Part Five

'And I was broke,

I was on my knees.

You said, 'yes,'

As I said, 'please.''

Sansa beelined for her office, her eyes cast down, trying to avoid striking up a conversation with anyone. She was good at masking her feelings when she had to, but she didn't do that anymore—on the other hand, she didn't feel like trying to explain to anyone why she was so miserable, either.

I'm so stupid. I'm always so stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Sansa locked the door to her office and sat behind her desk, still wrapped in her coat. God, the look on Jon's face when she'd reached for him… Her eyes burned with angry tears. Why had he come to London, then, if the idea of her touching his hand was clearly so repellent to him?

She had not forgotten Arya's text. Gendry says he's obviously in love with you. Had her friends simply been telling her what they thought she wanted to hear? Just like with Joffrey: he's lovely, and so handsome! Just like with her shop: of course it'll be a success! Just like with Ramsay: we're so happy for you!

Then again, Arya hadn't been known to lie to her before. It had been a point of contention in their youth, but these days it was the very thing linking them together, forever. They didn't lie to each other. Also, to be completely fair, she and Arya had also stopped speaking after their parents' and Robb's death, and had only reunited after Sansa had split from Ramsay. Arya had not been among those congratulating her on marrying Ramsay because of their estrangement, but even if they had not been estranged, she knew Arya would never have lied to her.

Sansa blinked rapidly, trying to staunch the flow of tears. Why was she so upset about this? Just the prior night she had stood before her mirror and told herself that Jon Snow could go fuck himself if he didn't want her just as she was. Where had all of that confidence and independence gone?

She felt small again. She felt stupid again.

Maybe the feeling she had had lately—that she was smart, that she was capable, that she didn't need to be attached to anyone—had just been an illusion. Maybe she hadn't changed at all.

Her mobile buzzed, and Sansa snatched at it, hoping it would be Jon, but it was merely her contact from the beer garden. Her whole being fell when she saw it was not Jon.

You're so stupid, Joffrey had sneered at her in front of their friends.

What, are you going to cry now? Ramsay had goaded her after the first time he had hit her.

Now she was crying in earnest, and she hated herself all the more for it. Why was a simple rejection turning her into this mess?

You're so stupid.

Are you going to cry now?

She thought of the look on Jon's face again. He hadn't called her stupid, he hadn't hit her—but he'd hurt her all the same.

I came to London to tell you I haven't stopped thinking about you, he'd said. But you're so happy here, and I could never be happy here.

Why did this hurt more than what Joffrey had said, what Ramsay had done? Why did this rip her apart just as swiftly? Why was she so fragile?

She had told herself she didn't need Jon Snow. She had been so proud of herself for not sleeping in his shirt—but was that not, in and of itself, pathetic? Arya would not have even thought of sleeping in his shirt. Brienne might have used the shirt because it meant one less shirt to buy later, but it would have had nothing to do with romantic feelings. Margaery would have simply seduced him in his cabin and worn the shirt the next day over coffee and toast.

None of these women would have had cause for such pathetic pride, for not becoming obsessed with him.

You're so stupid.

There came a knock on her door, and Sansa felt another burst of rage. Why couldn't she have this moment in peace? She frantically wiped under her eyes, hoping her mascara had not smeared too much, and cleared her throat.

"H-hold on," she said, her voice still watery. "The door's locked."

She got up and hastily shrugged out of her coat, then unlocked the door, expecting it to be Brienne (Brienne was the only one who ever politely knocked).

Uncle Petyr was standing in the hallway, clad in one of his signature three-piece suits, the maroon silk ascot at his throat patterned with mockingbirds. Sansa watched his clever eyes perceive her appearance. Others might not have noticed she had been crying, but Petyr always did.

"Sansa," he said in a hushed, soothing voice. "You look terrible. What's happened? Who's hurt you?"

He moved to touch her on the arm, and Sansa sidestepped his touch.

"Nothing's happened," she said politely, though her voice was flat. "What are you talking about?"

It was like he had some sort of sixth sense for when she was hurting. In the past it had been a source of relief, but today it made her angry.

Why did men only want her when she was unhappy? Why did no one want her when she succeeded?

"You look as though you've been crying," he explained, his voice so soft, so considerate. "Is it Bolton?" His dark eyes were gleaming, in spite of the hushed voice. He reminded her of a vulture.

"Must be a cold coming on," she said, not budging from the door. "Did you want something?"

"Only to help you. I know how much work can go into these events, and I thought you could use an extra head."

"That's kind of you, but I think my head's enough, thanks. If that's all, I'm actually rather busy at the moment," she said meaningfully. Petyr's lips quirked.

She could practically hear the gears whirring in his head.

"I heard you had a lunch date—you must be very busy indeed," he said slyly. "Handsome man. I saw him outside as I was coming in, I think. He was very engaged in talking to—oh, what was her name?" Petyr said ponderously, tapping a finger against his lips. "Margaret? You know, the model."

He wanted her wounded.

Sansa smiled at him. Or, rather, she bared her teeth.

"That's odd. …Almost unbelievable, in fact. Margaery already was here, working out, this morning. She had to leave for an important photo shoot this afternoon, over in Soho," she said, still polite as ever. She offered Petyr a freezing smile. "It would be odd for her to have come back."

"Yes, odd indeed." Petyr was too accustomed to lying to show that he'd been caught.

"…Well, thanks for stopping by, but I'm quite busy, as I said," Sansa said now. She grabbed hold of the door and began to shut it. "I'll see you tonight!"

And before Petyr could get in another word, she shut the door in his face.

