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Chapter Text

Seeing the only family Sansa Stark had left to her was the only motivation keeping her astride the horse. Jon Snow is at Castle Black. He’ll protect you. It had been so long since she felt safe, felt protected. She yearned for the security of familiar arms and someone who cared for her because she was Sansa and not a Stark. The nerves she may have felt over arriving at Castle Black alone to see the half-brother she had not seen—had barely thought of—in years did not consume her, nor did she allow herself to feel disappointment that it was not Robb or a trueborn brother to save her.

He is the only brother I have left, she thought, and he will protect me.

Myranda Royce had told Alayne Stone that Jon Snow had been made Lord Commander, so upon her arrival that was Sansa’s request, tired and frozen as she was.

The men who had opened the gates and helped her down from the foaming horse glanced at each other. If she had had any more wherewithal, Sansa may have asked why they looked hesitant with her request, but as it was, she was using everything she could to stay upright.

“Mayhaps you would like a meal and a room, first, my lady?”

I want to see Jon, she thought, but mayhaps the men were right. A meal, some rest, perhaps a bath, would do her good before she saw him. She reasoned that it was possible that Jon wasn’t even available to see her—as Lord Commander, he was sure to be busy.

“Aye, mayhaps you are right. But I would like to see the Lord Commander as soon as possible.”

The men shared a glance again before escorting her into the keep proper.

“The men said you’re here to see Jon Snow?” a man asked, sitting across from her. Sansa paused the hunk of bread she had been chewing. “I apologize. I’m Eddison Tollett, but the men call me Dolorous Edd.”

“I am. I was told Jon Snow was Lord Commander here and he’s…” All I have left. “My brother.” It was more than she should admit, but if her identity was her only bargaining piece and if that was what it took to gain an audience with Jon Snow, then so be it.

“I thought Jon had no trueborn siblings.”

“No, no,” she murmured. “He is only my half-brother. We were raised together. But he’s also the only brother left to me. My trueborn brothers were all slaughtered in this war and my sister hasn’t been seen since our lord father lost his head.”

The man called Dolorous Edd swallowed, looking away.

“My lady, you must believe that it pains me to say this. Your brother was the Lord Commander and my friend. There was a mutiny.” He paused long enough for Sansa to feel that all too familiar sense of dread. “He was killed.”

“No,” she breathed before she could reign in the onslaught of grief.

Sansa closed her eyes, fighting for the calm mask that had become her face in King’s Landing. Drudging up the steely skin that had saved her countless times in the South, Sansa looked Dolorous Edd levelly in the eye.

“Take me to him.”

“I-I…”

“His body, wherever you buried him. He is my brother and I deserve to say goodbye.”

“Ah—We…We haven’t buried him. We burn the bodies here, but the Red Woman forbade it.”

Sansa should have asked who the Red Woman was or why she would keep them from laying Jon’s body to rest, or maybe even why they burn their dead, but she didn’t believe any of those things to be important in that moment.

She was too focused on the fact that Jon Snow, her half-brother, would be the first and only member of her family she was being granted the opportunity to say goodbye to.

“Please,” she whispered.

Dolorous Edd took her down to a set of cells made almost entirely of ice. The numbness of her grief meant she felt nothing from the chill of the cells.

“I’ll wait for you outside, whenever you’re ready,” Dolorous Edd murmured before pushing a door open and stepping aside so that she could enter.

Sansa’s eyes were immediately pulled to the naked body laid out on the bed of ice. Nothing but a sheet of linen covered him from knees to shoulders.

Alone with her dead brother, Sansa stumbled forward, her hands falling on the cold, hard skin of his arm. She should have jerked her hand away in revulsion. Instead, she clung to him as she collapsed, burying her face in the scratchy cloth covering him and wept.

Jon Snow had been her last hope. The only brother, only family, she had. Who would protect her now?

Sansa had not realized until the moment she saw her last hope’s corpse before her that the stupid little girl who left Winterfell, the one who believed in knights and heroes and songs, was still buried deep beneath the hardened skin Sansa had grown in order to survive the horrors she had endured in King’s Landing and the Vale. She had not realized a piece of her heart had remained unscarred until it broke, seeing Jon Snow’s too still body, feeling his too cold skin.

“I thought you would save me,” she cried, tears streaming from her cheeks. “I thought I was finally safe.”

Sansa had stopped praying when the gods kept sending her monsters instead of knights, but she couldn’t help the prayer to the old gods and the new and whatever the people beyond the Wall worshipped, because she would have given anything to have her brother back.

Sansa stayed in the cell of ice long enough for the grief to be replaced entirely by cold. Her teeth chattered and her hands shook but she refused to let go of Jon Snow’s frozen fingers.

When she heard footsteps, she expected it to be Dolorous Edd or another one of the Black Knights coming to fetch her. She did not expect a woman’s voice.

“You weep over this man as if you loved him.”

The voice was low and musical.

Loved? Sansa thought, raising her head from where she had rested it on his unmoving chest. Mayhaps, she had, when they were children. Mayhaps, she did still, to weep so openly over his corpse.

“Who is he to you?”

Sansa turned then and saw a tall, beautiful woman with hair a darker shade of red than hers had been when it was still Tully auburn. It took little thought to recognize her as the Red Woman, the one who was refusing to allow Jon Snow’s body be properly laid to rest.

“Someone I thought may save me,” she whispered.

Sansa was unsettled by the woman and was well aware of the power of her identity. She didn’t want to offer the Stark name only to become another pawn so quickly.

“He spoke of a sister he wished to save. I thought I saw her in my visions, but you are not who I saw.”

He spoke of me? Of saving me? Or did she mean Arya—the one they had married to Ramsay Bolton? Had news of that reached so far North? Sansa herself had only just heard that rumor while she was fleeing to Castle Black.

Sansa kept her questions behind her teeth for fear of exposing herself.

“He had a lover with red hair, though my fires saw her death.”

A lover?

The Red Woman swept closer, bringing her torch and the light with it into the cell. Sansa blinked against the sudden light. Sansa wondered if her true hair color was beginning to show with the light shining directly on the crown of her head. The woman gripped her chin, holding her face and seeming to examine it. It took all of Sansa’s restraint to neither flinch nor bite that too-hot hand.

“I have seen Jon Snow in my fires. The Lord of Light has told me he will be instrumental in the wars to come. I have not seen your face, for you are neither the sister nor the lover, but something in between. And yet…” the Red Woman trailed off, her gaze fixating on the flame she held yet. “Your life seems to be interwoven with his.”

She stepped away then, dropping her hand. Sansa felt compelled to fling her body against Jon’s and protect him from this woman and her fires.

From the way she had said instrumental, as if he was a weapon to be wielded.

“What would you give to have him back?”

“Men can’t be raised from the dead.”

“Are you so willing to let him go that you wouldn’t try?”

Sansa studied the woman for a breath, her hand still holding onto Jon Snow’s.

“Could you? Bring him back?”

“The Lord of Light has granted his priests the power through the Kiss of Life, but Jon Snow has been dead for longer than the limits allow.”

Sansa’s hand tightened.

“I shall need your blood.”

The Red Woman produced a dagger from her skirt. Sansa blanched, everything in her stilling.

“A small bowl’s worth is all that will be required. Your blood has the power to create his breath, should you agree.”

Sansa stared at Jon Snow’s open, unseeing eyes. She had seen her lord father’s head impaled on the spikes of the battlements in King’s Landing. She recalled how unrecognizable the face was. Looking at Jon Snow was nothing like seeing those heads. If it weren’t for his too pale skin or the way he never blinked, he could have been asleep.

Jon Snow was the only family left to her. Even if it was only temporarily that the Red Woman was able to bring him back, it would be longer than she had gotten with anyone else. It would be long enough to say goodbye.

A few drops of blood seemed an inconsequential price to pay to have a single member of her family back.

The blade stung against her palm but Sansa bit her tongue, keeping her cry silent. She watched the blood drip steadily, filling the small bowl. It hurt more than she had expected but it was less blood than what had soaked her sheets during her first flowering.

When the Red Woman took the bowl from her, Sansa expected her to ask for something more. Instead, she turned, removing the cloth Sansa had soaked with her tears. She only caught a glimpse of the raw wounds scattered across his stomach before the Red Woman blocked her view.

“From here I must work alone. One of the men outside will escort you.”

Sansa wanted to argue. She wouldn’t leave Jon Snow. She couldn’t. But between the pain in her palm, her tiredness from her journey, from the hours weeping over Jon Snow’s body, and her dizziness from the spiced smoke that emanated from the Red Woman, she felt faint. When the Black Knight stepped in, Sansa dutifully followed, sparing Jon Snow one final glance.

Within the keep, Sansa was passed from one knight to another until she came to stand before Dolorous Edd.

“You said you were raised in Winterfell with Jon?”

“I was.”

“Do you recall that he had a direwolf?”

Lady’s name echoed with a pang through her.

Another name closely followed—one she hadn’t thought of since that fateful day she left on the King’s Road.

“Ghost,” she whispered.

For the first time, something akin to a smile brightened Dolorous Edd’s face.

“Aye, Ghost. I thought, if you remembered him, he might be a comfort to you here. And you to him. As I’m sure you can assume, he has been distraught since the mutiny.”

“Of course. I had a direwolf of my own… She didn’t survive the journey South.”

“Fitting then, that you and Ghost found each other. A Stark without a wolf and a wolf without a Stark.”

Something about those words settled heavily on Sansa. She wasn’t sure if it was the fact that she was being referred to so openly as a Stark or the fact that Dolorous Edd seemed to be implying that she would inherit Jon’s wolf.

Or mayhaps it was the oddity of hearing Jon Snow referred to as a Stark.

“There’s truth in that, I suppose.”

Dolorous Edd gave her a half bow before wishing her a good night and leaving her to the privacy of her chambers. Within, a massive white direwolf took up most of the space, teeth bared and hackles raised. His size gave Sansa a brief shock—Lady had been a pup yet at the Trident—but Dolorous Edd had been correct in that there was a familiarity in seeing him. Even if, Sansa thought, she had not remembered Ghost accurately. There was a detail that she could not quite place, but Sansa assumed that must have been due to his unexpected size.

Once the door was shut firmly behind her and the sound of footsteps fell away, Ghost seemed to sniff the air, his hackles lowering.

The easy way he stood down told Sansa that he was unquestionably the direwolf that had been raised in Winterfell. With gentleness she had seen from Lady but wouldn’t have expected from the massive white wolf, he approached, sniffing her newly bandaged hand.

“Oh, Ghost,” she whispered, collapsing onto the bed. The wolf curled beside her, and Sansa began running her fingers through his fur, as she had once brushed out Lady’s.

It was while quiet tears slipped from her eyes that Sansa realized that the pup she remembered Jon Snow having had been white, yes, but Sansa recalled him also having red eyes.

The eyes of the wolf beside her were a dark grey.

Chapter Text

There was naught but blackness and cold.

It was impossible to tell if the blackness had been a blink after the fourth knife went it, or if it had been a decade, an eternity.

All Jon Snow knew was black until suddenly he opened his eyes.

He was lying on the ground, snow freezing his clothing, the exposed skin of his neck, and a heart tree loomed giant above him. Immediately, Jon made to scramble back, away from the foreboding tree, only to find that his ankles and his wrists were bound. He twisted his head just enough to see it was skeletal hands anchoring him before the heart tree.

Panic filled him. Jon thrashed against the restraints, kicking and writhing.

The red painted face on the heart tree shifted then, transforming into the face Jon Snow knew from the godswood of Winterfell. The morphing face shocked him enough that he stilled within the clutches of the skeletal hands. It changed again, becoming the face he had said his Night’s Watch vows before in the haunted forest, and again into a hooded figure that he was unfamiliar with.

Again, it mutated, this time into a woman’s face with red tears, much like the heart tree. This face seemed to splinter from the tree, claws extending towards him.

It was in that same moment that he felt himself begin to sink into the snow, into the soil, the hands dragging him down.

Jon Snow railed against the bones with all of his strength, all of his rage, until the fingers finally fractured, the thin bones breaking.

On hands and knees, Jon crawled, away from the tree, away from the hands, and away from the face. He stumbled, trying to stand, but found that his body was being pulled back toward the ground. Jon ran, half crouched, half using his hands, fighting to stand upright.

Jon didn’t know how long he had been running in that way when something snapped, and it suddenly wasn’t a struggle. He was running fine, better even, than he had been. Faster than he remembered being able to run before. Something about using his hands and feet to push off the ground, he thought, must be pushing him faster.

Only it was not hands and feet beneath him, but white paws.

Jon ran as far and as fast as he could, using the unfamiliar strength, until he was faced with a scratched door. Unused to his speed or strength, Jon crashed into it. The wood groaned, nearly buckled. It flew open not seconds later, and he barreled into the familiar training yard of Castle Black.

Hands grabbed at him and a rope was shoved over his mouth—around his snout. Another went around his neck.

Jon didn’t recognize the men grabbing him, leading him into a chamber. Jon did, however, recognize the sound of the lock turning behind him.

In Ghost’s body, Jon struggled to track the passing of time. He was unsure how long he had been pacing the length of the chamber. He knew that someone occasionally flung in meat, and someone else slid in bowls of snow, but other than that, all he knew was pacing.

Jon heard voices murmuring on the other side of the door. He was unsure how long he had been within the chamber, if it had been hours or days or longer, but it was the first time he had heard voices so close. They were too muffled for him to recognize and too quiet for him to understand the words. His hackles raised anyway.

Jon had suspected they had locked Ghost away before he was greeted with daggers in the dark, and he wondered if they had come to finish the job. If the whole reason he had been locked in here was to determine which of them was least craven—who would have the stones to swing the sword.

Jon didn’t know if they were coming to execute Ghost because they had somehow known or guessed that Jon had warged into him, or simply because Ghost had been his. Jon did know he couldn’t allow it.

If Ghost was dead, then so was he.

When the door was unlatched, Jon turned, facing the door, teeth bared, prepared to lunge at whoever dared enter, except it was a woman.

The first thing he noticed was the scent of fresh blood. His eyes were immediately pulled to the cloth bandaging her hand. He advanced, sniffing first the wound and then her skin. Some part of him was put at ease by the familiarity in the scent, though he couldn’t identify it or why he would find it familiar. There had been few women at Castle Black, and fewer still whose scent Ghost would find familiar.

There were none that Jon could think of that would approach his direwolf with such ease, sink her fingers into his fur, and whisper Oh, Ghost.

It was more Ghost’s will than Jon Snow’s that curled beside the woman in the bed, seeking the warmth in how her fingers moved through his fur.

Something about the gesture, the movement, called a memory to him. He half expected her to start singing.

Instead, she started crying.

He could feel her tears drop into his fur as she sobbed into his shoulder, and with her whispered laments of home and brother, Jon finally realized who this woman was that knew Ghost.

Sansa.

Jon Snow’s first instinct was to pull away, put as much distance between them as possible, because he was her bastard half-brother, and she was clinging to him in a bed.

Except he was Ghost, and not Jon Snow, and Sansa didn’t know—couldn’t know—that he was the one staring out of his direwolf’s red eyes. If he could offer her this single comfort, he would. There was nothing truly untoward happening.

Even if Jon Snow had been in his own body, there was nothing wrong with siblings comforting one another. If he had been Robb, or any of Sansa’s trueborn brothers, he knew he wouldn’t have thought twice about it. It was naught but his bastard blood turning his mind toward the base thoughts.

It was that thought that allowed Ghost’s body to curl tighter. That thought, and the realization that the feeling of her warm hands through his fur was the first soothing thing he had experienced since he had come out of the black. Before he knew it, Jon Snow was falling asleep from the sensation of Sansa’s hands touching him.

Sansa awoke, startled initially by the unfamiliarity of the chambers, but she knew that wasn’t what had woken her. It was the sound of frantic scratching against the wooden door.

A pit solidified in her stomach.

There was something wrong with Jon Snow.

With frenzied energy, Sansa dressed, pulling on a cloak she didn’t recognize when she failed to find her own.

“Take me to him, Ghost,” she whispered, opening the chamber door.

Ghost led her at a quick trot back down the stairs and across the yard, to the ice cells where Dolorous Edd had taken her before.

There were two men—different men—standing guard before the cell Jon Snow’s body was being kept in. Sansa expected them to block her entry or question her arrival at this door at this hour, but they both shied away from Ghost’s bared teeth.

Upon entering the cell, the scent of the spiced smoke filled Sansa’s nose and lungs, stinging her eyes. It was different than the smoke she had smelled prior. This smoke was cut through with the sharp, salty scent of grief. The smell of smoke and salt was overwhelming and Sansa found herself choking. She was sure the Red Woman must still be present, the smell lingered so. She was relieved to see that the room was empty, save for Jon Snow’s body.

Sansa stepped closer. She thought he appeared unchanged from when she had wept over him earlier, except for the fact that his eyers were now closed. Though, she thought that the Red Woman could have done that without preforming whatever rite she had spoken of, transforming Sansa’s blood into Jon Snow’s breath.

When Sansa had been brought in to see his body before, she had not allowed herself to truly see his face, she realized. As she stared at it, how he now appeared at rest, she saw the features she had not seen since that fateful day in King’s Landing. The dark hair, as hers was now colored, nearly the same color as Arya’s. The long Stark face, the same as Arya had, the same as her lord father had. The one that marked Jon Snow so clearly as Lord Eddard Stark’s son.

It was in that moment, studying those familiar features, that Sansa was struck by the realization that it didn’t matter if the Red Woman had brought him back. Jon Snow, alive or dead, didn’t belong here. He didn’t belong to the woman or her god, naught but a weapon to be used in a war.

Alive, he belonged by her side, the last family she could claim. Dead, he belonged in Winterfell, buried in the crypts with all of their ancestors. Damn his lineage and his surname, Stark or Snow, Winterfell was where he should be.

Resolute, Sansa stumbled back into the corridor, Ghost by her side, and collapsed against one of the guards. With the smoke and the salt from the room still stinging, she didn’t have to fake the tears that slipped down.

“Please, please, you have to help me,” she beseeched. “T-that priestess…the one in red…I-I think she’s…she’s doing something…blasphemous with Jon Snow’s body. She said something a-about a Lord of Light in the coming wars?”

“Knew nothin’ good would come of that woman and her fires,” the one who had caught her muttered. “Go fetch Edd.”

Within the hour, Dolorous Edd and another man named Satin had arrived with a bundle of clothes and a horse-drawn cart. They dressed Jon Snow’s body and hid him in the back of the cart. Dolorous Edd gave Sansa the instructions of what to say when they arrived in a place called Mole’s Town, and promised to send word as soon as they were able. Then she was lifted into the cart as well, hidden between Ghost and Jon Snow’s corpse. She heard the scrape of barrels and boxes being loaded in and then the snap of the driver’s reins.

Sansa supposed she should have felt something at how her body kept getting jostled closer to Jon Snow’s. Terror or revulsion over her body touching a corpse. Shame at how her breasts kept pressing against her brother’s chest. The heat from both her and Ghost, and mayhaps whatever rite the Red Woman preformed, meant that Jon Snow’s body wasn’t as cold as it had been within the ice cells. Within the dark confines of the cart, it was easy to forget that Jon Snow was dead.

Within the dark confines of the cart and the cramped space they both occupied, it was easy to forget that Jon Snow was her brother.

Chapter Text

Jon Snow opened his eyes. He expected to see the same chamber, or mayhaps a cell. He expected to see Sansa asleep beside him, his white paws crossed beneath him.

Instead, he found himself in a charred room. He must have been outside of Ghost, for his great white direwolf sat on his haunches before a blackened door, sitting vigil.

There was nothing in his surroundings that he found familiar. He didn’t recognize it as a chamber in Castle Black.

For a heartbeat, Jon thought he was in Winterfell. He had heard it had burned when Theon and the Ironborn sacked it. Had Stannis reclaimed it from the Boltons? Had someone brought his body South?

The last thing he remembered was being in Ghost, Sansa brushing his fur and crying. Jon thought it as like as not that they hadn’t made it all the way to Winterfell, but he was sure they were no longer in Castle Black or any other keep along the Wall.

Jon Snow looked down, seeing the tunic and trousers he had been dressed in. With trepidation, Jon slid his hand beneath the linen to feel the skin of his abdomen. Four ridges were scattered between his stomach and across his ribs. His hands shook as he traced the lines.

Jon had been dead. He knew that in his bones. He had been dead and he warged into Ghost. That he understood. Ygritte had claimed that Orell had done the same thing beyond the Wall.

What Jon Snow didn’t understand was how he had been brought back, or why.

How many Stark men had died since Robert Baratheon was gored by that boar? Since the King of the Seven Kingdoms visited Winterfell and asked the honorable Lord Eddard Stark to be the Hand?

Even the Stark men before, in Robert’s Rebellion, had nearly all died, save Jon Snow’s own lord father and Uncle Benjen. Benjen, who disappeared ranging beyond the Wall.

Countless Stark men dead, and yet here Jon Snow was, alive again and not even a Stark by rights.

It shouldn’t have been him, Jon thought, clutching his gut until his nails bit into the skin.

Of all the fallen Stark men to bring back, it shouldn’t have been him.

If the power existed to raise men from the dead, someone should have resurrected Ned Stark, who could have protected his daughters, his sons, the kingdom, prevented all of this war. Someone should have resurrected Robb, the King in the North, the Young Wolf, who would have torn the Red Keep apart brick by brick to end the war and seek retribution for their lord father. Even the young boys that Theon and his Ironborn had slaughtered had more of a right to be brought back than him—they had been just boys yet, innocence to war and the horrors it wrought.

