#timewithwolves

[mollyraesly]

I updated Time with Wolves for the first time in over a year.

[mollyraesly]

Time with Wolves -- Chapter 20

“You don’t approve.” Cat sighed and shook her head. “No, Sansa, dear, I didn’t say that. Of course, you can wear any dress you’d like, it’s just—" “Yowza,” Arya exclaimed as she walked into their parents’ bathroom where Sansa and Cat were already gathered among lipsticks and hair products. “I can almost see your navel.”

“No you can’t,” Sansa replied, rolling her eyes. “Perhaps you should lean over so we can double check—I wouldn’t want to have a wardrobe malfunction—" “Or old Mr. Mormont will swallow his tongue when he sees your nips pop out.” “Arya!” Sansa screeched. “Gross! Mr. Mormont is a nice man.” “A nice man who might catch a glimpse of what the good Lord gave you.” Sansa stuck her tongue out at Arya as she applied her mascara. “Sansa, though, really, have you thought about—“ “Mom, gods, I’m wearing double-sided tape, if you must know.” Cat sighed heavily. “Good. Well, then, if this is what you want to wear...” “It is,” Sansa stated firmly as she traced the silver sequins of her gown down her hips. It was floor length and form-fitting—and despite Arya’s comment—it did not reveal her navel. But Sansa might be battling Margaery for the role of Cleavage Queen. When she saw the dress yesterday, she knew it would fit and that it would be exactly what she needed for the day. The silver sequins reminded her in a way of chainmail, and she wanted a coat of armor to protect her today. She didn’t want to be shattered like porcelain or cracked like ivory; she wanted to be impenetrable steel. Yesterday had been difficult but not impossible. She hadn’t had to watch the rehearsal in the church because she—and by extension Dickon—has volunteered to wait in the lobby to greet people as they came in and direct them toward the main hall, the bathroom, or anywhere else they needed to go. Then she and Dickon walked over to the Dornish restaurant to make sure everything was set up and ready for thirty-some guests. “Are you all right, Sansa?” Dickon had asked her, his forehead lined with concern. “Of course,” she replied automatically as she flitted between the tables to refold the napkins. He reached out to still her hands. “I know you’re worried about seeing Jon Snow again.” Sansa sighed. She’d told Dickon bits and pieces about him throughout their relationship. She hadn’t given him that many details—mainly explained that she’d had a bit of a crush on one of Robb’s friends that she thought had been requited but apparently hadn’t—or at least not in the way she’d hoped.  And Dickon, of course, knew that Jon had been in the Night’s Watch and that Sansa had worried about his safety. They’d talked about Jon a bit more after she met Sam; he’d been interested in her unexpected connection to his brother. But it was likely that one of her siblings might have gotten to him based on his tone. “I am nervous,” Sansa told him as she grasped Dickon’s hand in her own. “He really hurt me when I was still so young and impressionable, and it’s hard to see him again. Even with how much I’ve changed and grown, seeing him makes me feel like that stupid little fourteen year-old girl again.”  Dickon kissed the corner of her mouth. “He didn’t deserve you then, and he doesn’t now. Don’t let him ruin this weekend for you.” “Cause it’s going to be such a stellar weekend otherwise,” Sansa deadpanned. Dickon smiled weakly and helped her fix the rest of the napkins before the guests arrived. He’d stayed with her as she helped to greet more people and play hostess to make sure everyone was settled and had everything they needed. And he held her hand during dinner. She could always sense where Jon was, even though she tried not to look directly at him. A few times throughout the dinner she recognized that him was trying to get her attention, but Sansa always found a way to avoid him.  She doubted she’d be so lucky today.  “What is it, Mom? Just say it.” Cat sighed. “Well, it’s just—seems inappropriate for you to outshine the bride.” That thought hadn’t crossed Sansa’s mind, and for half a moment she thought about going to her room to put on the other dress when Arya interrupted. “S’not like Sansa wasn’t gonna do that anyway, even if she wore a burlap sack. She’s always the prettiest girl in the room.” “Tied for prettiest,” Sansa amended. Arya rolled her eyes, but Sansa could still detect a blush underneath her younger sister’s layers of makeup. “You’ll wear a shawl in the church,” Cat told Sansa pointedly.  “I’ve got a faux white fur one that’ll go perfectly.” She’d made it years ago when she’d cosplayed as Good Queen Alysanne from A Dance with Dragons at a Renaissance Fair in Torrhen’s Square. Cat sighed but nodded and smiled weakly at her two daughters. “I suppose it’s alright then.” Sansa grinned, and Arya whooped. “Is it cool if I take scissors to my hem then?” “Don’t you dare, Arya Stark.” “But what if I wear a cloak for the ceremony?” Sansa had to try very hard not to laugh at their bickering so that she wouldn’t screw up as she put on her lipstick—blood red to match her toes. Shawl in place, Sansa took Dickon’s hand as he helped her into the car that had come to take them, Gendry, Arya, and her parents to the church; her brothers were already there getting ready.  “At the risk of sounding like a broken record, you look very beautiful,” Dickon murmured in her ear. Sansa gave him a wide smile. “Wait till you see the dress without the shawl.” Despite all the last-minute errands she had run on her brother’s behalf, everything was a bit chaotic still at the Church. Sansa was on her way to help her mother find Mrs. Westerling to figure out what happened to all the bridesmaids’ bouquets when she felt a tug at her wrist. She spun around on her heels. “Rickon? What are you—what is it?” “Sansa, can you help with the ties again? In Robb’s room, nobody can—" Her eyes dropped to the necktie in his hand. “Of course. I’ll get you looking perfect in just a second.” When she was done, she told him he looked like a dream, which made Rickon beam. “Can you come do Bran too? Theon can’t tie his either, and Robb—” Before Sansa could protest, Rickon grabbed her hand and was yanking her toward the groom’s dressing room.  “Rickon, sweetie, I really don’t think this is the best idea—“ But he’d already shoved her inside. “Sansa!” Robb exclaimed. “My beautiful sister. Thank the Gods you’re here. I’m absolutely hopeless without you.” He handed her his white bow tie. “Could you help a brother out? It is my wedding day after all.” Sansa plastered on a smile and obliged him—and then Bran. While she was working on Theon’s tie, Jon walked in.  “Everything with the priest is sorted, Robb. He says we’re ready to go in thirty.” Sansa’s hands stilled for a moment as she caught a glimpse of him. She’d never seen Jon Snow in a tux before. The sight proved to be a little too much, so she forced her eyes back to the task at hand. “Thirty minutes? Already. Wow. I guess this is really happening.” Robb sucked in a deep breath. “I’m getting married.” Bran rolled over to help Robb, and the movement drew Jon’s eye to the back of the room. “Sansa.” She peered at Jon over Theon’s shoulder. “Jon.” She began pulling at Theon’s neck that he groaned a little. “Sorry!” she fretted to him. “I’ll be done in a second. I’m just helping with the ties. Rickon—" “Sansa did all our ties for us!” “I see.” “She could’ve done yours too, but—“ Jon’s tie was already tied. Precisely, Sansa noted. “I learned in the army,” Jon explained in Sansa’s direction without quite meeting her eye.  “Yes, of course you did.” “Just mine, though. I can’t do anyone else’s.” “No, that would be a strange training exercise.” A moment of pregnant silence passed, which Sansa ended by clapping her hands together. “Well, I should get going. Mom might need me. Best of luck, Robb.” “Thanks, Sans,” said Robb, looking only slightly nauseous. She blew a kiss to Rickon and shared a look with Bran before sweeping out of the room. Then, after nearly a half hour of dodging hairspray, welcoming guests, and searching for a missing bouquet, she and Dickon were sat on the groom’s side next to Arya and Gendry. “Here goes,” Arya muttered darkly under her breath as the organ kicked in. “Here goes,” Sansa chanted back. The procession went quickly and mostly smoothly. Luckily, the music was loud enough to cover Sansa’s choking laughter when Arya saw the bridesmaids’ dresses and announced with a snort of relief that she was glad Jeyne hadn’t asked either of them to be in her bridal party. Jeyne was grinning widely as her father escorted her down the aisle. She’d chosen the dress well; even though neither the capped sleeves nor the blush color were to Sansa’s taste for a wedding dress, it hid her baby bump well. She could really only spot it from the profile as Jeyne walked past their pew. Father Luwin, the priest Sansa had known since she was a little girl who’d baptized all the Stark children and even married her parents, would be leading the ceremony the next day. His gentle but strong voice and familiar face helped calm her nerves. Sansa focused on him rather than the happy couple and Arya, who kept pinching herself so she wouldn’t say anything or start laughing inappropriately.

