”  You will charm everyone and I will do my best not to retreat to a corner too soon. 

The theatre and its entertainments are well enough and Sansa was breathtaking seated by his side during the performance in her lovely mauve dress but this morning time spent together is far more to Jon’s taste, definitely more than hosting a dinner.  It’s only been a couple of weeks since her arrival and already he is quite addicted to Sansa sitting at his table every morning. 

If only it could always be so. 

But it cannot.  A beautiful young woman like Sansa will easily find some handsome, agreeable young man to her liking, one who will fall madly in love with her.  They will marry and Jon’s mornings will be quiet and dull again.  His whole world will dim when she goes.    

“Would you care for another slice?”

“Is there any more of Cook’s marmalade?”

He eyes the small pot by his hand and grins at her hopeful look.  “Just enough.”

“Very well.  Another, please.”

He happily passes her the toasted bread and pot of marmalade.  Their bare hands touch with the exchange and his foolish heart gives a lurch.  Merciful God, if only the things he wants and the things he may have could be reconciled!

A turn in the park is decided upon after breakfast and Ghost ruffs his agreement.  Gilly declines to join them, claiming a headache.  Her cheeks are rosy enough that she may have a fever.  Actually, Sansa’s cheeks are rosy, too.  He’s tempted to lay a hand upon her brow but resists. 

There’s some giggling behind his back when he goes to fetch his hat and cane.  He frowns, worried they are sharing some jape at his expense.  The cane is not strictly necessary but it makes walking distances easier. 

He chides himself upon reflection of the matter.  Neither Sansa nor Gilly have a cruel bone in their bodies and he is being ridiculous.  In fact, Sansa looks at him so sweetly when he offers her his arm once they are outside that he dismisses the notion of them laughing at him entirely.  Despite the differences in their stations, they are young women close in age and likely have plenty of things to discuss beyond himself.  He really should get a hold of himself today.   

“It’s lovely today, isn’t it?” Sansa says a short while later as they stroll past Grosvenor Gate and through a copse of walnuts. 

“Yes, you…I mean, it is,” he agrees, barely catching himself. 

It is a lovely day.  Early Spring in Hyde Park, still a bit of Winter’s nippiness to the air.  Ghost is as playful as a pup, trotting by their sides.  Jon prefers coming here on mornings like this.  Sundays after services it can turn into quite a crush with everyone eager to see and be seen.  But this morning, they are relatively undisturbed.

“Oh, a performance!” Sansa gasps with delight, the same irresistible delight he’d seen upon that lovely face last night. 

Sure enough, there are two street performers with their monkey setting out a hoop and box.  Of the trio, Jon would lay odds on the monkey being the wisest of them all, poor beast.  “Are you in such a rage to see more theatrics after the play just last night?” he gently teases.

“Always.  Come on, please,” Sansa says, tugging at his arm. 

How can he refuse? 

It is an amusing little spectacle and the small audience is enthralled.  Ghost, however, goes rigid spying the creature which is neither squirrel nor man nor horse dancing to a tune but, when Jon clicks his tongue, the dog settles at his feet, only giving one enormous huff to show what a hardship it is.  All the while, his master is keenly aware of the warmth of Sansa’s gloved hands wrapped around the crook of his elbow. 

When the show is done, he gives the lead man a crown and receives bows from all three, the monkey making the most elegant leg of them.  He glances at Sansa, thinking to share his silly quip and to ask her if she should wish to walk on or turn back to find she’s already staring at him.  Her blue eyes sparkle so merrily it quite takes his breath away.  A whisp of red hair has escaped her bonnet.

“May I…” he says, his voice dropping lower as his fingers hang uncertainly between them. 

Flushing, she nods, allowing him to tuck the errant strand back into her bonnet.  It will likely fly loose again in no time.  The blue ribbons of her bonnet nearly matches the blue of her eyes though not as lovely.  He could say as much but would he dare?  The most insane urge to pluck her bonnet away and watch her hair blow wild in the breeze assails him and, in that instant, some fever-fed intuition tells him she would not mind, that she might only laugh and hold his arm all that much tighter if he did.   

If only…

If only what?  And, why not?  

I am not fit for the likes of her.  She’ll find a fellow, a whole man, to her liking soon enough. 

A whole man?  You are that, aren't you?  You could make a match with her as readily as any other man.   

Me?

Yes you, you great fool.

But I’m… 

Thundering hooves behind them interrupt the thought and Ghost gives a bark as a man’s voice is shouting, “Hullo!  Say there, Targaryen!  Fancy meeting you again so soon!”

Jon scowls, not wishing to run into an acquaintance just now.  His scowl deepens when he sees who it is.

“Lieutenant Tarly,” he says with a bow, hoping to contain his annoyance as Dickon slides gracefully off his Arabian and comes barreling up to them both like an eager pup.

“Miss Stark, what an unexpected pleasure to see you here this morning.  The blue of that ribbon nearly matches your eyes, if I may be so bold as to say it.  It’s a deeper blue though…the ribbon, I mean.  Quite, um…blue.  Yes.”

Sansa smiles kindly at his clumsy compliment whilst answering the man’s bow with a curtsy.  “It is good to see you again, Lieutenant.”   

“Yes.  What luck, eh?  I was just out riding.”

“As we see by the well-lathered horse standing behind you.”  Sansa gives his elbow a squeeze.  Perhaps the reply did come out a little tart.  Dickon does not seem to notice. 

“I’m usually here on Sundays after church when there’s more people about but then one can’t always get as good a ride in for fear of trampling children, ha!”  Sansa gasps quietly at Dickon’s cavalier expression.  The poor fellow seems to think himself something of a wit and laughs at his own humor. 

“Riding is excellent exercise but we were just enjoying a quiet stroll today,” Jon says in hopes of giving the hint. 

“Well, then…capital.”  Dickon rubs his hands together, an awkward, dumb-struck grin on his face as he appears at a loss for how to extend this encounter now that he has forced it. 

Meanwhile, Jon wonders how to politely end it.  Or just end it.  Politeness is not of the utmost importance to me in this instance. 

But Sansa, the dear girl sensing a dreaded silence, begins to speak of the play from last night, drawing both men into the conversation until at last Dickon strikes upon the suggestion that they all take a turn together. 

“I should walk Ajax to cool him anyway.  I hope you don’t mind the walk with your limp, that is, colonel,” Dickon says, rather rudely pointing to his cane.  Obviously, he’s here walking already so there was no need to mention his leg.  “And, I would be honored to walk with Miss Stark and allow you to take a rest over on that bench if you’re feeling worn or-”

“That won’t be necessary,” Jon snaps. 

He’s not a goddamn invalid, is he?  He’s her cousin, not her grandsire.  And, even if his limp were troubling him today, which it isn’t, he will not hand her over so readily to a man she’s only just met last night who Jon himself knows little of beyond what Sam has shared. 

Speaking of things Sam has shared, their father was a harsh man but preferred his younger son to his heir.  He did not manage to cut Sam off from his inheritance though so Dickon has shared the fate of all younger sons and has nothing of the estate.  Sansa’s thousand-pound dowry may not be enough to attract a fortune hunter but it might appeal to a half-pay lieutenant.  My intense jealousy is beside the point.   

“I can manage a turn in the park well enough,” Jon manages to say with a more civil smile next though his fluttering of hopes and good spirits from earlier are quite quashed.

“Well, I can go slower if you need me to,” Dickon says.  Is he that obtuse or does he wish to add salt to the wound? 

“The colonel could quite outpace me if he chose to, Mister Tarly," Sansa says with a sharpness to her tone before adding with a sweet smile, "He goes at the pace I prefer.”  It is kind of her but Jon doesn't want her to think she must protect his sensibilities and he keenly feels the sting of Dickon’s offer in the face of that younger man’s robust good health.

“Shall we?” he suggests to move things along whilst self-consciously adjusting his eyepatch and trying to let go of this intense and sudden hatred of a certain Tarly. 

All the same, Sansa continues to hold Jon’s arm as Dickon is busy leading his horse.  Ghost follows them all a few paces behind.  The dog gives a few discontented growls here and there, matching his master’s mood.   

“He is an amiable man,” he says quietly in her ear after they’ve said their goodbyes again as a punishment for his earlier bilious thoughts. 

“Yes, he is amiable,” Sansa says in a tone which is hard to interpret.  Is she displeased?  Regretting that Dickon has left?  Or merely, lost in her own thoughts?  “Do you mean to invite all three Tarlys to our dinner?”

Ah, is that a hint?  “Yes, I suppose so.” 

He’d only meant to invite Sam and Miss Tarly since she was present when it was brought up last night and it would give Sansa another young lady to speak with but he knows it would only be correct to invite Dickon as well.  And perhaps Sansa wishes for more of the handsome lieutenant's company there.  What would you expect?  Why wouldn't she prefer a young man like him?  

He swallows down a wretched blend of jealousy and loss.  This bloody dinner may be the death of him.   

Chapter Text

“He is an amiable man,” he'd said of Dickon that day in the park. 

“Yes, he is amiable,” she'd agreed, begrudgingly. “Do you mean to invite all three Tarlys to our dinner?”

“Yes, I suppose so.” 

That had been Jon’s reply and so Sansa draws forth another envelope and begins to address it, smothering a sigh.  She smiles though when she begins with the ‘Right Honorable Viscount Lord Samwell Tarly of Horn Hill.’  Truly an amiable gentleman…one who does not make unwelcome observations.

It is not that Lieutenant Tarly is a disagreeable gentleman on the whole. He is clearly a good-hearted man overall but his unnecessarily solicitous remarks regarding Jon’s limp had angered her.  She has learnt enough of her cousin at this point to know how too much fuss over his injuries wounds his sensibilities. 

Additionally, Dickon had happened upon them at a most inopportune moment.  Jon had been tucking a stray strand of her hair back into her bonnet and looking at her in a manner which had given rise to such hopes.  Foolish hopes perhaps but there had been something there, she would’ve sworn. 

Or she would’ve sworn it that day at least.  Today, she is no longer so certain.  Perhaps Jon would be happy if Dickon chose to court me.  I might be out of his hair that much sooner.       

“It’s a thousand times more likely that the colonel will make you an offer than his lordship will ever do so for me, miss,” Gilly had said last night as she’d been helping her dress for bed. 

“A thousand times?!  But Jon has said nothing to give me any indication he views me in such a manner.”

“His eyes say quite enough.”

Do they?  Does Gilly really think so? 

“Beg pardon if I’m overstepping, miss,” Gilly had added, concernedly.

Perhaps it had been a bit presumptuous on her part but Sansa had waved away Gilly’s apology.  Meanwhile, she fears feeding herself false hopes.

“Jon is only being kind to me,” she had told Gilly, wishing so much it were otherwise.  “But do not sell yourself short.  Lord Tarly seemed so taken with you!”

“Perhaps he was in some small manner.  But, while men may have eyes to look and mouths to smile with, that doesn’t mean they have any serious notions about a woman, miss.”  

Nevertheless, though Gilly will not admit it, Sansa believes she is pleased at the prospect of seeing Lord Tarly again.  Of course, Gilly won’t be sitting down with them at dinner.  While she is quite sure they’d get along famously given the chance based on the way Lord Tarly was so keen to include Gilly in their discussion and could not stop smiling and staring at her, reality tells her she is likely guilty of feeding false hopes to another for thinking anything more could come of it. 

Samwell Tarly is a lord and Gilly is her maid.  Such a match would be the talk of the town and little of it would be kind to the couple involved.  Courtship is complicated enough without adding in the rigorous rules of society in general. 

Sansa frowns upon reflection of the matter and is reduced to sighing again before Mordane comes in to tell her she has callers.

Lady Martell’s call from several days ago had been returned by Jon and Sansa after their visit to the park, it having been decided upon before they’d run into Lieutenant Tarly, and there Sansa had been introduced to Lady Martell’s children as well as two of her friends, Mrs. Myranda Royce and Miss Wylla Manderly.  

Mrs. Royce is a few years older than Sansa and, despite being a widow, is a very jolly sort of lady.  It is rumored that she has hopes of marrying a man of her choosing this time rather than her father’s, hoping for one who is not more than twice her age and likely to die off on her too soon.  “Not while he’s on top of me at the very least.” 

Sansa is sure her eyes had widened quite comically when she’d comprehended the lady’s meaning. She’d been distracted from the kerfuffle which had followed though since Jon had been choking on his tea. 

Miss Wylla is of an age with Sansa though of a more serious bent.  It’s said she’s something of a bluestocking with no desire to marry but Sansa had liked her quite well.  She had brought dear Arya to mind who has given a dubious ‘perhaps’ when asked if she might like to come to town for a visit in May.    

It had afterwards been agreed that both young ladies would be invited to the dinner that Jon is soon to host being as they are quite sewn up in Lady Martell’s circle and he has named them agreeable companions for the space of a dinner. 

“In their way, that is. Watch for Miss Manderly’s claws if she is vexed, not that I would imagine she’d ever be vexed with you, and mind what you say to Mrs. Royce if you don’t wish it to be repeated in a dozen drawing rooms tomorrow. And I'm afraid at times, she can be rather silly.” 

She had nodded sagely in reply to her cousin’s advice, secretly praying she will not commit some horrible blunder to bring him discredit. 

So, it is no great surprise this morning that those three ladies have come to pay their own call at Colonel Targaryen’s home and brought three more individuals with them, one of whom is unknown to Sansa and two who are.     

“Olyvar and Ellie, sit still for pity's sake and leave the poor dog be!" Lady Martell says briskly to her young children who are currently attempting to ride Ghost through the drawing room and in a heated tussle at present over whose turn it is.   

The future earl and his sister pout prodigiously at their mama while Ghost whimpers pitifully on their behalf. 

Sansa smiles at them all.  "They are alright but I'm afraid Ghost has no saddle and it would be nice if they would be kind to the dog and each other.”  Solemn little faces nod piously, making the other ladies laugh as Ghost thumps his tail.  “Ghost loves seeing them, I can tell.”

“Where is Uncle Jon, Mama?” Olyvar asks plaintively.  “He said he would let me ride Teak next time we visited him.”

“He did, did he?” Lady Martell casts Sansa a chastising look.

“Don’t blame me, my lady,” Sansa laughs.  “I do not control what promises Jon makes his nephew.”

“Don’t you?  I’m quite certain you have more influence than you know, sweet girl. If he is a colonel, you might be the general,” the lady replies coyly, causing two of the other three women to laugh. The third lady, the unknown quantity, looks at her curiously.    

“Oh no, you’re mistaken for that title is held by both Mordane and Cook.  Together, they run the household and we must do as we’re bid like humble foot soldiers.” 

That draws forth more amused laughter and a hearty, ‘Good for them!’ from Miss Wylla. 

But internally, Sansa is desperately wondering if there is any truth to Rhaenys’ remark and what it might mean.  Does she influence Jon?  In a good way or otherwise?  She has no opportunity to reflect for long though for Little Lady Elia is whispering in her ear.

“Uncle Jon gives me sweets when I visit him, Miss Stark.”

“Oh, he must be quite a good uncle,” Sansa whispers back, beaming at the girl who is all of four. 

“The very best.”

Sansa can well believe it having seen him with his niece and nephew when they’d paid their call upon the Martells.  It had produced the keenest and most curious ache seeing him with the children, his eyes aglow and his usual self-consciousness around others diminished.  He had barely winced even when Ellie had knocked his eyepatch askew.  It is only with Ghost she has seen him thus…or perhaps with herself in less guarded moments.

“He had to go out this morning on some business but he shall soon return, my dear.  I know he will wish to see you all.” 

Whether or not he wishes to see me though…

It has been a busy week, one of the busiest in Sansa’s memory.  The household has been in a constant flurry attempting to bring order to the chaos after the workmen had finished with the drawing room which is now as lovely as any drawing room Sansa ever beheld.  The soft green shades gracing the wall and creamy white and grey delicate furnishings are pleasing to the eye. 

She hopes Jon thinks so as well.  She has seen so little of him since the day of their visit to the Martells when their lovely stroll through park was quite spoiled by Dickon Tarly’s arrival.  Oh, they still dine together most meals but otherwise it is as if he wishes to avoid her.

Does he tire of her company? Rooms remade, comforting crying girls in the night, indulging her with trips to the park and theatre and prepared to wage duels on her behalf, she’s brought quite a bit of upheaval to his retired life since her arrival. 

“This is the extent of your guest list?” Lady Martell asks, looking over her shoulder. 

Sansa had carried it into the drawing room with her when her guests had arrived.  “Yes, a round dozen suited Jon and this is the first time I’ve helped with this sort of affair.”

“Helped?” Lady Martell says with a scowl reminiscent of her half-brother’s.  “It seems to me you’re doing the whole of it.”

“It is only the invitations.  Jon has done so much for this dinner.  Too much, I fear.  I do not mind addressing half a dozen or so envelopes.  I like being useful to him,” she adds with a pleading look. Rhaenys pats her hand and smiles.  She wishes the others had not come with Rhaenys now. She could stand some sisterly advice on the matter of Jon and this dinner and his recent withdrawal.  

“Well, I’ll allow that Jon does have the most abominable penmanship.  They might wind up making their way to Cardiff instead of Kensington if the postman is forced to read his illegible scrawl.”

“Oh, it is not so bad.  He has a bold but legible hand, I think.” 

Sansa has read and reread his letter last year to express his sympathies after her parents’ passing and cannot find fault in Jon’s penmanship.  And perhaps she is a bit defensive when it comes to anyone finding fault with Jon…even his own half-sister.

“There now, Rhaenys.  Miss Stark has spoken and I’m sure there can be no further argument over the matter,” her newest acquaintance says in a tone which Sansa is not certain how to interpret.

Whereas Mrs. Royce is jolly upon the whole and Miss Wylla is generally not though kind in her way, the third lady, Lady Arianne Martell, the cousin and sister-in-law of Rhaenys, is a riddle to Sansa. 

Admittedly, they have only just met but Sansa cannot tell if the lady likes her one whit so far.  It troubles Sansa exceedingly who so earnestly wishes to be liked by any new acquaintance if possible.  She had hoped to make a good impression on the lady having heard of her through Jon.  She is a couple of years his senior but they apparently got to know one another well around the time he left for the army. 

Before she'd ever come to London even, Sansa had heard tell of her, nearly as well known in society as Lady Jersey.  Sansa had heard whispers that the lady is considered the soul of wit though determined to end a spinster. However, with some concern, Sansa has discovered that Lady Arianne is breathtakingly beautiful.  Does she truly wish for spinsterhood or is it that she wishes for someone in particular to court her?

Jon has mentioned her being courted by a rather determined duke at present.  “However, Rhaenys says she grows bored of the fellow.  If he is truly attached to her, I fear she’ll break his heart.”

“If she is not attached, then it is probably best she is honest but is it not a tolerable match?”

“Oh quite.  He’s rich as Midas, they say, but Arianne is…well, she’s determined to have things her own way.” 

Unless a woman is very high or very low, she is quite constrained by the conventions of their society, strangled by them even.  But Lady Arianne as the daughter of the late earl and sister of the current one and quite wealthy to boot enjoys a level of freedom few women do.  “I cannot fault her for that.”

“No, nor I,” Jon had said in a tone of admiration which had piqued some unpleasant jealousy within. 

And why does he address her as Arianne and not Lady Arianne?  Yes, they are related through marriage but wouldn’t it be more proper for him to call her Lady Arianne? It's not as if they grew up together with the casual intimacies of childhood erasing the rules of decorum.  The same could be said for you and yet he asked you to call him Jon.   

“As for ladies having things their own way,” he’d continued that evening over supper, “I’m fully in support of that.  I’m sure you would be happier if you might choose a fellow for a husband who you could tolerate morning, noon and night.”

“That would be a happy circumstance indeed if he were such an amiable man as to let me have my own way,” she’d replied grinning, allowing herself to dream of Jon being that very man. 

But her grin had not evoked one of his own.  "An amiable man...yes,"  he'd repeated in a dashed tone of voice. The next moment, he’d risen to excuse himself, claiming some business matter.     

“Hmm,” Lady Martell says, frowning at the list of guests now.  “There are more ladies than gentlemen invited, I see.”

“There is your husband, the two Tarlys and Mister Mormont in addition to Jon.”

“Jeor Mormont is old enough to be your grandsire, Miss Stark, and bringing his wife.  I had thought Jon would at least invite a few more men closer in age to himself..."  Her lips twitch impishly, "…not that I am truly surprised.” 

"Oh, I..." 

As Sansa looks with concern at the guest list wondering if the dinner party will be a disappointment in some manner to their guests, the door opens and Jon walks in.

“There you are at last, Targaryen!” Lady Arianne says with some secretly amused smile lighting her lovely face.  Blast, that wretched jealousy is back.  “I’d nearly despaired of you ever returning before we took our leave.  Do you leave your dear little cousin alone so often, Jon?  And her so new to London, for shame.”

Jon colors as he makes his bow, his uncovered eye darting to Sansa.  “Forgive me, ladies.  I hadn’t anticipated you coming to call though I know my cousin has your entertainment well in hand without me.” 

“Oh, yes.  She’s quite proficient at pouring tea and entertaining us with her witty tongue,” Lady Arianne agrees. 

Proficient at pouring tea?  Witty tongue?  Was that a stab?  It felt like one. 

The other ladies greet him as Lady Arianne, who is seated nearest the door, holds out her gloved hand as if she expects Jon to kiss it in greeting.  Those earlier ripples of jealousy are nothing compared to what she feels in this moment. 

But Jon appears not to notice the offered hand for his niece and nephew have swarmed to greet him, too.  Little Elia gets all of her uncle’s kisses instead and Sansa smiles happily to see it. 

"Oh, Colonel!  Your sister has informed us that she's hosting a ball very soon and in Miss Stark's honor, too," Mrs. Royce says with enthusiasm. 

"Yes, she's informed me of her intentions as well, Mrs. Royce," Jon answers with both children still hanging off an arm a piece.  "It should be a merry evening."

"I'm quite in a flutter in anticipation of it!  Will you lead your cousin as the guest of honor in the first dance, sir?" 

Jon's face falls at Mrs. Royce's question and Sansa twists on his behalf.  She suspects dancing with his limp is a difficulty if not impossible.  He begins to reply, "That might be Lord Martell's honor as the host and I'm sure Sansa will have many partners-" but other are swiftly chiming in.

"Oh, let him go, children!  Have a care!  Your uncle is not a tree to climb!" Lady Martell admonishes her offspring whilst her brow is knitted with anxiety for Jon's feelings.  

"Really, Randa," Miss Wylla snaps, "is it all feathers in that head of yours?"

Sansa sees Mrs. Royce's chin tremble with concern.  "I'm so sorry, sir.  I did not mean to cause pain or-"

"You're quite alright, madam," Jon says in gentlemanly tones.  

Sansa rises from her place, so eager to do or say anything to put him at ease once more.  But someone else speaks first.  

"Do you remember that last ball we hosted at Sun Tower, Jon?" Lady Arianne asks with another enigmatic smile.  "That was a pleasant evening."

Jon smiles though there seems to be some melancholy underscoring it.  "Yes, I do.  I hope your toes have recovered by now."

"Barely," the lady replies with a chuckle before turning to Sansa who is busily picturing Jon and the lady dancing now and twisting anew.  "I hope you'll enjoy all the delights the Season has to offer, Miss Stark, and not find your toes too terribly crushed in the interim by eager, fumbling partners."

"For pity's sake, Arianne.  I was all of fifteen." 

He rolls his eye but Sansa can tell he is no longer feeling wounded or beset on all sides.  She is ashamed of how it bothers her that she was not the one to bring the return of his good spirits. So what if they danced when he was still more boy than man?  Stop being silly.  

Realizing she has not replied to Lady Arianne, she says, "Yes, my lady." Then, feeling out of sorts, she feigns interest in her invitations again until there's a general settling.

After Sansa has returned to her earlier pleasant conversation regarding favorite novels with Miss Wylla whilst Jon, the children and Ghost are busy inventing some game in the corner, Mrs. Royce approaches with a sweet smile, having recovered from her earlier misstep. 

“Would you wish to take a turn about this lovely drawing room with me, Miss Stark?  It can be so refreshing.”

"Always so eager to gossip, Randa," Miss Wylla chides.  

"Oh, I don't intend to gossip...much," the lady titters.  "Miss Stark is new to London though and here for her first Season.  Surely, she wants to know all there is to know worth knowing of everyone worth knowing, don't you, Miss Stark?  It will make navigating the balls and dinners you're sure to be invited to so much more interesting."

Her parents had never been fond of gossip but there is a part of Sansa which cannot deny curiosity over the things Mrs. Royce might share.  And her jolly air is engaging. "Well, I..."

"Careful, Miss Stark.  Mrs. Royce believes everything she's told but only believe half of what she says lest you be led astray," Lady Arianne says from her place apart from them.  Her tone smacks of a woman telling a child what to do, at least to Sansa's sensitive ears.  

"It's alright," Sansa says with determination.  "I should enjoy taking a turn with you, Mrs. Royce." 

Miss Wylla goes to join Lady Arianne and the two are soon whispering away themselves.  Sansa notices Jon’s look of concern and Rhaenys’ but she doesn't want them to think her a child either, especially not Jon.  Mrs. Royce seems a pleasant companion and Sansa does not plan on divulging anything potentially scandalous to her.  Certainly not in the course of one turn about the drawing room.  What harm can there possibly be in that? 

The first turn is pleasant enough in fact and Mrs. Royce amuses her with many tales. 

On the second turn however...

"I hope you will not mind a certain lady’s peevish manners this morning, Miss Stark.  She's been out of sorts of late and you know how it can be between past lovers with old wounds and all." 

Chapter Text

It had been mere happenstance which had brought him and Aegon to the same tavern that night. Never close as children, his half-brother had been grateful for an ear to bend all the same on the eve of his reconnoiter.

Seventeen and newly commissioned, Jon had immediately offered to be his second. Aegon had turned him down.

“No, no. I wouldn’t ask that of you, Jon. It’s more of a burden than you might think.” He’d not understood his meaning but accepted that Aegon had a friend at hand to stand beside him that morning. “But speaking of burdens, if this does not go well on the morrow, I will lay one at your feet if you’ll allow me that, brother.”

A burden indeed. With a heavy heart, he’d brought his news to Summerhall and then on to Sun Tower, the news of his half-brother’s ill-fated duel. Of course, most did not know the true reason the two men had fought which had been a matter of honor regarding a lady.

A maid had dashed past him as Rhaenys’ sobs had been echoing down the grand but empty hall. He’d had little experience with women’s tears beyond his mother's and had felt terribly useless on top of being the bearer of sad tidings.  Jon had only meant to tell his half-sister, to offer what comfort he could and hope she didn’t somehow blame him. He’d had no hand in it but now Aegon was dead and Jon found himself the heir of Summerhall. Strange that it should make him feel so guilty but there it was.

It had been as he was making his way outside, seeking the bracing autumn air and some silence in lieu of Rhaenys’ misery like a coward, when Lady Arianne had stopped him.

“Is it true?” she’d asked, her eyes aswim with tears.

“I’m very sorry, my lady.”  

In her hands, he had then placed the last minute addition to his duties, the hastily scribbled farewell Aegon had begged him to deliver.  There had been a dried spot or two of blood on it along with the red wax stamped with the letter T but that could not be helped lest he damage the parchment.   

Her lovely face had crumpled with emotion after she had read the final words of her secret lover. “I killed him.”

“No, my lady, you did not.”

“He was a fool to fight Sir Arys. Why are men such fools, Jon?”

He was a fool in love, they both were, Jon might’ve said but didn’t.

Aegon had been mad for her. Sir Arys Oakheart had been as well. Both were dead now. What she had felt for either of them precisely, Jon did not know nor was it his concern but he did not doubt her tears were genuine.

“They fought as gentlemen will fight.”

“Gentlemen.”  She’d spat the word like a foul curse. He supposed he could not blame her.

As she dried her tears with his handkerchief, he had fumbled for some further comfort to give.  He had loathed how empty his words sounded to his own ears. “You did not kill either of them, my lady.”

“You needn’t call me my lady, Jon. We’re nearly family, aren’t we?”

But they hadn’t been. He’d been Rhaegar’s other son by Rhaegar’s other wife. The Martells had been kind upon the whole but they had never let him forget the distinction when he’d been in their company.

At fifteen, Jon had been utterly besotted with the woman weeping in front of him. She’d laughed at his foolishness when he’d stammered out as much one evening after that ball and reminded him that she was his elder by nearly two years as well as promised to another…and that he was not the Heir of Summerhall.

He’d been heartbroken for all of a fortnight before his affections had dried up as quickly as they’d sprung to life, the fleeting passions of youth.

“Jon, I’m not certain but I…I might be with child,” she’d whispered, her eyes imploring.  "My father and mother would be so ashamed if I..."  

It might’ve been Aegon’s. Did she wish for him to raise his nephew as his own? Then again, it might’ve been Oakheart’s.  Had it really mattered with her in such distress?  

Jon had been too young for marriage then and he’d known it. But, despite the loss of his boyish affections for her, despite that she was asking him to possibly forsake his own chances at future happiness, a sense of duty to the brother he had lost and honor had prompted him to say, “Once you are sure, write to me. If you are, I will not let you bear a child in disgrace, Arianne.”

As Fate would have it though, Arianne had only written to say she'd been mistaken and there was no need for him to alter any plans of his. And he’d secretly been very grateful for that. 

Their correspondences afterwards had been few and far between but always cordial.  She had shared a great secret with him and appreciated his discretion and willingness to stand by her.  In turn, she had been a friend to him just as her brother and Sam had been when Jon had been wading his way through the responsibilities of an estate early on after his father's passing and had later sent her very kind well wishes for his recovery when he'd returned from Spain.      

In the intervening years and after the passing of her own father, Arianne has grown somewhat jaded and chosen not to worry over the typical expectations which society assigns to ladies nor even greatly over her reputation though it is mostly untarnished.  Wealth combined with a title goes a long way. 

A few whisper of her lost Targaryen lover who had wanted to marry her and others speak of the valiant knight, her betrothed, who was wronged by the lady's inconstancy.  And yet, she has always held her chin high and refused to be cowed or humiliated by any of it, whispering to her closest confidantes that none of it is the ton's affair.  There are tales that if she wants a man, she has him.  There are even rumors that the same applies to women. 

Her brother has not found fault in her for it and neither can Jon truly if both parties are in agreement on the matter.  Women have so little say in how their lives are run and there is something to be said for a woman who dares to defy convention. 

But I would argue there’s far more I wish to say about this particular woman instead of Arianne, Jon thinks when Sansa joins him in the drawing room on the eve of their dinner party. 

The blue muslin of her dress and with her long auburn hair elegantly styled, she looks as regal as any queen.  He cannot help it when he tells her, “You're radiant this evening, cousin,” even though he’s been trying to accept the way things will go.  “Your dress is…the blue matches your eyes very well and the, um…I like the way the, uh…”

In vain, he casts about for the proper way to describe how well he thinks it suits her without mentioning the way it perfectly fits her body and thus being completely scandalous. That alluring fragrance of hers befuddles his mind. 

She smiles and thanks him for the compliment though it does not fully reach her eyes.  He knows she made the dress herself and, ordinarily, she would preen with pleasure over him complimenting her handiwork but there has been some slight but regrettable shift between them of late which worries him. 

Has he offended her in some manner?  Is he too familiar?  Too dull?  Does she begin to suspect he nurses a tendre for her and doesn’t wish to encourage it?  Or perhaps the distance he’s crafted to guard his pitiable heart is to blame. He’s bloody miserable at this, nearly as miserable as he is lying abed at night and thinking of her.  But he’s so miserable not knowing for certain either. 

Then, find out, you coward.  Find out whilst you still can. 

This dinner is only the beginning.  Dickon Tarly is amiable and obviously besotted with her already.  If she doesn’t accept him, there’ll be another in his place the very next day.  Once she’s spied at the upcoming ball Rhaenys fully intends to host, there will be a slew of young gentleman wishing to court her, he’s sure.  However will he stand it? 

Here I was worried that sitting around in company constantly would be the greatest torment I would know this Season.  Instead, it will be watching the woman I love being courted by others, a far more lasting and excruciating variety of torture.     

The woman I love?  He ponders that thought.  It's true, he realizes upon deeper reflection. 

Jon has never been in love until now, not truly.  Besotted with Arianne as a boy, his feelings hadn't run even a hundredth as deep as they do for Sansa.  It was not the same thing at all.  Kissing the steward's girl at sixteen hadn't been love either.  One winter when his regiment had been camped at Brighton, there had been a comely widow there who had taken a liking to him.  He'd learnt much of the pleasures to be given and received in bed that winter with Val but whilst the memories are tinged with affection, he knows neither of them were in love. 

With Sansa, however, it is more than attraction, more than affection.  It is a deep and abiding passion which he fears might consume his very soul. Swiftly though tenderly, unexpectedly though ardently, he's fallen in love with her over the course of these past weeks.  He does not want to imagine a future for himself without her in it even though he believes capturing her heart for himself would be as impossible as bringing Napoleon's entire army down single-handedly. 

Why are men such fools indeed?

There could be a cure for that…

Better to declare myself, toss my hat into the ring and let her know of my affections and intentions now.

…if he were of a more optimistic bent in general. 

At least, you’d be refused promptly and have it done with over continuing to feed false hopes. 

But no, he does not speak.  He stands there staring at her awkwardly, desperately trying to think of how to put what he feels into words when Mordane walks in and announces the first arrival, Mister Mormont and his wife.

Four hours later, their guests have all departed.  Cook has outdone herself and Jon has survived his ordeal. 

He is sure it would’ve been far less tolerable if not for Sansa’s presence and perhaps Rhaenys.  His sister had given him some rather disappointed looks though during dinner.  He deserved them.  He’s disappointed in himself. 

"Have you said nothing at all to her?!" Rhaenys had asked in a huff when she had a private moment alone with him awaiting her carriage as Quentyn was bidding Sansa goodnight.

"Have I said nothing about what to who, sister?" he'd replied, tersely. 

She means well but she is not his mother and he is not a boy.  And, he had already seen quite enough by then though Rhae had not.

Sam had lingered hopelessly by the stairs waiting for his own coachman and watching Miss Wilde ascend them as Jon was helping Miss Tarly into her cloak.  And, Dickon had found his moment to speak to Sansa without others right at hand. 

Jon could not see Sansa's face but he had seen Dickon taking her hands into his own, his head bowed forward as he murmured something softly.  He had appeared on the cusp of kissing her hand even.  The boldness of that fellow!  And while Sansa had pulled her hand back before a kiss could be allowed, she had not turned away either.  Yes, Jon had seen quite enough.  If there is no understanding in place or offer made quite soon, he will be very surprised.      

"You know what I mean."  She'd given him a good jab in the chest with her finger for emphasis.  "How is she to say yes to an offer if you will not ask?"

"Why would she ever say yes to me?  I'm sure she'll be saying yes soon enough to another."

He knows what Rhae believes but he thinks his sister's partiality on his behalf blinds her to the truth.  He is scarred and battle-worn, a broken old solider who is more comfortable in his dog's company than his fellow man's.  He is not dashing or brilliant or a renowned wit. He doesn't think Dickon Tarly is good enough for her so why would he believe he is?

Of course, he did manage a good quip or two at dinner, a few crumbs of wit to make his company laugh tonight.  He had made Sansa laugh which had made the world seem brighter at least. 

Though it had itched some, his damned eyepatch had remained in place and gave him some sense of security through it all though there was no Cersei Baratheon here tonight. It is odd that a man who has faced bayonets, drawn swords, cavalry charges and the thunder of cannon should quiver so at the prospect of conversing and taking a meal with his peers.  Some are not blessed with the ease of managing social situations and some have not practiced it enough to overcome their natural lacking in that respect. He supposes he's a bit of both.  

All the same, it had not been a disaster.     

There had been two late additions to their party.  Thankfully, neither of them were potential suitors for Sansa though.  He’s sure it would’ve put him quite off his dinner to see another fellow or two staring at her on top of having to watch Dickon Tarly attempt to garner every morsel of her attention he could. 

Since Arianne had been here when Sansa and Rhaenys had been discussing the guest list, it had seemed only proper to extend a verbal invitation to her.  Decorum had placed her on his left as the second-highest ranking female present after his sister with Sansa sat at the foot of his table where the hostess, the lady of the house or a wife, would be.  If she were ever to be his wife, Jon doesn’t think he’d care much for hosting dinner parties.  He prefers Sansa sitting closer to him like in the breakfast parlor.

If she were ever to be your wife?  And in what work of fiction do you imagine that will occur?

Sansa had given him a troubled look as their guests took their seats and he feared she was upset that Dickon was not beside her.  But again, rules are rules.  Quentyn, as an earl, was on her right and Sam, as a lesser ranking noble was on her left with the rest of the party between them.    

Regardless, she had seemed merry upon the whole and there had been a precious moment or two when their eyes had been locked on one another and a sense of understanding, of being in this business together, had been keenly felt despite the more constrained feelings of late. 

As for the other late addition to their dinner party, that had been a surprise and certainly would fly in the face of convention to many but Jon had not cared.  Sansa had brought Gilly in to the drawing room to say hello as the guests were enjoying drinks prior to dinner being served and Sam had asked if she was to join them. 

Jon no longer suspects his good friend has any romantic or marital interest in Sansa.  Sam always was one to wear his heart on his sleeve and it became clear to Jon over dinner that it had been Gilly which he’d been so taken with at the theatre that night. 

It is a little concerning though.  With Gilly in service, she would not be considered a suitable match at all for Lieutenant Tarly even, let alone his brother Lord Tarly. 

Granted, Jon knows Sam’s honorable nature and wouldn’t dream of him taking advantage of a woman like Gilly but what does she think of his attentions?  An entanglement that ended unhappily would wound Sam grievously but it would ruin poor Miss Wilde.  They must tread carefully if they tread at all.  Caution seems to be the order of the day.  Jon isn’t entirely satisfied with that notion though.

Perhaps because of your own cowardice. 

Jon has retreated with Ghost to his study once everyone was gone to remove his eyepatch, reflect on his disappointments as he sips some brandy to settle his ruffled spirits after watching Dickon with Sansa.  Jon’s jealousy and anger churn with his displeasure at himself for failing to speak his heart earlier and fearing the opportunity has passed him by for good.

She was only ever going to be here for the Season.  You knew that from the start. 

Deciding that sitting here idly to eat his heart out is bad for the digestion, he busies himself.  He'll still eat his heart out but at least he'll be useful.  May as well get used to the feeling.

He is looking over some papers from his man of business, some news regarding Mister Baelish's interests and dealings with the Boltons for he will not let that whole affair be forgotten altogether if he can help it, when he hears a gentle knock.

“Are you staying up for long?” Sansa asks from the doorway.

Despite his sorrows, he cannot help smiling at her.  “No, not long.  Would you care to join me?”  She nods, taking the comfortable chaise longue across from his leather-bound arm chair.  “Would you want a drink?”

“No, thank you."

"Some chocolate perhaps?"

Her lips twitch but she shakes her head.  "The wine at dinner was enough for me.” 

She had sipped more of it than he’s previously seen her do at dinner.  Her cheeks are more flushed than normal and her eyes somewhat glassy.  She had grown a bit giggly after dinner with Miss Wylla as Mrs. Royce had been gossiping in their ears…until something had seemed to sober her.   

“I hope you had an agreeable time,” he says, thinking of that moment after the gentlemen had rejoined the ladies in the drawing room. 

“I did, did you?”

“Yes, it was better than I’d hoped.  I suppose they won't be saying Targaryen's dinner was a dismal failure anyway and that's thanks to you.”

“Not a failure at all but I think credit must be given to Cook for our success."

"Certainly.  I've already told her as much.  Didn't know the old girl could blush like that."

Sansa giggles at his words before sobering again.  "Your end of the table seemed to keep up a credible din."

"I suppose so." 

Rhaenys had been in good spirits, saying as soon as her cook had made up enough white soup she would send round her cards, and Miss Wylla's biting wit had amused them all.  Even Mormont is surprisingly capable of getting out a good thing once in a while. 

"We got on though we were not as merry as your end."  Sam and Quentyn clearly enjoyed your company and the other gentlemen present, myself and Dickon, could not keep our eyes off of you.  "You were a perfect hostess, Sansa."

"Thank you.  Lady Arianne is quite witty, I’ve heard.”

“Sometimes.  She was uncommonly quiet tonight.” 

He’s not sure what had been troubling Arianne but, to be honest, he’d probably been remiss as host in that respect.  He’d kept watching Sansa and watching how Sansa had reacted to Dickon’s feeble bon mots. 

A horrible new thought assails him.  Has Dickon made her an offer tonight?  And is she preparing to speak with him about it as her closest male relative at hand?  Is Dickon going to pay him a call in the morning to ask for his cousin's hand? And how can he refuse without exposing the reason why he finds the fellow objectionable?  That he is in love with her himself.  

But no, she is not giddy in the manner he would expect of a girl in anticipation of an offer of marriage might be.  She is quiet, reflective.  So he decides to carry their conversation forward by mentioning Sam’s apparent interest in Gilly.

“Oh yes!  I was so pleased to see them get on so well and it was actually him who asked if she might join us.  I do hope you don’t mind.”

“I didn’t mind at all.  I wish only good things for them both.”  Though I have my concerns.  “Mrs. Royce was in your ear quite often, I noticed.  I hope…forgive me, Sansa, but I hope she did not repeat any gossip which caused you concern.” 

There has been no whispers of the business in Bath here thus far but that doesn’t mean there couldn’t be.  There is still a raging wolf within that would very much like to get his hands on Ramsay Bolton and Petyr Baelish both. 

She blushes and looks down at her slippers for a moment with Ghost’s head in her lap.  “It wasn’t…there have only been two things she has shared which caused me any pain.”

“Pain?”  Oh, he does not like the sound of that at all.  He knows Rhaenys considers the woman a friend but he doesn't want any lady causing Sansa pain, certainly not with silly rumors and gossip.   

“Yes,” she says softly, stroking Ghost’s fur and keeping her eyes turned downward.  “The first had to do with a pair of young lovers whose tale ended unhappily.  The young man was said to have made an offer to the woman he adored after an amour and before he left for the army but was refused.  There was some sort of scandal which had been covered up, she believes.  Mrs. Royce even says there are some who say the lady may deeply regret refusing him now but the die is cast and it is only hoped that both may find happiness elsewhere someday.  It made me wonder if they pine for each other even to this day.” 

She looks at him so earnestly as if he should know what this is about.  Does Myranda suspect something of Sam and Gilly and her tale is merely fishing for fresh gossip?  No, that couldn't be.  Sam was never in the army.  That was Dickon.  But he hasn't had any affairs to Jon's knowledge.  And who would the lady be since Sansa only just met him?  She must speak of some other couple. 

Confused, he simply gives her a regretful nod and says, “To be crossed in love is a lamentable but common occurrence, I believe.” 

She drops her eyes again.  “Yes, it might render a lady uncommonly quiet.”

Something stirs at her phrasing but, before he can lay a finger upon what it is, she goes on. 

“Mrs. Royce also mentioned an unfortunate incident from last year involving Lady Jersey’s acquaintance, Mrs. Baratheon and, um…you.”  She winces once the words are out. 

“Oh…that.”

“Jon, it angered me greatly to hear of it and made me wish to weep as well.”

He cannot bear the thought of her weeping and his feet are soon propelling him to her side.  “Do not weep, darling girl.  Be angry if you wish.  I will not object.  You may join Rhaenys in her threats towards the lady,” he adds, hoping to make her laugh with him. 

Instead, she is resolute.  “I have never met her but I cannot think her much of a lady to have spoken so callously to you.”

“And yet, many would label her one and her friends laughed." 

"Oh Jon!" she gasps.

"No, no.  Do not worry over me, Sansa.”

“It was cruel of her and false.  Your scars do not bother me one whit.  And you are good and kind and honorable.  You are a war hero and my dear kin.  Of course, I will worry over you.  How can I not worry?”

“I will not pretend it did not wound me then but I have suffered worse pains in my time.”  Again, she looks stricken.  Perhaps bringing up his war wounds is unwise.  “Please, do not weep, my dear,” he implores. 

He thinks there is little that would wound him so much as her tears.  Oh but she’s on the cusp of them so he tries another tactic. 

Taking her hands in his, he asks, “My darling girl, you did not come to London to listen to troublesome old gossip, did you?”

“No but…”

“Of course, you didn't and I would see you happy.”  Always, it will be your happiness I long for even at the detriment of mine.  “Rhaenys was quite enthused discussing the ball she is planning tonight.  Are you not looking forward to it?” 

In his eagerness to dispel her distress, he is every bit as bold as Dickon Tarly was earlier.  Bolder even.  He tips her chin up with two of his fingers so their eyes may meet, so he may drown in the blue of hers and pretend for a little while he does not really like breathing all that much.  Her skin is smooth as silk beneath his roughened fingers.   

The flush increases upon her cheeks and she bites down on her bottom lip invitingly, glancing down at their joined hands before answering, “I am.” 

“You’ll be the belle of it, I’m sure.”

"But what of you?  Will you…are you...”  She pales now, suddenly as troubled as ever. 

Ghost whimpers and Jon wonders what the trouble is.  “Will I what?”

“Nothing.  I’m a fool, a silly girl who drank too much wine.”

“Not at all, Sansa.  Is there something you wish me to do?”  There is nothing I wouldn't attempt if you asked.  

But she remains silent, troubled before saying, "I wish you happiness as well, Jon.  Wherever you may find it.  I hope the evening will not be too tedious for you.  I know you prefer the quiet here." 

I prefer nothing in the world so well as your company.  "I will manage it well enough for your sake," he says as lightheartedly as he can manage.  His words don't seem to bring her the comfort he'd intended.

I wish I could spend the entire evening with you on my arm...but that would mean dancing.  

There are a few country dances he can manage so long as his leg is not troubling him too much but he would be shy of trying in front of others.  A man has his pride and to be laughed at, especially in Sansa’s presence, is something he’s not sure he could bear. 

He thinks part of his heart must be dying when he tries again to cheer her and tells her with a feigned smile, “I am sure there will be several young men eager to be your partner at a ball.  I imagine Dickon Tarly will be one of many.”

“Yes, I suppose that's the point of the evening, isn't it?” she says, strangely detached now. Perhaps too much wine is making her tired.  "I'm sorry you must be bothered by it."

“It's no bother.  I will take you to Rhaenys' ball and happily watch over you there, Sansa.  I'll happily watch over you…always.” 

Even if you're not mine to keep. 

Choking on his heartache, he glances at the clock.  “The hour grows late.  Shall we turn in?”

She nods and though the tears that threatened earlier are gone, she does not look happy.  Perhaps waiting for Dickon to declare himself has her vexed and anxious.  She silently allows him to escort her to her room, still lost in her thoughts.    

It is not until he is alone in his own room that he allows his false cheer to drop.  He sinks to the floor beside his bed, burying his hands in his hair and drawing in a shuddering breath.    

She was only ever going to be here for the Season.  You knew that from the start, he tells himself once more before allowing his misery to fully consume him tonight. 

Chapter Text

“I am sure there will be several young men eager to be your partner at a ball. I imagine Dickon Tarly will be one of many.”

“Yes, I suppose that's the point of the evening, isn't it?”

The point being that Sansa is here for her Season, the time when unmarried young ladies are to show off their beauty, wit and accomplishments in hopes of snaring some man’s interest, in hopes of being chosen to be his wife. She is expected to find a suitable match if possible at one of these balls or dinners she’s to attend.

If she fails in that task this year, there will be next year’s Season if no one closer to home wins her hand first. But every succeeding year a young lady is ‘out’ in society and not chosen once she passes twenty or so becomes a stain of sorts, a mockery, an indication that perhaps she doesn’t deserve to be chosen at all. It’s all such rubbish.

And, it doesn’t matter that Sansa’s heart has already chosen for herself. It doesn’t matter that there is no man she wants if it cannot be him. The girls don’t get to choose, do they? They can only accept or decline the invitations they are given whether it be to dance, to take walks or carriage rides or a marriage proposal. The gentleman must speak first for that is the way of things.

And you do not speak.

“I'll happily watch over you…always,” he had said.

And so he does.

He sits in the coach across from her looking as dashing as ever in his evening finery and watches Sansa as Miss Wylla makes a few quips regarding the upcoming ball.

You watch but you do not speak.

Clearly, Jon does not feel the same way about her as she does about him no matter what Gilly believes.

And, Sansa’s aching heart suspects there must be some truth to Mrs. Royce’s words about Jon and Lady Arianne being lovers years ago, about there being some scandal involving the lady around the time Jon left for the army and even him possibly making an offer which was refused.