Lord Eddard Stark and all of his trueborn sons remained dead. It was only his bastard, that singular stain on Ned Stark’s honor, that was brought back.

Jon was used to shame. He didn’t remember a time in his life when he didn’t feel it. The guilt was different though. That was an all-consuming fire, boiling his blood, his organs.

Jon Snow’s fingers turned to claws, raking against his scarred skin, wondering if he could open the wounds, if his bastard blood would spill any answers.

Ghost’s cold nose pressed into his wrist, stilling his hands. Jon pressed his fingers into Ghost’s fur.

“Where are we?” he whispered, voice hoarse and raspy, staring into the direwolf’s unblinking ruby eyes. Ghost pressed his forehead into Jon’s chest, where he had been scratching at his still-fresh scars. “Who brought me back? What for?”

Ghost turned back towards the door suddenly, his nails clicking on the stone. Jon Snow noticed how his tail wagged right before the door opened, as if he had known who was going to open it.

The hooded figure immediately reached to greet Ghost, whispering too faint for Jon to hear. He watched as gloved hands slid from beneath the cloak, ruffling the wolf’s white fur. Jon held his breath, waiting for the figure to be revealed.

It was Ghost who nudged the hood back, revealing dark brown hair and the fair face of a woman. Jon knew instantly this was no spearwife or Free Folk maiden. She was someone beautiful and high born, who greeted Ghost with no fear or hesitation.

He may have asked what type of witch was she, to resurrect him and enchant Ghost, had she not looked up and seen him awake in that moment.

The blue eyes pinned the words in his throat.

The woman’s face cracked into a watery smile before she flung herself at him, her arms tight around his shoulders, trapping his arms between them.

“Jon,” she breathed, her lips tickling his ear, causing his blood to roar.

Jon had failed to recognize her face, but he heard home in her accent. Smelled it in her scent.

Sansa.

His arms were around her then, clutching her body to his, holding her tighter than he had any right to do. He felt a wetness against his neck, then that same wetness against his own cheeks as he buried his face in her brown braid.

“I didn’t believe… Didn’t hope…” she whispered and Jon forced himself to lean back, to get her lips away from his ear.

Jon Snow was immediately sickened to realize that in his effort to return her embrace, Jon had hauled her to him, into his lap, so that she was nearly straddling him in the small bed. Sansa seemed not to notice, gracefully shifting so that she was perched beside him.

Hastily, she swiped at her cheeks, as if trying to hide her tears.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to keep weeping over you… I was just so afraid… and then, to see you awake…”

“You…you brought me back?” he rasped.

Sansa grasped her hand. He was thankful that she still wore her gloves.

“The Red Woman at the Wall did. She told me that if she used my blood, she could…and I-I had come this far North in the hopes that you would protect me, but…”

“I would. I will,” he whispered, voice still broken, clutching her hand with all the strength he possessed.

“I-I was afraid it hadn’t worked…That we would have to find a way to preserve your body until we were able to retake Winterfell.”

Every word Sansa spoke had questions rising to his lips. Some he was too fearful to ask, how much blood did you give or why did you sacrifice your blood for me; some he didn’t have the words for, why were you bringing my body to Winterfell.

“Where… Where are we?”

“In the tunnels of Mole’s Town. I-I mistrusted the Red Woman, why she wanted to bring you back. She seemed to be waiting for someone who would be able to help. Someone with the blood she needed. Two of your brothers helped me to get you somewhere she couldn’t hurt you.”

That only brought more questions Jon couldn’t form with his tongue, more answers that he was afraid to hear.

“How long? Since we left Castle Black?”

“Three days.”

When Sansa saw Jon awake, she rushed to him, holding his body tightly against hers in the hopes that she could feel his heartbeat steadily against her own. It was by no means right or proper, but nothing she had done since arriving at Castle Black had been. The errors and fallacies that were presumed upon her arrival with Jon Snow’s body, the ones that she let persist in the days since. After so long living as the perfect and dutiful little lady, first in King’s Landing and then in the Vale, this lie that felt worlds away was much easier to shoulder.

Sansa felt Jon’s hand slip from hers after she revealed the number of days that had passed since the Red Woman had asked for her blood, since she secreted Jon Snow out of Castle Black and into these burned tunnels.

“Three days?” Jon repeated, voice hoarse. He struggled to rise then, his elbows pressing into the bed. Sansa reached behind him, moving the roll of blankets to help prop him against the wall. “You’ve been on your own for that long?”

This was Jon, the last family she had, and she did not want to lie to him, but she also didn’t want to worry him.

“Ghost has been hunting for the men and I have been helping with darning, cleaning.”

“Helping the Free Folk?” Jon asked and the incredulity stung.

When the cart had pulled in that night, Sansa had stumbled out with Ghost, still half terrified of the Red Woman, of exposing herself as a Stark, of bringing Jon Snow into more danger. Tearstained and trembling, Sansa had greeted the men on watch with the words Satin and Dolorous Edd had recommended, that she sought shelter for Jon Snow and herself. They had told her that the Free Folk that had chosen to stay at Mole’s Town would be familiar with Jon Snow, that he had brought them supplies, had taken in some of their people to Castle Black.

The men had baulked at her claim but they all stood down when Ghost stood at her side.

She had heard the whispers around the fires as they had served her stew and hard bread. The news of the mutiny had made it down the King’s Road, at least as far as the little settlement, but given that they had helped move Jon Snow’s body into a chamber, they all thought the stabbings did not deliver a mortal wound. Sansa let that idea go uncorrected.

When they had moved him into the narrow bed, Sansa had pressed her palm to his chest, feeling for the heartbeat she thought she had felt against her own in the cart. There was a whisper of one, too far beneath his breastbone for her to feel properly. It was with a muffled sniffle that she removed her hand. She realized a moment too late that the men still lingered in the doorway.

It had been too intimate a gesture. There was only one conclusion she knew they would arrive at.

When she sat near the fire, warming with the stew and Ghost at her feet, she heard them whisper that Jon Snow had broken his vows again, but this time it wasn’t a spearwife he had stolen. She heard them wonder if a fair lady was more to his temperament, and Sansa didn’t allow herself to flush. She did not correct their musings, that she was his wife, his lover, for that allowed them to share a chamber, and even with Jon Snow still in the grave, she felt far more comfortable with him beside her.

Though, now that he was awake, she wondered if he would let her continue sleeping beside him, or if he would prefer to have separate chambers, as would be proper.

“Aye,” she murmured. “In any way I could, at least. I fear I’m a far cry from the maidens of their people.”

From what she had overheard around the fires and if the Red Woman had spoken true, Jon Snow had taken one of their women as a lover. Sansa had observed their spearwives, taking watches and training alongside the men. Sansa knew nothing of weapons or hunting. If Arya had been the one to flee to Castle Black, to resurrect Jon Snow, she would have thrived here with the Free Folk. All Sansa could offer was mending torn clothes and helping to boil leathers, anything that could help make the burned town habitable.

“Where do we go from here?” Jon asked.

Home, Sansa wanted to say. Home to Winterfell. Only that couldn’t be. The Boltons still held Winterfell and had support of the Northern lords with Arya being forced to marry Ramsay Bolton.

“We stay here, until you’ve recovered your strength.”

“And once I’ve recovered?”

Far, far from the coming wars and the red priestess.

“We’ll decide then. Together.”

Chapter Text

Jon Snow’s head was foggy yet. He knew it was Sansa before him, even with her darkened hair, but nothing about his circumstances made sense to him. He had all the facts: Sansa had given her blood to the red priestess to bring him back but didn’t trust her, so she ferried his body to Mole’s Town and they had been hiding with the small encampment of Free Folk who had refused his offer to relocate to the Wall. Those details he understood.

It was the other details, smaller and seemingly inconsequential, that he was struggling with.

Sansa Stark, the sister who had called him nothing but her half-brother, had allowed herself to share his chamber. He hadn’t realized until later that night, after Sansa had returned with a small bowl of broth, and he asked if her chamber was near. Color rose on her face.

“I…After what that priestess must have done, I wasn’t sure…when you’d awake or what condition you’d be in. I wanted to be close.”

Jon glanced around the small chamber, the narrow bed. He did not allow himself to put the pieces together.

“Wise,” he said instead. “Few would dare try to enter your chamber knowing your kin was inside.”

She turned away from him suddenly, setting the broth on a small table.

“Ghost has done well to protect me.” She rubbed Ghost’s ears, as she had before Jon recognized her. Jon lifted his own hand to his neck, a prickle flickering behind his ears.

When Sansa left to return the bowl, Jon tried to stand for the first time since opening his eyes. His hands had shook as he had spooned the broth, held the bowl.

Sansa said it had been three days since they had fled Castle Black. Jon was unsure how long he had been in Ghost before that, but given the way his knees shook, Jon reckoned it had been more than a few days.

He took two steps before collapsing.

The stone floor bit into his knees, his palms, his dignity.

If he was unable to take two steps away from the bed, how could he possibly protect Sansa?

For that had to be why he was resurrected, Jon Snow had realized, holding his half-sister too close upon opening his eyes. His lord father must have reached from beyond the grave and pulled him from Ghost’s body. He must have been watching and realized that Sansa would need a protector.

It was the only reason Jon Snow could think of, though he still didn’t understand if this power had existed, why it hadn’t been used on one of Eddard Stark’s trueborn sons, on Sansa’s trueborn brothers.

How could he fulfil his duty to Sansa, to his lord father, to whatever power had brought him back, when he failed to make it to the chamber pot?

Jon Snow was still on his knees when Sansa returned, and the shame he felt was not the dull throb he had grown used to throughout his childhood in Winterfell. This was a raging fire that scorched and seethed, branding his ego.

He wanted to shout, roar that she get out, leave him to fend for himself. He wanted to ask what was the point of being brought back if he was naught but an invalid. If protecting Sansa was truly the reason he had been raised from the grave, why put him in this weak body that could barely take a step, let alone swing a sword?

If the purpose of his resurrection was for Sansa’s sake, he should have been left in Ghost’s body. At least as the direwolf he had strength, power. Protecting Sansa would have been easy within Ghost. He would have been able to tear out the throat of any man who stood too close, whose eyes lingered. None would have questioned his place by her side, in her chambers, if he had stayed in Ghost.

The moment Sansa stooped to assist him Jon realized she had removed her gloves. Her hands were warm against his shoulders, his torso, his own bare hands. Without fuss or comment, Sansa lowered him back onto the bed.

“Your strength will come back, I’m sure,” she said.

Jon grunted, too afraid to ask what would happen if it didn’t. If he couldn’t protect her, would the powers that brought him back return him to the grave?

Would Sansa still want him by her side if he was of no use to her?

The first few days of being awake, Jon Snow had been terrified to close his eyes. Each time he did, he was sure he would again face those bone shackles and the heart tree. He was afraid that each time he closed his eyes, he would never open them again.

He lay awake for hours, staring at the charred wall the little bed was pressed against, shaking himself awake each time he felt sleep claiming him.

It was hard enough to keep himself awake. It was harder still to keep his thoughts from turning to the warm body beside him. When he had been beyond the Wall, Jon had Ghost sleep between he and Ygritte, for modesty, for safety. He wanted the same now—Ghost’s large presence as a barrier—but the bed was too narrow. It barely fit both he and Sansa side by side. The direwolf was the size of the bed itself, if not bigger.

Jon Snow had offered to take the floor that first night he had opened his eyes, and every night since then, but Sansa refused, claiming she and Arya had shared a bed for years and she didn’t mind.

So, each night Jon allowed her to press her back to his, and willed himself to stay awake, to not dream of the warmth he felt, to not confuse it for someone else’s body, especially considering what the beds and tunnels had been used for once.

Even more desperately, Jon fought to not dream of bones against his skin.

Each night, when Jon eventually slipped into a black, dreamless sleep, he was thankful, and even more still when he found himself opening his eyes each morning.

In the days following him waking in the charred tunnel, Jon Snow’s strength slowly returned. Five days after he opened his eyes and realized he had been raised from the dead, he was able to walk unaided. He spent those days walking beside Ghost, talking with the handful of Free Folk he was familiar with. The ones who had rejected his offer to come to Castle Black while he was still Lord Commander. They had heard of the mutiny, though not of his death. He supposed seeing him walking and talking would have any sane man dismissing that as rumor.

The men claimed to have no issue housing them so long as they caused no problems for their people. Jon was glad of it, if only because he didn’t know that he was strong enough to travel, let alone where they would go.

Given his circumstances, Castle Black was not an option, nor was Winterfell, as it was still held by the Boltons. Anything further South was more dangerous, and anything beyond the Wall held horrors that Jon Snow had only begun to realize.

Jon thought that the only place beyond Mole’s Town that Sansa could be safe was with a family loyal to the Starks, one that had fought by Robb’s side. The Boltons had stolen many of the Starks’ bannermen, but he thought that House Mormont would take in Eddard Stark’s daughter.

It would be easier to protect her there, Jon Snow knew. Surrounded by noblemen and those loyal to the Starks, Jon doubted he would view every person as a threat the way he did with the Free Folk. Even those he would have trusted at Castle Black, would have trusted to man the Wall, he struggled to trust with Sansa.

Once he was healed enough to travel, that would be the plan, Jon decided, walking in the brisk air, his gloved hand on Ghost’s shoulder for support. They would pack enough supplies to survive the trek to Bear Island, and seek shelter with one of the last Houses that were loyal to the last true Warden of the North.

A week beyond deciding that House Mormont would be the safest road, Jon Snow had enough strength back that he was chopping wood and hunting with Ghost and some of the other men. Even as his strength returned, tasks that he had once completed with ease now left him drained.

Jon found that he was grateful for the exhaustion. Falling into a deep sleep immediately upon laying down prevented him from thinking too deeply about the fact that Sansa Stark, with her brown hair, slept beside him, her back warm against his own.

In the forest beyond the edge of the town, stalking a deer with Ghost and a few of the Free Folk, Jon missed the feel of Longclaw’s pommel. It had been left at Castle Black when Sansa fled with him. If they were indeed to make for Bear Island once he was whole and hale, Jon thought it might be a worthwhile bargaining piece. Jeor Mormont, the Lord Commander before him who had also been slain in a mutiny, had gifted him the ancestral sword. Even with the pommel resembling Ghost rather than a bear as it once had, Jon suspected the family would want it back for their own heirs. As Ice was to one day be Robb’s, before it was melted, before the Red Wedding.

Mayhaps he could buy their safety with the Valyrian steel.

It would better serve the Mormont line where it could be passed down to the sons who survived the coming wars. If Jon kept it, even if he had it still, it would cease to be an ancestral blade. His vows to take no wives and father no sons would prevent him from being able to pass it onto an heir.

Jon lost the deer’s tracks, his thoughts clouding all. Could he send a raven to Castle Black and have Satin or one of the men who were loyal to him yet bring the sword? Or had the mutineers taken it, hidden it?

Would sending a raven reveal that he was alive? Would they return to kill him again?

Who would protect Sansa if they did?

The soft hum of a bow string pulled Jon Snow from his thoughts in time to see the arrow pierce the shoulder just visible through the trees.  

After the stag was felled, he kneeled in the snow beside the spearwife who had been the one to fire the arrow.

“She must be some lass,” the woman said, gutting the deer. “To have stolen Jon Snow from Castle Black.”

Jon knew exactly what was meant by stolen. Ygritte had once claimed he had stolen her. She had told him of their practices, of men sneaking into different camps, to steal a maid from her bed and fight all her kinsmen to ferry her away. Jon had said, I didn’t steal you. He said the same now.

“She didn’t steal me.”

“Stolen and kept, as you haven’t tried to leave. Not yet.”

Jon understood all the stories of him, of his relationship with Ygritte, the spearwife must have heard from her remark.

“I wasn’t stolen,” he said again.

“Aye, you were. Taken while you slept, from your Crow brothers. Held somewhere secret. Sharing a bed. Stolen.”

I can’t be stolen by my sister, half or otherwise. Jon wanted to explain that they were kin—Sansa couldn’t have stolen him, same as he would never be allowed to steal her. The way the Free Folk never stole maids from their own villages. Ygritte had said it would be the same as him bedding his own sister. Now all of Mole’s Town’s Free Folk believed that he was.

No one knew of their true relation—Sansa had been careful in those days Jon had slept, still half in the grave, calling herself by some other name—though whether or not they knew did not change the notion that Jon understood the rumors that swirled around his arrival.

It did not change the fact that he was unable to correct them.

That Sansa had put him into a position where he was forced to allow them all to believe that she had indeed stolen Jon Snow.

Chapter Text

Sansa was seated between two Free Folk women who weren’t spearwives. They were teaching her the arts of healing herbs and tonics, what could be found in the forests outside of the small garrison.

“With a warrior husband, you’ll want to know how to tend his wounds,” the younger one said, a sly grin on her face.

Sansa’s face heated as maidens only a few years older than herself entered, baskets full of bark and winter grasses.

“How’d you do it?” one asked, kneeling beside the fire. “Steal a warrior from a grand castle?”

“Steal?” Sansa repeated, face still aflame.

“You stole him for your bed, to give your sons strong blood, didn’t you?”

The older one explained what Sansa understood to be a betrothal ceremony, in which men sought maids from other camps and how the maids were expected to fight back. Thinking on her own numerous betrothals, Sansa was horrified at the idea that the Free Folk girls could be stolen from their very beds, though she supposed that her marriage to the Imp was not so very different. She did find some comfort in the notion that the Free Folk maids were expected—encouraged—to fight back.

“I didn’t steal him,” she whispered. The women in the chamber shared a glance that Sansa read too well.

It was well known that since their arrival, she and Jon had shared a chamber. Sansa had allowed the whisperings to go uncorrected. If she had claimed that they were only siblings and they knew who had fathered Jon Snow, they would know her identity as well. After all she endured in King’s Landing, after everything Lord Baelish had taught her, Sansa knew better than to give away that vital piece of information so freely.

As much as Sansa wanted to reclaim her identity, her name, her reflection, her home, she knew she would hardly be safe in the little settlement, regardless of whether or not the Free Folk knew or cared of her claim. To be a low born girl with no kin but her dying husband offered as much protection as her darkened hair and bastard status had in the Eyrie.

“Jon Snow had stolen one of our women before, I heard,” one of the ones closest in age to Sansa said. “She shot him when he revealed himself a craven crow and fled back to Castle Black.”

“Hush,” the woman Sansa took to be the leader scolded.

“What happened to her?” Sansa found herself asking. It was her choice to allow the rumors of their relationship to persist. She didn’t want to bring the jealousy of an old lover upon the relative safety she seemed to have found for the first time since her lord father was beheaded.

“Killed trying to raid Castle Black. Some say it was Jon Snow himself who fired the arrow—”

“That’s enough.”

“Was your bedding different? Because you stole him instead of the other way round?” the one who had started the conversation asked—Yarrow, she was called, Sansa thought. Sansa’s face burned.

Sansa had known the rumors, what she allowed everyone to believe. She heard herself referred to as his bride, his wife. The woman had just called him her husband. The words had meant little to her. She had been married before, after all, and neither title had held much weight. Sansa had thought it would be as it had when she was pretending to be Petyr Baelish’s bastard daughter. A name, a title, a rumor and nothing else.

Sansa had forgotten—or had purposefully ignored—the fact that Jon Snow being her husband would imply that he would have taken her maidenhead. When she allowed the rumor to be spread, the bedding had never occurred to her. The entirety of the camp thought she had been wedded and bedded, and by Jon Snow, her half-brother.

When Sansa had faced the bedding on the night of her own wedding, she had been filled with terror, loathing, and revulsion. While the Imp hadn’t taken her maidenhead, his hands had touched places on her body that no one else ever had and even the memory had bile stinging her throat. Sansa supposed she should feel that same sickening swell from her stomach at the idea of being bedded by her brother, but Jon Snow wasn’t her trueborn brother.

She thought, too, of how Jon had hugged her, the way his hands had gripped her back. The warmth of her back against his in the narrow bed. They had rarely touched each other since that night, nothing more than a hand on a shoulder, a touch of their gloved fingers. His hands were always gentle, and never lingered. It shouldn’t have meant anything—it should be the least she expected from her brother, half or otherwise—but Sansa had spent long enough amongst men to know that other men, worse men, could have tried to take advantage of their situation. The situation she had put herself in. And yet, Jon behaved as a knight in a song.

The Red Woman’s whisperings echoed in her ears. You are neither the sister nor the lover, but something in between. She had not known what the priestess had meant, and she still failed to understand what would fall between a sister and a lover. She did understand, though, that the idea of being bedded by Jon Snow held less horror than her wedding night had.

“Yes,” she whispered at last. “Yes, it was different.”

“Mayhaps I’ll steal a crow of mine own,” Yarrow murmured and when the others joined in, it reminded Sansa of being in Winterfell, whispering with Jeyne Poole about Ser Waymar Royce and other men of the Night’s Watch.

Jon had found Sansa with the other women not long before dusk, Ghost at his side. The first time she had seen the direwolf with a bloody muzzle, it had given her pause. To think of the poor creature it had hunted, had killed. Seeing Ghost’s pinkened fur, the brace of hares slung over Jon’s shoulder, the blood leaving shining drops on his jerkin, didn’t have her recoiling the way it may have, if they had never left Winterfell.

She knew he had come to escort her. Since Jon had gotten his strength back, he had made a point to either walk her or to send Ghost. Between the two of them she was never alone within Mole’s Town, always being protected by either the massive wolf or the man they all believed to be her husband.