For a long moment she stood there before the door, and at last heard the click of his dress shoes as he walked away. It took a moment to register that her hands were shaking.

No one wanted her happy.

Rage boiled over like lava.

"Fuck everyone," she hissed furiously, at no one.

Her first, clawing instinct was to text Margaery, to confirm that Margaery had not, in fact, been at the gym just now, attempting to seduce Jon. As much as Sansa loved Margaery, the beautiful model had swept in and stolen men from her before.

But Jon didn't belong to her.

And, more importantly, she had shit to do.

Sansa stomped to her desk, and furiously resumed her work in getting all of the last-minute details in place for the party with a renewed gusto. She took calls from investors that had been invited, and laughed with and charmed them like few could.

She was not stupid, and she certainly was not going to cry any more over any of this, over any of these men. She was going to be happier than she had ever been in the whole of her life, if for no other reason than pure spite.

Jon felt ridiculous.

He was standing in front of the mirror in his hotel room, clad in jeans, a black tee shirt, and the jacket from the suit he had brought and planned to wear.

His mobile was in his hand. He had already taken the picture. Now he just had to send it.

Bloody redheads, he thought furiously. It was all Sansa's fault that he had been reduced to this: a man closer to forty than thirty, texting pictures of his outfit to his best friend like a teenager.

Why not give it a shot? He held onto Gilly's words perhaps a little too tightly. He'd never just given things a shot—he had always, always planned.

Then again, he'd never actually been good at planning.

He hit 'send.'

Sam, rather unhelpfully, responded almost immediately with a rather suggestive GIF.

I don't care what YOU think. What does Gilly think? Jon retorted via text.

Jon set his mobile back down after sending the text, and paced about his hotel room. He wished Ghost were here. He wished he were cool enough to know what to wear to parties in London beer gardens. He wished he had not pulled away when Sansa had reached for him. He wished that he did not spend so much time thinking about how much he'd like to touch Sansa.

It felt like a betrayal of Ygritte, to be so consumed by lust within just a few years of losing her. He had been so convinced that he would never meet someone worth loving again, and now here he was, wearing an outfit that made no sense to him, texting pictures of himself to his friends, in a hotel room in London. He'd always known that love (and lust) made you do stupid things, and here was proof. He didn't even know Sansa well enough to love her; he just knew he was willing to make himself look like a fool just for the chance to.

So why had he pulled away, when Sansa had reached for his hand?

He still didn't know why. It had gone against his deepest desire, the desire he had admittedly begun to feel the moment he'd woken up in hospital and had seen her curled up in the chair with Ghost. She was a forest to be explored: endless, strong, complicated, and not fully knowable. He was slow to desire but quick to love, and it had always been his downfall. He was a fool, thinking with his heart and not his head.

Beautiful women had never moved him on their beauty alone. Meaningless, shallow lust had never attracted him. He had been a virgin when he'd met Ygritte, by his own choice. Opportunities had come, and he had passed them over, all the while feeling shamed and wondering if it made him less of a man. Now he knew that he was by nature selective and did not want what was easy to get and easy to lose. He was a seeker of depth; beauty alone did not inspire lust within him. Perhaps his life would have been easier if it had.

He could count the number of women he had wanted in his life on one hand. Maybe that was why he was acting like such a damn fool.

His mobile vibrated, and Jon leapt for it almost acrobatically.

this is Gilly! Gilly likes it v much!

Jon looked at his reflection once more.

I don't look weird?

no, not at all. u look v handsome and relaxed :o)

What is that face?

it has a nose!

Jon snorted and set his mobile back down. He had no other options—the shops would all be closed by now, and it wasn't like he would have known what to buy, either.

This was the final act: he would attend the party, and accept whatever the outcome. If Sansa did not want him, or if they decided not to pursue whatever this thing was between them…well, there might not be another.

He thought of Ygritte. No love could eclipse her. Even if he came to feel as strongly for Sansa as he had for Ygritte, it would be different—not lesser, just different. Love was as varied as the people who received it.

Most people didn't even get one great love in their lives. If Ygritte were his last, he figured he would still be lucky.

Thus, Jon set out for the beer garden on foot. The neighborhood was coming alive. The tattooed and dreadlocked patrons of pubs seemed to spill forth from the doors, crowding the sidewalks, filling the air with the rhythm of laughter and small talk. The River Lea glittered up ahead, and the lights from the houseboats silhouetted the bicyclists that rushed alongside it. The beer garden's pub, with its London stock brick and gabled façade, soon came into view.

It was too soon. He didn't feel ready yet. He didn't feel like he had fully inhabited himself yet; he was too lost in the clouds still. Jon stood on the sidewalk in front of the beer garden for a moment, trying to gather himself all in one place, trying to distill the best parts of him into himself. For all of the times he had jumped into the thick of a warzone, stepping into a party was so much more terrifying. He knew exactly one person here, and she would be busy the whole night. He'd look like an idiot, probably lingering in the corner by himself…

He could hear laughter coming from the other side of the low, stock brick wall; distinctly he heard Sansa introducing one group of people to another. His legs seemed to twitch on their own, like they moved upon hearing her voice.

That by itself was enough for him. It didn't matter if he looked like a fool; it didn't matter if this whole thing between them—whatever the hell it was—dissolved in a cloud of smoke. For better or for worse, Sansa had resurrected him.

No one else had been able to draw him away from his cabin in the few years since Ygritte's death; no one else had been able to coax him into joining life again. If nothing else, she had reminded him of what it was like to have things mean something, to care about the outcome, to feel deeply for something or someone.

And for someone who had once fought so hard for the lives of others, he could see now that he had lost sight of himself and what mattered to him in his grief. Without a larger purpose, without doing something that meant something to him, he was adrift.