Sitting through the ceremony felt tedious, even though it was finished within a matter of minutes. Sansa amused herself primarily by watching Rickon, who looked adorable all dressed up in his tux and was trying his best to listen but could not seem to stop fidgeting his legs.

“Did he take his ADHD medication today?” Sansa heard her mother whisper to Ned.

She didn’t hear the answer because as soon as the words “Love is patient, love is kind,” were uttered, Arya started pretending to throw up into Gendry’s lap.

Robb and Jeyne stuck with the traditional vows, for which Sansa was grateful because personalized ones were so often overly long and too personal for a church ceremony. Besides, weddings were meant to be traditional.

Even though she was still quite peeved at her older brother and barely knew Jane, Sansa still felt a little tug at her heartstrings when they pronounced: “I am his; he is mine; I am hers; she is mine.”

At last, they kissed, and the procession began. Arya’s heavy sigh mixed with Sansa’s own.

“Just the reception now,” her sister noted. “Almost done.”

“Pictures first,” Sansa reminded her.

Arya groaned, but a quick look from their mother shut her up.

Taking the group photos in the church was a bit chaotic. The photographer kept telling certain Starks to sit down and others to get back up toward the altar. But after about twenty minutes, they were on their way to the reception.

“Can I get you a drink?” Dickon asked as they walked in.

“In the name of all the gods, yes, please,” Sansa told him.

As he headed off toward the bar, she found their table and finally removed the fur her mother had made her wear.