She had tried her best to allude to the matter with him that night after the dinner party but became flustered and fumbled it. Despite their openness with one another in some matters, this was not a line she felt free to cross. Coming straight out and asking, ‘were you and Lady Arianne truly lovers once upon a time?’ or ‘are you still in love with her?’ would be impossible. It simply isn’t done…not by young ladies like Sansa anyway and she shudders to imagine ever being so crass.

All that evening, despite some shared smiles as the two hosts, she'd been in agony on and off. She's grateful for her well-drilled courtesies which had helped disguise the fact that her heart felt torn to bits watching him preside over his table with so much more ease than he realizes as Lady Arianne sat beside him, looking ever so elegant and beautiful.  And why wouldn't he prefer a sophisticated woman like her to Sansa? He is a wealthy, educated man of the world and she's still a girl excited by monkeys performing in the park and a beloved dog's joy in chasing squirrels. 

Sansa had been so distracted thinking over the matter as the party was ending and once that lady had departed with Miss Wylla that she'd allowed Dickon to grow a little too familiar.  Perhaps he intends to make her an offer but attempting to kiss her ungloved hands and potentially in full view of others was taking things a bit too far!

As for familiar though, she recalls the moment when Jon had attempted to comfort her over the business of Mrs. Baratheon, as if it was she who needed comforting over his pain.  The way he'd held her face so gently, the intensity of his stare and the alluring fragrance of the brandy and his scent with him so close, all of it had left her quite breathless...until he'd mentioned others asking her to dance.  

The coach jostles over some cobbles and she can hear Halder up on the box calling out 'whoa, there!' which draws her attention back to the present.  She cannot sit here being missish or like a lump nursing her disappointments.  She wouldn't wish Jon to think her ungrateful for all he's graciously provided his little country mouse of a cousin and she has a companion beside her who shouldn't be ignored either.  

As the Manderlys have relations visiting who would be attending the Martell’s ball as well, Miss Wylla had asked if she might ride in Colonel Targaryen’s coach along with them.  The distraction of another is very welcome at present to alleviate the often awkward silences which haunt her interactions with Jon of late.  

“It’s bad enough being forced to attend these things when I have no desire to dance or simper or listen to some puffed up peacock implying that I will never be his equal or, God forbid, superior in matters of sense or judgment. Only as a dutiful granddaughter do I relent and do so but I simply couldn’t tolerate a coach full of Freys for such an intolerably lengthy journey.”

“But I thought it was only your future brother-in-law and his cousin who were visiting? And it seems you live even closer to the Martells than we do,” Sansa says.

“All of that is true but, if you have the misfortune of being introduced to them tonight, Miss Stark, which I fear you will, I know you will certainly agree with me,” Miss Wylla sniffs, causing Jon to chuckle quietly.

The clock is striking eight when they arrive and are greeted by their hosts. After their cloaks are taken, Jon escorts both ladies past the card room and past the crush of early arrivals and into the main ballroom where Sansa’s mouth promptly falls open of its own accord.  She knows she is certainly a starry-eyed country mouse indeed but finds herself unable to hide it.

Hundreds and hundreds of beeswax candles fill gleaming chandeliers and mirrored wall sconces above the finely polished parquet. Powdered and liveried footmen move about the guests offering little cups of punch, negus or orgeat to imbibe as the musicians are warming up their strings before the first dance. 

All around, ladies in gowns of a dozen different hues with intricately styled hair and stunning jewels sweep past her.  The gentlemen in their army or navy uniform coats or their civilian black with a few plum, green and bottle blue ones thrown in are equally well turned out.  It's just what she would've pictured in her daydreams back in Winterfell as a girl and yet more.     

A sit-down supper will be served at midnight once the dancers are quite famished and in need of some rest. It will last two hours or so before more dancing may be pondered. It is not coincidence that this ball is being held during the full moon so coach drivers may have some light to lead them to and fro but it is likely they will not return home again until daybreak.

And in this moment, as her eyes absorb the beautiful ballroom and its guests, all of Sansa’s concerns over her aching heart, over Jon apparently having no intentions to court her whatsoever and her worries over what he may feel for Lady Arianne slip away.

She turns to look at him and finds he is already staring at her, the pair of them figures in black and white, his black coat and her white ballgown and gloves. She squeezes his strong arm lightly where she still holds onto him and notices Wylla has already moved on to greet a friend. Here in this moment, it is as if he is hers and only hers and it makes her smile all the wider.

“What do you think of your first London ball so far then, darling girl?” he asks with that stirring gruffness in his throat and a fondness in his eye which pierces her.

“I think I’m eager for it all to begin,” she answers, giggling in spite of everything.

But I would sit out every dance if I could remain by your side for the duration of the evening, she thinks just as Lieutenant Tarly enters the ballroom in his red coat and comes striding up to request the honor of dancing the first with her.

He is thwarted in his quest but not by Jon.  

"I pray you'll forgive me, Mister Tarly," Lord Quentyn Martell says in his affable way, "but, as the humble host of this little gathering, it would give me much joy to open the ball with our guest of honor for the night if Miss Stark doesn't mind."

"That would be my pleasure, my lord," Sansa says whilst Dickon bows politely with an 'Of course, my lord.'

Sansa notices Rhaenys giving Jon a nudge and she would almost swear the siblings seem on the verge of a spat when Dickon speaks up again.

"But if I may claim the second, Miss Stark, I would be most exceedingly obliged."  

Three hours later, Sansa’s starry eyes are feeling somewhat strained and her nose assaulted by too little fresh air and too many warm bodies in the same room. 

Her first dance had been with their host, Lord Quentyn Martell.  An intelligent, well-read man, his manner is quiet and he would never be considered handsome by most but he is courteous and possesses a steadiness of temperament which Jon says has grown as he has grown into his lordship over the past ten years.  It’s plain her cousin admires him and Sansa does as well.

The next set had already been claimed by Lieutenant Tarly. 

But while Dickon has been attentive throughout most of the dance, he spies the Tyrells arriving late and misses a step, his boot crushing Sansa’s slipper-shod toes, not that he notices.

“Are you acquainted with them?” she asks, hiding her grimace and mildly piqued from the pain.

“Why, yes.  Nearly all my life.  The Tyrells’ country estate is not far from our own.  Have you been introduced?”

“No, not I.”

Thus, he escorts her over after the end of the piece to make the introduction.

She feels shy of being in Loras Tyrell’s company again, fearful that he may have heard something of her in Bath though they’d not been introduced.  She glances around, seeking Jon.  But though his eye is turned her way, he is engaged in some discussion with Rhaenys at present. She suspects if she gave him some signal he would come here but she doesn't need him for this, does she?  She isn't so helpless that she can't manage a conversation with new acquaintances. 

"And you're staying with your cousin, Colonel Targaryen, at present, Miss Stark?"

"Yes, Miss Tyrell.  He was kind enough to invite me to stay for the Season."

Miss Tyrell casts a lingering glance Jon's way. "A most distinguished gentleman and quite tolerable looking."

Tolerable looking?  He is most certainly more than 'tolerable' looking, Sansa thinks.  "I find him quite-"

"He certainly possesses a more than tolerable fortune," Loras Tyrell quips, cutting Sansa's response short.        

Both Tyrells chuckle and are now staring Jon's direction so Sansa turns as well to find Jon looking right back at them all.  He was scowling somewhat severely initially but remembers himself, pastes on a brief smile, nods in acknowledgment of their attention and then turns back to Rhaenys. 

"It's a pity he has no interest in marrying at all," Margaery says in a dissatisfied tone.  

"I'm not sure that..." 

"A pity, yes, but he'd probably frighten any little miss half to death if he scowls like that whilst bedding her," Loras Tyrell murmurs under his breath causing his sister to laugh.  

Sansa is incensed by Mister Tyrell's impolite jest but cannot deny Jon looks quite infuriated at the moment.  "He has a most agreeable smile when he is happy," she huffs though they do not attend her words.

And no interest in marrying at all?!  Why would Miss Tyrell say that?  Is this something Jon has said which has been repeated?  She knows he is acquainted with Garlan Tyrell but has Miss Tyrell ever been introduced?  Jon did not make it seem so that night at the theatre.    

Miss Tyrell turns towards Dickon next who's been deeply engaged in some martial discussion with Garlan Tyrell.  "It's been ages since we've seen you at Highgarden, Mister Tarly.  I do pray you'll do us the honor of paying a visit when the Season is at an end and we can all go home again.  There's good shooting to be had and I'm fond of falconry myself." 

She bats her eyes quite shamelessly and Dickon blinks and smiles a little blankly, his discussion with Garlan cut off mid-sentence and forgotten.  "I, um...certainly, Miss Tyrell.  I've never hunted with birds, only dogs."  

Miss Tyrell laughs as if it's the wittiest thing she's ever heard; however, it is the reminder of going home which troubles Sansa on top of the revelation that Jon perhaps has no interest in marrying.  Won't he need an heir?  Wouldn't he wish for a wife to help manage his house and estate someday?  Won't he ever want love?  Or love again? she wonders as her eyes spy Lady Arianne laughing gaily with Wylla nearby.    

Miss Tyrell prattles on, all smiles, silk and feathers but there's an air about her that seems to put Sansa on guard, especially as she seems determined to give Dickon so much of her attention.

Mrs. Royce joins them at one point and, when Miss Tyrell is busy asking after some particular news of Horn Hill, she whispers in Sansa's ear, “Her betrothal to Mister Renly Baratheon was recently broken off, I’ve heard.  Looks like she's seeking a new suitor."

She cannot say she cares if Miss Tyrell wishes to steal Dickon's attentions from her but something else catches her notice.  “Mister Baratheon, you say?  Is he a relation of Mrs. Baratheon’s?” Sansa whispers back, feeling exceedingly vexed at the thought of that woman. 

“He’s the younger brother of Mrs. Baratheon’s husband.  There are rumors he and the lady couldn’t seem to come to an agreement…after she found him in Loras’ bed.”

“In his...OH!”  Sansa covers her mouth but the exclamation escaped before she could stop it and she catches Jon’s head whipping her way out of the corner of her eye.  She has to stifle a giggle when she asks, “She does not seem at odds with her brother though.”

“No, the Tyrells are as close as ever, I suppose, despite sibling rivalry.”

“Sibling rivalry?”

“Yes, imagine being usurped by your own brother in that manner.”

Sansa stifles another giggle though she does feel a pang of sympathy for Miss Tyrell and her cheeks are burning at the implication she’s not given much thought to until now.

“So poor Miss Tyrell and her thirty-thousand pounds are back on the Mart once more.  Boo hoo, what a trial for her…and for the rest of us ladies seeking husbands,” Mrs. Royce says with a droll and wicked grin.

Thirty thousand!  Merciful Lord, Sansa cannot imagine commanding such a sum!  That is the sort of dowry that lures gentlemen who can expect an income of ten thousand a year, isn’t it?  Gentlemen like Jon.   

Or gentlemen who are seeking a fortune of their own perhaps. 

Depressed by the notion, she’s not all that surprised when Dickon apologetically relates that he’s asked Miss Tyrell if she was bespoke for the next dance.

Sansa nods diplomatically and wishes him a pleasant evening.  They are not engaged and he is free to dance with whichever ladies he chooses to ask so long as they have been introduced.  And whether handsome or plain, second sons cannot live on their amiable personalities alone. 

Since then, Dickon has danced two sets with Miss Tyrell and not returned to Sansa’s side. His besotted smiles and attempts at kissing her hand in farewell at dinner the previous week don't amount to all that much in that light.  

Go on then with a glad heart having none of mine.  I will not wish you back again. 

Meanwhile, having been introduced, Sansa has been asked to dance by both Tyrells; first, Garlan who possesses an agreeable face and even more agreeable manners, and then Loras, who is nothing short of beautiful for a man but seems more bored by this business than otherwise.  Given Myranda’s gossip, Sansa suspects she can guess part of the reason for that.

Still, he gives her a chill when he says, “I believe we may have been in Bath around the same last month, Miss Stark.”

“Oh…yes.  I think you may be right, Mister Tyrell.”

“What was your uncle’s name again?  Bollish or…Baelish, is it?”

“Mister Baelish is my aunt’s husband,” she clarifies, disliking the reminder of their relation. 

“Lady Arryn was a Tully, wasn’t she?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Mister Baelish is in trade, I believe?”

Her cheeks color at the implication.  Sansa does not think less of Mister Baelish for being in trade or her aunt for choosing to marry beneath her social station after the passing of her first husband.  Sansa thinks less of Mister Baelish due to his reprehensible behavior but to Mister Tyrell she supposes being in trades is a very great sin indeed.  And Sansa’s feelings towards her aunt are only marred by that woman’s treatment of her during their recent interactions. 

“He is.”

“And what of your aunt’s brother?  Mister Edmure Tully, isn’t it?  His estate is in…where was it?”

“Wembury.  His home is in Wembury, near Plymouth,” she replies, knowing the Tullys’ modest estate is even less likely to impress a Tyrell than Winterfell.  They didn’t make fortunes off of rice, sugar and blood in the plantations of the Caribbean anyway, she wishes to snap but will not. 

“There was another fellow there in Bath, too, wasn’t there?  Bolton, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, there was a Mister Bolton there, I believe, Mister Tyrell.  Some acquaintance of Mister Baelish’s,” she says as the dance thankfully comes to an end.  “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I see Miss Manderly is signaling me.  She rode here with us and I wish to be certain nothing is amiss.”

There is indeed something amiss with poor Wylla.  One of the lamentable Freys, the one not engaged to her sister, has made his own clumsy proclamation and Wylla’s mother is determined she will hear the fellow out when he comes to pay his call upon her father.

“I will not marry that scrub!  Why must I marry at all?!  I tell them I do not want a husband and they do not listen.  No one cares what I would choose if it were up to me.  They’d probably lock me up if they knew it,” she moans, nearly in tears, a state Sansa has not expected to see her in. 

“I’m so sorry for your distress, my dear.  Perhaps-”

“Oh, you’re kind to listen to me, Sansa, but there’s Lord Tarly awaiting you for the cotillion.  I’ll go and bemoan my lot to Arianne who knows my sufferings too well.”

As midnight nears, her poor feet are greatly protesting the very notion of another minuet, cotillion or even a boulanger. She has danced with a few other gentlemen introduced to her by Lord and Lady Martell with Jon hovering at her elbow.  Thankfully, supper will soon be served.  She will need to pay attention to the time.  Whichever gentleman is dancing with her when the bell is rung may ask to escort her into supper.  And whichever gentleman escorts her into supper will likely sit beside her throughout the meal.  She does not wish for the gentleman she is dancing with now to be that man.   

“And what do you enjoy doing when you’re at Waynwood, Mister Hardyng?” she asks politely.  It is part of dancing after all that the couples should speak. How else does one decide if the other person might suit them for the rest of their lives?

Harrold Hardyng is attractive at first glance but she is thinking him less so with every exchange since being introduced to him less than half an hour ago by Myranda. 

He smirks lazily at her inquiry though he executes their turn with grace.  “At Waynwood?  Why, I do as little as possible in general, Miss Stark.  Beyond a bit of riding and shooting what is there for a gentleman to do in the country?  At least, what is there to do which is fit to repeat to a lady?”  He laughs at his boorish addition before asking, “Did you say your family’s estate is near York, Miss Stark?”

“Yes.”

“Bloody cold and desolate up there, isn’t it?”

“We like it well enou-”

“And your brother is to inherit?”

“Yes, my brother Brandon will once he is of age with…with the passing of my father and elder brother last year.”

“Pity,” he says but without a stroke of true sympathy.  “How old is he?”

“I…he’s almost sixteen, sir.”  The point of this discussion is becoming clear and Sansa must suppress a huff. 

“I’m sure your dowry has already been settled though and-”

Mister Hardyng’s following remarks she does not hear for the dance has pulled them apart for a spell.  Thank the Lord for small mercies. 

She knows she must rely on her beauty and her good name as much as her dowry as a lure since she cannot boast a particularly large one by London standards, certainly nothing in comparison to Miss Tyrell’s. 

However, she is not enjoying this feeling of being sized up like a cut of beef over the course of a dance by veritable strangers.

Mister Hardyng has less grace than the others but it is not the first time she has felt this way tonight. 

Barring Lord Martell, the one respite for dancing with a man who she knows has no marital interest in her had been with Sam Tarly.

“And Miss Wilde did not accompany you this evening, Miss Stark?” he’d asked, focusing very intently on his steps. 

“No, I’m sorry to say she did not, my lord.  Gilly remains at home this evening though I know she would enjoy speaking with you again.”

“Oh, that’s…I should pay a call upon Jon and all of you sometime soon.  Perhaps I might host my own dinner even if Talla wouldn’t mind lending me some aid.”

“I’m sure your sister would enjoy assisting you and we would look forward to it if you should,” Sansa had said, reassuringly. 

She is glad he seems so keen on Gilly and wishes someone seemed as genuinely keen on her.  She cannot help feeling sorry for herself as she feels Harrold Hardyng’s hand at her waist again.  It is not his hands she wants on her.  Will she ever want a man’s hands on her if they are not Jon’s?   

First, the marriage mart and a proposal with the promise of my dowry to reel him in.  Then, to the bedding, the making of heirs and the keeping of his house.  A side of beef indeed.  Will anyone ever wish to marry me for love?

“I consider myself quite brave taking the risk of making your acquaintance this evening, Miss Stark,” Mister Hardyng says unexpectedly the next moment in an amused tone.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Your cousin is such a severe sort.  I would almost swear he wishes me ill as he watches us.”

Choosing her moment in hopes of not making a misstep, her eyes dart across the room to see Jon still standing at his latest post.  He is indeed watching her dance with a frown.  Hours of standing about with his injured leg possibly troubling him, how tedious this must be for him!

Regrettably, she has overheard a few snide remarks regarding Colonel Targaryen’s failure to ask any of the young ladies present to dance and wondering if he thinks himself above his company.  These remarks have been made by eager mamas unknown to her or else Sansa might’ve spoken her mind.  True, it is expected at a ball that a gentleman will ask ladies to dance so that none must sit out when possible but do they not realize the reason why he does not choose to dance?  Have they no thought of anything beyond gossiping and finding fault?   

And poor Jon stuck here for hours when he might be comfortable at home with Ghost all because she has come into his life, his little country mouse of a cousin seeking her London Season. It is not at all what she’d pictured now and she's horrified by the realization that a lump is swelling in her throat.     

Admittedly, she has seen him conversing and even smiling with various gentlemen, Wylla, Rhaenys…and Lady Arianne.  She struggles to maintain her countenance as her jealously surges over that.  Lady Arianne has danced some but mostly been playing cards or conversing with Wylla.  

However, at present, she is by Jon's side again...and whispering in his ear.  A flicker of a smile forms on his handsome face in response to whatever she has said.  The witty, elegant, beautiful lady has amused him.  Is it some observation regarding the ball which has brought that smile about?  Or some past memory, some gilded reminder of what they might've shared once upon a time?  

Sansa looks away, her eyes suddenly wet with tears. 

“He’d be better off dancing to pass the time than stare at us,” Mister Hardyng says before noticing her distress.  “I say, are you unwell, Miss Stark?”

“I’m…I think I’m a little overcome with the…forgive me.”

He leads her to a corner with advice to catch her breath but, when she looks around, Mister Hardyng is gone and Rhaenys is at her side.

“Did he offend you, my dear?”

The question confuses Sansa momentarily for how can she claim offense over Jon allowing the intimacy of whispering with Lady Arianne when he was never hers? 

“I’ve told Quentyn I don’t care for him one whit but their families have connections going back-”

Of course.  She is a fool.  Rhaenys didn’t mean Jon.  She means Mister Hardyng.  He abandoned her here, didn’t he?  That was very badly done of him.  If a lady is unwell, a true gentleman would stay by her side.  He’s already dancing with another woman even.  She should be outraged or mortified but she doesn’t care.  Harrold Hardyng means nothing to her. 

“No, not really, my lady.  I was just feeling a little tired from so much dancing…”  and heartsick. 

Rhaenys’ warm dark eyes look at her with such compassion, almost as if she suspects the truth, and Sansa longs to tell her all of it but now is hardly the time.  She cannot hold the hostess hostage with her tears and heartache like some little ninny. 

And before Lady Martell can say anything further, another has joined them and Sansa knows the particular warmth of his hand upon her shoulder in an instant.  “Did he offend you, darling girl?”

She blinks, staring up at Jon’s earnest expression and wondering why they’re all so convinced of some misdeed on Mister Hardyng’s part.  Perhaps Mrs. Royce has some intelligence she has not yet shared regarding him.     

But now Jon is here.  He was on the other side of the room when she saw Lady Arianne in his ear, wasn’t he?  Did he dare cross the ballroom floor and interrupt the dancers to get here this quickly?  He must have.  He has risked making a spectacle of himself for her and again she recalls his kindness and his promise. 

She recalls something else, too.   

"Pretty words are nice, Sansa," her mother had once told her, "But if you wish to get the measure of a man or sketch a person's character, look to their actions.  Words are often no more than wind.  It's our actions which speak loudest as to who we are at heart."  

Jon is a man of action more than words.  He came to her side at once, fearing she had been mistreated in some manner.  He'd stormed off to confront Mister Baelish less than twelve hours after she'd blown into his life.  She knows Jon cares little about gossip and means to keep her safe and well…always. 

She hugs herself and wishes her eyes weren’t still stinging with unshed tears.  “No, he did not,” she answers in a voice that sounds wounded and far less sure than the one in which she’d answered Rhaenys.  “I’m alright, just tired from so much dancing.” 

He kneels before her, not caring that it draws curious eyes, chafes her gloved hands in his own and she cannot help but recall that night when they’d made their pot of chocolate together and she’d shared her unpleasant dream and experiences in Bath with him.  Jon is Jon and he cares about her.  Even if he's not in love with her, he will always be someone she can rely on and share things with.  She trusts him.

“I’m embarrassed,” she confesses quietly since Lady Martell has turned her attentions to nearby guests, allowing her brother to soothe her and distracting the others from his little country mouse of a cousin. 

He smiles softly.  “You are hardly the first lady to be overcome from the exertions of a ball.  It happens to gentlemen as well.  If my guest list for our dinner was minimal, I’d say Rhaenys’ for this ball has proven to be the opposite.”

“He brought me over here and left.”

His gentle smile turns into a snarl.  “That was unpardonable.  If you will name Mrs. Baratheon no lady for my sake, I hope you’ll allow me to name Mister Hardyng no gentleman at all.  I did not like him dancing with you and will say there are verifiable reasons why I would object to him pursuing you, even for so much as a second dance.” 

She swallows and nods, hoping to bring back his smile when she says, “I did not like his manners at all and I believe I may promise you here and now that I will not dance another with Mister Hardyng so long as I shall live.” 

It works to bring his smile back and they are companionable once more as the boulanger ends and the bell for supper is ringing. 

“May I escort you into dinner, Sansa?  Or shall I collect your cloak and take you home?” Jon asks, rising to his feet.

“The night is still young and it would be discourteous of us to leave so early.  And Miss Wylla and Lady Arianne are quite happy in each other's company at present," she notes.  For all her jealousies of Lady Arianne, she has noticed her clear friendship with Miss Wylla, a young woman Sansa likes very well.  "It would be a pity to drag her away now."  

"If you wish to stay, we will stay but never think you must on anyone else's account."

"Thank you but I wish to stay and I would like for you to escort me into dinner,” she says, accepting his offered hand.   

"It would be my honor," he declares.  “And perhaps after the meal, if you are not too keen to rejoin the dancers, I could show you some more of the house and a portrait or two you might wish to view?”

“I would like that very much,” she says, feeling that earlier joy of the start of the ball returning with his closeness.   

And when she feels his hand hovering at the small of her back as he leads the way, the sensation that floods her is as heady as a dozen turns around the ballroom floor.  

Chapter Text

To everything, there is a season they say and Jon cannot argue with that old wisdom.  A time to be born and a time to die, a time to sow and a time to reap.  And a time for love amongst the hate and time for peace between the wars. 

The Season here shares some similarities to the ones spoken of in Ecclesiastes though on a smaller scale. There are triumphs and failures, hope and despair as well as wounds inflicted, whether verbal or physical, and healing to be found if one is fortunate.  

If this evening has been every bit the torment he’d anticipated and then some up until now, at least there is balance of sorts to bring him some form of sweet relief.

The people sitting on either side of them at table are quite wrapped up in their own discussions and so he has her all to himself at long last, selfish heart that he is. 

She seems glad of my presence though. 

It must be wearisome after a while to be pursued and pursued, surrounded by baying, foolish hounds.  Some safety in the company of her cousin must be welcome, not knowing how he would gladly pursue her as readily as the next man if he imagined she would ever welcome such attentions from him. 

“It would be a pity to ruin your smile, Jon.  It’s your most becoming feature if you’ll allow me to say as much,” Arianne had whispered in his ear.

“Hmm?” he’d grunted, quite distractedly. 

“The way you clench your jaw as you persist in watching Mister Hardyng dance with your lovely cousin.  Every time he lays a hand on her, I swear I hear an ominous crack like a mast threatening to snap in a gale.” 

He couldn’t help smiling at the veracity of her words.  The tension in his face had no doubt matched the tension he was carrying inside throughout much of the evening. 

Like Rhaenys, she has figured him out.  But whereas his sister has been pushing him to speak his heart, Arianne only teases him gently.  She’s been pushed a good deal herself in the past and perhaps understands how unpleasant it is for him to be reminded of his cowardice. 

Watching Sansa with Dickon had been a particular sort of torture for his weary heart.  Even so, as the lieutenant has since chosen to dance with other ladies (which is expected-even if they were engaged, it would be considered rude for Dickon to not dance with others and he only prays Sansa is not saddened by that), Jon can’t say he’s fared any better. 

Whether they be handsome or plain, rich or otherwise, wise or foolish, Jon’s jealous heart has twisted with each turn.  Garlan Tyrell, Loras Tyrell, Sir Gerris Drinkwater, Mark Mullendore and, shamefully, Quentyn’s younger brother, Trystane, had all invoked Jon’s silent ire at some point.  Only Sam had escaped it.  Hardyng was the worst of them, a thorough rake.  But at least, he’s not Ramsay Bolton. 

Still, Jon knows not all of those men may be serious about Sansa as a potential wife.  It’s simply what’s expected of a gentleman at a ball.  A gentleman, particularly unmarried ones, must ask ladies to dance.  The courtly dance of potential matchmaking is the bloody point of these affairs and too many ladies being left idle without partners is something that is to be avoided if at all possible.  Naturally, there are often more young ladies than gentlemen present during times of war which is why Jon’s keenly aware that he’s received his share of cold looks whilst standing about. 

As for the ladies, they do not get to choose their partners (and Jon doesn’t know that he’d enjoy being in that position) but they too are expected to dance.  It would be considered intolerably rude for a lady to refuse a gentleman’s request for a dance so long as they have been introduced unless the next has already been claimed by another or she has no intentions to dance the rest of the evening.  Thus, she is somewhat stuck between accepting every partner who comes her way, appearing ill-bred or sitting out in which case why not just stay at home?

Yes, why not stay home? he thinks a little mournfully before recalling Sansa’s bright eyes when they’d arrived, so lovely, damn near intoxicating in her enthusiasm.  It had made him feel the same spark in anticipation of a ball, the one he’d thought he’d forgotten…until he recalled certain realities. 

All the same, he could not leave.  He’d promised to watch over her and he did though his heart had felt like it was bleeding anew with each new partner. 

And whilst Arianne had been attempting to tempt him to the card table, saying Sansa could manage one dance without her glowering cousin standing post, something had happened and Sansa had unexpectedly disappeared from his view. 

He knows he made a scene cutting through the dancers as he did but he didn’t care.  He still doesn’t.  She matters too much for that. 

He isn’t sure that it was merely fatigue that had those tears glittering in her eyes but he will not impose on her for a different answer, certainly not in the company of others. 

And at the risk of offending decorum further, he had not been able to refrain from making his suggestion from earlier again once they’ve both had enough supper to sustain them. 

The clock is striking one with most everyone lounging about their supper and conversation increasing when they slip away from the other guests to another section of the house, a brief reprieve from others. 

But as they approach the stairs, both become conscious of the audibly amorous pair of lovers who have found their own reprieve from company in the alcove beneath the stairs.

“Yes…yes...” 

A woman’s husky moan, a man's bullish grunts followed by the undeniable sound of clothes rustling.

Jon grasps Sansa’s hand, leading her up and away from the pair as she seems to be frozen in place, shocked by the noises and what they represent, no doubt.

But as they reach the top of the stairs, he realizes how this would appear to others. 

His heart thuds loudly in his ears and a very rational voice which sounds amazingly like Sam’s is squawking in his ear that this too is improper in its own way and he should reconsider.  She is his kin but, whether or not she might ever see him as a desirable suitor were he to make his wishes known, others may view this action with condemnation.  And it would be Sansa who would pay the highest price for it if they were discovered.  Much as he adores her and much as nothing would make him happier than to make her his wife, he could not bear to see her forced into marrying him if she does not want it.     

He pauses.  He's still holding her hand.  With some regret, he lets go.  “Of course, if you are concerned about propriety, I could ask that Miss Wylla or Rhaenys joins us for…”

“No,” she says almost sharply though her cheeks are still flaming.  “I…you said there were portraits you wished to show me.  Surely, there is no harm in that.  We will return soon enough.”

“As you wish.” 

Anything you wish at all. 

A dangerous thought.  He would paint her cheeks in more pleasant ways if she would allow.  He would hear her moan like the other woman if she should ever like that.  A hidden alcove with my mouth sucking blossoms upon your delicate white throat whilst I had your skirts pushed up as my hand…

God Above, enough!  You become a proper rake fit to make Harrold Hardyng seem a vicar by comparison.

“This way.”  She follows by his side as he leads down the long hall and away from the ball and the other couple. 

“Do you approve, darling girl?”

“Oh, yes!  Oh, Jon!  I’ve never seen one like it! May I touch it, do you think?”

“Touch it.  Play it if you wish.  Rhaenys will not mind.  Though I believe we should be heading back to...”

He trails off for she smiles so happily, that same lovely, intoxicating look of enchantment from earlier in the evening as she carefully takes a seat at the very fine pianoforte Quentyn has recently purchased for his wife and daughter’s amusement.

They need to return to the ball.  Kin or not, they're pressing their luck.  And yet, he cannot find any wish to return to that place where other men will be coming to claim dances from her, where he can't pretend that she's all his.  

They had viewed the gallery of portraits first in the adjoining room before making their way here.  He had shown her a portrait of Rhaenys as a girl and himself and Aegon as small boys. 

“We weren’t close then but my father wanted a portrait of his three children for the hall.”

“Your brother looked much like your father, I take it?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry for…I’m sorry he…”

“It’s alright, my dear.  Aegon’s death brought much pain to our families but…well, it was long ago. There were some lovely grapes on that table there which the artist did not add to the portrait.  The three of us fought over them like savages once we were freed from standing still until Father heard and sent Rhaenys to her room before disciplining Aegon and I.”

“Was he very severe?”

“Yes, he always was to my recollection.”  

A grim man of disappointed hopes.  Some have told him stories of how his father had once been, a lover of music and welcome company to many, but things had changed at some point.  Jon has always wondered if it was himself that was the disappointment that changed Rhaegar and wonders if he’s doomed to repeat the pattern, a generally happy young man who grows grim and sullen with advancing years.      

Disturbed by the possibility, he’d shown Sansa a more recent portrait of himself from when he’d been elevated to the rank of colonel which Rhaenys had commissioned, much to his chagrin. 

“I look quite vexed in it, don’t I?”

“You look very distinguished in your red coat with your hard-won medals on display, sir…and quite vexed.”

They’d shared a laugh and continued on to a small portrait of his parents and himself.  “I’m not sure why this is here.” 

He feels uncomfortable when he looks at his father, the coldness in his unusual eyes seems to leap from the canvas.  He wonders what his mother ever saw in him.  What do women see in their men in general?  So many of us are not worthy of our ladies. 

“I’m glad it is though for now I have seen renderings of you as a boy and have some more notion of your family as it was then,” Sansa had said, lightly brushing the back of his hand with hers in comfort.  His heart had known contentment again in just that simple touch.  “Your mother was beautiful.  My father had said Arya favors her and now I see it as well.”

“Did he?  And does she?  I’ve not seen your sister since she was very young.  I recall some kerfuffle over her greeting me straight from climbing a tree when I arrived at Winterfell that time.”

“Yes, that would be Arya.  I was very annoyed with her at the time for our governess blamed me for her initial absence as if I had any control over her hoydenish ways.  I do hope she’ll come visit in May.”

“As do I,” he’d replied before asking of family portraits at Winterfell.

“Oh, there are some but it has been a while.  I believe Rickon was two when we last sat together as a family for one.  Father had planned to have my portrait done last year before…well, before things changed,” she’d trailed off sadly.

Yes, things had changed.  He’d returned her earlier gesture, the brush of his hand against the back of hers and her smile had reappeared.  His heart had been thumping wildly from the touch and that smile. 

He feels so much sorrow for Sansa and her younger siblings but, as for her likeness not being done, that is criminal.  He must ask Rhaenys for the name of a worthy portrait artist.

He had led them to this room to show her the new instrument after that. He should ask Quentyn from which maker he'd purchased the instrument.  If Sansa enjoys playing and singing, she should be indulged in that.  

He starts to stand at the end of it, figuring he will enjoy her playing whilst having an excuse to stare at her as much as he pleases.  Sansa has other ideas.

“Come and sit beside me if you will.”

The bench is not large but large enough for two.  They will be quiet close. 

You have sat closer. 

But you are not at home.  There are others about and this is not proper.

Still, when Sansa shifts through the sheet music and finds a piece she wishes to try and smiles at him that way, he cannot refuse her. 

Gingerly, he takes a seat, relishing the nearness, and watches her recreate beautiful music with the graceful movements of her fingers.  He’s heard this piece.  He knows there are words.  Surely, Sansa knows them. 

“Sing for me?”  The words had escaped his mouth before he’d even meant for them to.

Nevertheless, she obliges him.

He is lulled by her beautiful voice and the song into daydreams for a time, an image of them sitting together at this bench but instead they are at his home and she is his wife.  He would happily spend hours watching her and turning the pages for her as he learnt the music.  

“Jon?  May I ask you something?” Her query interrupts his happy fairytale but he smiles and nods.  “The couple we heard earlier…at the stairs.”

Her cheeks are painted pink again and all fairytales are at an end as more lascivious fictions spring to life in his mind. 

“They must be madly in love, don’t you think?  To act so rashly, to allow passion to carry them away at a ball with so many guests not more than a hall away, they must be, mustn’t they?”

What has prompted this line of questions?  Is she imagining herself in that place with...someone?  He's not sure he wants to know the answer.  

“Um…well, it is possible.”  She looks at him so earnestly, her innocent blue eyes searching.  “I would argue that passion on its own is not love and that love is not required for passion.”

She looks terribly disappointed.  He’s destined to disappoint, he fears. 

“I suppose you’re right.  Mama and Papa were not in love when they married.  They barely knew one another."

 He had heard that and yet Robb had been born before they'd reached their first anniversary.  And he'd had no doubt of their affections from what he saw of them as a young man at Winterfell.  "But love did grow between them in time."

"Yes, exactly," she sighs as if he's relieved some worry for her before she presses on.  "But it’s such a great risk.  The lady’s reputation would be ruined forever if they were discovered by someone wishing to bring either of them discredit.”

“Yes, but allow that they may have been a married couple in which case the lady’s reputation would be unspoiled though they might be the subject of some jest.  Or if they are not married but the gentleman should marry the lady, the whole matter would blow over soon enough even.”

“Oh, this is true.  I like your first suggestion.  A happily married couple carried away by the romance of the occasion and unable to resist some stolen kisses would be no cause for scorn,” she says, a very bewitching look of wonderment lighting those eyes again.

“I imagine there was a good deal more than just kissing taking place.” 

The wonderment is replaced by shock.  Her mouth falls open and she literally squeaks, causing him to chuckle. 

“I should not have said that.  I do apologize, Miss Sansa.”  He gives her a solemn bow of his head...and a wink. 

She starts giggling at his sauciness and he is quite undone as she playfully knocks her shoulder into his.  He catches a hint of her sweet fragrance.  He can perfectly picture the way those giggles would vibrate through her chest if he was holding her.  They are sitting too close for this conversation. 

Or not close enough.

Be silent!

Sansa idly starts to play another tune and he is only just recovering from the unexpected turn the conversation had taken when she says, “The lady seemed pleased.”

It is his turn to squeak.  Or rather cough a good deal and loudly.   

“I’m, uh…I believe she may have been…ahem.”

Her eyes are not on him but the keys as she says very steadily.  “No one’s ever told me to expect pleasure.  They only speak of duty.”

He feels his cheeks warming though doubts they could be any redder than hers in this moment.  “Your mother did not…”

She makes a little hitching sound in her throat and rapidly shakes her head.  “Mama only said a true gentleman would want to see me happy but never gave more than a rudimentary notion of the, uh…duty.  It would be nice to think it might be pleasant.  More than just something to tolerate.”

As difficult as it is to believe they are holding this conversation (and that he’s not perishing on the spot for the sinful thoughts that assail him with his heathen desire to show her exactly how pleasant he could make it for her), he doesn’t find it difficult at all to tell her honestly, “It was meant to be more than a duty in my opinion.  It was meant to be more than tolerated.  It should be enjoyable.”

“Enjoyable for the man and woman both, you mean?” she asks, daring to meet his eyes though her long lashes flutter with nervousness.

“Christ,” he huffs, the blasphemy surprising her as much as her questions surprise him. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, suddenly ashamed.  "What must you think of me speaking of such-"

“No, no.  Don’t apologize and yes.  It’s meant to be enjoyed by both, I believe.” His voice dips lower as he counts those perfect lashes that bat against her pale cheeks and adds, "I would wish to make it so for you-uh...my wife.  That is, if I were ever to marry."  

"Truly?"

"Truly."

Their gaze is locked.  He could not look away for anything short of canon fire, he thinks.  She is so close.  How long has it been since he’s been this close to a woman? 

But Sansa is different.  She is no lonely widow or willing tavern wench.  She is his heart and still an innocent.  He must restrain himself no matter how near she sits or how incredibly fetching she may be.

Still, he can feel the warmth of her thigh pressed against his own.  Blood surges through his body, his pulse pounding as it pools in one area in particular.  He shifts ever so slightly in an attempt to relieve the building ache but she seems to shift with him, her expression almost pleading.  Does she have any idea what he’s thinking?  How he feels?  Could she ever feel that way, too? 

Passion alone is not love and love is not required for passion but he loves this woman and wants her as well.  God, forgive him, he does so very much. 

She wets her lips and he knows this because his eyes keep dropping from her eyes to them.  Instinct and desire blaze as one.  He moves without meaning to.  As if those lips are the magnetic pull of the North and his needle seeks it out, he leans closer. 

Her chin tilts upward in what he will hope is an invitation.  Her eyes flutter closed.  He cannot think or second-guess.  Everything is impulse in this moment.  He's going to kiss her.

“Uncle Jon?  Miss Stark?”

The little voice, completely unexpected in the rising tension and silence, has them both leaping to their feet with a gasp from Sansa and a barely suppressed curse from him. 

In his haste and clumsiness, the pianoforte’s bench is knocked backwards, a horrible clattering. 

"Papa bought that for me," Ellie says pouting in her night rail and clutching a doll.

Sansa is first to find her tongue as he rights the bench again.  "We do beg your pardon, my lady.  I had tired of dancing for a spell and your uncle was indulging my desire to play it.  It is a beautiful pianoforte." 

Sansa spoke so calmly but her eyes dart nervously between him and the child.  For some reason, that makes him want to laugh even though he wishes he might've kissed her.  Does she wish the same?  Does she realize how close he was to doing so?

"Yes, it's all my fault, Ellie.  And what are you doing out of bed, little one?"

"The music started back.  It woke me up." 

Sure enough, the music has started again below, far off but noticeable to those not wrapped up in thoughts of stolen kisses. 

"Ah, then I should see Miss Stark back to the ball and you should be in-"

"Not yet," Ellie whimpers, knowing that if they leave they'll send her back to bed. 

"Shall I play you a song first, my lady?" Sansa asks sweetly.  

But little Ellie has other ideas.  Her dark eyes come to life with some mischief of their own, bringing her mother to mind. 

So, Jon is not all that surprised when his niece says in the commanding tone of a four-year-old, "No, not a song.  I want the ball to be here.  Ask Miss Stark to dance, Uncle Jon."

Chapter Text

The music is remote, almost ethereal due to that fact. They are a floor above and on the other end of the grand house so that is no surprise but it adds a certain dreamlike quality to all of this.

Sansa still hasn't recovered from the surprise of Little Elia’s interruption nor the fact that Jon appeared to be very near to kissing her.

He was. He was going to...I think. Oh, child! If only you might’ve slumbered on!

How she aches with unfulfilled longing from that moment.

But what does it mean? What will it mean going forward? Does he indeed have feelings for her or had all the talk of passion stirred him to act? Or to possibly act? She still cannot be certain he was going to carry through.

She had introduced a most inappropriate subject. She can perfectly imagine the expression of shock her old governess would’ve worn if Sansa had ever asked such questions of her. Strangely, it brings Mrs. Mordane, the housekeeper, to mind.

More importantly though, what does Jon think of her behavior? And if there's any chance he might still be in love with Lady Arianne, what brought him to the point of kissing her?

You put notions in his head, you little tart. You were begging for those attentions, asking him to sit next to you, an inner voice says, sounding depressingly like Aunt Lysa at her most vicious.

Perhaps the voice has a point though. Aren’t men said to be easily swept away by their carnal desires when led down a certain path? Was it merely passion which prompted him to lean towards her? Oh, if only she could speak so plainly now!  If only he would!

“I want the ball to be here. Ask Miss Stark to dance, Uncle Jon.”

Her eyes grow wide and she looks to Jon who doesn’t appear nearly as shocked as she is. But he can’t, she nearly sobs. His leg, little one. He hasn’t danced with a single lady all night. He will not dance with me.

On the contrary, the fact he had not danced earlier does not appear to stop him now regardless of his leg. 

Jon grins at Ellie’s demand and turns towards Sansa with that grin growing sweetly and boyishly flustered. “If you do not fear too much for your toes, Miss Stark, may I have the honor of a dance?”

Ellie claps and sighs and Sansa could clap and sigh with her if she were not so aware of his eye upon her and wishing for him to see her the way she sees him. 

Therefore, she's very proud that it is a lady’s voice, not a giddy girl’s, which replies, “You may, colonel.”

The tune, a country dance with simple steps, is one she knows well and hopes suits him. It is already half way through but for those schooled in dancing from an age not much more advanced than Ellie’s, they pick it up readily enough.

He bows and she curtsies and then their hands are clasped as they step forward and back, bodies turning in time.

They have touched hands before this night, bare hands even as opposed to the gloves which she wears at the moment, but the sensation still thrills her. 

He has held her in his strong arms as she has cried to comfort her. They have stood close and even sat close by one another.  But every touch, every lingering moment of closeness over the course of their dance sears her, every exchange leaves an impression, a feeling, brings to mind the sparks that rise from embers stoked in the hearth. And his eyes. Heavens, his visible eye is like a dark coal that could burn you…and leave you grateful for it.

Obviously, she has danced with half a dozen men and more this night alone and yet, this feels different, more like a connection of hearts than any dance she has known. This is an enchantment, something altogether new and exciting and her heart is gladly carried away.

Oh, how you run on, she thinks, stifling giggles at her own romanticism and imagining Arya rolling her eyes at such thoughts.

“You’re laughing, eh?  I am a laughable dancer, I'll admit, but I did warn you of your toes, Miss Stark,” he says, playfully demure.

“No, no.  Not at all. I am only caught up in the unusual setting of our dance…and our patroness's boredom with it.”

Sure enough, Ellie has already seen them dance long enough. She is perched upon the bench of the pianoforte, swinging her little legs and holding her doll out before her, intent on it dancing instead.

"Dear me.  Do we quit before we are shown the door?"

"Nay, I dare say we carry on, sir," she replies, giggling anew.  

"So we shall then.  Sansa, I..."  He swallows hard.  "I hope you will...you must allow me to say..."  Oh, help.  Will he declare something?!  "I have been horribly remiss not to tell you before now how very beautiful you look this evening."

There go her cheeks turning red, no doubt.  "Thank you."  It is not a declaration but she will happily take the compliment.  And, she'll remember the way he stares at her in the moment forever, she thinks.  

The distant music grows harder to hear over the beating of her own heart when his large hand rests firmly at her waist with their next turn. She recalls earlier, the way others had touched her that way and left her half longing for escape. Here instead, she wants his hand to remain there…or to move elsewhere perhaps.

“Yes…yes…” the woman by the stairs had cried. What had that woman been experiencing exactly beyond kissing? She is so curious.

"It's meant to be enjoyed by both, I believe. I would wish to make it so for you-uh...my wife." 

Your wife. Oh, make it so, make it so.

The quiet click and snick of their shoes upon the floor and faint, sweet snores from Ellie are barely noticed with Jon staring at her as they move.  The way he looks at her, she should faint if she were one for fainting she thinks. 

Her heart thunders with each step whilst elsewhere, low in her belly or perhaps lower, the ache builds and builds like from earlier as she waited for his lips to meet hers.  She nearly whimpers when the dance draws them closer, their faces less than half a foot apart.

Kiss me, kiss me.  Please, kiss me.

Of course, he will not with his niece right there but Sansa cannot help thinking it.

Just then, Jon’s limp betrays him in a turn and he stumbles, knocking her off balance as well. He catches her before she can fall but his face has gone deathly pale and he stops.

"Are you hurt?" they both ask at once.

She shakes her head, smiling in hopes of easing his concern.  It does not alter his pallor or the frown forming.  

“Forgive me. I am no dancer…not anymore.” His earlier pleasure in the dance has evaporated in a trice. She cannot bear it.

“No, no. You are a fine dancer. It was only a slight falter. Happens to us all. Please Jon, I should enjoy dancing the rest if you feel up to it.”

She holds her hand out and, gratefully, he takes it again.  His lips twitch irresistibly, a droll smile.  "Are you told 'no' very often?" 

Laughing quietly now, she shakes her head again. 

The laughter ends in a gasp as he takes her waist once more except with more assurance, more...possessiveness.  His face his so near her own, she fancies she can see subtle flecks of violet in the grey.  "Sansa..."  He rasps her name and she shivers.  

But before one more blessed word can be said, they are intruded upon yet again!

“Papa,” Ellie says sleepily from her bench.

The lord of the house has discovered them this time.  Sansa is surprised to see Lord Martell looking so severe, knowing how he dotes upon his daughter. But no, that is not the cause of his ire.

“Ellie, you must to bed, my love,” he says gently before turning angrily towards Jon. “I see you can dance when you wish to, Targaryen, but what do you think you’re about leading the young lady away from my ball and unchaperoned?  I know she is under your protection and living in your home but I'm sure you are not ignorant of the manner in which people greedily repeat even the slightest morsel of...” He pauses and, though they are of an age, Jon looks quite chastened by his brother-in-law’s scolding. “Miss Stark has been missed. People are wondering at our guest of honor’s whereabouts.”  

Sansa’s tummy seems to slide to the floor at his clipped words and she gasps at the implication.

Just like in Bath!  Just like the garden and the friendly little cat and then Ramsay coming out of the hedge and the grass stains and all the wry and scornful looks! 

What will London say of her if word gets 'round that she was alone with Jon upstairs in the Martell's home?  Will anyone care that their relation offers a kernel of excuse?  A very small kernel considering how much she'd wanted him to kiss her.  And she's living in his home with only servants to act as chaperones.  What will people say of that if they've a malicious bent to gossip? 

The deeply ingrained dread of scandal rises up and nearly suffocates her. 

"If they are not married but the gentleman should later marry the lady, the whole matter would blow over soon enough..."

"It's a pity he has no interest in marrying at all."  

She feels Jon's hand at her elbow and realizes her breathing had been growing uneven and quite frantic.  "It's alright.  It will be alright," he murmurs. His touch is like an anchor, bringing her capering thoughts to heel for a moment.  The dread is still present but tolerable.  “My apologies.  I had no intentions of...we viewed the portrait gallery and I wished to show her the...I will see you back to the ball at once, Sansa.”

“No, Jon.  I think it might be best if you see Ellie to her bed and allow me to escort Miss Stark back. I’m sure the others will understand how she was quite swept away finding my charming daughter out of bed and longing for some company.”

“Yes…yes, I’m sure,” Jon says, his cheeks aflame he turns to Sansa. “Quentyn will see you back to the ball and I will rejoin you shortly.  And we may depart for home whenever you're ready.”

