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Daylight had spoken
So clear and so plain.
I'm the keeper of nothing
But an old flame
Consuming the shadows
Caught in the light,
Blinded by hunger
And fed to the night.
And Darling, you came to me
Like a dream in this endless blight.
My heart was reaching
So tangled and twined
Like vines in the willows
A serpentine killer
Bound by its climb.
Glory was calling,
She wailed and she whined
Higher and higher.
Leave it all behind.
And Darling, you came to me
In the glory I'd longed to find.
My search was unending
And my soul was bare.
And darling you came to me
Like a midnight flare.
Out on the ocean,
The stars had all gone.
My heart was broken,
Lost and alone.
Darling, you came to me
Like a beacon leading me home.
Mandolin Orange - Daylight
Just now, I felt like I wanted to be alone for a long time, in a folding chair on the lawn with all my private agonies, but then I saw you.
- Ada Limón
Waiting comes in two shades: known and unknown. The first is familiar, like the waiting one does for the clock to strike twelve so an empty stomach can be filled. It's looked forward to, anticipated with eagerness no matter how often it comes around.
That isn't the waiting she finds herself in now. The uncharted path she has decided to tread has her spine stiff from unease and a fine sheen of sweat beading across her hairline. She hates the feeling, but curses herself for the hundredth time. She's stronger than this.
“Miss Targaryen?”
Her head jerks upright, eyes searching for the man who called her name. It doesn't take long. He's just in front of her, behind the bustle of bodies moving between them, gazing at her with an expectant expression as he makes his way closer. He stops just in front of her. His shirt is crisp and white. His waistcoat and tie, both tailored twill. His trousers though are dungarees. Worn ones at that. And his boots have seen better days.
But his attire doesn't keep her attention. His face however…
She's a bit stunned much to her displeasure. Save for the lovely scenery during her trip he is the prettiest thing she’s seen in ages. Rich black curls, a trimmed beard, and a pair of soulful gray eyes so dark they beckon one to fall into them.
Too bad the last thing she wants in her life is a man, let alone a pretty one.
“Who’s inquiring?” Her tone is clipped and stern, no friendliness at all. As Olenna would say; her feathers were most definitely ruffled.
A deep furrow takes over his brow. “My name's Jon Snow, ma’am. I’ve been sent to pick you up.”
Instantly wary, her heart racing, she draws back. “By whom?”
“Lady Olenna Tyrell.”
Breathing once more, her trepidation melts somewhat, her mind clearing. She’d expected Olenna to see her safely delivered to her island; it was one of many points discussed during their conversation. Something about a caretaker. But this man, this
Jon Snow,
isn't who Dany had pictured in her mind. He should be old and arthritic, weathered and bent by years spent working outdoors in Olenna's many gardens,
not
young and beautiful and tempting. That he threw out Olenna's name simply isn't enough for her to trust him.
“Olenna sent you?” she demands with narrowed eyes.
“Yes, ma’am.” He produces a folded bit of crisp stationary from his waistcoat pocket and passes it to her. “Sent this too.”
She opens it, keeping close watch on him as he hovers. Her heart calms its racing beat the moment she looks down; Olenna's handwriting is easily recognizable.
Daenerys,
I know he might appear dark and broody, and perhaps even untrustworthy to you being of the young male persuasion, but I promise he’s as soft as a snowflake. Nearly as pure too. He's a family friend of Margaery’s and a war hero. Came highly recommended. He looks after things for us quite well. You’ll be in good hands. He’ll no doubt take fine care of you if you let him. So let him.
Olenna
Her teeth clenched tight, she slaps the letter down onto her crossed thighs.
What in hell’s name is the old bat up to?
She'd simply asked a friend for some seclusion and solitude. Not a secret rendezvous with a handsome stranger. She never would've agreed to come if she'd known. Which, she is sure, is exactly why Olenna hadn't gone into detail about him. Dany might very well strangle her the next time they meet.
Breathing deeply, she fixes her eyes on him again, as kindly as she can muster. He isn't exactly the root of her ire.
