Chapter Text
“You’ll attend the banquet, won’t you?” Lady Karstark asks, as the subtlety is brought out and presented before the King in the North and the Queen of the South—a sugary rendition of a dragon and a direwolf, likely the work of a talented southron pastry master that had tailed along with everyone else in the Northern March. With so many bodies in and around Winterfell nowadays, Sansa can’t even imagine if there’s anybody left in King’s Landing, though she knows that’s not true. Still, she imagines how eerie it is, the idea of the royal capital completely devoid of people. The silence alone would be frightening, she thinks, when she can still remember the claustrophobic roar of voices and sounds that had echoed in between the tight streets she had ran through, desperate to escape the men who had been all too eager to get a piece of the nobility they so detested.
It feels like an eternity since she had last been in King’s Landing, just as it feels like an eternity since she had last sat at the high table, with Jon on her right. She’d been permitted to sit next to the King only because she had been the highest ranking noble after him, but no longer does she fill that criterion. Instead, it is Daenerys Targaryen who sits beside Jon now, a figure of equal importance, of equal might. Sansa knows all too well the looks that some of the other lords cast her, and they all suggest the same thing: you want to be her, don’t you? they say—wouldn’t you want to be by his side?
They’re all wrong, though. She’ll be damned if she has to sit next to Jon, knowing what she knows. Contrary to the beliefs of her peers, Sansa is perfectly content with her seat at one of the long trestles set up along the perimeter of the great hall, knowing she’s at liberty to watch the spectacle at the high table, just like everyone else. At least here, her heart can break all over again without hundreds of eyes staring back at her. She doesn’t want to admit it, but she takes small pleasure knowing that the King and Queen do not have the same luxury as she, especially Jon; whatever pains he might go through, he’ll never be allowed to express them, not while he’s the center of attention.
As the Lady of Winterfell, her right to the entrance of the banquet, that small, private gathering that the King and Queen partake in after a grand feast, is without question. The problem is that she’s had quite enough of them, these days; she sees Jon and Daenerys too often during their council meetings, and it’s taxing enough, seeing as she has to keep her armor in place for longer than she prefers.
Tonight’s feast had been held to mark the King and Queen’s brief departure for the Gift, where Jon seeks to establish a further line of defense against those beyond the Wall. Their absence relieves her, but not the implications of their mission. After all, what hope can there be if the Night King and his legion of White Walkers somehow penetrate the Wall? What possible defense can there be after, when, supposedly, they are up against a population as large as that of the Seven Kingdoms?
Sansa sets these fears aside for later. In the privacy of her bedchamber, perhaps, she will let her worries and her sorrows loose, as she is usually wont to do beneath the furs, though in truth she’s not in the mood to retire just yet. Still, Lady Karstark is watching her expectantly, and Sansa knows that there are some social obligations she needs to fulfill.
The problem right now is that she just doesn’t care.
“I don’t think I will, my lady. It’s been a rather challenging day, to be honest, and I think it’ll do me good to retreat for the night. It’ll be quite the early rising tomorrow.”
Lady Karstark nods. “You’re right about that. Quite a time we live in, don’t you think? How we’re all gathered here, to face these legends—these beings, really, that have always been the stuff of cautionary tales. It certainly leaves pause for thought. Sometimes I find myself asking whether things would be this way if I had heeded those tales, or whether we’ve always been destined for this.”
Sansa opens her mouth to respond when everyone at the long trestle rises suddenly, and she turns her head to look back at the high table while she stands as well. The King and Queen are already on their feet, waiting for everyone in the great hall to follow suit. Together they watch over the congregation of people before them, a hodgepodge of nobles and masters and wildlings, all of whom possess different opinions over this threat beyond the Wall.
As soon as silence ensues, Daenerys Targaryen speaks first.
“We value the company of all who are here tonight,” she says, her voice solid and clear, but still enchanting. “We’re now constantly faced with danger and uncertainty, but moments such as these carry with them the strength to push us forward, to seek hope beyond the darkness.”
There’s a low rumble of noise as hands and pewter cups bang against the trestle in response. Sansa watches Jon, whose head is turned to look at the tiny woman beside him as she continues with the rest of her speech, most of which she doesn’t bother to take further note of.