"A reappearance only to disappear again will be remarked upon.  You should stay another hour at least."

Her heart flutters wildly with nerves as she nods though she very much wants to go home now.  "Another hour then, my lord.  Goodnight, my lady," she says to the child who is already curled up in her uncle's arms, her eyes heavy with drowsiness. 

"Did you like dancing with Uncle Jon, Miss Stark?" the girl asks, dreamily.

"Yes, very much," she admits, trying to catch his eye. 

But he is remote, not meeting her gaze.  Closed off and busily berating himself, she suspects. 

Her heart plummets as a new fear arises.  Was it only a moment of enchantment?  Is it to be lost?

There is no time to ask.  Lord Martell is already escorting her back down the stairs and past the alcove where no lovers linger now.

“Where were you?” Mrs. Royce asks, a devilish delight dancing in her eyes.

“Lord and Lady Martell’s daughter woke and I found her wandering upstairs,” she says, repeating the tale Lord Martell had told others upon their return.  She's surprised by how readily the lie came out. "I had to make use of the necessary and freshen up some as well," she adds in a whisper, hoping that will be a convincing addition.

Myranda gives her an appraising look.  “The colonel is missing as well.”

Sansa glances about as if she does not know this for a fact.  “So I see.”  I am become an actress. 

She likes Mrs. Royce’s amusing tales and jolly manner but she is no fool.  Someone so keen for gossip cannot be trusted with a secret that could potentially ruin her in the eyes of society. 

Jon, her dear cousin, honorable man that he is, might very well be the sort to make her an offer of marriage if there were some scandal likely to bring her discredit to that point but she will not be the one to trap him into marrying if he has no interest in entering that state.  Not unless he truly wants me.

But Myranda's eyes soften and she takes her hand.  "My dear, there have been whispers whilst you were missing amongst a certain set."  Her eyes flicker towards Loras and Margaery Tyrell.  "They have not said what precisely in my hearing but I believe one of them at least wishes you ill whilst the other merely enjoys the attention he gains from gossiping."

"I'm not sure what they'd have to say of me.  We've only met tonight," she hedges, the panic is rising again.  Oh, where is Jon?  She wants to leave at once.  

"Well, I would pay it little heed.  I have it on good authority that Miss Tyrell had most earnestly wished to be introduced to the colonel tonight.  Her best silk and feathers on display and she's reportedly quite put out that he's not dancing and that Garlan has not made more of an effort on her behalf to bring them together, including at the theatre the night you attended.  I believe she's firmly set her cap for him."

"She's never met him."

"A single man in possession of good fortune must be in want of a wife, they say.  I believe after her humiliation with Mister Baratheon, she's intent on an even more sought-after catch and, while I doubt the colonel would ever believe it, that's exactly what many ladies of the ton consider him."

"Oh...I see."

You don't care about him, don't even know him.  He's only tolerable looking with a more than tolerable fortune to your eyes, isn't he?  A prize in this heartless game. 

"She seemed more interested in Dickon than Jon from what I've seen tonight." 

"Only because he was there and already introduced...and you were on his arm.  But between the lieutenant with no estate and the wealthy colonel with an estate and a London town home, I have no doubt which way the wind would blow."

"Poor Dickon," she says and is surprised she means it.  He deserves to be someone's true choice and loved for himself.  Just not by me. 

"Yes, poor fickle Dickon."  Well, she has a point there.  "But the main thing is I believe the gossip has to do with the lady viewing you as a rival for what she wants."

"But there is nothing but familial affection and friendship between Jon and I." 

It's a lie spoken in her fear of scandal.  She harbors so much more than familial affection for him.  It tastes a lie on his behalf as well.  He was going to kiss me...I think.  

Myranda smiles and squeezes her hand.  "I think there's more than that to it for him.  He has watched you dancing with other men all evening and it did not look like familial concern in his eye to me.  I don't believe I have been alone in noticing it."

She's flustered and confused and quivers with hope that Myranda is right.

Others come upon them before Sansa can say more and there's Miss Tyrell with her leering smirk.  “There you are, Miss Stark.  We’d all wondered what became of you.  Were you unwell?”

So perhaps Margaery does fancy her as a rival for Jon's attentions.  Was that what all the 'no wish to marry' business was about?  Does she mean to put her on guard?

For her own part, Sansa would gladly love to gain his affections if it is as possible as Gilly and now Myranda seem to believe. 

Even if I were ultimately second in his heart. Sansa glances towards Lady Arianne who is with Wylla, both of them in close discussion.  If Miss Tyrell views me as a rival, does she know that lady might possibly be one as well? 

She smiles at them all including Dickon who looks most troubled.  “I am quite well, Miss Tyrell.  Merely distracted by an engaging child after I’d had enough of supper.”

“Yes, children can be distracting that way, leading us off places.  Almost as bad as cats,” Loras Tyrell says with a knowing smile which makes her blood run cold.

Garlan Tyrell scowls at his brother and promptly asks her for a dance.  “If you’re up for another dance, that is, Miss Stark.”

“Yes, of course, sir,” she manages to answer without a stammer, thankful for Garlan's offer as she keeps eyes averted from Loras'.  If Loras possesses more beauty than his brother, Sansa would argue that Garlan received far more agreeable manners.  

When Jon returns to the ball at last, she is dancing with Dickon again who had asked for the next. She can feel Jon watching them as she makes each turn but, conscious of the fact they are in some danger of becoming the subject of unkind speculation, she does her best to focus on her partner.  

"Your cousin has returned, Miss Stark."

"Yes, I see.  He's promised to watch over me here...and always."  

Half the room separates them but she allows her eyes to linger on Jon for a weighted moment.  She wishes she could fly into his arms.  She wishes he could take her home now.  She desperately wants to return to their brief interlude away from the others and do it all over again.  Except without interruptions this time. 

But instead, she dances and dances and waits.  

It is nearing five when they return home at long last.  Wylla was quiet in the coach and the steady, rhythmic jostling combined with an extremely long night had Sansa succumbing to slumber as readily as little Ellie. 

She stirs when the coach pulls to a halt at Grosvenor Square at last.  Jon’s cloak is covering her own, something he must've done as she slept and possibly after he saw Wylla safely to her door, and she wakes to find him smiling at her.  She wishes to sink down a little deeper, inhaling the scent of him upon the cloak, but knows she must rise. 

Jon assists her from the coach and up the front steps into the house as Halder goes to tend to the horses and coach with Jon’s thanks.

Ghost greets them at the door, his tail wagging happily though it’s too early for him to expect sausages.  Or perhaps not, Sansa realizes, hearing Cook and her helper stirring in the direction of the kitchen.

The ever-ready Mordane greets them at the foot of the stairs. "Good morning, sir...miss.  I hope the evening was pleasant."

"Good morning, Mordane.  Yes, quite.  We’re both likely to sleep for a few hours but will let you know when we require anything,” Jon says. 

“Yes, sir.”

Before Sansa can say any greetings or thanks to Mordane, Jon offers his arm for support and they make their way up the stairs.  Those heady desires from the night waken quickly at his touch.  Most wantonly, she wishes they were her imagined married couple and heading to the same bed.  We might not rise from it until tea time.   

But here are Gilly and Satin at the top of the stairs, looking somewhat pale and nettlesome having been rousted from their beds at such an early hour to see their charges undressed and off to bed before they can return to their own.   

Before Gilly can sweep her off to her room, Sansa cannot resist saying to Jon, “I want you to know I had a very lovely time with you this evening.”

“As did I.  And perhaps, when we are both fully awake...and if you will allow, there is a matter I would...most ardently wish to...to speak with you of and..." 

A gaping yawn from Satin, hastily stifled, cuts short Jon's stammering.  Looking quite conscious of the servants' presence, Jon closes his mouth, smiling and sweetly flustered as Sansa is incapable of doing more than nodding in reply.  She's too near swooning to speak, she fears. 

He bows and tells her, "Get some rest, my dear,” and then enters his room with Satin following.  

"Well, how was it?" Gilly asks, helping her out of her dress and pulling out her nightrail as Sansa dreamily brushes out her hair.  

"Magical, tedious, absolutely magical and then tedious and tiresome before perhaps more magic.  All in that order, too."

"That's quite a lot."

"Oh, I've so much to tell you."  She presses the back of her hand to her a mouth as a yawn threatens. "But later.  The only thing I must relate right now is that I danced with Lord Tarly, quite an accomplished dancer, and he could speak of nothing but you."

Gilly's cheeks flush.  "Really, miss.  I'm sure he was only being polite to ask after me."

"No, Gilly.  He was wishing you were present and spoke of paying all of us a call.  He's even contemplating hosting a dinner and..."  The yawn escapes and Gilly has her hands on her hips.

"To bed with you, sleepy one.  All night dancing and feasting and thinking of romance will have you speaking nonsense."

"There's Almack's Wednesday night affair we're to attend," Sansa says as Gilly's guiding her under the covers.  She sighs to feel the sheets have been warmed by the warming pan recently.  Sweet Gilly and Kyra and Mrs. Mordane and all the staff are always attentive to their comforts.  She wants to do what she can to make them all happy and she's determined to start with Gilly.  

"What about Almack's?"

"You could go with us."  The public subscription ball is held every Wednesday during the season where a more mixed set may attend without censure.  The truly snobbish won't attend, the food's said to not be all that much but it's a ball and Jon had already arranged for them to go weeks ago.  "I'll ask Jon to have you accompany me.  Anyone can ask you to dance there if you've been introduced and..."

Another yawn, a sleepy smile picturing Sam and Gilly dancing, a secret one remembering her own dance with Jon.  What does he wish to speak to me of later?  How is she to sleep?

But she will sleep.  She feels Gilly's fingers stroke her cheek as her eyes flutter closed.  "Rest, sweet girl.  Dance in your dreams with the man you love."

"I will, I will," she murmurs with music playing in her mind.  

When she wakes again, hours and hours have passed.  It’s well past two but the house is oddly quiet.  Yawning, she rises and washes her face. Then, she recalls Jon's last words.  Heart fluttering, she rings for Gilly but it is Kyra who answers and helps her to dress. 

Hurrying downstairs, she is sorry to find no sign of Jon but she discovers Mordane dusting in his study who informs her that he had left some time ago taking Ghost and that both Lord Samwell Tarly and Lieutenant Tarly have paid calls.

“What?  Paid calls this morning and after a ball?”  Doesn't everyone sleep in after a ball?  What had possessed them both to come and visit?  I imagine Talla Tarly had the good sense to lie in.  

Mordane’s normally stern countenance betrays some amusement.  “Yes, miss.  Lord Tarly was received by the colonel who had already risen.  He asked after you and then Miss Wilde in particular.  As Gilly was in the drawing room and dressed to go out for an errand, he offered to walk with her a ways if she didn't mind as he was leaving was my understanding.”

“Oh!”  She flushes with pleasure on Gilly’s behalf and clasp her hands together.  "And did Gilly agree?"

"She did, miss."

The pair of them share a giddy grin.  "But what of Lieutenant Tarly?  Was he not with them?”

“No, miss.  He came separately, roughly an hour later after the colonel had left on some matter of his own.”  Mordane leans closer, more giddy amusement lightening the old dear’s face.  “He particularly asked if he might speak with you, even after I said the colonel was not at home.”

"Oh."  Her flushed cheeks pale and she is most concerned over why Dickon Tarly would ask to speak with her with Jon being absent.

"He left his card and said he would call again later."

Mordane is still grinning widely but Sansa cannot find it in her to grin back now.  

Chapter Text

Who doesn’t lie in after a ball?

Jon doesn’t, that’s who. Not today at least.

He had shut his eyes for three hours or so but it was a fitful repose to say the least. Every thought, every breath had been consumed with remembrances from the night, of Sansa’s fine eyes, sweet smiles and the wonderful and curious workings of her mind during their time alone together. And I would most assuredly labor to make it pleasant for you.

He was certainly going to kiss her and he is at least partly convinced, even after he’d returned to see her dancing with Dickon and even still in the cold light of day, that she might have welcomed his kiss.

“I was going to kiss her, Ghost. I wish I’d had the chance. We’ll see what she thinks of that after she rises perhaps, hmm?”

He tosses the faithful dog a bite of sausage, snapped out of midair.

Reflecting, he frowns as he recalls Quentyn’s sharp words upon discovering them. Not that he blames his brother-in-law for that. He wasn’t guarding Sansa’s good name as he should’ve by stealing her away in that manner and feels some shame over it.

“It’s only proper that I ask to court her. Better yet, I could just propose, don’t you think, Ghost? Tis only fair she knows my heart is hers. I do not know that I can conceal it any longer in any event.”

Ghost pants, swishes his tail back and forth and looks most eagerly to Jon’s plate.

A tremble of nerves as he gives Ghost another bite. “Of course, after such a long evening, I don’t know if today would be proper. Well, perhaps. I’m dallying over this ridiculously, aren’t I? All she can say is yes...or no and break my heart.”

A snort of agreement from Ghost.

“Quite right. Courage is the order of the day, yes? She didn’t mind my misstep whilst we were dancing even though I could’ve easily knocked her to the floor. Did I tell you that? She’s the dearest, kindest-”

He shuts his mouth abruptly as Cook comes in to survey the table, scowling at him and Ghost. “Are you feeding that dog all the sausages and leaving none at all for Miss, sir?”

Ghost whimpers and lays his head in Jon’s lap as Jon nods as guiltily as any wicked boy.  

He decides upon his gesture not long before Sam pays his call. No, courtship doesn’t require an expensive gift to go with it but he wants her to have the instrument if she should like it, regardless of her answer. (Perhaps they’ll be able to deliver one today even if possible though that may be asking too much.)

Pianoforte or not, Jon hopes to have the words he wishes to say clearly in mind by the time he returns. He is all nonsense and nerves this morning.

Well, as Benedick would say, ‘When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I was married.'

Dressed and ready to head out, he could easily tell Mordane he is ‘not at home’ if he chooses but this is Sam and he never does that with Sam if he can help it.

As it happens, he has been consulting with Miss Wilde over where she believes a pianoforte might be placed to the most advantage in his drawing room (“so that I might see her…or any performer play”) when Sam is shown in.

Bow and curtsy, shy smiles. Oh bother, the would-be lovers will run him behind in his plans!

However, once again, this is Sam, a person he loves like a brother, and Miss Wilde, who he is growing quite fond of. And Sansa would be most disappointed in him if he didn’t allow them a chance to speak.

Of course, he cannot help feeling a jolt of panic when Sam mentions Dickon already stirring before he’d left. Sam’s always hinted that his siblings would lie abed all day after a ball given their choice. Perhaps the army has made an early bird of Dickon as well.

“It is my belief he intends to pay a particular call here in the next day or so,” Sam says with a meaningful look.

“A particular call here?” Jon repeats, that panic increasing.  "He seemed preoccupied with Miss Tyrell at times last night."

"Well, my brother is regrettably driven by whims upon occasion."  Sam looks over his shoulder to Gilly with a smile before murmuring, "But I do not believe the Tyrells would consider him a suitable match for Margaery's fortune and Dickon is not so foolish as to believe otherwise."   

Does he intend to propose to Sansa as well then? And would Sansa rather receive a proposal from Dickon than himself?

From a purely practical standpoint, Jon knows he would be the more desirable match with his fortune and estate to recommend him. But what does Sansa want? She does not possess a mercenary heart. A husband’s ability to provide for her may be a necessity but it will be one factor among others and it is not as if Dickon is destitute.  

After he’d rejoined the ball last night and found the pair of them dancing, he’d done his best to objectively observe them together. And although his jealous heart and insecurities had had their say, he must admit that he did not detect any signs of particular partiality on her part. She had not been looking at Dickon in the manner she’d looked at him when they'd been alone at the pianoforte.

Does he fool himself? Perhaps.

He would like to ask Sam's opinion but Gilly is present and Dickon is Sam’s brother so that would hardly be sporting of him.

I need Rhae’s advice!

She’ll likely throw something at you and admonish you to get on with it.

“You're heading to the bookshop, you say? Oh, I do enjoy the bookshop very much,” he hears Sam saying with his usual glee over anything involving books. “What books do you enjoy reading, miss?”

Gilly is flushed scarlet as she looks to Jon and back at Sam before murmuring a few titles which has Sam keenly endorsing each one.

“Capital, reading!  Capital!  Say, if you are headed in that direction anyway, I would be honored to escort you there, Miss Wilde.  Might find myself something new to read...or reread.”

“That’s most kind of you, my lord, and I would not object but please do not think you must on my account. No one bothers worrying over girls of my station going on errands or-”

“But I do worry, Miss Wilde,” Jon cuts in, wishing her to know it's true. “And as the bookshop is a good distance from here, you may take the coach if you wish."

"Oh no, sir!  I couldn't possibly and it is not so far for a girl born and bred in London...nor even the country for that matter."  She's quite precious with her flustered stammering and Jon can tell she very much wishes for Sam to escort her though she fears admitting it.

"Well, it would set my mind at ease to know Lord Tarly might see you that far at least on your errands."

"I suppose if you..."

"There now!  Quite decided, Miss Wilde," Sam says most happily as he rises to take his leave.

"And as you are both on your way, I need not beg your pardon for leaving myself.”

And thus, the would-be lovers are sent on their way and with a satisfied nod to himself, Jon grasps his hat and cane.  He calls for Ghost, casts one lingering look up the stairs where his dear one lies sleeping above and heads out to purchase a pianoforte…right after he speaks to his sister.

Hours later, he has paid his call to his sister and been threatened with violence (playfully or not remains to be seen) if he does not propose to Sansa as soon as possible.

“She has not opened her heart to me personally, Jon, so I cannot promise you but I am convinced that she would welcome your proposal and gladly accept.”

“Truly?”

“Yes. If I am wrong, I will eat my hat. And if you fail to ask her, brother, I may be forced to throw something at you."

His visit had given him some unease in other matters though when Rhaenys had shared some other news of the ball.

“There were murmurs over your absence last night.”

“I realized there might be. We only viewed the portraits and I showed her your pianoforte before Ellie-”

“Yes, I’m well aware of the separate ball hosted by my daughter last night. Was the viewing of portraits and an instrument all you had in mind, Jon?”

She’d cocked her head to the side knowingly and he’d felt his cheeks growing hot. “For my part, I'll admit I was soon thinking other thoughts but she is innocent of any wanton intent."

"Perhaps I should rake my husband over the coals for his untimely interruption then."

"No, no.  He was quite right.  My passion doesn't excuse the potential damage to Sansa's reputation."

"Do you know how happy it makes me to hear you speak of passion, Jon?"

"You're making me blush, sister," he'd cut in, not wishing for her to grow emotional just now though he knows how she's fretted over him since his return from Spain.  "What are they saying of Sansa?”

“Only a little and it is only the Tyrells who are stirring things from what I can tell. Not Garlan…his siblings.”

“I should be sorry if Garlan was to join them in that."  And why would the other two wish to say anything malicious?  He doesn't know them and neither did Sansa until last night.  "Oh well, we returned separately and with Quentyn’s word on Sansa being with Ellie and my intention to propose regardless…”

“But that is not all they say. There are rumors about an incident in Bath a month or so ago involving Miss Stark and a Mister Bolton, a man of most questionable reputation.”

He’d been infuriated to learn of that. Only Loras Tyrell could’ve had such gossip to spread and he is tempted to call upon him for an explanation but will not. He’d much rather secure Sansa’s hand if she should deem him worthy of it. Then, any evil rumors can curl up and die a feeble little death.

He’d left Rhaenys for the instrument maker next, met with the craftsman and was even able to purchase one on the spot. The wagon bearing his gift should arrive shortly after he does by his estimation.

Perhaps sooner considering how my leg is paining me.

He should’ve known better than to walk so far today after his exertions last night. Leaning more heavily upon his cane, he tries to ignore the pitying look of a spry younger gentleman as they tip their hats to one another in passing.

“Come along, Ghost,” he calls and wonders if he must trouble Satin to draw a hot bath again tonight.

He reaches his home again at last recalling how Sansa had come upon him the last time he had had to soak late for the sake of his leg.

And if she should say yes to my proposal and later wants a pot of chocolate tonight and happens upon me in such a state…

Control yourself, sir. This is not some bawdy house production and she might be your wife ere long.  And what will she think of your scarred body besides?

That thought troubles him some.  He has not been intimate with a woman since the worst of them occurred.  He draws yet another deep breath for courage…and hears voices coming from the drawing room.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Mordane says, relieving him of his hat and coat at the door but leaving his cane when he gives a subtle shake of his head. “When did the rain start?”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Mordane.  It is but a light drizzle this past ten minutes or so or I would’ve caught a hackney. Do we have guests?”

His housekeeper looks concerned when she replies, “Yes, sir. Lieutenant Tarly arrived fifteen minutes ahead of you and I showed him into the drawing room. Miss Stark and Gilly are in there with him.”

“Oh…well…” His heart is suddenly thundering between his eardrums. Is he too late?! But Gilly is there and…

“Miss Stark was quite insistent that Gilly attend her as she waited upon the gentleman though the young man said he wished to speak with her most urgently and privily if she would allow.”

“Privily?” He cannot breathe. He can feel the blood draining from his face. He has ruined his chance at happiness with his doubts and delays and his stupid outing!

“Take heart, sir,” Mordane says gently, daring to place a hand upon his forearm. “The gentleman may ask but that does not mean she will say yes.”

He looks at her with such gratitude for her reassurances and wonders what the old girl would think if her employer broke down and sobbed on her shoulder.

And before any more can be said or considered, the voices from within the drawing room grow louder. Ghost growls at his side.

“Am I to understand that you wish to make me an offer of marriage but that it is contingent upon me answering these impertinent questions to your satisfaction, Mister Tarly?”

“Oh, don't put it like that.  Sansa, please…”

Jon’s feet are carrying him into his drawing room without a second thought and he’s never seen such a combination of ice and fire in those blue eyes as he does when she crisply says, “I have not given you leave to use my Christian name, sir.”

By God, she’s glorious. And why is he so…stimulated by her ire?

Dickon’s back is to him and his instincts tell him that Sansa is too enraged in this moment to really take note of him. But Gilly, who is sitting off in the corner, is wide-eyed and staring right back at him as Dickon speaks again.

“The matter of you and your cousin going missing during supper last night is one thing.  You're family and the colonel has no intentions to ever marry..."

No intentions to ever marry?  Who says that of him?  I mean, I didn't think much on it until Sansa's arrival here but I never made a declaration or-

"...but Mister Bolton has such an abominable reputation and I cannot in good conscience ask for your hand if there is some question of…that is to say…”

“You question my character, sir, due to me being introduced to Mister Bolton and having some acquaintance with him in Bath?  I believe that is the gist of this inquisition.”

“Not at all. You are the prettiest and finest of girls and I would not trouble you over any of that were it not for...it is only that my family name, the Tarly name, has been unsullied for generations of scandal and my father if he were still alive would’ve insisted that I clear my conscience in this matter before..."

"Your conscience, sir?" she repeats, sharply.  Christ, she looks ready to flay him and Jon thinks he might enjoy watching it.  

"…but I only thought you should be made aware of the rumors which are circulating.  But of course, with an understanding in place between us, once I speak with your cousin, all gossip would be laid by the lee and…”

“You speak of going to my cousin, sir, but I have not answered the question which you have not asked yet.”

“Of course, of course. So silly of me.  Sansa, would you marry-”

She holds up a hand, a cold, imperious look that would have Jon quaking in his boots to be on the receiving end of, effectively cutting Dickon short.  I am quaking in my boots actually but in a far more agreeable manner.  What is wrong with me?!  He must focus on Sansa and her feelings over this.  

“And I will beg you not to ask that question of me, Mister Tarly. I believe your intent is to offer me some sort of rescue from these rumors but I have not asked to be rescued by you, sir.  You have offended me with your impertinence and by the mode of your address from the moment you set foot in this house today.  Thus, I will ask you not to make me any offers and would bid you good day, only lamenting that you might've been better served spending your day catching up on the rest we both sorely missed last night.”

Even from behind him, Jon can tell Dickon is utterly dumbstruck by her refusal, her refusal to even hear his proposal.  If he were at the theatre, Jon might be tempted to applaud but this is not a play and there are hearts on the line...her heart.    

Dickon's shoulders slump and he seems to be drawing several breaths of disbelief before he cannot resist opening his stupid mouth again.  “I do not have fancy words to woo you with.  My concerns were probably expressed more bluntly than they could've been but I assure you others will feel the same.  I fear you may find yourself the center of scandal, Miss Stark, and I had hoped to make you an honorable offer to allow you to avoid all that.  Perhaps I could’ve chosen my words more carefully but-”

“Get out!  The lady has dismissed you already and does not wish to hear another word on this matter.”

Dickon’s head whips ‘round at Jon’s biting snarl and Ghost is snarling with him.  Sansa’s eyes meet his and her chest begins to heave with emotion. Oh, his strong and angry woman is also his darling girl with her tender heart.  She has been wounded by this loutish display.  Damn Dickon Tarly to hell and back!

“Get out of my house, lieutenant, and have the courtesy to trouble the lady no longer with your addresses,” he repeats in a calmer tone.

Mortified and likely growing cross in his confusion, Dickon shakes his head and starts to leave.

As he walks past him, Jon cannot resist saying with a sniff of disdain, “Sam would be ashamed of your behavior today. Very badly done.”

And that seems to be the end of Dickon’s attempts at a manly retreat for he literally breaks into a run at that point with Mordane calling from the hall, "You’re hat, sir!"

Jon doesn’t care. He only cares about her.  He limps towards her, abandoning his cane, opens his arms and she rushes to him, stifling sobs over the whole ugly business.  “Shush, shush, my darling girl. It’s alright.”

“They’re all talking about me, about Bath and Mister Bolton and…”

“It’s alright, it’s alright. None of their words will hurt you, I promise.”

"I'll be a pariah."

"Not at all.  Wherever you are known, ladies and gentlemen of sense will know better than to believe any lies told of you."  

Gilly stares at them both with sympathy and he can feel the presence of another at his back. Mordane.

He should dearly love to wipe her tears away, kiss her sweet lips and tell her she needn’t worry over scandal because he fully intends to make her an offer as his heart is already hers but right now, she needs consoling.

Admittedly, as she has her cry, there is a small and frightened voice within worrying that these tears might partially be born of a broken heart because the fellow she’d hoped would make her an offer has shown himself to be terribly callow.

And, as the last of Sansa’s tears are drying up, Jon learns that her tears are not to be the last he will bear witness to this day for another person has just joined them in his drawing room.

“Wylla?” Sansa gasps.  "What are you doing here?  Are you hurt?"

She looks it and Jon fears some assault to her person before she shakes her head.  “Forgive me for intruding this way, colonel. The door was still open and I…”

She is wet through with the drizzle which has turned to a steadier rain and looks more than a little lost.

“Miss Wylla, come and sit by the fire and tell us what has occurred,” Jon urges as Ghost circles the three of them in confused joy.

Sansa is already seated on the settee beside her friend with an arm around her as Jon asks Mordane to bring tea and Gilly to fetch a blanket.

“What has happened, my dear?”

“Mister Frey has proposed to me this day just as I feared he would.  I have refused him.  And when I told my father he said he would send me away from London, to our house in Wales if I was so intent on being a disobedient, ungrateful chit to cause him shame.  I am not a little girl and yet they treat me as if I am!  As if I have no mind of my own!  But I am trapped, dependent upon them.  What am I to do?  I don't want to go to Wales.  I want to live here near those I love best.  I ran away not knowing what else to do.”

Jon and Sansa share a small and secret smile of understanding between them, such affection in his heart and visible in her blue eyes, recalling how she had run away in the rain from an intolerable situation as well and fled here.  He's glad she did and glad Wylla came to a friend's home. Although the timing could've been better.  

"I am glad you made it safely here," he tells Wylla.   

She chokes down a sob. “I meant to go to my grandfather’s house but it’s farther than yours and the rain and I…I wound up here. I’m so sorry, colonel.”

“Nonsense, Miss Wylla. No more apologies will I hear.  You will rest and take your ease for a time in the company of friends and then I’ll see you safely to your grandfather’s door, isn’t that right, Sansa?”

“Of course. Do not be downhearted, Wylla,” Sansa says, giving the girl an affectionate embrace. “I’m sure your father will recover his senses and we will figure things out.”

“But what if my grandfather should agree with him?”

“I doubt very much that he would," Jon says.  "He despises the Freys and was most displeased over your father approving Miss Wynafryd’s match.”

“Oh Sansa, do you think you might go with me?"

"Me?  Well, I..."

"Please?  If you could but stay for a couple of nights with me there, it would mean so much! I’d feel stronger with a friend by my side when I explain things and you've been such a dear to me.  Wynafryd and I don't get along so well of late and it's lovely to have someone more like a sister again.”

“If you do not think your grandfather would mind, I could...”

"No, not Grandpapa.  He will not mind one jot."

Sansa looks to Jon imploringly and he understands her.  She doesn't particularly wish to go but also does.  And, as much as he would like to urge her against leaving, their friend is in need and he knows Sansa wants to help.

And perhaps it would not be ill-advised for her to go pay Old Manderly a visit with Wylla. She cannot remain under his roof with only servants present if they should become engaged. She could only return upon their marriage. He had thought to ask Rhaenys for her to stay there but this would do as well if she should not mind extending her stay a few more days.

But you have not asked her yet, you fool.

No, he has not and now is not the time with Sansa only just finished refusing a proposal and weeping on his shoulder and with Wylla weeping anew on hers.

“I’ll ask Gilly to make ready your things if you wish to go,” he tells Sansa. “Ghost and I will be very lonely without you here but I’ll see you Wednesday when we go to Almack’s, yes?”

“Oh, yes. I look forward to that and I wish for Gilly to attend with us as well, please?”

“Of course, my dear. Whatever you wish.”

Still, when the time for them to part arrives, he realizes he cannot let another hour, let alone days, pass without giving her some notice of his intentions.  Besides, if he makes his intentions clear before Almack's and she agrees, perhaps he won't spend the entire evening in torment watching her dance with other men who think they might have some chance of winning her hand.  

Halder is assisting the ladies including Gilly who is to go with them down to the coach with the umbrella one by one.  At Jon's subtle hand motion, he leaves Sansa waiting in the doorway to go last.

She's watching the rain falling, bright-eyed again and seemingly untroubled by the business from earlier with Dickon when he lightly brushes her gloved hand with his.  A surprised but sweet smile as he tells her, “I’m going to miss you, you know. I’m quite miserable at the thoughts of you going but respect your wish to take care of our friend.”

“I’m going to miss you as well." 

"Earlier this morning, I had spoke of a matter-"

"Oh, yes!  I recall!  What was it or-"  She flushes prettily.  "You said there was something you wished to speak to me of...most ardently as you said."

A gust of wind peppers them with sprinkles just then and she withdraws from it with a girlish giggle.  He's holding his cane again and wishes he had both hands free to hold hers.  One will do.  He carefully takes her hand in his and sees no signs that she does not approve.  Her flush creeps down to the collar of her cloak.  How far might it go?  

"Yes, I did.  I do."  Halder's nearly got Miss Wylla settled and Gilly peers up at them from the coach.  “Forgive me.  I would rather not speak of it here in a deluge with your friends waiting as you prepare to depart but will you...would you permit me the honor of calling upon you Wednesday before we go to Almack's?  Before tea time perhaps?  There is something I particularly wish to ask you and things I wish to express."  He gives a quick glance towards the coach again.  His time is nearly up.  "But I would wish to say them when we might be granted a few minutes of privacy if you'll allow me that, Miss Stark."  

His formal mode of address was purposeful.  Marriage proposals are a serious business and not to be treated like a farce.  All the air has apparently left his lungs with those words.  He feels a little light-headed and there is so much tightness in his chest, bound up hope. Sansa seems paused between drawing a breath herself.  

At last she speaks again. She's pure radiance as she smiles.  “You may, sir.  You may and I'll allow."

"Thank you."  He dares to quickly press a kiss to the back of her hand before stepping back a respectful foot.  "I will be most anxious for Wednesday."

"As will I," she replies, her voice a mere whisper.     

Halder has rejoined him, an artificial wooden look in his eyes and a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, as the wagon bearing her pianoforte arrives.  Jon tells his man to go ahead and climb up on the box for he will see the lady down to the coach.  He takes the umbrella and escorts her.  Between his cane and the contraption, he cannot offer his arm as readily as he would wish but she holds onto him anyway.  Under the umbrella, neither speak until they reach the coach but the atmosphere seems as charged as if it was a thunderstorm surrounding them rather than a steady pattering of spring rain.

"What is that?" she asks of the wagon when they reach the door to the coach.

"An instrument a young lady might wish to play upon her return.  I could not resist the temptation of hearing you play and sing some more."

"Oh Jon!"  She looks over her shoulder again at the large and heavily wrapped parcel as two men climb off the wagon, then to the ladies in the coach and back to him with clear remorse. "Oh!  I..."  Her eyes turn sweetly misty.  "I wish Mister Frey had never proposed today or that Mister Manderly had been more understanding of his daughter's feelings or that it would not have rained on Wylla as she-"

"Yes, I agree completely with all of those sentiments," he says, chuckling despite this yearning ache which pierces so cruelly.  "Go on then," he tells her, opening the door and awkwardly offering a hand up despite the cane and umbrella.  "They're waiting and you're getting wet, darling girl." 

She squeezes his arm, one last gaze and then climbs into the coach.  He watches them depart in the rain before showing the laborers into his home with the pianoforte.    

The clock strikes five and his house is back to how it was before her arrival.   Jon pecks out a few disconsolate notes on the new instrument and then rings for Satin to prepare a hot bath.  Ghost follows him as Jon makes his way stiffly up the stairs.  He will keep his courage up though and trust that his hopes are not entirely misplaced somehow.  He'll remember that particular look in her eye out in the rain forever, he thinks.   

"We'll know on Wednesday one way or another, I suppose, won't we, boy?"

Ghost wags his tail in agreement and Jon thinks how nice it would be to have the same faith in himself that his dog has in him. 

Chapter Text

Their journey by coach from Mayfair to St. James is prolonged by the weather and Wylla is fretting over whether her grandfather will have headed to Brooks’ for the evening as is often his custom.

“With the rain though, Grandpapa may choose to stay in.”

Sansa nods absently before returning to her preferred pursuit at present, staring out the window with “There is something I particularly wish to ask you and things I wish to express” running over and over in her mind like some endless refrain. Her heart swells along with her hopes but she fears getting carried away. Why can’t it be Wednesday already?!

“Oh, here we are at last!” Wylla cries as the coach pulls to a stop.

It’s apparent her nervousness is increasing once again but Sansa cannot seem to forget her parting words with Jon and what he might’ve been hinting at.

“He bought me a pianoforte,” Sansa whispers to herself.

Or, she’d meant it for herself but she feels the squeeze of a hand on her arm and looks to Gilly who is smiling at her. “Yes, he did.”

She wants to laugh or sigh or even weep a little. Interruptions and obstacles seem to be the order of things and yet he’s promised her Wednesday and her heart will hold on to that.

She leans into Gilly, taking a momentary comfort in a short embrace and then determines to stand by her friend in the coming hour. She hopes Old Mister Manderly’s worthy of his granddaughter’s esteem and will not take his son’s side in the matter of Mister Frey’s rejected proposal.

Happily, within minutes of her setting foot inside his home, Sansa decides she likes Wyman Manderly very much. He is exceedingly large with bushy sideburns and food stains on his cravat, his booming voice is a touch loud to her ears but his affection for his granddaughter is obvious in a trice and he makes both Sansa and Gilly feel most welcome at once.

“Why, young ladies, young ladies! I cannot tell you what a delight it is for a lonely old sea dog like me to have your company on such a dreary evening!”

“Grandpapa was in the navy in his youth,” Wylla explains, grinning.

“Aye, that I was! First lieutenant aboard Halifax in…but you girls don’t care about that now, do you? Here you are and come in! It’s far too wet and mucky out! No fit night for man nor beast.  Couldn't make my nightly sojourn to the club even though their lamprey pie was calling to me but Cook has knocked together a tolerable sea-pie by way of consolation and I do heartily recommend you eat some after so much exposure to the falling damps, you especially Wylla. You’re near skin and bone of late, child.”

And so, with a full stomach and ears even fuller of old seagoing tales, Sansa and Gilly are pleased to see that Mister Manderly has thoroughly taken Wylla’s side on the matter of Mister Frey.

“Miserable scrubs, the lot of them!  No Manderly girl should be reduced to accepting a Frey no matter how much gold Old Walder has squirreled away!  Now, I’ll have Hicks go ‘round tonight with a note so your mama won’t be fretting herself to death…” Wylla looks most abashed at that and Sansa couldn’t even imagine how beside themselves with worry her parents would’ve been if she’d run away. “…but then I’ll call upon that soft-headed boy of mine and set him to rights on a few matters in the morning.  Don’t you worry none about that, Kelpie.”

“Kelpie?” Sansa repeats, curious.

“Oh lord, Grandpapa! Won’t you let that go already?” Wylla exclaims, flushing. She is then forced to explain. “When I was a girl, I was fascinated by the folklore of mermaids, water sprites, shapeshifters and such.”

“Even did something to dye her hair green once, too!  Said it was what a mermaid's hair would actually look like as if they're real!  Thought my son would have an apoplexy right on the spot that day!” Mister Manderly says, booming with laughter and sharing the tale.  

Soon night has fallen and Sansa and Gilly are set up in a cozy guest room. Yawns threaten (Sansa and Wylla at least were up all the previous night) but there’s so much the three ladies wish to discuss.

Even being in a relative stranger's home, missing Jon and Ghost and everyone else, there is an air of freedom in this little retreat.  In the company of two dear friends, all of them dressed in their nightrails, and giggling like silly girls with only a grandfather snoring loudly down the hallway, she's able to forget all about the Season, its marriage mart and proposals or possible proposals and the duties of a wife.  Tonight, she can just be a carefree girl again like before her parents passed. The world feels full of promises and whispered wishes.

Gilly won’t say much of her outing with Lord Tarly though Sansa and Wylla do their best to draw a few details from her.

“He’s very kind. He’s quite well read.”

“You make him sound like an amiable governess.”

Gilly scowls at Wylla’s remark and Sansa giggles. “Fine then. He’s witty. Very witty. Quite a biting tongue when he’s sure his company will not mind it. I don’t remember when I’ve laughed as heartily as I did on our walk.”

“Well, that’s better. What else?”

“He’s…he’s gentle, too. I’ve not known many gentleman who I would say it of despite them claiming that title. He loaned me a small pocket-sized copy of Shakespeare's sonnets he had on hand.  I know you young ladies may roll your eyes at me saying he’s kind but he is. I'm the daughter of nobody and the heiress of nothing.  The ton don’t have to treat me with kindness, do they? But he does. He’s considerate and thoughtful and makes it easy to forget the differences in our ranks. Oh, it’s probably only owing to the fact he’s a good person, isn’t it? It don’t mean anything.”

“I think it does, Gilly. I believe Lord Tarly would be kind to anyone but I think his esteem for you goes beyond that.  And a book of sonnets...well, that seems quite a romantic gesture to me.”

“Well, I wish I shared your faith, miss. Regardless, I don’t know I’ve ever met a more amiable gentleman…barring the colonel and perhaps your good grandsire, Miss Wylla.”

“Don’t you dare compare the object of your affections to my old grandpapa, Gilly!” Wylla snorts and the three of them cackle with laughter before she continues. “Samwell Tarly is a very good man, the best sort of man there is. If I were drawn to men in general in that manner, I think he’d be one of the very few I could tolerate for a husband.”

“Do you have no interest in gentlemen at all?” Sansa asks to be sure. Arya says such things but then Arya is but eighteen and she may change her mind in time.

“Not to marry, I don’t. I'd prefer...but tell me of this rejected proposal and what the colonel thought of that, Sansa.”

She tells them though Gilly was present for it. She grows cross all over again thinking of Dickon’s behavior.

“I won’t pretend I hadn’t anticipated that he might make me an offer. At one time, I might’ve considered myself fortunate to receive it just so I could say I had achieved what’s expected of me. But not now…not when there’s some chance that someone else might…I cannot accept anyone who is not him now, I fear. Oh what if I’m mistaken with regards to his intent?!”

Gilly wraps an arm around her shoulders. “I don’t think you need fear at all. I believe you will be calling the colonel yours before another Sunday passes.”

Wylla nods but says nothing and Sansa wonders what she thinks or knows.  She's very close to Lady Arianne.  Does she approve?  Agree?  Does she think Jon might make Sansa an offer but that perhaps it might be owing to the fact that Lady Arianne would not accept one?  She hopes with all her heart Gilly is right at least.

“Nevertheless, I did not expect Dickon to be so clumsy or insulting when he paid his call.”

“It’s unforgiveable,” Wylla sniffs, “and very much like a man, I suppose. Dancing with Margaery Tyrell one minute, catches a whiff of scandal then next and thinks he must ‘rescue’ you, as if you’d asked.  And knowing men and their love of the chase, I'd say he might've feared the bird he thought he held in his hand had her eye on another perch and was prompted to act.  The insufferable presumption of them!  He would’ve been better served lying in today as you told him.”

“I think the colonel was right about Sam…I mean, Lord Tarly being ashamed of his behavior. His lordship loves his little brother very well but fears their father’s inflated sense of pride rubbed off on the lieutenant somewhat. Regardless, we shall see what Wednesday brings, won’t we?”

“Oh, I had the most rotten timing, didn’t I?” Wylla says. “I’ll bet you wished I’d had fairer weather for my walk!”

Sansa bites at her lip, not wanting to admit that there was a small, selfish part of her that did indeed wish that and she blushes at the thoughts of Wednesday. If he might truly ask to court her or even propose, she’s not sure her heart can contain that much joy.

Despite lying in so late today, she was up all the previous night and she cannot help yawning at last. An answering yawn has Wylla bidding them goodnight and departing for her room.  Sansa and Gilly make ready to sleep but, once they lay down, Sansa finds her mind is still fully awake.

“I will be most anxious for Wednesday,” he had said.

As will I, as will I!

It’s been months since Sansa has shared a bed with anyone and of course that was with her sister at her Uncle Edmure’s home. And, all this discussion with other girls close in age to herself has already brought Arya keenly to mind and suddenly the bed cannot hold Sansa and her longings and wishes another instant.

Creeping over to the room’s desk as Gilly sleeps, she manages to light a single candle and finds what she needs before taking a seat and writing.

Dearest Sister,

You teased me of going to him and falling in love before ever I left. I rebuked you for holding my girlish fancy from years ago against me but it turns out, you were right. I cannot help it. I love him. I love Jon so very dearly. And, though I dread tempting Fate by putting it down in ink, there is a spark of hope within which believes he might feel the same for me.

Forgive this ramble but I must write it down, release it from my mind and set it out as evidence somewhere that these thoughts and feelings are mine and that they are real. I know I shouldn’t have to say it but do not tell anyone else. If I am mistaken, my heartbreak will be too great to imagine but at least I will have your comfort and no one’s mockery to endure.

Please, come to us in May if ever you can! I have made at least two good friends here but I miss your steadiness and your wit. I miss the comfort of knowing you are beside me when I wake in the night feeling lonely and confused.

Give my love to the boys, Uncle Edmure, Aunt Roslin, our cousins and to everyone at Wembury!

With much affection,

Sansa

Wednesday at last, blessed day, and Sansa is all fidgety, nervous giggles.  She cannot wait to see him.  She fears she may fly into his arms the instant she does.

A fine thing if you should pounce and knock him to the ground the moment you see him like some overly excited large dog.  

And perhaps he might not mind so much if you did, a wicked inner voice answers.  

Gilly and Wylla are well aware why she's not her usual self during breakfast but Mister Manderly is not. Thankfully, he doesn't much notice any change in his guest's demeanor.  He's distracted by Wylla's scheme for today.  

"Grandpapa means well but he'd never leave the house knowing the colonel is coming to pay a call and he'll talk his ear off with old stories of his navy days and making jests about the army until it's time for us all to leave for Almack's this evening.  Getting him out of the house for a period is essential."

"I feel wrong deceiving your grandfather."

"We are not deceiving him, Sansa.  We're just not telling him the colonel is coming.  Men have the most annoying notions with regards to honor at times as well and how is the colonel to possibly propose to you if Grandpapa won't stop rattling on about his time on the African station and give you two some time alone?"

Still, it hardly feels fair to leave him in the dark considering what a dear old man he is. 

As promised, Mister Manderly had paid a call upon his son yesterday and fulfilled his role as Wylla’s hero just as she’d hoped he would.  Yes, Wylla would’ve preferred to simply be listened to in the first place or to even have the opportunity to be her own hero but that is not the way of the world they live in. 

Nevertheless, the matter is settled; Wylla will not marry Mister Frey or any man she does not wish to (therefore, she may not marry at all) and she is not to be threatened with abandonment at their remote estate in Wales again as punishment for refusing any offers she receives. 

And it would appear that Mister and Mrs. Manderly have a new concern as Wylla’s sister, the dutiful elder daughter, is now expressing her own dissatisfaction with her approaching nuptials in view of her younger sister’s rebellion not meeting with the exile she’d feared.

“I’ll be running a refuge for young ladies escaping intolerable matches before long, I dare say.  Pray, Miss Stark, Miss Wilde, are you girls running from any pernicious suitors as well?  I’ll see them off quicker than you can say knife if so and we’ll let you pass word ‘round that Old Manderly runs an orderly ship and the boarding fares are quite modest for any girl who’s had her fill of sailing the Marriage Mart!  Har-har!”

Sansa and Gilly both had quickly reassured him that they had no need of him seeing any suitors off on their behalf. Please, don't frighten mine off...if he is to be mine.  

For now, Wylla wishes to remain at her grandfather’s house whilst the unpleasant memories of her last conversation with her father linger.  And Sansa wonders if she might return home or if that might prove impossible for the time being.  Depending upon what Jon wishes to speak to me of.      

So, shortly after noon, Wylla has left with her grandfather for an extended ride in the barouche through the park on this fine day, the first sun they’ve had since the day of the ball.  Sansa and Gilly had politely declined the invitation to join them saying the two old shipmates might enjoy a little time to revel in their victory over Wylla’s father and the awful Freys together and secretly in hopes that Jon will pay his call as expected before their return. 

However, Sansa is surprised (and annoyed) to receive another caller first...Miss Margaery Tyrell. 

Oh yes, it is common courtesy for a new acquaintance to pay a call upon another and then the call is to be returned in due order but given that, according to Mrs. Royce and the things Dickon hinted at, Mister Loras and Miss Tyrell have been spreading gossip about her, Sansa had not expected this. 

Once the housekeeper has brought refreshments for the three ladies as Sansa had absolutely insisted on Gilly joining them, she begins the inane conversations which are expected and learns a few things.  Apparently, Miss Tyrell has already called at Grosvenor Square earlier today and, finding that Sansa was not at home, had the good fortune (and possibly appalling lack of manners) to gain herself an introduction to the owner of that home at last.

“He was expecting someone and, when he came out of his study thinking I was the other person, I was engaged in a discussion with the housekeeper regarding your whereabouts.” 

A discussion or an inquisition? Sansa wonders.  Poor Mordane. 

“I do declare he seems so severe initially, Miss Stark.  Is he always so?”

“No, he is-”

“But of course, though I was positively trembling when he first entered the hall, he soon adopted a far more civil manner and I found him quite an agreeable gentleman by the time we parted ways.  And you know, even with his scars, I believe I would declare him handsome upon better acquaintance, wouldn’t you?” 

Miss Tyrell grins conspiratorially as if she’s just shared a great secret and Sansa allows a small huff to escape.  “I have always considered him handsome, before and after his wounds.”

“Oh yes?  Well, he is family to you.  Speaking of family, I suppose you’ll be looking forward to seeing your aunt here again soon if you haven’t already.”

“My aunt?  I had not-”

“I saw Lady Arryn…excuse me, I believe she is Mrs. Baelish now, isn’t she?”

“Yes, that-” 

“I saw her at Wood when I was purchasing some new boots yesterday.  Of course, we’ve never been introduced but I recognized her somewhat conspicuous red hair, so like your own…”  Was that a slight?  “…and a friend I was with who is acquainted with the lady verified it was she.” 

Aunt Lysa is here?  Sansa's stomach knots up recalling their last most unpleasant conversation.  Of course, that shouldn’t be a surprise but what with the business in Bath being brought up and now Aunt Lysa and most likely Mister Baelish being in town, Sansa feels even more unease over the gossip that is apparently circulating about her.  And who is that largely thanks to?  This woman and her brother, that’s who.    

“By the way,” Miss Tyrell says next, a sly look in her eye, “did you make this for the colonel?”