“You work for Lady Tyrell?”
“Yes, ma’am. I—”
“For gods’ sake stop calling me
ma’am.
I can't be any older than you,” she snaps, her frustration unchecked.
He shifts back on his heels and stuffs his hands into his pockets, his gaze, now indeed dark and broody. It makes him even more attractive and she curses under her breath.
Damn you, Olenna. Damn you to all seven hells.
“I look after Rose Isle,” he goes on, a slight edge to his words. “She considers me a Caretaker of sorts.”
“Of sorts?” He shrugs and she rolls her eyes. “I’ve known Olenna for years, she's never mentioned you.”
He winces, disappointed, she thinks and instantly feels a wave of guilt wash over her. “Not surprised. Never figured her to be one to discuss the help.”
Dammit it all!
She glances at the note again before eyeing him once more. “Something tells me she doesn't consider you the help.”
“Doubt she considers me at all,” he says with a snort.
“She considers everyone and everything at all times.”
At her curt response he huffs out an irritated breath. His hands have left his pockets; they're flexing at his sides. They settle into loose fists. “Not to be rude, Miss, but I have work I need to get back to. Would you like a ride or not?”
So she isn't the only one perturbed it seems. For the first time since he called her name she has hope her trip isn't ruined.
“Is anyone else there?”
“On the Isle?” he asks for clarity, only to quickly shake his head. “Just a few times a month. Sometimes less. The cook comes when the family's visiting. The housekeeper keeps her own schedule.”
Her heart drops. They’ll be alone. On a secluded island.
Together
in a large, drafty castle for who knows how long. She has no further plans beyond this, no direction. Olenna knows that,
and
her history. Surely she wouldn't dare sequester her away with anyone she didn't explicitly trust.
“Miss?” Her eyes met his. They’re no longer so dark, but kind instead. Soft, like water glistening over weathered stones. Understanding, perhaps. “You’ll never know I’m there unless you come hunting for me.”
The declaration is delivered softly and she believes him without question. Exactly why, she can't say. Something in his voice, his eyes, tells her he yearns for his solitude as much as she does hers.
It's enough to bring her to her feet. Not that she truly has another option. She doesn't have enough left to purchase a train ticket to anywhere else, let alone find accommodations afterwards. But that's no business of Jon Snow’s. She reaches for her bags, but he's quicker, grabbing them up and leading the way in a blink.
—
Quiet is what she’d told herself she wanted most. If she were alone, it would be heaven. In the tight quarters of the car with a complete stranger it is downright painful.
She should've sat in the back. Olenna would have. Mister Snow would've no doubt opened the back door for her if she'd given him even one moment to do so. But her nerves were drawn tight and they'd rushed her to action without thought and now there she sat, feeling awkward and judged like a bug pinned to felt in the front seat. Not two feet between them.
What must he think of her?
She knows what she thinks. She's pathetic. A sad, threadbare soul, worn thin by life’s cruelties and her own bad decisions. For months she’s ached to disappear, to hide away from the world and lick her wounds, and now, just when she thought she was finally going to be able to, she has an audience. It's embarrassing. She's embarrassed, feeling as if she's arrived at a party dressed in second-hand clothes and everyone knows it—the stains, her sins, seeping to the surface for all to see.
But he's only one man and maybe he'll keep his word.
Dear gods, please.
“Olenna's note said you were a friend of Margaery’s?” she asks, unable to take the tension a moment longer. Or her own self reflection.
She sees him shrug from the corner of her eye, her gaze firmly on the road ahead, just as his is. “I guess you could call me that,” he says. “We like each other well enough, but I suppose most would consider us family now.”
That whips her head around.
“Family?”
Her shock doesn't phase him, his expression placid. “Know her husband, Robb?”
Oh.
Of course.
“I do. I’ve only met him once, but he seemed a lovely man.”
A grin takes over Jon’s face and she suddenly feels warm all over as if a hot summer wind has soaked into her skin. “Every woman who’s ever met him says the same.”