His face is solemn, as solemn as ever, but there’s a light in his eyes that contrasts with the rest of his face. To her, it speaks of longing, admiration, kinship. She’s certain that it also speaks of love.
Though she hates to admit it, they’re a magnificent sight to behold when they’re together, which is more often than not. Worse, the language of their bodies is more telling than the words they exchange. Sansa knows that their fingers itch to touch, in that same way she had once experienced; that the heat which radiates off them is familiar in a way only lovers understand. Try as they may, she knows the secret that they hide; then again, so does the rest of the court.
Her secret, on the other hand, is all hers.
She takes in a shaky breath, reluctant to buckle under the despair and sadness that threatens to erupt since Jon had returned with Daenerys Targaryen at his side. She won’t do it here, at least. Sansa refuses to give her adversaries such pleasure, even when she’s unsure whether she has any to worry about these days; there’s a conflict much greater than control over the Iron Throne, though perhaps she only thinks that because she belongs to the winning side. Of course, her insecurities could also be a product of Littlefinger’s legacy, gone though he is. Some things never leave you, she supposes, no matter how hard she tries discarding them, like a worn-out garment. Baelish’s teachings are, unfortunately one of them; the other, which worries her even more, is her sentiments towards a man whose heart now belongs to another. Sansa isn’t sure anymore if she’ll be able to maintain the façade long enough for her heart to mend itself back into place, especially when Jon is now picking up her evasion tactics more successfully. There are things they need to discuss, just the two of them, but she’s not ready for that, at least not yet. She knows that she’s never had any right to him, and she reminds herself of that on a daily basis; they have never pretended to be anything more than what they are, despite one night of error. She never had a hand on his heart—what matter does it make, now that someone else does?
An almost deafening cheer from those around her shakes her out of her reverie. Sansa looks towards the queen, who has a beautiful, triumphant smile on her face. She can imagine how easy it is for any man to melt at that, including someone as insulated and conservative as Jon. Daenerys Targaryen is needed here, as much as he is; she inspires people to action, her and her majestic dragons, and Sansa knows that without her, their army would never be as immense as it is. She has the love of her subjects, and it’s that love that has carried so many up north.
Those assembled now wait for Jon to speak, and when he turns his grey eyes back on them, the light she had discerned only a moment ago has disappeared, replaced with wary determination.
“Her Majesty does more justice with her words than I ever will,” he says at last. “And what she says is true. We’re in for a long journey ahead of us, facing an enemy we know so little about, but we all have to remember what we’re fighting for. There are our children that we need to fight for, and our people, our home and our lands. It’s one thing to survive, another thing entirely to live. But we all deserve to, you see, especially after all we’ve been through.”
“Hear, hear!” Someone shouts from the other side of the room, and there’s another excited rumble throughout the great hall.
“We need to remember what we’re fighting for,” Jon repeats, during the last of the noise. “Now is not the time to turn against one another, no matter which corner of the Seven Kingdoms you hail from—whether you’re from Westeros or Essos. Her Majesty and I depart for the Gift tomorrow, but we aren’t taking all of you. Do not forget that the only way we stand a chance is if we stand together. Anything less and we could all face extinction.”
It’s not an ideal way to end a feast, but it hits home the gravity of the situation. While the hum of voices starts up again and conversation resumes, there is no ignoring the fact that the air is heavy with uneasiness.
“Everyone rest while you still can,” the queen commands over the increasing volume. “Whether you’re those coming with the King and I, or whether you remain here, all of you must reserve your strength, whether you wield a sword or not.”
Sansa stares at the queen, lips tightly pursed together. Will Daenerys Targaryen heed her own advice? Will she return to her bedchamber after the banquet to sleep, or will she waste the night away, legs spread wide as Jon pushes into her, in the way she had once been familiar with? And when she does finally succumb to exhaustion, will he wrap her in his arms and whisper sweet nothings into her hair, in that way she never knew, but wish she had?