“Bear Island.” Jon Snow’s voice was low as they walked across the small camp to where the cookfires were. “Once we can save enough previsions, we should to go Bear Island.”

“Bear Island? Why?”

“House Mormont is still loyal to the Starks. When Stannis was at the Wall, he had a raven. They refused to recognize him as king. Said they knew no king but Robb.”

Sansa had known that House Mormont was still loyal. She had done what she could to keep track of the Northern families and who held their loyalties. She knew who had been killed alongside her lady mother and Robb in the Twins, who had helped the Boltons take Winterfell, take her sister. What Sansa didn’t understand was why they would go to Bear Island when they were safe here, in Mole’s Town.

She knew that winter was coming. There had been whispers in the Vale when she fled. The roads had gotten more treacherous the further North she had run. Crossing the Northern Mountains and the Bay of Ice would be a race against the onset of winter.

In truth, that was her secondary concern. Sansa’s primary worry was what would happen to her. Between King’s Landing and her time in the Vale, Sansa was well aware what might happen when another noble family knew who she was, where she was. They would undoubtedly find some son to marry her to, the way the Tyrells had with Willas, the Lannisters had with the Imp, and the way Petyr Baelish had with Harry the Heir.

The Mormonts may well have been loyal to the Starks, but Sansa knew that at best, all they would see her as was a way into Winterfell. Mayhaps for different reasons—mayhaps even for the good of the North—but she knew without a doubt that they would have her married for her claim.

Sansa supposed that Jon wouldn’t know that, couldn’t understand that. She hadn’t told him all she had endured since they had left Winterfell. She had asked him to protect her; she understood that finding a loyal Northern family would offer her protection in his eyes.

She hadn’t told him of her secret wish either, the one that had bloomed in the weeks since they had fled Castle Black.

Her identity was a secret here. Aside from Jon, no one knew who she was. Her greatest fear in the Vale had been that no one would ever marry her for love. Here, in this little garrison, Sansa had come to realize that was not necessarily the truth. If she forsook her name, her past, and the hope of ever reclaiming Winterfell, she could marry for love in Mole’s Town. One of the Free Folk men whose eyes sometimes lingered. They could build a home, a family, in this little town without the constant worry if he loved her or her name.

In her deepest dreams, she had wished for winter to come, for blizzards to win the wars that were being wrought for the Throne. For snow and ice to kill all of the men who betrayed her family and had taken Winterfell, taken Arya. She wished that when spring came, she and her little family could retake her home without a battle, without a war, and start again.

Only that could never be because she had allowed all of Mole’s Town to believe that Jon Snow was her husband and not her brother.

Sansa kept her thoughts to herself as Jon led her across the camp.

Sansa had thought that the snarl had ripped from Ghost’s throat. It was a low, feral sound only befitting of a direwolf, but while Ghost’s teeth were bared, she realized that she had never heard Ghost make a sound. Even when they had rushed to those cells made of ice, he had been silent.

It was not Ghost who had made that sound when the broad man, both taller and wider than Jon, had slid behind her and whispered, “Furs warm betters than feathers. If you find the crow’s bed too cold, you’re welcome in mine.”

It was Jon’s chest that the wild and savage sound tore from.

“Stay away from her.”

Jon’s voice was dangerous, more a growl than she had heard a man’s voice ever sound. It startled her. She was reminded of another voice that had always been more of a bark than anything else. That voice had belonged to a dog though. Jon’s was a wolf’s.

“You willing to fight for her?”

Sansa felt dizzy. How had a singular comment already escalated? Though, she was not naïve to the quick temper of men. She had been so careful to with her words with Joffrey, and with Lord Baelish and little Robert.

“I’ll kill for her.”

The man laughed, deep and rumbling.

“Name your weapon.”

Sansa was frozen, watching these men exchange words while she was forgotten, mute, beside them. Of all that she endured, what the man said was nothing. A crude jape, befitting of soldiers and warriors. Had Jon not reacted the way he did, she would have thought little of it, if anything.

“No weapons, boy, just fists. Widows make for poor sport. Though you probably will too, if you’re green as you look.”

Jon’s grimace looked shockingly like Ghost’s own bared teeth, Sansa thought.

Sansa wanted to beg Jon to not do it. To not follow this man who was double his size into the field to fight. She wanted to grip his arms and drag him back to their chambers. To whisper how can you protect me if you get killed?

But just as she had earlier, Sansa swallowed all of her concerns, all of her worries, and followed Jon toward where she had witnessed the warriors train.

Free Folk spilled in around her, forming a ring, as the big man stopped in the center.

“First blood or yield?”

“Yield,” Jon said immediately and Sansa felt a lump form in her throat.

She had just gotten Jon back—Jon Snow, the only family that remained to her—she couldn’t lose him.

Sansa rushed forward and grabbed Jon’s hand. He stilled immediately.

“You promised to protect me,” she beseeched.

Jon’s gaze was fixed on her hand.

“I am.”

And then he was undoing the laces of his jerkin, yanking his tunic over his head.

Sansa stumbled back to the other women she had grown familiar with.

“Don’t fret,” one murmured. “He’ll still be able to perform his husbandly duties, as long as his pride isn’t too wounded.”

Sansa was glad for the other woman’s comment. It had the blush rising before she looked up to see Jon Snow stripped to the waist, naked save for his trousers. If she was truly his wife, seeing him half disrobed shouldn’t have had her acting like an uncloaked bride.

When she had been faced with her naked husband on her wedding night, Sansa had remembered that Septa Mordane had once told her that all men were beautiful. She had struggled to find the beauty in the Imp that night, or any night after. She recalled thinking how twisted his body was, how hideous his scar made him.

She struggled to see it now in the man facing off against Jon. He was barrel chested and hairy. There were scars across his arms, his round stomach. Sansa could not help but imagine whatever poor maid he would bed would be crushed beneath his weight.

No, Sansa could not bring herself to agree with Septa Mordane that all men were beautiful, but she could agree that some men were. And Jon Snow was one of those men.

The men circled each other, reminding Sansa of the severity of what was happening. Jon was going to brawl with this man who was twice his size, for her.

Because he had made a comment about being able to warm her better than Jon could.

When the large man struck first, Sansa couldn’t help but cry out in alarm. Jon’s head whipped toward her and the punch landed, sending Jon sprawling.

“No,” she breathed, fingers covering her eyes.

From between her fingers, Sansa could see Jon get to his feet and resume his stance.

She had thought that the man would have Jon yielding with only a few hits, especially when he landed a second one to Jon’s stomach, to those freshly healed stab wounds. Only Jon Snow kept taking the blows, dodging what he could, even as there was a circle of pink snow around his feet.

“He’s toying with him,” Yarrow muttered.

“What?” Sansa whispered.

“Your husband. He hasn’t landed a hit yet. Hasn’t even tried.”

Sansa had been sure that she had meant the big man, not Jon. The big man had been laughing from the moment Jon had agreed to the duel.

“Why would he do that?”

Yarrow shrugged.

“To prove a point.”

Sansa stared as Jon ducked low, something almost akin to a smile on his lips. Sansa could only faintly recall what Jon Snow’s smile looked like. She doubted she had seen it often when they were children, as he was more oft than not Arya’s and Robb’s playmates, not hers. Even so, she was sure his smile had never been so bladed, so wolfish.

“What point could he hope to prove by drawing out the fight?”

Yarrow wasn’t able to respond, everyone’s attention suddenly fixed on the fight. Jon had swung, viciously, punching the man in his large gut. The man doubled over. Jon struck out again, and again, and again, each blow swift and brutal.

The last punch Jon threw landed the man on his back, face and snow both covered in blood.

The yield the large man uttered was garbled and no more than an exhale.

Sansa knew little of men or brawls, but she heard the collective gasp as Jon had effectively ended the fight. She understood that none of them had expected Jon Snow, newly risen from the dead, to win, leastwise not so easily.

“That you’re his.”

Chapter Text

The snarl that had ripped so violently from his chest had been involuntarily. Jon Snow hadn’t been aware he was capable of making such a sound. If he had been within Ghost still, Jon knew his hackles would have risen the moment Quenn stepped too close behind he and Sansa.

His fury had been overwhelming, akin to what he had felt when his lord father had been beheaded, when Robb rode to war and Jon Snow had been dragged back from Mole’s Town to prevent him from deserting. There was no one to stop him now.

No one save Sansa, whom he had been risen from the dead to protect.

Jon felt her fear sharply. It was what was compelling him forward. If she was afraid, he wasn’t doing his job properly. In truth, Jon thought that the fight may be a comfort to her. If he won, or if he at least held his own, it was proof that his strength had returned. That Jon was strong enough to protect her.

That their father hadn’t chosen poorly.

After, when Quenn was laid out and bloody, Jon Snow felt nothing but relief. Relief that he had won. Relief that, after this, none would dare say to Sansa what the big man had said.

Relief that his body was one capable of defending Sansa Stark.

It wasn’t until much later, sitting around one of the fires with some other men, drinking ale, that the horror set in.

Jon Snow had been in plenty of fights before. Fighting was how he had played as a boy, with Robb and Theon Greyjoy. He had won many, especially once he began training in the yard of Castle Black, his opponents no longer young warriors but criminals and farmers. The other new recruits had none of his prior training and besting them had been easy, nearly effortless.

No fight he had ever been in had felt that primal. He had never felt such power in his fists, nor had he hungered to see the other person bleed, as he had with Quenn.

It had never been such a struggle to stop swinging once his opponent was down, had yielded.

When Jon Snow had landed the blow that sent the man onto his back, it was his instinct to follow Quenn into the snow, pin him down, and continue punching to ensure that this man would never get near Sansa again. If he hadn’t had an audience, he might have.

Jon had killed before, but always with a blade, a weapon. Never his fists.

Those same fists, bloody and bruised, gripped a horn of ale now.

The firelight cast shadows between his knuckles, his hands suddenly looking like claws.

When he had landed that punch to Quenn’s face, felt his nose crunch beneath his fist, Jon had wanted more. He could smell the iron of the blood and he wanted to lap it up. Wanted to close his teeth around that wildly thumping vein in the man’s neck. Jon knew if he had, if he had bit down hard enough, that hot iron would have filled his mouth. He could’ve bitten that muscly shoulder joint—he could feel the sinews and tendons snap between his teeth. Imagined how the marrow of his bones would have tasted.

Jon Snow had wanted to kill that man, he realized dully. He had wanted to rip out his throat for what he had said to Sansa.

He had wished to be in Ghost yet, so that he could have.

It was late when Jon returned to the chambers he shared with Sansa. After the duel, she had left with Ghost and some of the womenfolk she had befriended. She had not spoken to him.

He thought the chamber door might be barred when he tried the door, or at the very least Ghost would have taken his place beside her in the small bed.

Neither of those were what he found. The door opened as easily as it ever had, and the small candle she had left burning showed that Sansa was asleep in the bed, and Ghost on the floor, where he normally slept. Her back was turned to the room, and Jon couldn’t help but wonder if she had been terrified of him. If that was why she hadn’t sought him out after, why she had retired so early.

Only, as he studied that too-dark braid, Jon realized he knew. He didn’t have to wonder.

Jon had seen that fear, heard it, when Quenn had first swung. In that moment, Jon had been scared that someone else had been using the fight as an opportunity to get to her. He had turned, taking his eyes off of his opponent and seen the fright clear on her face.

The violence within him—between the snarl and the fight—had frightened her. She had come to him for protection, but all he had done was caused her panic.

Something must have been exchanged when he came back, Jon thought, looking now at Ghost. What I wouldn’t have given for those claws, those teeth. Whatever gods had dominion over death, or mayhaps over maidens, had turned him into a weapon, a tool, to be wielded at her service. The way his blood still hummed, urging him to finish what had begun in that fight. To make it known that death was waiting for anyone who wished to harm the brown-haired maiden they all believed to be his bride.

If it wouldn’t have raised questions, him sleeping elsewhere, he would have. If it wouldn’t have left her alone and unprotected.

Jon turned to ready himself for sleep, removing his bloody clothes and wincing at the already forming bruises, when he saw what was beside the candle on the small table. A bowl of a white paste and a pile of bandages.

Jon Snow had fought most nights since his resurrection to stay awake. The night following the brawl in the snow was the first night that he did. He lay awake for hours, first fearful that any movement would wake Sansa, would have her screaming in fear that he was beside her.

Then, sometime before dawn, Jon’s worries changed to what they would do now. He was as like as not strong enough to make it to Bear Island if they were well provisioned, but it would take time to prepare for that long of a journey. With the fight last night, would they still be tolerated in Mole’s Town?

The men he had sat beside had japed and laughed, but that was when they were all in their cups. Would they feel the way with no ale in their blood?

When Jon thought he felt Sansa stirring beside him, he quickly rose, whispering for Ghost to stay with Sansa until he returned.

Out by the cookfires, Jon found some of the men he had grown friendly with, hoping that their reaction to his approach would tell him all he needed to know. They greeted him warmly enough, though for all he knew they were still drunk from last night.

“We thought your wife would keep you abed.”

Jon fought the swell of wrath.

“I was unsure if we would be welcomed to linger after last night.”

The men chortled.

“Not the first fight we’ve witnessed over some maid.”

The swell turned into an inferno. She’s not some maid, he wanted to shout, she is Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell.

Quickly, mayhaps too quickly, Jon found himself falling into a routine in Mole’s Town. Hunting, patrolling, training. It felt much like when he first arrived at Castle Black during the day. It was only the nights that held a marked difference.

In the weeks that followed the fight, when he had displayed such violence, Sansa had been equally as distant as she had been since that night. Not that she had been familiar aside from that first evening when he had awoken, Jon had tried to rationalize every time he thought about how she would retire before him. In truth, Jon supposed it wasn’t far different from how they had been as children—everything perfectly formal and proper as it was meant to be between a noble daughter and a bastard son.

Jon did oft wonder late at night with her warm back to him, if it didn’t look strange to the Free Folk, how withdrawn Sansa seemed with him. It was proper for who they truly were to each other, but not at all how a husband and wife should behave.

In those moments, Jon Snow would have to remind himself that, despite her brown hair and false name, she was not Alayne, the maiden who stole Jon Snow. It was all a ruse, a lie she had been required to use to keep herself safe while he was unable.

Jon knew that the lie had to end eventually. It would, once they had gathered enough to start for Bear Island.

Once they were amongst anyone other than the Free Folk, this lie that Sansa was his bride would do more harm than good.

Chapter Text

A month after Jon Snow awoke in the tunnels of the sacked Mole’s Town, a cart of supplies came down from Castle Black. Jon had long suspected that one would be coming, even without his commanding Castle Black. He had intended to take Ghost out on a hunt so that no one would be the wiser in regards to the fact that he was alive, but it was Jon who was on watch when the cart was first sighted coming from the northern side of the King’s Road.

Jon immediately sent Ghost to find Sansa, whispering protect her. Even if he was discovered, he wouldn’t leave Sansa undefended. He himself disappeared into the tunnels after informing the Free Folk in charge, and hoped that it was a simple, brief supply drop off.

Less than an hour had passed when Jon heard familiar footsteps in the corridor. There was only one person’s footsteps in Mole’s Town that Jon knew by heart, and these were far too heavy to be hers.

In Castle Black, Jon would have been reaching for Longclaw. He should have been reaching for a dagger. Instead, he hid beside the door with no weapons but his own hands.

When Dolorous Edd entered, Jon was prepared to flatten him the way he had Quenn a fortnight ago, until he glimpsed the white pommel of the scabbard he carried.

“Edd?” Jon asked, still in the shadowed corner behind the door.

“Seven hells, Jon. You’re like to send me into the grave doing that.”

“The way I was sent into a grave?”

“And brought back out it seems. As much as I mistrusted the priestess, I can’t say I believed she actually had the power to raise a man from the dead. Hard to argue with that sister yourn. Think any man on the Watch would’ve done anything she asked with those blue eyes and pretty tears.”

“Sister?”

“Sansa? Pretty little maid, brown hair, blue eyes? She knew Ghost, so I reckoned she wasn’t lying.”

Hearing Sansa’s name spoken was a shock. Jon had only thought it. She used the name Alayne here and he had been careful to use it as well. Jon thought the last time he had heard her name out loud was when he told Stannis that Winterfell had belonged to his sister, Sansa. Stannis had called her Lady Lannister. When had he last heard someone else say her name? Had it been before they had all left on the King’s Road, when they were children still?

“She told you she was my sister?”

“I thought she might be false when she said she was there for her brother, until she said she was your half-sister. Though she wept over your body as any family might.”

“You allowed her to see my body?”

“She wanted to say goodbye to her brother. As I said, none of us were much equipped to deny a fair lady.”

Jon had moved out of the shadow of the door, but not taken a seat beside Edd yet. The image of a fair lady mourning his death might have been enough to compel him to sit once, however it was the way Edd said brother that had Jon’s knees buckling. Sansa, who had only called him her half-brother as soon as she learned what bastard meant, called him brother. Wept over his body. Given her blood to have him back.

Those thoughts were quickly chased away by Jon’s wondering if Edd had heard of Jon Snow’s new bride when he asked after Jon. If he knew that it was Sansa it was in reference to. The Free Folk had thought it vile to bed girls from the same village. What would Edd think if he believed that Jon had bedded his sister, half or otherwise?

“Came to give you these.” Edd placed the scabbard on the table first. The rubies in the pommel glinted at Jon Snow in the dim torchlight. “Found it buried in the armory. Thought if you lived, you’d want it. Or, mayhaps, Sansa would for her sons. I recalled you and Sam had once spoke of an ancestral blade for the Stark family, that it had been melted. Thought this might serve, what with the pommel looking like Ghost.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Not till you’ve read this.”

Edd handed him a letter then.

It was from Stannis, though Jon wondered when it had come, given that it was addressed to Lord Commander Snow. It was orders to assemble all the available men Jon had and ride for Winterfell. Stannis and his men had attempted to siege it, but the blizzards had taken too many for them to take the keep, even if they survived longer in the cold than the Boltons did within the hot springs heated walls.

“One of the Old Pomegranate’s men got to it first, sent a raven back saying you were dead, killed trying to lead an army South. Satin was able to fetch it back before anyone had the mind to burn it.”

The letter was crumpled in Jon’s scarred hand before he had even realized it.

Stannis was ordering him to do the very thing that had gotten him murdered. Jon had raised an army with the intent to march south after—

After he’d gotten the letter from Ramsay Bolton, demanding his bride back. Arya.

What had happened to her? Had she made it to Stannis’s camp? Was she safe?

Jon wondered if he could ask Sansa if she had heard any whispering on the road, though he supposed if she knew anything she would have shared it by now, regardless of whether or not she was afraid of him.

“I can send a raven back, tell Stannis that you live, that you are making your way to Winterfell.”

“I-I can’t. It got me killed. My vows—”

“Ended with your life. I’d wager that when the order was founded they didn’t anticipate the red priests and their powers. Or weeping sisters and their blood.”

Jon was glad he was sitting then, for his knees would have surely given out at that.

“Did he send any mention of Arya? My sister?”

Edd shook his head.

“The Red Woman hasn’t shared anything she’s seen in her fires either. Not that she’s been right since she brought you back. She’s taken to staring at fires in the ice cell where we had kept your body, muttering about smoke and salt.”

“Smoke and salt?”

“I couldn’t hazard a guess, but I’ll tell you that your sister had good instincts. Anything her Lord of Light wants, I want nothing to do with.”

Jon stared at the letter still, at the demands to march to Winterfell. Jon had thought that Bear Island was the only option to keep Sansa safe. If Stannis took Winterfell, would he give it to Jon? Stannis had offered it to him before, to make him a Stark and give him a wife. He had told Stannis that Winterfell belonged to Sansa, but Jon suspected that Stannis would offer the keep to him again since Sansa was married to Tyrion Lannister by all rights. But if it was Jon’s, then it was his to do with what he would.

Could they return home?

Sansa had stolen him from death, from the Red Woman. Could he give her Winterfell in return?

“Is that Ghost?” Sansa asked, startling him. Jon had not heard her come into their chambers. She stood beside where he had set the sword against the wall, seemingly studying the pommel of Longclaw.

“It is. Dolorous Edd brought it with some supplies from Castle Black.”

Jon still had the letter Edd had brought too, crumpled and worn after only a single afternoon. He meant to show it to Sansa, to ask her thoughts, if she would prefer Winterfell to Bear Island, where would she feel safest, but she spoke before he had a chance.

“How did you come to have a sword that looks like Ghost?”

“Jeor Mormont, the Lord Commander before me, gifted it to me for saving his life. Longclaw, it’s called. He had the pommel changed from a bear to a direwolf. The blade is Valyrian steel.”

“Like Ice? Father’s blade?”

“Aye. It was the Mormont ancestral blade, but Jeor’s son left it when he fled.”

Jon watched as Sansa reached out to touch the carved pommel.

“I had thought to use it to help with negotiations once we reached Bear Island,” Jon said, his gaze still fixed on Sansa’s finger.

He recalled how when he first awoke, when Sansa had rubbed Ghost’s ears, he had thought he felt a spectral touch behind his own ear. How many times had she petted the direwolf since then? Jon had not felt that ghostly hand again. Had he imagined it? Had it been because he had spent what was doubtlessly days, if not weeks, within the direwolf’s body?

Or had something else in him been changed? For even now, as he watched Sansa’s gentle touch on the sword, he wished it was him she was touching. Had that been all it was the first night too, wishful thinking?

She looked too different from the half-sister he had known in Winterfell and they had been living this lie too long, Jon thought, his eyes tracing Sansa’s slim silhouette and brown braid.

