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mon-blanchetts · 7 years

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We Fight Ourselves (Part 2)

Jon never truly belonged to her, but she knew that already. Fate had cast its die a long time ago—everyone, including herself, had to live with the outcome. At least she had her babe; at least she had her home. Sansa re-evaluates the state of marriage after brushing too close with death, but she’s not the only one whose views have changed [Rated M, post-series; deals with events from S7 and leaks from S8].

It was utterly foolish, she realized, having to go from one end of her home to another like a mouse evading the presence of a prowling cat. Still, it was the lesser of two evils, when it came down to it—any scenario where Jon happened upon her while she skittered towards her destination would be even less ideal. True, the glass gardens were on the westernmost side of the castle while the armory was in the opposite direction; the chances of running into Jon were slim to none, but Sansa just couldn’t shake off the paranoia that clung to her. She might have come out of her fever slightly worse for wear, yes, but she came out alive, breathing. If only Jon would see it that way, too.

“You must understand that his lordship’s had a terrible fright, my lady,” Maester Payton explained to her when she complained about his obsessive behavior in confidence. It was a rare occasion, being alone with her advisor; Jon was always lingering about, never out of sight, an additional limb she really didn’t need. “He’s spent so much time suffering over the possibility of your death that he needs to be sure you’re not leaving him. No matter how many times one has been exposed to death, one never gets used to it—the gods didn’t fashion that way.”

Because the gods aren’t merciful enough to do that. Maester Payton’s wisdom wasn’t easy to swallow, but she preferred it over her own beliefs, none of which held any ground, anyway. At the least, it gave her hope that things would return to normal soon; her life had been upended enough.

Sansa hurried through a narrow alleyway, Ghost following close behind. The western courtyard opened before her only a moment later, quiet and still as she remembered it, not so different from the godswood. None of Winterfell’s other courtyards were ever as deserted as this one; of course, none of them were purported to be haunted, either. It was nothing but the wild imaginings of children and superstitious Northerners, but the tales had been eerie enough to keep most away.

She looked up to stare at the face that had been rendered from iron and bronze, a fairly accurate depiction as far as she could tell. Daenerys’s statue rested in the center of the courtyard where she stood proud and erect, just as Sansa remembered her, frozen in time. Despite the upright, confident pose she held, there was something naked and vulnerable associated with the statue. The craftsmen she had commissioned had varying ideas about the placement of her dragons; in the end, they had been incorporated as a motif on the crown she wore.

As she studied the statue that loomed over her, Sansa realized how she never knew exactly what to make of Daenerys Targaryen—there simply hadn’t been enough time to reflect on any personal opinion she might have forged. In the eyes of most Northerners, the Mother of Dragons had been a paradox from the start, an ally and an enemy, until the Night King’s march towards them destroyed any such distinction. Now that Daenerys was but a memory, Sansa’s feelings towards her were just as convoluted as they had been when she had first step foot in the North. It was so easy to hate her, but there was another part of equal strength that admired her, too. Daenerys must have been a force to be reckoned with—after all, Jon had fallen in love with her, had done it with all his heart and every fiber of his being. Sansa wondered, with displaced yearning, what it would have been like to be the recipient of such breathless, passionate fervor, whether she even knew how to respond to it. Probably not, but maybe that was for the best.

A high-pitched whine made her look away from Daenerys’s statue. Ghost pressed his nose against her thigh, urging her forward. Did the courtyard frighten him as well? “It’s only stories,” she protested, shaking her head. “She doesn’t come to life at night, you know. Or do you?” Sansa winked at him.

Fed up, or just bored, Ghost loped past her and out of the courtyard. Sansa glanced at the statue one last time before she hurried after him. Maester Payton told her that the courtyard was where she had been found, lying unconscious at the foot of Daenerys’s iron form. No matter how hard she tried to wrack her mind, Sansa couldn’t remember why she’d been there in the first place. The events prior to her collapse were nothing but a burst of saturated images and misplaced sounds, the line between truth and fantasy a blur. A shame she still had her memories from earlier that day…