The first person who spotted her was Margaery—a fact which should have come to no surprise.

“Sansa Minisa Stark! I thought you said you were going to wear some old number.”

“I was, but then I changed my mind.”

“Indeed! Changed your mind and lost half your fabric in the process.” Margaery bit her lip, shaking her head with a smug look. “And here I thought I would win for lowest neckline at the wedding.”

Sansa smiled sweetly. “No shame in second best, darling.”

“You know, if Dickon doesn’t propose to you on the spot, he’s not just stupid but blind, as well.”

Sansa just rolled his eyes. “One wedding this calendar year is quite enough already.”

“Unless, this isn’t for Dickon’s benefit?”

Sansa straightened her posture and raised her chin. “I wore this dress for me.”

“And gods, do you look good in it,” Margaery observed with a smirk.

“Yes, well,” Sansa allowed, “there is that.” A smirk quirked at her own lips and had not quite faded by the time Dickon brought her a flute of champagne.

“Gods, you look….” he trailed off.

Sansa took the proffered drink and leaned up to give him a deep kiss. “Thank you,” she whispered in his ear as she smudged away the traces of her lipstick from his lips. “Shall we go? I think I spot Arya over by the corner.”

“Let’s.”

[mollyraesly]

Time with Wolves -- Chapter 18

Just as Thanksgiving had been overshadowed by Robb and questions about his possibly expecting new girlfriend, Christmas was dominated by Robb and his definitely expecting fiancée. Although they still had guests over, it was a rushed affair with more focus on what was to come in the next two weeks than on the day itself. Normally Catelyn spent a generous amount of time shopping to get the best sales and make sure each of her children got two or three fancier items, with a smattering of smaller gifts they’d all come to expect—wall calendars, underwear, fuzzy socks, chapstick, new gloves, wolf-related paraphernalia.

But this year, those little items were nowhere to be found. Instead, they’d gotten mostly gift cards and items they’d need for the wedding, like bowties, emergency first-aid kits, and Advil.

“I’m sorry,” Cat told them Christmas morning after they’d finished opening their presents. “I know this isn’t exactly following tradition.”

“It’s fine, Mum,” Sansa assured her. “We know this year is a bit…unusual.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Arya noted dryly. “I’d say—”

“Arya,” said Sansa, sensing the need to deescalate the situation, “why don’t you help me go get everyone some eggnog?”

Ned gave her a grateful look and then went back to trying to comfort Cat.

When they were in the safety of the kitchen, Arya heaved a sigh. “I hope Robb knows he owes us a Christmas after fucking up this one for us.”

Their elder brother was over at the Westerlings house, having stayed the night with the future in-laws. He was bringing Jane over later in the afternoon to eat with the Starks. Sansa wasn’t sure if it wouldn’t have been wiser to stay away.

She caught Arya eyeing the kitchen knives.

“C’mon, let’s get breakfast ready. The snow outside looks perfect for making snowballs. You and Rickon can challenge Bran to a fight while I help Mom with dinner. Maybe see if Dad wants in.”

Arya dragged her gaze away from the knives. “All right then.” Since her mom was busy helping Mrs. Westerling with wedding preparation—or complaining about being left out—Sansa had taken up a lot of the slack. The first few days, it had been nice to focus on something tactile after her exams. They weren’t her hardest batch of tests, but her Equal Protection Law professor decided last minute he wouldn’t let them bring in their case briefs and they had to do everything from memory—and Prof. Lannister forced her to rewrite one of her papers because she didn’t like the topic Sansa had chosen, namely the importance of portrayals of more traditionally feminine characters in positions of strength in prestige television shows. And all that extra work had made Sansa last couple of weeks of the semester exhausting. But this wedding prep was exhausting in a different way. Almost every conversation she had was about the wedding, and it was frankly getting on her nerves. Sansa normally enjoyed wedding talk and organizing; she had a whole scrapbook to prove it. But everything was so rushed, and the logistics were so complicated that the whole thing just felt stressful, not fun. But there was no way to avoid it—as the entire Stark clan was involved and working their damndest to make this wedding happen. Sansa knew she was starting to tire her friends with discussion of it, and she’d even started to dream about catering menus and napkin colors. “It sounds like you could use a break,” said Gilly sympathetically over the phone after Sansa ranted about the wedding preparations to her for over thirty minutes. The wedding was only five days away now, and she was so ready for it to be over. “Or a lobotomy,” Sansa muttered. Gilly chuckled awkwardly. “Sorry, I’m being a total grouch. You’ve been so lovely to listen to me complain. We’ve barely spoken about you. Oh Gilly, I miss you and the girls.” “I miss you too. Sansa. I wish I were there to watch movies and eat lemon cakes with you, but I’ve got to help my sisters with the farm. Speaking of which, I’ve got to get going. But call me again, if you ever need to let off some steam. You know Brienne, Meera, and I have got your back. Keep your head up, Stark, and remember—it’s up to you to decide how you treat others.” “Thanks, Gilly. You always know what to say. Tell your sisters I say, ‘Happy New Year.’ Love you!” “Love you too!” Sansa took Gilly’s advice and left the house to clear her head and visit Ghost. His exuberance upon seeing her again was more than enough to help her sour mood. And she felt calmer by the minute as she brushed out his long coat with Ghost’s face in her lap. “You are my favorite boy in the whole world, Ghost,” she told him. “And I’ll never not love you.”