Her head heavy with thoughts and images she now wishes she had never toyed with, Sansa glances absentmindedly at Jon, only to realize a beat later that he’s looking straight at her. His face is somber, jaw line passive, but in the end she cannot read the thoughts behind any of it. She had once found it so easy to understand him, the nuances in his expressions—that minute lift in one eyebrow, the curl in his lower lip, the strength of his shoulders; she remembers them well, but not their stories. That strange glint that had danced in his eyes while he had watched the queen remains absent, and it only reminds her of her own misstep, of the fact that she had held on to some useless hope, a belief that perhaps he had loved her as much as she had loved him. She still does, is the sad thing; even while he’s gone and broken her heart, destroyed a future that once was, Sansa still loves him, though he’s longed slipped through her first fingers. Perhaps she never had any grip on him in the first place.
Oh, what a fool she can be sometimes.
Sansa turns her head away quickly to look elsewhere, determined to keep her emotions in check. She finds herself looking at the back of Lady Karstark’s head, her long, red hair as intricately braided as her own. For a moment she’s thinks it could be, until the woman in question turns around. It’s a face entirely different than hers, softer in certain areas than she’s accustomed to, but striking nonetheless.
“Will you obey Her Majesty’s orders and retire? Or have you changed your mind? Do say you have, Lady Stark.”
She smiles softly at her dinner companion. “I think I’ll retire now. Please give the King and Queen my regards, though I doubt they’ll take any notice of my absence.”
“Oh, but I’m sure a few courtiers will,” Lady Karstark teases, winking at her.
“I’m a rather poor sport when I’m tired, my lady. I’ll end up losing what few admirers I might have, if I follow you in there.”
When the last of their conversation comes to an end, Sansa quietly slips out of the great hall after bidding Lady Karstark a good night, though it’s only after she’s positive that Jon and Daenerys have left for the banquet. She’s still not sure what to make of Jon, but she wonders if there’s anything to make out in the first place. Maybe she’s clinging to whatever she can, when she ought to know better. The thought leaves her feeling weak.
By the time she arrives at her bedchamber, Sansa is thoroughly convinced that she has no desire to retire just yet. Instead, a strong urge to wander takes over, especially outside. It’s dark, and the weather is frigid, but she’s not tired, despite what she had said to Lady Karstark. It’s not as if she’s been sleeping all that well, anyway; the night tends to stretch on for what seems like an eternity as she tosses and turns, wide awake from the curiosity that’s been eating her since Jon had returned with Daenerys Targaryen riding at his side. It’s none of her business what transpires behind the closed door of Jon’s bedchamber, but her mind refuses to relent; a flurry of images of possibilities constantly dance about, some more explicit than the rest.
She’s grateful that the tears only spill at night, when she’s alone. They’re gone by the morn, dried up on her face, her pillow. There’s enough to deal with during the day as it is—another thing she’s grateful for.
Yes, she thinks, pushing the door of her chamber open to retrieve her warmest cloak. Things could be much worse. A broken heart does not mean she’s entirely broken. A little worse for wear, perhaps, but nobody’s really whole nowadays, after all that’s happened, with all that’s to come.
At first Sansa doesn’t care where her feet take her, taking small pleasure in the idea of walking for the sake of walking. Still, she mindfully avoids the main courtyard, knowing that it will be dense with bodies and talk, even at this time of night. Instead, she let’s herself get lost in deserted alleyways and quiet nooks, these lonely corners that she had never given much thought to. Such spaces are not likely to have any tales to whisper, she reflects, nor do they belong in the realm of anyone’s memories; they are prone to being forgotten, abandoned. When her time comes, when it’s time for her own burial, will she be as forgotten as these decrepit spots, never to be visited again?
It dawns on her just how far she’s made off while she looks at the bottom of the broken tower. Sansa tilts her head up towards it, trying to see if she can make out some of the windows and other details that exist at the top, but she fails. The structure belongs with those crevices she’d lamented upon earlier, forgotten from damage and disuse, though not invisible from sight. There had once been talk of refurbishing the tower for wartime uses, but the amount of time required to remove the rubble and rebuild the roof was deemed too much, so that in the end, the idea had been abandoned. Sansa is sure that she must have happened upon the tower at some point of her life when she was younger, but there is no specific memory she can associate it with, save for that time when Bran had been found nearby at the bottom of the First Keep. Even then the tower was but a minor character in a dire story about her brother, spoken about but never seen.