“So, you're
his
family? His cousin?”
He doesn't answer, pulling a cigarette from his front pocket instead and a lighter too. She can't help herself from watching every move he makes. The hand rolled cigarette placed gently between plush lips, the quick flick of his wrist opening the lighter, his knee coming up and holding the wheel as he cups a hand around the flame.
It's only after he’s drawn in two deep draws and blown the last out the window that he acknowledges she's still his passenger, throwing her a wince as he pockets the lighter and grips the steering wheel again. The cigarette hangs in his mouth. “Hope you don't mind.”
She can only shake her head, a bit dazed by the whole display.
“I’m Robb’s half brother,” he finally answers her.
Oh.
Well, that certainly lifted more weight from her. The Starks were one of the
good
families. Olenna would've never allowed her beloved granddaughter to marry into them if not, though she was still absolutely furious Margaery had eloped instead of having a proper society wedding, gala-sized with an invite list a few miles long. No doubt, if she had, Dany and Jon wouldn't be strangers. At the very least they would've known what the other looked like.
“Well then, as I should've said earlier— and my apologies for not doing so…” She gives him her best smile. “It's nice to meet you, Jon.”
He cuts his eyes at her, his grin still there but the light within it dimmed. “You too.”
It isn't truly a lie, she can tell, he's been far too honest so far for that. But he isn't certain, not yet. She can't find fault in him for it. Not after how she reacted to his presence, and knowing
she's
the one wrecking
his
peace.
Smothering a sigh, she decides to give him what she can, to prove she’ll be no nuisance, and the rest of the ride is spent in silence, her gaze pointedly avoiding him and the love affair he's having with his cigarette.
When they arrive half an hour later, he is kind enough to carry her bags inside, depositing them in the grandiose foyer, all things
rose
surrounding them. The walls, the pictures, the floors, the carpets, even the carved marble staircase contains blooms in every shade of red, from the palest of pinks to the deepest crimson wine. It was a garden in and of itself.
“Do you know your way around, or should I give you a tour?”
“Oh no, thank you,” she's quick to tell him. “It's been quite a few years, but I've been here before.”
He nods, his eyes drifting over her before darting to the tile mosaic beneath his boots. It could be the way the sunlight is reflecting off the foyer’s pink hues, but she senses it's Jon’s own heat that colors his cheeks. He grabs the door handle and turns away, only to pause, his gaze not quite meeting hers. “If you need anything, check the grounds or the coach house. You’ll find me in one place or the other.”
“You don't stay here?” she asks, surprised.
“Miss Tyrell offered. I declined. Didn't want to be rattling around in here by myself.”
Confusion fills her, among other things. Her own cheeks grow hot. “I’ll do my best not to be a bother,” she stumbles out.
With a slight grin, he shuts the door and leaves Dany alone in the opulent, yet cavernous Rose Isle.
She's nowhere near as relieved as she expected to be.
—
Three and a half weeks later
It's barely dawn when she slowly stirs beneath her blankets. The sun has yet to make its way above the mountain peaks. Only a soft pink glow paints their gray edges, most of the world outside her windows still covered in a hazy blue darkness. Her room even more so. She had no intentions of rising early when she retired the night before, but she refuses to bury herself within the covers again to sleep another day away. Too many have slipped past her. Lost to her languid leisure. Nearly a moon’s worth.
No more.
A certain energy she hasn't felt in an age propels her out of bed. Boredom, she supposes. She has found the bottom of the oppressive apathy she's been wallowing in. It's time to climb out of the hole she buried herself in.
She's dressed and heading downstairs soon after, a woman with a purpose. Unknown as it is. But surely there's
something
she can find to make herself useful.
As soon as she reaches the kitchen hall, that
something
reveals itself. Her spectral-like companion is making himself a cup of coffee at the stove.