As she was getting ready to leave the sanctuary of Ghost’s pen behind, Sansa ran into Mr. Mormont. “Back for another visit, eh?”

“You know I can’t bear to be away from him for long.”

Mr. Mormont shook his head. “Never met a more spoiled beast in my life.”

Sansa just waved her hand.

“Thank you, though, Miss Sansa, for the new hat and scarf,” he said, gesturing to the items she’d scrambled to finish knitting on time for Christmas. “I’ll see you at the wedding in a few days.”

Sansa sighed. “That’s right. The event of the season.”

“I’ll expect a dance.”

That made her smile. “You got it.” When she got home from the reservation, Arya kept her company while she started on dinner. It was just them and Rickon, as her parents and Robb were eating with the Westerlings and Bran was hanging out with Hodor. It was not the most exciting as far as New Year’s Eves went, but she was fine with a drama-free evening. Gendry would be coming over later once he was done with work, and she was hoping to fall asleep on the couch before the ball even dropped.

“What should we eat?” Sansa studied the refrigerator with a frown. She was tired of leftovers of savory dishes. She spotted the maple syrup. “How would you feel about breakfast for dinner?” “I feel very good about that.” “Done.” Arya shuffled around as Sansa pulled out what she needed for French toast. “So when is Dickon getting in?” “Tomorrow at 3. I’m going to pick him up at the train station, and he’s going to be staying in Rickon’s room.” “Gross.” Sansa sighed. “I know. Bran offered his, but he needs the extra mobility and access. Rickon’s room will have to do.” “I’ll help you clean it tonight. I know where Rickon hides all his bugs.” Sansa groaned.  “I’m looking forward to getting to know him better.” “Yeah? I’m glad. It’s such a shame he hasn’t had much of a chance to meet everyone before. I kind of feel like I’m throwing him to the wolves.” Arya laughed. “Gendry will be around for him to talk to, and luckily Robb will be too busy to do anything stupid to scare him off.” Sansa stopped beating the eggs in front of her. She could still remember that night when Robb upended what was supposed to be her first date with Jon; things were never the same after their conversation in the car. She hadn’t thought much about that night—had purposefully tried to push it from her mind till she got so good at pretending it had never happened. But thinking about it now made her realize how angry she still felt, how unresolved her feelings were about Robb’s interference and Jon’s abandonment.

With a flash, she could still remember the feeling, almost like being kicked in the stomach, when Robb had suggested Jon would never actually want to hang out with her had it not been for Ghost and the way Jon had avoided her eye and refused to stand up for her.

Gods, that had hurt.

She wasn’t a pining, lovesick teenager anymore—by any means. But the memory of that pain still ached.

She realized then, whisk in hand, that she did want answers and that perhaps more closure would help her to put that chapter of her adolescence and her whole history with Jon to rest. How much she wanted to sew up that wound and let it heal so she could finally move on.

“Sans?” “What? Oh, sorry. Just got lost in thought.” “S’fine. I just said you’ll have to be careful with Rickon, too. Cause you know, Dickon’s name isn’t exactly...” Sansa rolled her eyes and stirred some cinnamon into her egg mixture. “I’ve known many dicks in my life, but Dickon Tarly is not one of them. He can handle a joke.” “Can he handle five thousand?” The next morning she met up with Margaery to get their nails done. Sansa chose pale pink for her fingernails and blood red for her toes; Margaery went with mauve and gold. As their nails were polished, they flipped through fashion magazines and discussed hair and makeup options for the wedding. “I’m thinking long, glossy curls for the hair and something more demur for the makeup.” “Just you.” “Well, the dress shows so much cleavage, I have to leave something to the imagination.” Sansa rolled her eyes. “Mmhm.” “And what about you?”

“Me? I can imagine your cleavage just fine.”

“Sansa Minisa Stark!” Margaery exclaimed. “You are terrible today. I love it.” Sansa rolled her eyes.

“What dress is worthy of such a person?”