The last time his life had had meaning, he had watched it wither and die before his eyes. No bravery, no act of selflessness, no force of strength, could have stopped it. His strength, his speed, and his sniper's eyes—these had been worthless against Ygritte's last enemy. He had been utterly powerless.

Perhaps that was why he was so filled with hatred when he thought of what Ramsay had done to Sansa; perhaps that was why her soul had felt so familiar to him from the very moment he had watched her fall into the river. He knew what it was like to have your power taken from you—it was unbearable. He knew now that it was the worst thing that could happen to a person.

The powerlessness had killed him, and Sansa had brought him back to life.

She had reminded him who he was. She had reminded him that life without purpose was not living.

Jon pushed through the gate into the beer garden.

Sansa was just in the middle of hunting down where the next round of hors d'oeuvres had gotten to when he walked in.

Jon Snow walked into the beer garden, and she forgot what she was saying to one of the waiters mid-sentence.

Across the beer garden their eyes met, and she felt her whole being prickle with warmth. Even after that humiliating confession, he had come anyway. He looked good, too—she wondered if he had received some styling advice. Then again, he'd looked damn good to her in his park ranger uniform, too. She watched his lips twist into a fond smile, and her own lips curved automatically in response, like they were connected, like they were mirrored. The twinkle lights strung overhead edged him in gold once more. He always looked like he'd been touched by magic to her; she wondered if other people saw him this way as well. Did he take everyone's breath away? Did he make everyone believe in fairytales again? The light shining from him was almost too bright.

He gave her a short wave, and then immediately turned to grab a beer from a waiter passing by. Breaking eye contact was like having the sun put out, but at the same time, she felt even warmer now. Gendry swept in rather heroically, stealing Jon's attention, and Jon leapt into the conversation with an enthusiasm that she knew was uncharacteristic for him. He doesn't want me to worry about him, she realized abruptly.

He wanted her to succeed. He did not want to take away from her night. He wanted this to be about her, not him.

He wanted her to be happy.

She thought of how he'd snatched his hand from hers earlier, and it was almost funny how different that moment looked from this angle. He was cautious, and he was not one to be carried away by his feelings—and yet the irony was that she had never known someone to have feelings with such depth and complexity. He did not take this thing between them—whatever it was—lightly, and he would not be caught up in the moment. He only wanted it if it was worth having.

She had never stood so tall. She turned back to the somewhat bewildered waiter with a brilliant smile, and resumed her hunt for those hors d'oeuvres.

Jon was immediately accosted by Gendry, and the relief he felt was embarrassing. He'd felt so sure of himself until he had spotted Sansa, and then the little tower of confidence that he had built moments ago on the sidewalk had toppled over.

He had only been able to wave at her. Every time he saw her she seemed to become a little bit more beautiful, a little bit more mythical, than the time before. She was in her element tonight, too—she had clearly been in the middle of directing one of the waiters when he'd walked in. Set aglow by the string lights, surrounded by stylishly-dressed investors—the garden was absolutely jam-packed with guests—she had smiled at him, and his mind had gone blank with desire.

Thank god for Gendry who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, his enthusiastic greeting jarring Jon enough to remember himself.

"How did you know not to wear a suit?" Gendry complained, as they took their beers to a quieter corner.

"Arya told me," Jon confessed. He was racking his brains for a possible conversation topic—he needed to make sure Sansa didn't feel responsible for him; he needed to not take up this night of victory—when another voice interrupted them.

"So Gendry's been blathering on about how apparently you're some sort of war hero." He was tall and extremely lean, and his shirt and trousers looked a bit too tight, but somehow it looked appropriate on him. His hair, impeccably styled, was pitch-black, setting off his shrewd blue eyes. Jon thought he was a bit of a Puck figure—gamely and out for fun, and perhaps too clever for his own good.

"Don't mind Renly. He thinks that any conversation that isn't about him is blathering," Gendry snorted. "Renly, this is Jon-"

"-I know who he is," Renly scoffed. "Between you, Sansa, and Daenerys, I'm not sure who fancies him more." He gave Jon a rather intense once-over. "And I can't say I blame them."

"Dany hasn't met him," Gendry said, just as a woman joined them now. She was wearing a dramatic power suit and had very long, platinum blonde hair.

"No, she hasn't," the woman said imperiously. She was looking at Jon like he was a feast about to be had. "Arya told me about you and I googled you immediately," she informed him. "You may have noticed there's a significant curiosity about you. My name is Daenerys Targaryen. I work in defence, so your army affiliation was of personal interest to me."

"Daenerys is one of our investors," Renly explained to Jon now. "She was the first to jump onboard. She's known for backing female entrepreneurs."

"Sansa is hardly an entrepreneur," Daenerys said analytically, as the three men turned to her. Jon watched her carefully and thought that she enjoyed attention quite a bit. He couldn't decide if he actually liked her or not, but he certainly found her compelling—and beautiful. "She's far too careful and clever to take any actual risks. This is the safest investment I've ever made."

"It does hold a lot of promise. Loras and Marg have sunk a lot of money into it, too," Renly agreed, nodding to Daenerys. "It's a good neighborhood for it, and it hits all the right trends: the rock-climbing, the kettlebells… Sansa struck while the iron was hot."

"No, Sansa was born to do this," Daenerys corrected him. "It's not just an opportune time; she has spearheaded this with more skill than I've ever seen."

"Aside from yourself, of course," Renly teased, though Daenerys merely arched her brows at him and set down her red wine. Jon couldn't help but note that she was the only one not drinking beer.