Sansa had never walked into a raging fire before, but setting foot inside the glass gardens must have been a fairly close experience, she thought; heat drowned her as soon as she passed through the doorway, licking at her face and leaving a sheen of moisture that was beginning to gather while she hurriedly pulled off her gloves and cloak. The greenhouse contained a dense silence that was so unlike the world beyond it, but she found that it made her time inside so much more memorable. True, it would never be as aesthetically pleasing as the gardens she remembered while she had lived in the Red Keep, but it had its own charm to it—a simple, Northern kind of attraction that she’d learned quickly to appreciate. The glass gardens housed more plants and flowers than Sansa knew the names of, but her favorite would always be the winter roses of her home; row after row of their shrubs had been planted in the center of the greenhouse, making them an impossible sight to miss. Even better, many of the roses her eyes caught sight of were in their mature state, their colour a pale, frosty blue that was mesmerizing to look at. They would make a lovely addition to her bedchamber, she thought, retrieving a sheathed blade and a wicker basket from the supply shelf nearby. Half a dozen roses would be enough to brighten her room—Sansa could already picture herself as she sat up in her bed, pulling away the curtains and being greeted by the sight of those lovely flowers.

Another thought came to mind while she set to work; the more she entertained it, the harder it was to repress that childhood giddiness she thought had long been snuffed out. Sansa pictured her daughter, one not yet conceived, but there was no doubt that she would possess dark hair so characteristic of her Stark heritage. Her daughter’s voice would ring through the narrow halls of Winterfell, together with Bran’s, and top of her head would be a crown of blue roses that Sansa would make, lovingly woven together with the prettiest pick of the bunch. The image was farther out of her grasp, but not impossible.

Her feelings were chased off by an eruption of noise somewhere behind her. Sansa jolted to her feet, eyes wide with alarm. Her heart nearly stopped when she turned around to find Jon standing beneath the lintel, breathing loudly through his nostrils. The dense silence of the greenhouse, once benevolent and comforting, now felt like it was trying to strangle the life out of her.

“What in Seven Hells do you think you’re doing here?” he demanded, his voice like the snap of a whip.

Sansa stared at him. “Hello, Jon,” she greeted gently. All her plans were rushing back now, together with the acute knowledge that she’d failed to follow through with them. Wasn’t it only moments ago when she’d stepped out? It must have, she thought, rather stubbornly; she couldn’t have been away from the keep that long. Could she?

What was it he’d asked her again? Oh, yes. “Many of the winter roses are in full bloom now,” she explained, bending down to retrieve her wicker basket. Sansa realized that there were more than the half dozen she had initially planned. So, she had lost track of time after all. “I thought it would be nice to have a few of them in my rooms, you see. They’re quite lovely, aren’t they?”

She plucked a rose from her basket and held it out to him, a hopeful smile painted on her face. Sansa hoped her peace offering would suffice, but she knew better; it would take a lot more than a pretty flower to placate Jon.

He stared at the blue rose before fixing his gaze on her face again, his eyes stormy. “You said you would be busy with your letters,” he said, and there was no mistaking the accusation lining his tone. “You said you wouldn’t be far.”

“I just wanted to clear my head a bit,” she reasoned, gripping the handle of her basket. Sansa wondered how long it had taken Jon until he’d been struck with the possibility that she might be here, until she remembered that she’d passed through the western courtyard earlier. “Do you really think my actions criminal, Jon?”

The look he gave her might have been enough to make any man crumble. “You should have sent for me if you wanted to step out,” he reprimanded. “You know you weren’t supposed to be wandering off by yourself like this, but you did it anyway. What if you collapsed again?”

A stab of frustration ran through her body; Sansa could feel the grip on her patience slipping. She knew where his concern stemmed from, but it didn’t make his obsession with her whereabouts any easier to swallow.

Sansa lowered her arm, rose still in hand. “You and I both know the fever’s too well and gone for me to succumb to it again,” she said, her tone patronizing. “I won’t let you talk to me like I’m a child, Jon. If I want to spend time by myself outside the great keep, then I will.”