“You wouldn’t keep it?” Sansa asked, reminding him of what they had been speaking of.

“Edd mentioned that if the Red Woman’s rites hadn’t worked, he would have given the sword to you. For your sons. A poor replacement for Ice, of course, but mayhaps…”

Sansa’s hand dropped from the pommel as she spun to face him.

“But she did bring you back. The sword is yours.”

Jon shook his head.

“It’s an ancestral blade. It should belong to the sons of a great House. It should go to the Lords of Winterfell.”

“What of your own sons? You are the son of a great House too.”

Jon scoffed.

“Bastard son. I’m not a Stark.”

The prospect of having sons of his own was too new of a possibility. He had almost retorted that he had taken vows to take no wives, father no sons. Except Dolorous Edd had just pointed out that those vows had ended when his heart had stopped beating. There was nothing stopping him from marrying or having children now.

He felt her gaze heavy on his face. Jon refused to meet her eyes. He had neither the words nor the energy to explain that having a son was both his deepest fear and his greatest desire.

“You are, though.” Her voice was naught but a whisper.

It was enough that he finally met her eyes. Sansa’s expression was soft, warm, and earnest enough that he almost believed her.

“Though I doubt either of us will be having sons soon, what with my being married and everyone in this camp believing that I stole you.”

There was a levity in her tone that was a direct contrast to how heavy Jon’s stomach felt when she said I stole you.

Sansa found that her eyes were drawn to the sword. She had thought little of Ice since it had been used to take her lord father’s head, since Joffrey had made her kiss the blade that had been made from it. She had forgotten that it was another thing that her family had lost.

Not a fortnight ago, Sansa had wished that she could stay hidden in Mole’s Town and build a family within the little Free Folk village. Forgo Winterfell and reclaiming her name to marry for love. Forgo her duty. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.

Sansa wanted Winterfell and sons and a sword to give them. It was a deeper yearning than it had been even in the Eryie, when she had unwittingly built the keep from snow. She wished for sons who would become Lord of Winterfell someday.

But even if she had Winterfell, her sons wouldn’t be Starks. They would belong to the House of her husband.

“I gifted a sword to Arya before I left to the Wall,” Jon said. Sansa pulled her eyes from the carved pommel of the sword.

“A sword?”

“I had Mikken make it. It was the last thing I gave her. The last time I saw her.”

Sansa heard in his voice how closely he held that memory. She tried to recall if she had seen Jon Snow before either of them had left on the King’s Road. She certainly knew he hadn’t given her a gift, but she thought little of it. She wouldn’t have expected him to give her anything. They were never close as children.

“I hope she has it still,” Sansa murmured. From the corner of her eye, she saw Jon’s head jerk toward her. “I hope that she’s waiting for the opportune moment to use it against Ramsay Bolton.”

Sansa wondered if that was how she survived King’s Landing after Ice had been swung for the final time. If that was how she had made it so far North on her own, even as a little girl. A little girl as wild as Arya with a sword no doubt offered her more protection than Sansa had in either King’s Landing or the Eryie.

“Arya escaped Ramsay.”

“What?” Sansa gasped. “When? How?”

“When I heard word of the marriage, I sent a man and several spearwives to help her escape. Ramsay sent a letter demanding his bride back. I would hope she made it to Stannis’s camp. That she’s safe. I had thought…” Jon trailed off, his gaze fixed on the fire. “I had thought she would run to Castle Black. To me. The Red Woman saw my sister fleeing a marriage. But Stannis said nothing of her in his letter.”

“You had a letter from Stannis?”

“Edd brought it when he brought the sword. Stannis asked that I bring men to help him take Winterfell.”

Jon handed her a worn scroll. Sansa read the words quickly.

“Will you?”

“I had planned on joining Stannis with an army of Free Folk when I first got Ramsay’s letter. It was why men mutinied.”

“Mayhaps that’s why the Red Woman wanted to bring you back? To help retake Winterfell? Or did she mean other wars?”

Jon shook his head but continued to stare into the fire as if it held answers. Sansa thought that must have been why she had been so eager for Sansa’s blood. The Red Woman must have seen in her fires that Jon Snow was instrumental in the battle for Winterfell and she needed him to help Stannis win.

“I promised to protect you. Bear Island would no doubt be safer for you.”

“Bear Island isn’t home,” Sansa whispered before she could hold her tongue. Jon looked at her sharply. “I was so eager to leave, to marry the prince and live in a grand castle. I wanted nothing more to be like a queen in a song. When Father told me he was breaking the engagement, that we would be returning to Winterfell, I was so angry with him. Now… I wish to be home more than anything.”

When Jon didn’t argue with her, Sansa wasn’t sure if she ought to be relieved or worried. Would he simply ignore her wishes? Or was he truly weighing her words against what he knew of the Boltons, of Stannis’s forces?

“And if we fail? If the warriors of this garrison refuse to follow me or we simply don’t have enough men? What then?” Jon asked her. Sansa thought his voice sounded as it had before he brawled with Quenn.

Sansa had thought she might be cowering at his tone or the bitter challenge in his words. Instead, she felt her spine straighten. Steel, she reminded herself. My skin has turned to steel.

“Then at least we’ll have tried to take our home back.” Jon turned away from her again. Sansa grabbed his hand. “Don’t you want to go home, Jon?” she whispered.

Sansa expected Jon to drop her hand. He returned her grip, holding her fingers just as tightly as she held his.

“Aye,” Jon murmured. “I do.”

Sansa lay awake, her mind turning over all Jon had told her earlier. She truthfully didn’t care that he had gifted Arya a sword before he left. That wasn’t what was causing the ache beneath her ribs.

In King’s Landing, Sansa had prayed for Robb to save her. She had wanted nothing more than a true knight like in the songs to come and rescue her. Instead, she was sent men like Dontos and Petyr Baelish. Men who helped her escape only to put her in a different type of danger.

What wouldn’t she have given to have a brother hear of her marriage and send men to save her, as Jon had done for Arya?

Would Jon have done the same for her, if she had been married to Joffrey or the little lord Robert?

No, Sansa thought, her pillow damp beneath her face. No, Jon would not have sent men for me.

She knew it wasn’t due to geography—even if it had been her in Winterfell, he wouldn’t have raised an army to march for her. Jon knew Arya well enough to know that being married to Ramsay Bolton would never be her choice. Sansa had known that as well. Before she left Winterfell, Sansa had been gushing about marrying Joffrey. She had just said it to Jon, even—when she was a stupid little girl, marrying the prince was all she cared about. Of course Jon Snow never would have thought that she would need rescuing.

But, Sansa couldn’t help but wonder even as tears continued to fall, if I had sent a raven somehow, would he have done the same for me as he did Arya?

Chapter Text

It was a week after Sansa had taken Jon by the hand and begged him to follow Stannis’s orders and raise an army to help to retake Winterfell. She had hoped that they would leave immediately, but the logistics of raising an army took time. Sansa knew Jon was doing his best to engender the loyalty of all the fighting folk of the garrison. She had heard the fear in his voice when he had asked and if we fail. She doubted they would leave before he had personally convinced all the armed people of the garrison to march South, bringing Stannis as many men as possible to take back Winterfell.

Sansa had never felt so helpless, even more than she had been when she first arrived at Mole’s Town with Jon Snow’s corpse. There was nothing she could do to help Jon build an army. It was her idea to follow Stannis’s orders. She knew Jon wouldn’t have if she hadn’t beseeched him, reminded him that it was their home, that Arya was somewhere nearby. It was because of her that Jon was marching toward another battle, and there was nothing she could do. Mole’s Town had no ravens that she had seen, or Sansa would have written to Myranda or the little lord to ask for knights. The only other option available to her would be to mayhaps reveal her identity. If Free Folk knew that she was a trueborn Stark, would they be more like to want to march on Winterfell?

Sansa knew that was stupid as soon as she thought it. Not only because revealing herself as a Stark after hiding for so long was frightening, but also because it would call into question their ruse. If she was Sansa Stark, then she could not have stolen Jon the way the Free Folk believed. She couldn’t be Jon Snow’s bride.

As much as she wished to wash the dye from her hair and stake her claim, as Lord Baelish had once suggested, she knew too that being Sansa more like than not meant nothing to these warriors. If they choose to follow them, it had nothing to do with Eddard Stark being Jon’s father. It would be because of the man Jon Snow was, regardless of his name.

She knew all that, and yet, she wanted still to do something to help, even if she was powerless. All she could do was wait until Jon told her they were ready to march.

But Sansa was sick of waiting. She was sick of pretending to be Alayne.

All she wanted was to be home.

It was a few days later when Yarrow recruited Sansa to help with the food stores, deeper in the tunnels than Sansa had been before. She wasn’t sure if she was seeing it now because they had decided to trust her or if it simply was because it was the duty Yarrow was responsible for and she didn’t want to do it alone.

Sansa held the lantern while Yarrow and a few young Free Folk rolled barrels into the storeroom. Sansa quickly realized that if she and Jon had asked to be provisioned to trek to Bear Island, even for just the two of them, it would have quickly depleted their stores. She wondered if Jon knew how little supplies they had, even with the load from Castle Black, if he was using that in his arguments for marching on Winterfell.

It was while she was trying to figure how quickly the supplies would run out with their numbers that a flash of white caught her eye.

Sansa swung the lantern, thinking Ghost had somehow followed them into the tunnels, only it was in a stack with other bolts of fabric. Without thinking, Sansa reached forward, stroking the white fur.

“We found some cloaks and furs that didn’t get burned too badly,” Yarrow told her. “Can’t say what happened to their owners.”

Sansa thought of her own lord father’s cloak with the heavy fur mantle that he had worn to greet Robert Baratheon on that fateful day in the yard of Winterfell. How regal and noble he had looked astride his horse when they left on the King’s Road that final time.

Mayhaps, she thought, there is something I could to do help.

When Sansa had fled after the tourney at the Gates of the Moon, Myranda had given Sansa a small dagger, instructing her to keep it in her bodice and to stab where a man was softest. It was a simple blade, with no gems or designs in the hilt. Sansa doubted it would be worth much, had she tried to barter with it in White Harbor or the Fingers, but after spending weeks with the Free Folk, Sansa was reevaluating its value.

A blade was a blade after all, and here, that could be worth a life.

It was Yarrow that Sansa approached, even though she doubted the maid had the power to grant her the materials she wanted.

“Is this dagger worth enough for a cloak?”

“A cloak?”

“Wool and some fur. What we saw in the storerooms.”

Yarrow took the dagger from Sansa’s gloved hand, balancing the blade on her finger, then pricking the point against her thumb.

“Aye, I reckon so. It’s a fine enough blade. Small, but…” Yarrow shrugged. “Sometimes small blades get the job done better than a longsword can. Long as you know how to wield it.” The maid’s impish smile made Sansa blush. “Come, we’ll fetch you the cloths.”

In truth, Sansa was more than happy to have a task. She had been retiring soon after supper each evening, to the solitary quiet of their chambers, Ghost at her side. More oft than not, all she did was lie in bed and wait for sleep to find her.

For the first few weeks that they had been in Mole’s Town, after Jon awoke, Sansa and he would sit around the fires with the others, she sipping occasionally from his horn of ale, listening to the stories told. It was after those first few weeks of observation, once Jon was healed, that she began to wonder if they would question the veracity of their story, of their relation. Sansa knew they did not behave around each other as husband and wife should, Free Folk or otherwise. There were too few touches, too few glances. While she sipping from his horn may have suggested intimacy, they did not kiss or whisper sweet things to each other. She thought it was more like than not that all of the Free Folk would simply think her a prim and proper lady. She doubted that they would assume they were falsifying who they were too each other, but it worried her all the same, so she began retiring early so that it left less time for others to watch them together.

Now, though, she had a task to keep her busy until she grew tired.

Sansa had envisioned sewing a greatcloak identical to the one she recalled her lord father wearing. Wool the Stark grey, a heavy white fur trim, a direwolf head emblazoned on the clasps. Upon receiving the materials, she knew a greatcloak as fine as her father’s was naught but a dream.

The woolen cloak was a faded black, not grey as she had hoped, and it was singed and motheaten. Sansa unfurled the wool in her lap, fingering one of the larger holes.

Could she embroider the Stark sigil across the back, hiding the holes? No, it would look too much a maiden’s cloak, she thought. She wasn’t in possession of that much thread or fabric, anyhow.

It would undoubtedly not resemble her father’s, Sansa knew, but it was all she was able to do to help Jon.

From beneath the bed, Sansa pulled the spare shift she had previously torn for Jon’s bandages after his brawl with Quenn. It was the only thing she had that would serve to patch the holes in the cloak, and at the very least, it was a Stark color. The wool of the cloak was faded enough to be mistaken for grey, far too light to be thought of as black. That was what she cared most deeply about, she found, patching the wool with her shift, that this cloak would no longer mark him as a Black Knight.

As she sewed, Sansa found that she was stitching in the guilt she felt about asking Jon to raise this army and march on Winterfell. She had taken him away from Castle Black and the Red Woman to save him from wars and battles. She wanted him safe and by her side. As much as she wanted Winterfell and sons, the prospect of going to war for it had her filled with trepidation.

The Red Woman had asked what price she would pay to have Jon Snow back and a little bit of blood was worth nothing to her.

But if the cost of having Winterfell was losing Jon Snow?

Sansa wasn’t sure if she would be willing to pay that price.

The evening before they were to begin their march to Stannis’s camp, Jon surprised Sansa by retiring alongside her soon after dusk fell. Given that they had rarely left for their chambers together and that it was the eve before they were meant to leave, their departure was met with cheers and whistles that had Sansa blushing and Jon growling as he had with Quenn.

Before Jon could turn and challenge the entire camp to a melee, Sansa grabbed his hand, pulling him with her.

“Ignore it,” she whispered. “It’s harmless.”

Jon grunted beside her. He clearly disagreed, but he didn’t argue as they returned with Ghost to their chambers.

Sansa sat on the bed, her skirt hiding the bundle that she meant to give him when they left in the morning.

“There’s a matter I’d like to discuss with you,” Jon said formally. He sat at the small table across from her, flexing his right hand.

Sansa immediately thought that it would be about their ruse. How would they reveal the truth to the Free Folk who followed them into a battle? Would they feel betrayed, being led to believe that it was Jon Snow’s wife they were harboring, rather than Sansa Stark? The truth would come out—it would have to, once they were reunited with Arya, faced with Stannis.

“Some of the non-fighting folk are leaving for Castle Black, as Mole’s Town will be undefended.”

Sansa nodded. She hadn’t expected that every soul in Mole’s Town to march on Winterfell. What mattered was all the swords and archers were joining them.

“I think that you should join them. With Ghost, of course.”

Cold shock flashed through her.

These weeks in Mole’s Town, at Jon’s side, had been the safest she had felt since her lord father’s arrest. It had almost felt like home. She had, mayhaps stupidly, believed that Jon had felt the same. But here he was, pawning her off at his first chance.

“Winter is coming and the trek will be hard, dangerous. There’s no wheelhouse, no horses. We’ll be sleeping on the ground, hunting for food. Stannis’s camp will be just as dangerous. Hard, hungry men, tents that won’t protect against the snow and cold. Aside from the spearwives, you’re as like as not to be the only maiden. Castle Black would be safer. The journey is shorter and the men loyal to me will protect you until I send for you.”

His words were reasonable, Sansa knew, but for a moment it felt as though he saw her as a little girl yet. The girl she had been in Winterfell, who would refuse to play at swords or go running through the woods with the rest of their siblings. As though she hadn’t survived King’s Landing and the Eryie and got herself to Castle Black with little help or supplies. As though she hadn’t helped to bring him back from the dead and then save him from the witch who performed the rites.

Sansa shook her head.

“You said you’d protect me—”

“I don’t know how to protect you against winter and blizzards without having you safe at Castle Black.” Jon’s interruption was heated, angry, and it filled Sansa with indignation.

“I don’t expect you to! That isn’t what I want.”

“What do you want, then?”

“To join you. To see Winterfell again with you at my side. I don’t want to be sat in some other keep, waiting and hoping and unable to do anything. I want my home back. I don’t care how hard it will be to get there. It can’t be any harder than it was for me to get here.”

Jon flinched. They had rarely spoken of what she had endured. He knew none of the details, of the abuse she endured from the Lannisters or the manipulations of Littlefinger.

“If your only concern is whether or not I can sleep on the ground, please rest assured that I can. If there’s another reason you think—”

“No,” Jon whispered, his tone no longer heated or formal. “My sole concern is your safety. Only and always.” He reached across, taking her hand. “Please believe that it is only that.”

Sansa softened, returning his grip.

“I do, Jon. And I know you have your concerns about a battle, but I believe in you.” Sansa released his hand and reached beneath the bed, pulling the bundle onto her lap. “I’ve made this for you. I wanted it to be like Father’s, but…”

Jon stood, unfurling the cloak and holding it before him.

“I had thought to do it in the Stark colors, with a direwolf on it, but this was all I had. I wanted there to be something of the Stark sigil, so I tried to shape the hood to resemble Ghost, like the pommel of Longclaw.”

Jon swung the cloak around his shoulders and even without a direwolf on it, Sansa saw her lord father clearly for the first time since King’s Landing. Jon Snow looked every bit as regal and noble as she had hoped.

Sansa rose to pull the hood over his head, to see if it had turned out as she had imagined.

With the hood on, the lordly figure Jon cut disappeared, replaced by a fearsome Free Folk fighter. While Sansa hadn’t oft spent time around the fires at night, listening to the stories told by men, she had spent her days listening to the womenfolk. She heard tales of warriors and lovers, monsters and acts of valor. She heard of the people they called skinchangers and wargs, men who could transform into beasts. With the wolf hood shadowing his face, Jon looked half wolf and a half man. The type of knight cursed until he won the love of a fair maid.

He would be a fright to face across a battlefield, she thought, especially with Ghost at his side. Only she didn’t want him on a battlefield. She didn’t want him near danger if she could help it.

“Would that I had a looking glass,” she murmured, stepping back and adjusting the fit on his shoulders.

Sansa was struck with a sudden memory of her parents. Lady Catelyn with her Tully auburn hair, Lord Eddard with his grey eyes and solemn face, her fingers fixing the laces of his jerkin.

It was innocuous, a moment she must have witnessed dozens of times throughout her childhood, and yet she was quickly stepping away, putting as much space between them as possible.

It was only then that she realized that Jon had yet to speak.

“Do you like it?” she asked, suddenly wondering if she had overstepped.

There was only a moment’s pause, but it had Sansa turning back towards him. Jon was staring down at the cloak.

“Aye,” he said without looking up. “Aye, I do.”

Chapter Text

Jon Snow awoke with the dawn, packing the few belongs he and Sansa shared quietly, while she slept still. In truth, he still wished that she would be traveling north instead, to be safely tucked away in Castle Black until Winterfell was secured. The King’s Road at the onset of winter this far north was no place for a fine lady, certainly not without a wheelhouse or a proper escort.

Even more dangerous for her yet would be Stannis’s war camp. It would be harder to protect her without the ruse of being married. Between Stannis’s soldiers and Stannis himself, Jon was unsure who would be the bigger threat to Sansa’s safety. With her return to Winterfell, Arya’s claim would be null. Stannis would no doubt see her arrival in Winterfell as the Lannisters attempting to get a foothold in the north, just as he had when Jon reminded him who Winterfell belonged to by rights.

It was habit that had Jon reaching for the cloak that hung by the door. He thought naught of it when he joined a few other men around the cookfires.

“New cloak?” Quenn asked as Jon joined him.

“Alayne made it.”

The false name cut his tongue, scraped his lips.

Sansa Stark was not Alayne, was not his wife, the maid that stole him. Sansa Stark did not have dark brown hair. Sansa Stark did not bear the surname Stone or any other denoting her a bastard. Sansa Stark was the daughter of Lady Catelyn Tully, of Lord Eddard Stark.

Sansa Stark was who made him the cloak, not his bride.

“I rode alongside Mance, against Stannis,” Quenn said.

“We’ll be riding with Stannis, against the Boltons,” Jon reminded.

Jon Snow had been surprised that Quenn agreed to follow him into battle, given that he had previous rejected his offer of relocating to Castle Black. Jon wondered now if he wasn’t mayhaps revealing more than he ought. Was it revenge that Quenn sought? A chaotic battlefield in which he could kill the king who supposedly killed the King-Beyond-the-Wall?

“Aye. To take back the grand castle.”

Jon wanted to explain that it was Sansa’s birthright, their home, but she was Alayne so he stayed silent.

“It’s you I’m riding alongside, Jon Snow, not your kneeler king.”

“If you ride alongside me, you ride with Stannis. We are on the same side against the Boltons.”

Quenn shrugged and turned his back on Jon.

He only took a handful of steps before looking back again.

“It were a cloak, what turned Mance.” Jon started. “A crow, a cloak, and a maid,” he mused quietly.

Quenn shrugged again, and left before Jon could respond.

They were camped in the trees just out of sight of the King’s Road, one day’s worth of travel behind them. It had been as hard as Jon Snow remembered the reverse trek, when he had come from Winterfell. There had been less of them then, and no one whose safety and comfort was his duty.

When they bedded down after dusk, Jon ensured to tuck Sansa between him and Ghost, Longclaw in hand, just in case.

“Are you cold?” he whispered. She had rolled tight against his back and he thought he could feel her shivering.

“It’s fine.”

Jon sat and unclasped the cloak she had made him, draping it over the both of them.

“Castle Black would be warmer than the King’s Road.”

“And yet it is not home.”