For weeks they have avoided one another and she was quite happy with that arrangement, after a day or so of awkwardness, and another few of false bravado, she steeped in her misery with the same enthusiasm as pigs wallowing in mud. But seeing him now, in a place that has been only hers, doesn't fill her with annoyance or animosity as it once might have. Instead he paints a pleasing picture she wouldn't mind being a part of.
The lights above the sink and stove are soft and glowing, the morning sun just beginning to make itself known through the windows. Dust dances in the beams of light, sparkling softly like summer clouds of gold pushed about by warm breezes. It is an intimate moment, one of solitude. One of peace and contentment.
But still, it's Jon Snow who draws her eye. Who makes the picture so pleasing. He was crafted by a master’s hands. Every inch of him the kind of perfection one only ever sees carved in stone. His back is broad, his shoulders strong, the thin linen shirt he wears doing nothing to hide either as he slowly moves through his task, no rush needed. The ink black curls upon his head are damp, hanging heavy against his pale skin and shirt collar. He's humming to himself, or perhaps mumbling. Even too far away to tell it brings a smile to her face.
She has stumbled upon him quite a few times during the past month. Usually only catching glimpses from a distance, but each time he has intrigued her more. So much so he's even found his way into her dreams. More than a few times. At first she was perturbed by his intrusions, her rest broken and unsatisfying, but as they continued she found herself yearning to meet him in her sleep. Seeking any sort of connection to him since neither of them seemed brave enough to take a step in that direction.
Oh,
but they had in her dreams. She had awoken from several of them tangled and writhing within her sheets, her entire body flushed.
Every last one of
those
dreams is coming to the forefront now, a wild mixture of impropriety and impulsive desire coursing through her. It threatens to turn her bones liquid and undo every promise she ever made to herself.
She curses Olenna once more.
She swore she’d never complicate her life with another man again.
But as he turns towards the sink that vow seems wholly insurmountable. One made by nothing more than a silly little girl.
She presses herself back into the shadows before he can catch sight of her, breath held. Curiosity overriding her shame, she admires his stunning profile as he stares out the window towards the rising sun. He truly is a beautiful man. His features call to the wanton inside her. His brooding brow above dark eyes swimming with secrets, the soft slope of his nose, and those
impossibly
plush lips.
Gods,
how she wants to kiss them. She wants to feel the silky weight of his hair between her fingers, too. The tickle of his beard beneath her palm, the hot thrum of his pulse against her lips…
Bloody hells.
If she isn't careful her vivid imagination might get the better of her.
Soft and pure as a snowflake,
was Olenna’s assessment. She shouldn't project her own yearnings upon him.
What would he think of her if he ever caught her watching him? Knew of her less than virtuous thoughts?
Probably that she was no more than a floozy, desperate for any man’s attention.
Decency finally finding her, she steps forward, clearing her throat. “Good morning.”
He startles, his coffee sloshing from its cup. She's surprised him so he simply gapes at her, as if he’d completely forgotten she was sharing the Isle with him. Or maybe even who she was at all. But he quickly gathers himself and she sees the soldier he once was, his easy posture gone suddenly rigid, the softness of his features now stoic as he sets his coffee aside. A great sadness fills her chest. “Good morning, Miss. Apologies for disturbing you.”
He turns nearly sideways in an attempt to move past without touching her in the tight space of the doorway. Head down, eyes averted. She should let him escape. He obviously wants to.
She doesn't.
His skin is warm beneath her hand, the thick span of his wrist filling her grip. Wide, dark eyes send her heart into a race the instant they meet hers.
“I believe it was me who disturbed you,” she whispers.
He swallows hard and gives a slight shake of his head. “I should've left sooner.”
“I'm up much earlier than usual.”
They're arguing and the absurdity of the situation has her glancing out the windows, her smile soft. She lets him go before she does something foolish, like pull him closer to kiss his perfect pout of a mouth before something else silly leaves it. She cannot stop herself from staring into his stormy gray eyes though, the air in the little kitchen thick and taut with tension. “I’ve finally decided to put away the wilting violet,” she murmurs.
