so convinced that you’re following your heart
‘cause your mind doesn’t control what it does sometimes
The crispness in the air tells of the Spring’s coming. The wind is chilly and fresh when it caresses the young leaves that appeared on the tree branches in the garden only a few days ago. The dampness brought by the recent rain curls the hair framing her pale face. They gleam in the cold sunlight and brighten the grey day. She lets them fall freely, allows them to get tangled by the breeze, to become a wild mane. She does not care about a battle she will have to wage to brush them in the evening, for she knows he loves to put his fingers in the knots and smell the wind. It is a small sacrifice if it means seeing his soft smile, she decides.
Life at the end of war is a curious thing. They became so accustomed to pain and fear and blood and atrocities that they are not sure how to survive in a world where peace prevails. They are not even sure if life in such a world is possible, if they still have hearts, if they still have dreams. They are afraid that if they unlock all the feelings they kept hidden, they will devour them and leave them as dry and empty as broken shells.
The two of them are all that remained from their big family, last of the proud line of Starks, and the knowledge of what they have lost weights heavy on them. But somehow, together, they manage to find the strength to take one breath after another. Hours turn into days, days into months, and they still live. They never forget the ones who are not there, these wounds are too deep to ever forget, but they learn how to be thankful for the chance they have been granted. They learn how to smile again and find warmth in the tight and desperate embraces.
They find each other.
They find each other and she cannot remember how could she ever detest him, how could she ever call him a bastard, how could she be so cruel, when all that she feels now is an overflowing tenderness.
When he touches her eyelids, her cheeks and kisses her lips she thinks she would endure all the pain once again just to be in his arms.
His hands slip to her waist and he pulls her towards him, whispering a sweet endearment into her ear, making her shiver and gasp. She grasps his short bristle-like hair (he must have cut them during war) and tugs his head closer.
One day will tell me why he calls me a sweet cat, she thinks as she loses herself in his kisses.
When he sees her, his only thought is finally, finally, finally resounding in his mind. She is so still, so calm, so regal, as she sits and brushes the first flowers of spring with her fingertips.
He can feel his heart in his throat as he nears her, taking in her whole silhouette. She is a woman now, more beautiful than he even dared to imagine, and maybe, maybe someday she will agree to be his one and only. Maybe they will settle down in Winterfell and restore it to its former glory, honoring the spirits of those who gave their lives so that the war could find its end. He is drunk on hope and happiness as he reaches out, softly brushes her shoulder – he doesn’t want to scare her – and takes a deep and loud breath. He momentarily feels ashamed, because he is sure she can easily read his heart’s deepest desires just by hearing this noise.
Her head snaps upwards, eyes closed, and she smiles so sweetly that he sways on his feet.
“Jon,” she whispers, and he is surprised, because, how did she know it was him? He struggles to listen to her as she starts asking him about his haunt, if he managed to kill anything, because the cook – and he was sure the castle was abandoned – wanted to prepare venison for the feast – the feast? – and that she brushed her hair just the way he likes it, so that she resembles–
His head spins.
He stops her words by catching her arms and turning her to face him.
During the long nights at the Wall he often recalled the cascade of her hair. But the first thing he had always seen when she entered his thoughts were her eyes, two slivers of ice that could easily cut through every heart, leaving a sweet wound that may never heal. He longed to see them, longed to see them so much.
They are gone.
Their blue is clouded by milky fog and they look at something far away, distant and dreamy.
“Sansa,” he chokes brokenly and her brow furrows.
“Oh, Jon,” she chides him, her lips curving in a small, wicked smile, “do you want to play this game again? You know very well it’s not my name, silly.” She takes his hand, twining together their fingers. “Sansa is long dead, buried in Winterfell, where her place is.” She tugs him closer, rests her head on his chest, and murmurs “Let your Alayne take care of you, my lord husband.”
Her soft, feminine voice shatters his world so effortlessly.
He swallows the tears that will not flow as his mind struggles to comprehend something too terrifying to understand and whispers into her red curls “Yes yes yes”.
What he means is break my heart, I’m begging you.