"Can you name a single other woman who—"

"—JOKE. It was a joke," Gendry interrupted loudly. He leaned closer to Jon to whisper in his ear, "Dany is a tad full of herself, but we love her anyway. …You might say the same about Renly, too…"

There was a rush of an unusual perfume, and then, quite suddenly, Sansa was in their midst.

"Sorry; I've been running around like crazy," she said breathlessly. She held out a tray of what looked like eggrolls. "These have beef and mushroom," she said as Daenerys and Jon each took one, and Gendry took seven.

"I'm pescatarian," Renly informed them loftily, and Gendry choked on his beef roll.

"I watched you eat six chicken kebabs yesterday, you prat."

"I was drunk. It doesn't count," Renly said carelessly, though there was a gleam in his eye. Jon chanced a glance at Sansa, his lips twisting into a grin. Renly did not miss the look between them.

"We were just terrorizing your man," Renly informed her, and Jon felt his face flush. Your man. "He was just about to explain his war record to us when Dany butt in."

"Everyone knew his name in the army," Gendry added, nodding to Jon.

The beer garden suddenly felt airless. They were all looking at him expectantly, but Jon had always made a point of never discussing his military career. It was an odd point of tension with most people: if he avoided the topic, they thought he was traumatised and advised him to seek help; if he brought it up, he made everyone uncomfortable immediately. He couldn't win.

"Yes, and everyone knows your name in the pubs, Gendry," Sansa interceded quickly, saving him yet again. "What a legacy!"

Gendry let out a huff in mock-outrage as Renly threw back his head and roared with a surprisingly infectious laughter that got everyone laughing too, even Jon.

"Was Jon your hero, Gendry?" Renly teased insinuatingly after he'd caught his breath. Gendry's face was still flushed from Sansa's joke.

"Of course he was," he insisted. "Though, to be honest, I was never stupid enough to attempt some of the crap I heard he did," he added. Jon found himself laughing again and he took a long swig of his beer.

"I'm sure whatever you heard was just gossip," he told him.

"Gossip? You're not telling me all those big, manly, machine-gun-toting men got up to anything so girly as gossip," Renly said, feigning shock.

"Men are worse gossips than women, especially in the army," Daenerys retorted. "Women are too busy getting things done to gossip."

The conversation dissolved into a spirited but silly argument about differences between the sexes in the army, leaving Jon free to observe.

He realized now that both Sansa and Renly had gently steered the conversation to safer territory (although Renly had also been the one to make him uncomfortable in the first place). They were both masterful at that sort of thing, he soon observed. Renly was quick and clever enough to keep the conversation stimulating, and—with Sansa's aid—sensitive enough to subtly change the subject before any real harm was done. It was an art he would never master, and made him think, the more beer he drank, of Ygritte, also painfully blunt and often intentionally tactless. He'd loved her for it, loved the way she seemed to inspire debates wherever she went, loved her fearlessness.

It was hard to imagine that he could fall in love again with someone so dramatically different from Ygritte—chaotic, loud, fearless, temperamental, passionate Ygritte. Sansa was manicured to perfection tonight, her hair immaculate in a way that Ygritte would never have been bothered to attempt, in heels that would have made Ygritte scoff—Ygritte, who was never seen out of trainers or combat boots, even at their wedding—and in a dress that Ygritte would have been sniggering about all evening.

In movies, it was a cliché that the dead spouse would want the widow or widower to move on, to find someone new, to be happy, but Jon knew that had Ygritte and Sansa met, they would have despised each other. Ygritte would have disdained Sansa for her beauty, her manners, and her unapologetically feminine nature, and Sansa, quick to react to perceived criticism, would have been injured and resentful of Ygritte's disdain. Ygritte, so often short-sighted when it came to others, would never have perceived Sansa's depth, and Sansa would have found Ygritte frustratingly vulgar.

He watched Sansa's hair catch the light again. That would have been another thing for Ygritte to hate—after she had had him shave her head, she had stubbornly insisted that she didn't miss her hair, but he'd seen her eyes linger on the long hair of other women too many times to believe her after that. She had buried her other insecurities about her appearance beneath a thick veneer of bravado but losing her hair had been a blow she could not recover from.

If it had been up to Ygritte, she would have picked someone like Arya for him, though in reality she would never have wanted him to move on with someone else at all.

Ygritte, he thought sadly as he continued to gaze at Sansa, I promise you'd admire her if you got to know her.

"Sorry about them," Sansa said in his ear suddenly, sliding in next to him. She'd been off charming the investors, and in the meantime Jon had had multiple beers, and felt strangely warm and wistful. He'd had a rambling talk with Gendry about their deployment and then a surprisingly interesting—but also somewhat disturbing—conversation with Daenerys about assault rifles. She had made quite a lot of eye contact and touched his arm needlessly, and he couldn't say he wasn't extremely flattered, even if he had no interest.

"Don't be," he said, glancing at her. She was taller than him in her heels. She smelled good, too. They leaned against the wall, surveying the party. "Seems like you're a success. Everyone's having a good time."

"Seems like it, but we'll see," she hedged. "Venture capital comes and goes quickly and without warning, and Daenerys—she's probably my biggest investor—is famously temperamental."

"She said you were born to do this," Jon said, looking back at her once more, but Sansa was studying Daenerys carefully.

"She says a lot of things. I don't take people at their word."

"Neither do I," Jon agreed. "I do think she's right, though—that you were born to do this."

"Speaking of which," Sansa began slowly, turning towards him a bit more, "I didn't realize you were such a hero."

"Oh, that," Jon dismissed, his face growing hot. Perhaps he'd had too many beers.