“Even at the expense of your concerned husband?” he fired back. Maybe it was the light that flooded the glass garden, or maybe it was just a change in scenery, but for the first time since she’d regained consciousness, Sansa was realizing Jon’s changed appearance; his beard was noticeably unkempt, wild and untamed, and the dark crescents under his eyes were more prominent than she had ever remembered them. Sleep was difficult to come by for many people these days, herself included; her mind was constantly abuzz with matters of state and the concerns of her subjects, but there was also the memories to deal with, those drenched in blood and sorrow, those ripe with that question that time had watered: what if? All those thoughts and speculations, like a set of blocks placed one on top of the other, until their weight became too much and they came toppling down—just like the bright comet that had once blazed across the skies, towards the far north, so bright and grand that when Sansa first saw it, she thought the sun had gained wings. Down they all went, those thoughts of hers, until finally she descended into a fitful sleep that left her groggy and drained beneath the morning light that sliced through the thin gap between the drawn bed curtains. Was it all the same for Jon? Or was there something else she wasn’t accounting?

Sansa frowned in response to his question. It just wasn’t like him to bring up their marriage in such a context; Jon was her husband in name only, their union an image drafted from the need to bolster the morale of not just their Northern subjects, but all the survivors of the Great War, those who were desperate for proof that some sort of normalcy was attainable. Her temper flared at the thought of Daenerys’s statue in the center of the western courtyard and the primary reason behind Jon’s self-imposed exile.

“Don’t twist it like that,” she admonished, shaking her head disapprovingly. “It’s not like you at all, you know, pretending we’re something we’ve never been.” Jon was threatening the success behind their partnership; Sansa didn’t like it one bit. She circled around him to leave, eager to extricate herself from this strange encounter before it worsened, but his hand on her arm stopped her from escaping.

“What do you mean by that?” he ordered. Sansa pursed her lips, glaring at him. “Tell me,” he pressed, tugging her closer.

She rolled her eyes. “You once told me you weren’t the husband I deserved, remember? You set the rules, Jon. I’m just following them.” Sansa caught him trying not to wince. How could he ever forget that it was all she could do in order to bring him home?

It felt like such a long time ago when he had said that to her, so much so that she thought the pain had dulled, but the way her chest tightened told her otherwise; there were just some heartaches that could be temporarily displaced, but never forgotten. Sansa accepted that the romantic love she used to dream about was simply not in the cards she kept being dealt with, a gamble that always had disastrous results for her—it was safer to take refuge in the things she had, rather than those she wanted. Jon was never going to love her the way she used to imagine he could, but that wasn’t his fault.

Whatever was on his mind made him loosen his hold; Sansa tried slipping away, but her attempt was futile. Jon was like the first spark of a flame come to life, his fingers clamping down as he pulled her closer toward him, bodies pressed together in a way that was too intimate, too foreign.

“Maybe I don’t care for these rules anymore,” he said in a low voice, rough as bark. There was a wild, desperate look on his face that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand. If she was feeling hot before, now she felt like someone had just thrown ice water at her.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You think I’m play games with you?” There was a hard, determined light in his eyes. “I’m not, Sansa.”

She regarded him warily. It was clear he wasn’t going to back down, but it would take more than a few heated words to convince her that he was actually being serious. If Jon wanted something more out of their marriage, what was he looking for? Was she even willing to give it to him, after he’d broken her heart the way he had?

Sansa didn’t want to think about the possibilities. She didn’t want to deal with any of this at the moment, especially when Jon was standing so close to her. She was tired all of a sudden; the tension between them was wearing her down, and she very badly wanted to lay her head down on her pillow and rest. Maybe when she woke up, Maester Payton would deem her well enough that she could finally see Bran again, hold him tight against her chest like she always did, reminding her that the love she bore her son was a thousand times greater than any love she might have bore Jon, once. That ship had passed; the empty space Jon left inside her when he came back North with Daenerys Targaryen had been properly filled, and he only had himself to blame for that.

“Come back to the keep with me,” she offered, hoping this would soften him up a bit. Instead of escaping his hold, she placed a hand on top of his— a sisterly touch, one she knew he would recognize—before guiding him out of the glass gardens. A woman’s armor is her courtesy. “I want to know what Elyot’s been up to. And I’ll tell you what Lady Brienne has written to me about, but you must keep it a secret. Can you do that?”

AN: Hello, it’s me—and I’m not updating ten years after the last one! How’s that for character development? =D

#jon x sansa #jonsa #actuallyjonsa #jonsansaff #jonsansasource #yo I said I wasn't only going to spend maximum two hours editing this one #instead it took me nearly six #rood #we fight ourselves #writings

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