Jon sighed, turning to face the fire. Sansa was right and he knew that. He understood her wish to be home. He wanted it was well, because Castle Black had never truly felt like home. He just wished that going home wasn’t fraught with danger.

That night, Jon Snow dreamed he was in Ghost, but he wasn’t running or hunting the way he was so often in those types of dreams. Instead, he was exactly where Ghost had been, sleeping with Sansa safely between his massive paws.

For a moment, Jon was sure he was dead again. He had frozen to death and had slipped into Ghost the way he had before. With Ghost’s eyes, he saw his own body on the other side of Sansa, and with the direwolf’s heightened senses, he could hear the double beat of two hearts, feel the heat of two bodies.

He was alive, she was alive, and all was well.

The cloak Sansa had made was a blanket covering both of their bodies, and seeing it made Quenn words echo, even within Ghost’s skull.

It were a cloak, what turned Mance.

A crow, a cloak, and a maid.

If Jon Snow’s tongue had worked any faster, he would have told Quenn that he was nothing like Mance. The only time he turned his cloak was because he was ordered to. The cloak Sansa made him was worlds different from the one Mance had worn. Wearing a color other than black didn’t mark him as a traitor or oathbreaker.

Dolorous Edd had even said that Jon Snow’s vows had ended with his life. He was not a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch any longer; he was not beholden to black.

Sansa turned in her sleep suddenly, curling tighter into Jon Snow’s body. In Mole’s Town, they had always slept back to back. Now, she had her back turned to Ghost.

Jon had never been more thankful to be in the direwolf as he dreamed.

It meant that he couldn’t feel the press of her breasts against his back.

As their journey continued south, Jon Snow found himself slipping nightly into Ghost’s body as he slept. The first few times had been nothing but an accident, like the wolf dreams had been. The first night he was awake and in his own body that he felt Sansa’s body push too close to his own, Jon found that he could control his entering Ghost, as Orell had with his eagle.

It was better this way, Jon thought, where her warmth was all he felt, not any softness.

Even if the words of both Quenn and Dolorous Edd were what kept him up most nights, either in the direwolf’s body or his own.

It was Edd who told him that his watch had ended, that those vows had ended with his life, and while Jon knew that to be true, how many would believe him? That he was killed in a mutiny and was raised again? Most of the people of Mole’s Town believed that he was grievously wounded in a mutiny. Even if Stannis had received a raven claiming his death, as Edd had said, his appearance could have that easily proved naught but a rumor. Anyone could dismiss his claims and name him deserter.

Jon Snow remembered his lord father swinging Ice to behead a man of the Night’s Watch, remembered how he told Bran to watch, that their father would know if he looked away.

Would Stannis have any choice if Jon wore a cloak other than black?

Would he be sent back to the Wall once Winterfell was won, if he rejected Stannis’s offer once again?

If he was, would he be forced to hand over this new cloak to don a black one again?

It were a cloak, what turned Mance.

Jon Snow had heard the story from Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, himself. Mance Rayder had fell to a beast while ranging and was healed by a Free Folk woman. When he returned to the Wall, he wore a cloak mended with red silk. When the Lord Commander told him to replace it with plain black wool, Mance deserted.

If Jon Snow was ordered back to the Wall by Stannis or by Sansa, vows broken by his death or no, he would be commanded to remove it, replace it, as Mance had been.

Would giving up Sansa’s cloak be enough to warrant desertion?

A crow, a cloak, and a maid.

Yes, Jon thought, looking through Ghost’s eyes at the cloak covering both of their sleeping bodies. Yes, I would desert before I’d burn this cloak.

One of Jon Snow’s fears when they had left Mole’s Town was that Sansa would struggle to live on the road, in the harsh conditions. He knew little of her life after they had both left Winterfell, but he suspected much of it had been warm in great keeps. Though, if he was honest, he would have had the same fears if he had been aware of the plan to live amongst the Free Folk of Mole’s Town. That the folk would have been too hard, too rough for Sansa’s fine ladylike sensibilities, that she would have been offended by how they behaved, how they spoke. None of that had been true, but Jon had feared that the road would be different.

After near a fortnight, Jon realized that those fears were also unfounded. Sansa was a far cry from the spearwives, but she was nothing as he thought she would be. The girl he remembered her being was loathe to play outside. She preferred needlework by the fire or playing with dolls when they were all still in the nursery. Jon remembered how Arya would complain about Sansa’s remarks, her judgements, when she would come in muddy or wet. Jon would have expected much of the same, complaints about the cold, the ground, the food.

Sansa did not speak a negative word as they trekked south, and Jon found himself struggling.

Her hair was dark yet, and none but him knew her as anyone other than Alayne.

Jon Snow felt himself going mad, wondering if this was in fact the same girl from his childhood. Was she truly Sansa Stark, the girl who had called him nothing but half-brother, or was she some imposter, hoping to claim Winterfell for some other great House?

He was torn between fearing that was the way of it and hoping that this maid was not his half-sister.

Jon Snow wanted the girl beside him to be the girl he was raised alongside. He wanted family and Winterfell and why else bring him back from the dead if not to protect the lone Stark left in the world?

Jon also prayed that she wasn’t. For nigh on three months, he had lived the lie that he had been stolen by a beautiful, kind, highborn lady. One who cloaked him in the Stark colors, as though he was a blushing bride.

Quenn had said that it was a cloak that had made Mance an oathbreaker and Jon thought how stupid that was. His grey cloak wasn’t him breaking vows or turning his back on the Night’s Watch. His vows had ended.

Jon had lived in this lie too long and it felt too true. He felt as if he was truly wed, not simply bedded as he had been with Ygritte, but stolen and cloaked.

Jon Snow wanted all that being wedded entailed, with Alayne, with Sansa.

Stolen, cloaked, and bedded.

A crow, a cloak, and a maid.

Jon Snow had never felt his bastard blood as hotly as he did the nights when he slid into Ghost’s body so as not to feel his sister’s breasts.

It were a cloak, what turned Mance.

What the cloak, the lie, had him betraying was the natural order of things. He was a traitor to his honor, to the honor of his lord father.

Jon Snow suspected they were only two or three days from Winterfell and Stannis’s war camp. He thought they should be strategizing. If Stannis had truly received a raven from the Wall that Jon Snow had been killed in a mutiny, should he walk in as himself and dismiss it all with words are wind? What of Sansa’s identity? Stannis had called her Lady Lannister last they spoke, and though she was playacting at being his bride, she was wed still. Nothing in her situation had changed. To reveal her as a Stark would be to reveal their lie to all the Free Folk. Would they still follow him into a battle if they knew he had lied to them all?

Jon wanted to speak to Sansa, to Quenn, to the others who had rode against Stannis.

He had thought to summon them all around his fire, to speak on all the tactics for war, and then when they retired, speak to Sansa on the politics of their lies and identities, but a scout running down the King’s Road sent that all to a halt.

“There’s a dead horse in the road. No riders,” the scout announced.

“Do we think it a trap?” Quenn asked.

Jon didn’t think that Stannis seemed one to lay traps, especially not ones to the north. Mayhaps the Boltons, but to set it they would have had to had gone around Stannis’s camp from Winterfell.

“We still have a couple days before we’ll be on Stannis’s war party. Why lay a trap so far up the road?”

Sansa’s eyes caught his across the fire. There was a warmth, a hope, in her face that had him focusing on the flames instead.

“How long do you think the horse had been dead? Did you check the surrounding trees?”

“N-no—”

“Take a few others. Check both sides of the road, check trees and hollows, snow drifts that could hide a man. Go before darkness falls.”

“Aye.”

The man, Quenn, and the others left his fire then, leaving him alone with Sansa.

“You’re good at this,” she said softly.

“What?”

“Leading. Commanding. Is that why you were elected Lord Commander so young?”

“No, no, that…” Jon paused, trying to find the words. He still struggled to understand why Sam had chosen him to become the Lord Commander. “There were three men campaigning and Stannis threatened to name one if no one could agree.” Jon Snow shrugged.

“Stannis named you Lord Commander?”

“No. Sam…Sam got two of the three and all of their men to vote for me, instead. So that Stannis wouldn’t name a Lord Commander.”

Jon raised his head from the flickering fire and found Sansa gazing at him.

“Sounds to me as though your ability to lead had quite a bit to do with it.”

A heat rose on his face that had little and less to do with the fire before him.

They were alone—he should ask if she had a plan to reveal herself. If she had thought of one for him.

“Was it all you had hoped for? Being a Black Knight?”

Black Knights—what they were called in the songs and Old Nan’s tales. Jon doubted he had heard anyone use it at Castle Black and certainly no one beyond the wall used any other term than crow.

“It…No, it wasn’t. Uncle Benjen tried to warn me, I think. I was too young and stupid to listen.”

Sansa nodded.

“I thought I would be Good Queen Alysanne. Instead, I was a prisoner. A songbird in a gilded cage.” She let out a bitter laugh that had Jon wanting to reach across the fire and comfort her. “Would you have taken your vows, if you knew then? If you had listened to Benjen?”

If Jon hadn’t left Winterfell, would he have been taken south with his lord father and the girls? Could he have gotten them safely out when Eddard Stark was arrested? Would he have been left behind with Robb and the little boys? Would he have ridden to war at Robb’s side, as he meant to? Would he have been slain beside him? Or would he have stayed to mind Bran and Rickon? Would he have been there when Theon and the Ironborn attacked? Could he have stopped them, saved the young ones?

The scout sprinting toward him saved Jon from having to answer.

“You were right. It was no trap. There was a girl—” Jon shot to his feet. Sansa rose, rushing to his side. “She was hidden in a snowdrift, like you said—”

“Was she alive? Where is she?”

Sansa gripped his hand.

“Barely. We’ve taken her to the healers—”

They were running before the scout could finish speaking.

Sansa still held his hand, but Jon barely thought of it.

The healers’ fire held the small group of non-fighting women who had agreed to march on Winterfell instead of retreating to the safety of Castle Black.

“A girl was brought to you?”

“She needs rest and warmth. She’s frozen half to death. You can see her in the morn.”

“Please,” Sansa whispered, sounding much more like the girl he remembered.

The youngest of the women around the fire looked up, then reached for Sansa’s hand, leading both of them toward a second, smaller fire.

“She’s half froze, but that’s the least of it. If she makes it through the night…”

Now it was Jon who was gripping Sansa’s hand for fear of falling over. If what this woman said was true, Arya could be dying as they spoke. He should have ridden on his own, instead of raising the men at the Wall.

Curled around the fire, under a mound of furs and blankets, Jon could just see a thin face, a brown braid. He collapsed to his knees in the snow before her, felt Sansa drop by his side.

The girl was sleeping, her lips tinted blue, but even in the fading light, Jon knew something was wrong.

“That isn’t Arya.”

Jon nodded numbly. The girl before him didn’t have the long Stark face. He and Arya looked most like their lord father. This girl did not.

“That’s Jeyne Poole,” Sansa gasped.

Chapter Text

Sansa slept fitfully that night. Questions she hadn’t been able to ask churned in her mind, worries boiling her stomach. If they had been in Mole’s Town yet, Sansa might have voiced her fears to Jon, might have sought comfort in his words, but sleeping out in the open with his men only a dozen feet away didn’t give them the sort of privacy she wanted. If any overheard her questions, they might begin to question who she truly was to him, and Sansa did not want that so close to Winterfell.

The other reason that Sansa didn’t raise any concerns to Jon was that he had fallen asleep so quickly and that she didn’t want to wake him. She knew he had fears of his own, about Stannis, about the battle, and she knew that if he was to lead this garrison alongside Stannis’s army, he would need his wits about him. Jon would need sleep, so Sansa allowed him sleep.

It was early yet when Sansa rose, long before they would break camp and continue toward Winterfell. She had thought to wake Jon, so as not to worry him, just to tell him that she was going to visit Yarrow, see how Jeyne Poole was fairing, but he didn’t stir as she crawled out from between he and Ghost. Instead, she passed her fingers through Ghost’s fur, rubbing his ears.

“I’m going to the healer’s fire. Don’t let him worry,” she whispered to the direwolf. Ghost blinked sleepily, the predawn shadows casting the ruby eyes darker than she had ever seen them.

The healers—wisewomen the Free Folk called them, Sansa had since learned—had awoke already.

“Do you know her?” Yarrow asked as Sansa kneeled by Jeyne’s sleeping body.

Sansa stared at the familiar face that was so wrong from what she had been hoping to see. It was another face she had also thought she would never see again after her father’s arrest and the slaughter of his men.

“I do,” Sansa whispered but did not provide any more information. “Has she woken at all?”

“Only enough to take a potion. Her lips are pink though, a good enough sign.”

Sansa couldn’t speak for her disappointment, even more for her shameful relief. Disappointed that this was not her little sister who had disappeared, who she had feared was dead. Relief that this was not her little sister, half in the grave.

“She had other injuries?”

“Other than frostbite? Aye. Half healed ribs, bruises, the like. Scars. She’s…she’s been maltreated in the worst ways.”

Sansa nodded, swallowing her tears. After Jeyne had disappeared from the Red Keep, Sansa had been terrified for her life and had thought little of the fate of her childhood best friend. She had hoped the girl was safe, sent to a relative. Jeyne Poole’s appearance suggested that she hadn’t had a moment of safety, given how haggard and waxen she was. Given the missing tip of her nose.

“Do you know, if others were found with her?”

“None living. The bodies were taken into the forest to be burned.”

“Any little girls?” Sansa asked.

Yarrow shook her head. “Men only.”

Sansa reached beneath the furs, drawing out Jeyne’s hand to hold in her own.

“I’m going to go see about a means of carrying her. If she wakes, she can have a few spoons worth of broth only.”

The sun was just beginning to crest over the horizon when Jeyne Poole’s eyes fluttered open. Sansa had expected her to wake slowly, to be groggy from the potions and whatever had transpired that left her alone in a snowdrift, but instead her friend woke in a sheer panic, eyes wild, and recoiling from Sansa’s touch.

“You’re safe, you’re safe,” Sansa reassured. “You know me. Your childhood friend Alayne from Winterfell? You know me, Jeyne.”

It was only once Sansa uttered Jeyne’s name that she stilled.

“There was no Alayne in Winterfell,” she said slowly.

Sansa pulled her hood back enough that the Tully auburn just visible at the crown of her head could be seen clearly.

“I am your childhood friend from Winterfell,” Sansa repeated.

Sansa felt Jeyne’s scrutinizing gaze as hot as a flame. If she insisted that she was not Alayne, how would the camp respond? How would Jon feel that it was her stupidity that uncovered their lies?

“Alayne?”

Sansa nodded. “Alayne. And you’re Jeyne Poole.”

“Yes, Jeyne. My name is Jeyne.”

“Would you tell me what happened? You were alone, with a dead horse in the road.”

“I was with an escort to seek shelter at Castle Black. A few of the men got separated in a blizzard. The others froze. It was just I and the Lady Mormont. She turned back to gather more support. I was meant to stay put, but I got spooked. My horse went lame, so I hid.”

“You were heading for Castle Black?”

“It was thought I would be safest with Jon Snow.”

“Why?” Sansa asked before she could bite her tongue. Sansa had been told the same when she fled after the tourney, but Jon Snow was the only kin left to her. Jeyne Poole had no such claim.

Jeyne hesitated, appearing suddenly fearful.

“Who thought you would be safest with Jon?”

“Stannis Baratheon, after I escaped Winterfell.”

“You escaped from Winterfell? Did you escape with Arya? Is she still with Stannis?”

Jeyne flinched at Sansa’s use of Arya’s name, seeming to shrink into herself. It was several moments before she would meet Sansa’s eye, before she would respond.

“She never was,” Jeyne whispered.

“What? But—she’s been married to Ram—”

“No,” Jeyne spat. “She wasn’t. Arya, the true Arya, hasn’t been seen since that day in King’s Landing.”

“But then…”

“They dressed me in a Stark cloak. Theon Greyjoy presented me before the heart tree. I begged him to help me escape…” Jeyne paused, overcome with sobs.

“Shh, shh.” Sansa reached forward, comforting her friend.

“I wished for rescue but prayed for death. I thought Littlefinger’s brothels were a hell, but I would’ve gladly returned to the whorehouses instead of being kept in that bed.”

“Littlefinger? Lord Baelish?”

“Aye. I was trained by those in his employ in King’s Landing before being sold to the Boltons.”

Sansa had fled the Gates of the Moon after the chaos of the tourney, after all had not worked as Petyr Baelish had orchestrated. After Harry the Heir was unhorsed during the last tilt, then trampled by his spooked mount. After Lord Baelish had too many cups of wine and had come to her chambers, calling her by her mother’s name, asking for a kiss. It had reminded her of another man, entering her chambers, demanding a song. It was when he collapsed into a drunken sleep in her bed that Sansa ran, seeking help from the only friend she had.

After Myranda Royce had given her that small dagger, told her where to stab, Sansa wondered if she shouldn’t have killed Petyr instead of running. She had thought of the Moon Door, of Dontos on the ship, of the purple stones in the hairnet. She decided that leaving him alive was the smarter play, if only because she didn’t want murder on her conscience, nor did she want to plunge the Vale into further turmoil. She had only wanted to escape.

After hearing Jeyne’s tale, however, Sansa wished that she had. A quick death would be too good for him. She prayed whoever dealt his death would deliver it with an equal measure of pain that he forced upon Jeyne Poole.

“You are safe now,” Sansa vowed. “We’ll protect you and you won’t ever have to face him again.”

Sansa was still by Jeyne’s side when Jon approached a little while after Jeyne had fallen back asleep.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t wake you,” she murmured, voice soft so as not to disturb Jeyne. Tears had continued to fall from her eyes even after she had drifted off.

“It’s fine. I heard you tell Ghost.”

Jon sat beside her, handing her a warmed bowl of last night’s stew.

“Didn’t think you’d eaten.”

“Have you?” Sansa asked.

Jon shrugged. “Wasn’t much left and I wanted to make sure you had some. Did Jeyne?”

“She had some broth Yarrow made.”

Sansa ate a few bites before passing the bowl back to Jon.

“I know it’s not very good, but it’s all we have.”

“No, no, it’s…It’s not that. You need your strength, more than I do. We can share it, so that you won’t have to go without.”

Jon accepted the bowl after only another moment’s hesitation. Sansa watched as he ate smaller bites than she had before passing it back.

“Did she wake at all? Jeyne?”

“She did, briefly.” Sansa ate a single spoonful and handed the spoon to Jon. “It was her, who was married to Ramsay Bolton, not Arya,” Sansa whispered, leaning close so that her voice didn’t travel. Jon reared back, meeting her gaze with a flinty stare. “Arya still hasn’t been seen since King’s Landing. It had been Jeyne the entire time.”

The long Stark face often revealed little of what Jon was feeling, Sansa thought, but the glassy sheen in his eyes gave away his disappointment.

“I’m sorry.” She took the spoon back from Jon, eating a final bite.

“What for?”

“That she’s not Arya. I know you were hoping to see her.” Jon shook his head.

“I had wanted to save her. Not knowing where she is, if she’s safe, is hard…but at the same time, I’m glad she hasn’t been forced into a marriage. That she’s not who Ramsay spoke of in his letter.”

Sansa nodded. She had thought much the same.

“Does she know? Jeyne?”

Jon took the bowl back, to sip the dregs, and his hand brushed hers. Sansa startled at the contact. Neither of them had remembered gloves that morning. It was that unexpected contact that reminded her of what Jon was asking.

Sansa shook her head. “Just my name.”

“I’ll leave that to you. Whatever you want to tell her.”

“I promised her that we’d protect her. That she wouldn’t have to face Ramsay again.”

“Aye. I’ll ensure it.”

“Thank you, Jon.”

Without the bowl to hold, Sansa found herself unsure what to do with her hands. She settled for rubbing Jeyne’s back, because she couldn’t do what she wanted, which was hold Jon’s hand. It was innocent gesture, one that no one would question whether they believed her his bride or knew the truth of their relationship. And it would offer him comfort. As relieved as she was that it was Jeyne and not Arya, she was more fearful for her sister. She had thought she had known where she was, enduring the same as Sansa had in King’s Landing, becoming a bride. If she truly hadn’t been seen since King’s Landing, was she dead as many believed? Sansa knew Jon would be thinking the same, and he was far closer to Arya than she had been.

I have taken his hand before, Sansa thought, it should be easy.

It took all the strength in her arm to reach out and interlock their fingers. His scarred right hand flexed in hers.

“Winterfell will be yours.”

Sansa could hear the solemnity of the vow in his voice.

“I know. I believe in you.”

Jon’s hand tightened on hers once again before he released her fingers, leaving Sansa bereft.

“We should speak about what we’ll tell Stannis, the others,” Jon murmured.

“I agree. Tonight? Before we arrive at the camp.”

“Will Jeyne be well enough to travel?”

“Yarrow went to secure a cart or sled. If she doesn’t have to march, she should be well enough.”

“I’ll see what we can spare.”

Jon rose, bowl he arrived with in hand, and Sansa found that she didn’t want him to leave. While she trusted the Free Folk and all they traveled with, she felt best by his side.

“Jon,” she called, careful not to wake Jeyne. “Stannis told her to go to you, as did Myranda Royce when I fled. They knew that you would do all in your power to protect us.”

Jon turned to face her fully, his back to the sun, and Sansa thought his eyes looked as shadowed as Ghost’s had before dawn.

“I will. All in my power and more.”