She holds out a fine linen handkerchief with the initials J.T. embroidered upon it in black and red.  Sansa recognizes it at once as one of his and a disagreeable swoop of unbridled envy shoots through her to see it in Margaery’s hand.  “No, I did not make that.” 

She has not made him anything at all whilst she’s been staying there and suddenly she wishes she had.  And who did make him that set of handkerchiefs?  It seems like the personal sort of gift a lady might give a gentleman she was close to. 

“May I ask why he gave it to you?” she asks Margaery.

“Oh, you know…just being gentlemanly,” she says coyly before tucking the handkerchief back into the bodice of her dress.

Well, that was vague enough, upon my word. 

Sansa stirs her tea to hide her displeasure, recalling her old governess’s words about courtesy and a lady’s armor.  It is agreeable to be agreeable and makes getting along ever so much simpler but, at the moment, Sansa’s not certain she cares too much for being agreeable. 

In addition to what Myranda had said of Miss Tyrell engaging in the gossip regarding herself with Loras the night of the ball, she also said Margaery has set her cap for Jon.  What is she playing at here?  And what prompted Jon to offer Miss Tyrell a handkerchief?  The only time he’s given one to Sansa had been when she was crying and he was offering her comfort.  The very thought of him doing the same by Miss Tyrell makes her feel wretched and ill with jealousy. 

But Gilly, bless her, is not baffled by handkerchiefs.  “Oh, the colonel is the best of men, for certain, and always so courteous.  Did I tell you he offered me use of the coach just to go to the book shop the other day, Miss?  Very gentlemanly to all but most generous indeed with those for whom he holds particular esteem.  Did you happen to see the new pianoforte he recently purchased for Miss Stark’s pleasure while you were at the house, Miss Tyrell?  He had said it would be set up in the drawing room for when we return and he's most eager to hear Miss playing and singing upon it.”

Margaery’s sly look curdles like spoilt milk and Sansa looks down at her tea to hide her own smug grin now. 

“It was most kind of him.  He's always so very kind to me,” Sansa says, her voice soft as a kiss and allowing her affection for him to be heard. 

“Yes, it’s plain you mean a good deal to him,” Margaery begrudgingly allows.  Pride prompts Sansa to puff up momentarily until Margaery adds, “It’s admirable how protective he's been of his little cousin what with you so new to London and here for your Season, almost brotherly.  And Garlan says the colonel is a creature of duty to be sure.”

Protective?  Brotherly?  A creature of duty?  Yes, Jon is capable of all those things but does she hint at what Sansa thinks she does? 

No, he was going to kiss me!  That had nothing to do with being protective or brotherly or duty.

You think he was going to kiss you.    

“Anyway, the caller the colonel had been expecting arrived so I took my leave at that point,” Miss Tyrell informs her next with a dissatisfied sniff. 

“And who was that, may I ask?” Sansa asks, half wondering if it was Lord Tarly again whilst still partly worrying over Jon’s sense of honor and duty with regards to any rumors he might have heard swirling regarding his little cousin and what it might prompt him to do on her behalf.

“Why, Lord Martell's sister, Lady Arianne.”

Sansa’s teacup clatters noisily in its saucer and she’s fortunate none spills on Mister Manderly’s Aubusson rug considering how that lady being expected by Jon at his home when Sansa is not there leaves her far more rattled than Miss Tyrell having one of Jon's handkerchiefs does. 

Why had Lady Arianne called upon him?  Perhaps she was calling upon them both but then Miss Tyrell had said she was expected.  Had they exchanged notes?  Was there some final heartfelt goodbye to be said or…

You drive yourself mad with these thoughts when you know nothing of the circumstances of their past amore, only what Myranda has guessed at!  If you wish to know, you will have to find the courage to ask him.

I couldn’t possibly!  What if he admits that he still has feelings for her?  Or if the past is the past, isn’t it better that I leave it there? 

She does not know but she wishes Margaery Tyrell had not paid her call today, that is for sure.

Jon is dutiful and protective and most kind.  So, does he come here today intent on making her an offer because he’s in love with her or only to save her from these vicious rumors albeit in a more gentleman-like manner than Dickon? 

Does he come to make you an offer at all?!

She does not know.  She will not know until...

“Colonel Targaryen to see you, miss,” the housekeeper announces a half hour after Miss Tyrell’s departure and a half hour precisely before afternoon tea time. 

Sansa drops the embroidery hoop holding the handkerchief she's been stitching and re-stitching the start of the letter J in dark grey thread upon in her blur of fretting with a stifled yelp. 

“Please, show him in,” she tells the woman before reaching for Gilly’s hand. 

A reassuring squeeze.  “Just as we agreed now, I’ll say ‘hello’ and then recall the book of sonnets I wish to return to Lord Tarly and leave you two alone.  And pay no mind to anything that harpy said earlier either  She's nothing but trouble.”

Sansa nods absently and then, he’s shown in, standing before them and looking so dashing in his buff-colored breeches, hessian boots, dark green waistcoat and matching tailcoat with his crisp white cravat.  He wears his eyepatch but then he always does outside the house.  Someday perhaps, he'll no longer deem it necessary when she shows him how beautiful she thinks he is. 

Gloves, hat and cane are still clutched in his hands and he sets them upon the small table by the door. Sansa springs to her feet, completely abandoning the embroidery hoop she’s just fetched again in a feigned attempt at looking industrious. 

“Miss Wilde…Sansa,” he says, bowing in greeting as the housekeeper departs.  Oh, how she’s missed the sound of his voice!

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Gilly curtsy in reply to his bow and knows she should do the same.  And yet, she cannot.  Her feet have a mind of their own and they carry her towards him.  She has missed him so!  It’s only been a couple of days!  How could she have missed him so much?! 

Because I love him.  I love him so dearly.

Does that love shine through from her eyes?  Perhaps so.  She fancies it’s reflected in his own.

And suddenly, she’s before him and there’s no more distance for her feet to travel.  Her hands are clasped before her as she’s gazing up at him, heart on her sleeve and aching to be loved by him.  

“I missed you.”  Is that her own voice?  She sounds so breathless. She is breathless as if she just climbed a great precipice.  She must remember to breathe. 

“I’ve missed you…so very much,” he tells her, gruffly. 

"I've been making you something." 

"You have?" 

"It's not ready yet but soon.  I have only just begun," she admits, flushing for bringing up the handkerchief when she has no progress to show. "It can be a surprise later." 

"I will look forward to any surprise from you." 

"It is nothing compared to your surprise for me, I fear," she demurs.

"And, I will still love it just as I will consider myself most fortunate if I'm admitted to the privilege of hearing you sing and play once more."  Remembering Gilly, for shamefully Sansa seems to have forgotten her existence at the moment, Jon turns to her next and says, “I hope you are well, Miss Wilde?”

“Yes, sir.  Quite well.”  He has already turned back to face Sansa when Gilly hastily adds, “Since you’re here, sir, I’ve a book Lord Tarly loaned me that should be returned if you should happen to see him before...”

Whatever else she says, neither of them hear.  The door to Mister Manderly’s small drawing room closes and they are alone together for the first time since the night of the ball.  Is that her heart thundering away?  Does he hear?  She would almost believe she can hear music playing like that night.  

Gently, he reaches for her hands with his warm ones, pulls them up between their two chests, looking down first at them before swallowing hard, meeting her eye and opening his own heart.

“I've missed you, darling girl,” he repeats except with the endearment which makes her tummy swoop with nerves and hope.

“I missed you, too.  Wednesday has taken far too long to arrive.”

“Insufferably long.  An agony to endure.  Sansa…when I invited you to come and stay with me for your Season, I did not expect…they say happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance but I am determined that…"  A frustrated huff.  "God, I am fumbling it all already and I have labored over what I wished to say for three days now!”

His pure exasperation combined with the clear course of his narrative makes her wish to shout with glee. 

Instead, she does the most shocking thing Sansa Stark believes she has ever done, even more shocking than the night she fled Mister Baelish’s town home in the rain.  She darts forward and kisses him boldly upon the cheek. 

“A kiss to clear you mind, sir, but have no fear of fumbling.  I will wait a lifetime to hear your words if thou wilt have it so.” 

The surprised and delighted chuckle she receives has her giggling and he presses their hands to his chest.  “Considering our past experience with interruptions, it may take a lifetime for me to get it all out if I delay another moment.” 

They nod and share a laugh.

He sobers next and says, “Sansa, I love you.  It was not what I’d expected to happen at all when you came to me but, from the night you arrived at my home, it has been coming upon me most strongly and has taken an inexorable hold now.  It is not just your beauty, for you are surely a beautiful woman to look upon, but it is also your keen mind, kind heart and overflowing sweetness which enchants me and feeds my soul.  I know I carry these wounds from the war and am prone to snappishness and periods of brooding and am not always the best of company-”

“I would argue you are excellent company, sir.”

He smiles self-consciously and continues.  “Nevertheless, I promise to do my utmost to make you happy.  My heart is yours and what I wished to say after the ball or rather what I hope to ask…I am most anxious to learn if you might consider doing me the great honor of consenting to be my wife?”

Years from now, incandescent joy will still be the only term she can think of to describe her emotions in this moment.  “I do not need to consider it, colonel.”  For half a moment, a crestfallen expression threatens until she tells him, “I do not need to consider because I already know.  Nothing would make me happier than to be your wife.”

Chest rising and falling rapidly, he looks as if he can hardly believe it and she thinks to tell him she loves him, too. 

But before she can, Jon is pulling her closer and her mind cannot comprehend more than the intensity of his gaze and the arousing heat and scent which is him as he brings his mouth towards her own.

Acting on instinct, she has her arms thrown around his neck, allowing her fingers to sink into his soft curls as he wraps one arm around her waist and the other lightly holds the back of her neck before he presses his lips to hers. 

It’s dizzying and delightful and everything she’d hoped a first kiss might be.   

Her eyes close, then immediately open again as they pull back with flushed cheeks and then he or she or both of them rush back to kiss again. 

He cups her face with the hand that was upon her neck.  Her cheeks are hurting from smiling so much.  Borrowed handkerchiefs, his protective urges and questions over past lovers will creep into her silent watches of the night later perhaps but they do not darken this moment for her now.  She’s happy, she’s his and he’s hers. 

He gives her a final kiss, this one slower, not at all rushed, deeper and more assured. He angles his head and their bodies are flush against each other.  His tongue teases the seam of her mouth and she parts for him just enough for him to tease her further with promises of pleasures she might learn from him.  She’s trembling from this kiss as she melts against him near swooning.

But of course, they cannot expect to go uninterrupted here indefinitely, can they? 

There is only half a second of warning, enough for them to spring apart two paces, before the drawing room door opens revealing Gilly who looks terribly aggrieved that Mister Manderly and Wylla are on her heels, the former most eager to see his latest guest.   

Breathless and with pink cheeks, they greet their host, bright eyes flashing an exchange and filled with hastily suppressed mirth as they pretend Colonel Jon Targaryen wasn't just kissing Miss Sansa Stark for everything he was worth.   

Chapter Text

Three days of waiting, trying to keep his courage up and pining for her company. Complete and utter torment. He’d rather singlehandedly lead a cavalry charge.

Wednesday, blessed day, dawns at last, sunny and bright but riddled with anxiety.

Will she accept his proposal? And if so, will she because she wishes to or because she feels that she must with scandal brewing? Might she ever grow to love him as he loves her?

But she’s so beautiful and kind, so witty and intelligent. He's battered and scarred and cannot walk half a mile without needing his cane.  He's often mulish or awkward in company.  What does he have to offer her beyond a prodigious fortune and a different last name?

And perhaps children in time…

He gulps, desire flaring at the thoughts of making those hypothetical children with her. But what will she think of his scars? Will she even wish to see him without his night shirt on once she does? Oh, he believes he can make their nights together pleasant for her if she’ll allow him the chance but he honestly knows nothing of bedding virgins and…

“Christ,” he grumbles, attempting not to make a hash of his cravat whilst trying to still the racing of his pulse.

Alright, viewed in a prudential light, an offer of marriage from him is desirable by the reckoning of most but Sansa is…well, she’s Sansa and Jon feels inferior to his lady in every way thanks to his nervousness today.

“What the bloody hell makes me think she’d say yes anyway?”

Satin smirks as he comes between him and the mirror to fix the cravat Jon’s indeed making a perfect hash of. He’s been unusually loquacious already and now he’s speaking his mind, willy-nilly, like a fool in the presence of another. He’d honestly been addressing Ghost but he won’t insult the man in front of him by admitting that at least.

“She’ll say yes, sir.” Satin says it with the same confidence he has fixing the cravat and removing the miniscule speck of lint from his coat.

“But why?”

“Because you’re you, sir, and Miss isn’t blind to that,” he answers as if that explains anything.

Satin has been his faithful valet for nearly three years now, ever since Jon selected him from the ranks of foot soldiers after hearing the lad was being mistreated by some of the other men due to his astonishingly effeminate beauty but it is not as if they’ve spent much time discussing the dearest wishes of their hearts, is it?

He doesn’t even know if Satin has a girl he fancies himself or anything like it. How can he have spent so much time with this young man, submitting to the necessary intimacies that are part of a valet and his employer’s relationship and still know so little of him? As a younger officer, he’d always firmly believed that getting to know the men who served under him was of vital importance but, as he’d been elevated in rank and after suffering one too many losses of those fine fellows in the field, he’d tried pretending his heart was made of stone and let that slip some, hadn’t he?

Jon searches his valet’s face for some further sign or proof that he’s right but, finding no clear answer, he sighs and thanks Satin before dismissing him and continuing his fretting.

Yesterday, Sam had paid a call and, in addition to waxing on about the charms of Miss Wilde, he had enlightened Jon on two points; the first being that Dickon has left for Horn Hill for the next several weeks, forgoing the pleasures of the Season for the time being.

“He’s quite ashamed of his behavior as he should be. He intends to send a letter of apology to Miss Stark once he composes a satisfactory one.”

“Will you be reading it first to ensure he doesn’t offend her further with his foolish musings?”

A wry smile from Sam. “No doubt it could use some editing knowing Dickon’s lack of style in such matters. I do hope in time the memory of the encounter will not cause the lady any lingering pain and that you will not forever loath the sight of my brother, Jon.”

“He’s your brother, Sam. It is not my intention to…not forever anyway. As for Sansa, I cannot answer for her but an apology is certainly owed.”

He hopes she was not much wounded by Dickon’s buffoonish behavior for more than one reason. And if he ever had any piece of your heart to hurt, darling girl, pray give me a chance to heal it.

The second point had been to inform Jon of Sam’s belief that Dickon’s sudden whim to ‘rescue’ Sansa from malicious gossip might have been spurred by Miss Tyrell.

“I believe she might’ve been in his ear at the ball, preying on Dickon’s apparent fears of yourself as a rival for Sansa’s hand and also serving her own self-interest.”

“You believe Dickon views me as a rival?”

“Of course, he does. It’s plain to many how attached you and Miss Stark are to one another.”

“It is?” Sam had rolled his eyes at that point. Jon had been so busy considering Dickon a rival that he hadn’t pondered the fact that the younger man might’ve felt the same way towards him. “But how would Dickon proposing to Sansa serve Miss Tyrell’s interests?”

“Why, that she wishes to be Mrs. Jon Targaryen naturally and, with Sansa as Mrs. Tarly, the field might be clear to advance so to speak.”

He’d been dumbstruck. “But we’ve never even been introduced! I don’t know her at all nor do I care to. Why would she be interested in marrying me?”

Sam had shook his head, amused by his friend’s naivete. “Why do you think, Jon? You’re considered quite a catch amongst the unmarried girls of the ton.”

He hadn’t had to ask why of that. His fortune. There are plenty of young ladies looking to snare a husband this Season and some of them care very little about the man himself so long as he’s not a beast and capable of providing them with what they want. A prosperous estate, a home in London and an income of ten thousand a year. That’s what they want. Not him. Never him.

It wasn’t even supposed to be mine. It was all meant for Aegon.

He wants so much to believe that Sansa would never be like those girls but he’s an old hand at nursing his doubts by this point. His mood had been thoroughly soured after Sam had left though he’d hid it from his friend.

Then, he’d received Arianne’s anxious note asking after Wylla and notifying him of her intention to call today. No, it is not proper for an unmarried woman to call upon a bachelor alone in most cases but it's been many years since Arianne has spared more than a passing thought over what’s proper.

However, before Arianne’s call, he finds another unmarried woman on her own at his doorstep.

It is not a habit of Jon Targaryen’s to make young ladies cry but, when he recognizes Miss Tyrell standing in his hall, haranguing Mordane with regards to Sansa’s whereabouts and asking if the master of the house is at home, he winds up making his presence known and allows his temper to get the better of him.

“As you are so eager for an introduction, allow me to introduce myself, miss. Colonel Jon Targaryen, at your service.” He gives her a curt bow. Before she can even curtsy in reply, he continues. “Now that we are introduced, perhaps you’ll do me the honor of introducing me to your brother Loras when next we meet…so that I may properly call him out for raising questions over my cousin’s honor by publicly speculating on business from her visit to Bath which is none of his concern.”

Knowing that Loras and Margaery have been gossiping about Sansa, which has caused his darling girl distress, is more than enough to prompt him to make the statement, icy venom dripping from his tongue.

But Miss Tyrell’s subsequent tears and hysterics still manage to unman him. He’s a fool when it comes to women’s tears as it brings his mother’s past unhappiness and Sansa’s sorrows and troubles to the forefront of his mind.

He should’ve known she’d cry when he threatened her beloved brother with a duel. No matter their sins, the younger Tyrells are quite tight-knit by all accounts, and, though Loras is said to have some skill with blade and pistol, Jon possesses a deadly reputation with both from his time in the army, scars and tetchy leg be damned.

“There, there, Miss Tyrell. I spoke intemperately just now but allow me to assure you that I also speak in deadly earnest and I bid you not to test any assumptions to the contrary. I will not tolerate the society of any who tell lies of Miss Stark. I advise you and your brother to stop this nonsense at once and, if I hear one more whisper circulating from either of you with regards to Miss Stark or Bath or Mister Bolton, there will be some unpleasant meetings ahead, that I promise you.”

He hands over his handkerchief (one of the set his sister had made him) and, after enduring an apology of questionable sincerity couched in some pitiful flirtations, he’s grateful to see the back of her with Arianne’s timely arrival.

“What was that silly chit doing here?” Arianna asks by way of greeting.

“Apparently, she hopes to secure my affections by spreading rumors about the woman I love. Silly chit indeed. Hasn’t anyone ever told her that flinging mud only results in it getting on your own person?”

“What do you expect from a girl raised by the likes of Olenna Tyrell? The old woman’s clever but she’s quite bald when it comes to the things she wants and Miss Margaery has been her apt pupil in that respect at least.  But…the woman you love, Jon?” His cheeks grow hot as Arianne’s grin becomes obnoxiously bright.

“I…yes. Though please do not repeat that, Arianne. Not until I know if Sansa might…”

“What do you take me for, Targaryen? All the gossip you know of me and you’ve never breathed a word. Of course, I won’t say anything.” Her smile turns softer when she adds, “But I hope you’ll allow me to tell you how earnestly I wish for you and the young lady to find joy together.”

“Thank you, Arianne. I’m going to ask for her hand today.”

“Oh, so you’re going to Mister Manderly’s to see her?”

“I am.”

“That’s wonderful.” He sees those intelligent dark eyes considering something and is not surprised when she begs a favor. “If you should see Wylla there, will you tell her I’m sorry that I wasn’t at home when she called the day after the ball after the horrid matter with Mister Frey?”

“She did not mention calling at your home first."

"Didn't she?"  She seems so dashed by that.  

"No and do you expect me to believe you actually left your bed the day after a ball, Arianne?”

An annoyed huff. “Yes, I did. I have bid adieu to the duke for good. He was growing too impertinent by half. But now, I fear there may have been some misunderstanding between Wylla and myself due to my prevaricating over it.”

“A misunderstanding between you and Wylla over you breaking off your courtship with the duke?”

“It wasn’t a courtship…not really.”

“You’re being a riddle, my lady.”

“I am, aren’t I? I’m sorry. I’m something of a riddle to myself at times which is why I do not know that happiness is something that’s meant for me.”

“Arianne…” He hates when she talks this way.

And as usual, she snaps right out of her melancholy no sooner than she indulges it. “Rather than a verbal and insufficient apology, may I impose upon you to take a letter to Wylla from me, Jon?”

Completely flummoxed by the whole secrecy of the matter but knowing Arianne well enough to not question it too deeply, he simply agrees and waits for her to write her letter before heading off to see Sansa at last.

The letter is there crinkling in his pocket with Arianne's seal upon it but, by the time he lays eyes upon Sansa, it has quite escaped his thoughts.  

“I do not need to consider because I already know.  Nothing would make me happier than to be your wife.”

Even when he is an old, old man, should he live that long, Jon will never forget the rush of joy he’d felt upon hearing those words from her.  Nor will time erode the halcyon memory of the first time he kissed Sansa Stark. 

Or the second. Certainly not the third either. 

‘Twas a pity they were interrupted from a fourth but, then again, they were not at his home and they are not married just yet so three kisses must suffice for the time being.  Waiting the allotted time for the banns to be read and the requisite Sundays to pass before they may wed will be a torment for certain though. 

The felicity and well wishes their news had brought to their circle of friends present, which was later expanded upon with their arrival at the ball an hour ago, almost makes all this tedious dancing business worth the trouble.

“I do not care for dancing tonight if you don’t wish to, colonel,” Sansa tells him. 

Her radiant smile as he leads her out amongst the fray tells him otherwise. 

They had been seated together, enjoying a few moments to converse without company after Rhaenys’ rapid flow of congratulations had ceased.  They had shared their news of Miss Tyrell’s unwanted calls with one another and Jon believes he has put Sansa’s fears to rest on that account…at least mostly.  There still seems to be some lingering concern she has not named.  He will have to get to the bottom of that later when they may speak more freely. 

Sansa also mentioned the return of her Aunt Lysa to town and Jon knows at some point their paths will likely intersect.  He intends to pay another call upon Mister Baelish to make his feelings clear to that man and hopes Sansa will not be troubled any by either. 

But, whilst talking, they’d been discretely watching Miss Wilde flush so prettily when Sam had asked her for a dance.  He’d thought Sansa might clap with glee over it and it made his heart glow all the warmer. There were many heads whipping 'round to see Lord Tarly leading an unknown lady around the room in a dress borrowed from Sansa and altered for the occasion.  He hopes neither will let the gossips intrude on their patch of happiness and, in time, who knows what may transpire between the lord and the lady's maid?

Sansa has been politely turning down offers to dance from other gentlemen all evening but he’d caught her tapping her toe in time as they watched Sam and Gilly and he could stand no more. 

“I wish to dance with you,” he says, placing her gloved hand in his own when they form the line.  “Besides, this is my best opportunity to get close to you without raising any eyebrows for the time being.”

Sansa’s beautiful blush puts even Gilly’s from earlier to shame (he’ll admit he’s biased) and together they move as one. 

One dance.  He can manage that much without earning the Lady Patronesses of Almack's censure, he hopes.  Please God, let me get through one dance without faltering. 

But even if he does, he knows Sansa at least will not look upon him with distaste or revoke his privilege to attend over it.

Still, he’s quite conscious of his steps with others about.  He knows he does not possess the grace of the gentleman beside him but, despite the younger Tyrells’ actions, there is no evidence of hard feelings between himself and Garlan who has partnered with Miss Talla Tarly for this dance. 

As the dance calls for the occasional exchange of partners, he’s happy to see that Miss Tarly smiles at them both with no apparent distress over Sansa’s refusal of Dickon’s attempted proposal or Jon's being accepted. 

It would be nice to reside here in London for the time being if it suits Sansa until she is ready to travel to Summerhall with him.  He hopes she will not find anything lacking with the estate.  He wants her to come to love it there and perhaps, if she should in time, it may help him come to love it as he should.  Too long the specter of his mother’s lonely tears and his father’s cold disdain have haunted that house for him.  What a thing it might be if it became a happy home at last. 

“What is that look, Colonel?” she asks quietly when the dance draws them close to one another. 

“Just imagining what might be.  Where shall we wed?  Here?  In Wembury near your uncle’s estate?  Or further north?”

Her eyes widen.  “Do you mean at the Winterfell parish or Summerhall's?”

“Either.  Both.  Whichever you desire.”

A thoughtful look.  “Thank you, Jon.  I think here might be simplest though.  I shall wish to invite my family if they can make the journey if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.  I would be happy to see them all.  But would you need any additional time to prepare your trousseau or may we be wed as soon as possible?”  

“I don’t need any additional time,” she says, blushing.  “I do not wish to wait any longer than necessary or for you…for you to…”  She glides nearer with the steps of the dance, her fragrance teasing him as surely as the words which follow do in an enticingly husky tone.  “I look forward to you teaching me of those pleasures we spoke of, sir.” 

He can tell she’s shocked by her own boldness.  He can scarcely draw a proper breath himself.  But his enormous smile must set her at ease for she is smiling back at him.  Delighted is too small a word for the surge of excitement which pulses through him at her mention of pleasures and him teaching her.  He is ridiculously impatient to show her everything she wishes to learn.

“As do I,” he hears himself answer gruffly before another passing off of partners is necessary.  He hopes he doesn’t grimace too much at poor Miss Tarly over it. 

Is it too soon to leave?  Nonsense.  Leaving means leaving Sansa now that they are engaged.  He may ride over to Manderly’s to call upon her there naturally but he can’t take her home with him tonight or any night until they are wed.  Three Sundays at least.  It will be an eternity compared to what waiting on this Wednesday to arrive had seemed.   

When he has Sansa in his arms again, she smirks. 

“What is that look, Miss Stark?” he asks, teasingly.

“There is a look in your eye, sir, which leads me to believe the nature of your thoughts at this moment are not entirely proper.”

Is he that obvious?  “I confess they are not but what thoughts do you imagine for me?”

“You are thinking that you’ve had enough of dancing tonight and wish we could be home, comfortably seated on the settee before the fire in your study together with Ghost in attendance.”

Not too far off the mark.  “In my imaginings Ghost was busy with a bone in the kitchen whilst we were seated there together.”  He draws close enough to whisper in her ear quite boldly, “But you were laid back upon that settee and I was settled at your feet between two lovely, stockinged legs and most intent on teaching you something of those pleasures I've promised exist, darling girl.”

She gasps at his scandalous words just as the dance comes to an end.  He's gone too far, much too far, hasn't he?  What was he thinking saying that to...

“You will shock me into speechlessness like that, colonel,” she says primly...before bursting into giggles.

So, he's not dead then.  Thank God.  "Rendering you speechless is all part of the plan, my dear." 

The giggles come to an abrupt end with an adorable squeak but her smile is decidedly mischievous when Sam and Gilly approach and mention getting ices. 

"Yes, I believe the colonel and I need to cool down for a brief spell," Sansa teases, earning a sweet, oblivious smile from Sam and a raised eyebrow from Miss Wilde. 

All Jon can manage is chuckling like a fool and willing his body to remember they are in the company of others.     

An hour later, they’ve drifted apart a little ways.  Sansa is across the room speaking with Mrs. Royce and Miss Wylla.  Oh bother, he still has that letter of Arianne’s for her, doesn’t he? He'd been floating with happiness over Sansa's acceptance and not thought of it again until he'd returned home to dress for the ball.  It's currently tucked into his cloak which of course he's not wearing now.  He'll be sure to give it to Wylla before the night is done.  

He’s speaking with Rhaenys and Quentyn, practically preening with happiness as plans are discussed for a May wedding, when he spies Cersei Baratheon entering Almack’s with that daughter of hers she’s trying to marry off.  Deciding he wishes to avoid the sharp-tongued harpy and lest Rhaenys should get into a temper over the past on his behalf, he makes an excuse to leave their sides and seeks out Sam.

Speaking of tempers, Sansa has expressed much anger towards Mrs. Baratheon.  He should probably pull her away from here before they wind up introduced.   

Not that I would mind seeing Sansa in a temper again.  There’s something undeniably stirring about the way her chest heaves and her eyes grow so bright when she's vexed.  I'm not sure I'd mind all that much even if I was on the receiving end of that sharp tongue of hers.  

Remember yourself, sir, and save your own pert tongue for more enjoyable endeavors. 

But, despite managing to avoid Cersei, he cannot avoid unpleasantness altogether this evening it would seem. 

"Did you hear Targaryen’s going to marry his cousin?  That Stark girl?” a man's voice asks.

The gossip should not surprise him.  People do love to talk.  What else do the well-off and idle have to do with their time?  He shouldn’t allow it to vex him even if he’s never cared for being the subject of speculation. 

“An excellent match,” a lady replies.  

Come now, that’s kind.

“For he’s rich and she’s handsome,” another woman says.   

Titters of laughter, not the first he’s heard at his expense nor the last probably.  A slow bubbling anger begins to churn.  Who the devil's speaking? 

“A more tolerable match than the one Lord Tarly seems to be aiming for.  A servant.  Can you imagine?  Old Randyll must be shuddering in his grave," the first woman says.

Jon wouldn't care one whit if that unpleasant old windbag is doing just that. Sam may have been lucky to escape his upbringing alive with such a father.  

He peeks through the palm fronds separating him from this little trio of gossips.  He recognizes Anya Waynwood, Harrold Hardyng's old aunt and benefactress, Arnolf Karstark, another unpleasant old windbag, and Barbrey Dustin, one of the bitterest people he's ever met.  He barely has a nodding acquaintance with any of them.  Why are people this way? 

"We have two ears and one mouth, Jon," his mother had told him as a boy.  "And yet so many seem determined to make use of their mouth thrice as often as their ears to the benefit of none."

Yes, Mother, but you warned me against eavesdropping, too.  I'm damned either way, I fear. 

Perhaps being happily nestled at Summerhall once they wed would be preferable, away from the sniping, petty cruelties of London society.   

"Surely, Tarly's just entertaining a bit of sport and nothing serious with a girl of such low birth," Karstark says, crassly.  

He's angered by the innuendo but shame fills Jon too as he thinks of Val and the couple of tavern girls he'd known when he'd been lonely enough on campaign.  Marriage never once entered his mind in those cases but he knows Sam wouldn't behave that way with regards to Gilly.

"It is curious that she's Miss Stark's maid considering what fast friends his lordship and the colonel are.  It's almost as if it's by design," Mrs. Dustin says, gleeful with suspicion and innuendos of her own.  

Rage flickers, begins to fill him.  There's insecurity as well.  There is no design.  None at all, he reminds himself.  Why must they say such things?  He will put a stop to this gossiping no matter how boorish he'll appear by revealing he's been eavesdropping.  

"Well, Tarly doesn't appear completely stupid to me but, as for the other match, the young lady is most fortunate to snare him given what's being said.”

“And her dowry is hardly worth the trouble for a man of his standing,” Mrs. Waynwood adds. "Even my Harry was sensible of that though he found her other charms pleasing enough to possibly overlook it."   

But she would be worth all the trouble in the world, you fool.  

“Perhaps it’s a love match.  He seems utterly besotted at least,” Karstark suggests.  

I am.

“For certain.  That little miss knows what she’s about despite her innocent airs, I’d wager," Mrs. Dustin says.  "She’s been staying in his home after all.  She’s already managed to avoid a most unfortunate entanglement of her line in Bath I've heard and wound up with a far fatter fish within less than two months here in town.”

A fat fish? 

Insecurity outpaces his rage for a moment. 

Sansa had not said she loves him as well even when he'd declared himself and kissed her earlier. 

Did you even give her a chance to? 

No, he may not have.  Regardless, he wouldn't push her into saying it for the sake of form or pride or whatever.  He doesn’t expect her to be in love with him just yet though he has hopes of her feeling something particular for him.  Nor would he resent her if she doesn't ever love him beyond their friendship and familial connection.  He'll nurse his own disappointment there and hope to make her happy as best he can.  And in time perhaps those feelings may change and flourish. 

But still, it needles his sensibilities for their match to be spoken of this way by near strangers when she didn't say it back to him.  

Angered once more and having heard quite enough, he emerges from behind his palm and watches all three of them, all twice his age or more, shrink and cower before him.  It brings a small, mean-spirited satisfaction before here is Mrs. Royce hurrying over to him.

“Colonel?  Oh, thank God, I’ve found you, colonel.  Please, you're needed at once, sir,” that lady says, striving to whisper but not quite managing it.  The gossips are still slinking backwards but their ears perk up as noticeably as Ghost’s might at the word 'sausage.' 

“What’s the matter, Mrs. Royce?”

“Miss Stark has been accosted by some brute.  Here, at Almack's, can you believe?  I fear it's that Mister Bolton...”

Those are the last words Jon truly hears as his eyes travel to the doorway Mrs. Royce is pointing out.  He does not see Sansa but his feet are carrying him there because he knows she’s nearby.  And she has been cornered by him.

“Have you ever met a Mister Ramsay Bolton?”  Sansa had asked him that night weeks ago when they’d shared their chocolate and her troubles. 

“No, though we both served in Spain around the same time. We never met there and have never been introduced here. To be honest, I have not heard much good said of him.  Quite the opposite in fact.”

Quite the opposite indeed. 

In addition to Sansa’s traumatic experience of him stalking her through a garden in Bath, there’d been another story to cause Jon concern.  Some of the men serving under Bolton had been stealing from the Spanish and there had been claims of rape made against them as well.  The men were all hanged once enough proof had been presented but their officer, who had claimed no knowledge of anything, had simply been discharged and sent home.  The condemned men had told another tale before meeting their fate though, saying that their officer had not only known of but had instigated and participated in much of their illicit activities. 

So when Jon passes through the doorway to a dimly light corridor to see Sansa ineffectively shoving at a solid-looking man who is standing far too close, roughly grasping her forearms and pushing her against the wall whilst murmuring words he cannot distinguish but instinctively know to be vile, all constraint is lost and his temper makes a blur of everything. 

He’s vaguely aware of grasping the man by the shoulders and pulling him bodily away from Sansa.  The knee of his wounded leg notes the hard impact of the floor whilst the other is driven into the fiend’s softer belly causing an agonized gasp.  It pleases the beast that has become Jon Targaryen to hear it. 

And then, it’s nothing but the striking of his fists and the haze of his wrath for a time. 

But at last, the sound of Sansa crying his name pierces the fog and multiple hands are pulling him off Bolton.

Quite a crowd from the ton and some servants have gathered.  Some woman makes a to-do and appears to faint.  Some old gentleman is shouting.  He wants to hit Bolton again but Sam is telling him to desist, that the man is down and won’t be getting back up on his own.  It's true.  His face is battered, his nose broken.  There's blood running into Jon's own eye and he knows it's not his.  

With bloodied knuckles, he rises unsteadily to his feet, still partly in that state of unholy fury.   

Garlan Tyrell is already offering to be his second if he wishes to call the wretch out.  Cersei Baratheon is smirking beyond the crowd and some stupid vanity or fear has him reaching for the damned eyepatch which is now missing.  Her daughter and others look at him like some feral thing.  He's a beast exposed to them all, a wolf amongst the sheep.   

Then, he sees Rhaenys’ face, as pale as milk, and tears in her eyes at the thoughts of another brother going off to fight a duel.  Guilt overwhelms him.

And worse, he's aware of his lady and how she must be feeling with everyone watching them.  He feels Sansa’s arm wrapping around him, can feel her trembling though her hold is firm, and turns to drown in those big blue eyes that appear horribly pained at present.  “Jon, no…” she pleads.

"Sansa, I..."  

She doesn’t want him to fight despite the unforgiveable manner of the offense.  He hates to disobey her wishes but some things cannot be allowed to stand, can they? 

He lightly touches her face for a moment, wishing to convey his love and his regret in that touch, before turning his attention briefly to the beaten man at his feet.  Strangely, his voice is steady despite his riot of emotion within when he says, “Choose the weapon and your second if any gentleman will stand with you.  Then name the hour of your death, sir.”

And with that, he turns, whisking Sansa away from the ugly scene.  

Chapter Text

From elation to despair over the course of a few hours. Life is full of these ups and down, isn’t it?

One moment, she’s aglow over Jon’s earlier declaration, the proposal and that saucy exchange during their dance. Wylla has drifted off elsewhere but she’s still happily discussing the day with Mrs. Royce (excluding the sinfully sweet teasing but being sure to mention Miss Tyrell’s foolishness, the new pianoforte that awaits her at Grosvenor Square and the particular look in Jon’s eye when he'd proclaimed his feelings).

And then the next, she finds herself being accosted by Ramsay Bolton, smelling strongly of spirits and badgering her for a dance. She’s feared another confrontation with her aunt or Mister Baelish but she’d lulled herself into believing she wouldn’t see this face again.

“I will not dance with you, sir,” she tells him firmly, intent on turning her back to him.

He’s having none of that for he grasps her elbow and turns her, none too gently. “Oh no? Once, you would’ve. More than once, you did. What changed, I wonder? I’d heard you had fled to some rich cousin of yours. Do you dance with him?”

How did he hear of that?  Mister Baelish perhaps.  No matter. She wants to be quit of his unwanted company. She glances about the room looking for Jon. What is he doing lingering half-hidden by that palm over there?

“Look at me when I'm speaking to you,” Ramsay growls, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

“Let go of me,” she says sharply, mustering as much of a warning as she can manage.

“Or what?”  He's plainly amused by any threat of hers.

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, sir,” Myranda says, attempting to dispel any unpleasantness, bless her. “I wouldn’t mind a dance if…”

“Bugger off, bitch.”  The vulgarity slips from his mouth as readily as if he’s commenting on the weather with his strange, pale eyes never leaving Sansa’s face.

She tries backing away but he’s forcefully shuffling her through a nearby doorway and out of sight of others. What is he doing here? His father’s barely on the fringe of the ton at best. And there are rules against gentlemen imbibing ardent spirits with ladies present or behaving incorrectly here at Almack's.  He'll be removed from the list of attendees, banned.  He probably doesn't care. How did he even get in?

More importantly, how does she escape him?

She begins to twist away from his grasp and then gives more than one shove when that’s to no avail. But he’s stronger, much stronger. Her heart begins to race with fear. She reminds herself this isn’t a garden in Bath with no one about. She can scream. But then what? She would rather just get away from him and avoid a scene if possible.

But a scene is inevitable.

“Why am I no longer worthy of a dance with you, hmm? The way you look at me as if I’m not fit to wipe your boots. Your uncle owes my father. He promised he’d get us a leg up with these swells and nabobs you think you’re one of. I was willing to play along but don't think your meager one thousand pounds makes your cunt worth more than-”

She manages to free one arm.  Wildly, she claws at his face, though her gloves prevent her from any true damage, when his words are abruptly cut off.  Jon is here like some avenging angel...or a fire-breathing dragon.

It passes in a blur and yet every detail seems highlighted in her mind’s eye; the way the sparse candles here are reflected in the polished floor, the way their legs are intertwined as Jon straddles Ramsay’s chest, the sound of fist meeting bone, the savage grunts from Jon and gasps which become whimpers from Mister Bolton and the blood, so much blood.

She watches it all, strangely mesmerized even as part of her is repulsed.

Others arrive, pulling Jon off of Ramsay and she’s relieved and also annoyed. That’s the worst part. There is a small, terrible part of her which wishes for Jon to keep hitting him until he is incapable of rising ever again for now, men being men, she knows they’ll duel. An affair of honor, they casually label these things.  There is little honor in it to Sansa's way of thinking.  Ramsay will have the opportunity to strike back at Jon for this beating, this humiliation…and he is the sort of creature who knows nothing of honor.

Later, she knows she’ll be thinking about the crowd which has gathered, who saw her cousin beat a man to a bloody pulp, a man with whom she’s rumored to have behaved inappropriately in the past. They’ll be calling it a quarrel of rivals for their lover’s favors when nothing could be further from the truth. But she cannot think of that now.

He’s retrieved their cloaks and swept her outside, calling for Halder to ready the coach, before she knows it.  But she cannot allow him to take her home with him if she’s to maintain any shred of a decent reputation.  A woman like Lady Arianne might fancy herself above the rules of society but that’s not Sansa.  She’s to be Jon’s wife.  No matter the gossips, she won’t have their marriage seen as something sullied or forced if she can help it.  She doesn’t want Jon to think she only sees him as her rescuer.  She doesn’t want to feel as if he’s only hers because she’s needed a bit of rescuing either. 

“Jon, we must stop.”  She digs her heels into the pavement, forcing him to halt when he shows no signs of doing so. "I cannot leave with you!"

He stops at that, gulping in fresh air and trying to master his heightened emotions.  “My apologies.  I shouldn't have...are you injured, my love?” 

My love.  She is his love and he is hers. 

Tenderly, his fingers graze her wrists.  With a solemn look and awaiting a nod from her, he slowly removes one long white glove.  His eyes blaze at the reddened skin beneath but something else blazes inside of Sansa when he continues gently rubbing at the marks and lays a kiss upon the underside of her wrist. This isn't proper out here where they might be seen but she can't bring herself to care.  

“I’m so, so sorry,” he says brokenly, full of misery. "Can you forgive me, darling girl?"

"Forgive you?  What do you imagine you've done which needs forgiving?"  Other than issuing a challenge that could ruin all our hopes.  There will be time to speak of that later.  

“I shouldn’t have been away from your side. He never should’ve been able to put his hands on you. I was wasting my time listening to rubbish when I should’ve been…” His eyes drop to the pavement.

“You’re blaming yourself for his actions? That sounds like rubbish to me."

"It's my duty to protect you."

"We did not know he would be present or that he would act as a madman might.  You came to my aid, Jon. You were there when I needed you most. You were...you were my knight in shining armor.” 

Does that make her sound like a silly little girl?  He doesn't seem to think so. 

“Me, a knight?” He glances up to meet her eyes again, huffs a laugh, but there’s a pining hopefulness there that tells her he wants to believe it. Does he not know it to be true?

Carefully, she cups a cheek, uses her thumb to swipe away the bit of blood and sweat above his scarred eye. “You were everything I needed you to be in that moment, Jon. It’s true and I want you to know it.” 

He leans into her touch, eyes closing.  He turns his mouth towards her hand, ardently kissing her palm as if nothing could be sweeter to him.  It makes her heart leap and her loins throb shamelessly.  She finds herself smiling at him despite the awfulness of this night. 

Mimicking his movements, she draws one of his hands up to her face, lightly kisses one forefinger, right below the knuckle before she says, “You were better than any knight...but I do not want you to duel.”

His eyes open and there's a flash of shame but also a spark of something which resembles defiance.  Oh dear. 

"Sansa, I cannot..."

Before he can say more or she may interrupt, someone is clearing his throat loudly from behind them.  They both take a step back and turn to see it is Mister Manderly giving them notice of his presence. 

“Are you injured, young lady?  Have you need of a physician?” the dear old man asks.  Wylla and Gilly are with him and Gilly is rushing to her side, wrapping warm arms around her and whispering comforts of her own.

“No, thank you, Mister Manderly.  I am not injured.”  As if he’s presenting evidence to the contrary, Jon brushes his finger along her forearm again.  That same rage from earlier is lurking in his eyes.  "I am not much injured," she amends quietly for Jon's sake. 

She hates for him to duel.  She also knows she will not sway him.  Not tonight anyway. 

“Looks like squalls ahead for you, young man, but the hour grows late for these old bones and I should see these young ladies home.”  

“Of course, sir,” Jon replies, though unhappily.  He turns back to her.  “May I call upon you tomorrow afternoon once I've settled some other affairs, Sansa?”

Heart twisting painfully, she nods, seemingly unable to find her tongue.  She's sure she'll find it later. 

For now, he's seeing her into Mister Manderly's carriage with a final goodnight. How is she expected to sleep one wink tonight with all that has happened today?

Another beautiful April morning dawns much like yesterday though Mister Manderly predicts rain is coming.

Despite the hint of warmth in the air, Sansa has put on her blue spencer jacket over her dress before coming down to breakfast.  She doesn’t wish for anyone to be alarmed by the lingering marks on her forearms.  They will not aid her in her upcoming talk with Jon and she fears Old Mister Manderly might grow wrothful over them as well.

Both Wylla and Sansa pick at their meal and Sansa wonders what troubles her friend on this bright day when she’s been in good spirits overall since coming to her grandfather’s home.  When it is nearly midday, she finds a moment to question Wylla of it. 

“I’m fine, Sansa.  It’s just…it’s a hard thing to tell someone how you feel and then be left wondering what they truly thought of it with no real reply.” 

“Yes, of course," she says, though uncertainly.  She waits to see if Wylla will say more, wanting to help but not wishing to push either.  

Something niggles at her with Wylla’s statement as well.  Jon told her he loved her yesterday and she never found the opportunity to say it back to him.  Or maybe she simply didn’t take it?  Why didn’t she say it?  He cannot die not knowing that she loves him.  Oh what is she saying?!  He cannot die at all!

Wylla looks to be weighing her words but then the housekeeper enters.  A caller has arrived in the person of Lord Samwell Tarly.

His lordship enters the drawing room where the three ladies are feigning some form of industry as part of the illusion that's expected.  Three curtsies to his bow and tentative smiles. His eyes keep darting to Gilly who is sewing by the window but he approaches Sansa. 

“I hope you’ll forgive this unexpected visit but I wished to see how you were faring, Miss Stark, after the regrettable matter last night.”

"I am well, my lord.  Only wondering how high a time the gossips must be having at my expense and Jon's."  

"My dear lady, I would not waste a moment worrying over that.  Mrs. Royce is something of a chatterbox as you may be aware but, for once, it is definitely helping turn any tide in your favor.  She has made it known that Mister Bolton's horrid reputation is well earned and how he committed assault upon your person simply for being refused a dance. The lady has lauded your conduct as beyond reproach and other friends including myself, as I beg to be considered as such by you, are saying much the same."

"Of course, I consider you such.  I am honored by your friendship, my lord," she says sincerely whilst she's equally warmed by Myranda's staunch support as well.  

"Those who were so busy gossiping about you this Saturday past will find themselves quite at odds with society's general opinion before long in my opinion.  And aside from a few of the more sanctimonious who were shocked by the violence, none are finding any fault in Jon's virulent defense of you either.  Not a decent home in London will receive Bolton from this day forward, I am sure.  Some who are engaged in financial business are even saying that they will no longer conduct any trade with the father of such a dishonorable individual.  You needn't fret.  The storms of gossips rage but I've always found they can be weathered well enough by those who possess some courage and heart."  This last he says with a meaningful look towards Gilly.  "And, I believe you and Jon have both to spare." 

"Thank you, my lord, for the encouragement."  

After he is reassured by all three that they wish for him to stay as long as he wishes, he takes a seat near Sansa but faces so that he may keep looking towards Gilly. 

Naturally, they speak more of the ball and the eventful end to the night.  “Will you stand by him, my lord?” Wylla asks when the subject of the duel is raised directly. 

“No, miss. That honor will fall to Garlan Tyrell who offered first.”

But, Lord Tarly’s tone suggests he doesn’t approve of duels upon the whole.  In addition to being kind and witty, Sansa would also name him wise.

"Can he be talked out of this?"

He ruefully shakes his head.  "I very much doubt that, miss.  Not when it comes to an offense against you and what he perceives as his duty."

His duty?  She wishes Lord Tarly had chosen another word but lays that to one side.  

"As for a second, I fear I wouldn’t be much of one.  I have no experience in these affairs of honor and very little of pistols.”

“Pistols?!” 

She’d expected as much but she’s terrified having it confirmed.  The drawing of first blood is traditionally enough for honor to be satisfied but she doesn’t know that either party will see things that way considering the offense and both men’s natures.  And, pistols increase the potential of a fatality…or two.  Wounds can turn putrid so easily. 

“Yes, I have been to see Jon this morning as Mister Tyrell was taking his leave and managed to hear the particulars.”

“Has some agreement been reached regarding the time of this meeting?”

“Yes, it will occur tomorrow not long after dawn.”

“So soon?!” 

“They do not wish to let it linger, miss.  The other party has found himself a second and the animal has the audacity to consider himself the injured party.” 

"Who would stand by him?" Wylla huffs.

Sam looks apologetically her way.  “It is one of the Mister Freys who has agreed to stand by him.  Their fathers know one another apparently and he felt it his place.” 

“Good God!  Why am I not surprised by those rotters being in league with the fiend?  I’m going to tell grandpapa!  Wynafryd absolutely cannot marry into that family!”

She dashes off and Sam speaks once more.  “And, so you know, miss, I will be present tomorrow even though I’m not his second."

"Oh, you're going?"  She considers for a moment when he nods.  "If I cannot dissuade Jon, I wish to go as well.  Will you take me?"

