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The boy arrived at their farm with the first flurries of snow, and when he shrugged and said he had only the one name, Jon, Arya dubbed him Jon Snow with a cackle. Sansa was mortified, but dour Jon grinned, just a bit, and mussed her sister’s hair as if he’d always been her brother. Sansa would never dare touch Arya’s hair again. She’d tried to brush and braid it, only for her to tug too hard and Arya insist it was deliberate and pull her hair. Their mother had to break them apart.
But that didn’t happen with Jon. He contributed to the bird’s nest, and Arya laughed, beamed, and it made no sense to Sansa, not in the least. The others accepted him as another brother immediately. He helped Robb with his chores, showed Bran how to climb trees, made swords out of branches for Rickon for them to parry and play. In weeks it was if he’d always been there, to everyone else that is.
Sansa did not participate, she merely watched it all from the kitchen window, her safe little world. The chaos of her siblings and this strange boy framed neatly by gingham curtains she'd stitched herself.
She baked bread with her mother, and felt strangely warm when the children would bring in the cold with them as they traipsed in to steal it. Jon the only one to bother to thank her for the buttered bread. Since it was so cold, she did the washing in the kitchen too, scrubbed stains from Arya’s overalls, and sweat marks and dirt from the boys shirts. In the evening her father would smoke a pipe, sometimes read, as her mother would knit and Sansa darned Rickon’s socks that always had holes. Occasionally she’d patch this or that for Jon. When she mended the elbow of Jon’s shirt, his thumb had traced the perfect little stitches, and Sansa’s breath had hitched as he thanked her for that too. He never felt like a brother to her, never felt the ease she had with Bran, the laughter with Robb. Jon made her the smallest bit uneasy, with his dark grey eyes and the two scars glinting in his pale skin. He might have been a hero from one of her stories; he might have been a villain.
She wasn’t frightened, she just didn’t know what to call what she felt. The strange sensation, the fluttering in her stomach when he threw off his shirt before he and Robb would wrestle, and something within her took flight every time the lightning flashed in his eyes when he pinned her brother. But Robb was taller, heavier, and never stayed down for long, and Jon’s sullen expression after a loss was something else, something less thrilling, instead, haunting. He never said where he came from, why he’d come North when his clothes were too thin, his shoes filled with holes. Not that they spoke much, ever really. He gave no clues to anyone, even Robb. A secret past making him all the more fascinating.
Sometimes while she sewed in the evening, he'd watch her. He'd pretend to be sharpening his lone possession, a long, sharp knife, Sansa knew though. It was silly, but sometimes, it was hard to concentrate, hard to breathe, her fingers fumbled. They didn't speak more than a thank you, or a you're welcome, but sometimes, when she sang as she worked, he'd sit in the loft, his feet dangling down, silently listening. Sometimes, she would unbraid her hair and brush it, and she knew, then too, that his dark eyes were caught on her every movement, on the light of the fire dancing in her hair.
Her mother didn't like Jon. Not that she ever said, no, there was only a thin-lipped smile, a weighty quiet in their small cabin. The boys slept up in the loft, the girls in cots by the fire, a quilt hanging down around their parents’ bed, the only proper one in their little home.
She'd heard her mother whispering furiously of surviving the winter with another growing boy to feed, her father's quiet reassurances, and then after a pause, "He looks like you, Ned. More so than our own boys." Sansa didn't quite understand the implication, just held her breath, knowing --without knowing-- the importance of the answer. She did not expect her father's quiet chuckle, the one that was so rarely heard, "I think we both know there have been none but you, Cat, much to my embarrassment our first--" Her mother's breathy laughter was followed by shushing noises.
After that, Sansa noticed the shrinking bag of flour, the dwindling stock of corn; she carefully measured the oats, wondering how long winter would last. It was impossible for Jon to have heard her mother's whispered worries, but she knew he had a sense about him that the other children didn't. He took up chores, even some of Robb's. He went fishing, and if he was lucky enough to catch any, he silently offered them to Sansa. She thanked him, allowed him to step near, pull that knife from his belt, slide it down the body of the fish, stripping the scales away, and she thanked him again, when he turned it over to her. That strange feeling within her so strong her fingers trembled as she dragged the knife down the other side of the fish, until his hand touched hers, gently guiding it, preventing the tool from slipping from her grip. He withdrew his hand as soon as she finished, the bloodied knife still in hers. She wiped it off on her snow-white apron, silently returned it to him in her open palm.
Her mother returned from the barn, the door slamming open caused Jon to quickly step away, move toward the door himself. With one last glance over his shoulder, Jon walked out into the swirling wind. She found that even when he didn't speak, and he tried to keep a silent face, his eyes told her more than Robb's boisterous remarks or Arya's shouting. But that look, the way he looked at her before he hurriedly turned away, she didn’t know how to describe it, only knew what it made her feel.
Sansa turned back to the board with the scaled fish to hide her pink cheeks, wide open eyes from her mother. She was fifteen, boys had looked at her for years, but she’d never liked it, had even come to hate the way their eyes trailed up and down her body. She hated their crude jokes, the way they tried to touch her. But Jon, with his long face, his moody silences, his eyes that even when calm, promised a storm, even when content, told her of a lifetime of yearning, instead of being frightened by what he wanted, she found she wanted too. Her fingers brushed down across her blood stained apron, once, before she turned back to her tasks.