Chapter Text

The day’s trek was slow, all who were able carrying the meager supplies they had yet so that the cart could be used to pull Jeyne Poole. Jon Snow knew he could have pushed them further, could have easily arrived at Stannis’s camp if he had set a more brutal pace, and he had the thought to when they set out far later into the morning than they had been. But then he watched Sansa take up her place beside the cart, holding Jeyne’s hand as they began their journey. It was that sight that stalled his tongue, thinking of the gentle way she had taken his hand just hours ago.

The other reason Jon didn’t impose a faster pace was that he still wanted time to talk to Sansa, to plan their approach into Stannis’s camp. With him at the front and Sansa in the rear, there was no chance, nor was there any privacy with Jeyne and the wisewomen.

So despite the fact they were less than a day’s march to where Stannis’s camp was, Jon called for them to stop for the night.

Jon sat with Ghost at his fire, waiting for Sansa to return so that they could speak. She had gone to ensure Jeyne was comfortable in the cart, that she was taking Yarrow’s potions. He could see her across his fire, a trick of the flames making her hair look lighter. Auburn, as he had remembered it being. Kissed-by-fire, as Ygritte’s had been.

Jon Snow forced his eyes to the snow before his boots, lest he became enchanted by the illusion.

After tomorrow, Sansa would not be Alayne anymore, would not be his bride, the maid who stole him. With Arya being proved false, if they revealed Jeyne to Stannis, it was Sansa’s claim that would be strongest. It would be impossible for Stannis to hold Winterfell without a Stark, and Stannis knew that well enough considering what he had once offered Jon. It would have to be Sansa, Jon thought. Winterfell belonged to her.

The crunch of boots in snow startled Jon. Sansa approached. He thought she looked cold, tired, but granted him a small smile nonetheless. She deserves Winterfell, he corrected in his own mind.

“How is she?”

“Tired but on the mend. Yarrow and the others believe she’s through the worst of the immediate danger. It’s…it’s the wounds from Winterfell that worry them, worry me. What she’s endured… She’s lived only nightmares since she was taken from me in King’s Landing.”

The flames cast half of Sansa’s face in shadow as she sat beside him. Jon thought she looked haunted.

Jon realized that the only thing he knew of Sansa’s time in the south was her marriage to Tyrion Lannister and that she had fled King’s Landing after Joffrey’s death.

“What of you? Was it only nightmares?”

Sansa’s gaze flicked to his before returning to the fire.

“No, not as Jeyne’s life has been. But there have been many monsters, and no knights or heroes.” She paused, turning toward him again. “Save for you.”

Jon shook his head. If she knew what was in his head, she would think him a monster, mayhaps worse than some she had encountered. If she knew that he had wanted to tear out Quenn’s throat with his teeth, swallowing the blood until it ceased to pump. If she knew that he slipped into Ghost every night so that he wouldn’t feel the softness of her body against his.

If she knew that he wished they were truly wedded, without her false name.

Jon laid down beside Ghost, leaving plenty of space for Sansa. It was only a few moments before she laid beside him, close enough that he could feel her warmth. Jon draped the cloak over them, as he had each night. Typically he kept his face toward the fire, toward any threat, but because he had to know her plan, Jon rolled so that they were face to face.

The flames reflected in Sansa’s eyes and again Jon Snow imagined what she would look like, lying beside him with her auburn hair. He could just see a hint of her true color when her hood slipped back. It took everything in him to not stare at it.

“You said Stannis has been to Castle Black?”

“Aye. He knows me, knows my face. Edd said that some of the others had sent a raven, informing him of my death.”

“So when you walk into camp, he will dismiss that as rumor.”

“Unless the Red Woman has joined him again. She is his priestess. He listens to her above all others.”

Jon thought something akin to anger washed over Sansa’s face.

“I don’t trust her. She has…plans for you that I cannot fathom.”

“I trust neither her nor Stannis. But we don’t have men enough to take Winterfell without them.”

“She means to have you wielded as a weapon,” Sansa whispered, fear overtaking the anger in her countenance. Her hand clutched his beneath the cloak.

“What would you have me do?”

“Don’t reveal who you are.”

“I told you, Stannis knows my face.”

“But not that you live. Send someone else to treat with him. Send Quenn. Send me.”

Jon shook his head, trying to calm his temper. How could she ask him to send her in his place? How would she be protected if she wasn’t at his side?

“Stannis won’t trust you.” Jon dropped his voice and Sansa leaned closer. To any in the camp, they would look as though they were whispering loving words on the eve before battle. “Last we spoke, he called you Lady Lannister and offered to legitimize me, grant me Winterfell. He will only see you as the lion’s paw reaching too far north.”

“And you rejected his offer?”

“Winterfell is yours, regardless of who your husband is.”

“Tyrion is my husband in name only. The marriage was never consummated. He’s not been seen since Cersei wanted to execute him. I’m like to be a widow soon enough, if I’m not already.”

A marriage in name only, as we are? Jon wanted to ask. Iron filled his mouth, keeping that question in.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Your widowhood.”

Sansa shook her head, the flames casting her face in a pinkish glow.

“Tyrion was kinder than most in King’s Landing, but I never agreed to the marriage. In truth, there’s not a marriage or betrothal that’s been discussed since Father’s death that I would have been happy in. None have been a match Father would have made for me.”

“There have been that many?”

Sansa nodded, and something about it broke a piece of Jon’s heart.

“It seems it’s the only way for a young maid to be safe. Though we’ve seen how false that is, when they’re married to monsters.”

“I’m sorry. For all you endured. That neither of us…”

Neither Robb nor I saved her. We never tried. She had been alone, in the lion’s den, and a little girl yet, after witnessing her own father’s beheading.

Jon thought of everything he had seen and done in the years since they had both left Winterfell. He thought of Maester Aemon’s advice: kill the boy, Jon Snow. Kill the boy, and let the man be born. Jon had tried to follow that advice, saving Dalla’s babe by sacrificing Gilly’s, sending Sam and Aemon away to Oldtown, sending away the men he trusted. Jon thought killing the boy meant becoming cold, cruel, doing what was necessary for the good of the Watch, what was necessary to save them from the winter, from the Others.

Horrors warred in Sansa’s eyes, and yet every part of her seemed as gentle and kind as he remembered her being in Winterfell.

“You’re saving me now. You tried to save Arya. You’re helping Jeyne even though she’s no kin of yours.” Jon had to look away from her face. Her breath was close enough to dance upon his skin. “Send me with Quenn and with Ghost. We will learn of Stannis’s plan, of Ramsay’s numbers, then we can strategize with you.”

Sansa bringing Ghost was the only reason he agreed to her plan, as reckless as he thought it seemed. Ghost, and the fear in her eyes when she spoke of the Red Woman wanting him as a weapon.

Jon thought to ask her then where Sansa had been hidden after King’s Landing, if she had been somewhere safer than the capital, but Jon knew that was stupid. If she had felt safe, if she had been happy, she never would have come to him, her bastard half-brother.

“Tell me something nice,” she whispered, her eyes closed. “A happy story, after you left Winterfell. Of your lover, mayhaps?”

“I don’t know that I would call that a happy story.”

“A different one, then.”

Jon paused, hoping that she would fall asleep, but her eyes flicked open, finding his quickly.

“Surely you have one?”

“I do.” Sansa closed her eyes again, her head pillowed on the crook of her arm.

Jon Snow described when he first saw the beauty and magic beyond the Wall, wonder alit on her expression even with her eyes shut, listening to his tale.

Most nights, Jon was careful to stay awake until Sansa fell asleep, until she rolled toward him and he slid into Ghost so as not to feel her softness. They had never fallen asleep talking, facing each other. It meant that Jon fell asleep before he could slip into Ghost and ensure he had wolf dreams instead of his own.

The night before they arrived at Stannis’s camp, Jon Snow dreamed of a fair maid on the battlements of Winterfell, smiling and laughing as children practiced archery in the yard. A naked womb, ripe with a babe. A sweet voice, singing in the nursery. The lord’s chambers, warm from the hot springs, flicking with light from the hearth, a head on his chest, and auburn hair spilling across the furs.

Jon awoke with a gasp, shocked to find himself still within his own body. Jon Snow was shocked further still to find that Sansa’s back had turned to him in the night, her spine pressed to his chest and her waist cradled in his hips.

Chapter Text

Before they departed for Stannis’s war camp, Sansa had wondered how she might embrace Jon. She recalled the passion she had witnessed from her parents and while she suspected it would not have been out of place amongst the Free Folk, she wasn’t truly Jon Snow’s bride. She could not behave as if she truly was.

Sansa thought to leave it best to leave it to Jon in the end, given that these were his people. She had thought he might offer a hug, as she had hugged him when she found him awake in Mole’s Town. She did not expect that all he would offer was a nod of his head and a keep Ghost close. It was the same gesture he had given to Quenn, save for the comment about Ghost, but it hurt her all the same that he did not treat her as a man should treat a wife, or as a brother should a sister.

“You do not kiss your husband farewell?” Quenn asked. Sansa glanced behind her to the place she, Quenn, and Ghost had left Jon Snow. There was naught beneath the tree but snow and shadows.

Had she wanted a kiss? It was not a question that Sansa had an easy answer for. How many unwanted kisses had she had, Sansa wondered. She knew unquestionably she had not wanted any of them. What would make her want this kiss that she didn’t receive?

“We said our goodbyes in private.” She knew her voice sounded terse. Quenn offered a chuckle but Sansa felt a heaviness to her bones, the ashes of disappointment filling her hollow spaces.

Sansa thought of Jon’s hand, holding hers beneath the cloak.

Who had last touched her skin as gently as Jon had?

What hands of a man had last reached for her without her wishing she could recoil directly?

Ghost loped between them then, creating a barrier for any further conversations.

Sansa knew that Jon had sent an emissary ahead to allow them safe entrance into the camp and a party before Stannis, but as they came upon the guards stationed outside the camp, Sansa found herself afraid. They were so close to Winterfell, and yet it all rested on her shoulders. She had to make Stannis believe her identity, believe that she was no Lannister spy, and protect the truth that Jon was alive.

The shoulder of the great direwolf beside her brushed hers, and Sansa wound her fingers into the fur. She remembered wishing for Lady once, so that she could be brave. With Ghost at her side, Sansa forced herself to be.

“The wolf stays outside the camp,” the guard said before either she or Quenn had a chance to identify themselves.

“He must stay by my side.” Sansa stepped forward, blocking the guard’s view of Ghost’s bared teeth. “I assure you, as long as no harm comes to me, he will not attack.” The guards looked to each other. Sansa approached another step. “We are in the shadows of Winterfell, and you will deny entry to a direwolf?” Ghost’s massive paws crunched beneath the snow, coming in line with her own feet.

With only a moment’s more hesitation, the guards waved them through, into the camp.

As they came upon the center tent, Sansa found her fear overtaking her again. Jon had said that Stannis knew his face, that he had offered him Winterfell, and that he trusted the Red Woman above all others. Had the red witch left Castle Black to join her king? She would recognize Sansa, no doubt. Would the witch seek Jon out in the camp if she suspected that he was amongst their numbers? Smoke rose in a plume from the hole at the top of the tent, and though she didn’t smell the spices or salt that she recalled in the ice cells, Sansa wished desperately that it was Jon that Ghost was protecting, not her.

Sansa twined her fingers more tightly into the direwolf’s white fur, allowing him to follow Quenn into the tent and keeping herself hidden in the shadow Ghost cast.

To her relief, Sansa did not see nor smell the Red Woman and her smoke within the tent. She prayed that the witch was still in Castle Black, as Dolores Edd had claimed while they had been in Mole’s Town yet. Even without the Red Woman’s presence, Sansa kept herself removed from the conversation of soldiers, leaving Quenn to share the information Jon had provided him with: their numbers, their strengths, their weaknesses. Sansa knew the most important of those weaknesses, Jon had said, was that they had no horses for a cavalry. Stannis shared little of his own numbers, but Sansa suspected that attempting to siege Winterfell had left them significantly weakened.

“Tell me, wildling. Why is it you lead this army to Winterfell? I had written for Jon Snow to bring men, yes, but ravens from Castle Black claim he’s been killed. I can only assume there is truth in that, for I know that to be his direwolf.”

Sansa’s hand trembled in Ghost’s fur. She knew that Jon and Quenn had spoken at length about courtesy and what information to divulge, but she was sure this was not a question that Jon had prepared Quenn to answer.

Sansa stepped out from Ghost’s shadow, drawing back her hood and allowing the Tully auburn in her roots to catch in the torchlight.

“Because I asked him to do so.”

“And who are you to lead this army?”

“Sansa Stark, the blood of Winterfell.”

The flickering flames cast long shadows across Stannis’s face. Sansa found it nearly as hard to read as Jon’s Stark face.

“Sansa was not the Stark girl sent to the safety of the Wall.”

“No, the girl you sent was no Stark at all, but Jeyne Poole, the steward’s daughter. My girlhood friend.”

Whispering filled the tent. Half seemed disinclined to believe her, but Sansa heard with distinction the wondering: had the Boltons known?

“I had her questioned. She had intimate knowledge of Winterfell and all who lived there. We confirmed that she could only be Arya Stark.”

“She would, as the steward’s daughter.” The whispers grew to mutterings. Stannis’s face was washed in red. “You believe I would mistake my own sister?”

“How am I to know you’re not an imposter? Sansa Stark has not been seen since Joffrey’s death. And, as I recall, she is said to bear a striking resemblance to the Lady Catelyn Tully.”

Sansa had several retorts on her tongue, but Ghost stepped between her and Stannis, hackles raised. A number of Stannis’s soldiers went for their blades. Sansa stepped between Stannis and Ghost, meeting the direwolf’s eyes. To her surprise, they were dark, as they had been the other morning, not the ruby red she knew him to have.

“I’m all right,” she whispered, rubbing his ears as she often did. “Stand down, Ghost.”

The direwolf’s too dark eyes stayed fixed on Stannis behind her for a moment before he blinked and looked at her. Though his eyes were the wrong color, Sansa thought they looked familiar. Ghost’s hackles lowered and the direwolf sat.

“I can’t deny that there might be Stark blood somewhere in your veins, but that doesn’t prove your claims.” Stannis turned to one of the men beside him and whispered something. The man left quickly.

“We have another who claims to have lived in Winterfell. Mayhaps he can verify your identity.”

Sansa turned to the mouth of the tent. Another who had lived in Winterfell? Who could he mean, she wondered.

The tense minutes passed slowly while they all awaited the arrival of the man Stannis believed could prove her true.

Between two guards a shackled man was hauled. He was frail with white hair and Sansa did not recognize this man. There were any number of smallfolk or servants in Winterfell and the winter town that she would be unfamiliar with, that wouldn’t recognize her with her darkened hair.

“Theon Greyjoy was ward to Eddard Stark. Mayhaps he can tell us if you truly are Sansa Stark.”

At the sound of Theon’s name, Sansa started. A small smile shadowed on Stannis’s lips, Sansa saw.

It’s not fear you see, Sansa thought, but horror at this creature being the boy I knew.

Theon was close in age with Robb, but the man who hung between the guards looked far older than even her lord father had been at his death.

With what appeared to be great difficulty, Theon lifted his head, met her eyes. Sansa thought she saw the flash of recognition in them, but he did not immediately speak to say he knew her.

“You were there,” Sansa said, and Theon’s face seemed to pale. “You were there with my lord father, my brothers, and Jon Snow when they found the weaning direwolf pups. Father had to execute a deserter of the Night’s Watch and on your return, you came upon a direwolf gored by a stag. There were six pups, one for each of us children. Lady was grey, the smallest of the litter. Septa Mordane scolded me for feeding her beneath the table.” Sansa turned to Stannis. “Would you care for me to tell you what each of my siblings named their pups?”

“What say you?” Stannis asked Theon.

“She speaks true. She is Sansa Stark.”

“And the other Stark daughter you claimed to have escaped Winterfell alongside? If this is truly Sansa, she must also be telling the truth that the girl married to Ramsay Bolton was not Arya but the steward’s daughter.”

“Jeyne. Her name is Jeyne.”

A cold fury seemed to settle into Stannis, Sansa thought, before he turned to the map on the table.

“Your lies are a matter to be dealt with at a later point. What can you tell us about Ramsay Bolton?”

Sansa listened in revulsion as Theon described the games that Ramsay enjoyed playing, how he would release Theon and others and hunted them down again with his hounds.

“Mayhaps we might lure Ramsay out without his army. Use the steward’s daughter as bait. Even with your wildling army, we don’t have the numbers for an all-out assault. Does the girl travel with you?”

“She does,” Sansa said slowly.

“Is she well enough to run?”

Terror cut like ice into her bones.

“And if she’s captured?”

“What’s the life of a steward’s daughter against the whole of the north?”

I promised her she would never have to face him again, Sansa thought. To ask Jeyne to play bait would turn her into a liar. She had failed to save Jeyne in King’s Landing. Mayhaps she could save her now.

“Ramsay would sense the trap, if all Theon has said is true. Jeyne has been in your care, recovering, for more than a fortnight. Why would she try to run now? We need something more to draw him out.”

“What do you suggest?”

Sansa studied the map and wished Robb were still alive, wished that he was beside her. In King’s Landing, they had spoked in hushed awe of his strategy. He had been able to capture Jaime Lannister when he was barely a man. She thought of Jon, ordering the men about, asking for details in the scouting reports. How he had known that the dead horse wasn’t a trap but could mean that someone was hiding nearby.

Sansa thought of Joffrey, another boy fond of games.

“Jeyne asks for trial by combat. She declares a champion.”

“Trial for what crimes?”

“That list is long,” Theon said. His voice was so quiet Sansa was unsure if he had meant to speak at all.

“And if her champion loses?”

Quenn joined her at the map.

“Let him see you leave with your army. Make it seem that you are leaving the issue of the castle to us. He fights, you sneak around to the rear.” Quenn shrugged. “If the combat goes in Ramsay’s favor, we charge from both sides.”

“Who would Jeyne choose as champion?”

Sansa turned to Quenn. Jon had bested him when they brawled, but all in the camp had believed Quenn would win easily. And Sansa could not utter Jon Snow’s name as her choice and put him in harm’s way.

“Quenn is one of our best fighters.”

“You’re no Mountain, but I suppose you would tower over Ramsay still. Would Ramsay name a champion or would he fight himself?” Stannis asked Theon.

“If goaded, he would fight himself. He has killed men for calling him Lord Snow.”

“I mislike this plan…but a full assault or a siege would be a fool’s errand. With the wildling army, this may be our only chance.”

Sansa was inclined to agree with Stannis, though she wouldn’t voice it. It was not a good plan, she thought, but it was better than asking Jeyne to be hunted through the wolfswood. Jon would have a better plan without risking Jeyne, Sansa thought, but she wouldn’t reveal that he was alive. They would just have to ensure that this plan worked.

“I’ll have a raven sent to Ramsay Bolton directly. Have Theon escorted with a scribe to detail the crimes this steward’s daughter will accuse him of having committed, and a tent prepared for the Stark daughter with guards posted without.”

“That will not be necessary. I will be returning to my own camp.”

Stannis regarded her with something akin to surprise on his face before his expression turned cold again.

“You are the only known Stark left, with Jon Snow dead. Without you, and Ramsay’s bride proven false, the north could fall easily. I’d be a fool to let you leave my sight.”

Sansa felt her knees weaken, fear overtaking her. Stupid, she thought, have you learned nothing from Cersei or Littlefinger? She revealed her identity and now of course Stannis would not let her leave.

Ghost rose from where he had been sitting behind her. Sansa was buried in his shadow, his teeth bared above her shoulder.

I must protect Jon and Winterfell, she thought. I cannot be lost again.

“As you said, with Jon Snow and my other siblings lost or dead, Winterfell belongs to me. I intent to claim it. Of all the things you should fear, my disappearance is not one of them.”

Stannis seemed to study her for a moment too long, for Ghost encroached on the man claiming to be a king.

Stannis did not move aside from to shift his stare from her to the direwolf. “Very well. I will inform you once I hear from Ramsay Bolton.”

Sansa began to leave, her fingers in Ghost’s fur again, when she heard Stannis speak.

“If Winterfell is won, we will discuss the issue of your marriage, Lady Lannister.”

Sansa paused, but did not turn enough to speak to Stannis’s face directly.

“You are mistaken. I am a Stark of Winterfell, and I shall never be anything but.”

Once Sansa left Stannis’s war camp beside Ghost and Quenn, she was braced for Quenn’s questions. As deeply as she felt that she could not reveal that Jon was alive, it wasn’t until after Quenn had witnessed her exposing who she truly was and Stannis’s claims of Jon Snow’s death that Sansa realized asking Jon to send any of his Free Folk put them at risk. Quenn was now privy to the secrets and lies she and Jon shared. Surely he would question her using the name Sansa Stark after knowing her for several months as Alayne, even if the names Stark and Stone meant nothing to him. Surely he would wonder why she did not refute the notion that Jon Snow had been slain in a mutiny at the Wall.

Even as the crossed into the relative safety of their own camp, Quenn was silent. Sansa was unsure if this meant that the Free Folk man she had just chosen to be the false Arya’s champion was dangerously clever or dangerously stupid.

Within the camp, Ghost disappeared into the trees, no doubt to hunt, and Quenn finally turned to her.

“Will you be going to see Jon, then?”

“I need to visit Yarrow and Jeyne first. You may share with him all that was discussed, if you wish. I’ll speak to him later on.”

Jeyne was asleep in the cart yet when Sansa joined the healers and wisewomen around their fire. Sansa gazed at the face of her childhood friend, so changed from when they were girls. There was the missing and blackened tip of her nose, the hollowness of her cheeks, and the violet crescents beneath her eyes. She was frail, Sansa knew, and Yarrow had told her that Jeyne was unable to sleep without some sort of tonic to keep nightmares away.