She gasps in surprise when a strange noise echoes from somewhere on the other side of the tower, sharp and alarming. She takes a cautious step back, concern and curiosity bubbling within her, her mind active with possibilities. At first she’s convinced that there’s an animal nearby, a rodent perhaps, stashing away its scavenged goods. When another sound drifts towards her again, her confidence wavers.
Still possessing more than half a mind, Sansa turns back without a second thought—completely forgetting about the low branch she had dodged earlier. It catches onto her hair, nearly startling her out of her wits, causing her to drop her lantern; it collides against the ground with an audible clang. Heart beating wildly against her chest, her breathing fast and loud, she remains frozen, desperate to calm herself. How senseless of her to be nearly frightened to death by a stray branch, she chides herself, trying to untangle the coiled locks from the branch as quickly as she can. Only the moon acts as a light, now that her lantern’s extinguished.
The sound of footsteps sparks a new wave of fear within her, as threatening as the deafening screech of the queen’s dragons in this silent, forsaken corner of the castle. She finally gets her hair free from the branch and is ready to make a dash towards the Great Keep when someone calls her name.
“Sansa?”
She doesn’t know who calls her, but she recognizes the voice, and that’s enough to assuage most, if not all, of her fears. It’s familiar, not entirely so, but she senses, perhaps through memory and instinct, that whomever the voice belongs to, it’s someone who wouldn’t hurt her.
When she looks over her shoulder tentatively, the man standing behind her nearly makes her double over in relief.
“Theon?”
It is. The lantern he holds in front of him casts a warm glow over his face, bringing his features into sharp focus. Perhaps in a different frame of mind she wouldn’t have been so attentive to his face, but here, before the broken tower, it’s as if she’s seen that face a thousand times, what with the angular jaw and crooked mouth. That tethered look of fright he had had once is no longer as prominent as it had been, when she’d first seen him again, but remnants of it still skirt along the edges of his eyes, in the tightness of his face.
“Theon,” she says again, this time with more conviction. He’s watching her uneasily, as if she might pounce; it’s almost comical, that he might believe that she can do him any real physical harm. “What—what are you doing here?”
She realizes only after that he’s perfectly entitled to ask her the same thing, but he doesn’t.
“I’m taking shelter,” he responds, his voice tired. “I sleep here,” he adds, as if that clarifies everything, when in fact it only confuses her even more.
Sansa frowns. “What do you mean? You’ve a room in the Great Keep itself—I’m sure I had my steward assign one.”
Theon shakes his head. “I don’t deserve a place there,” he explains, looking at the ground in front of her. “I don’t belong there. I don’t belong at Winterfell.”
“It was your home once,” she points out.
“Not anymore,” he counters, with another shake of his head. The light from his lantern dances in his eyes; there’s a haunted look in them that, for some reason, reminds her of own loneliness. “I acted cruelly behind these walls. And now they scream at me, most of them—they tell me get out, to leave. There’ll be no rest for me, because of it.”
She stares at him. Theon had been cruel. He’d been stupid, and short-sighted, and he’d paid dearly for it. She doesn’t know how long his retribution will last; it could be forever, she thinks, if the fatigue in his voice, his face, is any indication. He might end up chasing redemption until the end of his days. Sansa wonders if even death will bring him the peace he badly desires.
“It’s frigid out here,” she says. “How are you getting by?”
Theon says nothing at first, a thoughtful look in his face.
“I can show you.”
He turns around and takes a few steps forward, as if he’s giving her the opportunity to refuse, to turn back. But as soon as she retrieves her lantern from the ground she follows him, walking over the prints his feet had made in the light snow.
She never knew that there was a roofed enclosure attached to the tower, extending beyond it like an odd, misshaped tumor. It’s entirely easy to miss, considering the almost mountainous pile of rubble leaning against it.
“Is this where you’re taking shelter?”
He nods wordlessly.
Something occurs to her. “Where’s the entrance?” She asks, frowning.
Theon moves towards the enclosure before lowering himself onto his knees. She watches with a frown on her face as he pulls aside what looks like a wooden plank to reveal the entrance, a large puncture at the bottom. It’s a crawl space, she realizes; instantly she’s reminded of those caverns once made out of Old Nan’s linen, strewn across chairs and drawers, and the only way to get in was on your hands and knees. Sansa has always wanted to be a lady for as long as she can remember, but even that did not surpass the promise that lay inside those shabbily manufactured forts, which sometimes played the role of the castle she imagined overseeing.
