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“all I want is nothing more
to hear you knocking at my door
‘cause if I could see your face once more
I could die as a happy man, I’m sure”
—Kodaline—
“You know what they’re saying”, Jon declares with his back turned to Sansa. He can’t face her, not when he knows the subject in question.
“I do.” Her voice is nothing more than a whisper.
“What do you think?”
She remains silent for a moment, a long moment in which Jon has to give in and look at her. Her bright blue eyes are focused on the fire in the hearth, following its movements as she thinks on her answer. Jon notices her unquiet fingers, her nails digging into her palms, and he almost crosses the distance between them and takes both her hands into his.
“Sansa?” He pushes, because patience had never been one of his virtues.
“You’re the king, Jon.” Her eyes dart to his. “What you decide is decided.”
Her answer surprises him, and Jon scoffs without having a chance to control himself.
“That must be the first time you ever said that.”
Sansa narrows her eyes instantly and takes a step closer to him.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean”, he comes closer too, “that you’re not one to hide your thoughts. You always tell me what you truly think, no matter what I decide to do.”
Still fidgeting her fingers, Sansa averts his intense gaze. Jon keeps looking at her, trying to get any sign of her real thoughts and feelings. He searches for her eyes, inclining his head into her direction, but she denies him. She remains focused on the hearth, its flames reflecting on her irises.
“Sansa.” Jon tries again and, at the sound of her name, she turns her head instantly to him, but doesn’t find his gaze.
“You ought to marry.” She finally says, but her eyes are still far away from his, lost somewhere in the middle of his chest. “You need a lady who is good enough to be a queen, to run Winterfell with you, to hear the people’s pleas.” She hesitates for a moment, and then continues in a lower voice, “You need an heir too.”
Jon takes another step closer. “You are my heir.”
“It’s not good enough. That’s not what the lords want.”
“Want?” He raises both his eyebrows in a disbelieving manner. “Now you talk about want? You just said that whatever I decide is decided.”
She finally turns her eyes to his, and the look on her face almost dismantles Jon. Sansa’s expression is almost cold, the only source of warmth remains being the reflection of the fire in her orbs.
“So you want to make me your heir?” She presses, and he knows that she’s also trying to search for the truth inside him. “That’s your wish, my king?”
Clearly uncomfortable with the use of his title, he runs his hand through his hair nervously. Jon knows Sansa is better than him in this game, but he still tries to follow her, to keep his steps closer to hers.
“You always wanted to be queen, anyway.”
But he regrets his words the instant they leave his mouth. Her coldness seems to shatter just a bit, and suddenly Jon sees a hint of fire in her semblance. It’s not the kind of fire he would like, though—it’s something that boils dangerously.
“You think that’s what I want? To be your successor in case something happens to you? In case you don’t have children? In case you die?” Her voice falters in the last word, but her expression remains livid. “You know nothing about what I truly want.”
You know nothing, Jon Snow, Ygritte’s voice whispers mischievously in the back of his mind. Maybe he hasn’t learned a thing since then, maybe all those years and battles and sacrifices were made in vain, maybe he’s the worst of learners.
In the middle of an exhale, he asks, “Tell me, then. Tell me what you really want. I’m tired of trying to read your mind.”
“You’re tired?” She raises her voice and almost loses control. However, she takes a deep breath, keeps her eyelids closed for a few seconds, and then tries again, “You’re not the only one trying to be a mind reader here, Jon. You keep asking me things, but you give me nothing in return.”
The air around Jon feels thick and heavy, and he almost runs to the window to open it. The only thing that stops him is knowing that, once he deflects this subject, Sansa will do the same—she will try and find an excuse, will say it’s almost supper time, will storm out without letting him do anything to stop her.
“I don’t want to trap you into another marriage”, he somehow manages to say. “It wouldn't be fair to you.”
Sansa hides both her hands on her back, and Jon knows her fingers might be unstoppable by now. The way she breathes in and out says everything he needs to know about her mood—about the snowstorm that is threatening to blow inside her.
“You’re still not truly saying anything about you.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say, Sansa.”