"You know, Gendry still keeps in touch with a lot of his army friends," she said, and Jon realized she was heading towards making a point. "He says most of them aren't working, or even if they are, it's like they're just barely functioning in society. He said it was hard, for a lot of them, to come back."

Jon set his beer down on the wooden table closest to them, and faced Sansa straight on.

"You have something you want to say, so why not just say it?" he asked plainly. Sansa pressed her lips together.

"You're a hero. A figure. You united troops in the army; you could unite them here, too."

Life without purpose wasn't living, but this was more purpose than he felt he had left to give.

"I did what I had to, in Afghanistan. I killed people, Sansa. I did a lot of terrible things." He would not hide this from her. He watched her carefully for her reaction but, to her credit, she was undaunted by his words.

"Are you trying to scare me? It's not like I thought you were planting trees and writing poetry over there," she snarked. "Look, when Gendry realized who you were, and found out you're working as a park ranger, he was shocked. He said it was a waste; he made it sound like you were some sort of icon." She paused, measuring her words carefully. "I don't think you're as happy as you could be, out there alone in the woods. That's all."

He wished he could tell her that she read his soul like others read books, but he could only match her gaze helplessly.

"Wow, can we take the eye-fucking elsewhere?"

"Language, Renly."

It was like they had been doused with ice water. Sansa and Jon both startled and looked to see that Renly had joined them, as well as a tall, well-built man with hazel eyes and curly, mussed hair.

"Sorry. Eye-lovemaking." Renly rolled his eyes. "Is that better?"

"Yes, more accurate, too," the other man agreed. He held out his hand to Jon. "Loras Tyrell."

Jon attempted to recover as he matched Loras' strong handshake. The girl who had smacked into him earlier bounded over to them brightly; Jon realized she was related to Loras. They had the same brightness to their eyes, the same delicate features.

"I told you he was handsome," she sighed, looping her arm in her brother's. Loras looked amused.

"Yes, you and everyone else did," he retorted.

"Sansa has a type," Margaery informed him. "Long, curly hair; pretty eyes…"

"Oh, god," Sansa groaned, her face flushing. "Please do not—"

"Sansa was in love with Loras," Renly informed Jon. "Shamelessly so."

"He gave me a red rose for Valentine's Day. He showed up on my doorstep and just handed it to me and I saved it for years," Sansa laughed, her face more pink than he'd ever seen it. Loras sighed.

"It was for her brother," Loras explained, "but when I got to their house, I saw him and his girlfriend snogging in his car—they hadn't even left for their date yet—but I couldn't turn around and leave, because Catelyn had spotted me and invited me in."

"I find it encouraging that you had awkward moments in your adolescence," Renly mused. "I don't blame you, Sansa. I would have kept the rose for years, too."

"I pressed it between my two favorite books and wrapped it in lace," Sansa said wistfully. "Loras was blushing and I just assumed it was for me."

"I really thought I had a shot with Robb. That's the sad part," Loras admitted. "He was so nice to me... Until he thought I was after his little sister, of course," he recalled wryly.

Their conversation was so light, but Jon wondered if it was painful for Sansa to talk about her family who had died like this. He would not have been able to talk so lightly about Ygritte.

Arya finally joined them—she had been held up in deep conversation with a reedy-looking man who apparently worked for Iron Bank.

The conversation dissolved into a wistful nostalgia of growing up together in Harrogate, to which Sansa had plenty of amusing contributions, but he quite suddenly realized that she had gone mute.

The hand clutching her white wine—it was just her and Daenerys drinking wine, though Daenerys drank red—was gripping the glass so tightly that she might break it. No one else had noticed.

Jon followed her gaze to the beer garden's entrance, and almost dropped his own glass.

Ramsay Bolton had entered the beer garden.

He stood out in his suit, with a woman in an extremely elegant black dress and glittering diamonds latched onto his arm. Ramsay was scanning the beer garden, radiating a dangerous, off-kilter energy.

Renly was the next to notice, and then, one by one, the rest of their circle did. Conversation died abruptly as Ramsay pretended to have just spotted Sansa, and he waved gamely before approaching them.

Oh, fuck.

He was so fucked.

Recognition gleamed in Ramsay's eyes as Jon met his gaze.

"Why, Sansa, it's been too long," he greeted brightly, holding his arms out as though to embrace her. Sansa stood ramrod straight, regal as a queen.

"Ramsay," she greeted calmly, "you seem to have forgotten the restraining order."

Ramsay ignored her and slowly turned his gaze to Jon.

"Love the dress," Margaery suddenly said, almost wildly, to the woman latched to Ramsay. "It's so …egalitarian…of you to wear last-season. I wore that to a charity ball last year; isn't it surprisingly comfortable?"

Ramsay was not to be deterred.

"Why, we've met," he said softly to Jon. "Did you know he smokes?" he asked Sansa now.

"I don't smoke. You must be confusing me with someone else," Jon said coldly, though he doubted Sansa would buy it.

Despite his cool tone his blood was pounding in his ears and his mouth was full of cotton. He had turned away from Ramsay; he had chosen a different path, and yet the time he had taken to make that choice might end up ruining everything for him.

Jon risked a glance at Sansa, but she was still looking at Ramsay. She stepped forward.

"Ramsay," she said calmly once more, "you have a restraining order. You can leave quietly and we can forget this ever happened, or you can be arrested, and your old friend Varys will get a shot of you being led out by police and he will tweet it, and then write about this in the gossip column for Monday morning."

