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i.
Of course, there are always ledgers to compute and letters to write.
It is just one of the tasks that he'd absolutely hated, back when he was the one in charge of doing them.
Yet she does it with grace, as though she's been doing it all her life.
Jon watches Sansa dip her quill in her inks and sign the parchments with a flourish, before straightening in her seat and hiding a yawn behind the back of her gloved hand. He steals a glance at the window, then turns to her. "Your Grace," he calls softly, letting his fingers rest on her shoulder before drawing away. "Perhaps you may already wish to retire?"
She looks up at him before grimacing at the pile of papers before her. "Oh, but there is still so much to be done," Sansa says, sounding as queenly as always - even if her eyes are already drooping shut despite her efforts to keep them open.
He fights the smile worming its way to his face. "You have done a tremendous job rebuilding the North," Jon tells her with all the sincerity he can muster. "I believe it can manage all on its own while its Queen rests for a few hours."
She sighs. "And if it all crumbles while I'm asleep, I shall lay the blame solely on you."
"You may," he agrees, quite solemnly in fact, "and I'll welcome your punishment gladly."
Sansa rises to her feet, goes to the table behind her to drink water from the pitcher atop it - only to find it empty. Before she can speak, however, he takes it from her and says, "I won't be gone long."
"Oh no, Jon, you mustn't--"
"Your handmaiden is already sound asleep given the late hour. As your Queensguard, let me take care of you now."
And before she can protest, he pivots on his heel and leaves for the kitchens.
It doesn't take him long to return to her solar. Quietly he enters, only to find--
--that she's already half-asleep, unceremoniously slumped over her desk.
For a moment he frowns; she can't at all be comfortable, sitting like that. And so he decides to do what's proper, at that moment:
As gently as he can, Jon lifts her up to carry her down to her own chambers.
Let me take care of you now.
She hums as she settles in his arms and soon her head lolls to rest on his shoulder; he can see her parted lips and they are close, so close to his own and he--
--purposely looks away from them to focus on the task at hand.
A few steps more and he's already in her room. He lays her down on her bed; soon as her head touches the pillow she sighs, and he finds it difficult to remove his arms from around her form without rousing her. Slowly, oh-so-slowly he pulls away because it isn't at all proper that he's in her private chambers far longer than he should be, that he's touching her as he is now. She needs her rest desperately, and he, on the other hand--
Without warning Sansa turns towards him, cups his face with one hand, and grazes his cheek and the corner of his mouth with her thumb.
For one wild moment, Jon forgets to breathe.
"Hmm. Hello," she whispers, eyes still closed, and there's a curious smile on her lips that he's beginning to wish he can chase with his own; he just needs to dip his head and--
With a sharp inhale Jon moves away from her, already cursing his wayward thoughts.
Sansa is probably dreaming, he thinks as he hastens out of her room, of wild and wonderful things. Of the lovely things she wants. Of all the beautiful things he aches to give her - but never can.
She doesn't at all deserve to receive the debased, craven desires of her Queensguard while she's at her most vulnerable.
The Queen - no, Sansa - deserves better than that.
ii.
The few times she isn't working she's sewing, and Jon observes her as she does, watching her hand methodically push and pull at the cloth until she's created something practical and beautiful all on her own.
"I ruminate better when I'm sewing," Sansa told him, one day when he'd asked why she seemingly never just simply rested whenever she could. "I think more when my hands aren't idle."
Now she's studying her creation; only then does he realize she's actually sewn a tunic. For a moment he thinks it's for a suitor - gods knew there were too many of them, far more than the number he believes is necessary for her to choose from - but then, to him, the tunic doesn't seem like it's suited to be worn outside of Winterfell.
As if sensing his thoughts, the Queen then goes to him and demands, quite suddenly, "Take off your shirt."
For one moment, he doesn't seem capable of understanding anything. "Your Grace?"
She places the tunic on top of what he's currently wearing and says, "I think it's a good fit, but I can't tell unless you actually wear it."
"Then--"
Something is clogging his throat. He clears it before trying again, louder this time, "--then it's for me?"
Sansa raises a brow at him. "Well of course it is, Jon. Who else would I sew this for?"
One of your suitors, he thinks sourly.
Then he finds himself not wanting to contemplate or question the matter further.
She turns away from him to give him some semblance of privacy; soon he's pulling his clothes off and she's handing him the tunic and he's putting it on, as per her silent command. The cloth feels light on his skin yet warm at the same time, and he marvels at it before realizing she's actually pulling him closer to her by the hem of the tunic.
Just when he's near enough, she starts patting him down, hands moving and feather-light, from his shoulders down his arms.
He grimaces and fights the urge to react to her touch, lest he startles her.
But then she lays both hands flat on his chest and moves them down, down, until they're on his stomach, until they're hovering over his--
"Sansa," Jon chokes out, catching both hands with his own.
"Hmm?" She raises her brow at him again. "What is it? I'm just trying to see if it fits well."
