Jon and Sansa discover childhood and acceptance
He doesn’t know what he expects to see when he finds Sansa alone and curled under the weirwood tree but it is not this. Sansa’s head is bowed down low, surrounded by blue winter roses. He steps closer, the crunch of snow between his boots echoing loudly in the Godswood. Her head whips up, blue, large eyes now focused on him. He flinches at the intensity of her stare, feeling like a boy under her gaze.
“Jon, what are you doing skulking around?” She asks, pushing the roses out of her way. He scowls and walks closer to her. His hiding spot now outed.
“I wasn’t skulking,” he grumbles but he sits beside her. Sansa doesn’t pay him much attention, her attention now back to her flowers. He watches her curiously as she twists the thick stems around the other, breaking off the thorns. Her cheeks are flushed and rosy from the cold and her hands are red and scratched up but Sansa doesn’t seem to care. He is suddenly reminded of the little girl that she used to be, making a crown and then forcing Robb to crown her and proclaim her the Queen of Love and Beauty. There is no Robb to crown her, only him and he is a poor substitute.
He watches her, curiously but she still pays him no mind, her fingers working furiously over her work. He smiles at the sight of her stooped over like this and working at making a crown of flowers. Despite what Sansa may say, there is still something of that girl inside her. She is not a ghost or a phantom, she sits right before him, making a crown of flowers just as she once had.
She lets out a delighted gasp and lifts it up proudly. He smiles at her joy and happiness. If there is still some of the girl in Sansa after all that she has faced, perhaps, there is some of the boy still in me, he thinks to himself, feeling the warm bubble of hope, fragile and easily squashed but in existence, all because of her.
He waits for her to place the crown upon her own head or to ask him to do it, naming herself queen in the only way she can now. She does neither.
“Lower your head.” He stares at her wide-eyed and Sansa flushes at his gaze. “You’re a king without a crown. I made you one.” He obeys her, his mouth thick and heavy with words he cannot say, words that he doesn’t know how to form. She places the crown of flowers gently upon his head. He can feel the heat of tears behind his eyes but he raises his head once she places it on his head.
“Long may your reign be my King.” He wants to open his mouth and rebuke her. His name is Jon. He’s no king but her bright and hopeful gaze stops him. He thinks that this is a game as much as it is acceptance of him. He keeps silent, accepting the crown of winter roses and accepting his new title.
Sansa’s face is bright and flushed and shining. It is part girl and part woman and part advisor but it is Sansa, all of it is the woman, girl that stands before him. That thing that has slowly been inching its way into his chest, finally, finally settles into space.