Christmas was coming soon, not that there was ever much of a celebration. Her mother would have a gift for each of them, something she made or had father built. This year Robb would get real shoes, made by a cobbler who came ‘round the farm twice a year. This year he came perilously close to the holiday, the afternoon before. His wagon was something like a tinker’s as well, in addition to the leather work, the soles for the shoes, there were shiny pots to tempt her mother, and an assortment of other goods, some cloth, candies, a carved wooden toy or two, a roll of beautiful ribbons.
The children had no money, but Sansa saw her mother subtly pay the cobbler for some candy, and she knew Rickon and Arya would have sweets in their stockings. Once her mother went inside the cabin, her father paid the man for Robb’s shoes and a length of cloth.
Sansa ran her hand over the toys, a train with a fine red engine, along some fine leather boots, fancier than any she had ever seen before, across the soft ribbons. Her own hair was tied back with a strip of the material she’d used for the curtains in her kitchen window. Her fingers stopped their exploration when she came to a knife sheath, fine leatherwork of intricate scrolls. The cobbler was coming around to the back of his cart, startled her by asking, “That catch your eye? I would have thought you’d want something less study and more pretty.”
She stuttered and dropped her hand, “I’m too old for ribbons.”
“Every girl likes a beautiful trinket.”
“Well, I haven’t any money, so it doesn’t matter.”
The old man lifted her braid from her shoulder. “I’d take this.”
“My hair?”
“Sell it in the city to a wigmaker.”
Sansa bit her lip, “How much—”
“I’ll not be paying you, we can trade.”
She wasn’t sure what prompted her to do it, perhaps the thought that the other children would be given gifts of some kind, while she was not sure at all that Jon would receive one, or perhaps it was simply because of that strange feeling she had whenever he looked at her intently, the way she felt when she knelt before the fire with his eyes on her, and the embers seemed to leap from the hearth into her, set her aflame. Perhaps it was that nagging fear that just as he came without warning, he’d leave. That come spring, he’d disappear with the snow.
They never spoke, she couldn’t ask him to stay, besides, her mother didn’t like him, perhaps he wouldn’t be permitted to, even if he wanted, so maybe she just wanted him to have something to remind him of her, one thing that would make him think of her from time to time, just as each time she looked at her apron, she saw a faded bloodstain, no matter how many times she’d tried washing it away.
Whatever the reason, whatever prompted her actions, she used a kerchief to cover her head, hide away the short hair that now hung just to her shoulder, used pins to tuck it completely away.
Nervously she made dinner, cleaned the dishes, jumped anytime her mother or father spoke, afraid that they’d noticed what she’d done. It was uncharacteristically rash of her, and while she wasn’t sure how she’d respond when she was discovered, it filled her with a secret glee, to have made her own choice, to have such a secret.
After everyone went to sleep, she lay in her cot, listening to the pops from the fire, the snores of her father, the occasional sounds from beyond the safety of the cabin, the hoot of an owl, the howl of the wind. The ladder to the loft creaked, and she was surprised to see Jon coming down. He crouched by her cot as she sat up, holding a quilt to her chest, blushing furiously.
“I saw you were awake,” he said, “I wanted to—I didn’t know if—this is for you.” In his hand was an elegant hair comb. A fragile looking butterfly was carved into the filigree. She was at a loss for words. He tensed, waiting for her to speak. “It’s beautiful” she sighed out at last, thinking she may never have seen something more beautiful in her life.
She reached beneath her cot and offered her own gift, the sheath.
His silence made her nervous, and panic climbed up her throat until he finally took the gift from her, turned it over and over. His thumb traced the intricate leather work. Without asking, Sansa knew that he’d never received a gift before.
His eyes were much darker than they’ve ever been before when he looked at her, but she wasn’t afraid. It excited her. He took a shuddering breath, and reached for the kerchief, gently tugs it from her hair, preparing to scoop up a length of red hair in a gentle swoop of the comb.
“I exchanged my braid for your gift,” she whispered, regretful, embarrassed by his shock. She was surprised when he allowed his fingers to smooth down her hair, how they traced the crudely cut edges.
“I gave him my knife for yours.”
“You—”
They sit there in an embarrassed silence, until Arya kicked her legs and rolled over, grumbling in her sleep. Jon caught her eye and laughed, softly, as did she.
The fire cast their shadows on the quilt behind them where her parents slept, and rather than cow her, it made her bold.
She’d made up a hundred stories about his past, where his scars came from, but now she was less interested in when they came to be or how, simply traced her fingers along their faded edges, sorrowful that he’d ever endured such pain.
His hand joined hers to hold it gently against his cheek. “They’re from a hawk.”
She had more questions, but decided to not press the issue, instead surprised Jon, surprised herself, by pulling him onto the mattress with her, so that they watched the flame together. Jon draped the quilt around their shoulders, and she rested against him.
A wolf howled in the distance. The cabin creaked. Jon silently offered his hand for her to hold.
Sansa expected some sort of rebuke for the hair, a warning if her mother were to surmise the truth of the matter. Arya seemed pleased, hopeful even, that there would be some fallout, but no words were spoken on the subject. The boys didn’t notice, so Sansa quietly washed the breakfast plates, staring out the window as they flung snowballs at each other on the way to the barn to muck stalls. She was startled by her mother placing an arm around her shoulder, a light in her brilliant blue eyes as she adjusted the comb. There was a softness in her gaze when she turned to look out the window, caught sight of Jon rubbing a handful of snow into Robb’s auburn hair.
Christmas dinner was nothing too fine, but it was more plentiful than their meals had been of late, and when they all settled down to eat, Sansa noticed that hanging amidst the stockings for the children, there was a new one, Jon stitched into it with her mother’s precise stitches.