Wide eyes and a startled choking sound has Sansa and Gilly thumping the lord's back before he stammers, "I couldn't possibly, miss!  Jon would certainly shoot me right after Bolton if I did!"

"He would do no such thing," Gilly says firmly.  "He is fighting a duel over what that beast did to Sansa. Why can't his lady be there?  He may have need of her after or...if things should go amiss..."

Sansa gulps as Gilly's words trail off with an apologetic grimace.  "My lord, while I do appreciate your concerns, if something does go amiss, I know in my heart I would wish to be there for Jon.  And I'd like to think he wouldn't resent either of us for it."

Lord Tarly doesn't appear entirely convinced but, begrudgingly, he agrees.  "I should go soon.  Jon will be wanting to call here himself soon."

"Yes, he said he would call upon me here.  Where is he now?"

"When I took my leave, he was being raked from stem to stern by his sister."

"Oh...good."  She does not doubt Rhaenys will give him an earful.  Perhaps between the two of them, they may-

"I know he feels much guilt there due to Aegon but Jon can be stubborn to the point of bullheadedness at times, miss.  I don't think his sister will sway him.  You're the most likely to and, as it was you who was injured and whose honor was violated..."

"Oh," she says, glumly.  

"Anyway, I'm to meet him at his solicitor's office soon.  There are some personal wishes he has made me privy to and has asked me to be his witness.” 

He gives Sansa a searching look and she realizes those personal wishes have to do with her.  Giving him leave to speak freely, he does.  Jon is making arrangements for her care should something happen to him.  The entailment of Summerhall is something he cannot alter but there’s a significant portion of his fortune which he’s free to do with as he pleases.  Even if she is still unmarried at the end of this Season (and she'll consider herself a widow in her heart if he is lost), her family will not know any want and her decision to ever marry would be entirely hers.  He's offering her the freedom so many young ladies will never know.  If he dies.  

A slew of emotions leave her shaking when Sam finishes telling her of it.  “I don’t want his money.  I only want him.”  She wipes at her eyes begs to excuse herself.  “Oh no, Gilly.  You may remain with our guest if you wish.  I’ll return in a few minutes but want a moment to myself.”  She can do that much for her friend at least.  "And you can arrange a time for Lord Tarly's coach to call for us tomorrow morning."  

The clock strikes the hour and the room still echoes with raised voices and a hastily shut door.  This isn’t how she meant for this to go today but she has to try.  Was it less than a day ago he stood before her and proposed? 

They have discussed the arrangements and provisions Jon has made for her as well as some other matters but then she'd given him notice of her intent to be there on the morrow.  When he'd said he didn't want her to come, the conversation had turned regrettably warmer than the day’s weather.

"Don't patronize me, Mister Targaryen. If you bring up the falling damps or some such nonsense one more time when you're planning to shoot and be shot at-"

"I did not mean to patronize you!  But I must insist you remain here where you'll be safer and-"

"You must insist?  We are not married and, as I have taken no vows to obey you as of yet, I will hear no more talk of insistence."

Against his will perhaps, his lips had twitched at that and his tone had softened some.  "I would not dream of ordering you about at all, married or not, Sansa.  You're to be my wife, not a foot soldier.  And for all your sweetness and courtesies, I have already discovered you are not lacking in pluck."

"Is that a criticism?"

"On the contrary, I fear I like it too well by half."  

The twitch of that appealing mouth had become a full-fledged grin and she'd found herself grinning back.  She'd suspected she had him then...in one matter at least.  

Mister Manderly is being distracted by Wylla at present in his little garden outside and Gilly has retreated to allow them some privacy thus they are finally alone to speak their minds.  And our hearts.    

His throat bobs and he grips his cane tighter as she makes her final arguments against dueling in general and his case in particular.  She sits perfectly straight with her hands clasped before her to still their shaking.  She can already tell she won’t care for his response. 

He’s growing cross again.  She doesn’t care if he grows cross.  She’s already cross herself.  (Though admittedly, unlike the dangerous fury she’d witnessed from him with Ramsay, there’s something nearly alluring about his anger in this moment with her.  She must be overwrought to be thinking such nonsense.) 

“I understand how you feel, Sansa, and if it were avoidable, I would respect your wishes but I’m afraid it’s not.”

“How can a meeting be unavoidable?  It is certainly avoidable.”

“It isn't.  These things are not…I know to a lady it seems-”

“Don’t you dare tell me that I do not understand because I am a woman or-”

“I didn’t say that!” 

She huffs and rolls her eyes at him.  He was certainly going to say that. 

“Christ, I didn’t intend to say that…not really.” 

He scrubs at his face and glances at her wrists again.  They're covered but he knows.  She wishes someone would've dropped Ramsay Bolton in the Thames a year ago.   

“You were thinking it.”

“Perhaps I was, dammit.  Considering someone else's opinion regarding how I conduct my private affairs is obviously somewhat new to me but I promise I will learn and I believe you have a right to speak your mind.  I don't mean to sound so-"

"Bullheaded?"

"Please, do not put words in my mouth.  And that was the very term Rhaenys used.” 

“I will put words there if necessary when yours are making no sense and I agree with your sister on that point.”

“He attacked you!  There could be no greater provocation than that to my eyes!  Of course, I had to call him out and, if he does not flee before the morrow, I will send him straight to hell where he belongs!”

She winces at his blasphemous talk but does not back down.  “You’ve already beat him well beyond-”

“I cannot call him out and then turn around and say I have changed my mind!  That is not the way of our world and you bloody well know it!  Nor do I wish to!  What sort of man would I be if-”

“It has no bearing on you being a man!"

"How can you say that?!  From the night you entered my home, I have considered it my duty to watch over you, to protect you.  And, is it not the duty of a husband to defend his wife?!"

"You already defended me!  This is not that!  He will be reviled wherever he goes now that the circumstances of this are known and won’t that be enough?  Won’t you…”  Emotion looms and she feels her throat tightening up.  “Jon, I am grateful for what you did and I appreciate how much you wish to protect me but...but don’t you care how this is hurting me?  How the thoughts of him killing you is killing me?!” 

Angry tears make her vision swim.  She hates that she cries when she’s this angry.  She hates for him to think her tears are proof of womanly weakness, some badge of dishonor which proves she cannot think as rationally as a man simply because she cries.  This is where fury leads for her and it’s so unfair.  Everything today seems so horribly unfair when she's harbored such hopes for their future felicity.

“Sansa, I'm sorry.  I never want to hurt you.  I only want to protect you and keep you safe.” 

She manages to raise her eyes from her lap where she’s been staring at her clasped hands, watching her teardrops wet the skirts of her dress and wishing they'd go away. 

He’s knelt before her, his hands grasping hers.  His voice in no more than a croak.  “Please, I hate to see any woman crying.  It brings my mother too much to mind but...Sansa, I cannot bear your tears.  They wound this heart of mine as surely as any blade ever has.” 

Wanting to look at him, to really see all of him, she reaches for his eyepatch and he stiffens out of habit.  "Take this...take this damned thing off." 

He's clearly shocked but does not fight her as she removes it.  This is the first time she's ever used that word but it seems fitting for him not be half-blinded now.  His dark eyes are filled with tears like her own.  Somehow, it helps her find her strength again and determines what she wishes to say.  

“I have said all I can against this course you seem determined to pursue and I will not argue with you any longer over this so-called affair of honor.  As much as I don’t want you to fight, I will stand by you...”

“Thank you.”

“…because I love you.”

If she had still been staring at her hands, she would’ve missed it, the way his chin trembles at her admittance.  A hitching breath and, “You love me?” 

“Of course, I do, Jon.  I love you.  I am in love with you.  I wished to say it yesterday but then you were kissing me and-” 

A flash of a sweetly incredulous smile and then he surges forward so fast she can scarcely do more than yelp.  He’s kissing her again.  He’s holding her face in his hands and his lips are pressed against hers.  Those tears in his eyes fall upon her cheeks which are wetted by her own but when they part, they're both grinning with eyes no longer shining with anger or pain. 

“I would’ve said it yesterday but you were too quick with this part, sir.”

He chuckles weakly, a watery-sounding thing.  She understands.  Her chest aches with too many emotions as well but at least now he knows. 

“I can scarcely believe it.  Sansa…”

It’s still more like a croak than her name but the whole timbre of his voice is different now, their earlier storm and tears forgotten.  He leans forward again, another kiss is coming but it promises to be the sort of kiss she’s not experienced yet either. 

Chaste pressing of lips and clasped hands.  She invites him to take a seat beside her upon Mister Manderly's settee.  Slyly, they appraise the closed door. 

Strong hands at her waist, pulling her nearer as his tongue is teasing the seam of her mouth, working its way inside to taste her.  She opens for him like the petals of a flower for the sun.  Back and forth, she allows him to set the pace and teach her something of this variety of dancing.  

Dark, dark eyes and panted breath.  A quiet moan and he's pressing her back into the cushions as she happily submits.  Her fingers find his hair, soft curls, as he's kissing her with a fierce passion.  He holds her tightly, part of his weight holding her but it's pleasant and welcome.  She's breathless beneath his embrace, exhilarated.  He feels like nothing she has known and yet everything she's ever desired.  His scent is heady and her head is spinning.  He is hard sinew to her softness.  He is the bold strokes of an artist's brush against her canvas.  She wants him to paint her with his hands, his mouth...all of him.  

But just as his hand has crept up from her waist, brushed against her breast through her gown, sending a thrilling bolt of something indescribably sweet and pleasant trilling all through her and causing her to whimper 'yes' most wantonly, there's a sound beyond the door which stills their movements. 

He curses quietly and pulls them both upright again.  With flushing cheeks, she adjusts her dress and hair into some semblance of respectability as he casts mischievous looks her way, towards the door, and back again, whispering an apology for getting carried away.  "I would never mean to dishonor you."  

They are not married yet and neither of them may expect to be left alone indefinitely in Mister Manderly's drawing room. 

"I do not feel dishonored in the slightest but I believe the rest must wait for when we're wed and alone in your study, sir," she teases.  

"There is always Gretna Green." 

She laughs but shakes her head.  "Here in London with some of our family present, Jon." 

He nods and, once they are sitting quietly again, murmurs, “I didn’t believe you could possibly be in love me yet.”   

“Yet?”  Oh, he does not realize, does he?  “Colonel Targaryen, I will tell you a little secret now if you will hear it.  It’s one only my sister knows and perhaps Mama had known as well.  You first captured my heart long before I set eyes on London.  In fact, you were still Captain Targaryen when you did so.”

“Captain…you refer to when I visited Winterfell all those years ago?”  She doesn’t believe she’s ever seen someone who personifies the word astonishment more accurately than Jon. 

“Yes.  It was a young girl’s love, I’ll admit, something that might’ve fallen away for good eventually if we had never met again but it never completely left me.  Even when I was understandably quite far from your thoughts, you were in mine from a very tender age.  And since then…since I came to your home and I have had the privilege of truly knowing you, it has increased upon me to the point that I cannot imagine ever loving another the way I love you, Jon.”

"I...it appears I am the one to be rendered speechless, darling girl."

"Well, I hope you'll still make good on your promises from our dance last night when we are alone at last for more than a few precious moments."

A wickedly handsome grin.  "I fully intend to.  Sansa, you make me so happy."

"I'm glad.  So, if you must go and fight in the morning, promise me to be careful and shoot straight and true."

"I will."

"And I will be there waiting to see you when it's done."  He opens his mouth to protest again and she lays a finger upon his lips.  "No arguments, sir."

"Very well, Miss Stark.  Dress warmly and I will see you on the morrow." 

He's kissing her forehead for their parting when Gilly reenters the room, trying not to smirk at the pair of them.  

A drizzly dawn chills her to the bone as Sansa smothers a yawn.  How can she yawn when every nerve is stretched so taunt?  She did not sleep the last two nights and not so well some others of late so there’s that. 

April's colors are muted in this early morning greyness which perfectly matches her oppressed spirits even as she's silently reciting prayer upon prayer and clinging to her hopes that all will be well.    

Lord Tarly climbs down from the carriage and bids them to wait.  Gilly gives her hand a reassuring squeeze and then Sam is back in less than a minute.  And he is not alone. 

“The other principal has not arrived yet,” his lordship says with Jon standing behind him. 

Has Ramsay fled?  Oh, she hopes so!

"Sam...give us a moment if you will," Jon says, his voice more a rasp than anything. 

Dressed in black cloak, dress coat and breeches, hessian boots and white cravat and, thankfully, lacking the eyepatch that could impede his vision, he's silent but staring intently at her in a manner which makes her breath catch. 

Sam turns to Jon.  “Five minutes, no more.  Miss Wilde?  May I have the pleasure of your company for a turn about this field?”

Gilly waits for Sansa's nod.  She departs and Jon has taken her place in the coach beside her. She feels herself flushing hotly as impure fantasies spring to life of them alone in this coach with a world of worries far from their minds.  What's come over her?  

The wildness leaves her no sooner than it appears.  There are too many burdens this morning for her licentious daydreams to cast away.  

Hands clasped once more, they do not say much, only the words of love they’ve said before and Sansa utters her wish that perhaps Mister Bolton won't appear at all.  After that, she loses count of the kisses they share but these are more desperate than anything compared to the ones from yesterday, as though they wish to cling to this moment always with their hearts. 

Too soon, Sam has brought Gilly back and Jon is giving a final kiss (but not truly the last, please God.)

“I’ll see you after, darling girl,” he promises, shrugging off his cloak and wrapping it around her shoulders even though she wears her own. 

"Won't you need it?"

"Not for this.  It'll be in the way as much as anything and I can't have you catching your death out here in the falling damps."  

She playfully rolls her eyes over that which makes him smile and then they say goodbye. Her stomach is roiling so.  How can he be so calm?  He’s a soldier, she reminds herself.  He’s known danger many times and walked away from it again.    

The two men disappear into the mist-like rain to the nearby field beyond the walnuts which act as a barrier. She won't be able to see...but she may hear.  

Sansa is sinking into his cloak, inhaling his scent and longing to find finding comfort in it as Gilly takes the seat opposite her.

“He’s asked to court me.”

“What?” she says, startled from her rambling thoughts.

“Sam…Lord Tarly asked to court me,” Gilly repeats.

“Oh Gilly!” she exclaims until she notes Gilly’s set features.  “You’re not pleased?”

“I told him he was a fool.  He'll make fools of us both.  Lords don’t marry girls like me."

"I believe a lord may marry who he wishes."

"He'd be laughed at all our days for it.  I'd say the wrong thing or embarrass him and...he'd grow to resent me in time.  I could not bear that.”

“Gilly, I'm sure…”

But Gilly's turned resolutely away to look out the carriage window, blinking back tears.  She starts to speak again and Gilly holds up a hand, begging for quiet.  Sansa will obey with everyone’s nervousness at such a pitch but she will not let the matter drop forever.  With enough courage and heart, you can weather any storm, too.    

Pulling the cloak around her more securely, she hears a crinkle and feels something stiffer than the cloth.  An inner pocket holds a letter and she pulls it out.  Is it some message to her?  Something he wasn’t able to put into words? 

There is no name on the outside but the wax seal which is pressed with his signet has become detached.  Though she knows better than to be snooping, curiosity overrides her usual restraint over such things.  She opens the letter and expects to see Jon’s hand.  It is not his writing.  It is a lady’s.

Dearest,

Forgive me for having wretched timing as usual.  I say I am brave and yet I have been a coward.  I am older and yet I am the fool not knowing my own heart when clearly you do. 

I have broken things off with the duke.  I don’t know if that will matter to you now but you were right about so many things when last we spoke at the ball.  Too long have I denied what could be or  If only things were different than they are. 

Perhaps I am too late.  All the same, please know that my feelings mirror your own and always will. 

I love you-

Arianne  

Bile rises in Sansa’s throat as she slowly shakes her head, trying to dismiss the words or make sense of them.  Why would he ask her to marry him if he's been continuing his affair with Arianne?  Are his feelings towards herself more of duty than love after all?  Why is he carrying this around? Is it a token of the love he cannot let go of or-

A pistol shot rings out from the other side of the walnuts interrupting her desolating thoughts. 

Chapter Text

"Are you unwell, Sam?"

He'd expected some final encouragement, chastisement or plea, not this melancholy silence as the two of them make their way through the trees, leaving Sam's coach and the ladies behind.  

"I'm very well, thank you," Sam says in a voice which tells Jon he is anything but.  

"You're still a miserable liar just like when we were boys, Tarly."

"Yes, I never acquired any comfort with the telling of them even when necessary," his friend replies but there's no wry smile at the admittance and it adds to Jon's unease.  "You've enough to be getting on with today without worrying over this fool, don't you think?"  

"You're no fool, Sam."

"Apparently, I am.  Here we are now."  

Jon frowns at the dismissal, concerned for his friend but there is no time left to say anything more.  Two more coaches have arrived on the opposite side of the green.  It's time.    

Garlan, Sam and Mister Seaworth, the surgeon, flank Jon as Ramsay and his two Freys approach to meet in the middle.  

As the seconds meet to discuss any last minute apologies, addendums or changes, Jon cannot resist some smug satisfaction at the sight of Bolton’s face, all purple, blue and black with his broken nose and both eyes grossly swollen. Part of him had begun to hope he wouldn’t appear when Sansa had said as much but, staring back into the odd pale eyes of his enemy which shine with utter hatred, he’s glad he’s here. He wants this man dead.

Garlan sighs at the baleful exchange of glares and proceeds to the usual words.

“As it appears there will be no conciliation in the matter, we shall proceed.  The pistols…”

He opens the mahogany case he's brought to reveal two very fine matching Wodgon & Barton pistols laying upon green silk.  One of the lamentable Freys looks them both over and gives a nod.

“Select your weapon, sir,” Garlan says to Ramsay as the challenged party before turning to Jon to do the same. Once that is done, he continues. “You will stand back to back and, on my count, step forward a dozen paces. I will then say, ‘turn and fire.’ If one man’s flintlock-”

“A shot apiece and we reload as necessary until it’s done,” Ramsay interrupts.

Until one man is down and cannot continue or, more bluntly, to the death.

Jon tilts his head to the side, coolly considering his quarry before giving a nod of agreement.

He hears Sam shuffling in the background, a reminder of Sansa’s presence. He hopes he only needs one shot for her sake. She will have no view where she waits and he’s keenly aware of how horribly anxious this whole business must be for her. He feels completely wretched making her go through this. If he survives this madness, he’ll swear a vow to never fight another duel for her and Rhaenys’ sake. For now though, he must focus.

“Very well, gentlemen. With the wet, the powder may soon grow too damp and the pistols will be good for nothing but flinging them so we’d best get on with it.”

Standing back to back, Ramsay cannot resist a nasty threat. “I’ll be sure to offer my comforts to your little minx of a cousin before the day is done, Targaryen.”

“On the contrary, sir. I have already told you to name the hour of your death and so you have. Be sure to tell the devil hello for me.”

Garlan begins his count and Jon is grateful to pace away from him.

One, two, he draws a deep breath.

Three, four, five, he says a rapid prayer.

Six, seven, there will be a delay with the flintlocks between firing and discharge so he must-

Eight and a shout interrupts his thoughts. “No! Hold, sir! I have not-”

BANG!

Jon had only just started to turn due to the shouting. He will be eternally grateful that his reflexes, his instincts and his leg do not fail him. He barely has a moment to flinch but the impact still winds him. His right shoulder hurts like hellfire. If he hadn’t moved, Bolton would’ve hit him directly in the back.

There’s an uproar from the witnesses, Garlan calling it attempted murder and promising to see the magistrate whilst one of the Mister Freys claims eight sounds a good deal like twelve.

Sam and the surgeon are rushing to his side and Ramsay is grinning like the devil himself as he motions for fresh charge and ball from his second.

“Jon! Jon!”

He gives Sam a shove with his left hand. “Stand back!” Then, he says in that same eerily calm voice he’d possessed the other night when he’d called this madman out, “Hold fast, Mister Frey. I have not yet returned fire and turnabout is fair play as they say, sir.”

An agonized protest from his wounded arm does not stop him from raising it. Even as it shakes with the weight of the pistol, he takes precise aim, only hoping the boring of Garlan’s pistols is true.  His opponent’s eyes are no longer full of hatred as he is pleading for his sorry life, a cowering, miserable scrub.  The Freys look away shame-faced.  

Jon fires and watches the life leave those eyes with satisfaction soon after.

At that point, his duty done, he drops the pistol and sags against Sam heavily, the wet blood already distinguishable from the rain on his black coat. He closes his eyes and drifts.  A scream pierces the drizzly morning and his soul.

Ghost is barking.  He sounds distressed.  What is his dog doing outside?  Why doesn’t someone let him in?   

“Ghost…”

“Oh, he’s coming ‘round,” someone says. 

That, he is and his shoulder’s coming ‘round with him.  It burns, throbs, hurts like bloody hell.  Some cruel voice says he deserves it but he can’t imagine why. 

A door opens and closes and he can hear Ghost whining beside his bed before a soft murmured word or two quiets the animal.

He tries opening his eyes but the lanterns are too bright.  There’s some bustling at his bureau and he hears familiar sounds.  Where does he know those noises from?  

“Drink, sir.” 

It’s Satin giving him brandy.  He could use some brandy.  No, it’s not just brandy.  That prevailing bitterness tells him it’s laudanum, the alcoholic tincture of opium. There's a clattering of some instruments and suddenly the noise and the laudanum brings back memories of the field hospital tent along with the screams of the wounded and the moans of the dying.  They won’t take his arm, will they?     

“My arm…”  His voice is no more than a feeble breath lost on the breeze. 

“We cannot delay any longer.  Hold him still,” a gruff voice commands.  “Wait outside the room, miss.”

Some more murmured words, jumbled but firm voices, followed by a man’s audible huff.  He’s too busy worrying over his arm to make sense of it. 

“We’ll get the lead out in no time, colonel,” the same gruff voice says.  It’s Mister Seaworth, the surgeon, he realizes, a long-time acquaintance from army days who has hung up his shingle here in London now.  “Hold him down now, lad.” 

Halder looms over the bed, stronger and surer in his grip than Satin would likely be.  “Beg pardon, sir,” the man murmurs awkwardly as he pins Jon’s body to the bed as easily as he might sit upon a cushion.

“With luck, I’ll find any bit of cloth carried in with the ball and Satin can mend your shirt whilst I patch up you,” Seaworth says, chuckling. 

“Just like in Spain, eh?”  

It was an attempted reply to the jesting but he sounds more like a whimpery boy.  Fortitude is the order of the day, he tells himself.  But, when the surgeon’s instrument begins to probe his wound, he is incapable of silent fortitude.  He moans pitifully and bites down on the leather strap between his teeth, sweats profusely and Halder must hold him to keep him still. 

A cool hand on his brow and hushed words bring him some momentary peace and comfort.  “It's alright.  He’ll be done soon.  You're so brave.” 

“Sansa?” What a garbled thing the strap makes of her pretty name.  

“I’m here.”  She’s hovering at the head of the bed and he can’t see her clearly for Halder. 

Another minute or two of agony and then a satisfied ‘ah-ha!’ There's some discussion over his coat and shirt.  Seaworth seems pleased.  A metallic clank of lead dropping into a tin bowl follows. 

“There now.  It’s done, my love.”  She gives his left hand a squeeze once Halder has released him. 

He opens his eyes to see her.  There's misery etched into every pore of that sweet face.  “I’m sorry, darling girl,” he whispers.  "Forgive me for worrying you so."  He’s caused her this pain.  It’s only right to say he’s sorry though he wouldn’t undo it now that it’s done.  Ramsay Bolton will never threaten her again. 

A frail, uncertain smile is her only reply.  She moves to the corner where Ghost is anxiously pacing. 

The surgeon and Satin work to bind his arm.  He watches them, feeling a little numb now that the immediate pain has passed. 

Sansa rises from her place in the corner, dabbing at her eyes and saying she’s taking Ghost outside for a little while but promising to return.  Her voice sounds hollow, not at all its usual melodiousness.  She’s worried over his wound but is she still angry with him for dueling?  It doesn’t sound like Sansa when she’s angry though.  She sounds more heartbroken than anything.   

A chill brings to his attention to the fact that he is bare from the waist up.  Sansa saw my scars, all of them.  What did she think? he wonders before he begins to drift away on his laudanum tide.  He hears his mother crying somewhere in the shadows as they overtake the light. 

“Mother?  Why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying, sweet one.” 

Young Jon had pouted.  “You tell me not to lie.” 

A frantic glance, hurried words, a beseeching look.  “It is the sun in my eyes.”

“It’s raining.”

“Then, the rain must’ve fallen on my face.  Come, let’s play a game and see if your papa wants to join us later.”

“He won’t.  He never does,” the boy had answered, harshly.  Why did she bother pretending otherwise? 

But when his mother’s eyes had welled up with fresh tears, he’d wished to take the words back.  Stupid, stupid Jon.  Why did he say that?

She’d started coughing then, that horrible wracking cough of hers, the one which ultimately took her way, and he’d rushed to her side, begging forgiveness for speaking so and telling her he would happily play a game with her or read to her if she preferred. She got so tired in those waning days.

“My sweet son, never be ashamed of telling the truth or calling another’s attention to it,” his mother had said solemnly before kissing his forehead and ruffling his hair.  “But today, it’s raining when I’d rather have the sun.  Come and be my sunshine for a little while, please?”    

“Yes, Mother.”   

All that afternoon, they had played hide and seek through the rooms of Summerhall until she grew too tired to continue.  Then, Jon had read to her until Nance had brought his supper and the two women had tucked him into bed though he’d told them he was too old to be tucked in by that point.  Truthfully though, he hadn’t minded.  It was the last time he’d felt like someone’s beloved little boy.  It was the last time he would ever play with his mother.  

“That’s so sad, Jon,” Sansa tells him, her fingers drifting through his hair. 

"I'm sorry to make you sad."  His eyes are so heavy but he reaches for her hand to keep it there a little longer when she starts to move away. 

“Love is never without some wounds," she says quietly.  "I should go soon.  It’s growing dark out.” 

“I know.  You take good care of me…”

Three days abed, drifting in his fog. 

He knows Sansa has been here through much of his convalescing but the only time she’s been alone with him is when he’s had his dose and is drowsing.  So far, no one has said anything over the impropriety of it to his knowledge.  He hopes no one will.  The gossips can all rot.  She'll be his wife.  She's posted a letter to her uncle and Arya.  She's asked them to come and stay.  If they arrive, Sansa can stay here again, too...he hopes.  

He frowns, recalling the last bit of sense he’d understood from her last night. 

“You take good care of me,” he’d murmured on the edge of abyss.

“I want to.  I want to be a good wife to you, Jon.”

“You will be.  The best wife I could ever…”  A gaping yawn had ended his rambling. 

“I hope so.”  Then, oh so quietly, “Someday, perhaps you’ll let go of the past and grow to love me as you…as you say.”    

What had that meant?  Why does she seem so terribly sad whenever they’re alone of late?  What has he done?  It’s as if some attachment has been severed between them but the last memories he has up until the duel were her loving words and kisses prior in Sam’s carriage.  What altered things? 

Sam has been no help clearing up the mystery for him either.  He’s too deep in his own misery over Miss Wilde’s refusal.  Jon regrets Sam's pain and suspects Miss Wilde is suffering, too.  Does she doubt Sam's sincerity?  Does she believe he's using courting as a euphemism for something less honorable?  He can appreciate the woman's fears over marrying so far above her station but knows Sam adores her and doesn’t give a fig for what the ton will say of such a match.  In time and with enough courage, he believes they could outlast any nonsense, not caring for gossip.

Says the fellow who’s been wearing an eyepatch everywhere he goes for months now because Cersei Baratheon made a cutting remark. 

He’d suggested Sam march up to Wyman Manderly’s door and offer to sweep the lady away to Scotland at once and then spend a month or a year at Horn Hill as they choose whilst his bride grows used to being called Lady Tarly. 

But Sam is determinedly sunk in his own gloom, punctilious to a fault over the appropriateness of such a bold step. Why must lovers be such fools at times? 

Oh, as if you’ve not been as great a fool as any.    

When Satin had brought his breakfast, he’d asked after Sansa and been told that Miss had returned to Mister Manderly’s last night and taken Ghost with her. 

“What?  She took my dog?”

He’d been ridiculously vexed though he knew she’d return with him.  Besides, Ghost could use some time away from the invalid’s quarters.  Poor thing’s been wearing a track in the rug with his pacing.  Actually, Jon can empathize with the dog.  He’s sick of this room, sick of his bed.  Sick of feeling sick and useless.  Sick with worry over what troubles Sansa which she does not speak of. 

He rang for Satin to fetch hot water fifteen minutes ago.  Where the devil is he?  He glares at Sam and his brother-in-law as they enter, looking ready to give him a shove back into his bed. 

“I don’t recall inviting either of you into my bedchamber so unless you intend to help me shave kindly take your leave so I may dress.  I have things to do.  I am fit enough to-ah…ah…AH-CHOO!”

“You are fit enough to lie abed per Doctor Pycelle’s orders,” his brother-in-law says worriedly with Sam nodding in agreement.    

“Bah, who asked that charlatan?  Everyone knows he’s dicked in the nob these days, Quentyn.”

“He’s one of the most respected physicians in London. That’s why I sought him out to treat you.”

“He’s one of the wealthiest physicians in London because he spent decades licking Tywin Lannister’s boots.  Even your wife would tell you as much though I do appreciate your care of me.  How is Rhaenys today by the way?”

“Still threatening to beat you once you’re better.”

“I’ll look forward to it.  Give her and the children my love, will you?”

“I’m being dismissed, am I?”

“Yes, your gloomy face is counter indicative to my recovery, my lord.  I’d prefer Sansa’s care.”

“You just want your lady here in your bedchambers, you mean.”

“Have a care.  That is my future bride you are speaking of.  Also, you’re quite right.”  Quentyn smothers a chuckle as Jon continues.  “And since she is not here, I thought I might pay her a call…and get my dog back whilst I’m at it.  Sam, give the bell another pull.  I don’t know what’s keeping Sat-ah…ah…”

Another sneeze is followed by a coughing fit.  Utterly pathetic.  

“Mister Seaworth is satisfied by my progress,” he says petulantly as he’s being guided back into the bed by both men. 

“Yes, the surgeon says your shoulder is healing but your cold is increasing, sir.  It seems you fell victim to the falling damps the other morning rather than me,” a sweet (and rather pert) voice says from the doorway.  

By God, she is so lovely in her lavender morning gown, a radiant vision.  He says as much before he recalls their company, causing the two gentlemen to shuffle their feet and Sansa to blush. 

“It’s only a trifling little cold.”

“But we will see you well again before you leave the house and your flattery will not sway me.”

She’s smiling at him though there’s still some shadow lingering like last night. 

Ghost comes bounding in behind her as she pulls a small bottle and a spoon out of her reticule.  “My lords, I have come straight from the apothecary’s on the advice of Mister Seaworth with this remedy and I am to give it to our patient twice a day.”

Ghost cocks his head to one side and ruffs in support of her statement.  The two men stand aside and she takes a seat upon the bed and holds the spoon out, measuring carefully with those sweet lips pursed like some nursery maid determined to see her charge through a bout of the sniffles. 

“That smells bloody awful,” he say when the spoon draws near. 

“Good that you can smell at least.  Now, take this like a good boy or I’ll send Cook in with the next dose.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

A raised eyebrow.  “Watch me.  I've been warned you're a horrible patient.” 

“By who?  Don't answer that.  I’ll be good for you, I promise.” 

She gives him his dose, promising there is no laudanum in it now that Mister Seaworth says it isn’t necessary, and begins fussing with his pillows.  He lays back without complaint when she tells him to.

Sam asks after Miss Wilde and, when he's told she's downstairs, makes a hasty departure.  

Jon's soon giving his brother-in-law a private and imploring look.  You interrupted our dance after all.  

“Well, I see General Stark has matters well in hand here,” Quentyn says, smirking. 

Sansa laughs and shakes her head at Quentyn.  Jon wonders if he’s missed some joke but he can’t say he’d argue with the comparison. 

“Quite right.  I’ll be a most obedient patient for her and her alone.  Now, good day to you.” 

Quentyn prepares to leave and there it is again, that shadow of unhappiness lingering in the blue of her eyes.  She watches him go and Jon can already tell she’s tempted to follow.  Does she fear being alone in his room with him when he’s not on the verge of unconsciousness?  Does she fear he’ll ravage her?  Surely not.  Granted, he has had some lascivious daydreams whilst lying here. 

Perhaps it’s not being alone in his bedchambers that worries her.  Perhaps it’s just being with him.  He’s wearing his night shirt now but does she recall his scars with abhorrence?  Or is she still wounded by his decision to duel against her wishes?

Alone at last, he takes her hand in his.  It cuts him to the quick that there’s a hesitancy in her response to his touch now which wasn’t there before.  “My love, what is it?”

“It’s…”  She glances away, smiles at Ghost and turns back, her eyes not quite meeting his.  “It’s nothing that…I do not wish to impede your recovery with troubling affairs.”

He gulps.  What has happened?  Is there more gossip giving her worries?  Has her aunt or Baelish been 'round?  Has she changed her mind about marrying him?

Seeing his devastated look when he comes out and asks, she shakes her head.  “No, not exactly."

"Not exactly?!"

"I’ve been keeping myself busy and trying to avoid this discussion a little longer but…it cannot be delayed.”

Oh Christ, she has changed her mind about him!

“I can accept that you have loved another but…"  She lifts her chin and squares her shoulders.  Her eyes spark dangerously though she still looks so heartbroken.  "Jon, I know some wives overlook such things but I cannot.  I will not abide an ongoing affair.  I must demand you give her up if you truly wish to marry me.  If you cannot, there can be no reconciling in the matter.”

His heart seems to have stopped as he’s listened but with every confusing word, it begins to pound harder and faster with fear.  “Sansa, I do not know what you’re speaking of.”

A flash of disgust as she rakes him with her eyes.  “You don’t know what I’m speaking of?”

“Truly, I do not.  There is no mistress or-”

“Am I to believe there's been no women, Jon?”

“Well, I…there was but she’s not…that was years ago.”

“Then, why do you carry around her letter?!” 

“What?!” 

He doesn't have a single letter from Val, not for years now.  There were very few to begin with and none spoke of much beyond the weather and how they were faring once he'd left Brighton.  

With his reply, she angrily dives into her reticule again.  No tears yet like when they quarreled last but she’s definitely enraged.  And for once, he finds no absurd spark of titillation in her anger.  This is far too serious a matter. 

“I did not intend to look at something not meant for my eyes but I cannot pretend I didn’t see it.  I had decided to confront you when you were better but-”  She slaps a letter down onto his chest.  "Explain that to me if you can, sir!" 

Ghost whimpers and has crept over to the bed, lays his head in Sansa’s lap.  

Hands shaking and darting looks her way, afraid she'll storm off and leave any second, he unfolds the letter in question and begins to read.  “This is Arianne’s hand and…oh!  Well, I'll be damned…”  Against his better judgement, he starts chuckling. 

“‘Oh?  I'll be damned?’  That’s all you have to say of it, colonel?  And you have the nerve to laugh?!”

She starts to rise but he’s quicker, grasping her hand and preventing her from leaving.  She glares down at him through her tears and Ghost growls threateningly.  His own dog’s going to bite him.  He probably deserves it if both of them do.  

Dear God, help me to make this right.  

For all the regret he feels over what she must’ve suffered the past few days, and by God, he must make amends any and every way he is able, he’s happier in this moment than he could imagine for a man with a raging cold who was recently shot, nearly as happy as when she told him she loved him. 

“Jon, I should probably go soon,” she murmurs into the crook of his neck.  She’s nestled up against his left side and makes no move to rise. 

He keeps stroking her back and the bit of her silky hair that’s come loose from her bun.  “Just a little longer.” He’s not above giving a pitiful cough to sway her either.  After all, he’s got her right where he wants her even if he can’t give her the pleasures he’s promised just yet.   

Ghost raises his head and gives a low grunt when Jon’s hand strays beyond where a hand might be allowed during a dance.  Traitor.  He has joined them at the foot of the bed, a place he’s usually not allowed but Jon knows he’s still on thin ice there. 

The rest of his household seems equally determined to keep them chaste if no one else will interfere.  Mordane has brought a chair and is sitting outside his open doorway with some darning at the moment.  Satin keeps popping up like an unwelcome Jack-in-the-box asking if he has need of him after ignoring his call for hot water an hour ago.  Apparently, he’d been told the colonel was not to shave since he was not to leave the house by someone.  Probably Cook. 

Regardless, Sansa is lying by his side at the moment.  Admittedly, she’s on top of the counterpane and he’s beneath it.  Oh yes, this is most improper but she doesn’t care so neither does he.  They are going to be married and he loves her so much. 

“Just a little longer, is it?” she teases.  “You said that ten minutes ago.” 

“Perhaps I did.  I want to hold you forever but a little longer will do for now.”

Her face had gone from red with rage to white as a sheet to pink when he’d explained the letter which he’d failed to deliver to Wylla. 

“Oh…OH!  Goodness, I should take this to Wylla at once!”

“Not so fast,” he’d said, pulling her down upon the bed beside him.

“But Wylla’s been-”

“Been waiting days for that letter already due to my stupidity.  I promise I’ll send it over via Halder once we affix a new seal along with a note from me explaining my foolishness in forgetting to deliver it and begging her pardon.  I should probably send something to Arianne as well.  Beyond that, I believe we’ll pretend ignorance of its contents.”

“Agreed.”

“But for just this moment, may we…”

His eyes had dropped to her lips and then she’d started giggling. 

Since then, there’s been a good deal more than giggling taking place in his sickbed.  Kisses and caresses, whispered assurances, promises for their future and questions, some necessary and very direct questions at last.      

No, he’s never had an affair with Arianne.  Where did she even hear that?  Ah, of course.  Well, at least Mrs. Royce has proven herself a friend in their current circumstances. 

He had mentioned a mistress.  Who was she?  How long ago?  (All of these questions had been asked whilst blushing furiously.)  Years ago, never an attachment of the heart.  More of a…

“Pleasurable pursuit?”

“Yes, that.” 

“Was she a…”

“No, she was a lonely widow, a few years older than me but still young.” 

“I see.” 

She bites at her lip and he can tell she’s not entirely pleased but she says nothing else of it.  He cannot undo the past but he can be honest with her at least.  That’s the kind of marriage he wants with his wife. 

“And there was never anything between you and Arianne?”

“No, Sansa.  Nothing more than me being infatuated with her at fifteen for a month or so.”

“I was younger than fifteen when you visited us at Winterfell.”

“Yes, but my heart had moved on within a fortnight and those feelings never resurfaced again even after years of acquaintance.  It was only a youthful infatuation for me, never love.  It was Aegon who…this is only for your ears.”

“Of course.”

“It is likely those rumors sprung to life due to her involvement with another Targaryen heir, the one I replaced upon his death.”

“Oh, poor Arianne.  Jon, I’m so sorry for doubting you.”

“Don’t be.  I must take the blame for I see now how I’ve been far too lax in my behavior when it comes to certain things, especially seeing Arianne alone.”

“You’re a man, not a young lady.  Our rules are not the same.”

“They are though, to some extent anyway…or they should be.  At least, I will promise never to give you doubt again.  I want us to be happily wed, Sansa.  No secrets, no silent tears or resentments like my parents.  For now, I can only say I’m sorry again.  I can only imagine how you’ve felt thinking I’ve been untrue.”

“It was horrible.  On top of worrying over you, I don’t think I’ve eaten more than a bite in days.” 

Her stomach rumbles to confirm it and they share a quiet laugh.  He kisses the tip of her nose and decides to satisfy his own curiosity.  “Were there ever any amours for you?”

“Surely, you know I’ve not…I’ve never…”

“No, I didn’t mean like that.  But was there another who threatened to usurp my place in your heart whilst I was far away?”

“Well, there was a farmer’s son who was quite kind.  His name was Podrick.”

“I hate him already.”

She laughs.  “No one could hate Podrick.” 

“I do, quite passionately.” 

“He never even kissed me.  We were far too young and shy for that and he wouldn’t have dreamt of being so bold with Mister Stark’s daughter.”

“I may let him live then.”   He punctuates the words with a kiss because he can.  “Who else?”

“Only a handsome lieutenant with dark hair and grey eyes like your own whose father was a friend of mine.  They stayed with us for a week before he went to join his regiment.  He picked some wild flowers and brought them to me as a parting gift.”

He starts to rise. 

“Jon?”

“I must go pick you some flowers at once.”

“You will not.”

He sighs dramatically and leans back into the pillows.  “I’m not sure all these bilious thoughts I’m having at the moment are good for a man in my condition.” 

She playfully swats his chest.  “He was rather full of himself and I only looked twice because he reminded me of you.”

“Well, that’s some relief at least.” 

They snuggle a little closer though he knows she cannot stay indefinitely.  Cook may be up before long to threaten him with a frying pan if he doesn’t allow the young lady to go.  Still, there is something else he wishes to ask. 

“Sansa…I don’t look quite the same as I did when I was younger, you know.” 

“I know.  I think you every bit as handsome though if not more so.”  

“Are you in need of spectacles?”

She gasps and then laughs.  “I see quiet clearly, thank you.  Perhaps as a younger girl I might’ve been mistaken with regards to a person’s character a time or two but I believe I see much clearer than some now and I see a handsome man who is a very good one, too.” 

Then, she’s tenderly brushing her hand along his sprouting whiskers.  He leans into her touch like an affectionate cat…until Cook shouts up the stairs that those who are well enough to keep company in their room this long are well enough to come down if they wish to eat.

"Lord Tarly is hungry and says he'll eat up all the soup without you if you don't show a leg...sir."

With a sour look towards the door, Jon rises then and helps his lady to her feet.  "Do you think Sam and Gilly have talked any whilst we have?" Sansa asks him, the matchmaker all alive with hope.

"Perhaps.  We shall see."

He'll have Halder drive the ladies back to Mister Manderly’s directly after their meal…or perhaps she’ll stay long enough to try out her pianoforte for him first. 

Chapter Text

Martell House, St. James's District

Another rainy day in late April and Sansa is finishing her morning toilette as there’s a quiet rapping upon her door. A maid enters with a letter which has managed to find its way to her here from Scotland.

She thanks the maid before eagerly breaking the seal, a grin rapidly overtaking her entire face. She’s been hoping for this news.

My Dear Miss Stark,

A scribble is all I have to give you this day (my hand will never be as neat as yours) but it is an affectionate scribble all the same and I send it along with our most sincere wishes for felicity in your own upcoming nuptials…

How Sansa’s heart thumps wildly at the reminder!

Her joy upon learning that Sam and Gilly had indeed been talking whilst she and Jon had done the same that day in his bedchamber had been the icing on the cake of her happiness. After days of fretting over Jon’s health and the heartache over her (completely false) belief he was involved in an ongoing affair with Arianne and worrying over Gilly’s unhappiness with her refusal of Lord Tarly’s offer, what could have been sweeter than to have sorted through everything with Jon and then to have found Lord Tarly chastely kissing Miss Wilde’s hand in Jon’s drawing room once they’d come to an understanding at last?

We arrived at our destination last Tuesday as planned but I was overjoyed to find that my lord had arranged for my beloved sister to be present as well! I believe I had mentioned her residing in Carlisle these past few years having taken a posting as a nursery maid and how I’ve missed her with no funds for either of us to make the journey to visit and apparently Sam...

Sansa smiles smugly as she continues reading. Sam had told her of his wish for Gilly to have some family present if possible even if they were eloping and she herself had given him the directions of where to reach the woman.

I was so happy to have my sister on one side and my lord on the other and only lament that you, the colonel and Sam's siblings couldn’t be present as well. (Though I fully understand that being in the same room with Dickon might’ve given rise to some awkwardness.)

Attending a wedding in Dickon’s company? Yes, that would be awkward perhaps though she’s received a very polite (though highly scratched-through) letter from Lieutenant Tarly.  She believes she will find it possible to forgive him for his ham-fisted proposal riddled with inquiries now that she is so sublimely happy herself but she can't say she relishes spending a good deal of time in his presence.

I believe we will make a tour of the highlands before settling at Horn Hill for a time in hopes that the gossips there will have had time to get over their shock at the news of our match. I still worry over what censure Sam faces for marrying so far beneath his rank as well as what it may mean for poor Talla and even Dickon's prospects for a match but I promise you I am happy and cannot express enough how thankful I am to you and the colonel for bringing my sweet lord into my life.

I look forward to seeing you again and knowing we will both be married ladies when we do.

Yours,

Lady Tarly

P.S. I just had to try out writing that title even though it still seems unbelievable that it is mine!

-Gilly

Sansa is grinning over the letter, emitting a bit of a squeal at the ending even, when she realizes the door to her room is still open and two someones are standing outside of it peering in.

“Did Uncle Jon send you a love note, Miss Stark?” Ellie asks.  The girl’s raven hair is hanging down in perfect ringlets. Might Jon give her a daughter with similar hair some day?

She flushes with pleasure at the thought and starts to shake her head when Olyvar pipes up.  “Will you tell him to bring Teak for me to ride today at last, Miss Stark? Please? He promised me ages ago.”

“It is not a letter from your uncle but it was a very happily received letter all the same. And that promise was made less than two months ago but I have it on good authority he will be riding Teak over when he pays a call here later and we may both put him in mind of his promise.  Shall we go down now?”

With that, she tucks Gilly’s letter away and ushers the Martell children to breakfast.

“I hope you’re comfortable in your room, my dear,” the children’s mother says a little later once they’ve returned to the nursery and it is only the two of them at table savoring the last of the pot of chocolate.

“Quite comfortable, my lady.”

“We’re soon to be sisters, Sansa. Pray call me Rhaenys.”

“With pleasure,” she says nodding as she ponders a sudden thought. “Did you know, though I’ve not been here all that long, yours is the fourth home I’ve stayed in since arriving here in London? I’d rather forget about my one night at Mister Baelish’s home but I suppose it counts.”

“I cannot blame you there but it does. Have you seen your aunt or her husband yet?"

"No, not yet but my aunt did send me her congratulations." 

It was an embarrassingly effusive letter with much exclaiming over Jon's wealth and praising Sansa's good fortune in snaring him.

'Ten thousand a year!! Yes, you were most wise to heed my advice and refuse Mister Bolton's offer in Bath...'

Aunt Lysa has a most remarkable memory for recalling only that which pleases her or even bending the truth to suit at times.  Sansa cannot forget the harsh accusation or slap received but it appears these things are non-existent in Lysa's mind now.  

'Even my late husband and your esteemed father could not boast as much wealth when Cat and I were wed!  I'm sure you'll do your best to keep him happy.  Men are simple, carnal creatures upon the whole and if you'll...' 

Sansa cringes at the very thought of Aunt Lysa giving any additional marital advice aloud or making a spectacle of herself when next they meet.  Unfortunately, it is possible since Lysa's letter stated she was most enthusiastic over seeing her wed the daring colonel as well as being reunited with her darling Edmure and sweet little niece Arya again. 

'...who must be getting on towards looking for her own match soon.  I would be most happy to guide her in...'

Sansa would love to be a fly upon the wall whenever Aunt Lysa attempts to 'guide' Arya in anything but, considering there were no words regarding their last harrowing exchange or Ramsay's demise, Sansa would place a bet, if she could ever be so unladylike as to bet on anything, that her aunt will attend the wedding, whether she's invited or not.  She can tolerate it for the sake of family harmony for who wants a row at their own wedding?

But one person will most certainly not be tolerated...

Continuing her answer to Rhaenys, Sansa says, "As for Mister Baelish, it seems he is not in town as we'd thought."  Jon had sent a letter himself stating that Mister Baelish is not welcome in his home.  Aunt Lysa has not replied to it but they're quite certain it was received.  

In truth, there are several rumors that Mister Baelish is in dire straights financially due to the money owed to Roose Bolton among others and that man is now most determined to collect without further mitigation.  He is probably avoiding London in order to avoid the sponging house. 

Sansa doesn't care about Mister Baelish beyond what it might mean for her aunt.  For all her hateful moods, she is still the late Catelyn Stark's sister and Sansa would be sorry to see Aunt Lysa reduced to penury due to some scheming on Mister Baelish's part.  At least her son by Lord Arryn and that man's heir, Sansa's young cousin Robin, is in the care of some relation of his father's and currently safe tucked away in Kent far from any nefarious plotting of his step-father. 

"I imagine you are eager to return to Jon’s home, especially as it will soon be yours.”

Rhaenys' statement causes her cheeks to grow warm, thinking not only of returning to Jon’s home for good but of moving into his bedchamber.  Her nervous tummy seems to do a flip at the thought and she cannot manage another drop of her chocolate.  