Her face was a frozen mask; she was steel. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath. Sansa nodded to someone across the beer garden, and Ramsay glanced over his shoulder. A bald man, resplendent in a ridiculous goldenrod velvet smoking jacket, paused his conversation with a man in a three-piece suit to wave, almost coyly, at Ramsay.

Then the man in the three-piece suit turned, and his swarthy eyes met Ramsay's.

"I had lunch with Baelish today at Le Gavroche," Ramsay scoffed, turning back to Sansa. Jon sensed this was some sort of betrayal on Baelish's part; he just didn't know what it was. Sansa seemed unshaken.

"I know you did." She smiled at him once more. "It's your choice, Ramsay—leave quietly or make a scene. But if you think you will be staying, you are mistaken."

"Alright." His blue eyes were too bright. He held his hands up in surrender. "We weren't going to stay anyway. We have a dinner party to go to; it's not 'til eight but it'll take our car ages to get back to Knightsbridge." He paused meaningfully. "It's at the Freys'; we went there once, remember?"

"Not really."

She was still smiling. Jon felt like he couldn't breathe.

Ramsay at last turned to go, and they watched him silently. No one spoke until the door had shut and he was gone.

"I-I can't believe he would—" Margaery began to sputter. Arya's face was very red with unexpressed rage, her clenched fists shaking; Renly and Loras looked uncharacteristically baffled. The bald man joined them now—this was Varys, he supposed—joined by Baelish.

"You were right after all—Bolton did grace us with an appearance. I suppose I owe you a drink, my dear Sansa," Varys informed her. Unlike everyone else, he looked almost delighted by the turn of events. Although he played a part in Sansa's line of defense, Jon immediately despised him. But he did not despise him nearly as much as he despised the man standing next to him—Baelish. Even without knowing that he had betrayed Sansa, Jon would have hated this man.

"Sansa," Baelish began in a low, soothing voice, as though speaking to an infant, "you must be so shaken—" he stepped in between Sansa and Jon, but Sansa abruptly stepped back.

"I'm really not, Petyr, but thank you," she said evenly. "Like Varys said, I knew he'd be here tonight." She offered Petyr Baelish that same chilling smile. "Did you have a nice lunch with Ramsay today? Le Gavroche is wonderful; Ramsay took me there several times."

Varys giggled.

"I do so love when Sansa bares her teeth," he said dispassionately to the rest of them.

Jon and Arya stepped closer to Petyr Baelish, cornering him. Baelish offered Jon a smile that Jon did not return.

"You must be Jon Snow," he began. "I've heard so much—"

"Get out," Jon said softly. He met Baelish's swarthy, clever eyes and was filled with pure revulsion.

"Is it common for a woman's lawyer to have extravagant lunches with a man he obtained a court-ordered restraining order for?" Arya asked him. "I'm not really familiar with law."

Jon was staring Petyr down, even as Arya spoke. Behind him, Brienne, Gendry, Tormund, and Daenerys had joined the group. Sansa was floating above herself, watching the confrontation.

Jon's eyes, normally so warm, were freezing now as he looked at Petyr.

"Sansa," Petyr said now, and he attempted to turn back to her, but Jon reached out and gripped his arm.

Abruptly she was back in her own body, and rage blossomed once more, the same rage that had filled her earlier today in her office. Petyr wanted a scene; he wanted this to be ruined for her.

"Petyr, have you met Tycho?" She forced a smile; it felt like her lips were cracking. He would not ruin this. She would rather die than let him ruin this. No one was going to take this away from her. "He's a bigshot at Iron Bank; he's over there."

"You would love Tycho," Margaery gushed. "You're both so …analytical. I'll introduce you." Margaery practically dragged Petyr off, and Varys followed with unexpected haste, apparently eager to follow this drama to its conclusion.

"Oh my god," Arya said now that they were free. She looked sharply at Sansa. "Literally the only thing stopping me from ripping Ramsay's fucking face off is that it'd be bad for business, and that didn't even occur to me until Marg stepped on my foot."

Sansa could only manage a weak laugh; she was light-headed.

"I'm not surprised. I knew he'd come. That's why I hired security guards for the gym tonight," she admitted. "He's got rather destructive tendencies when he doesn't get his way. I wouldn't be surprised if he tried to break into the gym tonight."

Everyone was staring at her in shock. "I'm fine," she insisted. "Seriously, guys. I knew this would happen. I've been preparing for this for months."

She couldn't bring herself to look at Jon. She took a long swig of her white wine and abruptly realized her hands were shaking. "Oh, I'll be right back," she said lightly. "The loo calls."

She pushed through her friends and back into the pub, and in the corridor next to the loos, she fell against the wall and let out a shaking breath. Then she tried to draw a breath again, and it wouldn't come. She tried once more. It still wouldn't come. She was inhaling, wildly, but none of it would go into her lungs. She felt like a balloon, rising, rising, rising too high, dangerously high; she felt like she might die.

Jon appeared in the narrow corridor, cast in relief from the dim overhead lighting. He had followed her. He slid in next to her; the corridor was so narrow that they were forced against each other.

"You're safe," he said gently, and she felt his strong hands grip her upper arms, holding her steady, as she continued to struggle to breathe.

It felt so good to have Jon's hands on her, in strict counterpoint to the belated horror currently coursing through her body.

"I-I don't know why it's hitting me like this," she stammered, unable to look at him. "I don't know why I can't stop shaking. I'm so stupid."

Jon's fingertips were soft on her neck, under her jaw. She knew her skin was clammy with cold sweat and she felt ashamed, but Jon didn't seem to notice.

"What's your name?" His voice was soft.

"Sansa Stark," she choked, her voice thick. "N-not Sansa Bolton. Sansa Stark."