As he waits patiently, Sansa realizes that Theon wants her to enter first. Her eyes oscillate between the man kneeling before her and the botched entrance of the enclosure, all while the oddness of their situation dawns on her. There had been no interaction between them since he had returned to Winterfell, along with the rest of the party from the south, although the news that he was with them had been quite the surprise; she would have thought that he would have wanted to stay put up in the Iron Islands, after his sister’s victory against their uncle, learning the ropes of the kingdom’s newfound independence. Surely Theon must’ve known that he wouldn’t be welcomed in the north, after all that he’d committed. Then again, she thinks, lowering herself onto her knees to get through the crawl space, perhaps his reappearance here is a sign of his bravery, after all; not many would return to a place knowing that they could likely be given to the dogs.
The inside of the enclosure is passable in its size, though signs of its age and neglect are prominent. It’s devoid of any furniture, and the only things to take note of are those that are Theon’s. A fraction of the hard stone floor is covered with a thin sheet, with a wrinkled and well-worn piece of fur crumpled above it. A weak flame, the only source of heat available, burns from a small brazier across the room, illuminating what few belongings Theon has with him: a chipped goblet, a closed satchel. It’s meager, all of it.
If her heart had still been in tact, Sansa suspects that it would break at this picture.
Sansa turns her head to look at Theon, who stands beside her, still like water. He studies the scene of his makeshift shelter, and she wonders if he sees what she sees: a life of penance, as sparse as a snowy field.
“These walls—they say nothing to you? Do they keep quiet?”
He looks at her, his eyes listless. “Enough for me to sleep a little.”
Sansa sighs quietly in response, turning back to look at the space before her again. Had she been forced to dwell in this enclosure, she’d probably find a tapestry to hang over the bare wall across from her, something colorful to break the monotony of greys and browns, of stone and wood. Something with an exciting subject, like a scene from one of the tales they’d heard of when they were children—a romantic one, instead of those about battles and violence. There’s enough of that beyond these walls already, and someone like Theon needs to forget, or and least be distracted.
“Can I stay here, just a little while?” She asks, even before she thinks it through completely. She’s wandered far from her bedchamber, but she still has no desire to go back. Like Theon, she’s cursed with insomnia, her mind an orchestra of thoughts and images, of longing and pity. She’ll only spend the night wondering whether Jon has stayed put in his rooms, or whether he’s slipped through the doors of Daenerys’s bedchamber instead.
Whatever Theon makes of her request, it shows not in his physical demeanor. To this day Sansa’s not entirely sure she if forgives him for his passiveness, or whether time, and the pain wrought on her by others closer to her, have dulled the reality she had suffered.
“Someone will notice that you’re missing soon,” he reasons.
She raises an eyebrow at him. “Has anyone realized where you’ve been spending the nights?”
Theon shakes his head slowly.
“I’m not the Lady of Winterfell,” he says. “Besides, there’s also Jon.”
The mention of his name makes her bristle. “What about Jon?”
“If he finds out you’re missing,” Theon cuts off, before dodging her sharp gaze, “If he finds you here…”
At this, she can’t help but smile—whether it’s in amusement or mortification, she’s not so sure. “Jon has a war to win and a queen in his bed,” she points out. “He’s got much bigger things on his mind now, don’t you think?”
Her comment had been made partly in jest, but Theon remains unconvinced either way. His silence cuts deep, and suddenly her request sounds stupid, desperate. Strange how men grow wary of her exceptionally fast, she thinks, looking away.
“Nevermind. Just forget I asked.”
She’s turning around to head back through the crawl space when he speaks.
“You can stay if you’d like,” he says. “You—you can stay as long as you want.”
Sansa gives him a hard stare. “If you want to be alone, you should just say so,” she scolds, even while her spirits lift a little at his offer.
“That isn’t what I want,” he declares. Had Theon been someone else, if the situation hadn’t been as strange as it is now, she would have pressed him for more. Instead she accepts his curt statement, taking a step further into the room, then another, while Theon slides the heavy wooden board across the entrance.