“I honestly wouldn’t get your hopes up. I’m probably going to wear this purple dress I wore to a school dance a couple years ago.” It was a nice dress with long sleeves and a floor-length skirt that would keep her warm. And no one who’d be attending the wedding had seen her in it before. It wasn’t going to drop any jaws, but it was pretty enough. “You aren’t going to get something new?” “There hasn’t been much time.” “Darling, there’s always time for a new dress.” Conveniently, Marg didn’t have any afternoon plans so she went with Sansa to pick up Dickon from the train station. During the ride, they discussed Sansa’s law school applications—in all the excitement she’d barely even registered that she’d already gotten two acceptances via email—and Marg’s plans to take what she learned in business school to open up her own floral shop with her grandmother. “Just better you than me,” Sansa said when she heard the news.  “What? Gran is an absolute lamb.” “If you say so,” Sansa demurred. Margaery clapped her hands. “Enough shop talk. Tell me more about your beau. I saw pictures online. He looks like a complete dish.” Marg shoved a picture of a shirtless Dickon under her nose. “I’d positively pay to lick him clean.” Sansa turned a little pink. In the couple of weeks they’d been apart, she’d almost forgotten how handsome he truly was. “He is...occasionally very dishy.” “Oh, you absolute minx! I wish my date had shoulders like that.” “Who are you bringing again?” “Arianne Martell. I met her in one of my business classes. She’s very beautiful, and we’ve gone on a couple of dates, but it’s more casual. I only asked her—well, because I didn’t want to go alone. I didn’t think I could handle—well, you know, I always did have a crush on Robb...” Sansa knew, of course; her friend had never been shy about telling her all the inappropriate things she wanted to do to her older brother. But Margaery was a flirt; Sansa has always assumed she was joking, or at least exaggerating her crush on him. Now, though, Marg looked like she was fighting back tears. “Marg, I—" Her friend’s face transformed into a beaming smile. “Now, now, I think I see a pair of hulking shoulders at two o’clock. Run to him, won’t you, Sansa dear?” Sansa rolled her eyes but nevertheless did a sort of skipping run into his open arms. He was warm and smelled like roasted coffee and peppermint and held her close. “I’m so glad you’re here,” Sansa whispered into his neck.  “Me too.” “I missed you.” Dickon smiled and pulled away so he could see her face. “Yeah?” “Yeah.” “Can I kiss you—just real quick?” “Please.” Smiling, he leaned down to capture her lips—a little longer than he had said he would. “Happy New Year,” he whispered with his lips against her cheek and at her ear. He was still smiling, but his lips began to frown as he pulled away. “Your friend is watching us, I think.” “Oh, I’m sure she is.” “Should I be worried about what I’ve gotten myself into?” “About Margaery? She’s just the tip of the iceberg.” “She doesn’t look that dangerous to me.” Sansa give him a wry smile. “Even roses have thorns. And you’ve just entered the wolves’ den.” “Good thing I have you to protect me.” “Good thing.” “How are you—really?” Sansa sighed. “My big brother is getting married in a shotgun wedding to a girl I think he only met about three months ago, my parents are absolutely overwhelmed, and my younger siblings are barely keeping it together. I’m as good as can be expected under the circumstances. How are you?” She plastered on a smile, laced her gloved fingers through his, and led him away from the train. “Ready to meet Margaery?” He swallowed nervously. “I think you were right about her being dangerous. She looks like she’s going to eat me.” Margaery must have overheard him because she grinned beatifically and winked at him. “With a spoon, handsome.”

Sansa tried not to laugh at the strangled noise that emerged from Dickon’s throat, but it was too perfectly hilarious. “I’m really glad you’re here,” she told him again.

“Nowhere I’d rather be.”

[mollyraesly]

Time with Wolves -- chapter 2

The next week they went back to the wolf reservation, and so did Arya and Robb. There was no way to tell her siblings that she wanted to go with just Jon by themselves without arising suspicion, so she played along and tried not to look overly eager when she spied from her bedroom window his beat-up car arrive in their driveway.

Her impulse was to wear something cute, something with straps or that showed off her long legs. But they were not going to the pool or the movies; they were going to a wolf reservation. So she stuck to thick jeans and a coat, even though the weather was still warm for the end of summer. But she did spend extra attention doing her makeup to make herself look like she was wearing no makeup at all. Her friend Myranda swore that this look was what older boys liked. And being only about to enter high school while Robb and Jon were going to be seniors, Sansa was willing to do anything to make herself seem more attractive to older boys.

She kept her hands in her lap and did her best to avoid staring at the back of Jon’s head on the rides back and forth. She usually failed, and every time she caught Jon’s eyes in the rearview window, her stomach fluttered. 

Once they arrived at the reservation, though, Arya and Robb were quick to leave them alone. Jon’s hand would linger at her lower back and stay there for almost an hour and a half as they played with Ghost under Mr. Mormont’s supervision. Ghost was so gentle and well-behaved. Even though he didn’t speak, Sansa knew just from his eyes and the loll of his tongue that he was glad for their special attention.

But when Robb and Arya found them when their visiting time was up, Jon’s hand disappeared, and a foot and a half of space between them appeared in its place.

Sansa selfishly wished that Robb and Arya would just disappear in those moments so she could have Jon’s gentle eyes and soft hand brushes for longer instead of his averted gaze and hands shoved into his pockets. Jon never spoke that much, but Sansa enjoyed their companionable silence. And when she’d sing to Ghost, Jon would sometimes hum along. She longed for more alone time with him without curious eyes following them. If she could get him talking longer, maybe he’d realize that she was more than just Robb’s little sister.

But the following week after school had started and Arya was at a fencing competition and Robb was out with Theon, Sansa finally did have Jon to herself. And she had no idea what to do about it.

Jon seemed just as surprised as her. When he saw her come out of the front door alone, he’d even asked her where the others were.