"That's right. Tell me what you're seeing, hearing, smelling right now," he continued, and she dimly registered that this had to be some sort of technique. He was looking at his watch on his other hand now.

Her laughter was thick with unshed tears.

"I'm seeing someone brave, and gentle, and strong," she choked out sardonically.

She began laughing between useless breaths, though there was nothing funny about this. "That was how my father described the man he wanted me to marry," she began rambling. "He said I should be with someone brave, and gentle, and strong. And Ramsay was none of those things. Why did I marry him? I'm so stupid."

"Sansa, focus on the question," he reminded her gently, his fingers still under her jaw. She couldn't look at him, could only focus on the fabric of his shirt. "What are you seeing, hearing, and smelling right now?"

"I'm seeing...grey suiting and a black shirt. I'm hearing the music from the pub, and the sounds from the kitchens, and people talking. I'm smelling...beer, and your skin, and my perfume."

Jon was still looking at his wristwatch, his fingers still on her neck, his lips moving as he counted voicelessly. Her shaking began to slow.

"And where are we right now?"

"At the Princess of Wales. For the party."

Her breathing was ragged but not so useless now, her shaking no longer violent. She was weak and dizzy. Then the pressure on her neck was gone, and she missed his touch already.

"There," he said softly. "Your heart rate's normal again."

She let go of his shirt, and finally met his warm, dark eyes. Her skin was tingling all over.

"Army trick?"

"Yeah, actually."

"That is pathetic," she scoffed, shaking her head in shame. "I've never been through a war. God." What must he think of her? "I'm so stupid. I'm so pathetic. This shouldn't be bothering me…" Her heart was beginning to hammer against her ribs again; everything seemed to be disappearing, even Jon…she was rising again…

"Sansa, listen to me." He was gripping her arms again. "There is nothing pathetic about you and what you've been through. And your father may have told you to marry someone brave, and gentle, and strong—or whatever it was you said—but he should have been telling you that you're brave, and gentle, and strong."

There was a lump in her throat. "Um. I don't mean to criticize him. I'm sure he meant well," Jon added uncomfortably. His eyes were filled with worry, as he searched her face, searched her eyes. He was trying to read her, trying to understand her.

"Thank you."

He still had not let go of her. It was funny, how the thing that had finally made him touch her was the urge to help her, to hold her upright—not to bring her down, in lust or in violence. "Why did Ramsay recognize you?"

"Because this morning, before I met up with you, I went to his house and thought about doing something to him." He would not lie. "But I decided against it at the last minute."

This was important. This was everything. They were so close that she could see the individual lashes and the freckles in his dark warm eyes, she could see the scar from the night she'd saved him, she could feel the dark curl that had come free from his hair brushing against her forehead.

"Why?" she breathed.

He was so close. He was touching her. She couldn't think; she was rising up again, weightless again, but it was perfect. She had never been touched with such gentleness.

"Sansa—"

"—SANSA." Arya skidded into the corridor and smacked into them. She was holding Sansa's mobile phone. "The security guards just called. Ramsay's at the gym."

Jon tore away from her abruptly and pushed past Arya. Gendry and Tormund joined them now.

"I will neuter him," Gendry hissed, rolling up his sleeves.

"N-no," Sansa said, attempting to recover from how Jon had been looking at her just now. "It doesn't matter. The police will handle it—if we leave now, it will look bad."

"No, if you leave, it will look bad," Jon corrected her. He pushed past Gendry, who immediately attempted to follow him, but Tormund held him back.

"You can't leave. I can," he gloated, and then was following Jon out the door.

Arya and Gendry turned to look at her pleadingly.

"No," Sansa said firmly. "We have to stay here. We have to do this right." Her voice was wobbling, but still strong. Arya crossed her arms over her chest, and sulkily kicked at the wall.

"I wanted to rip his face off," she pouted. "You never let me rip his face off." Gendry clapped a hand on her shoulder.

"We all do," he commiserated. "Granted, no one would do it with such skill and artistry as you—"

"—Stop. Get a grip, both of you," Sansa snapped, and they looked at her in surprise. "Ramsay can't do anything with security guards there—" Actually, she wasn't fully confident on this point, but they didn't need to know that, "—and we have investors to charm, remember?"

She looked squarely at Arya. "This is your gym, more than anyone else's. You can't just run off and do what feels good right now. I'm honored that you want to hunt him down, but it'll only hurt us."

"Don't you want him to pay for what he did?" Arya demanded.

"Yes, I want him to pay, in cash, when I sue the pants off him," she retorted. "But we can't do that if I can't afford to hire a new lawyer, and I can't afford a new lawyer without the gym succeeding."

"Fine," Arya said dramatically, but there was a gleam in her eyes of something that Sansa didn't quite recognize.

It almost looked like respect. "Gendry, get your arse back in there and be charming," she ordered him. Gendry rolled his eyes and left the two sisters alone, and abruptly, Arya threw her arms around Sansa in perhaps the only hug they had ever exchanged.

Sansa bit her lip to try to not cry. She'd shed enough tears already. They parted and Arya smoothed her hair. "I hope you enjoyed that, because it's never happening again," she informed her, and they both began to laugh.

Jon sprinted down the wet road, Tormund on his heels.

He'd always been a fast runner. His mind was blissfully clear; he had one single objective. The gym soon loomed up ahead on the road—a man, presumably the security guard, lay unmoving on the ground. A sleek black car was illegally parked in front of the building, and Jon saw Ramsay rummaging in the boot of the car for something. The woman he'd been with was standing on the curb, waiting for something, and he handed her something long and silver that he'd taken from the car.