Sansa remembered the last night she had been with Jeyne in the Red Keep. They had clung to each other in bed and wept after learning of Jeyne’s father’s death and Sansa’s own lord father’s arrest. They had been terrified little girls, so far from home and all that they knew. Then Jeyne had been ripped from her and Sansa had been truly alone, as had Jeyne Poole.

“She’s eaten a little more this morn,” Yarrow told Sansa. “Still taking the sleeping draught upon finishing any broth or ale though.”

“I suppose that means improvement?”

Yarrow shrugged.

Sansa had watched Jeyne struggle to lift a spoon to her mouth last night. She had not seen her take a single step since they had found her in the snow drift. She was awake for naught but an hour at a time. Jeyne Poole was not strong enough to sit within the cart, let alone astride a horse.

She grabbed Yarrow’s hand suddenly and drew the girl into the shadows.

“We are friends, yes?” Sansa asked.

“Aye.”

“You are familiar with plants and herbs. There are ways to make poison, correct?”

“Many. You could make someone ill with flux or vomit. With the right mushrooms, visions can occur. What sort of poison would you require?”

“One that ensures death.”

Yarrow reared back; her surprise clear.

“May I ask—who?”

Sansa shook her head.

“We are about to go into battle. It is only for protection, should the tides turn.”

In the brief amount of time that Sansa had known the Free Folk girl, she had often likened her in her own mind to Mya Stone or even her sister Arya in her fearlessness. At Sansa’s words, Yarrow looked afraid for the first time that Sansa had seen.

Yarrow nodded slowly and then disappeared to the healer’s supplies. She returned only moments later, a small vial clutched in her palm.

“Hemlock,” she whispered, showing Sansa the yellow liquid. “It will take effect quickly, but it will not be quick or painless.” Sansa reached for the vial as Yarrow’s fingers closed over it again. “It will be painful. Hemlock is not an easy death.”

“I understand. I only intend to use it should the worst come to pass.” Sansa took the vial of hemlock and squeezed Yarrow’s hand. “I promise.”

Sansa knew she had to speak to Jon, to ask what he thought of the plan they had devised, but she hesitated before Jeyne Poole once more. With her hair still dyed, their hair could be mistaken for the same color, Sansa thought. She did not have a frostbitten nose, but Jeyne had implied that had been from escaping Winterfell. Ramsay wouldn’t expect to see his bride with a blackened nose.

You won’t ever have to face him again, she had promised Jeyne Poole. Sansa was her father’s daughter, and she would honor her promise.

Chapter Text

When Jon had thought to slip into Ghost to escort Sansa into Stannis’s camp, he had wrongly assumed it would be similar to how he slept in the direwolf each night. Entering Ghost to avoid the press of Sansa’s breasts against his back was easy, effortless. Lying down near the wisewomen’s fire after he left Sansa and Quenn at the edge of camp, it was far harder to enter Ghost. Jon wasn’t sure if it was the distance or because Ghost was moving rather than sleeping, but Jon knew that Orell had been able to do it. The only reason he had sent Sansa with only Quenn and Ghost was because he had thought he would be beside her in some form. Jon closed his eyes, trying not to think of how afraid Sansa must be or what would happen if Stannis thought her some pretender. Would Stannis arrest her? What if that was the last he ever saw of her? That thought had him straining, something primal clawing against his stomach, his ribs, his throat.

The fear of never seeing Sansa again wrenched him finally from his own body and into Ghost’s.

Jon Snow understood how important reclaiming Winterfell was to Sansa. It was important to him as well, especially given that he no longer had a place at the Wall. But walking amongst Stannis’s men with the direwolf’s senses had Jon rethinking Bear Island. There were not enough men, Jon knew, even without seeing Stannis’s maps, hearing his report to Quenn, and the men Stannis did have were too tired, too hungry, too afraid to make up the difference. Through Ghost’s nose, he could smell their fear. He could hear the rumble of their empty bellies.

This is foolish, Jon thought, listening to Stannis and Quenn. We will not win with this small an army.

Jon felt Sansa’s fingers clutching Ghost’s fur almost as though she gripped his own arm. He could smell her fear, her anger. He was trying to ignore the sensation of her touch. His self-control seemed to be tenuous at best in Ghost. Sansa had stepped between him and guards whose throats he would have ripped out once already. His blood boiled in Ghost, in a constant threat of spilling over into violence.

When Jon Snow felt Sansa take a step beside him, the muscles of the direwolf tensed, ready to pounce. He knew why she was moving from outside of Ghost’s shadow, knew what she intended to do.

I could steal her from here, Jon thought. If I were gentle, if I got her by the hood of her cloak…

Sansa withdrew her hood and spoke her name before Jon could formulate a plan that would not injure Sansa.

For the rest of the appointment, Jon saw though a red haze. Ghost’s claws had sunk deep into the snow and dirt beneath him and Jon wished deeply that it was the flesh of every person within this tent: the guards, Theon Greyjoy, Stannis Baratheon himself.

He believes Jon Snow is dead, Jon thought, staring the king-that-would-be down after he suggested imprisoning Sansa. None could call me kingslayer if it’s Ghost who kills him. Stannis’s acquiescence to allow Sansa to return was the only reason that Jon stood down.

Back within his own body, Jon Snow listened to Quenn’s report. Though the numbers were equally disappointing hearing them for a second time, Jon found relief in Quenn’s honesty. When Sansa suggested sending Quenn in his place, Jon had thought it unwise, given that Quenn had rode against Stannis alongside Mance. It was clear that Sansa had better instincts than him, for Quenn proved himself loyal both in within Stannis’s tent and his report after. She chose well, Jon thought, both for sending him and for being Jeyne’s champion.

It was quite some time later when Sansa sought Jon out. Quenn had told him that she had gone to see Jeyne Poole directly, and Jon knew she had made friends with the youngest wisewoman.

“Quenn said you did well,” Jon said as she sat. He had wanted to say I thought you did well, but he couldn’t reveal that he had been there or how he would know that.

“Thank you.”

Jon wanted to say more. He knew how scared she had been. He had felt how her fingers shook as they clung to Ghost’s fur. He wanted to reassure her that she had been right in all aspects—sending Quenn, keeping his being alive a secret, revealing who she was. His tongue was in knots. There was no other compliment he could pay her without exposing that he was a warg.

Since they had left Mole’s Town, Sansa hadn’t seemed as scared of him as she had after he had fought Quenn. If she knew that he could slip into the direwolf, that he did so frequently, she would have surely taken the safety Stannis had offered.

Sansa sat beside him silently.

Jon Snow had agreed to Quenn’s strategy, thought his suggestion had been clever. Stannis must have thought much the same, to have agreed to it. Jon wondered what Sansa thought, but even with her beside him, he could not ask her.

“Stannis said that he would send word after he hears from Ramsay.” Jon nodded. “Is this how battles often are? Waiting? It was all the Blackwater was.”

Jon shrugged. Most of the battles he had been a part of were over quicker than they had begun, aside from when Castle Black was attacked. He supposed battles as a larger part of a war were different than the skirmishes of the Free Folk beyond the Wall. Jon Snow was struck with the thought that he didn’t know how to fight in a war. Not the way that Robb had.

Had he ever fought against a trained army?

It should be Robb, Jon thought again. He could see the tallest tower of Winterfell through the trees of the wolfswood. It was never meant to be mine. Just as Sansa would never be his.

The only way he could have either Sansa or Winterfell would be to steal them, and Jon Snow would never do that.

“Will you fight? In the battle?” Sansa asked. Jon nodded. “Where?”

“In the vanguard, most like.”

“The vanguard? Where the fighting is thickest?” Jon thought her voice sounded small, scared. “Not with the archers?”

The question sent a wave of bitterness through him. Had she thought so little of him when they were children that she confused him with Theon Greyjoy, their lord father’s ward?

“It was Greyjoy who preferred a bow, not me.”

Jon heard Sansa’s quiet inhale.

“No, no, I-I remember… It’s only… In King’s Landing, at the Battle of the Blackwater, I had prayed that Joffrey would fight in the vanguard. I had thought he might die in the fray and I would be spared. I know that was where Robb was said to have fought, but…” Jon turned toward Sansa. The firelight made her hair look auburn, as it had last night. Tears had filled her eyes but none spilled down her cheeks. “The vanguard is the most dangerous place in any battle and…” Sansa paused again, swallowing. Jon thought it sounded like she was struggling to find the words she wanted. “You are all I have left. I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

You are all I have left, Sansa said. Not you are the only brother that remains to me, nor you are all the family I have. She said nothing of them being the only Starks. She made no attempt to claim him as a brother, half or bastard.

It pained him more than Ygritte’s arrow had.

“You won’t,” he murmured. His voice was too raw. It was bitter still.

Sansa blinked her tears away and gave him a small smile. It hurt to return it, but Jon did.

It was one of Quenn’s men who fetched the missive from Stannis’s camp. At dawn they were supposed to march to the field to the north of Winterfell’s walls, west of the wolfswood and east of the King’s Road. Stannis said he would break camp at twilight, creating the illusion that they were abandoning the cause on the eve of battle. He would trek down the King’s Road long enough to be believable before crossing back through the wolfswood to be positioned in the rear of the field.

Jon Snow’s right hand was stiff as he held the parchment.

It was the best strategy they had, but that meant little and less when half the soldiers were starving, frozen and tired. When the only way that this would work would involve Ramsay falling into their trap.

There is too much that is unpredictable, Jon thought, burning the parchment so that the information would only exist in his mind. He would tell Sansa when they bedded down, then lead them to the field at daybreak.

By this time tomorrow, it may all be over, he tried to reassure himself. Sansa could be safe, we could be home. Jon tried not to think of the other option, if they failed.

“Are you afraid?” Sansa whispered.

It was late. Jon Snow should have been asleep. Sansa should have been asleep. He would be leading them to the field for battle in just a few short hours. Jon hadn’t been able to sleep though, and evidently, it was the same for her.

“Yes.”

“I am trying to be brave, but…”

“It is your bravery that will win us Winterfell. If you hadn’t been brave enough to ask for it, we would have fled to Bear Island. Stannis and his army would have frozen trying to siege Winterfell more like than not and Winterfell would become the seat of the Boltons. You would have been married to a Mormont and the Stark name would have died with that marriage.”

“Save for you.”

He closed his eyes.

“I’m not a Stark.”

Jon Snow had been numb to those words for so long. It was only after he was brought back that they had begun to pain him again, a wound he had thought long healed.

“It was brave of you, too, what you’re doing for Jeyne Poole.”

Sansa stiffened beside him.

“What do you mean?”

Jon thought she sounded odd. As if she was choosing her words with care.

“Quenn had said that it was you who suggested a trial by combat rather than asking her to flee as bait.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“I know that you promised her that she would never have to face him again, but if she had heard Stannis’s plan, she would understand why you are asking her to ride out tomorrow.”

When Sansa didn’t directly respond, Jon opened his eyes again. He thought she might have fallen asleep, but she was staring into the dark of the forest that surrounded them.

More oft than not, it was Sansa who reached for him first. Now it was Jon who took her hand in his scarred one. Sansa’s Tully blue eyes met his then, wary and hesitant. Sorrowful.

“What is it?” Jon dropped his voice, leaned in closer.

“I’m not.” She spoke quieter than a sigh, than a breath. Had Jon not moved closer, had he not been straining to hear whatever she would say, he would have missed her words.

“I don’t understand…”

Sansa, Quenn, and he had gone over the plan just mere hours ago. Sansa had claimed to have spoken to Jeyne, to Yarrow and the other wisewomen about whether Jeyne could ride over that distance. Sansa had the maid’s dress that Jeyne had worn to escape Winterfell washed and warmed over a fire.

“I promised Jeyne that she would never have to face Ramsay again and I am keeping my word.”

Jon would have joked that she sounded like Arya with that tone if he wasn’t struggling to understand what she meant.

“Ramsay will notice if she’s not on the battlefield to accuse him.”

Sansa held his gaze long enough that he felt shackled by her eyes. Without comment, she pulled her braid over her shoulder. With the light of the waning fire, Jon was reminded how dark her hair was. He had nearly not recognized her both within Ghost and when he awoke from the dead. It was almost the same color as his, he noticed for the first time. Stark brown. As Arya’s was.

As Jeyne’s was.

Dread filled Jon Snow with ice.

“No. No, no, no—”

Jon wanted to forbid her. To send her into Stannis’s camp to be watched under guard until the battle was over. He wished he had forced her to head to Castle Black instead, where she would be safe and far from danger.

“What if we lose? What if Quenn falls to Ramsay?”

Sansa stared at him, seeming to measure him. Jon wasn’t sure what she was judging until something guilty crossed over her features.

Slowly, Sansa produced something from the bodice of her dress. She showed him the yellow vial in her palm.

“Yarrow gave it to me, after I asked for it. It’s hemlock. If Quenn falls and the armies fail…”

Sansa spoke of the poison, of death, so easily. Jon felt dizzy.

How had he not realized what she had intended? What would he have done if she hadn’t told him? If he had seen her astride the horse on that field at dawn instead of Jeyne?

“It’s too late to change tactics,” he whispered, defeated.

Sansa nodded, and Jon suspected that she had already come to that conclusion. He suspected that she had waited to reveal her plan to him until it was too late for him to do anything to stop her.

“Promise me something, Jon?”

No, he thought. I cannot. You ask too much.

“Yes,” he whispered instead.

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. If it cannot be me, it must be you.”

Jon Snow had heard those words before, and yet they echoed in the same way you are all I have left had. Both left him aching and hollow.

“If you fall, I will do my best to retake it.” Jon bit the words out, teeth grinding around the words.

The words must have not sounded as false to Sansa as they had his own ears, for she squeezed his hand once more before closing her eyes.

Jon Snow made Sansa the promise because that was the only way he could protect her in this moment, even though he knew the truth. Sansa Stark was the only reason he was alive again. He had been brought back to protect her. If he failed in his duty, if she were to fall tomorrow, death would come for him.

If she died, there was no reason for Jon to have clawed out of the grave.

Jon Snow knew the feeling of wanting something that could never be his, knew it so deep that it was a hunger. It was mayhaps one of the reasons he had joined the Night’s Watch. It allowed Jon Snow to feel as if he had a choice in whether or not he would get what he so deeply desired. He thought that it might not hurt as much if he chose to live a life where none of it was possible, rather than leaving it to the fates or gods.

Take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. 

Those vows had dulled the pain of what Jon knew he would never have: a beautiful highborn wife, a son of his own named something other than Snow, and Winterfell.

With the oaths he took as an excuse, it made rejecting Stannis’s offer all that much simpler.

Jon Snow was not beholden to ancient oaths or orders any longer and he could no longer hide from the things he wanted.

Things that he could never have.

As much as none of his yearning had changed, even coming back from beyond the grave, the dreams he had had before were that of a boy, a child.

Now his desires were those of a man. They were sharp in his mind, no haze blurring the details. It was still Winterfell he wanted, the lord’s chambers he envisioned. A son with the Stark look, named in Robb’s honor, who would one day wield Longclaw.

Only now the highborn lady was no longer faceless, nor did he simply dream of having her sit beside him. Instead, he dreamed of Sansa, her Tully auburn hair, lying naked beside him, lying naked beneath him.

Like Winterfell, to want Sansa Stark, even if she wasn’t his half-sister, was too far for a bastard to hope to reach. Jon Snow knew that all too well.

He knew too, with painful awareness, that wanting her made him a monster. Only a bastard would desire his own sister. He might have blamed it on his death, that some part of him was left in either the grave or Ghost, but the wanting was so familiar that Jon couldn’t help but wonder if it hadn’t always been there.

Without the safety of the Night’s Watch’s vows, Jon Snow knew there was only one thing he could do to protect Sansa from his wicked and appalling desires.  

The eastern horizon showed the first hint of sunrise when Jon Snow came upon Jeyne Poole’s cart. Sansa was beside her, dressed in Jeyne’s clothes, her hood covering the auburn in her roots. She had done her hair in two braids as Jeyne’s had been styled. Sansa had been right—she did resemble Jeyne if one did not look too closely. Jon couldn’t look at her at all.

If she were truly the steward’s daughter, I might have had her, Jon thought. A steward’s daughter wouldn’t be overreaching for a bastard, mayhaps even a respectable match.

Jon Snow shook those thoughts from his mind. The maiden who stood beside him was not a steward’s daughter, was not Alayne Stone, and was not meant for him.

“You don’t have to do this,” Jon told her lowly, gripping her arm. The resolution in Sansa’s gaze was steel and fire.

“There is no other way.”

“There must be.”

Sansa’s face softened suddenly. Jon dropped her arm and stepped back. He couldn’t stand so close while she looked at him with that expression. He half thought that she might offer him a favor for luck, as if he was a knight and this was naught but a tourney. That was stupid though. This was a war and what right did her bastard brother have to wear her favor?

Sansa did not speak but she did step forward, enclosing him in her arms. Jon Snow did not think about how their bodies were pressed together, how her arms held him tight, how his own clutched her around her waist. He did not think of how soft she was, how warm. Of how she smelled like home.

Jon Snow let himself be embraced by Sansa Stark and tried to savor the moment, for he knew that it would be the last gentleness he would feel.

“We’ll see each other again, once it’s all over,” she whispered. Jon couldn’t tell if it was a vow or a question.

Unable to speak, Jon swallowed, nodded, and stepped back.

Sansa lingered for only a moment more before leaving to finish preparing for battle.

“Could I beg a favor of you?” Jon asked, stepping up to Jeyne Poole.

Jeyne Poole stared at him warily before nodding once.

“When—when Alayne returns, after the battle, will you give her something?”

There was a long pause before Jeyne spoke.

“What is it?”

Jon Snow removed Longclaw’s sheath, presenting it to Jeyne.

“The ancestral Stark sword was lost with Eddard Stark’s life. When she becomes the Lady of Winterfell, she should have a sword for her sons. It’s called Longclaw.”

Jeyne motioned for him to lay the sword in the cart beside her.

“You won’t use it in the battle?”

Jon looked at the pommel that was carved to resemble Ghost. It was an ancestral sword and it deserved to be passed down to later generations. He didn’t want it lost on the battlefield or looted afterwards.

“I want to ensure that she gets it.”

Jeyne studied him. Jon wondered what she saw—a bastard making a claim over his sister, or something more honorable. He hoped for the latter.

Jon saw the precise moment that Jeyne realized why he was giving the sword to her, why he wasn’t bringing it into battle.

“I’ll see that she does.”

“Thank you, Jeyne.”

As Jon Snow walked away from the blade remade for him, gifted to him, he thought of how in his deepest, darkest, most bastard of dreams, he was Lord of Winterfell, with a son of his own. He would have named him Robb, given him Longclaw once he was old enough. Jon could not have his dreams and still protect Sansa. He could only hope that she would give Longclaw to her sons, mayhaps even name one Robb or Eddard. One day, mayhaps Sansa would tell her sons of her brother—not half, not bastard, not all she has left—who had wielded the sword and helped her to win back Winterfell.

He didn’t dare hope that, should she have enough sons, she would name one Jon. It would be enough for them just to know that he had lived.

If he wouldn’t have sons of his own, Jon thought that Sansa’s sons having Longclaw and knowing of all he did, might make it worth it all.

If he was able to give Sansa Stark an ancestral sword and Winterfell, Jon Snow would be worthy of being remembered as Eddard Stark’s son.

With an unfamiliar sword sheathed at his waist, Jon Snow stared out at the Bolton army. Ramsay Bolton was astride a beast of a horse, the red of its coat a blood stain against the snow. Sansa was sat on a dappled grey horse, hood pulled far over her face. Stannis had only spared the lone horse. The rest of the army Jon Snow had led south from Mole’s Town was on foot, facing down the mounted Bolton soldiers.

“So. You have stolen my Reek and now you have robbed me of my chance to have a king in my dungeons,” Ramsay called. “I heard whispers of how the northern lords would never bow to a warden who wasn’t a Stark. Heard how Winterfell would never be held by anyone not of that House. Yet here we sit, and you with only a small band of savages. Stannis failed with an army. You expect to win without soldiers?”

“Winterfell has been held by the Starks long before the conquest and will belong to us long after your bones are ash and your House forgotten.”

“Bold words from such a little girl.”

“Funny. I thought you awfully brazen for a bastard.”

Ramsay’s steed lurched a few steps into the field, as if he had lost control momentarily.

It was a few breaths later that Jon realized he had never before heard the word bastard pass from Sansa’s lips. He would have remembered the sound. The knowledge rattled him.

“The Arya Stark who warmed my bed had been meek and docile. A direwolf without teeth or claws.”

“I assure you, all direwolves have teeth and claws, Lord Snow. You best beware them.”

The red stallion staggered forward again.

“Once you are back in my bed, shackled and muzzled, I will remove your teeth, your claws. You will forget your House, your words, your name. Once I am done with you, you will not be Arya Stark any longer, but Ramsay Bolton’s bride.”

Jon Snow’s hand gripped the unfamiliar hilt at his belt. His eyes flicked to Sansa. He couldn’t see much of her from where he stood but the hood of her cloak, the slope of her shoulders. She sat tall and strong astride the horse still, as unmoving as the statues in the crypts.

“The gods know what you have done, Bastard of Bolton, and they will make you pay for your crimes. The north remembers.”