“Just me today,” Sansa explained while fidgeting with her hands, which had become inexplicable sweaty. “Is that ok?”

Jon nodded. “Yeah,” he swallowed as his fingers clenched the wheel. 

Sansa opened the passenger door, just as Jon opened his.

“Oh,” she breathed.

“I was going to—“

“You don’t have to—“

“I’m going to—“

Sansa tried to keep her face from growing too flushed as she moved out of the way so Jon could open the door for her.

“Thank you.”

Jon’s car smelled even more like him in the front seat. There were stickers of wolves decorating the cup holder and a religious medal pinned to the sun visor above the driver’s seat. His car didn’t have working air conditioning, so he kept the windows cracked open.

When Jon dropped back into his seat, Sansa tried to look like she hadn’t been inspecting the front of the car for any trace of personal items.

Jon turned his keys in the ignition. “Seat belt?” he asked.

Sansa hurriedly fastened the belt across her chest as he did the same. When he was done, he handed her his giant block iPod that was connected to a USB cord covered in tape. “Here. You can pick the music.”

Sansa took the iPod with a sense of dread. All her siblings teased her for having crap taste in music. Robb liked classic rock, and Arya liked rap, ska, and punk (though, when they had gotten drunk at Christmas last year, Sansa swore she caught her singing Abba). Bran exclusively listened to jazz or classical, and Rickon was obsessed with Dubstep or any song associated with memes. Sansa typically just listened to what her friends put on—which was whatever was popular on the radio. She did not want to disappoint Jon or make him think she was some shallow girl who only listened to pop stars. Frantically, she scrolled through the artists and out on the first name she recognized. 

Jon grinned. “I love The Cure.”

Sansa sighed in relief. They listened to the music in science, and Sansa tried to focus on the melodies and words to see why Jon loved the band. Every so often she’d catch him tapping his fingers to the beat against the steering wheel or mouthing lyrics. She made a mental note to download all of their albums later that night.

Jon opened the door for her to get out of the car once they reached the parking lot to the reservation. His hand lingered at her back, and she felt brave enough to relax into his touch but not bold enough to catch his eye while doing so.

Their time with Ghost was mostly the same as it had been before. He was such a sweet animal, even with the fangs. “My sweet prince,” Sansa called him.

“I thought that title was reserved for Aemon the Dragon Knight.”

“I didn’t know you’ve watched ‘A Dance with Dragons.’” Sansa watched it obsessively, but she’d never mentioned the adaptation to Jon. It was not exactly something that senior boys in high school cared about. Robb only knew of it because she forced the whole family to sit through at least three hours of the seven-hour series each year on her birthday.

“Of course I have,” Jon told her. “Read the books too. I really like all the medieval battles and the stuff that happens with the giants in the North. But I like the other stuff, too—you know, Florian and Jonquil. That’s one of your favorites, right?”

Sansa nodded, feeling lighter than air. Nothing was more romantic than the story of Florian and Jonquil. The fact that Jon knew who they were—she could sing.

The rest of their evening passed quickly, and they were back at her driveway before she realized it. She started as the engine came to a stop.

“Thanks, Jon,” she whispered shyly as she played with the tips of her hair. Suddenly, she worried that maybe Jon wouldn’t want to keep going, if it was just the two of them. “It’s all right that we go see Ghost, even if it’s just me and you, right? I don’t want to force you to keep chauffeuring me around. Do you want money for gas or—?”

“No,” he answered quickly. His eyes followed her fingers. “It’s not a problem. It’s not—I mean, I don’t mind—I like spending time with you.” He coughed. “And I’m going anyway and your house is on my way. So just—don’t worry about it.”

Sansa nodded. “When I get a car, I’ll drive you around.”

Jon laughed. “That won’t be for a couple more years. This is fine. I drive; you pick the music.”

Sansa nodded again and prepared herself to stay up half the night researching Jon’s taste in music. They’d listened to Hozier, Bruce Springsteen, the Smashing Pumpkins, and more of The Cure on the ride back. She’d snuck a text to Bran at the wolf preservation to ask him what he’d think Jon would like. She knew Bran wouldn’t ask her any questions about it. He was nice that way.

“I better let you get back inside. I’ve already kept you longer than I should have.”

He came around the car to open the door for her and wished her good night.

Sansa stayed in the driveway and watched him drive away. When he was out of sight, she let out a little squeak she’d been holding in for far too long.

[mollyraesly]

Time with Wolves -- Chapter 19

"I think your boyfriend must really like you," Bran told her the morning before the wedding as they waited for the shop owner to bring out the tuxes they were renting. Sansa couldn't help the smile tugging at her lips. "Yeah, what makes you say that?" "He's not once complained about Rickon."

"Ugh, don't get me started." "One would think that the same dick joke told again and again would lead to diminishing returns, but I'm not sure our little brother understands the basics of economics—or comedy." "Or manners," Sansa lamented with a sigh. Rickon hadn't been the only one to test her boyfriend's resolve; besides dealing with Margaery upon his arrival, he'd had to meet both of her parents for the first time just as they learned that the wedding venue wanted to charge another $2,500 fee for the rush and Jeyne's parents were refusing to pay it—leading to the question of whether there'd be a wedding at all. After some heated telephone exchanges, Sansa was pretty sure her father had talked the venue down to just charging a $1,000 late fee, but she was fairly certain that money was coming out of his own checkbook.

