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They called her the Red Wolf but when she was standing under the Weirwood tree, she reminded him of a frozen statue. She didn’t look at him, not even once, since when they met yesterday, her blue eyes trained ahead of her. The wedding in the custom of the Old Gods was her only request. Still, his father wasn’t pleased, talking behind the closed doors about the blasphemy of it all. But Jon felt only calm surrounded by the trees and overwhelming cold of the North. It was so different from the stuffed air in the Kings Landing, refreshing even. He felt like he could fit amongst these men, better than in the stiff frames of his role as the Prince of the Realm, as he wasn’t anything his father was hoping for. No match for the King, almost a bastard, not fit to ride the dragon and charm foreign guests.
As he could see now, noticing how Sansa stiffened every time he had to touch her, even a smallest brush of his fingers against hers leaving her frozen. Somehow, it seemed to be fitting the surroundings, as he felt her older brother’s glare on the back of his head. As if he had more choice in this than them.
He also was a prisoner here, after all.
***
They hadn’t stayed in Winterfell very long. His father had bigger plans and gave them little abandoned castle in The Gift, barely fitting for the Prince and Warden of the North.
It was perfect.
His wife didn’t seem to think so but kept her thoughts to herself. He didn’t know how to talk to her, when her only answers seemed to be ‘No, my Lord’ or ‘It’s no problem, my Lord’. He had no illusions about their marriage, but he grew more and more irritated with each passing day. He just wanted a companion, somebody to hold onto in this foreign land, odd, but at the same time strangely fitting for him.
He glanced at his lady wife sitting at the other end of the table. Just as he seemed at home North, he thought the South would suit her, with its delicate words, gallant knights and beautiful songs played by his brother every night. Right now, the only thing that broke silence was his knife grating the plate.
He knew she hold back the scowl, the perfect Lady she was.
***
Jon saw her glancing at him. Sansa maybe thought he didn’t notice, but after a few months spent together in this silent limbo, he was attuned to her every move and expression that she let slip past her walls. And so, he waited for her to do that again, trying to cover her interest with fumbling for thread or looking at the pattern. He sighed and moved the letters in her direction. She stopped her moves, stunned. Jon smiled, as he didn’t think he would ever see his lady wife this out of control.
“You probably are better than me, my Lady” he managed to say, wincing at how awkward way he sounded. Sansa studied him silently, carefully, looking like she was ready to bolt at any moment. Jon stayed as still as he could, trying not to fidget under her scrutiny. Finally, she apparently saw something that calmed her down and gingerly reached for the papers.
Jon observed her as she closely examined the words, caught up in the way she looked illuminated by candles. It was rare event, when he could just take her in, as she usually avoided his attentions.
By Gods, she was beautiful, the kind of woman his brother would write songs about, unattainable and out of reach for him most of the times. But right now, as she started quietly advising him, pointing the things he would never see for himself, she was closer to him than she ever was before.
***
Sansa endured the difficulties of the travel better than he thought. His lady wife carried unexpected strength inside her, one that he rarely had privilege to see. She also preferred to join him on the horseback and the company wasn’t unwelcome. With her soft voice carrying the stories about the North, the days went past in a blink of an eye and with her example, their men started warming up to him; not only showing respect that he managed to gain but also some sort of rough sympathy.
Jon snickered; only Northmen would be capable to do such a thing and make it seem to be the highest compliment.
Nearing the Winterfell, Sansa became quieter, franticly looking around and radiating silent excitement. Though she would never break unspoken rules, she looked as if she was ready to run ahead of the company. Jon smiled fondly, he highly enjoyed the moments Sansa let her guard down a little and let him see real her, the strong woman that made his heart skip a bit.
Sudden rustling tore him from his thoughts. He raised his hand stopping Sansa and quietly summoned their guards. They followed him obediently into the forest near the road. Surprisingly, amongst the trees they didn’t find group of rebels or maybe assassins trying to find the cover in the forest, but a dying she-wolf with four little ones. Jon immediately dismounted the horse, mesmerised by the sight. He cautiously stepped forward, minding the grown direwolf; he had never seen a creature so huge and yet he couldn’t help himself.
The little ones were barely walking. His attention was drawn to the smallest one, white with red eyes and it seemed he wasn’t the only one, as the pup tried to make his move towards him, stumbling in the process. Jon laughed quietly and slowly reached his hand towards the pup.
A hand suddenly touched his shoulder startling him. He turned his head back, trying to stay as still as he could. His eyes met blue ones sparkling with mirth. Sansa crouched beside him and smiled at him. Warmth radiated from her touch and for a moment everything stopped and the world limited itself to her presence. The only stray thought that appeared in his mind was: I’m home.