His brow furrows and she has the urge to press her lips to it. To soothe away everything that might vex him. He straightens and grasps the wrist she just released in his other hand, almost inspecting it as he gently rubs his skin as if her touch burned or hurt him in some way.
She turns her back to him, slowly moving to the sink, unsure if it's shame or pride she feels for affecting his stoic persona.
“Sometimes we need to wilt a little.”
The soft rumbling words at her back freeze her in place. A sudden knot has risen into her throat, she swallows it down before meeting his gaze over her shoulder. His dark eyes hold a tenderness so visceral she can almost feel herself wrapped in his arms. Her knees go a bit weak, but a piece of her tattered heart lifts away from the rest and she’s suddenly lighter.
“Sometimes,” she manages to agree.
Jon doesn't slip away as she expects so she makes her way further into the kitchen, but hurries to keep him close. “You're welcome to join me. Finish your coffee at least,” she suggests, holding his cup out to him.
“I really should get to work.” He takes the coffee anyway.
She has to turn away again to hide her happiness, her smile bright as she pours herself a cup. “This place is immaculate. What else could you possibly have to do?”
“There's always a rose bush or a hundred that need tending to.”
“Do you enjoy it?” she asks, hiding as much of her face behind her cup as she can. She’s struggling to contain her smile.
“What? Gettin’ my fingers pricked dozens of times a day?” He shakes his head, the barest of grins gracing his mouth. “Best time I ever had.”
She laughs, thrilled to witness a spark of humor from him, dry as it is. “I believe they make something called gloves these days. They might help you a bit. Though I'm sure the roses appreciate your gentle touch.”
He blushes clear to the roots of his pretty hair. She's sure he's going to bolt, her flirting too much too soon, but she simply couldn't help herself.
“I’m terrible with plants,” she rushes to slow any escape he might be planning. “Kill everyone I’ve ever cared for. I suppose it comes natural to you?”
He snorts behind his coffee cup. “Not in the least. I'm no gardener.”
That genuinely surprises her. “I certainly can't tell it from the looks of things. Surely you like it, at least a little?” She sits down. Pushes the chair closest to him out from the table with her foot.
He acknowledges the gesture, but only sits his coffee down before pressing his hands onto the chair's back, leaning his weight into it. “Graspin’,” he says before she can be disappointed.
“I'm sorry?”
“Everything I find to do around here is just me grasping onto anything to… to keep away the…” He looks away for the briefest of moments, obviously
grasping
for the right word. “Apathy,” he finally lands on, those dark eyes meeting hers. The honesty shining within them…
She absorbs his confession between a few shuddering breaths, the two of them staring openly at each other perhaps for the first time. “Strange how such a beautiful place can elicit such dreadful dullness, isn't it?” she whispers.
“It's too perfect, I think.”
She hums in agreement, a queer sort of twist in her stomach and a sly smile sneaking onto her lips. “Imperfect things are much more interesting.” Jon doesn't seem able to respond, struggling to take in her veiled words. “Care to show me Rose Isle?” she asks to free him from it.
That adorable furrow is back in his brow. “You’ve been all over this island.”
“Have I?” She narrows her eyes at him and his pretty pale skin grows a shade darker. “You’ve been watching me, Jon Snow.”
He straightens from his slouch and drops his head. There is a huff of dismay before he rubs at the back of his neck.
His embarrassment is too endearing for her to sit still and watch unfold. She goes to his side and puts a hand on his bare forearm, electricity dancing up her nerves. His blown pupils tell her he felt it too. Unable to help herself, she leans in close enough to feel his heat, to catch his scent—earthy and warm and intoxicating. “I’ve been watching you too,” she confesses. “Solitude can only hold its appeal for so long.”
He looks up and his smile is small but devastating. “Aye.”
—
“Eat supper with me.”
Jon’s footing falters and he looks down at her with wide eyes. “I'm sorry, what?”