“I am. It will be something to be settled somewhere and feel like it’s really mine again. Ever since we left Winterfell, my brothers and sister and I have been orphans missing our home but it is to be Bran’s estate in a few years and, whilst I know I will always be welcome there, it doesn’t feel quite the same anymore with Mama, Papa and Robb gone.”

Rhaenys sighs with understanding and pats her hand.

“But now, I have a new place to belong and I'm both eager and nervous to take my place. Does that make sense? I hope I don’t sound as though I’m disparaging your hospitality.”

“It does make sense and I didn’t think so at all.”

With the arrival of a certain letter to Wylla’s hands at last, with profuse apologies from Jon to both ladies (all whilst feigning ignorance of any intelligence over said letter), and after a few calls paid between Mister Manderly’s home and Lady Arianne’s town residence, Wylla and that lady have decided to take a journey together along with Miss Wynafryd and another friend to Sun Tower, Lord Martell’s expansive country estate for a month.

“I’m so sorry to leave you this way, Sansa,” Wylla had said. “It’s quite unexpected but Arianne has asked if some time away from London might help us to see how we might agree for…to see if it would do my sister and I some good whilst Grandpapa and Papa deal with ridding the house of Freys.”

Thanks to the business with the duel, Wylla’s father has called off the betrothal between his elder daughter and that man which in turn may ultimately deal another blow to Mister Bolton and perhaps Mister Baelish by extension.  All the better.  

“No need for apologies, Wylla. I will miss you dearly but wish you every happiness on your journey…for all of you,” Sansa had said in reply and meant it.

She doesn’t know if she’ll ever be able to look at Lady Arianne without feeling some uneasiness, flickers of shame for her unfounded jealousy and for doubting him but then again, Jon has admitted it will be hard for him to meet with certain gentlemen knowing they have cast appreciative looks her way in the past.

“I am still ashamed of myself for looking askance at Trystane simply for being the most graceful of your dancing partners that night at your first ball. Even Garlan, who stood by me and who, without his timely warning, I might not be standing here at all, receives my silent ire when he is overly familiar with you.”

“He is not overly familiar in the slightest, colonel. You imagine these things.”

“He asked if he might trouble you for the salt over dinner the other night in the most particular tone even though he was sitting right beside you. I’m certain there was a hint of flirtation there.”

“Oh honestly, Jon!” she’d exclaimed, laughing.

Actually, Garlan Tyrell had been speaking to her but had had his eyes cut towards Talla Tarly, Sansa would swear.  Now, there would be a handsome match.  And Miss Margaery Tyrell had better not give Talla any grief if her elder brother decides to court the viscount's sister. 

However, Wylla’s departure following Gilly’s had meant that Sansa could not easily remain at Mister Manderly’s as they are no relation to one another despite the wide gap in their ages. The old gentleman had been quiet downcast when she’d left soon after Wylla two mornings ago.

“So, you’re off as well, eh, Miss Stark? Well, have a care for a lonely old man as you go. Until I’ve opened my refuge for the young society ladies escaping intolerable matches, which will be run shipshape and Bristol fashion, I assure you, I’ll be forced to drown my sorrows in lamprey pie at Brooks’.”

Sansa had given him a grand-daughterly kiss on the cheek in farewell, though they’re sure to see more of each other, and been wiping her eyes as the coach had driven her over to the Martells.

But not for long…

“Rhaenys?”

“Yes?”

“A week from now, I’ll be a married woman.”

Rhaenys’ delighted smile matches her own.

Arya and Edmure will arrive on Friday the 29th and then May the 1st will mark the third Sunday for the reading of the banns at church.  So long as her uncle, as her closest male relation who is of age, raises no objection to the match since Sansa is not yet one and twenty, which of course he will not, they will be married by special license in Jon’s drawing room the following day with an intimate crowd of family and the household staff present (and Ghost naturally) followed by a meal.  

And that night…

“What’s it like when you’re a new bride?”

“Beyond some silk and flowers and well wishes, you mean?” Rhaenys asks.

“Yes. I don’t mean marriage itself precisely. I had a good example of what a loving marriage was like in my parents and I know that it will be something we will both be feeling our way through and growing into, so to speak, for a good while. But, what I was referring to is that night when we are alone together…”

“Ah, I see.”

“Does it hurt like they say?” she whispers. 

Obviously, Jon cannot answer this question for her and neither could Gilly prior to her leaving for Scotland if Sansa had even worked up the nerve to ask.  She supposes Cook or Mordane would know but she would as soon ask Mister Manderly as either of them this particular question.  However; if Rhaenys is to be her older sister in a sense, why not ask her?  

“I will not lie.  It may hurt a little but not so terribly in my experience. Quentyn and I were both novices though so there was a good deal of fumbling but few tears and those were his, not mine.”

Sansa covers her mouth to stifle her laughter, cheeks blazing imagining Lord Martell walking in and overhearing these confidences being shared. She clears her throat and asks, “You were quite young, were you not?”

“I was your age.  For marriage, we were both a little younger than some, I suppose.  Most gentlemen must be in a suitable place to support a wife and their future family before looking to marry. But, we’d been intended for one another from the cradle, as I told you, and it was his father’s last wish to see us wed before he passed so there you go. But I don't think you need fret over any tears on your wedding night, Sansa. Jon will be gentle, I know, and I imagine he’ll have a better notion of what he’s about having more, um…experience than poor Quentyn did.”

She trails off with a fond smile, lost in some memory perhaps but Sansa feels a stab of jealousy and uncertainty at the reminder. It’s not that she'd expected a man nearing thirty to have remained chaste all this time considering the very different set of expectations men live under than ladies but she knows he's had one lover in his past at least who was no maiden. He’s promised to show her pleasure but can she ever hope to please him, she wonders.  There is a small, insecure little bit of her that fears him growing bored with a chaste little maidenly wife after reading Aunt Lysa's letter.  

Thankfully, as if Rhaenys can guess the bent of her troubled musings, her soon-to-be sister says, “Sansa, don’t put unnecessary expectations on yourself or any of it.  Be honest with him about what you find enjoyable and what you don't.  Learn from him but teach him, too.  Never be afraid to say what you wish about what occurs behind closed doors with your husband. A woman can certainly feel vulnerable during intimacies given the power placed in our husband's hands but, with the right partner, a man like Jon, I promise I don't believe you will.  And that is the best advice I can give, for what it's worth.”

She nods and finds herself smiling again. “I believe your words are worth a good deal and they are most appreciated.”

Two days later, Sansa arrives at the Redwynes’ home with the Martells in their coach and Jon is to meet them there. 

Paxter Redwyne won an astonishing amount of prize money during his years as a frigate captain and keeps what the ton considers the unfashionable hours of the navy for his dinners but Sansa cannot say her stomach will mind dining at five instead of seven or eight. 

“Which is far later than we dined aboard, miss,” the older man informs her when they arrive.

Given the large turnout, quite the crush for a dinner, she thinks other stomachs might agree with hers and find five a suitable hour for dining, certainly preferable to midnight like at a ball.  Perhaps the crowd is somewhat owing to the fact that Mrs. Redwyne is said to offer a most sumptuous table at these affairs as well. 

In addition to several of the young ladies present possibly being asked to sing or play (and Sansa has already said more than one silent prayer she won't be forced to fudge her way through any difficult passages if called upon to perform), there’s plans to view the lovely bluebells which cover their extensive enclosed garden like a carpet this time of year since there's still enough daylight. 

She’s excited at the prospect of Jon finding her amongst the flowers.  There’s been a crush of engagements to attend of late but little time for them to be alone.  Rhaenys has been quite firm about leaving one of the children or maids in the room with them at all times whenever she’s forced to quit it any time Jon has come to call ever since Sansa’s been residing under her roof.

“For God’s sake, Rhaenys, we’re to be married in a week,” Jon had grumbled yesterday. 

“And my lord and I will not be giving rise to any unwarranted rumors with regards to your lovely intended.  The gossips are busier than a flock of sheep amongst new grass as it is what with Lord Tarly’s elopement with Miss Wilde and your bloody duel.  Admittedly, most are charmed by how besotted you are with one another but let’s not add any fuel to the fire.  I’ve Ellie’s future place in society to consider as well, don’t I?”

“Of course, but…”

“And, if you’d been a little more cautious with regards to decorum in the past, brother, perhaps I wouldn’t feel the need to be so stringent now.”

“You know very well stopping Arianne from doing whatever Arianne wishes to do is a difficult feat.”

“Yes and yet you have spoken to her of that now at last.  However, there will be no unchaperoned visits to anyone’s sick beds on my watch.  A housekeeper seated in the hallway doesn’t count either.”

Sansa had blushed at the reminder as Jon’s eyes had narrowed dangerously.  But, when faced with his sister’s moral superiority in the matter and knowing how he’d filled her with such dread and painful memories with the duel, he’d bitten off a ‘Fine’ and complained no more of her rigid rules.  In revenge though, he'd taken Olyvar out galloping in the park on Teak which had delighted the child and left the mother more than a little vexed.  

So, no stolen kisses or breathless embraces like they’d managed a time or two when she’d been at Mister Manderly’s but Sansa doesn’t truly mind Rhaenys’ stringency.  While she does very much enjoy those kisses and embraces and longs for more, it’s less than a week until the wedding.  After being the subject of unkind speculation for a time, she looks forward to being his wife and hopefully far beyond the reach of the sort of scandal that plagues young unmarried girls before long. 

However, she was hoping that today at least, among the bluebells, they might find a few minutes together without anyone else hanging on their every word. 

Alas, it doesn’t look promising when the moment Jon enters with barely more than a ‘hello’ exchanged, Quentyn is ushering him into Mister Redwyne’s study where some parliamentary debate is heating up.  (And there is cigar smoke wafting out of that room…before dinner!  With ladies present!)

Sansa's lips are pursed as he disappears within and hears a huff from Rhaenys.  Thinking her huff is due to her husband's abduction of Jon and abandonment of the ladies, she turns but no, that doesn't seem to be it. 

There's a very elegant-looking woman standing across the room staring coolly back at Rhaenys.  Though in her middling years, she's unquestionably beautiful with thick blonde hair and green eyes and wearing an exquisite gown of gold and crimson.  Sansa wonders who she might be.  Her face is familiar.  There's something in her air which states very plainly this woman is not to be trifled with and Sansa glances down at her own dress, made by her own hand.  It is pretty, a lovely blue but looks quite homespun, fit for a country assembly rather than London, by comparison.   

But the lady turns to berate her escort, a younger man with similar looks, about something when Rhaenys takes Sansa by the elbow.  "Let's go and find Mrs. Redwyne, my dear."  

Before she can asks Rhaenys anything about the woman, they are met by Mrs. Royce who is also seeking their hostess out on the veranda with the bulk of her guests.  Mrs. Royce manages to whisper that Redwyne was one of the several eager mamas hoping Colonel Targaryen might take note of her daughter this Season but there appears to be no falsity in her congratulations when they are introduced. 

“A May wedding, simply marvelous.  You’ll make a beautiful bride, Miss Stark,” the lady says before introducing her to Desmera Redwyne, the daughter in question, who is of an age with Sansa. 

"Your guest list is particularly extensive this evening, Mina," Rhaenys comments in a particular tone.

"Yes, I know.  Mister Redwyne's business affairs demand it," the lady replies apologetically as the mysterious lady in question appears on the veranda.  

Whatever is that about?  

But Rhaenys sniffs and turns to another acquaintance when the woman approaches Mrs. Redwyne and Sansa is soon distracted by the younger lady.

Leaving the older women behind, she and Miss Redwyne head into the garden and join a group of other young ladies amongst the bluebells where they fall into an amiable discussion regarding the latest fashions from Paris.  One of the girls, Sansa regrets she didn’t catch her name during the multiple and rapid introductions, has a new doll straight from there displaying what is au courant for sleeves and every girl present takes note of what she says.

“Mama says as soon as peace seems assured, if there’s no more wicked tricks from Boney, she’ll take me there to buy my trousseau.”

“Oh, have you become engaged and I’ve missed it, Cella?!” Miss Redwyne asks, eagerly. 

They all lean forward to hear what the lovely blonde will say, Sansa notes.  She feels a touch of satisfaction knowing she no longer needs to worry over finding herself a suitable match and, unlike many here, hers is actually a love match, that rare thing, and promises to be a happy one. 

But more of her feels sympathy for these girls, knowing that nervous eagerness all too well, and she wonders if any of them would like to know Mister Manderly’s name in case their parents are considering horrid matches on their behalf. 

The young lady in question giggles and shakes her head.  “Not yet but that doesn’t seem to deter Mama any.  There’s dressmakers to be visited in Paris along with vineyards in the countryside so we shall sail!”  All the girls giggle at that and Sansa joins them.  “Though for my part, I’ll admit I just wish to see something of that city.  All the notable places I’ve read of in books, you understand.”

Sansa nods, understanding the young lady’s wishes very well.  Oh, to be able to travel to the Continent without fear of capture or mistreatment.  For all her life, barring one short stint of peace, England has been at war.  What a thing to live in a world with peace at last!  She glows with happiness at the thought.

And as she’s glowing, she becomes strangely conscious of the fact she’s being watched.  It's like a shiver in the night, a coldness creeping up on her.  There are eyes on her.  Perhaps more than one set.  No, that's impossible.  Who else would stare at her but Jon?

Sure enough, she turns and there he is having just escaped his host’s smoky study if not his company.  There is no chill or coldness in his eyes.  She's glad she may see them both as he’s left his eyepatch off.  She hopes it's a sign that he's come to realize he doesn't need it and what with it being unseasonably warm out this afternoon, quite humid.  She knows how it itches him at times.

He looks ravishing but bored to tears at present as Mister Redwyne and three other gentlemen are speaking in booming voices around him.  One quick exchange is enough to convince her that these gentlemen may be incapable of agreeing on so much as the color of an orange.  

She gives Jon a private, sympathetic smile and he rolls his eyes playfully just for her before being pressed for his opinion on some matter by his companions. His sweet lips curl up so fetchingly and she recalls the press of them against her temple, her wrist, her palm and her lips.    

“He must love you very much,” Cella, the blonde, says wistfully.

Sansa feels herself blushing.  She hadn’t realized their exchanged glances had been observed by others.  

“We were there at Almack’s that night.  I’ve never seen a man fly into such a passion over his lady being in danger.  It was like something out of a novel,”  Cella says with a sigh and the other girls sigh with her. 

In spite of the unpleasantness that night, Sansa supposes to those with a romantic disposition (in other words, those like herself), there is something to be said for gentlemen flying into a passion over their ladies. "It was a bit, wasn't it?  Though I thoroughly disapprove of the dueling..."

No one else seems to disapprove though for they start asking her of their upcoming wedding instead.  

“Oh, I didn’t expect them to show their faces here tonight,” another young lady says at one point and all eyes turn away from where Jon is standing to the other side of the veranda.

Sansa’s jaw drops when she sees Dickon has arrived with Talla.  She knew he was to return to town since, with Sam’s absence, his sister would be quite alone but she hadn’t expected to see them tonight either.  Talla had not mentioned it at dinner the other night.  Perhaps it was a last minute decision to attend.  Talla had confessed there'd been more than a few wry looks and whispered remarks after Sam had left town with Gilly.  

So, when Sansa hears yet another young lady in their circle whispering and some more appearing on the side of judgment against the Tarlys simply for being related to a lord who chose his heart over what society expects, she makes a firm decision. She calls out to them both and welcomes them over, cutting off any brewing gossip at once.  Sam and Gilly don't deserve to be outcasts for falling in love.  Dickon and Talla certainly don't deserve it either by association.  

Talla looks most grateful and Dickon, though a little more wary of her, gives her an appreciative smile as they join the group, welcomed by Desmera and Cella.  

“I hear congratulations are in order, Miss Stark,” he murmurs quietly at one point when the other young ladies are telling Talla of the latest news from Paris regarding sleeves.  “I hope you know that I sincerely wish you and the colonel every happiness.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” she says easily, smiling when she notice Garlan Tyrell making his way over to greet Talla.  “I hope you shall find a match which brings you as much joy someday.” 

It’s terribly easy to forgive trifling transgressions when you’re so happy.

But a rumble of thunder in the far-off distance gives Sansa another sense of foreboding, that creeping chill again. 

It's absolutely ridiculous for here is Jon, his hands skimming her bare arms in a very husbandly fashion as he approaches their group from behind.

"Ladies...Lieutenant," he says politely but without much warmth.  It's enough.  

Dickon bows to Jon and returns his attention to Miss Cella...well, whoever she is.  She's Cella for now.

Jon takes the opportunity to lead her a few feet way from the others into the bluebells.  

"I believe we may be in for a ducking," she says, heart racing at the intensity of his stare when he turns to face her.  It is quite humid, isn't it?  She feels flushed all over. 

Is he upset by Dickon's appearance?  Or by her friendliness towards the two Tarlys?

No, not at all.  He's grinning when he says, "A ducking?  You've been spending a good deal of time with that old sailor, haven't you?"

She blushes and nods, walking a few more steps into the wooded part of the garden, a precious few minutes to themselves even if others are a stone's throw away.  "It's beautiful here, almost magical.  The way the grey twilight makes the flowers almost glow.  One could nearly forget they're in a city such as London."

“I agree.  I think we've stepped through some portal to another time or land.  Your dress and eyes may put these flowers to shame though.  Look how they hang their heads.  May I enter your fairy realm, Titania?”

She loves how he always plays along with her romanticism.  "I am not she,” she says, grinning. 

“Are you certain?  You look ethereal to me, darling girl.”

“But then that might make you my Oberon and I’m not entirely enchanted by his character.”

“Too true.  A happier marriage for us and I’ll leave my theatrical comparisons behind.” 

She steps closer, daring to draw as near as decorum will allow.  Her nose crinkles up the next instant.  "I'd rather you leave cigars behind in the future.  I do not care for the smell of them."

"My lady has spoken and I will do my best to obey.  In return, I'll ask a favor..."

"Oh?"

"I hope you have no great desire to host dinners this large in the future, at least not regularly.  I'm wondering if I'll even snatch more than a crumb of your attention this evening."

"I have no great desire to host such expansive affairs if they'll draw us apart for more than a handful of minutes and you'll have more than a crumb of my attention, colonel, I'm quite sure."  

His hand clasps her, brings it up between them for a discreet kiss which makes her toes curl in her slippers.  Her tummy is knotted up in anticipation of their wedding and their wedding night with every passing second. 

"And when we are forced to entertain guests, my love, I hope we can leave Cersei Baratheon off the invitation list even if you are getting along well with her daughter."

Sansa had been so bewitched by the press of his lips to her hand and her flurry of reactions to it that it takes her a moment to catch that last bit.  "I beg your pardon, sir?"  

Chapter Text

Thunder rumbles the window panes hurrying the dinner party indoors and away from the spring flowers. Some silly chit is screeching over it and Redwyne’s waxing on about how the great guns aboard Royal Sovereign at Trafalgar could put the heavens to shame. The other sailors present touch wood in the face of such reckless hubris.

However, their hosts’ reputation for grand dinners is well earned and Jon has already heard there are to be twenty dishes offered tonight. His stomach roils slightly in contemplation of the excess (no one will ever accuse Jon Targaryen of digging his grave with his spoon) but it is the expected variety of excess amongst their set. He would gladly exchange places with Wyman Manderly tonight and eat his beef between two slices of bread like Montagu with his ‘sandwich’ though he would likely forgo the gaming.

Better to retire to the country and host dinners for three, just Sansa, Ghost and I. Or perhaps it could be a party of four…or more.

He smiles at the prospect of children whereas once he had not given it much thought at all. Sansa, willowy and exquisitely lovely, is in close conference with Rhaenys over something when she feels his eyes upon her again. He tries to picture her growing round with his child and knows, with God’s blessing, he may only need a little patience to see the imagining a reality.

She raises an eyebrow at his staring and he feels himself blushing like a boy for contemplating such matters in company and glances away again.

Another rumble of thunder but no rain so far. Sansa is probably right with regards to them being in for a ducking. He hopes it will not slow the journey home too much. Poor Halder up on the box.

It is well that Redwyne enjoys dining early at least. Hours will pass between their arrival until it is time to depart; eating and conversing at table through the various courses with the ladies retiring to the drawing room to gossip and embroider once the sweets and nuts are consumed whilst the gentlemen linger over their port.

It’s likely that those wretched cigars may be brought back out since Redwyne is so enamored of them.  At least, they will not be smoked in the vicinity of the ladies this time. The political debate in the study earlier was rather tedious but Redwyne is a Member as well as some of the other gentlemen present.  They hope to cajole Jon into considering stepping in someday when Darry steps down from the seat Jon's grandfather held once upon a time but parliament holds little appeal to Jon and those cigars won't sway him any in their favor.  

After port and conversation which will run from mindlessly dull to disgracefully bawdy depending upon the mood of the company (and how much port is consumed), the gentlemen will reunite with the fairer sex where there will be tea and cards as well as some of the young ladies being asked to entertain. Then, more tea before time to depart, no doubt.

Enough tea to drown a Frenchman and all I want is to return to the bluebells with her.

When dinner is announced, the doors to the large dining room are opened to reveal the highly polished table which can easily accommodate two dozen (Jon feels queasy at the very notion of hosting such a gathering himself), and Rhaenys, as the highest ranking female present, is asked to lead everyone in by their host.

Quentyn, as an earl, will accompany their hostess to table next where they’ll be accorded the seats to the right of the two Redwynes. Naturally, they’ll be at opposite ends of that long table like their hosts as married couples never sit side-by-side at these affairs, the logic being that they see more than enough of one another as it is. By the by, Jon doesn’t care for that logic.

Another argument in favor of avoiding too much of society once we marry.

However, as a courting couple, which they still are for a few more days, Jon knows he may sit beside Sansa for which he is exceedingly grateful. He does not doubt her affections or constancy but nor does he wish to watch her sit next to some bachelor who may attempt to practice his charms on Jon’s lady.

The two lead couples are followed in due order by the other ladies present, all of which are mindful of their place in society’s pecking order; ladies of title first, followed by the married women who outrank the unmarried and then the elders outranking the younger ones with personal wealth and status playing its own little role before the gentleman follow a similar system for filing in.

The army has nothing on the ton when it comes to these inflated protocols and its potential pitfalls. There’s no question that a lieutenant outranks an ensign or a general outranks a colonel but does a widow living on a pension and merely one step ahead of her creditors outrank an unmarried girl half her age with a dowry of thirty thousand? Someone could tell you, Jon is certain, and woe betide those who attempt to usurp rank.

As an unmarried young lady of little fortune, Sansa is one of the last of the girls to walk in and thus, Jon finds himself escorting her to dinner, much to his delight.

They share a secret smile with the knowledge they may spend the coming hour or so in close contact. Jon will serve her at table (as gentlemen are expected to serve any ladies in their immediate reach) and he looks forward to that. Their hands may twine together beneath the cloth and he even thinks of pressing his booted foot against her slipper-shod one. Ah, the simple but titillating pleasures of courtship.

“Say there, Targaryen! My wife’s asking you to sit at her left, didn't you hear?” Paxter Redwyne booms across the room when they are shuffling along towards the center of the table.

Jon blinks momentarily, not expecting to be singled out by their hostess for that honor. He glances Mrs. Redwyne’s way to see that the far quieter lady is indeed nodding and smiling and indicating the chair to her left.

He also sees Sansa biting at her lip, no doubt questioning whether she may sit so high up as an unmarried girl even if they are engaged.

Jon has no such questions.  Quite decided on the matter, he thanks Mrs. Redwyne and takes Sansa by the arm, steering her towards those seats.

“Oh wait, Jon,” she murmurs when they notice a lady is already seated to the left of his intended chair.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters for the lady is Cersei Baratheon. He will not spend the next hour or more sitting next to her.

What is she doing there? Oh, of course. Despite her rank, she does not choose to sit close to Paxter, as would be her usual place, since Rhaenys is there.  He does not know all the comings and goings of the latest gossip but he knows, just as Cersei reportedly despised Jon's mother when they were younger, Rhaenys despises her.  

The lady in question looks his way…and smirks. Quite against his will, his hand starts to drift up to cover his scarred eye. He’s not been wearing his eyepatch in company ever since Sansa told him quite firmly to remove it but his deep-seated insecurities assail him with the memories of the last time he was in this particular woman’s close company.  He doesn’t wish to be made a laughingstock in front of Sansa. He has his pride. And, it’s not as if he can call Cersei out for a duel and, even if her barbed tongue may run unchecked, he would be considered a brute, which is likely already the case after the affair at Almack’s, if he retaliated in kind.

He feels Sansa’s hand upon his forearm, pressing it downward. “You need not fear her,” she whispers.

He glances her way and sees those blue eyes dancing with sparks. Oh dear. He may not need fear an attack on his pride so much as an assault launched by his lady.

But will Cersei insist on remaining in that seat, separating him and Sansa? He can't very well knock her out of it, can he?  She is a prideful woman and he does not know if she will readily give up her place to Sansa. He also knows that, since Sansa now knows who she is, a scene may be brewing.

It would be something if we might avoid a scene after I caused that rather unfortunate one at Almack’s.

They had spoken of her in the garden before coming indoors and agreed they would both avoid her if possible.  

"Courtesy is a lady's armor and that will be our refrain, sir...so long as she doesn't test me."

He probably should've considered that addendum more thoroughly.  

Cersei eyes them both disdainfully before rising and moving to the other side of the gentleman on her left, her young cousin Lancel Lannister.  He supposes whatever the kerfuffle was regarding her and her twin brother has resulted in Lancel escorting her about rather than Sir Jaime.  She hasn't been seen out with Mister Baratheon in ages now as that man is rumored to be lingering on his deathbed with syphilis.

“I'll move down, Lancel.  Those beastly scars put me off my appetite so I believe being seated to your left would be preferable,” she murmurs just loud enough for Jon to catch every word. “I should hate to miss out on the roasted partridge pie simply because some have no thought to his fellow diner’s digestion.”

Her cousin snorts rudely and Jon wishes he wasn’t rendered so easily mortified by this woman’s biting words. Sansa loves him regardless of his looks and Cersei is only being vicious because it pleases her to be so.  Her razor sharp tongue is regarded as the height of wit by most of the ton...until it's turned on them.  He must conquer this insecurity but that may be easier said than done.

“Yes, it would be a great pity if you choked on your partridge pie and deprived us of any more of your shrewish venom,” Sansa replies, matching Cersei’s volume precisely whilst her eyes look as though they might cut through steel.

Cersei’s nostrils flare just as Sansa’s head tilts to the side in challenge.  They regard one another with matching glares. Strangely enough, Jon’s early fencing lessons come to mind though they were less bloody than this threatens to turn.

En guard!

A slow, slow staring where neither blinks.  Someone will.  Someone must.  He must admit he hopes it isn't Sansa. 

And, it isn't. 

Cersei looks away first but not before making a snide remark about country fashions and how delightful it must be to be as industrious as a cottager's wife with one's needle to the table in general. 

A few women titter uncertainly, eyeing Sansa's dress which he knows she made with her own hands.  But it's beautiful and becoming and she's so lovely in it.  His lady has expressed some fears of not being posh enough for London and it's so like Cersei to find the chink in one's armor. 

Jon gives Sansa's elbow a reassuring squeeze, pulling back her chair and meaning to say a word about how radiant she looks but she's actually smirking and looks amused by Cersei's attempt to disarm her.

Of course, Cersei doesn't give up easily.  "Lancel, if you catch a whiff of the barnyard, I've heard that it's nearly impossible to get away from sheep in the country.  It simply clings to some."

"Your bluebells are so magnificent, Mrs. Redwyne," Sansa says to their hostess as if she missed the jab.  But she continues with, "It gave me a sense of being in the country again.  The country air is so widely lauded.  London can be a bit of a shock to the nose by comparison."  Their hostess nods and smiles.  "And, I'll admit I do miss seeing the sheep, delightful creatures in their way.  I've only seen one discontented old cow here."

Prêtes?

Lancel Lannister’s throat bobs uncomfortably as both ladies take their seat on either side of him. 

Do you feel a little like a small neutral country caught between two enemies, sir? Christ, why am I so ludicrously stirred by my lady's ire?

Still, he must protect his darling girl from folly. “She may have fallen out of favor with Lady Jersey of late but she could still ruin you in the eyes of many if she chose to,” he murmurs quietly in her ear. “That's why Mrs. Redwyne is tolerating her.  Her father is a taciturn man, friends with the Minister, who holds grudges easily along with a good deal power."

"Power over you?"

"Well...no, not at all but it's probably best to let things lie.  I’m not worth any trouble for you.”

Sansa smiles at him, that amused smile again that tells him very plainly he knows nothing when it comes to a battle of wills between two women and would he please remember his place. 

“Ruin me?” she queries in that same curiously quiet but carrying tone. “Why, I’m to be married to you quite soon, am I not? Pray tell, how am I to be ruined in any manner that matters to me then, sir? It’s not as though anyone is going to catch me lying abed with my brother.”

There’s a hurriedly stifled gasp from Mrs. Redwyne. And maybe Jon gasped, too.  Was that the rumored kerfuffle?!  Good God, her own brother?!  He'll at least allow Cersei's got balls of brass to still be going out in company with her head held high if so but she'd probably say a lion has little use for the opinions of sheep. 

Across from Jon, Quentyn must cover his mouth to hide his laughter though his quaking shoulders betray him. Lancel Lannister begins shoveling in spoonful after spoonful of soup with all the grace of a wherryman even though the blessing has not yet been asked.  It seems a poor attempt to appear he isn't truly there.  

Cersei is shooting daggers with her eyes at Sansa but is rendered silent for once.  Her eyes narrow and she turns that blonde head towards Rhaenys at the far end of the table next.  His sister raises a glass in mocking salute to that lady before giving Sansa a more earnest one.  The gesture is returned.

Allez!

Jon feels more than a little conscious over provoking this scene and is undoubtedly touched by Sansa's protectiveness.  And, when she’s meeting his eyes with that blue fire still raging in hers and says, “You are absolutely worth any amount of trouble to me, colonel,” it takes every ounce of restraint and long ingrained manners to keep him from sweeping her into his arms right there at the Redwynes' table and kissing her heartily.  

The thunder rumbles and rolls and yet the threatened rain is only beginning to patter down in fat, scattered drops, here and there.  Soon, the heavens will open up. 

Jon lovingly places Sansa’s cloak around her shoulders as they make their way through the crush of bodies near the door.  He’s tempted beyond words to lean in and kiss her cheek but that wouldn't be proper here, would it?   

Still, he cannot resist leaning in and her fragrance reminds him of those bluebells from earlier.  He wishes he could’ve returned her to them after dinner.  The twilit wood, Sansa surrounded by flowers, her red hair lying on a carpet of them as she gazed up at him with darkened eyes. 

Your thoughts will soon be turning salacious, sir.

Too late.

How can he help it with such a woman as his?

Cersei and her cousin sweep past them pretending they don’t exist but Myrcella stops to bid Sansa a goodnight and the three of them exchange curtsies and bow before the girl must scurry to catch her mother. 

They step outside to wait for their respective coaches as Quentyn is helping Rhaenys into her cloak.  Sansa shivers slightly no sooner than they are outside, just beyond the pool of the lantern and candlelight flooding the walk from the brightly lit hallway.

“Are you alright, darling girl?”

“Yes, I just…”  Her eyes peer out into the night though they’re still a little dazzled from the interior.  “I had the oddest feeling I was being watched earlier this afternoon in the garden.  You were looking my way but it felt like there was another and the feeling is upon me again.”

Concerned, Jon studies their surroundings.  He sees nothing but that which he expects to see.  And his eyes are just as night blind as hers at the moment.  “Perhaps, it’s the tension of the evening.  Soon, it will bleed off.” 

There is a thick tension in the sky above reflecting the drawing room they’ve recently left behind though truly everything appeared quite polite once the gentlemen arrived.  The cards were brought out and the entertainments had scarcely begun (only Miss Tarly and Miss Baratheon had had the opportunity to perform) when a shockingly loud thunder clap had the assembly agreeing to depart earlier than planned. 

“I wish you both could’ve arrived earlier to behold Sansa’s triumph!” Rhaenys says, joining them and giggling like a girl as they await their coaches. 

“Really, Rhaenys.  There was little triumph to it.”

“But there are so few of us who are willing to speak up to her, Sansa.  You made me most proud.”

“Thank you but perhaps there are so few because there are few who feel safe enough in their position to do so.  I shouldn't have spoken to her again after dinner but I could not tolerate her speaking ill of our hosts’ daughter.”

“Yes, poor Desmera.  As if a freckled countenance is some great sin.  I hope she’ll tell her mother of it so perhaps we’ll have no more of Cersei’s unpleasant company here.  Regardless, your words will set tongues to wagging in many a parlor come the morrow.  I’d wager even Miss Margaery Tyrell will be stepping lightly around you in the future when she hears of it.”

“My mother might be ashamed of me for speaking so heatedly in company.”

“Oh tosh.  It was brilliant!”

“I did feel bad for Myrcella though who seems perfectly sweet despite her horrid mother.”

“I think she’s well aware of her mother’s horridness and how it may hamper her efforts to find an agreeable match…one that isn’t all her grandfather’s orchestration.”

“True.  But did you note how Lieutenant Tarly stood by her after his sister’s performance to turn the music?”

The two ladies exchange knowing smiles before Rhaenys says, “I can only imagine how well the mother would favor a match between her beloved daughter and a second son.” 

“Well, I would hate for Gilly to be related to that woman even by marriage.”

“Alright, ladies.  There’s our coach so I suggest you continue your matchmaking plots once we’re within,” Quentyn says good-naturedly as Jon’s own coach comes into view.

It is fully Jon’s intention to escort Sansa to the Martells' coach and then climb into his. 

However, just as they begin down the path, the heavens do indeed open up at last.  A startled but delighted little shriek from Sansa has him chuckling as he hurries them towards shelter as fast as his limp will allow through the sudden deluge. 

They reach his coach first as Halder has pulled nearer the walk.  Jon opens the door and sees Sansa’s momentary uncertainty before a lightning flash has her clambering inside.  Knowing how stringent Rhaenys has been with regards to propriety of late, he glances over his shoulder in time to see Quentyn and Rhaenys rushing past him.

“Just make sure you deliver her to our doorstep at once!” is the only admonishment he receives. 

He directs Halder where to go and then climbs in after her, heart thumping and overwhelmed with joy to find himself truly alone with his lady for the first time since he’s recovered from his duel. 

“Jon…more of that.” 

He can feel how hot her face burns as she speaks but he won't have her feeling ashamed.  She's to be his wife and he means to teach his wife all manner of delights.  

Outside the tempest rages but here they are alone and bathed in the small lantern’s glow with the curtains drawn.  It’s damp, a little steamy but he’s not complaining.  He can hear Halder occasionally calling out to the team but that doesn’t quite seem real.  There is only Sansa and himself.

Her breath hitches as he keeps suckling at her ear.  Her hands are inside his coat, trying to feel his fevered skin through his waistcoat.  He’s lucky to have no abundance of fabric blocking him.  His hand is cupping her breast where it has wound its way down the front of her pretty gown.  She arches her back, eager for more of his touch.  

Her nipple is a taunt little pebble begging for his mouth.  He tells her of it.

“You’re a wicked man, colonel,” she says, her tone betraying more curiosity than shock. 

“Quite…but only for you, my love.”  He allows his other hand to trail down to her hip where she’s pressed against him.  “Perhaps we’re allowed to be a little wicked with one another.”

He grasps a handful of her skirts and then another, pulling, tugging the muslin up, up and away from the floor of the coach.    

“Is this merely passion, sir?” she asks, harkening back to that reckless couple at the Martells’ ball.  Her eyes have turned the deepest, darkest blue he’s ever seen.  He thinks the thunderstorm has left her feeling a little reckless as well.  

“No, not merely passion.  This is passion but we’re also madly in love.”  How soft and happy she looks gazing back at him with those words. 

“We must be that to run such risks.”

“But soon we’ll be your happily married couple and no stones will we fear together.  Sansa…I cannot tell you how much it meant earlier when you stood up to Cersei for me.”

“Well…” she says as a mischievous grin appears.  “If you cannot put something into words, sir, why don’t you show me with actions instead?”

There had been no pretense of him sitting opposite of her.  No pretending they weren’t going to make the most of this opportunity.  Weeks of nothing but the merest chaste kisses on the hand or cheek.  He burns for her.  A kiss, a caress and a whimper from her had set his pulse to racing. There’s a fire in their blood, a thundering in their hearts, a howling longing filling them both inside the close confines of his coach as it plods along the streets of London bogged down by weather and others heading home from their own engagements. 

How long do they have?  Not long enough.  And yet, Jon’s got plans.  He’s promised to teach her something of pleasure, hasn’t he? Why not begin a few days shy of their nuptials?  He cannot think of a better way to bleed off any lingering tension from the dinner party after all.  

Skirts out of the way, his hand finds her stockinged knee and then her thigh.  She stiffens a little with nerves and he promises this will not hurt.  A long exhale and she spreads her legs a touch, her eyes liquid as she watches his progress. 

His fingers drift upwards, upwards until he fumbles past a bit of silk and touches her folds. She’s unbelievably warm there and he’d love nothing more than to sink inside that delightful warmth on a rainy night.  Gently, he probes, softly petting the downy hair that covers her sex, easing her thighs apart.

“Is this alright, Sansa?”

She’s flushing but there's desire in her voice when she replies, “Yes, Jon.”   

Tracing her slit, he begins circling her little bud.  He kisses her, feels her relaxing even more.  Some pressure, just enough, and she’s throwing her head back and clawing at his shoulder, anticipating a release.  “Oh-oh, yes…please.” 

“I love the sweet way you say please, darling girl.  But does it feel good?”

“Yes…please.”

The little minx.  “Have you touched yourself like this before, Sansa?” he asks, his voice so thick with want, heady at the thoughts of Sansa touching herself, maybe doing that for him to watch at some point.

Feebly, she nods this time, unable to speak.  Her legs spread farther apart. 

He lets his thumb stroke her pearl now as he carefully slips his finger inside, just barely to his knuckle.  He promised it wouldn’t hurt. God, she's tight and he'll have to take care on their wedding night.  

“I’m going to touch you here…but not just with my hand.”

He pulls it away, the demon in him set to cackle at how disappointed she looks until he pops his finger into his mouth. She gasps but then her eyes turn nearly black as she watches him suck her honey off his finger.  

“Mrs. Redwyne’s cook is quite accomplished but I found her pastries a little dry.  This delightful dish appears to be far more moist and sweet.”

She snorts, half-shocked and half-aroused by his words, but then moans when he cups her sex again and kisses her mouth. 

He pulls his hand back just as her hips had started to buck in time with his gentle pumping, his finger advancing just a little further and his thumb working her into a frenzy.  Another frustrated whimper so he gives her a taste of her own honey. 

With heavily-lidded eyes, she sucks his finger and the most obscene desires fill him.  He nips at her throat with his teeth and tells her everything he wishes to do to her.   

"But not tonight.  The ride won't last long enough for all of that.  But may I make you peak, Sansa?  Would you enjoy that?  I want to see it more than anything."

"Yes, please.  Touch me, touch me," she says breathlessly.  "I want it...I want us both to have our dessert."  

Smirking like a fiend at her turn of phrase, he licks his lips with intent and slides down into the floor at Sansa’s feet. He inhales, drowns in her scent.  He huffs a breath against her heated flesh and she grasps wildly at the seat cushion, then his shoulders, then his hair.

“That's right.  Use me however you wish.  Wrap your legs around my shoulders, my love,” he murmurs before he swipes his tongue fully along her folds.   

“Oh!”

“But there’s one little rule,” he adds, nuzzling at her sex and then lazily circling her nub with his tongue. 

“What?” she says, a tiny whisper.

“Let’s see if you can keep quiet enough so that Halder won’t know what we’ve been about, hmm?”

The hum makes her reply in kind.  Then, she giggles like a naughty girl. 

And, when he begins lapping at her along with his hand applying the pressure she desires, it's good that the night is so stormy outside their little cocoon.  Hopefully, the coachman cannot hear his lady's cries of pleasure. 

Once they arrive at the Martells' a short time after Sansa has sagged contentedly into the seat, humming somewhat dreamily, he prays Halder will only contribute their flushed faces and rumpled clothes to their earlier race through the rain.

Chapter Text

When Sansa and Rhaenys arrive at Jon’s on Friday, they find his other expected guests have not yet appeared but he is not alone. Mister Manderly has come to pay a call which suits Sansa very well having missed the old gentlemen the past week.

Of course, Rhaenys cannot resist another retelling of Sansa’s triumphs from the Redwyne’s drawing room, especially her defense of Miss Desmera Redwyne who Cersei had cruelly compared to the proverbial silk purse from a sow’s ear to some friend of hers and been overheard by the young lady in question and Sansa.

“Then, Cersei said for a groom to overlook all those freckles, her father might have to return to prize-taking and double her dowry or force one of his subordinates to marry her as an act of duty.”

“By God, she didn’t say that of the poor girl and right under the nose of her mother, did she?!” Mister Manderly exclaims, his tea cup tottering perilously upon his knee.

“Would you doubt that woman capable of it, sir?”

“No, my lady. She’s made more than a few barbs at my expense as you may know.”

“You, Mister Manderly? Oh, that’s horrible.”

“Said I was sent to the navy as a lad rather than the army because I was probably already too fat to sit a horse…which was not true then, I’ll have you know.”

“She’s simply unpardonable,” Rhaenys says with a sympathetic nod for Manderly.

“What a fine sewing circle the pair of them could form,” Jon murmurs under his breath.

Sansa checks any amusement she feels at his words for fear of Mister Manderly thinking she’s laughing over his mistreatment but Jon catches her eye and her lips quiver with stifled laughter.

“And then Sansa told that puffed-up, braying bit-”

“Rhaenys.”

She narrows her dark eyes at her brother’s warning tone but continues. “Sansa told her, ‘I think freckles are quite charming, having a few of my own. I find them far more pleasing to the eye than a twisted, ugly sow filled with bilious insults no matter what fine silks it parades about in.’”

“Oh, jolly good, Miss Stark!” Mister Manderly says with much enthusiasm.

“Where are those freckles of yours hiding, darling girl?” he whispers. She knows she’s blushing when he promises to find every single one soon. “And kiss them.”

Rhaenys, perhaps sensing the nature of Jon’s whispers, gives him a stern look and huffs at his cheeky smile. Halder’s wooden nod the other night hadn’t given Sansa any clue to what he may have heard but she fears Rhaenys suspects them of some misconduct in the coach.

Deciding to ignore her brother, she prattles on about how Cersei had been practically spitting like a mad cat when Sansa had pointedly turned her back on her and continued conversing with the younger girls as if nothing had occurred.

She doesn’t regret defending the lady but she knows she’s made an enemy of Mrs. Baratheon beyond a doubt now. It was never her intention to start a feud but, when someone is intentionally unkind to a person she loves, as was the case with Jon, she cannot leave that to one side so easily.

At least, we are not facing one another with pistols or anything like it.

Of course, women stew in their resentments and plot their revenges as readily as men do and they can aim their poisoned darts with deadly effect at times.

Just then, Ghost gives a bark and Kyra, who’s been put on the watch by Mordane, alerts the household of an approaching carriage. Drawing room skirmishes forgotten, Sansa rushes to the maid’s side at the window, half tempted to throw it open and shout out greetings before recalling that it’s certainly unladylike to shout from windows. Instead, she gives Kyra’s hand a giddy squeeze and the maid chuckles quietly, reflecting her happiness.

Calm yourself. Greet them like a lady.

Despite her behavior the other night in Mrs. Redwyne’s drawing room, Sansa Stark has never been one to flout the conventions of society or decorum and aspires to be a lady in every meaningful sense of the word.

And what would you call that business in the coach after, hmm? You weren’t behaving in a ladylike manner then.

Flushing, her eyes dart to Jon who happens to be biting into a fig at the moment, bringing his sinfully sweet mouth fully to her attention. Between that and the memory of his husky voice saying, ‘I’m going to touch you here…but not just with my hand,’ she thinks she’ll expire on the spot if she’s expected to sit still and wait for them to walk in.

Thank God for Rhaenys. “Go on, go on! They’re not your run-of-the-mill morning callers! Say your hellos without me and Mister Manderly as an audience!”

Quickly finishing his fig, Jon rises with a look of inquiry, waiting for her orders. With her smile, he understands that his presence is quite welcome for this reunion.

He offers his arm and, despite her elation, she matches her stride with his. Ghost circles their legs as Colonel Targaryen and his bride-to-be walk out to greet their houseguests.

The sun is passing its zenith and it cannot eclipse Sansa’s joy when she sees her uncle alighting from the coach with his rosy cheeks and engaging smile.

“Sansa!”

At his shout, her thoughts on decorum abandon her and she rushes to his arms, stupidly on the verge of tears to see the blue eyes and dark auburn hair which reminds her so much of Robb and to know the comfort of her uncle’s embrace again, the surrogate father figure of an orphaned girl.

“Now then, what’s this?” Edmure asks, tipping back her chin to better view her watery eyes. “Tears from a bride before the wedding? That won’t do. Shall we snatch you off in this carriage posthaste and leave the gentleman to mind his own house?”

He’s teasing her like always and speaking in a stage whisper which makes her laugh.

“No, Uncle. I love him and have no desire to be taken from his side.”

“It is only Sansa being all emotional like usual,” another beloved voice says in that playfully taunting way of siblings.

Arya hops from the carriage with a unique though unparalleled grace that brings a forest creature to mind. The sisters embrace affectionately. Sansa asks for word of their brothers and young cousins and then Arya boldly walks over to Jon who’s remained a few paces back.

“Do you remember me at all?” she asks, grinning. “I’m grown now and I was quite a little girl when we last met. You taught me to fence behind our old barn where Mama could not see.”

His grin matches her own. “I remember quite well how you vanquished me at swords during our battles, cousin, and the scolding I received from your mother for encouraging you.”

“Oh, you were too old to be scolded, weren’t you?”

“Not by Aunt Cat’s reckoning, it seems.”

Arya’s smile dims briefly and so he reaches to embrace her banishing the shadow of the lost. “Mama wasn’t really displeased, you know. She knew I forced you to play with me.”

“I know,” he says, his hand almost reaching up to ruffle her hair before it drops. She is grown now and wearing a bonnet after all today. His smile remains though when he says, “And you would be impossible to forget, Arya.”

Delighted at those words, Arya throws her arms around him again for another embrace, more crushing than the first and Sansa’s heart and chin feel decidedly wobbly watching them, hoping they will be as close as ever when his marriage to her sister will make siblings of them.

Inside a short time later, once all the introductions are made and Edmure has joined Jon, Mister Manderly and Rhaenys in the drawing room for tea, Sansa and Arya slip up the stairs using the excuse of showing Arya their bedchamber.

“Will you be staying here with us before the wedding?” Arya asks.

“Yes, Lady Martell rode over here with me this morning but I mean to stay here again now that you and Edmure have come. And then, by Monday…”

“You’ll be a wife and no longer need share a bed with me.”

“Yes. It feels so strange to say that.” They’ve shared a room for ages now. Sansa smirks and says, “I’ve missed your snoring since I came to town.”

“Snoring? I’ve never snored in my life. I haven’t missed you stealing all the covers and still managing to have feet like blocks of ice.”

This is an old exchange, amended and engaged in many times over.

“It’s you who forgets to put on your stockings for bed most nights.”

“Only because most of them have holes in them.”

“If you’d darn them…”

“I am no hand at darning. That’s why I brought them all with me to London. I figured you’d want something to do whilst watching your husband rumble and snore.”

“He will not rumble and snore when he’s abed with me!” Sansa gasps in feigned indignation.

“Oh really, sister? What will he be doing, hmm?”

Sansa sticks her tongue out at Arya’s wry expression before they’re giggling at their silliness. The more heated quarrels from their childhood have eased with the passing of their parents.

“Will you stay with us…for a time?” she asks, hopefully next. “Just a couple of weeks? Jon has spoken of us visiting Winterfell or Summerhall. Perhaps this summer, we could all go. You and me and the boys and Jon.”

Much as she looks forward to being his wife, she loves her siblings and misses being near them. And though she knows Arya doesn’t care much about the delights of the Season and that Edmure must return to his estate within the week, she would dearly love to have her sister here for a little while.

“How would Jon feel about that? Me staying?” Arya asks with more vulnerability than is typical for Arya.

“What do you mean? You cannot doubt the warmth of his greeting.”

“No but your husband may want you all to himself without a little sister lurking about.”

“Oh well, I don’t believe he’d mind you…though he did say something about giving the servants an entire day off once our uncle leaves.” She’s flushing again and Arya huffs in mock annoyance.