Arya blamed Robb for being so stupid and inconsiderate, and Sansa tried her very best not to chime in when she started ranting about their older brother and all the money he was costing their parents. But at least Arya was trying not to complain too much in front of company. She’d kept the sarcastic comments directed mainly to Sansa and Gendry.

"We're eloping," she'd told Gendry the other day—much to her boyfriend’s surprise. "Really?" he'd managed to choke out. "Yes," she'd replied matter-of-factly. "We can have a party afterwards. Hotpie can make a cake because the best part is the cake. But I'm not putting myself through all this garbage. This wedding crap is giving me hives. I won’t go through this bullshit again. And I’ll be wearing pants." "Whatever you want," he said. "I've got what I want." "Cake?" "Nah, I've got you thinking about marrying me," he preened. The whole exchange had actually been quite adorable—to the point Sansa had wished she had a camera—until Arya sucker punched him. Poor Dickon had missed the whole thing, though, because he'd very nobly agreed to help her father shovel the driveway—despite not having much personal experience with deep snow. After an hour and a half when they’d come back inside, Dickon’s fingers had been frozen, his lips blue. She sighed again. "He has been a real trooper." She leaned over to place her hand on Bran’s shoulder. “Thanks for inviting him to hang out with you and Gendry last night. I know he appreciated it.” As Robb’s stag night had been the week before and quite a 21-and-over event—Sansa saw Theon the other day and wondered if he was still hungover—the night before had been a quiet one. Robb had spent the night with Jeyne and her family, and Rickon luckily had been at a friend’s house; Sansa suspected that had been her mother’s doing, for which she was most grateful.  Sansa and Arya were roped into helping their mom with last-minute seating chart arrangements and making favors, and their father had to work. So Bran has taken the initiative to order pizza and play video games with Dickon—and invite Gendry, too, so there wouldn’t be as much pressure to bond with the younger brother. “I like Dickon.” “You do?” “Yeah, he knows a lot about the Westerosi criminal code and how to evade certain charges on technicalities. I think those talents will prove useful in the future, should Rickon reach 18.” Sansa swallowed her laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.” She tapped her foot. “What time is it?” “10:52.” “And what time were these supposed to be ready?” “I think 10:45, but since Robb isn’t here to sign for them...” Robb was supposed to be here to meet them and help with picking up the tuxes, but there'd been a minor catastrophe with the catering. There’d been minor catastrophes with everything, it seemed. This wedding, if it actually took place, would be a miracle. Sansa took a deep breath. “All right, you stay here.” “Where are you going?” “To get our tuxes.” Six minutes later, Sansa returned to the front counter with a bag-laden shop worker hurrying behind her.  She gave Bran a smile as the man typed everything into the cash register.  “There’s nine bags” Bran counted as the man went through them all. “We’re only supposed to pick up eight tuxes.” “Something caught my eye, and I’m an excellent negotiator,” Sansa told her little brother with a wink. “Everything is in order, Miss Stark.” “Thank you so much, Illyrio. You’ve been such a help.”

“Let me help you to your car.”

When everything was packed, Sansa shook the man’s hand in gratitude and thanked him once more.

“You will look radiant, Miss Stark. I just know it.”

Sansa grinned and waved goodbye. When she got behind the driver’s seat, Bran looked at her in confusion. “I thought you told Mom you already had a dress for the wedding.”

“I did,” Sansa replied. “But a very wise woman told me just the other day that there’s always time for a new dress.”

“What if it doesn’t fit? Did you even try it on?”

“It’ll fit,” Sansa told him. “Don’t you fret, Bran. I have an eye for these things.”

“How did you get him to give it to you for free?”

Sansa grinned. “There’s nothing a little bit of persuasion and good manners can’t accomplish.”

Bran applauded softly. “If only Robb had you around to deal with the caterers this morning.”

“Yes, well, we all know that Robb can manage just fine on his own.” Upon his silence, she turned to her younger brother and winked.

 Tuxes in tow, they went to the florist next and then dropped off a check at the limousine shop. As they were leaving, Sansa’s stomach grumbled. “Did you have a chance to look at the menu of the place we’re going tonight—it’s a Dornish restaurant, right?”

Bran sighed. “Over-priced and needlessly pretentious. You can’t pick your side dish; they get automatically assigned. And of course all the good meat options are paired with the worst vegetables.”

“Does the vegetarian option at least look good? Sometimes—”

“It’s not only vegetarian but also vegan and gluten-free. A meal for all the difficult people.”

Sansa frowned. “Why in the name of all the gods would we go there then?”

“Mom said it was close to the venue.”

Sansa bit her tongue to avoid saying what she was thinking. Her stomach grumbled again. “We should eat now. At least we’ll be able to get one good meal in today.”

“The Ice Shack isn’t too far from here,” said Bran, grinning. “We could get milkshakes—strawberry.”