Without any chairs or stools, she makes do on a spot near the edge of the thin sheet, drawing her knees up against her chest to keep the warmth. The place isn’t so bad, really, though she would have preferred a stronger fire. A tapestry or two as well, she thinks again, if only because they would do wonders for keeping the heat.
Sansa tilts her head upwards when she realizes that Theon remains standing.
“Why won’t you sit?” She asks, eyebrows drawn in.
He says nothing, as if in deliberation. Slowly, though, he lowers himself to sit beside her, crossing his legs. Sansa studies his boots, as worn out as the room itself. With enough material, she thinks, she just might be able to have the shoemaker make him a new pair. With so many mouths to feed and bodies to keep warm, all of their resources are stretched tight, but Sansa knows all too well the feeling of receiving something new in a time of crisis.
Neither says anything for a long time. She doesn’t mind the silence, is mildly content watching the flames in the brazier as it dances within its confines. If only she could be as intangible and weightless as that flame, rather than heavy with sadness, inflated with longing and grief. How much happier she would be, she thinks, if only she could burn all her emotions away, as easily as a piece of parchment. Sansa cannot, though, and for a moment she thinks about Daenerys, who, unable to perish from fire, is likely unable to melt her own sorrows away, either. She isn’t naive to think someone in her position doesn’t face a mountain of problems, no matter how much love she receives from her subjects, or those of her courtiers. They’re similar in that sense, bound together by more than just their connection to Jon. Sansa isn’t sure whether she’s pleased by this revelation or not.
“What was it like, Theon? When you met her for the first time?”
“Who?”
“The dragon queen.”
The room is quiet while she waits for Theon’s response, the wind outside a high-pitched howl that sends branches and other small minerals crashing to the ground. Maybe he doesn’t plan on answering at all, she thinks, drawing her cloak tighter around her.
“I thought she was small,” her companion says at last. “All the tales of her victories and conquests, all those slaves she liberated—it made me think that she was as tall as a mountain, larger than life. Like your lady knight, in a way; I thought she would look like that. I thought that anyone who could walk through fire without being burnt had to look as intimidating as the gods themselves.”
She nods, though in truth she finds his answer unsatisfying. Theon offers nothing new, nothing original; his perception is contrite, as generic as that of everyone else’s, anyone who has never been a king or queen. It’s human nature, she thinks, to elevate one’s sovereign to unspeakable heights; how else do you convince yourself that they’ve ended up where they are, if not because they’re better than everyone else? How could she explain Daenerys’s rise, even Jon’s, if not because they were something more than human?
“You were there weren’t you, Theon? When Jon met the queen for the first time?” Sansa can hear herself, almost as if she’s outside of her own body; her voice sounds faraway, lethargic.
“Aye, I was.”
There’s a brief surge of light from the brazier before it returns to its usual rhythm.
“Did—did he seem taken by her?”
The silence rings in her ears as she waits, afraid to look at Theon. She’s too scared of what his face might reveal when he speaks.
“It’s hard not to be taken by someone who holds so much power and allure. Even for a man like Jon.”
Power and allure. A seductive combination by any means, even if Daenerys Targaryen hadn’t been as beautiful as she actually is. Or brave, or noble.
Things she’s mostly not, she muses, at least in Jon’s eyes. Not enough to affect him the way his dragon queen does.
Theon carries a valid point, but it pleases her not. She’s perturbed at the idea that Jon would fall for her for all the same reasons that any man would, even while he’s every right to. And really, she should know better; too many times she’s placed all the wrong people on a pedestal, only to have her dreams dashed, like porcelain against a wall. She had hoped, despite her better knowledge, that Jon would be different. Her mistake, she supposes, ignoring the bitterness rising in her throat. The cold is beginning to seep inside her bones, though she knows that it has nothing to do with the frigid temperature.
“I wonder how it happened,” she muses, leaning her chin on top of her crossed arms, ignoring the shatter that can only be her heart. “How did it begin? Did she initiate it? Or did he?”