“Perhaps I’ll be forced to become better acquainted with Lady Martell that day.”

“Perhaps so,” Sansa laughs as Ghost eagerly noses his way into their room to see what the fun is about and if there might be sausages involved.

Sunday after church and Aunt Lysa had come to pay a call. Jon’s annoyance had been palpable within minutes of her arrival. Sansa understands the man she’s to marry rather well by now and entertaining fools will never be something that he suffers lightly and entertaining those who have wounded her in the past hazards discovering the limits of his courtesies.

He’s spoken of Summerhall more often of late and seeing Winterfell again. Society in small doses suits him and he’d prefer only mixing with those he truly likes to all the falsity of the ton. Though Sansa had anticipated her Season greatly for some time, she’s long since decided that no amount of balls or fine dresses can compare to the love of a good man and she cannot say she’d be adverse to staying at either estate to the north for a period sometime soon though she would enjoy seeing more of Gilly and Wylla when they return to town.

But back to today, Arya’s lost patience with Lysa as well though for different reasons and so Sansa had suggested they all take a turn in the park.

“I am not much of a walker as you know, niece,” Lysa had groused.

But, when Edmure had sweetly asked his sister to join, she’d relented. Uncle Edmure has always had a way with his older sisters, Sansa recalls. Her own mother had never been able to stay vexed with him for long even when he was being a touch reckless as a younger man or a little soft-headed about practical matters.

“And then, I said to Mister Baelish, ‘what am I to do about the milliner’s bill if you are losing all these funds?’ And he said to me, ‘perhaps you could ask if he has need of a lady to work in his shop.’ Can you imagine?! Him suggesting that I work in some shop?! I fear if you will not show me kindness, brother, I will soon be tossed out in the streets, forced to beg for my supper from relations who think me to blame for his mistakes.”

The last is said with a resentful glare towards Jon who has no intension of offering Aunt Lysa a place to stay despite her embarrassingly obvious hints should the creditors take Mister Baelish’s residence in Cheapside as they’re threatening to…not that she is truly in need of a place to stay.

“Sister, calm yourself. You are worked up into a fit over things that will not happen. You have your estate in Surrey to retire to and Robyn-”

“But it will be Robyn’s estate when he’s of age and those Arryns look upon it as quite their own these days. Mister Baelish was quite displeased after we wed to find the entailment of the Eyrie prevented any future husband of mine from management of the estate or making any improvements upon it, didn’t I tell you?”

“A blessing from the sound of things.”

“A blessing? But, if he could’ve made those improvements, perhaps he wouldn’t be facing financial ruination now, brother. I think entailments should be illegal.”

Edmure makes a scoffing noise quickly disguised as a cough.

“And don’t you know how his Arryn relations are scheming to poison my sweet boy against me in hopes of taking a poor widow’s last half penny and…”

Arya rolls her eyes at Lysa’s dramatics and takes a turn down a side path away from their aunt and uncle, increasing her pace to escape the babble and, as the two young ladies have their arms linked, Sansa must do the same.

She glances back at Jon who has been following them all but a little slower with his cane today. He gives her a nod to go on, saying he won’t fall too far behind and pulls out a ball made of canvas for Ghost to chase instead of squirrels.

“She’s an absolute nightmare.”

“That she is,” Sansa agrees.

“What was she like in Bath?”

“Worse than this.”

“Is that possible? She has already told me of three young men I should work to make the acquaintance of whilst I’m here as if I asked for her opinion on the matter. I’m not marrying any young men here. I may not marry at all. Did you see her expression when I said it.”

“I did and I assure you she was equally unpleasant in Bath. At least, she has not slapped you for being impertinent or accused you of trying to steal her husband.”

“She did what?!”

“Forget I said that,” Sansa says uneasily, not wishing to cause discord the day before her wedding. Let there be peace for another day or so and then perhaps Aunt Lysa will find something else to occupy her mind and time…or perhaps Edmure may take his sister to Wembury for a visit.

I am truly sorry for wishing such a thing on Roslyn and you, boys.

Naturally, Arya will not forget the matter once it’s been brought up and she’s railing on about Aunt Lysa when a queer prickling sensation has Sansa suddenly pausing in their walk.

The breeze carries snatches of conversations from around the park including two unpolished voices.

“It’ve been easier that night.”

“She ducked into t’other coach at the last second with ‘im.”

“So now?”

“Nay. ‘E’s too close and others are near ‘bout.”

The strange words fade until she can hear no more but Sansa would swear she’s being watched again by unfriendly eyes just like the night of the Redwynes’ dinner party.

“Sansa?”

She holds up a hand to her sister and looks all around. She listens keenly but there’s nothing else to hear. There’s a cluster of bushes nearby, part of an old hedgerow. Were the voices coming from there?

She looks back at Jon who is still tossing the canvas ball for Ghost. He notes her expression and hurries to her side, ignoring his limp as best he can.

“What is it?”

“Just a feeling and…” They’re both staring at her with concern and now she’s feeling silly with nothing really worthwhile to tell. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

Ghost appears before her with the canvas ball, wagging his tail and wanting another fetch. She takes it, never minding the slobber, and gives it a toss. It lands near the bushes and, worried by that, she starts to call him back when his back goes rigid and his tail ceases to wag.

“Come along, Ghost,” Jon says, noting his dog’s behavior.

Ghost ignores him, peering into the bushes. He begins to growl. Sansa feels a cold dread filling her, a fear she cannot name.

“Ghost, now!” Jon says more sharply and at that, the dog relents and returns to his master with the ball.

Sansa kneels to greet him, giving him many affectionate pats and ear scratches. “There was something, wasn’t there, boy?” she asks, quietly.

Of course, the dog cannot answer. He merely wags his tail and nuzzles into her face.

“I’ve had enough walking today,” she tells Jon when she is standing again.

He nods, offering his arm and she finds courage in his strength. The strange overheard words and feeling of being watched begin to fade. Jon’s warm hand covers her gloved one and they share a loving glance as Arya races ahead with Ghost, calling to their aunt and uncle that they’re going home.

Chapter Text

The bath water is growing tepid so Jon reaches for his towel and banyan and rings for Satin to help him dress whilst wondering what Sansa is doing. Does she bathe this morning as well? Or perhaps Sansa chose to bathe last night.

Regardless, he'd heard a good deal of laughter coming from her bedroom after he'd laid down.  He’s glad Arya has come to stay especially with Gilly no longer here and, after a word with Sansa, he'd asked his younger cousin to extend her stay in London if she wishes and she'd agreed. 

He stands carefully but is grateful to find his limp is no longer troubling him as much as the past few days. He’s able to step from the tub without assistance, which is a boon for his self-confidence, to be sure. So, in addition to cleansing purposes, the bath had been a good idea on two other fronts; one, to help his leg and two, to allay his nerves a bit this morning. Who doesn’t have a bit of nerves before his or her wedding?

Over the course of his bath, Jon had started reflecting on pleasant things, all of which involve Sansa though he had avoided thoughts regarding the softness of her skin or the feel of her lips pressed to his and especially that night in his coach. There’s a parson expected within the hour in his drawing room after all and there’ll be a lengthy feast to host afterwards. He cannot haul his new bride over his shoulder the instant their vows are exchanged, run her up the stairs and have his way with her, leaving guests still sitting below with only Ghost to entertain them.  (Though he'd probably relish the opportunity to astound them with his ability to gulp down an entire plate of sausages in seconds.)

So, Jon's been reflecting on more innocent thoughts instead.  He thinks of her bright eyes and wind-chapped cheeks the day she met Rhaenys and came in telling them of Ghost chasing squirrels in the park.  He thinks of her lovely blush when she’d crept to his bedroom door Friday night just before bed after Arya and Edmure had arrived.

With her sister lurking behind her, acting as chaperone, Sansa had handed him five crisp, new handkerchiefs embroidered with his initials and the profile of what is certainly Ghost, amazingly detailed work on something so small as a handkerchief.

“It isn’t much. It’s no pianoforte but I finished them at your sister’s house and have been waiting-”

“Sansa, I have never received a dearer gift,” he’d told her sincerely, holding them carefully to his chest and then darting forward to claim a kiss when Arya in her braids and nightrail had artfully turned away.

Finally, he’d been recalling last night when Sansa had been seated at her pianoforte after dinner, playing and singing for their small party. Jon has tried to paint the moment in his mind to hold onto, the memory of his soon-to-be wife wearing that mauve dress she’d worn on the eve of their first excursion to the theatre and looking simply radiant.  He must find a good portrait artist to capture the likeness of Mrs. Jon Targaryen before long but he doesn’t have to rush. They’re going to have a lifetime together. May it be a long one.

“The green or grey, sir?” Satin asks, drawing him from his woolgathering as he holds up two waistcoats.

“The grey,” he decides, nodding towards it as he pulls a clean shirt over his head. “And I’ll want two of those new handkerchiefs my wife, I mean my…well, my wife made for my pocket.”

Satin’s lips twitch in amusement at the slip of his tongue.

“Well, she will be within an hour, you know.”

“Yes, sir. That she will.”

He cannot help the slip of the tongue nor grinning like a fool over it. My wife. Mine. He has never been happier.

The ceremony itself felt like any other occasion of pomp and flew past Jon in a something of a whirl.  He’d been too transfixed from the moment Sansa had entered the drawing room wearing her white gown with lavender trim, arm in arm with her sister, and carrying a bouquet of May flowers, shedding sunlight and happiness everywhere with her smile.

She had laughed when Ghost, who’d been standing in attendance beside himself and Quentyn, had barked and gone to greet her halfway down their make-shift aisle with his tail wagging.  He supposes having dogs present at one's nuptials wouldn't be considered de rigueur by the ton but he doesn't care.  His wedding doesn't need to be a smashing success by their standards.  It just needs to make Sansa his wife and she hadn't minded Ghost being present.  

Mordane and Kyra had been sniffling into their handkerchiefs as Sansa’s aunt had begun wailing into hers until Arya had told her irritably to pipe down for pity’s sake. Rhaenys had taken a seat beside the lady after that to hold her hand…and keep her quiet.

Speaking of quiet, his niece and nephew had been unnaturally so for children their age during a serious occasion.  He suspects that was due to all the sweets Cook and Satin had slipped them right before the ceremony with promises of more to come if they’d be good.

Halder had stood well to the back of the room as if he’d been trying to blend into the wall, very conscious of this singular event, him being invited in amongst the posh to view the proceedings.  Jon had poured him the first drink afterwards in thanks for his service and attendance, leaving the poor man speechless but clearly touched.  

He recalls Edmure placing her hand in his and clapping him on the back before being asked to repeat some words by the parson.

Beyond that, the ceremony was over and done before he knew it. He’d been too busy drowning in blue of her eyes. Fifteen minutes at most and he’d gone from a bachelor to a husband with a wife to cherish for all his days.

Jon feels a heavy weight upon his knee, lifts the cloth and finds wide eyes staring up at him. Ghost is no pup but he always manages to look like one again when he begs, some talent that lies with dogs and meant to test Jon’s table manners.

“That's enough, don’t you think?” he whispers for the parson is speaking again.

A pitiful whimper in reply.

“Yes, you’re starving, aren’t you? You’ve already had four of my five. It’s good we have guests today so Cook isn’t after me for overindulging you again.”

A soft but high-pitched whine.

“Yes, yes. Well, you’d better not disturb us later with an unsettled belly, is all.”

He’s going to give in of course, sacrificing his last sausage, and hang what anyone thinks. It’s his house and he’ll feed his dog as he pleases here, won’t he?

But there’s no need. His other knee feels a lighter weight upon it and his new bride is leaning into him.

“For you, my sweet boy,” she murmurs, her breath tickling his neck with her endearment leaving Jon equally moved and aroused.

“Were you speaking to me? What will you give me, eh?”

She tuts at his nonsense and makes her offering to the dog, one of her own sausages.

With his powerful jaws, Ghost could take a few fingers with him if he wasn’t careful but that’s not Ghost. As nimble as a cat upon a ledge, he extracts the bite of sausage from Sansa’s slim fingers and retreats…until the next time.

“May I borrow your napkin, sir?” Sansa asks with a coy smile. “I seemed to have dropped mine.”

He smirks and nods. Her napkin may have fallen from her lap as they were busy awkwardly wrapping their legs together under the cloth earlier when they were first seated. Blissfully happy newlyweds are allowed some easing of society’s rigid rules with regards to touching in view of others during their wedding feast, he thinks.

“How much longer?”

“Ages, I’m afraid,” Sansa tells him with no apparent remorse just as her hand closes around the napkin…and gives his thigh a squeeze.

That is certainly not an allowable easement of society’s rigid rules. He likes it though and blesses the fine thick linen of the tablecloth. “Minx.”

She doesn’t even blush, just gives him a cheeky smile and another squeeze.

He spreads his legs further apart and claps a hand over hers. “A little higher then and a firmer hold if you’re going to play at these games, young lady,” he rasps in her ear.

That gets him a blush and she withdraws, nibbling at her bottom lip to stifle startled giggles.

“My uncle is fond of Cook’s meal and his lordship seems to be savoring the sweets,” she manages to say out of the corner of her mouth once she’s composed herself again.

Jon shoots a glare at his brother-in-law, knowing Quentyn at least is enjoying watching him suffer from this prolonged meal and from what it’s keeping him. Quentyn smiles back at him knowingly and languidly selects another sugared berry to devour.

Ass. We’ve not all been married for years with a willing wife waiting abed for us to retire each night, you know.

Alas, Rhaenys and Arya seem to be getting along splendidly which he is glad of. He would hate to cut short their conversation simply because he’s eager to see the backs of them all for the day.

Her aunt, their uninvited guest who nevertheless appeared right on time, starts exclaiming over his silver as Sansa apparently decides she has need of his napkin again.

“How old is this set, would you say, Colonel? It looks quite costly.”

“I-ayyy-I…” He clears his throat, gives Sansa a warning (or promise) with his eyes that she’ll pay for these games later behind closed doors and tries again. “I believe it’s been in my father’s family since before the Restoration, made by some German silversmith, ma’am.”

“Simply lovely,” Lysa says before she ‘accidently’ drops the admired teaspoon into her lap.

Well, it’s tradition for a well-off groom to share some of his wealth upon his marriage. He and Sansa already gave generously at church yesterday and to one of the nearby orphanages so he won’t bemoan a stolen teaspoon so long as Lysa doesn’t announce her intention to stay the night.

The sun is sinking when they’re alone at last, having endured the endless rounds of toasts and well-wishes before the departure of their guests. 

The servants are all below, Arya has left to spend the night with Rhaenys and the children and Quentyn invited Edmure to his club to play cards for a few hours. 

He bids Kyra goodnight on the landing and feels somewhat conscious climbing the remaining stairs.  Obviously, his destination and intentions are no mystery to any.  Sansa had gone up ahead of him, to allow herself a few minutes to prepare and allowing him time to see Ghost settled elsewhere for the night.  He'll be surprised if there's not a scratch at his door before midnight.

It’s his bedroom but he still knocks. 

“Come in.”

She’s standing in the middle of the room when he enters, her hands clasped together, but he can see she’s brought a few of her personal items in with her for the night, including a nightrail he hopes to convince her to forgo for a few hours.

“I’m sorry I’m not ready for you,” she say tremulously when she realizes it’s him.  “I rang for Kyra but she hasn’t-”

For all her teasing earlier at table, she’s nervous.  He’s expected that.  He means to calm her as best he can.  “I know.  I told Kyra I would see to your needs.  I had hoped you’d allow me to play lady’s maid tonight, wife.”

She smiles at him naming her ‘wife’ and blushes at his suggestion.  "You may attend me, sir.”  She starts to turn but then frowns.  “But do you know what to do?”

He smirks, lifts an eyebrow and gives her a look.  “To what precisely are you referring, Mrs. Targaryen?”    

She covers her face, whether more amused or mortified, he cannot tell.  “I meant, well…I suppose you know what to do in both instances.”

“I believe I can find my way around all those buttons and laces.  I do enjoy a bit of a puzzle.”

She starts to laugh but then averts her eyes, frowning again.  “Have you served as someone else’s lady’s maid?”

Ah.  He swallows uncomfortably.  He won’t lie but he doesn’t wish to wound her in any way either. 

“No, not like this.  There was never any need or desire for my assistance.”

That first time with Val had been like an unforeseen tempest with most of their clothes still on even as he was spent and left panting, wondering how that could be over and done with so quickly.  Afterwards, Val had always been waiting for him, wearing little to nothing.  Their stolen moments were many but often that, stolen and brief.    

He takes a step, cups her cheek.  Her eyes flutter closed at his touch.  “No one has ever held my heart like you do, Sansa.  No one.  Passion and love, that is what I mean to have with you and you alone.  Do you trust me when I say that?”

Her eyes open again, her concerns receding to his relief.  “I do.”

“Thank you.  Now, I would dearly love to serve you.  May I?” he asks again.  She nods, the corners of her mouth twitching.  “Turn around and face my mirror if you will, darling girl.”

She does and he stands behind her, eyes watching her face as much as the dress he’s undoing, making certain she is alright with this.  Yes, he's known other women but there is an intimacy here he's never known with anyone else.  He doesn't know how to say that without risking walking into a firestorm so he kisses her neck gently instead and keeps working to free her.  

"Ladies clothes are far too complicated," he grumbles at one point when he encounters a particularly thorny knot. 

She giggles softly and tells him patience is a virtue.  

Once her gown is puddled to the floor at their feet, he sinks to one knee behind her, whispers against her thigh for her to lift one foot and then the other so he may remove her slippers.  She braces herself against his shoulder for balance.  Her breathe hitches when he caresses her stockinged leg.  She’s so beautiful and all his. 

But her chest begins to rise and fall more rapidly with every passing moment when he stands behind her again.  He knows he's staring at her through the mirror and there is little disguising his desire.  She looks like a lamb in fear of being devoured by a hungry wolf.  She’s only in her chemise and undergarments and he’s still fully dressed.  He can see her bare arms covered with gooseflesh and hanging uncertainly at her sides, small fists clenched, as if she wishes to cover herself but is trying to curb the urge.  A little action, a little distraction might to help calm those nerves.

“You know, I dismissed Satin for the night as well.  Would anyone care to help me with my cravat or waistcoat, I wonder?” 

"Oh yes!"  Beautiful, his bright angel spins, delighted to have an active part to play, hands eagerly reaching for his cravat. 

“But do you know what to do?” he teases.  “Have you ever served as a gentleman’s valet before?”

“No, but I’m a quick learner, husband,” she says, a husky note in that promise which makes him quiver with desire.      

Soon enough, her deft, small hands have resolved the crises of cravat and waistcoat whilst his own hands have left her in nothing but her stockings and chemise.

Both of them are grinning widely like a pair of wicked children up to mischief during the bulk of this undressing but, when he steps back to gaze at her, he’s in awe.  

“Christ, you’re beautiful.  I cannot believe your mine,” he murmurs, lightly kissing her bared shoulder and guiding her back towards the bed.

She presses a hand to his chest to stop their progress.  “You’re still wearing your boots and breeches, sir.”

“That I am.  Easily rectified,” he says, beginning to move away.  

“But I am your valet tonight.”  A playful lilt in the reminder and there’s a touch more confidence in her movements which pleases him when she tells him to sit on the edge of the bed. 

He does and she gracefully drops down to her knees before him, meaning to remove his boots but causing his more libidinous thoughts to run a little mad.  Another night for that though.  There will be time, years to share the pleasures to be given and received whilst abed and only if it pleases her. 

“You don’t have to,” he protests.  Though cleaned and polished by Satin regularly, his boots have known all manner of mud and muck, no doubt. 

“But I want to.”

She’s stronger than she looks and one boot comes off easily and then the other with little toil. 

But her hands are fumbling as she begins to unbutton his breeches, her breath growing shallow as that confidence flounders. 

Blushing and drawing her hands away, she blinks as if her eyes grow teary.  “I’m sorry.  I mean to be brave tonight.  I’ll become used to…I won’t always be so…”

He reaches out, strokes a tendril of her hair which has come free, and waits for her to look at him.  “Sansa, you are brave.  Your innocence does not repel me.  Quite the contrary in fact though I know with practice you’ll become more at ease with our intimacies and I’ll enjoy that as well.  And, you’re perfect just as you are.”

“I’m not perfect.”

“Perfect for me then.”

Swiftly, he removes his breeches for her, sets them aside.  He watches her eyes map their way up from his feet to his knees to his bare thighs where his shirt hangs to cover that which her innocent eyes are likely curious of and a little uncertain about.

“Do you know…I’ve been a husband for hours now already and I’ve yet to have a proper kiss from my wife,” he says with a plaintive pout.    

Grinning, she climbs partly onto the bed, one knee braced beside him.  He places a hand at her waist.  She leans in and he retreats.  A teasing game of chase ensues until her lips finally capture his.  Her delighted cry of triumph soon becomes a moan.   

Slow and sensual, their mouths meet, the first private kiss they’ve shared since becoming man and wife.  The first kiss like this that Sansa has initiated as well.  Soft and testing, she tastes him, hums and sighs, kisses him again as if she is making up her mind.  Her eyes are smiling and his pulse throbs.  More than his pulse throbs to be honest.  He means to go slow for her but his resolve feels weakish as he grasps her more firmly by the waist and angles his head to deepen the kiss, wanting more than anything to pull her down into his lap.  Or better yet, she may straddle me.    

He’s surprised and licks at his lips when she pulls back suddenly, her eyes darker than they were.  She looks on the verge of giggling, his darling girl.

“I should’ve started with that rather than undressing you first,” he says, undeniably breathless from those kisses. 

“Oh, I think you’re off to a very good start, colonel.  I intend to retain your services as my maid for the time being.”

“Excellent.  An occupation to fall back on in case of lean times is good.  But I was thinking now that…” 

He attempts to shift them, to roll her onto the bed, but Sansa has other ideas. 

“You’ve not brushed out my hair yet.” 

“I…pardon?”

She laughs at his lust-fogged confusion and flits away from the bed, fetching a hairbrush, her own, from where she’s placed it on his bureau. She stands before his mirror again, still in stockings and chemise.  Her fingers nimbly work to undo her bun and waves of auburn tresses cover her back. 

“As a proper lady’s maid, you must brush out my hair each night.”  She looks back over her shoulder at him, hooded eyes and kiss-swollen lips inviting and alluring, a true heavenly vision.  “Will you do me that honor?”

He comes to stand behind his wife once more and takes the brush from her hand.  Slowly, he caresses her soft bare arms with his rougher hands, nuzzles into her neck, nips at her ear and watches her shiver with longing in the mirror for him. 

“These honors are all mine,” he swears before tending to her with all the reverence she deserves.

She’s lying back upon the sheets, gloriously bare, her nightrail most thankfully forgotten.  Stockings gone, her bare legs sag further apart as her peak begins to fade.  He removes his hand from where it’s been working her through every wave, stroking the pretty pink between those thighs which matches her rosy nipples, still equally damp from his mouth’s attentions. 

Her blue eyes are dewy and unfocused when he climbs back up her body, stopping only a dozen times or so to plant a peck upon her moisture-dotted skin. Gingerly, he settles himself in the cradle of her hips, knowing she’ll feel his hard length pressing against her soon, begging for entry.

“That is not how marriages are consummated,” she says, dreamily.

“No, but it is pleasurable, is it not?”

“Yes, quite.  I like it.”

“Do you only like it?”

She turns her face away, grinning but flushed.  “I love it.”   

“Good.” 

“I feel sleepy now,” she admits, shyly.  “Perhaps I stayed awake too late with Arya last night.” 

He smothers his disappointment.  “Sleep if you wish, darling girl.”

“No!  I didn’t mean it like that.  I was only remarking on the sensation.  I didn’t feel that way afterwards…in the coach.”

“Probably because of the, um…circumstances then.” 

The lightning, the knowledge they were behaving most scandalously and could conceivably be caught, the newness of it all for her was sure to leave her mind too full to grow sleepy then. 

Rushing her past Halder with his artificial ignorance in place at the door and then to face his sister’s silent but astute assessment had left Jon’s own heart racing.  “Thank God, you’re marrying soon at least,” Rhaenys had hissed in his ear before telling him he knew his own way out and ushering her young charge upstairs to get out of her wet things as Quentyn cackled quietly in the corner.

“We’re going to consummate this marriage tonight, aren’t we?”

“Only if you wish to.”

“I wish to.”

“Thank God.”

She shakes with silent laughter at his warm oath and he swipes at his mouth, telling her how she tastes as sweet as any sugared berries.

“I thought I married a gentleman,” she says, attempting to scowl but flushing all the way down to her chest now.

“You did, just one who is utterly besotted with and debauched by you.”

“Jon,” she tsks, making him chuckle.  Then, meeting his eye, she rocks her hips experimentally.  “Jon?” she says again, softer, a query.

His cock definitely twitched at that.  “What do you want, Sansa?  What can I do?”

“I wish to see you.”   

She tugs at his shirt in silent plea so he removes it though he waits with bated breath for her eyes to find them, his scars.  They’re hideous and there’s no disguising that even in the flickering candle light.  He’s told himself they don’t bother him but knows he’s feared this, feared seeing disgust in Sansa’s eyes even knowing how readily she's accepted his scarred eye and declared him handsome despite it.    

“Oh Jon…”

“I’m sorry.  I can put it back on if-” 

But she doesn’t let him finish.  She’s rising up on her elbows and kissing the one right over his heart.  “Is that alright?”

“Yes.”  He barely recognizes his own voice, it’s so gruff and raw.

She smiles up at him, no trace of disgust, only love.  Bit by bit, she tenderly kisses each one his scars, whether from sword, pike thrust or musket shot. His arms begin to shake, not from bearing his own weight but from emotion.  He’s feeling overcome by the sweetness of her act, the way her hands glide over the smooth and puckered flesh alike upon his chest without distaste. 

Her exploration stills when her hands reach his belly though and he thinks she’ll need a little more courage before she asks to touch him (or kiss him) any lower.     

He settles atop her, knowing he'll happily let her continue her explorations when she's ready.  “Do I crush you?”

She shakes her head and tentatively wraps her arms around his shoulders.  "I'm ready."  

“I’ll do my best be gentle,” he promises, reaching down to stroke her pearl again before centering his cock.

She nods, believing him and arches her back at his touch.

He sinks down, into her.  She’s so warm and soft, like silk, and as wet as he could hope for a maiden.  He feels her tensing and the meager resistance of the flesh before he presses past it and seats himself fully within her.  Her initial gasp tears at his heart but she swears she’s fine a moment later.  He groans and tells himself to be still.  She feels so good and he lets her know that.

“I’m going to want to move soon but I’ll wait until you say, alright?”

She jerks her chin in acknowledgement and lays so still for a minute that he wonders if she’s trying to think of a way to tell him she’s changed her mind and to get off of her at once.  But instead, she slowly softens beneath him and gently moves one leg, her foot gliding along his calf and then her hips lift to meet his as a test.  Tortuous delight.  There is no other phrase that suits.  

Lightly, her fingers begin to drift through his hair.  “I love you,” she whispers, her voice a little strained but full of tenderness. 

“And I love you.”  

He inches forward but just enough to kiss her, keeping his hips from bucking into her as they long to.  The kiss winds on and soon she’s telling him he may move. 

One tentative thrust and a another gasp followed by a quick nod for his searching eyes.  Another thrust and she whimpers but meets the next one and the next.  Kisses and his breathing grows heavy.  She bites at his shoulder at one point, stifling noises he wants to hear.  He suckles her breast and she moans...loudly.  He keeps that up for a good bit.  She whispers 'more' and he obliges, finding their rhythm and he's soon losing his head.   

It doesn’t take long after that.  It’s been a long while for him.  She’s not been able to take the same pleasure in it as he does, not this first time, which he laments but there are no tears. She doesn't pull away from him the instant he shudders with his release either. 

“It’ll get better for you.  I’ll do everything I can to make it enjoyable for you as well,” he promises before covering a yawn.  He's surprisingly sleepy himself now.

“I know it."  She's soon yawning, too.   

They lay back upon the pillows after and she snuggles up against him, right where she belongs.

“I’m yours in every way now,” she murmurs thoughtfully just as they begin to doze.

“You’re mine and I am yours.” 

He's so close to drifting off when a scratching at the door disturbs the quiet.  He groans and she's giggling, giving him a nudge.  Begrudgingly, he rolls out of bed to let the dog inside so he may curl up in his preferred corner and perhaps they all might sleep in peace. 

Ghost slinks inside when the door opens, aware that he may be an interruption.  

But Jon scratches his head affectionately and tells him, "You're ours and we're both yours as well.  Happy now?" before climbing back under the covers with his wife.

He can hear the dog’s tail thumping against the wooden floor happily in answer.    

Chapter Text

Sansa’s been a wife nearly a fortnight and yet she still feels the same giddy thrill every morning when she wakes to find herself by Jon’s side. Whether he is holding her close, she is draped around him or they have drifted a short distance apart in their sleep, there is always this warmth and happiness upon waking. She wonders if it will always be so or if with time it will become an assured occurrence, something that just is.

And, though she doubts this will always be so, there’s a maidenly blush warming her cheeks today when she discovers that her husband has left his nightshirt off. It’s quite indecent of him, isn’t it? It’s not the first time he’s done it either.

He had promised their loving would become more enjoyable for her in time and it has. The shyness, and initial discomfort and vulnerability from that first time, has mostly faded away. As much as she enjoys their days outside this bedroom and particularly her time with Arya, she now finds herself anticipating the time alone with Jon when night falls, when Jon will ask to serve as her lady’s maid and kiss ‘her other lips.’

Of course, despite her meager amount of experience, she believes their loving last night had been especially ardent. He’d taught her something new of pleasure, too.

“Me, on top of you?”

“Yes, shall we try?”

Oh, it had been surprisingly lovely, very enjoyable indeed. She had controlled the movement and found just the right angle and pressure to bring her to a shattering crescent more readily than expected. His mouth had been suckling at her breasts only stimulating her further. He is quite skilled at giving pleasure with that mouth of his.

When she’d been sated and breathless, he’d rolled them over to find his own pleasure at long last, pinning her hands above her head as he rocked into her, whispering sinfully naughty things about the taste and feel of her as she’d wrapped her legs around his hips until they’d cried out together that time.

Afterwards, once she’d hidden behind the screen to make use of chamber pot and wipe away any lingering stickiness (he is perfectly horrible to chuckle over her insistence that the screen is certainly necessary! There are some veils which it is best to leave in place, aren’t there?), Ghost had been allowed in and she’d been tucked by Jon’s side when he’d pressed his forehead to hers and whispered such sweet, dear things which had made her heart so full and her eyes well up…right before he’d rolled to his back, lazily kissed the top of her head once more and promptly fallen asleep.

A troublesome twinge low in her tummy brings her back to the present. Her monthly courses are due, she knows, even a few days past due perhaps.

Part of her had hoped…but that is alright. They’re newly married. If God means for them to have children, she is sure they will have them in time, possibly before another year passes.

She only hopes Jon will not be disappointed that it is not to be this time.

“Jon? Satin may be knocking before long.”

Barring the morning after their wedding, Jon keeps to his usual routine for the most part which means his valet keeps to his, bringing hot water for shaving bright and early. Sansa does not mind that for she is a creature of habit as well.

The two sisters have been taking walks every morning with Ghost after breakfast before paying calls or receiving them. If Jon cannot join them, he sends Halder along to follow the pair. Arya says they do not need watching but Jon only smiles and begs her to indulge him for acting like an old mother hen. Sansa appreciates her husband’s consideration after that odd feeling of being watched had assailed her in the Redwynes’ garden and then in the park though it was likely all imagined.

But today, she gets a rumbling snore in reply to her warning with regards to the time. Arya had teased her of her husband rumbling and snoring abed but it’s more endearing than she’d anticipated. He’s still quite tuckered out. And undressed.

She caresses his hand, allows her fingers to feel the slight prickle of the hair which covers his skin as she moves up his forearm and finds a carnal delight in squeezing his muscled upper arm.

“You’re mine,” she whispers. There are times she still wonders if it’s real.

Her hand moves further along, to his shoulder and then to his chest where the most fearsome of his scars are. To think he might’ve died in the war and she never would’ve known such happiness nor given him happiness in return.

The thought has her rising to an elbow and shifting. She pulls the covers down, rains petal-soft kisses along one shoulder and down his chest. He had been rather touched by that on their wedding night she believes and she loves pleasing him. And he clearly enjoys pleasing her.

She gazes at him as he snoozes on, his face peaceful and uncovered for her eyes to see. He’s not worn his eyepatch in weeks now.

His belly requires some kissing as well, she decides. It quivers under her breath and, when she raises her eyes again, she finds his have fluttered open.

“What are you doing, darling girl?”

“Kissing you. Shall I proceed, sir?”

“Please, do.”

He’s fighting a grin, one which suggests he’s thinking something wicked but is afraid of saying whatever it is aloud. Perhaps she knows what it is. If he can please her so very much with his mouth, why can’t she do the same by him?

She kisses his navel and then beneath it. He’s not fighting a grin anymore. His eyes are a little wider and he is frozen in place.

“Sansa…” It’s a quiet rasp and there’s a plea in there. “What are you about so early?”

“I’m exploring new things, husband.”

She nips at his hipbone and kisses the top of that trail of dark hair leading lower. She sinks further down the bed, slipping under the covers. Her nose brushes against the wiry hair.

“You don’t have to…” He grasps at her nightrail but she doesn’t let him pull her back up towards his mouth.

She’d been terribly nervous that first time, naturally enough, and had hesitated to touch him here. She’d been unsure of, though curious about, this part of him. And since then, she’s not touched it on purpose either. It just seemed very unladylike to do so.

But as she’s become more comfortable with their loving, more comfortable with the other ways they touch each other and kiss and cling together, she finds her previous convictions of what’s ladylike challenged once again.

Still, she asks because Jon is always asking her when he loves her. “May I though?  May I touch you here?  Kiss you here?”  She nuzzles into that space between his hip and manhood.  

A smile, more boyish than usual appears.  “You may.  No one's ever done..."  He blushes.  Her husband can still blush for her.  And no one's ever?  Well, someone shall. 

"I just want to please you as you please me."

"You already do, Sansa."

"So, may I try?"

"I certainly shan't mind," he says chuckling before he sobers and adds, "But only if you wish to. I’m yours.”

She cups him, slides a finger down his length then wraps her hand around him to give a stroke. It’s hot and heavy in her hand. Does he likes it? He assures her he does and then gives a little guidance about what he’ll find tolerable.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t. Firmer and faster would suit me.”

She nods and does as he says. He is her tutor in this but they learn together.

She watches as it grows longer and harder in her hand, relishes his moans as she continues stroking him and then feels triumphant when she takes the next step, kissing him there, licking it the way he licks at her and notices how he's fisting the sheets and throws his head back with a helpless whimper.

She barely hears the soft knocking at the door which follows just as she’s beginning to get the hang of things.

“Come back later!” Jon gasps in a strangled tone though loud enough for the servant to here. “Don’t you stop,” he begs her a second later.

She grins, feeling decidedly wicked, and continues.

Heavens above, he is still whistling three hours later!  Ghost has taken to howling in reply and half the servants are either grinning at their master’s jubilant mood or grinning because they suspect the cause. 

“The colonel’s decidedly chipper today, ain’t he?”

Sansa ducks her chin in hopes of hiding her blush over Kyra’s comment as Mordane gives a sniff and Cook's cackling into her apron. 

“The flowers were lovely in the park today.  The weather is almost as balmy as summer as well.  It'd put anyone in a fine mood,” Sansa says, hoping to redirect her staff as they discuss the menu for the upcoming week and a few other household items.

The bell rings to announce a caller and Cook repairs to her domain as Mordane goes to answer the door.  Kyra helps Sansa remove her apron in time for Lord and Lady Tarly along with Miss Tarly to be announced.

“Gilly!” Sansa squeals, unable to help herself, and hurries over to embrace her friend.  “Forgive me!  I mean, welcome to our home, my lady,” she hastily adds with a curtsy though she’s still grinning. 

“Bah, none of that now, Mrs. Targaryen!" 

Gilly warmly cups her face and they're embracing again before Sansa welcomes Talla and Sam.  She's glad to see both of them are in such jolly spirits that perhaps they won’t take Jon’s whistling amiss.

“I say, is that Jon whistling?” Sam asks, clearly astonished a moment later.

“Um…yes, I believe it is, my lord.”

"Jon Targaryen?  I never knew he could whistle."

"He's been...he had a very good night's rest," Sansa says desperately as Gilly starts chuckling under her breath.  

Arya rushes in with Ghost eager to make new acquaintances since she’s heard so much of Gilly already and then Jon appears as well, welcoming their friends who have been sorely missed.  At least, he is no longer whistling.  He is smiling a good deal more than some might think usual for him but Sansa loves to see him smile.  

“We weren’t sure we’d return to town so soon,” Sam says after a bit of discussion, giving Gilly a soft look, “but I realized I might be needed here before long.” 

At that, he turns towards Talla who is blushing crimson and radiating joy.  Oh!!  Sansa clasps her hands together as Jon takes a seat beside her on the settee, eager to hear the news she hopes is about to be shared!  Beyond Arya, they’ve been so cloistered in their little cocoon these past two weeks and happy tidings are always welcome.

"What's the news, Miss Tarly?" Jon asks with an encouraging smile.  

“Mister Tyrell and I...Mister Garlan Tyrell and I have…we have come to an understanding and I wrote to Sam as my older brother to...” 

Talla is still blushing and stammering as Sansa lets another delighted squeal escape. 

And Jon in his chipper mood promptly suggests hosting a dinner party in honor of the happy couple.

“What the devil was I thinking?  Why didn’t you stop me?” Jon grouses three nights later as they’re dressing for their guests. 

She laughs at his grumbling and straightens his cravat.  It was already straight but she cannot seem to help touching her husband whenever there’s an excuse to and even when there’s not. 

“It was sweet of you to offer.”

“I wasn’t thinking very clearly obviously.”

“I wonder why,” she teases. 

He raises his eyebrows and smirks.  "Yes, well...if we had the time, I might ask if you could help me recall."

She bats his arm playfully and feigns utter shock.  "Really, Mister Targaryen!  You're quite shocking.  And besides, it pleased Sam greatly as well as Miss Talla.  And it will be an excellent opportunity for Gilly to attend a social occasion in her new position as Lady Tarly whilst amongst friends.  Quite brilliant of you, I’d say.” 

It will not be easy for Gilly sliding into this world and Sansa wants to help her succeed in any way she can.  

“As you say, my love.  Everyone must eat but must it last so many hours?” he whines and she’s back to laughing.  “Speaking of which, how are you feeling?  I’m sorry if our plans tonight are unwelcome for you with everything you must endure.”

Everything she must endure?  For a moment, she is baffled and then it hits her.  His solicitousness is sweet.  She stifles an indelicate snort of amusement in reply. 

“My dearest colonel, we women endure this every month for a few days for many, many years of our life, you know.  No matter how some men love to wax on about feminine weakness and such, we’re hardier than you think.  And, it’s not anything to prevent me from my duties as hostess, I assure you.”

“We could pretend it does and send ‘round our regrets before...”

“Jon, no,” she says sharply. 

He looks ready to pout.  Ghost whimpers from his place by the fire in sympathy and Sansa rolls her eyes at them both.   

“Fine but I’ll have you know when I get you pregnant, I’m sweeping you way to my estate and we’re hiding out there for an entire season at least.”

“Very melodramatic of you, colonel.  You sound like the latest novel except marginally less nefarious in your reasons.  And, they’re all our friends and family.  Don’t you want to see our friends and family?”

“Yes…and no.  I’ve enjoyed having you mostly to myself these past few weeks is all.  I don’t mind Arya being here, mind you.  In fact, when we travel to Summerhall in August, I do very much want her and the boys to join us for a time.  I’m sure they barely remember me, Rickon not at all, I suppose.”

Touched by his desire to keep her family close, she reaches for his hand.  “I would love to see you all become better acquainted, Jon.”

“So long as we don’t have to invite your aunt as well.”

She doesn’t bother to stifle her indelicate snort at that when she says, “No, I don’t believe we’ll be forced to endure that.”  She hopes not.  

An hour later, everyone has arrived and been greeted and, despite understanding Jon’s wish for more privacy, Sansa is enjoying herself.  She likes to be among people, those she cares for anyway. 

Wylla and Lady Arianne have returned from their own adventures. Both their noses are sun-kissed and they speak of flowers and quote poetry back and forth over the soup making everyone laugh at their wit.  Sansa doesn’t know but she suspects there’s more to their poems, flowers and sun-kissed noses than meets the eye.  She hopes they are as happy as she and Jon are even if they must sadly maintain a pretense here among others. 

Garlan Tyrell and Miss Talla are seated beside one another as the happily engaged couple just as Jon and Sansa had been during the Redwynes' dinner not so long ago.  She wonders if their legs are twined together beneath the cloth but does not check to see.  Ghost is pressed up against Sansa’s own leg being as her husband sits at the other end of their table.  She loves Ghost but will readily admit she prefers the breakfast parlor where they sit beside one another.  

Jon entertains his sister and the new Lady Tarly on his end and Sansa’s glad to see Gilly and Rhaenys getting along well despite their vastly different upbringings. 

Sansa enjoys Quentyn’s company on her own end and Arya’s.  She doesn’t even mind Miss Tyrell's presence too terribly.  The sister of the soon-to-be groom has been staying with him so it was only polite to invite her.  Whatever designs that lady had on Jon are well past her reach now and, after rumors have circulated regarding Sansa’s drawing room skirmishes with Mrs. Baratheon, Margaery seems to have newfound respect for her at least. 

Alas, Lieutenant Tarly seems a little glum towards the center of the table and reaches for the wine fairly frequently.  Sansa is tempted to ask after Miss Baratheon but she supposes that is not to be. 

Mister Manderly and Miss Wynafryd have been invited as well and that rounds out their company, twelve at table in all. 

As the meal progresses with everyone in good spirits and enjoying Cook’s delicious offerings, and even Jon seems to be enjoying all this company against his better judgement, Sam proposes another opportunity to gather.

“I’ve been entertained twice now at your table, sir, and I’ve not hosted so much as a tea this Season.  I was discussing it with Lady Tarly on the way over and I’m determined to offer some recompense to you as our host.”

“That’s hardly necessary, Sam,” Jon says with a touch of panic in his eyes.

“Oh but it is!  For various reasons, my bride and I prefer the country to town just now but we do miss seeing you all and Horn Hill, if I may be allowed a little bias, is quite beautiful this time of year, so I was thinking of hosting a picnic there the Sunday after next.  You could all ride down the Saturday before and stay ‘til Monday or so if you please to have time to tour the gardens which will be ripe with the late spring blossoms of early June.  I’d love having every one of you there!”

His jolly face is so pleased by the idea and it’s quite decided upon before Jon can make more than one feeble protest that two dinners hardly equals two nights away, a picnic and various entertainments and dinners attached to it.  The rest of the dinner party is already giving their enthusiastic assent. 

Sansa draws her napkin up to her mouth to conceal any giggles over her husband’s obvious (and solitary) apathy towards the proposal (thankfully, no one else is paying him much mind) when Mordane walks in, looking quite conscious at interrupting things.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but the boy who came ‘round with this said it was most urgent.”

Jon nods and takes the letter their housekeeper hands him.  Those seated by him politely continue their conversations to allow him privacy to read.  As his wife however, Sansa is most curious to know who has stopped by and what is so urgent. 

Thus, she sees the way he pales as he reads and then watches the steady flicker of fury building, the way his jaw clenches when his hand crushes the note.  Her stomach tightens in revolt and fear.  What has displeased him so?

The others are all talking, excited about Lord Tarly’s plans, but Sansa hears him plainly when he hands the note back to Mordane and say in a crisp, firm tone brooking no argument that no reply is to be given and she is to burn that at once.

Their eyes meet the next moment as Mordane is off to do his bidding.  He takes a sip of his wine, thanks Sam for the offer and says to their assembled guests that it seems a very fine time to visit the country for a spell. 

Chapter Text

Dinner guests mercifully fed and on their way home an hour ago, Jon knew this was coming, knew he couldn’t hide this from her. He doesn’t want to hide things from her. He’s told himself that was not the kind of marriage he wants them to have. They will not be his parents with their silences, their secrets and only cold ash between them where embers once burned so hotly.

But they are still learning what it is to be husband and wife and he is learning about the give and take of marriage beyond the bedroom. Too long he’s been the commanding officer where his decisions were rarely questioned by anyone below the rank of general. That’s not the case anymore, is it?

He knew his rash (and, in hindsight, terrible) decision at table would be dissected though. He squirms, knowing he was not thinking logically at all by acting in haste as he did.

His evasive maneuver to avoid admitting as much, telling her not to worry and that he will handle matters, has naturally blown up in his face. Rightly so for after giving her the verbal equivalent of a pat on the head and telling her to ‘run along,’ she has raked him thoroughly over the coals the past ten minutes. (And by God, she’s glorious when she’s vexed.)

The ensuing quarrel has left them both weary and somewhat hoarse. He wants to go to bed. (He is also lamentably stirred and hopes Sansa may take any lingering frustrations she has out on him in a more agreeable manner.)

“I apologize completely and unreservedly for my boorish behavior earlier, madam.  The fault is entirely mine with regards to our disagreement and I beg your forgiveness,” he says as things have been growing less heated at last.  

An arched eyebrow and that fine flush still paints her cheeks when she asks, “Do you now, Mister Targaryen?”

“Quite.  I’m tired of fighting, Sansa.  My blood was still up from the letter and I allowed it to color my temper."

"I find I do not mind your blood being up now and then, colonel."  Oh, that was quite a pert look there, wasn't it?  What's this, my sweet minx?  

But he checks his baser wants and continues with the matter at hand.  "I only want to keep you safe but I certainly value your input and wish to make decisions with you rather than for you.  I will endeavor to do better in the future…if you’ll allow.”

“I’ll allow and I do understand your feelings. I’m not arguing against taking precautions either, though I will have some say in their extremity, but why did you tell Mordane to burn the letter?”

See? All his patronizing, prevaricating and procrastinating has only brought them back to the point he’d hoped to avoid. That I was an idiot.

“Because it angered me, dammit!  The balls of...the presumption of that man to play upon my...”  His voice drops to a whisper then and all his defenses with them.  “Because it frightened me. It frightened me so much that I could scarcely draw breath as I read. The very thought of you being taken…of someone harming you…”

He sinks down upon the settee, defeated and heartsick. His chin rests upon his chest. His eyes close when Sansa comes to stand beside him, her fingernails lightly carding through his loosened hair and raising gooseflesh when they meet his scalp.

“I love you,” he murmurs. “I love you so much. The thought of anything happening to you-”

“Nothing is going to happen to me, Jon. You were already acting in the best interest of my safety before we’d been given a warning. And now we know I was not imagining that queer and troubling sensation of being watched.  It is a relief for me to know that anyway.  Was there anything else in the letter that might give us some clues though?”

“Not that I can recall.” His shoulder’s slump. “I shouldn’t have had her burn the bloody letter.”

She laughs softly into his hair, her sweetness taking the sting out of his own failings. “No, you shouldn’t have but at least you’ve admitted it at last.”

He glances up at her. “Will you forgive this fool, darling girl?”

“Always. Let’s go to bed.”

They do and, though her monthly courses make her hesitant to go any further tonight (they would not stop Jon if she wanted him), Sansa kisses him fiercely with a passion only equaled by his own.  Their lips are swollen, hers reminded him of a ripe plum when he unbuttons her nightrail to find her peaches. Her back arches and her fingers twist through his hair as he suckles at her breasts, bringing her what pleasure he can manage in exchange for the earlier ire he'd caused.  Then, her small hand is slipping under his nightshirt, testing, stroking, making him beg and moan until his peak leaves him sated and drowsy.

In the dark though, after Sansa is safely nestled by his side and fast asleep and Ghost is snoring by the fire, Jon’s eyes are fixed upon the ceiling above as the words which are no more than cinders now swim before his eyes.

Dear Colonel Targaryen,

It wounds my sensibilities to write to you this way considering the unfortunate fact that we have not even been introduced as of yet but it would wound me more to sit by and do nothing and perhaps see harm come to your wife because I was too cowardly to act. As the husband of her aunt, Sansa is family to me after all and I knew her mother and aunt both when they were girls younger even than she is now.

My financial hardships are no secret at this point and, thus, I am unable to pay a call upon you in London at this time as I would wish to. Prison would not suit me well, I’m sure.

Regardless, some investments did not go my way and the war ended sooner than was profitable for my stocks and I threw my lot in with unsavory and unscrupulous men, one of whom bears you very ill will indeed. His name is Roose Bolton and it has come to my attention that he has put into motion a plot to abduct your fair lady for a ransom due to his own financial ruination though I fear partly from a desire for retribution upon yourself after your deadly duel with his son.