They had been strolling the grounds for nearly two hours, him describing each and every rose bush, she, listening intently. She's certain he could read the dullest history book aloud and she would find it enthralling. His voice is better than any drug. Not that she’d ever partaken in any, but still. She'd administered many and witnessed the bliss wash over each patient’s face. Every word slipping from his lush mouth made her feel warm all over and quite euphoric.
She wants desperately to link her arm through his, but doubts he is ready for such. She satisfies herself by allowing their shoulders to brush against each other every few steps. “I'm not much of a cook,” she admits, “but if I have to eat alone one more time…”
He thinks it over so long she fears she's ruined things before they’d even begun.
What man wants a woman who can't cook?
“What are we havin’?”
A smile breaks free. She couldn't have stopped it if she tried. “Soup and sandwiches?”
He looks a bit dazed by the suggestion for some reason, but pulls himself together rather quickly. “I'm not too bad with vegetable soup.”
“Well, what d’you know? I'm quite good at toasted cheese.”
His grin leaves her positively giddy.
—
After Jon got the soup going, he left her to watch it while she worked on her sandwiches and he bedded the horses down for the evening. The table is already set and she's made three sandwiches for them—not a single one burned, but toasted golden brown.
The kitchen door opens behind her just as she reaches for the pot lid covering the soup. She throws him a smile over her shoulder. “Just in ti— Ouch!”
Fingers burned, she immediately drops the heavy cast iron lid. It makes a terribly violent racket as it falls against the pot, onto the stove, and finally the floor. Embarrassed and laughing at her folly, she turns around to apologize to Jon, blowing on her tender fingers.
He isn't there.
Confusion takes her.
Had she just imagined him there?
Her mind hasn't been at its best recently, but surely it isn't
that
bad yet.
She searches the room, certain he was there, even scanning out the windows to no avail. Maybe he forgot something and ran back to the coach house. She’s halfway to the door to check when she hears it: whispered words full of fear.
Following his voice, Dany slowly lowers herself to her haunches and there he is—huddled under the table, hands over his head, rocking and mumbling to himself, his eyes shut tight.
Her heart simply breaks.
Why hadn't she seen it all along?
She was so caught up in her own wounds and misery she had failed to see Jon carried his own. Of course, he did. He was a soldier for gods’ sake. A war hero Olenna claimed. Not a single soldier she’d met had to come out of the war unscathed. Physically and emotionally, all their wounds ran deep.
Carefully, moving as she would around a skittish horse, she goes to him. Shellshock is…
tricky.
She'd found herself bruised and slightly battered more than once after confronting a soldier caught in its false frames.
He doesn't notice her right away, still lost in his horrors, whispering to no one she can see. “Don't make a sound. They won't know we’re here. Quiet, quiet, quiet. They'll leave, they will.”
“They have left,” she tells him softly, not daring to touch him yet, though she aches to wrap him in her arms. “They're all gone, it's safe now.”
His head jerks upright, eyes wild with panic and suspicion. Sweat glistens across his furrowed brow. His fingers tremble in his hair. “They're gone?”
She nods, slow and firm, keeping a tight clamp on her own emotions. “Yes. All of them are gone. We're safe.”
“Gen cleared the tunnels?”
“Yes, he told me himself. He's gone to give the all clear,” she tries, praying it's what he needs to hear. She dares to touch him, slowly taking his wrist in a gentle grasp. “We’re safe.”
He blinks rapidly and draws in a sharp, shaky breath as if she just threw cold water in his face. “Daenerys?”
She smiles softly. “It's me.”
His eyes take in their surroundings and the change in him is instant. She can nearly see the shame engulf him like a dark, brackish wave from the frigid North Sea. He is out from under the table and on his feet before she can move a muscle.
She wants to scurry out from his hiding place just as quickly, but she takes her time again. He won't want to face her, she's sure.
He’s halfway to the kitchen door, his back to her, hands still gripping his hair as he sways in obvious agitation. Her heart aches all over again and she can't stop herself from going to his side.
“Jon, it's alright,” she assures him.