"It does, thank you." He releases his hold on her without once meeting her eyes. "It does."
"Well, if you're absolutely sure--"
"I am."
She shrugs and turns away from him.
Taking it as a dismissal, Jon all but flees from her solar.
Gods.
But the feel of her hands on his skin, that was--
Gods help him.
iii.
He doesn't quite know how she's managed to convince him - yet here they both are in the training yard, her hand clutching a daggerof all things.
"You don't think I can protect you?" he'd asked her, when she brought the idea up.
"Of course I do," she'd replied, in that tone that clearly conveyed how annoyed she was at him. "But you can't be at my side at all times, Jon. What if I'm attacked while I'm alone on my bed? Or when I'm in my bath? Or--"
Each word drew up visuals that he'd fought so hard not to conjure on his own, and so to stop her from adding to them he'd agreed.
Now, here they are.
"Arya said to stick them with the pointy end," she says, flexing her fingers around the hilt of the weapon. "But I want to learn the many ways I can, Jon. What if they're coming at me at full speed? From the front?"
"Then--"
He goes to stand behind her, hand reaching for one of hers clutching the dagger, the other resting lightly on her hip. "You do this." He mimes thrusting the dagger upwards. "The faster they come at you, the deeper you can hurt them with it. Aim for what's vulnerable: the neck, the eyes. Aim at what can bleed that fastest."
She nods, then repeats his movement with her own. "And if they're from the back?"
Jon frowns. "You'll need to hear them coming and act accordingly. You'll want to be looking at them when they do." He taps her hip. "You need to turn--"
And she does.
Except her dagger is raised at the air - as if poised to attack him - and his hand soon catches her wrist.
"Seems you've caught me," Sansa says, and there's an odd glint in her eye, right then. Her gaze drops to his mouth, then back up again - so quickly he thinks he may have just imagined it. She smiles, murmurs: "What now, Jon?"
What now indeed.
He grunts and steps away from her. Making sure to look as though he's not contemplating improper things he wants to do to her he says, "Perhaps I should teach you how to defend better as well."
But something about her expression sours; Sansa hides the dagger in her skirts and says, quite coldly, "That's enough lesson for today, Jon. Thank you."
He nods and breathes easier.
All the better, then.
iv.
"A dinner, Your Grace?" Jon chokes out one night, soon as he's followed her to her destination. "With all your suitors?"
"Yes!" she snaps over her shoulder. "That way I can choose from among them and just be done with it!"
He'd been dealing with her standoffish behavior for the entire week, it'd seemed. Jon doesn't believe Sansa wishes to be deliberately cruel - at least, not to him - but with how cool and collected she's been, along with her tendency to not talk to him directly or when she dismisses his services at the oddest of times--
--and now he hears she's decided to do this, of all things!
None of them sit right with him. None of them!
So consumed he is by this thought that he doesn't think much, just follows her directly into her chambers.
"Why?" he asks her. "Why the urgency, Sansa? You've never--"
"What does it matter, Jon?" she replies, glaring right back at him. "Why does it matter to you? All the North wishes to see me wed, do they not? Then I shall do it quickly so that soon it'll be one less matter I'll be concerned about! After all, if the one person I wanted does not want me, then--"
Soon as she says them Sansa seems to deflate; she sinks on the side of her bed as if robbed of the strength to stand on her own.
The one person she wanted?
Who--?
Jon goes to her, then. Bending on one knee before her, he takes her hand in his own. "Sansa," he says softly. "Talk to me. Please."
She draws a shaky breath, looks at their entwined hands, and winces. "I don't care anymore, Jon," she whispers, not meeting his eyes. "I--I've tried, and nothing worked. And gods, I felt desperate and it made me do shameful things to be noticed and yet--" Sansa pauses. "--yet I failed."
Jon reaches to cup her face in his hands; he holds her gently, gently, even if anger begins burning in his gut. "Sansa," he says, "Only an idiot will fail to notice you."
For some reason it makes her choke; soon he realizes she's actually, veritably laughing. "He is a dense sort of man," Sansa tells him after some seconds have passed. "Oh, Jon. Sometimes I want to just-- hit him. Perhaps to knock some sense into him."
Ah, and she should, for then Jon will come to know his identity and loathe the man until the end of time - perhaps even maim him when an opportunity comes. "Then do it," he encourages her. "Hit him. Knock some sense into him! For then maybe he'll realize how fortunate he is that someone like you-- someone beautiful and wonderful and lovely like you--"
Without warning Sansa hits his arm with both fists.
After a surprised moment Jon comments, "Harder, Sansa. You'll need to hit him harder than that."
She stares down at him then, and he wonders if he'd said something wrong. "Gods, Jon Snow," Sansa breathes incredulously. "You really are dumb at times."
And before he knows what's happening, she bodily throws herself at him, kisses him on the mouth and--
--oh.
Well.
Sansa had said he is a dense sort of man, so.