For a moment, she was 15, sitting in the Ice Shack parking lot, sipping on a strawberry milkshake and munching on fries in the front seat of Jon Snow’s car.

But when she blinked, she was 21 again and in the driver’s seat. “All that dairy won’t be good right before we have to take so many pictures. Why don’t we stop and get some sandwiches to bring home? I’m sure everyone is hungry there.”

Bran accepted her excuse, and she drove toward the nearest sandwich shop.

“Thank you, little one,” her father said when they returned with chores completed and lunch for everyone. “We would not survive this weekend without you.”

“That’s not true,” Sansa said, though she was not so sure.  

“Let’s not find out,” Ned muttered. “Go on and get ready. The boys and I can take it from here.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. All’s that left is getting things in the car and getting everybody dressed up before we go set up at the church. Maybe see if you can convince Arya—”

Sansa laughed. “I’ve never been able to convince Arya to do a single thing in my entire life. Do you really think this is the weekend when that’s going to change?”

 With his laughter ringing in the hall, she made her way upstairs and to the bathroom. There wasn’t much time, but she desperately wanted a bath. It was going to be a long weekend; she needed to take the opportunities for quiet solitude when she could.

The bath worked, somewhat, to calm her down, but with each hour the rehearsal loomed closer, she could feel her pulse quicken.

Once dry and hair blown out, Sansa sat in front of her vanity mirror and applied her makeup as carefully as she could. Sansa was usually pretty good at doing makeup, but she wanted to make sure that it looked absolutely perfect. Before applying her lipstick, a rose pink shade, she slipped into her outfit for the evening: a dark teal silk dress with long sleeves and buttons down the front.

She hummed under her breath as she methodically braided her long hair into a fish tail and then studied herself in the mirror.

“You are Sansa Stark of Winterfell. You are Ned and Cat’s daughter. You can do this,” she whispered under her breath. Do what exactly, she wasn’t sure. But saying it aloud made her feel like it was true.

As she was slipping into her heels, a knock sounded on her door. “It’s open!” she said as she tried to find where she’d put her purse.

“Wow, Sansa, you look really pretty.”

Sansa stopped searching for her purse and turned to smile at her little brother Rickon; his hair was wild, but he still looked so sweet in his grey suit with the tie still undone.

“Thank you. C’mere, I’ll do up your tie for you.”

“I tried, but Bran’s directions didn’t make any sense.”

“That’s okay. I’m very good at ties. Mom taught me how to do Robb’s ties for him when we were your age.”

“Why?” Rickon ask as he watched Sansa’s fingers work the fabric. “Why didn’t she teach him?”

“Well, Robb couldn’t very well be trusted to do it himself, could he?” In truth, Cat had tried over and over again, but Robb had always been a bit hopeless at it. Sansa, whose fingers were nimble even then from knitting, was a much better student for it.

The joke made Rickon laugh, but his smiled turned to a frown. “I can’t believe Robb’s getting married.”

Neither can I, Sansa thought. “There,” she said instead as she patted the tie against his chest. She brought him over to her mirror to take a look. “Now don’t you look handsome?”

The compliment made him glow, but he tore his eyes away from his reflection to look at her instead. “Will you dance with me at the wedding tomorrow?”

“Of course I will. What a lucky girl I am; my dance card seems quite full. It is going to be one eventful wedding for sure.”

 Rickon insisted on assisting Sansa down the stairs, even though she tried to assure him that she didn’t need any help walking in heels, even if they were stilettos.

“Those are death traps, Sansa. No one should walk in those.”

“Agreed,” Arya said as she squeezed past them. “And it’s not like you need to be any taller anyway.”

Arya had kept her hair down, but the green dress she wore was quite pretty, even when offset by the combat boots Sansa had bought for her.

“Tall girls can still wear heels,” Sansa insisted.

“They just need the right date.” Dickon had appeared at the bottom of the stairs. He looked so good in his navy suit that Sansa let out a sigh.

“You look beautiful,” he told her.

“I already told her that,” Rickon told Dickon.

Dickon shrugged. “Better late than never, I guess. You ready?” he asked as he handed Sansa her coat. “I think your parents want us to meet them in the car.”

“Yes,” she lied. “Let me just grab some tissues for my purse. You go on ahead.”

 Arya found Sansa, staring at the tissue box in the downstairs bathroom, and reached out to squeeze her hand. The look in her eyes told Sansa she knew exactly what was making her older sister so nervous.

“It’s just a few words and then dinner,” Arya whispered to her. “You’ll get through it. Even with him there.”

Sansa nodded and squeezed Arya’s hand back.

Arya seemed unable to allow the tenderness of the moment to last any longer. ��C’mon, let’s go get this over with. We’re not only gaining a sister, we are hopefully losing a brother.”

“Arya!” Sansa hissed, despite letting out a short shout of laughter.

“Don’t tell Mom I said that!”

“You have no manners whatsoever, Arya Stark.”

“Well, someone has to keep us entertained.”

Sansa sighed and held her chin high as she made her way to the car. You can do this.