He startles a bit, his hands dropping as he steps back and shakes his head, his brow drawn so tight she knows it's causing him pain. Then he’s turned away again, fists clenched at his sides as he draws in deep breaths.
She will not let him drown in this. She takes a step closer, but not too close. “I was a nurse,” she tells him, “near the front lines. I saw things. I understand how hard it can be sometimes. You’ve have nothing to be—”
He spins on her. “Cowards shouldn't feel shame?” he barks at her, but she knows the anger lies within.
She chooses to ignore it completely. “You know what?” she chirps as if nothing at all had upset their evening, “I’ve decided I'm not very hungry. I'm in the mood for something else. Come see what I found in the library.”
Not giving him a chance to protest, she takes him by the hand and leads him into her favorite room of the house. Leaving him standing in the middle of the library she puts a record on the player in hopes the music is soothing, distracting. Then she steps over to the stack of books she set aside several days before.
Her book chosen, she maneuvers him to the settee with no trouble, thankfully, and sits down beside him. For nearly half an hour she rambles on about The History of Rose Isle and all her favorite bits. Jon sits silent for the most part, only a few nods or shrugs given as she prattles on, but she watches him close. And he watches her.
She reaches the passage that tugs at her heart the most and wars with herself over whether to read it to him or not. It's very possible Jon may not be feeling anything she is, or has, but something buried deep within her fights against that uncertainty and fear. It trusts, at least a little, that Jon might know her heart as well as his own.
“When all has gone dark, home is wherever your heart grows light.”
Silence hangs between them, she trembles within it, barely breathing until Jon’s hand slips over hers. She grips it tight, overcome with a wave of emotion. One she's been unfamiliar with until then and doesn't even know the name of.
Does loneliness have an opposite? A true one? If so, could there possibly be a single word equipped to describe it?
She doesn't think so.
Long after the record ends, neither of them have moved or spoken, eyes focused on their clasped hands, only their slowly calming breaths between them.
“I’m sorry for earlier,” he finally murmurs, the spell breaking.
Her eyes are on him in an instant. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
He's on his feet, the warmth of his touch vanishing and leaving her bereft. “I need to go,” he says.
Stricken by a devastating affection, she doesn't push. “If you must.”
Several more steps widen the space between them. He grasps the doorway, standing there, his knuckles white as he takes deep, shaky breaths. His eyes glance her way, but only for a fleeting moment. “Thank you.”
“You're welcome.”
He doesn't hear her, already gone, slipping away as quiet as a ghost. She stands in the silence surrounding her for who knows how long, stuck between her own ghosts and the fragile future.
—
The kitchen door snaps closed as she descends the stairs the next morning. Her steps quicken, she's eager to see him after a night spent worrying over him. But he isn't there. A glance out the window shows his retreating form—head down, shoulders curved, his hands firmly in his pockets. She's nearly out the door ready to run after him when something else draws her attention. A sweet aroma is filling the room.
He left her roses. Half a dozen or so carefully arranged within a small jar in the center of the table. They aren't quite red, more of a deep, dark, fleshy pink. They're beautiful. Her smile is secret and her chest tight. Among the blooms a note is stuck. She plucks it free and opens it, her heart fluttering as it never has before. His handwriting is surprisingly beautiful. She can't help but run her fingers over it, a yearning tugging at her insides as she imagines him bent over the paper, no doubt struggling with the words he wants. As she's come to learn, Jon Snow is a man of few.
Dinner again? My place?
She laughs, and wonders if his scant message was purposeful and meant to give them an excuse to speak again.
Whether it was or not, she turns to seek him out, but he's already there, waiting and watching just at the edge of the kitchen garden, his hands still in his pockets. She gives him a bright smile and nods. He drops his head, but she still catches sight of his own smile. A knock on the window brings his eyes back to her and she holds her arm up, tapping at her wrist, asking what time. His brow furrows adorably. He obviously hadn't thought that far ahead. After a moment he holds up six fingers. Her heart threatening to burst, she nods again, trying her best not to smile with too much excitement.