She’s giving voice to the thoughts that have been eating her for longer than she cares to remember. Why she’s unearthing them here, before Theon, before this man she’s never given much thought to, is beyond her. Perhaps she’s lonelier than she likes to admit, a little desperate to connect with someone. She’s been hurt and abused, but she thinks that this is the first time she’s ached the way she does, from some fool’s love that had never really been, and will never be. It’s the one thing she forgets about—not that the songs aren’t real, but that they end eventually. Every tune has a finish, and it seems as if hers will always be a sad one.
“Perhaps it was neither,” Theon says beside her. “It could have simply happened. Just like that.”
He could very well be right, but the answer doesn’t satisfy her; in fact, it hurts her even more. To subscribe to Theon’s words is to believe that their union had been as natural as day and night. On the other hand, by assuming that one of them had played the first move suggests deliberation on someone’s part, even if it had been Jon. Cause and effect, rather than fate. She’s allowed to dwell in the realm of possibility, that wonderful, inconsistent thing, free to imagine that had he not gone south, things would not be the way they are now. Theon’s suggestion is too final, regardless of the uncertainty that lingers in his tone. She hates it because it leaves no room for questions, is like an iron-tight plot with no loopholes in the narrative.
It’s as if they were meant to be.
Sansa turns her head away to look at the dirty floor beneath her, squeezing her arms tightly. She inhales, her breathing shaky, her grief rising from deep inside her. It’s a fear like no other, gripping and near suffocating in its hold, eating off her bleak thoughts. He’ll leave, just like all the good ones do, and she’ll have no choice but to fight for herself, though who knows what she’ll come out with. It’s her lot in life, she thinks, flames dancing before her eyes. A pretty face and pretty charms, temporary joys for a man in the throes of confusion and loneliness, but forgetful after that. She’ll always have her tricks and her mask, she supposes, but that’s for survival; when will she get the chance to live? Will there ever be a time when Jon’s words finally ring true for her?
Though she stares at the flame dancing in the brazier, her mind is elsewhere, in the deepest recesses of her consciousness, a kind of hollow blackness that not even the night sky can attest to. Here her thoughts and emotions take on a strange, muffled effect: difficult to hear, blurry to view, a mosaic of experiences that converge into one another, as seamless as tears in rain. Yet even in this rendering of her life, one image still remains clear, uncut. It’s Jon, his grey eyes looking back at her with no emotion in them, as empty as the red waste is without water. There’s nothing left for her in Jon, nothing for him to give, because he’s offered it all to someone else.
“A man’s love does not always coincide with his lust,” Theon suggests, pulling her out of her reflections. “Sometimes, it’s dissonant.”
Sansa makes no response to his comment. The silence between them is vast but intimate at the same time, a sea of quiet uncertainty that steels itself in a strange sort of familiarity, of memories that dwell on the outskirts of her consciousness, never to be realized or fully dwelled on. It does nothing to quell the ache that lingers within her, nor is it in any way ideal, but somehow it provides strange comfort. She doesn’t know what goes on in Theon’s head; Sansa isn’t sure she really wants to. He’s not the boy she had known when she was but a child, that reckless rascal with a cheeky grin and mischief always shining in his eyes. He’ll likely never be that boy again, though, and she knows that, just like she’ll never be that girl she once was.
“Some people are fools, Theon,” she says impulsively. “They’re stupid enough to fall in love with people who don’t love them back, and then they wonder how they got themselves into such a mess in the first place.”
He doesn’t answer, but she’s not waiting for one.
“There are those who never learn. They never realize that nobody will ever stay for them, that nobody ever really wants them, because that’s just their lot in life. Everything’s fragile, like glass, and yet they think the world is made out of steel.”
She scoffs quietly, surprised by the salty taste in her mouth. “Those people—they should know better. But they still hope, anyway. How can I not feel sorry for them?”
Theon says nothing. He doesn’t place a tentative hand on her shoulder in an act of reassurance, nor does he wrap her in his arms the way she had once imagined was the perfect means to placate someone who was sad. In an act of mercy, he simply let’s her be, while the tears fall from her eyes and down her cheeks. Sansa will remember this moment as the sweetest thing he’s ever offered her—the opportunity to lament over the things that could have been, the things that have been lost.
Jon is only one of them.
AN: I posted this on my Tumblr first, but a few requested that I post this story here, as well. It’s long, and a bit weird, but I’d still love to hear your feedback, if you’re able. Thank you for reading!