I act as though I am his friend but I am not. Our business dealings were merely business and this is not that. I know several of the particulars of this plot and, for a meager consideration, enough to see me clear of the Marshalsea, I would ask to meet with you in person to share what I know at a time and place which I will indicate later so we may meet, man to man, and put a stop this horrible threat to your beloved Sansa.

Sincerely,

Petyr Baelish

Never was there a man less sincere, Jon suspects.

What is his play here? Sansa says to trust Baelish would be a fool’s choice. Jon agrees with her. And meeting him man to man, or in other words, alone hardly sounds wise.  

“I can hear you worrying even in my dreams, husband.”

He smiles despite those worries as she tilts her chin back, the firelight reflecting in eyes the shade of sapphires. He kisses her forehead.

“Should I agree to meet him or not?”

“You’re asking me now rather than telling me what you will do?”

“Yes, I am asking for your guidance, wife.”

She breathes in and out slowly, considering. “I do not know if it would do well to ignore him as you were originally considering; however, I do not like this business of him appointing a time and place to meet with you outside of London alone. It’s too risky. I know enough of Mister Baelish not to trust him. I’ve never met Mister Bolton but, if his son was any measure to go by, I cannot think well of him either.  So, I believe that there is a plot being hatched but by who precisely and to what ends?”

“I know neither of them personally but I only killed the son of one of them.”

“Yes but, even if Mister Bolton may hate you and Mister Baelish means you no bodily harm, his ‘meager consideration’ will not be so meager, I’d wager.”

“Ten thousand pounds at least if it’s a guinea, more than likely. He’ll need to travel far from England if Roose Bolton finds out he turned on him for I think the two of them hatched whatever plot there is together no matter what he claims.”

“Exactly. And now Mister Baelish hopes to come out of it with your money in hand and no fear of criminal charges. Extortion all around. I hate these games. I hate that I am some tool being used to manipulate you.”

“I could report the entire matter to the local magistrate or…except it would help if I had that letter as evidence to present to any authorities who would listen.”

Sansa says nothing but he can see her trying not to laugh.

“Yes, I was a fool. Do you know what I wanted to do when I read it though?”

She’s not laughing now. She looks sad. “Something violent?”

“Yes, something violent.  I cannot forget what sent you running to my house in the midst of a tempest one night in February.  That man is no friend of ours even with his warning.  He deserves to meet a just ending rather than playing himself off as some savior...for a fee.”

“Agreed.  He isn't our friend nor have I forgotten what sent me out so late and alone seeking your protection.  I am glad to have come here though.  All in all, it's worked out splendidly, wouldn't you agree?"  He softens and nods as she thoughtfully caresses his face, gives him a tender smile.  "But you have known enough of violence, my love, so I will name your choice to burn the letter a wise one.”

He cannot help chuckling at that, feeling lighter. “You’re too kind, wife.”

She joins him in his chuckling as they settle back down to sleep. Surprisingly, he is tired enough to sleep even with a looming potential threat. Whatever schemes or plots may be hatching, they’re aware of them now and they will work together to keep each other safe. And that's something, isn't it?  

Two days later, Jon welcomes two men into his study to discuss the business of the letter; one who is near his age, quite brawny in a coat that is too small for him and the other who is some years older, of smaller stature and undeniably shrewd. 

“Which it would’ve been beneficial-like if you was to still have the letter in your keeping, sir,” the elder man says.

You would get along well with my wife. 

Sansa had declined attending this meeting, saying she has her own matters to attend to today and that her presence might make the men less at ease but she had been very curious about the thief-takers and bounty hunters he’s considering hiring for added protection and to investigate what Bolton and Baelish may be up to. 

“Yes, Mister Tollett, I am aware of that but the letter is burnt and there’s no undoing that.”

The former Night Watchman and Bow Street Runner sniffs and nods as Kyra comes in.  “Would you or the gentlemen care for tea or coffee, sir?”

Jon suspects his wife has sent her, gathering intelligence in lieu of her absence, and encourages his guests to take the offered refreshments if they please. 

Mister Tollett asks for coffee whilst the younger man plucks self-consciously at his too-small coat.  “I’ll take tea, miss…if it ain’t no trouble.”  He then gives Kyra a smile which is returned. 

“Leave it, Grenn.  Can’t be no distractions on the job,” Mister Tollett huffs under his breath with the maid’s departure before returning to the particulars of the case.

“I’ve been considering taking Mrs. Targaryen to my estate for the time being.  Less opportunities for danger there, I would think.”

“True but there’s no guarantee, sir.  You’d be more isolated but that don’t mean trouble couldn’t find you.  You’d still be close to the coast for anyone looking to whisk her away somewheres while they firk their ransom out of you and we might never get to the bottom of these schemes up there.  Do you wanna be looking over your shoulder for always, sir?”

“When it comes to my wife’s safety?  No, certainly not.” 

An arrangement is agreed upon soon after coffee and tea arrive and the fee is settled upon.  The money is hardly of much consequence to a man of Jon’s wealth and he’d rather pay these men than give Baelish one farthing of ‘meager consideration.’  They'll collect the bounty for turning Baelish on his warrant for debt as well once all is said and done.  Jon thinks prison for Mister Baelish will suit him very well.  

Despite his brusque manners and apparently dismal outlook towards his fellow man in general, Edd Tollett knows his trade and Jon finds himself thoroughly approving of the man.  Grenn is to join their household for the time being to help keep Sansa and the other ladies safe whilst his employer has some of his other men look into the rest.

As Jon is showing the men out, Sansa and Arya are returning from a walk with Ghost.  His wife is radiant in her morning gown with tendrils of auburn hair escaping her bonnet as she greets the two men with her usual grace and affability.  Both of them appear utterly love-struck at once.  (That may be his bias speaking though.)

But as they door closes, Jon notes that Arya was quiet during the introductions and realizes there has been a bit of stormy weather between the sisters.  He hopes it is not to last.

It isn’t.

Arya pokes him firmly in the chest with two fingers, as hard as any dagger, with her ire clearly aimed at him now.  “I will not be sent away like some little girl, do you hear me, cousin?” she practically growls.  And Ghost is standing by her side ready to growl along. 

“I…I would not…I haven’t…”

“Arya was not amenable to your suggestion of sending her back to Uncle Edmure’s home at this time, husband,” Sansa says somewhat apologetically.

“Ah, I see.  Arya, with this threat to your sister, I am only-”

“I’m not leaving.  Another set of eyes will do no harm to watch for trouble.”

“Yes but Sansa loves you dearly as do I.  What if anyone trying to abduct your sister or hurt me decided to use you to-”

“I’m not going.  Wherever she goes, I go…for the time being.”  She nods with finality before something else occurs to that keen mind.  Her cheeks color when she adds, “Except to your bed of course.  There, you’re on your own and you’d just better keep her safe there, do you hear me, sir?!”

"I hear you."  

With that, she tromps up the stairs two at a time with Ghost on her heels as Sansa smothers her laughter at his perplexed face. 

Jon Targaryen does not care much for society or large gatherings upon the whole but he is a devoted creature when it comes to the people he cares about. 

It’s been years since he’s been at leisure to visit Horn Hill but, despite the austere Lord Randyll Tarly who once lived here, his memories of Sam’s home are fond ones overall.  And that is largely thanks to the dowager Lady Tarly.

“She’s so kind to me, so much kinder than I’d anticipated,” he hears the new Lady Tarly telling his wife when they arrive on a fine Saturday afternoon in June for Sam’s grand picnic the following day.  “Sam told me she was kind but I hadn’t dared hope that she would take to me well considering the circumstances.”

“There are few women of my acquaintance who can compare to your mother-in-law in terms of unfailing kindness, my lady,” Jon says as he, Sansa and Arya enter the main hall straight from their journey.  Sam is still waiting for other arrivals outside as Gilly leads them inside.  Time to refresh is coming but he wishes to pay his respects first and Sansa has agreed.  “Does she still tend her tropical orchids?”

“Oh yes, though she hopes to make a horticulturist of me and Talla in time.  Her orchids are beyond exquisite,” Gilly adds for Sansa and Arya’s benefit.  “The very finest in England some say and Sam says to walk among them in his mother’s hothouse is like being transported to some story where fairies rein.”

He and Sansa share a secret smile at that, both recalling the Redwynes’ bluebells.  “That sounds like Sam.  He always said his love of stories came from his mother.” 

Jon remembers the hothouse and Sam telling him a tale he'd invented about a gardener who could travel through time of all fantastical things.  Personally, he mostly remembers the rows and rows of pots feeling like an excellent place to hide or get into mischief. 

“I hope the lady is in good health?”

Gilly gives him a sadder smile, one he understands.  “Her ladyship’s health ‘tis as fair as we can hope…all things considered.” 

Thirty years of living with Randyll Tarly for a husband had not been easy on such a sweet-natured woman.  She’s retired from society with her husband’s death but there’s rumors that it’s more than that.  Some even cruelly jest that Melessa Tarly has retreated more and more into a fairy world of her own making amongst her flowers.  We do what we must to get by at times and the mind is no different in that respect.  But she is more quick-witted than most realize despite her gentle soul.  Sam got his stories from his mother and much of his intelligence from her as well.

“She has her Florent cousin who stays with her and keeps her good company when her children are away.” 

The Florent cousin is a penniless spinster, though an excellent woman, who is probably quite grateful for a comfortable refuge from the sort of society that would mock her for her unfortunately large ears and not finding a match in her youth.  People can be perfectly intolerable at times. 

“Sam worries so for his mother but she made the walk up from the dowager cottage today with Dickon’s aid rather than taking the carriage and she’s asked most particularly after you and your wife.”   

At the mention of Dickon, Sansa pauses and they fall a step behind their hostess and Arya.  “Will she like me after…well, with how things went between Lieutenant Tarly and I and then he came home.  His mother might…”

“His mother loves her children dearly but Dickon was wrong to speak to you as he did that day and, I assure you, Lady Tarly would tell him of it if he didn’t already know.” 

Sansa being at ease again, Gilly leads them to the drawing room where the lady in question sits by the window overlooking a small pond, one in which Sam once quietly told Jon that his father had attempted to teach him to swim…by drowning him.  Beside her is Miss Florent with Dickon standing behind her chair. 

“Oh Jon, here you are again,” Melessa Tarly says kindly though it hurts Jon’s heart to see her looking more feeble than he’d hoped. 

When last Jon was here, it was as a young boy with no place to go where he was particularly wanted during a term break at school.  His mother had passed and his father was too busy to be bothered with the spare when he had an estate to run and an heir to train. 

Jon might’ve wandered around Summerhall alone that summer with only servants to look after him but Sam had brought him home instead and there he’d found a surrogate mother of sorts for a time.

“It’s my joy to see you again, my lady,” Jon says, stooping to kiss her hand, “and it is my honor to introduce my wife to you.”

The introduction made, Lady Tarly looks upon Sansa with much interest and evident approval.  “So this is the girl who has captured our valiant colonel’s heart, is it?  And the lady who told Cersei Baratheon a thing or two at a dinner party?”

Sansa blushes prettily when Jon declares her the same.

“Forgive me and my gossip, Mrs. Targaryen.  My Talla was most impressed and rightly so.  Cersei’s claws are not to be hazarded lightly.  Have you been enjoying your London Season overall?” 

She casts a glance over her shoulder at Dickon who flushes at his mother's attention and takes a great interest in the view of the pond. 

“I have, my lady, but that is largely due to this gentleman and the circle of friends I have been fortunate enough to make whilst there, including your children and daughter-in-law.”

“Very good, very good.  True friends are a true joy especially in times of woe.”

“Will you be joining us on the picnic tomorrow, my lady?” Jon asks.

“No, not I.  Too much sun makes me dizzy these days but I do hope you’ll show your wife my hothouse whilst you’re both here.  I’m instructing Gilly and Talla in the care of my orchids for when I’m gone.” 

A noticeable pall drapes the room at her words though she doesn’t appear to notice. 

She smiles enigmatically and continues.  “I believe you would enjoy my flowers so, Mrs. Targaryen.  You look like a romantic and I do adore a fellow romantic.  Make Jon take you there when you can manage it.”

“Thank you, my lady.  I’m sure I will.”

This time in the country is a welcome escape after Edd Tollett had come ‘round Friday with word that they were making progress but it had been minimal thus far.  His worries are never far away.  

Another letter has come Jon’s way as well, this one unsigned, with more dire warnings, a date and time for a meeting along with a sum.  Fifteen thousand pounds.  Mister Baelish’s consideration doesn’t come cheaply indeed. 

He’d shown the letter to Sansa straight away but, as today is Sunday and the meeting is arranged for Thursday at a tavern not far outside of town, both had agreed to put it from their minds until then. Grenn had joined Halder up on the box for their journey and with Arya’s watchful eyes and Jon’s sword and pistols brought along, he doesn’t fear too much here anyway. 

Soon, it will be time to dress for their afternoon outing with the others, a picnic to surpass all picnics in terms of grandeur perhaps.  Gilly is quite nervous over it going well from what Sansa has shared but Jon believes she will handle her duties admirably and Sam, always good company, will be sure to ease much of his wife's burdens.  

Wylla, Wynafryd and their grandfather had arrived with Arianne soon after Jon, Sansa and Arya.  Garlan and Miss Tyrell are riding over from Highgarden today. 

Quentyn and Rhaenys were asked to bring Olyvar and Ellie along if they pleased which they have.  Jon can currently hear his niece and nephew hooting with delight in the distance as Dickon Tarly and Garlan Tyrell race their horses across an empty paddock. 

Mrs. Royce had returned to town in time to come join the fun.  She rode with the Martells…and is full of gossip as usual.

But for now, Jon and Sansa are enjoying a little time alone as they’ve been walking hand in hand through Horn Hill’s extensive gardens. He does not miss his cane.  He does miss Ghost.  At least, their faithful dog will be awaiting them in London and, if Jon decides to make that meeting on Thursday, he'll leave Ghost to help watch over his wife, knowing the beast's devotion to her nearly equals his own.  

They’d lost themselves for a time in the hedge maze and, if Jon could’ve been a little more sure of privacy there, he might’ve suggest they lose themselves in one another, too. He’s not sure what his lady wife would think of that.  She grows bolder in the bedroom and her first sexual experience occurred in his carriage but what would she think of lovemaking outdoors?  He supposes today will not be the day to find out with so many guests milling about. 

The bright sun has encouraged them to come into the hothouse at last to view Lady Tarly’s pride and joy.  It’s warm in here as well but at least there’s some shade.  He’s in danger of sweating through his coat, he fears.     

“Well?  Are they romantic enough for you?” Jon asks of the wonderous varieties of orchids, both exotic and familiar, hanging from baskets and overflowing from their pots all around and surrounding them with their intoxicating fragrances. 

Sansa doesn’t reply with words right away.  She simply twirls happily across the path amongst the blossoms, looking lovelier than any song. "They're indescribably beautiful."

He cannot resist a kiss.  He catches her up in his arms, lets his teeth and lips graze her throat.  "No, that's you, darling girl." 

More kisses and his hold on her waist tightens.  A rumbling sound in his chest has her giggling and squirming to get away.

“Really, Jon.  What if the children come this way?”

“I can still hear them.”  He buries her face in her neck and hair.  “They’re far, far away still.”

Even more kisses.  Passionate kisses. There’s a little alcove there with a place to sit.  He guides her towards it.  She softens, relents, lets him take the kisses deeper, allows one hand to squeeze a breast through her gown. 

But when her knees hit the back of the bench, she stiffens. 

“What is it, my love?  Do you want me to stop?”  He recalls her horrible experience in Bath where Bolton chased her through a garden.  He should've thought of that sooner, damn him.  "I'm sorry if-"  

It doesn't seem to be on her mind though.  He gets an impish smile.  “No, I don't want to stop.  Lady Tarly said I should have you take me here though I suppose she didn't mean it the way I'm thinking now."

"Sansa?" He takes a step forward, his cock already growing hard at the thought.  "May we-"

"I only wish for you to give me a kiss first.”

"What kind of kiss, wife?"  

She’s trying not to giggle…and failing.  “A special sort of kiss, one I like quite well.”

She shrieks when he playfully pounces, helping her down onto the bench.  He kisses her cheeks, her mouth, her chest.  “Where else will I kiss you?” he husks, sinking to his knees, the rustling of her skirts filling his ears.  (Satin will grouse over the state of his breeches but that simply cannot be helped at present.)

“Jon…”

She clenches his hair and moans when his tongue swipes her petals beneath the skirts of her dress.  It’s terribly stuffy under here but completely worth it for a taste of her honey.

She’s swaying where she sits as he licks and fingers her.  He wonders if after he finishes this kiss he might convince her to sit atop him on the bench and ride him until they're both spent.  What a scandalous pair we make.  

But perhaps not all his fantasies are to be reality. 

“Jon!” Sansa gasps when he hears it.  There was no mistaking the sound of a door opening and closing.  Still as a thief, he remains where he is, listening.    

“Oh, there you are, Mrs. Targaryen,” he hears Lady Tarly saying from across the large room.  “I was only coming to check these…”  The lady pauses whatever she was going to say.  "Are you unwell, dear girl?"

"Yes, I'm...no, I was, um...admiring your beautiful flowers but it is quite warm in here." 

Jon's admiring a beautiful flower, too.  He squeezes her thigh and wonders how well he's hidden.  It can't be that well.

Footsteps come a little nearer and Sansa's voice rises in panic.  "Please, my lady!  Jon went to fetch me a, uh...he'll be back momentarily and you needn't worry." 

Yes, don't worry, my lady, and please don't come any nearer.  Sam will never forgive me if I cause his dear mother to die of shock.  

But he can hear the lady chuckling to herself as her footsteps stop.  “You know, I forgot my gardening shears.  So forgetful of me.  I’ll return later.  Enjoy your picnic later, dear girl, and tell Jon I hope he'll enjoy his.”

Red-faced, Jon emerges out from under his wife’s skirts once the lady’s footfalls can no longer be heard.  Sansa’s face is even redder than his own and she's clearly distraught with mortification.  She pinches his arm and makes such an adorably flustered face.  "What were we thinking?!" 

“Did she see us?” he whispers.

“She didn’t come close enough to…oh, I cannot believe you did that!” 

"Passion and love, that is what we have." 

She looks ready to give him a shove.  “I cannot believe that we did that!  That we were nearly caught and-”

Catching her arm before she can fly away in her distress, he drags her up against him and says, “We'll be more careful going forward.  Nothing that might incite a scandal for at least two solid months."   She suppresses a snort of amusement.  "What do you say we go to our room instead?  We need to change and cool down before our outing later.”

She bites at her bottom lip, grinning.  “I suppose I could allow-”

“And I wish to finish my picnic indoors before it’s time for the other one, wife.” 

Laughing, he can tell she likes his notion.  "As you wish, colonel."  

Chapter Text

It is the loveliest of June days as the carriages pull ‘round front to collect baskets and revelers alike for Lord Tarly’s picnic since the idyllic spot Sam has chosen is too far to easily walk.

“It’s a good ways from the house. Sam’s happiest memories from childhood were always indoors when his father wasn’t at home and well out of sight of the house whenever Lord Tarly was here,” Jon quietly shares after Sansa asks of their destination.

Poor Sam. And poor Lady Tarly. She is grateful her own childhood home was a happy one. She is determined any children of theirs will know a happy one as well.

As not everyone’s carriage has been brought ‘round for this journey, groups are formed for riding. The gentlemen, save Sam and Mister Manderly, are ahorse so Sansa takes a seat in the latter’s carriage between a ruffled Arya who would’ve preferred riding on horseback herself and Mrs. Royce who busily relates the latest gossip from town.

Having changed into a light green muslin gown with parasol and bonnet to shield herself from the sun, Sansa hopes she looks perfectly proper once more after her earlier abandonment of all decorum and good sense in the hothouse.

Not that I’m displeased by that upon reflection.

Surely, Lady Tarly saw nothing. That is the version of the truth which Sansa has determined to accept.

With them in the carriage are Mister Manderly, Wylla and Lady Arianne. Sansa notes that the two ladies seated across from her have their gloved fingers discreetly linked in the folds of their dresses as the old gentleman relays the expected menu of their luncheon with much anticipation.

Sansa tries to pay attention to Myranda’s prattle but is admittedly distracted by the fine figure of her husband riding alongside on Teak, his light-colored coat and breeches a change from his normal black in town. The country air seems to suit him well.

Quentyn rides next to him and each man has one of his lordship’s children seated in front of them, Ellie with her papa and Olyvar with his uncle.

“Can’t we go faster, Uncle Jon?” she hears the boy pleading at one point to no avail.

Jon keeps Teak at a trot, murmurs a few words in his nephew’s ear and gives Sansa a soft, private smile that sends a sweet pang of longing twisting through her.

The sweet longing is interrupted as Myranda launches into another tale involving Mrs. Baratheon this time.

“I wonder that Cersei can still show her face in society after those stories about her and Mister Jaime and now these involving her young cousin and…”

“I imagine Mrs. Baratheon will carry on showing her face long after this latest round of rumors die out, Mrs. Royce. Whatever she lacks in kindness and courtesy, she seems to make up for in backbone. For my own part, while I will not cower in her presence, I will choose to avoid her when possible and forget her existence the rest of the time. Perhaps we might all be merrier that way and enjoy this lovely day?”

She doesn’t wish to wound Myranda but she won’t waste her time thinking of Cersei and she had liked Myrcella quite well. It is a pity the girl’s mother is so awful but then again, Sansa suspects at least some of that stems from that woman’s wretchedly unhappy marriage.

And honestly, gossip has its place perhaps but it is hardly all that fills her head and so much of it is cruel. That is not the sort of lady Sansa’s mother was and it is not the sort of lady Sansa means to be. Idle hands and forked or barbed tongues, there’s far too much of that in town.

“Very well said, Mrs. Targaryen,” Lady Arianne remarks with an approving look.

Arianne dislikes Cersei every bit as much as Rhaenys and Sansa do to her knowledge but she doesn’t care for too much gossiping either having been the subject of a good deal of it herself. They share a smile, one of understanding. Sansa thinks this is the closest she’s ever come to friendship with this lady she was previously (and unnecessarily) jealous of. She’s glad of it.

Upon arrival at Sam’s chosen location, Sansa cannot help but gasp. She finds Gilly by her side and takes her hand. “This is perfect! I could not picture a happier spot for a picnic if I’d dreamt it.”

On a hill atop a wide, green pasture, there’s a copse of oaks by a stream with the water running through gentle falls towards a secluded woods.

“Isn’t it most agreeable? Sam showed me this place when first he brought me home with him. And there through the woods, it’s a magical sort of place.”

“Magical?”

“Yes. There was a carpet of bluebells in bloom at the time, glorious to behold.”

“Bluebells? Oh…”

She thinks of the Redwynes’ garden and now wishes she could’ve seen the bluebells here as well. She looks to Jon who has climbed off Teak and is helping Olyvar down and there’s that blasted pang again.

Determined to find joy in her friends’ company today though, she takes Gilly by the arm and they continue discussing the grounds of Horn Hill. Soon, blankets and cushions are laid out upon the grass under the oaks along with the baskets bearing their food and drinks.

The lovely thing with a picnic is there’s no need to adhere to the usual rigid rules of rank. Everyone may sit where they please. Jon and Sansa take their seats near their hosts with Talla and Garlan on their other side of Sam and Gilly whilst Arya, Mister Manderly and Myranda are on their left. From there an imperfect circle is formed consisting of Lady Arianne and Wylla, Wynafryd and Miss Tyrell with Dickon in between them and then Jon’s sister and brother-in-law and the children.

A few servants have come from the house to mind horses, remove dishes when desired and such.

And then there is Grenn and Halder standing off to the side, keeping watch. Jon was hardly going to wear a sword and pistol to a picnic and he’s said he cannot be too careful when it comes to her safety. They shouldn’t really draw much attention. Like Mrs. Baratheon, there are other things Sansa would rather not think of today.

“I say, you bring not one but two manservants along for a picnic, Colonel?” Miss Tyrell asks pertly.

Sansa notices Myranda sitting a little straighter, keen for any news, no doubt. Yes, Jon alone of the guests has brought his own servants, an unusual move for something as simple as a picnic.

“Are you expecting your horse to throw a shoe whilst grazing in this pasture or are they here to guard us against any French renegades hiding in Lord Tarly’s woods?”

Miss Tyrell means to be droll but it is no laughing matter for them. There are also reasons they don’t wish to share with everyone.

“Yes, Miss Tyrell. Sometimes riding aggravates my limp. Halder knows Teak’s temperament well.”

It’s hardly a real answer and yet the mention of his limp, something he is known to be sensitive about, has Margaery closing her mouth and others jumping in to carry along the conversation.

As the leisurely meal winds down, everyone finds themselves sated and well pleased with each other’s company. Mister Manderly is regaling Olyvar with tales of his youth at sea whilst their father and Ellie nap nearby in the shade.

Wynafryd and Margaery have decided upon the shocking course of enjoying the cool shallows of the stream sans boots and stockings. Arya, Talla, Arianne and Wylla soon join them as Jon, Dickon and Garlan standby discussing horses and the army…and pretending not to notice all the bare calves and ankles in view.

Myranda is deep in some discussion with Rhaenys regarding an Irish baron she met recently as Sam and Gilly circulate amongst their guests or ask something of the servants.

The sun is starting to sink lower when Sansa glances towards the woods once more.

“The others are packing up to leave. What are you thinking of, my love?” She didn’t even notice Jon stepping away from the other gentlemen to join her.

“Bluebells and orchids. Daydreams and romance. I was wondering if I might find will-o’-the-wisps or Titania and her fairies in there.” She indicates the darkening woods.

He grins, loving her either for or in spite of all her romanticism. “Shall we go investigate?”

“Do you think they’ll mind?” She nods towards the others.

“I don’t think so. We won’t wander far.” She grasps his hand and gives a tug but he continues, “However, I believe I promised that we would be more careful and risk no scandals for two months at least after earlier.”

She flushes. “I recall. If you'll notice, I didn't remove my boots and stockings in front of the other gentlemen." 

He smirks and there is something thrillingly possessive in his, "No, you did not."  His hands find her waist and their eyes are locked.  "You may be forced to ride back with me on Teak,” he adds as it appears the others truly are ready to return to the house.

“Riding with you? Oh, I wouldn’t mind that one bit.”

But when Jon shoots a look towards Grenn who nods and remains behind to keep watch, her spirits are somewhat dashed. Grenn is amiable and she won’t mind him riding in company truly but she has done her best to put the letters from Mister Baelish and the potential threats from her mind when they simply will not stay away forever. Not until we deal with them.

Thursday is coming and perhaps after that day they can all breathe easier once more.

Thursday arrives and Sansa thinks her stomach is permanently knotted by this point.  Since taking their leave of Gilly, Sam and his mother after breakfast on Monday and returning to London, the entire week has been this building tension, headaches from fretting and so queasy she can barely enjoy Cook’s delicious meals at all. 

“Are you sure you ain’t in a family way, ma’am?” Cook had asked, causing Mordane and Kyra to both gasp in shock at the old woman’s bluntness. 

It’s far too soon for that to be the case.  Her courses aren’t even due again for several days, she thinks.  But, Sansa had felt that piercing, sweet longing at the very thought with the question. 

For now though, there are other reasons for her troubled tummy. 

Jon has made his decision to meet with Mister Baelish tonight.  Not to hand him any money though. 

“If he wants to avoid the Marshalsea, he can tell us all he knows of this so-called plot out of the goodness of his heart.  Otherwise…” 

Her husband had smiled rather deviously at that point.  Edd Tollett has gathered a few more of his thief-takers who will happen to be present at the appointed tavern.  They’ll be ready to spring a trap and bring Baelish to his creditors/jailers if Jon gives a certain signal.  The clever little man may find himself outfoxed.

Still, there are risks to engaging in these schemes as they are both aware.  From everything Tollett has learned, Roose Bolton has shown no signs of any nefarious plans involving Sansa.  He’s too busy trying to remain solvent. 

“The boy he wanted to marry your missus is dead.  Now, I reckon as how a duel could easily lead to hard feelings between the dead man’s kin and the victor an’ all, sir, but he’s no grounds to bring suit or cry wolf from everything you’ve told me.  A fair fight with just cause an’ all the gentlemen’s rules in place.  My money, if I had me any money to stake, would be on Baelish being behind the men who’ve been following your lady about.  He thinks to play upon your fears and rob you blind while he’s at it, the nasty bug-…fellow.”

Sansa wonders the same thing.  She is nothing to Roose Bolton really, a potential step-up in society for the Boltons if Mister Baelish had managed to arrange a match between Miss Sansa Stark and his son back in Bath.  But Ramsay is dead and Roose Bolton has plenty of other irons in the fire at present. 

What is Baelish’s play then? 

“Bilking you out of some money while escaping the sponging house more than likely but I wouldn’t rest it all on that, sir,” Tollett had said, giving Jon a certain look before both men turned to look worriedly at her.

“You needn’t mince your words, Mister Tollett, for my sake,” Sansa had told him whilst stirring her tea and hoping to appear calm.  “I am aware of the variety of man Mister Baelish is.” 

It is sickening but the man’s odd fascination with her cannot be entirely dismissed.  He knew her mother as a boy and apparently was quite taken with her.  He mentioned her resemblance to her mother more than once.  Initially, she’d been flattered by the comparison but, with time, the way he would say it…it was not appreciated.   

As much as Sansa prefers forgetting her dreadful weeks with Aunt Lysa and her husband, little things keep coming back to her; the way he would stand too close, linger too long, look at her in ways he shouldn’t.  Even if Aunt Lysa had preferred to believe Sansa had encouraged his interest, she’d seen it as well.  Her aunt’s husband had had an unhealthy interest in his wife’s young niece.

At a quarter past eight tonight, Sansa watches her husband dressing for this meeting, donning an older black cloak despite the warmth of the June evening under which is concealed a pistol and dirk. 

“I hope you have no cause to use them.” 

“I do as well.  Grenn will remain here with you.”

“I thought you were taking Grenn along with you and Halder.  You may need all the reinforcements you can muster.”

She is not ignorant of the potentials but it seems more likely it is Jon who may be riding into a trap.  Clever little men may be outfoxed but they certainly do the outfoxing at times.  Meanwhile, she’ll be here in her home where she feels perfectly safe. 

“I will not leave you unprotected.”

“Satin is here.” 

Jon gives her a pained look.  She knows Jon likes his valet very well but does not consider him a match against any hired fiends seeking to abduct her. 

“Ghost is here,” she offers next.   

The faithful dog gives a quiet woof from his corner to confirm it and Jon cannot resist a small smile. 

“And I know he will watch over you.  Nevertheless, Grenn will remain.  Be careful, my love.”

“You be careful,” she replies. 

A murmur of agreement, a kiss on the forehead and he is gone.  Gone and the house feels so empty without him even though it is not.  She will occupy her mind with some reading or embroidery to pass these anxious hours. 

By nine-thirty, Sansa sits in Jon’s study having given up on embroidery.  It’s impossible like this.  She picks up a book but the words blur before her eyes as she’s wondering what’s happening. 

The wind started howling not long ago and thunder rumbles in the distance.  Unwelcome weather on an unwelcome night.  She tries to think of what she’ll do when Jon returns and all is well.  She must keep telling herself all will be well or she’ll go mad. 

Arya is restless, pacing and ill-tempered.  Ghost follows at her heels, whimpering and growling by turns.  She’d wanted to go with Jon and maybe Ghost had, too.  Jon had forbidden it.  Sansa had forced her to play cards for a time to keep her from doing so anyway and now it is too late for her to catch up to him. 

“I could’ve watched the rear door of that tavern,” Arya huffs under her breath. 

Sansa wonders if Arya realizes how much a young lady would’ve stood out at a place like the appointed tavern.  Then again, she probably would’ve donned breeches and a man’s hat if Jon had allowed her to go.

“How do you know there’s a rear door?”

“There always is in the stories,” her sister shrugs.

Ghost whimpers again as Sansa smothers a grin.  “Why don’t you take him out to the back garden before the rain begins?” 

Her sister takes the dog, leaving the door ajar.  She can hear Grenn following Kyra up the stairs, the pair of them talking quietly.  The maid and Mister Tollett’s assistant seem to be forming an attachment.  Is it serious?  She should ask Kyra, delicately of course.  Then she’ll mention it to Jon, see if a permanent place in their household might be possible for Grenn if so, especially once they travel to Summerhall. 

That has been quite decided.  Once this mysterious business with Baelish is done, Colonel Jon Targaryen and his wife are going to leave town for his estate.  They will miss all their friends but plans have been made for visits. 

Speaking of visits, it is intended that Bran and Rickon will join them at Summerhall for a time and they will all pay a call at Winterfell before summer ends.  She allows herself to daydream a little, of Winterfell and her siblings and Jon.  She looks down and realizes the book she’d blindly opened earlier was the one she’d found here not long after she’d first come to live here with him, the one about northern estates.  She thumbs through the pages and finds Summerhall and then Winterfell.

She’s quite lost in her daydreams when there’s a loud bang sound coming from the door, a shriek and feet thundering through in her hall.

Nearly all the household had been present when Jon had returned nearly frantic to find his front door bashed inward and strangers everywhere.  He’d rushed to her side at once, dripping wet from the rain and hasn’t left it since. 

The magistrate, some of his men and Quentyn are still here but everyone else has found things to do elsewhere…probably having a little of Jon’s brandy in the kitchen after Cook had made the suggestion.  Except Kyra who is upstairs in Grenn’s small quarters assisting Mister Seaworth who is quite confident the man will recover fully from his shoulder wound.   

“For the last time, Jon, I swear that we’re all fine barring poor Grenn.” 

He only clutches her more tightly and continues berating himself.  “I never should’ve left you.  I knew this might happen.”

“You didn’t know for certain what would happen. None of us did.  He’s dead and his accomplices are all captured now.  That’s all that matters, isn’t it?  That and Grenn healing up?”

But Jon continues to hold her and Sansa cannot say that she minds that even if he is soaked to the bone.  She is so grateful he is alright. 

Mister Baelish’s plans had indeed been an elaborate scheme to get enough money out of Jon to escape England and his creditors just as Edd Tollett had suspected.  If Roose Bolton ever had any true involvement in the plan, he’s kept his hands out of it enough to avoid detection.  So long as none of their captives tell another tale, they will be content and hope that is the last they hear of the man. 

Unfortunately, Baelish had wanted his cake and to eat it, too. 

Whilst planning to meet Jon and hoping to get the money, he’d sent a band of hired mercenaries to his home to capture Sansa.  For what purposes precisely, Sansa would rather not consider. 

He’d assumed Jon would bring his two burly servants with him and that the household would be relatively unprotected with only one valet and a few women present.  When only Halder had entered the tavern with Jon, perhaps Mister Baelish had realized he’d miscalculated but he’d carried on with his ruse…until he’d realized Jon had no money for him.

He’d tried to escape via some rear door of the tavern before the noose could tighten around him.  There, he had a man stationed to aid his flight but so had Tollett.  The wanted man and his hired bruiser had fought viciously with Edd’s thief-takers but, in the end, a barrage of pistol fire had left Petyr Baelish and his man dead in the dirt.  Her poor aunt will likely be hysterical when she learns of it but Sansa would argue she’s better off without such a husband.  Will Lysa ever see it?  Time will tell. 

Meanwhile, at the house on Grosvenor Square, a battle was waged between four armed men who had orders to abduct Mrs. Targaryen against the entire household. 

They’d had some form of battering ram to force their way inside.  It had been Mordane in her kerchief and nightrail who had seen them first and shrieked. 

Grenn was racing back down the stairs in seconds, even as Sansa had barely stuck her head out of the study, firing at one fiend with his pistol before another managed to wound him.  Even wounded, he did not stop.  Even bleeding, he bulled into the next opponent, driving him into the hall clock and smashing it to pieces. 

Arya had heard the commotion and was coming in from the back garden.  She’d said Ghost with his keener senses had been nearly frantic outdoors trying to lead her back.  No sooner than they’d returned, he’d seen the strangers in his home and immediately launched himself at one who was aiming to shoot Grenn again, tearing at his wrist until the man's pistol clattered uselessly upon the parquet floor with a pained screech. 

Arya had shouted and flown at another man, holding some knife she’d grasped on her way through the kitchen.  At that point, Sansa had found her feet moving of their own accord, not to run but to fight.  That was her little sister, this was her home and they were under attack. 

The other women seemed to feel the same.  Mordane, Kyra and, most of all, Cook who used her rolling pin with savage effect, knocking the man wrangling with Ghost out with one hearty blow, had rushed at their attackers.  The would-be biters had wound up bitten as Mister Tollett might’ve said.     

By the time Satin came charging down the stairs with blood in his eyes and wielding the colonel’s cavalry sword, the final man was on his hands and knees, weeping for Satin not the run him through and to keep that harridan from striking him in the knob with her rolling pin.   

Jon chuckles softly as she relates that particular bit.  It’s the first easing of tension she’s seen from him and she’s glad.  “You’re truly well then, my love?”

“I am, I promise.”

“I want to protect you, to keep you safe.”

“I know and you do, Jon.  But tonight, the rest of our home helped keep me safe and you, Halder and Mister Tollett and his men were uninjured.  I could not ask for better than that.  Let’s go and check on Grenn and then get you out of those wet clothes, hmm?” 

He agrees as the magistrate’s men are hauling the last of the criminals away.

“Did you want to bring Sansa and the others over to our house for the night, Jon?” Quentyn asks as they turn towards the stairs with Ghost following.

They turn to their brother-in-law and Sansa answers for them both.  “No, thank you, my lord.  The danger is passed.  We’ll remain here for tonight with the staff and then start packing in a day or so.”

“You still mean to travel north then?”

“Oh yes,” Jon answers at once.  “As wonderful as it has been in one respect, I think we’ve had more than enough of the Season here in town for this year.  Wouldn’t you agree, darling girl?”

“Without a doubt, husband.”       

She'd wanted to see London, to see a play at the theatre, to attend a ball.  She'd hoped to make some friends and perhaps a decent match.  That had been the goal, a marriage.  

She's seen London, seen her play, attended more than one ball.  She's made very dear friends.

But best of all, she's found her match and married the only man she can ever imagine herself married to now, an ideal husband by society standards who happens to be the love of her life.    

Chapter Text

The tavern was as disreputable an establishment as any Jon could recall visiting, even as a young officer unquestioning and willing to go wherever his fellow officers went. Ancient rushes covering the stone floor, grimy glasses and sticky tables. It was apparent from the steady stream of patrons and tavern girls tromping up and down the twisted stairs that the sale of small beer and ale was not the sole means of income there.

Upon arrival, he’d spied Edd Tollett huddled over a bottle and feigning sleep in one of the snugs and recognized two more of his men playing at cards, all three fitting right in with their surroundings. He purposely did not allow his gaze to linger, not knowing if Baelish might’ve had his own sets of eyes there, but he’d been pleased. He’d wanted all this nasty business done with.

Arrogant (and over-confident), Baelish had played his hand to the fullest, still thinking that Jon was going to hand over a small fortune based on his assertions. Even once he’d realized that was not to be, he’d been determined not to admit defeat even as he lay bleeding at Jon’s feet.

“Without me, you may never find her or God knows what they’ll do to her before you do. I was your only hope.”

All night, Jon had worried over leaving her at home without him there. Baelish’s final words had been like a dagger to the heart. She was in danger. This had been a trap.

Frantic, he’d dropped his pistol and called for his horse before the light had fully left Baelish’s eyes. Galloping headlong through the rain back to London, back to Mayfair and back to Grosvenor Square, never minding the agony it caused his leg.

He’d thought his heart would surely stop when he’d seen the front door of his residence smashed violently inward. The hall clock was destroyed, bits of wood and glass littering the floor…along with blood. He had feared the absolute worst.

But instead, she’d come running with the first hoarse, heartbroken shout of her name, running from the drawing room where everyone had gathered with their prisoners.

“For the last time, Jon, I swear that we’re all fine barring poor Grenn.”

He’s going to need to hear that a few more times before he thinks he’ll breathe easy. He holds her that much closer, never minding who is present. He fears if he doesn’t keep hold of her he may murder the fiends awaiting justice in his drawing room.

Still, the retelling of the defense of Colonel Targaryen’s London residence is enough to ease some his guilt, his terror and his rage. He cannot begin to express his admiration of and gratitude towards them all but he tries.

Cook says she may require a new rolling pin. “I won’t let this touch no dough of mine after touching up those rascals’ heads, sir.” She’ll have a dozen rolling pins if she wants and anything else her heart desires for all her days.

Arya had been quietest of the bunch which had surprised him until he’d learnt that the blood on the hall carpet hadn’t entirely been from the pistol shots Grenn exchanged with two of the others.

“I stabbed that man. A knife instead of a sword but still the pointy end just like you once showed me. Do you think he’ll die, Jon?” his sister asks him quietly when he and Sansa are with her.

He holds her and Sansa both, tells her that the man will die tonight or on the gallows soon enough but he inked his own fate when he entered this home with evil intent in his heart. He also tells them that his Stark girls are so incredibly brave and he loves them so very dearly.

“I don’t know how much resistance I truly offered,” Sansa admits as they climb the stairs alone together whilst most everyone else is enjoying some brandy and Ghost is having a plate full of sausages with Cook’s blessing. “I tried to fight but…I’m sure they would’ve taken me if I had been alone.”

“If you had been alone, hiding would’ve made more sense. But you were not, thank God, and you fought. You all did. I’m completely in awe of you, wife. You will never cease to amaze me.”

“Oh, I may someday. We’ve not been together all that long, you know.”

“Impossible. I will always be in awe of you, my darling girl. Every season of every year. I’m sure of it.”

They visit Grenn who Davos has just finished patching up. Kyra sits by his side upon the bed, holding Grenn’s hand. His head is resting against her hip. Something about it, the comfortable intimacy of the scene, brings Sansa’s visits to his own sickbed to mind after he was wounded in the duel with Ramsay.

Kyra won’t even allow the man to make his feeble jest about owing Jon a new clock after Jon thanks him for all his efforts.

“The colonel don’t care about no clock! You were so brave and fought so valiantly for us all. Please, tell him, sir.”

“Kyra’s absolutely correct, Grenn. I hope your wounds heal swiftly and I’ll speak with you tomorrow but for now we’ll let you rest.”

Tomorrow, he’ll ask if Grenn would ever consider leaving Mister Tollett’s employment and possibly going north.

Slipping back out of the man’s quarters, Jon says to his wife, “Is it my imagination or is there another possible match forming under my roof that I was unaware of until now, Mrs. Targaryen?”

She raises one slim finger to her lips and giggles. “Time will tell, colonel.”

In their bedroom, Sansa pulls the bell for Satin and asks if he would mind preparing a hot bath for the colonel.

“I don’t wish to trouble anyone,” he says as the valet retreats.

“I know but your limp is severely aggravated from riding-”

“It’s nothing.”

“Don’t deny it, Jon. I could see how you were struggling to climb the stairs. And you are chilled through from your drenching. A hot bath will help.”

She pushes his wet coat over his shoulders and lets it drop to the floor. She starts unknotting his cravat next, her blue eyes looking intently into his own.  He recognizes that look in her eye, licks his lips and takes her hand.

“I will not argue that a hot bath would be welcome but I’m not sure I wish for Satin to attend me tonight.”

“Oh, he’s only going to help carry all that water up the stairs for me. I’ll be doing the rest, sir.”

“But what if I want you in the bath with me, wife?”

“My dear colonel…that was always part of my plan.”

His wife is quite brilliant in case you were unaware.  

Summerhall Estate, Lancashire

The summer and autumn months have passed happily and with unimaginable swiftness.

After making all the arrangements for his London residence to be closed up for the time being, Jon and Sansa had traveled to Wembury escorting the twice-widowed and much gossiped about Aunt Lysa to her brother’s home.

To say it was a long carriage ride would be a very great understatement but the lady had not breathed a word over Jon’s involvement with her second husband’s death. She’d just prattled on about seeing her dear Edmure again and her longing to see Sweet Robin and wondering aloud if anyone might be willing to let his London home to an impoverished relation living in shame for a reasonable fee when he doesn’t wish to be in town.

Jon had sighed inwardly and kept his mouth closed but Lysa is a small burden he will gladly tolerate in exchange for knowing that Baelish’s schemes cannot threaten his wife ever again.

Their visit with the Tullys had been an amiable one though and then Jon and Sansa had left for the north with Arya, Brandon and Rickon. The boys are delightful rapscallions and Jon had enjoyed taking them fishing with their sister on fine days on his estate.

The trip to Winterfell in September had been a more solemn matter for them all. Their childhood home had many happy memories that Jon’s own had lacked but those who were no longer present were felt in every quiet moment in those halls. Nevertheless, it would be a home again and the Starks would endure.

Bran had come to Jon with his worries whilst there about managing it all someday and Jon promised to do his best to help him make ready for that day. His father had never done that for him and he’d felt terribly lacking as the unexpected heir when it had been thrust upon him after he’d already joined the army. In Bran’s case, no one had had the chance to prepare him before both his parents and Robb were gone but there’s still time. Jon won’t let him feel the burden too keenly and knows his sisters and brother won’t either.

After the visit to Winterfell, the youngsters had returned to their uncle’s home for a time and allowed the newlyweds a chance to settle into their home at last. That had admittedly been a most idyllic time for Jon and Sansa. To Sansa, it was all new but Jon saw his boyhood in a new light through his beloved’s eyes.

Whether she’s sitting by his side in his study or he's stealing kisses in the stables from her (or an obliging and perhaps enchanted wood), they’re making memories together here just as they had in London. The shadows, the tears and terse silences no longer lived in Summerhall for him. It is alive again with their love.

Of course, they’ve hardly been alone. Ghost is here, enjoying frolicking along his country lanes again, and all the staff has rejoiced in their master’s return and meeting their new mistress. They’ve all been delighted to meet Kyra’s new husband as well. Grenn likes fixing things around the estate and is already well-liked.

So together, Jon and Sansa have been happily busy making this grand house into a true home.

And like most grand homes, it occasionally does some hosting…

Late December has arrived with a few snow flurries and a festive mood in the air. Sansa’s sister and brothers have returned and Jon will admit he’s missed the sound of their laughter in these halls over the course of autumn.

And tomorrow, Lord Tarly and his wife will be arriving to spend Christmas at Summerhall along with Sam’s mother.

What with Talla newly married to Garlan Tyrell, that young lady is at Highgarden finding her way as the future mistress of that estate…and keeping her sister and brother-in-law in line. 

And, after Dickon’s shocking elopement with Myrcella Baratheon in late August (which the gossips all agree left Cersei Baratheon spitting mad but in no position to oppose since the dashing lieutenant and young lady had already spent three nights in one another’s company before she could discover them), Horn Hill has seen its share of excitement and speculation lately so Sam and Gilly had decided a trip north would be welcome as opposed to London.

Equally welcome will be Lord and Lady Martell and their children arriving from Sunspear where they’ve been since August having had enough of the Season to suit themselves.  

Meanwhile, Mister Manderly will be hosting some young ladies at his home for Christmas, his two granddaughters, Lady Arianne and Mrs. Royce all of whom have sent their good tidings for the approaching new year which in turn have been returned.

Tonight though, Jon walks down a silent hall with Ghost by his side as the boys and Arya had finally turned in after a lengthy round of cards. Sansa had retired an hour ago, claiming fatigue and a sudden headache, but insisted he spend some time with her siblings at least since she could not.

However, when he enters their bedroom, his wife is not abed. She is seated by the fire and sewing.

“What’s this? Are you feeling better, my love?” he asks, dropping a kiss upon her head.

“I am, thank you. The fatigue has been with me on and off for a fortnight but the headache has passed.”

“A fortnight? You have not mentioned that."  She has looked somewhat pale and tired of late but he'd blamed the chill of these halls and him keeping her up quite late most nights for that.  "Why have you not mentioned it to me?”

She grins at his slightly scolding tone. “I wanted to be a little more certain first but I spoke with Cook earlier and she thinks it’s extremely likely. She’s had five, you know.”

Too afraid to hope she means what he thinks she might mean, he asks for clarification.

She doesn’t reply with words. Instead, she holds up her handiwork, a small dressing gown which can only be meant for an infant.

“Sansa? Truly?”

His eyes are welling up with tears of joy but he can still make out her radiant smile and blush. It is all the answer he requires.

A year ago, Colonel Jon Targaryen had been a single man of good fortune who had claimed no interest in finding himself a wife.

Oh how sweet it is when Fate has other designs in mind.