“Just tell me what you want, and you only.” Her voice comes out softer than he expected, which makes him come even closer. Step by step, he’s almost reaching her. “Even if I do want to marry you, I won’t do it unless you want the same.”
Jon’s chest tightens slightly. He doesn’t know what to do with her words. Even though she’s not saying much, she’s revealing almost everything he needs to know.
Does he want to marry? Does he want to marry her?
He already has the answers, but he still won’t dare to speak them out loud.
“Do you?” He tries, his voice as uncertain as his feet.
“Do I what?”
“Want to marry me?”
Sansa’s eyes widen just a little. Then, she tilts her head to the left and stares at him inquisitively. He feels exposed under her eyes, but it’s impossible to run away now.
“Is this a proposal, my king?”
The question almost makes Jon lose his balance. He has to take a step back, heart pounding hard in his chest, his legs almost shrieking. She keeps the most confident posture—firm eyes, steady back, rounded shoulders. He has to remember himself, with the help of her own words, that he is the king. No matter how much he feels like a subject to her now, he is the king.
“Is that what you want it to be?”
Jon can sense the effort Sansa does not to roll her eyes, for it would be so unlike the lady she is.
“I think I made myself clear when I said I want to know what you truly want, Jon.”
The fierceness in her expression is almost compelling enough, and Jon has to think twice before letting the truth escape freely from him. Instead, he starts to pace, even though he knows Sansa can read his tells easily. He goes to the hearth and rests his hand in the stone above it. Gazing at the fire, he ponders the what ifs. What if he opens her heart to her? What if he says he wants to marry her? What if he tells her that he had imagined their children? What if he confesses the dreams he has been having since- well, since a long time ago.
He closes his eyes. Be brave, he reminds himself, which makes him feel like he’s in the battlefield again—and she fights much better than him.
“You’re right”, he begins, looking at her again. “I need a wife, a good wife. Gentle, smart, kind, compassionate, and more, much more. The North needs a queen and an heir.”
The way she stares at him, like he’s a child testing her limits, makes him want to simply say the words. He doesn’t, though.
“I know no one better than you”, is all he manages to say.
“But?”
His breath feels sharp as he explains, “I already told you I don’t want to ambush you. You should choose your own fate.”
She’s silent for a moment, and Jon wonders if she’s like this because of what he's saying or because of what he’s not. Whatever it is, the way she stands straight and unshakable makes her look like a queen pondering her choices.
“It’s gentle of you to think about my free will.” Her voice comes softer than he expected. “The lords don’t seem to think the same.”
“It doesn’t matter to me. You’ll marry only if you want to, even if it’s with-”, he hesitates, uncertain and afraid, but comes to say, “with me.”
Her eyes falter for just a brief moment, which he can notice by the small tremble of her lashes. Sansa clasps her hands at her front now, and Jon thinks that perhaps, perhaps they’re reaching a safer ground.
“What is it that you want?” He asks again, gentler now, taking another step closer. She keeps frozen in her place, staring at him with her intense gaze. “And please don’t tell me what’s best for me, what’s best for the North, what’s best for our people. What does Sansa Stark want?”
He doesn’t know why, but a shadow of a smile crosses her lips, and suddenly she’s not his councilor anymore. She’s a woman standing beautifully in front of him, opening her soft lips to finally answer his questions.
“I want to be loved, and cherished, and taken care of. I want to be respected, to be free even though I come to marry again. I want children of my own, the most beautiful children in the world.”
Her answer is almost too much for Jon. But that’s what he wanted to know, right? And now he has to offer something to her too, something that shows her what’s inside him without revealing everything.
“We’re doing a great job together here in the North. I am well aware that I wouldn’t make it without you.”
“You would.” She interrupts him.
“No, I wouldn’t.” Another step closer and Jon is almost reaching her hands. “Our people are safe because of you, we are fed and alive because of you. If we’re growing seeds and vegetables in the winter gardens, it’s because you rebuilt them, and-“
“I didn’t do any of those things alone.”
His body is faster than his thoughts, faster than his judgment, and he finally reaches her. Jon places both his hands on her shoulders, looking at her eagerly.