She took it—as Jon got closer, he realized it was a golf club—and turned around and smashed the closest window.

"Can't even do it himself, the tiny pecker," Tormund raged, echoing Jon's thoughts (mostly).

Ramsay turned at the sound of their voices and footfalls just as Jon reached him. With deadly efficiency, Jon skidded to a stop and grasped the front of Ramsay's suit, and then punched him and threw him to the ground.

But Ramsay was stronger than he'd expected; he turned them over and threw Jon's head against the bumper of the car. Jon was momentarily blinded by pain; he blindly swung out his leg and tripped Ramsay as he attempted to scramble to his feet, and Ramsay fell forward onto the sidewalk, a spray of blood from his nose turning the sidewalk dark. Jon registered Tormund struggling with the girl, but he couldn't care at the moment. He was going to kill Ramsay, and he knew exactly how he wanted to do it. He lunged after Ramsay, just as sirens began to fill the air.

"Fuck," the girl gasped, and she dropped the golf club and attempted to run, but Tormund caught her by her hair. Just as Jon grabbed hold of Ramsay again, she took off her shoe and flung it at him with unexpected accuracy; it hit the side of his head and distracted him long enough for Ramsay to break free and begin sprinting down the sidewalk. Jon immediately recovered and followed him.

Ramsay turned a corner into an alleyway and leapt over scattered rubbish bins; Jon tailed him swiftly, gaining on him with ease. Catching Ramsay was inevitable. This was an enemy he could destroy.

Ramsay made a wrong turn; they were at a dead end. Jon slowed to a walk, his breath clouding in the air, as he watched Ramsay realize his mistake. He was cornered now. There was nowhere else to run. Ramsay turned around again, desperate, then turned to face Jon head-on. He withdrew a gun from his suit jacket with shaking hands, his eyes wild and crazed, but even from Jon's vantage point he could tell that the safety was on.

"I know how to use this," Ramsay informed him wildly, his sweating, shaking hands attempting to find purchase on the gun long enough to flick the safety off.

"If you really did," Jon began, reaching him, "you wouldn't have had to tell me."

He knocked the gun out of Ramsay's hands; it skittered across the tarmac, out of reach.

Jon gripped Ramsay's suit jacket and stared into those cruel, terrified blue eyes.

But then the sirens filled the air once more. The police had followed them.

The alleyway glowed red and blue; Jon heard car doors slam. He couldn't look away from Ramsay's eyes. Ramsay's fear had dissolved, and it turned his stomach.

"This is an awful lot of work for one crappy fuck," he told him, his blood dribbling down over his mouth, spraying on Jon as he spoke. "I can tell you from experience—"

Jon could hear the footfalls of the police as they ventured closer; he knew they were speaking, calling out orders, but he couldn't hear them.

He wanted to kill Ramsay. This was an enemy he could destroy.

But Sansa had already destroyed him.

"Maybe you'll get a better fuck in jail," Jon told him, and he let go just as two officers reached them and began to cuff Ramsay.

Sansa stood before the gym in shock. The rain was making her makeup run; her eyes were burning and stinging with it. It occurred to her that she probably looked insane, but that didn't matter anymore. She stared at the smashed facade of the gym.

"You knew he'd do it, too," Arya finally said. The flashing police lights reflected off the smashed shards of glass, making the ground seem to glitter blue, red, and silver.

"I was married to him, after all," she said softly. "I knew him really well."

The smashed windows had been taped off with plastic that sagged and billowed when cars drove by. Technically, it was a victory, but this would put a bad taste in people's mouths. Word would get around. She'd gotten Ramsay, but he'd gotten her too.

After Arya and the others had left, Sansa remained in front of the gym, with Jon standing beside her, his jeans torn in the knees and Ramsay's blood smeared on him.

She thought she might never be free of her past.

"You're like steel," Jon said suddenly. "No matter what happens to you, you never break."

"Really? Because I feel like I'm constantly falling apart," she retorted with a sardonic laugh. "Every time I do something, it fails. My shop failed. My marriage failed. Now this has failed, too."

"My wife died and I spent years hiding in the woods. I never even cleared out her things. I never talked about her death. It was the worst thing that ever happened to me, and I never got past it. When something bad happened to you, you picked up and moved on." He paused. "And this isn't failure—this is a broken window."

It felt like she was in that grove in Winterfell once more, rather than standing in the rain in Clapton.

"Does it bother you that I'm taller than you in heels?" she asked suddenly, finally turning to face him. In her stilettos she was a finger's width taller. Jon's lips twitched.

They were smiling at each other again. They could not help it.

"No," he said softly.

"Does it bother you that I care probably too much about shoes, and that I like clothes that most men don't get?"

"No." He looked like he was trying not to laugh.

"I've never had sex," she blurted out now. "I mean, I have, technically, but I don't think it's ever been proper sex. So I'm probably not very good at it."

This was her last, most painful confession. "I never wanted it when it happened, and it hurt. I always just wanted it to be over." She realized she was gripping Jon's hands in hers.

They stared at each other. Everything—the rain, the sound of the plastic billowing in the wind—faded. Jon was in perfect clarity before her. His eyes had never looked so dark, and his grip on her hands was almost painfully tight.

"That does bother me," he said in a rush, his voice breaking, squeezing her hands tighter.

And he pulled her closer and kissed her, soft as snow brushing against her lips.

It was only in this moment that she realized she had never truly been kissed before, not in the way that she should have been kissed all along.

Author's note: This is the end, but I may write a follow-up chapter. It would be posted at my AO3, where this story is also posted. I hope you enjoyed reading it!