“Will you let me speak?”
She looks surprised, but then she nods, and Jon mirrors her gesture. He gathers the air in his lungs as he could breathe courage in. A little silence fills the room, and Jon takes the opportunity to admire Sansa just for a moment before he continues speaking. He wants to remember this, remember her expression before he finally puts the words out. The way she moves her eyes, alternating between his own. The way her lips are pressed together with more strength than necessary. The way her high cheekbones are colored by her own blood. The way her shoulders move under his touch, a reflection of her filling her lungs and expanding her torso. She looks lovely with her hair down in soft waves, not a single braid in sight—free locks for a free woman, or so he likes to think. She is radiant in her dark blue dress with an embroidered wolf, the same one she wore the day they start their journey to retake Winterfell.
He lets his hands fall, afraid of what he might do if he keeps touching her, if he keeps feeling her warmth.
“We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you. When you came to me more than a year ago, I was ready to take the first ship south and disappear in the world. I was murdered by my own men, and I came back to life not knowing what my purpose was. But then, Sansa”, he has to smile, “then you came to me. Hurt, and alone, and- Gods, you were-“
“It’s alright, Jon.” Her hand meets his and she gives it a slight tug.
His brow furrows and he continues, “I don’t mean to reminisce on those things and make you relive that, but I need to remember that day constantly.” It’s his time to hold her hand firmly, his eyes dropping to their shared touch just a little. “We were both broken and shattered in a million pieces, but only one of us was still brave enough to fight. I know for certain that it was not me.”
“Why are you saying this?” She tilts her head to the side, a thread of auburn hair slightly touching her cheek.
“Because, thanks to you, I found my purpose again. I was terribly alone before you crossed that gate.”
A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing, Maester Aemon’s voice echoes in his mind again. When he pictured his and Sansa’s children, Jon pondered a lot about his bloodline. He’s afraid they would inherit the platinum hair, the violet eyes, the unpredictable temper. He has also pictured red hair and smoky grey eyes, and Sansa telling him they would be Stark children, come what may.
“I was alone, too”, she whispers, and Jon has the impression that she moved her head a little closer to him. “But I knew you would shelter me. I knew things would be right once we were back home.”
“And we are now. Definitely.”
“Yes.” She pauses, looks at him, wets her lips with the tip of her tongue. He can’t stop his gaze from wandering. “But we have to ensure it, and not only for ourselves.”
“Aye, we do.”
The room is quiet in contrast to Jon’s feelings. He’s sure there’s a revelry inside him, the winds of winter blowing through the meadows of his heart. There’s also liquid fire running through his veins, traveling his whole body and gathering at the tip of his fingers, where they meet Sansa’s.
Her lips move, her voice is almost uncertain when she asks, “What will you do?”
“What will we do.” He empathizes, remembering the day they reunited—that blessed day, the closest of a gift from the Gods he has ever had.
“Alright. What will we do?”
Be brave, he thinks again, even though it’s hard to find the right words when she’s so close, when her eyes are this blue, when her lips look so soft.
“What are your true thoughts about a marriage with me?”
He fears the answer, but he needs to know. He’s not the King now, he’s just a lonely boy, a bastard-born, a shadow.
“I’d marry you.” Her plain answer is a surprise, and he watches as she studies him with her clever eyes, trying to understand his expression. “You’re the man I trust and admire the most.” She lets out a breathy giggle, making her sound like the sweet girls she used to be years and years ago. “Gods, Jon, you’re just like the man Father promised me.”
“Am I?” Again, the boy speaks louder than the King.
“Yes.” She uses her free hand to place a loose thread of her hair in the back of her ear—something he would’ve done if he had the guts to. “We were already at King’s Landing. He promised that, when I were old enough, he’d make a match with a high lord that was worthy of me. Someone brave and gentle and strong.”
“I’m not a high lord.”
“No, you’re not.” She gazes at him intensely, the warmth in her eyes starting to melt the insecure boy that still lives inside him. “You’re my king.”
Yes, I am, he thinks with his heart burning his insides, I am yours.
Jon has to fight his own lungs while they try to prevent the air from getting in and out of his body. He focuses on her stunning frame, mesmerized by the way the light that comes from the fire makes her even brighter now that the sun is fading out there, making the room even more illuminated by the hearth.
She continues, voice low and steady, “If I have to marry out of duty, then I will, if it’s with someone who I can trust and admire. But I want what my parents had, a solid marriage built stone by stone.”
At the mention of the word duty, Jon’s mind goes back to when he was at the Wall, when being Lord Commander or the King in the North were far away from his thoughts. He thinks of Maester Aemon, of his pale eyes and his semblance full of wisdom—the first Targaryen relative he had met, much before knowing about his true parentage. His elderly voice still echoes in Jon’s mind, though, remembering him that love is the death of duty.
He also thinks about Tyrion Lannister, about the sacrifice he made when he killed Daenerys. Jon came to visit him in his cell, still astonished by Tyrion’s actions, but knowing that he had done the right thing. Jon thought she loved Daenerys, but Tyrion was certain of his own feelings when he switched the words—sometimes, duty is the death of love. Out of duty, Tyrion freed the Seven Kingdoms from another tyrant. Out of duty, he faced a death sentence with his heart bleeding from an unrequited love for his Dragon Queen.
Jon is tired of seeing love and duty as two opposed things. He wants them to walk side by side, even though he knows it’s almost too much to ask.
“If I marry you”, he finds his voice again, “you must know, Sansa, it will not be out of duty.”
She flinches, her chin going back for a second. Jon wonders what’s crossing her mind, what’s crossing her heart. He doesn’t ask, though—he has to keep talking.
“I don’t see you as a duty, not in Castle Black, not now, not ever.” He reaches for her other hand, and Sansa lets him hold her so easily that Jon can’t hold back anymore. “I’d choose to marry you in a hundred lifetimes.”
He stares firmly at her, so it’s easy for Jon to notice the crescent gleam in her eyes. Jon has the impression that he finally broke the ice, that he can see what’s inside her through the cracks—and he sees warmth and safety and something that resembles devotion.
“Would you choose to marry me in this lifetime?”
Holding her hands firmly in his, Jon nods, his eyes always on hers.
“Yes, Sansa.”
As she beams radiantly at him, Jon has the impression that every dark corner inside his soul is finally meeting the light. The way it spreads inside him, reaching the depths of his being, is enough for Jon to know what to do next. Once for all, he’s at the same stage as she is. He’s not running anymore, he’s not seeing her back anymore. Her bright blue eyes are wet, but she’s not crying, at least not yet. She’s staring at him like he’s a dream coming true, and he wants her to know that he feels the same.
“Will you marry me, Sansa?”
A single tear escapes her left eye and drains her cheek. Jon wipes it before she has the opportunity to answer.
“Yes.” Sansa rests her face on his palm, and Jon slides his thumb through her soft skin.
A wide smile spreads across Jon’s face. He kisses the back of Sansa’s hand he’s still holding and tugs it next to his heart. She’s sparkling with joy, her whole being illuminating the room with much more efficiency than the fire.
He watches closely as she opens her rosy lips and says in the most sincere voice, “I don’t know if there will be a hundred lifetimes after this one, or if we met before, but I’m glad to know you’re mine today.”
“Yes, Sansa.” Now he’s the one with the breathy voice. He can’t stand being apart from her anymore, so he rests his forehead against hers. “I’m yours. From this day on, I’m yours.”
She giggles adorably, and something in her eyes makes Jon hesitate for a second.
“What is it?”
“We’re not even married yet and you’re already pledging your vows.”
Jon’s chuckle surprises him, the sound reverberating in the air. He pushes her closer, one of his hands on her waist, and hopes that he’s not being too eager.
“We don’t need to wait for a ceremony for you to know how I feel”, he explains. “I’ve never wanted to be king, but your presence makes it easier to face. You’re all I want, Sansa.”
Later, they wouldn’t be able to tell who kissed who first. Not on that night, not on the wedding day, not when their children—Stark children—asked them about the arising of their love many years from now. The only thing they knew was what truly mattered.
They kissed each other because they wanted to.