“The north remembers? And yet not a single northern lord or bannerman is behind you, Arya Stark. Stannis has abandoned you.” A cold, cruel laugh rang out over the frozen, snowy field. “I will play your game, if only for the sport you will make after. Which of these savages will be your champion, wife?”

Quenn stood to the right of Sansa, but Jon was moving before Quenn could step onto the field.

No, with the white wolf’s hood drawn to shadow his face, it was Jon Snow who declared himself to be Sansa’s champion.

Chapter Text

Sansa’s fingers, her shoulders ached from willing to keep them from trembling. She was proud of how her voice did not waver, how it rang out clear and crisp across the frozen field. When Sansa had mounted the horse Stannis had left for Jeyne, she had decided she would not appear as a scared little girl Ramsay was so clearly expecting. She was Sansa Stark and in the shadows of Winterfell, her home.

Jon believes me brave, she thought, gripping the reins. I can be brave for Jeyne, for Winterfell, for Jon. Though something in that felt false. She wasn’t brave for Jon; Sansa felt brave because of Jon. Because he believed that she was.

Even as Ramsay spoke of how he would shackle her, muzzle her, bind her to his bed until she knew nothing but pain, Sansa did not allow herself to feel fear. She did feel sorrow and regret for Jeyne Poole and all that she must have endured, but she did not let herself be afraid.

“The gods know what you have done, Bastard of Bolton, and they will make you pay for your crimes. The north remembers.”

“The north remembers? And yet not a single northern lord or bannerman is behind you, Arya Stark. Stannis has abandoned you.” Ramsay laughed, and Sansa knew without a doubt that Jeyne heard that cackle in her nightmares yet. “I will play your game, if only for the sport you will make after. Which of these savages will be your champion, wife?”

The deep hood of Sansa’s cloak hid the men who stood at either side of her mount. She knew that Quenn stood to her right. Quenn knew that was his cue to step forward; they had discussed this as he had helped her mount the horse at dawn.

The figure that stepped within her vision was not the towering giant Quenn was, but a slim man with a grey cloak, a white wolf’s hood pulled forward.

Seeing Jon Snow step forward, Sansa felt fear, cold and numbing. It was a fear that she hadn’t felt since arriving at Castle Black and hearing the only kin she had left had been slaughtered, like all the others.

Sansa felt a sting of pain. Initially, she thought it simply her heart breaking watching him walk out in front of the line of warriors. Then the taste of iron coated her tongue. Sansa realized that it was the cry she had bit her tongue to keep in.

The scream in her throat was buried, beneath the blood in her mouth, beneath her ribs and the aching heart within.

Unable to move, unable to call out or reveal what this man meant to her, Sansa sat as stoic as her lord father would have, watching as Jon strode toward Ramsay on that blood red steed, blade drawn.

Trying to regain control, Sansa turned, looking toward Quenn. It was meant to be you, she wanted to yell. Only Quenn stared back, confused and wide eyed. He didn’t know, she thought dully. Jon hadn’t told either of them that he would be the one to fight Ramsay.

It was painful, tearing her eyes away from Quenn, to look toward Jon. To watch without comment, movement, or emotion, as Ramsay kicked his steed, charging at Jon.

Sansa was not capable of silencing the gasp that escaped her lips as Jon swung at the body of the stallion, missing Ramsay Bolton entirely. None heard her but Quenn. Quenn, who still believed that she was watching her husband defending her honor with his life, even if he didn’t understand why she kept using different names.

“Give me your orders. I’ll ensure they’re followed.” Quenn’s voice was too low to travel any further than her own ears.

Sansa hesitated, watching Jon swing again at the crimson mount. She watched as Ramsay slid sideways, tumbling into the snow. He was aiming for the saddle, Sansa realized, to make it fair.

“Hold. Until we see the signal from Stannis’s army.”

Sansa trusted Jon, and though this was the last place she wanted Jon to be, he had a better mind for battles and war than she did. He had bested Quenn in that brawl in Mole’s Town. Jon believed her to be brave, and she would be, even if her tongue continued to bleed as she muted her cries.

Ramsay toppled from atop his mount, sprawling into the snow. Jon Snow stalked toward him, switching the grip of his borrowed blade. The white wolf hood hid his identity. They all thought him some savage wildling. He could end this quickly, no matter how dishonorable his attack may be.

Jon swung down, meaning to push the blade through Ramsay’s throat. Slowly, Jon thought, so that his last thoughts are only of pain. The longsword sprayed snow, not blood, Ramsay rolling beneath the steed.

Jon flew to the other side, waiting for Ramsay, sword at the ready.

Ramsay hesitated beneath the horse, as though he was considering turning back to keep the creature between them.

“Craven bastard,” Jon growled. “Stand and fight.”

Ramsay scrambled out, face reddening, and unsheathed his blade. With two hands on the hilt of his falchion, the Bastard of Bolton swung wildly. Jon ducked, seeing the motion from the way Ramsay stepped, the twist of his waist. It reminded Jon Snow of his first weeks in the Castle Black training yard, the farmers and criminals who had never fought other than the occasional drunken brawl.

Had Jon being in the training yard yet, he might have scolded whomever he was sparring with that the falchion was a one-handed weapon. That a sword that required more finesse would better serve in single combat. Jon Snow was not at Castle Black, nor was he training with wooden weapons, where the only intent was betterment.

Jon Snow’s intent on this frozen field was to leave with as much of Ramsay Bolton’s blood spilled across it as possible.

Jon blocked the falchion again and again. He saw the anger that deepened into a rage at each clang of metal on metal. He had yet to draw blood, unable to do much but defend against Ramsay’s blows. The speed and force made his shoulders sting.

Was that Bolton’s tactic? To tire him with wild and heavy hits in a rapid chain?

“What loyalty do the wildlings owe to the Starks?” Ramsay questioned, grunting as he swung.

Jon didn’t respond, trying to cut the falchion from Ramsay’s hands.

“Did Stannis pass her around? She does make for good sport.”

Jon Snow knew it was Jeyne who had suffered at the hands of Ramsay Bolton. He knew that it was Jeyne of whom he spoke. But it was Sansa who was on the field, and Sansa who Ramsay had threatened with shackles and pain.

If Jon failed, if the hemlock poison failed, it was Sansa who would be tortured.

A snarl loosed from Jon’s throat as he swung, the edge slicing into Ramsay’s armor.

Ramsay laughed.

“Was she the first to wet your cock?”

Jon’s blade clipped Ramsay’s pauldron.

“Or is it because hers was the first highborn cunt you’ve had?”

His scarred and stiffened right hand slipped on the hilt, faltering Jon’s next blow.

“Sweeter, aren’t they?” Ramsay crowed. His cackle echoed across the snowy field. Jon wondered if his words traveled as far. If Sansa could hear what was being said.

Hesitating, as if Ramsay had got into his head, Jon watched as the Bastard of Bolton laughed, letting his sword hang at his side.

Jon took the moment, tossing his blade into the snow, and tackled Ramsay.

The first blow split Ramsay Bolton’s lip. The second Jon’s knuckles. The third, fourth, and fifth had blood running from Ramsay’s nose, even as he continued to laugh.

Jon Snow had wanted to kill Quenn for what he had said to Sansa. To rip him apart with his bare hands and drink the blood from his veins, the marrow from his bones.

Jon Snow would do all that and worse to Ramsay Bolton.

With each crash of steel on steel, Sansa flinched. She wished that the armies whispered or cheered, even to just muffle the sounds of combat on the field.

It was nearly impossible for her to tell who had the advantage. She thought back to the jousts she had watched as a girl, even the one that had ended with Harry the Heir trampled and bloodied in the sand of the lists. She thought of how she would cheer from the sidelines for the knights that most resembled her favorite heroes from the songs.

Sansa thought of the brawl she had witnessed, between Quenn and Jon, and how she had first thought that Jon was beautiful, even with his scars.

The single combat on the frozen and snowy field was nothing like the fisticuffs she had witnessed in Mole’s Town. Sansa couldn’t afford to feel anything beyond fear.

Fear, and the guilt that bubbled in her belly.

“How is he faring?” Sansa asked Quenn, unable to take her eyes from where Jon was blocking Ramsay’s sword.

“Hard to say. The snow is still white, so neither have drawn blood.”

“Will he win?”

“He has more skill.”

Sansa heard that for the rounding answer that it was. She stared at Quenn, willing him to give her a better answer. A different answer.

A laugh rang across the field. It chilled Sansa. If Ramsay was laughing, something must have happened with Jon.

Was Jon harmed? Had Ramsay disarmed him?

Should she ready the hemlock?

Sansa stood in her stirrups, trying to see.

Ramsay stood still, sword at his side, head thrown back.

What had made Ramsay cackle so?

Doom filled Sansa. Had Jon’s hood fallen? Did Ramsay discover who he was?

Sansa opened her mouth, ready to have Quenn lead the charge, when she saw Jon hurl his sword into the snow and bring Ramsay to the ground.

She watched Jon’s fists fly, watched the snow pinken.

Jon Snow had Ramsay Bolton bleeding in the snow.

Sansa sat back in the saddle. A feeling of pride, of relief, washed over her.

A whistle rent the air and Sansa’s smile dropped completely from her lips. She knew in her gut that Jon had not whistled.

“Something’s wrong,” she breathed, unable to contain the words. She felt Quenn shift beside her, no doubt looking for an attack coming from their rear. Sansa stood in her stirrups again. What could the whistle have summoned?

“I don’t—”

A pack of hounds rushed from between the mounts of the Bolton soldiers, barking and baying.

Jon Snow’s hands were covered in the blood of Ramsay Bolton. His fists continued to swing, making contact with the mauled mess that was Ramsay’s face. Jon’s nails scratched and gauged as if they were claws. Chunks of hair and flesh had been splattered across the snow.

Ramsay had stopped laughing after he had coughed blood, spit out something white.

Jon had heard the crunch of Ramsay’s nose breaking but he wanted more. He wanted to take Ramsay’s arm in both of his hands and bend it until it snapped. Do it again for all of the bones in each of his limbs. Wanted to punch a hole into Ramsay’s chest, through his ribs and his lungs. Pull his still beating heart from his bastard body. He would serve it to Sansa with his bare hands, would it not make him even more a monster in her eyes.

Jon paused, his chest heaving. Ramsay lay unmoving beneath him.

Had he killed Bolton already? The prospect disappointed Jon. It had been too easy.

Ramsay’s mouth opened and Jon thought, he breathes his last and I barely dealt enough pain—

Blood gurgled and bubbled before a shrieking whistle sounded from Ramsay’s lips.

Jon Snow’s fists fell upon Ramsay again and again, cutting the sound short. Ramsay’s body jerked beneath him as Jon’s fingers raked at his throat, clawing to tear it out.

There was a pain in his ankle, sharp and immediate. Another piercing and nipping at his calf. Then a ripping—his breeches, his skin—as his leg was wrenched, pulling him from Ramsay. Jon scrambled, fighting to keep Bolton supine beneath him.

Jon kicked, loosing one hound from his boot while another pounced onto his back. He rolled to protect the cloak Sansa had made for him, though his forearms dripped blood steadily. Winded and frantic, Jon fought to keep the hounds’ teeth from finding purchase in anything vital.

Jon could hear Ramsay rise to his feet nearby, heard his wet coughs. There was nothing Jon could do, overwhelmed as he was by the hounds pulling and tearing at his limbs. Another lunged for his throat, and Jon threw up his arm to block the snarling jaws. The teeth closed around his elbow. Jon had to bite back a scream.

The hound with its teeth in his flesh released suddenly before the dog was flung off of him. Jon gaped as Ghost stood above him. The white direwolf was as silent as always, but the hounds whimpered as Ghost ripped into them, throwing them far from Jon.

Jon Snow pushed himself to his knees with effort. A rare glimpse of the sun glinted off his sword, a few paces away.

Snow crunched too closely behind him.

Sansa was sure her lips were bruised from pressing them so tightly together. When the hounds surrounded Jon, it was all she could do to not scream his name. To not tell Quenn to charge.

Jon and no were still stuck in her throat when a blur of white steaked through the army beside her.

Ghost made quick work of the Bolton hounds, several not moving, and the rest seeming to hesitate before attacking again.

It wasn’t until she saw Jon rise onto his knees that Sansa sat back in the saddle again. With Ghost distracting the hounds, she was sure that Jon could best Ramsay. He had more skill, as Quenn said.

Ramsay had crawled away. Sansa hoped that he had retreated to his own line, that as soon as Jon had caught his breath, this will have ended.

Tears gathered in Sansa’s eyes. By sundown, she could be in the bed of her girlhood. She could be home.

It was while unshed tears still blurred her vision that Sansa saw a figure rise behind the one that yet kneeled, sword raised.

Jon Snow rolled toward the sword he had so carelessly thrown. Ramsay Bolton’s falchion cut into the snow where his neck had been. His second blow was aimed for Jon’s head; he was just able to deflect it with the flat of his own blade.

Ramsay had him at disadvantage, swinging down as Jon crawled backwards, out of the reach of the falchion. All he could do was duck and block. There was no way for him to attack, to ground Ramsay, to make him bleed again.

Blinking tears away, Sansa saw with horror that the looming man was not Jon Snow, ready to behead the Bastard of Bolton, as she had believed. It was Ramsay, poised to swing for Jon.

Teeth weren’t enough to keep in Sansa’s cry. She pressed her palm against her mouth, ensuring the sound only barely escaped.

Heart thundering, she watched as Ramsay advanced, Jon still on his back, on the ground.

Sansa turned wide-eyed to Quenn.

Stannis had yet to give the signal.

If she allowed Quenn to lead the charge, they would be outnumbered. If she told Quenn to hold until Stannis arrived, she was sure to lose Jon.

Tears fell freely as Sansa turned back toward the combat before her.

Ramsay stood tall above Jon, his falchion cleaving down with the force of his entire body. Jon held the hilt in his right hand and the tip of his sword in his left to prevent Ramsay’s strikes from landing true. His left hand wept blood. His shoulders ached. His arms shook.

Not yet, Jon Snow thought, prayed. He could not die yet.

Gritting his teeth, Jon pushed back when Ramsay’s blade struck his, hoping to put Bolton on his heels. All he succeeded in doing was sliding steel against steel. Ramsay did not stumble.

How long would he be able to hold out, Jon wondered. How long until his arms couldn’t hold up the sword any longer and Ramsay’s blade finally struck home?

Even if his arms could withstand more, could the common blade? It was no Valyrian steel. There were chips all along both edges, and each clash with the falchion only brought more.

Jon’s muscles screamed as Ramsay hacked and hacked.

He was going to fail. In only a few more blows, his shoulders would give, his sword would drop or shatter, and Ramsay would kill him. He would fail and the Starks would be finished.

Winterfell would be lost.

Sansa would be lost.

A roar, loud and primal, filled with pain and grief, echoed as it tore from Jon Snow’s throat.

Sansa heard Jon’s yell as if he was beside her. She felt the agony and regret in his cry as if it were her own.

Stannis had not yet singled that he was in position, but Sansa knew her choice.

She knew that there had never been a choice.

“Charge.”

Chapter Text

The ground trembled beneath Jon Snow’s body. Jon didn’t dare to look at which army was charging. The only threat he allowed himself to be concerned about was the one still before him.

Falchion raised above his head, Ramsay’s gaze turned from Jon. He assumed it was the charging army that had drawn Ramsay’s attention, so Jon took the opportunity.

Jon Snow hooked a leg around Bolton’s ankle, pulling him to the ground. Leaping up, Jon stood above the prone bastard, readying to deliver the killing blow.

The swiftness of Ramsay’s death was no longer an interest to Jon. He just needed to ensure that the Bastard of Bolton did not live to see the other side of the battle.

Quick and painless and definitively dead would be better than a long, drawn-out suffering only for Ramsay to escape.

Just as Jon raised his common and chipped blade, the armies crashed around him. Pushing the sword tip into the snow to help maintain his balance, Jon braced against the eddying tide of bodies.

When he found himself able to open his eyes again, the snow before him was sprayed pink and red, but Ramsay Bolton was nowhere to be seen.

Jon began pressing against the surge of horses and bodies. Ramsay had no doubt fled behind his men, or mayhaps even to the walls of Winterfell. Jon could not allow himself to die on this battlefield without taking Ramsay Bolton with him, but he could do all he could to even their numbers while he searched for the Bastard of Bolton.

As he had with Ramsay atop that blood red stallion, Jon swung for the cinches of the saddles around him, sending as many Flayed Men as he could to the ground before stabbing each of them through the gut. Quick deaths meant he could save his energy for when he came upon Ramsay. It meant he was able to kill more of them in less time.

Jon Snow moved through the soldiers, killing or wounding as many as he could reach. It felt good to be on the offensive, Jon thought, to leave a trail of bodies in his wake. He felt as though he was finally of use in this battle.

Sansa Stark sat alone at the edge of the field, still sitting on the dappled grey horse. When it had only been two fighters, Sansa had struggled to see who had the advantage. With both armies, she found it impossible. She had lost Jon in the chaos, even with that distinctive hood she had made.

Sansa had been in a mob before, in King’s Landing, but she had never witnessed a true battle. The bread riots had been terrifying. She recalled how men, hungry and angry, had pulled at her skirt, had tried to unseat her. She was safe from harm here, on the very edge of the battlefield, and yet she felt more afraid.

Jon Snow was all she had left in this world, and he was lost in where the fighting was thickest.

Sansa Stark prayed from the saddle, to the new gods and the old, to bring Jon Snow back to her.

Jon Snow cut down every man dressed in pink that he came upon. There are too many, Jon thought, even as he sliced open the belly of the man before him. He had yet to see any of Stannis’s men. Have we been abandoned?

Jon pushed further into the lines of Bolton men. Why had Sansa given the command to charge if Stannis’s army was not in position? Or was the Bolton army so large that he simply couldn’t see where the Stannis’s men fought? Jon Snow believed that must have been the case. Sansa would have never risked Winterfell by sending in the Free Folk alone.

There was no longer any white snow beneath his feet. Jon could hear nothing but the clash of steel, the beat of his heart. He tried not to think of Sansa, watching it all, alone at the edge of the battlefield.

I should have told Ghost to stay with her, Jon thought. He did not know where the great direwolf had vanished to in the battle. Jon paused, breathing hard. He was surrounded on all sides by fighting. There was no one he recognized nearby. He had thought Ghost would be easy to spot, massive as he was, white as he was, but Jon could not see him. Mayhaps he has returned to Sansa’s side.

That thought gave him hope. He would not be distracted by worries of Sansa’s safety if he believed Ghost with her. Had he thought it safe, he might have tried to look through the direwolf’s eyes, as Orell had done with his eagle. Jon knew better than to leave himself vulnerable in the middle of a battlefield.

Pain, abrupt and penetrating, alit Jon’s thigh.

Beneath him lay a half dead Flayed Man, his hand still gripping the hilt of the dagger embedded in Jon Snow’s thigh. Jon pushed the pointy tip of his sword into the softest part of the man’s throat, watching as the blood bubbled, coating his sword red. It was only once the Flayed Man’s hand fell limply from the hilt that Jon pulled the dagger from his leg with his still bleeding left hand. Jon clenched his teeth at the pain, from his sliced hand and his punctured leg. He clenched his teeth at what he knew it meant.

A dagger to his thigh would be what would end his time on this battlefield. He had to get to Ramsay before the wound took him.

Let me find Ramsay Bolton and let it be my sword that wrests him from this world, Jon prayed.

Jon Snow stumbled on, sword in his right hand and dagger in his left.

Sansa was frozen on her horse, but it wasn’t the cold that had chilled her. She still had not caught sight of Jon’s cloak. She had seen Ghost briefly, his fur pink as the snow. She hoped that it was not his blood, but the blood of Bolton men.

The direwolf had torn back into the middle of the fray, and Sansa hoped that he would defend Jon should he need it, as he had with the hounds.

I would know if Jon fell, Sansa thought. I would feel it.

She prayed that Stannis would arrive soon.

Jon Snow’s weight was upon the longsword as he hobbled forward, his wounded leg still seeping blood. He had been forced to use the dagger as he continued to send Bolton men to their death. His muscles were too fatigued to swing the heavy longsword. It had become a cane instead, keeping him upright.

The white wolf’s hood that hid his identity had fallen some time ago, he knew, but he didn’t have the time to pull it back. He hoped none would look too closely in the heat of battle. He knew too that he was blood splattered and bruised. Sansa would no doubt struggle to recognize him as he looked now. None would know him to be Eddard Stark’s bastard by his face alone.

As Jon pushed forward, blade sinking into the snow with each step, he saw Quenn through a gap in the fighting. The big man was surrounded by three Bolton fighters, none of them Ramsay. Quenn was laughing, parrying the blows of each soldier with apparent ease. He didn’t look as near as exhausted as Jon felt, so Jon left him to handle his own.

With blood soaking his breeches, dripping down his leg, Jon could not afford distraction. He had to find Ramsay Bolton and sink the blade of the dagger into his heart.

Jon Snow had been risen to protect Sansa, to win her back Winterfell, and he intended fulfil that final duty before death claimed him for a second time.

To tell how long Sansa had sat, mute and unmoving, watching the battle play out before her was indeterminable. They had arrived at dawn, but the day was grey. Clouds hung low and full in the sky. Sansa’s body had long since gone numb to the cold, to the soreness of sitting too still for too long.

In one frozen hand, she held her reins, and in the other was the glass vial from Yarrow. Stannis had not yet arrived and Sansa did not want to be caught unaware. If any of Ramsay Bolton’s men came for her, she would drink the poison. They would not find her alive to take Jeyne’s place as Ramsay’s bride.

Sansa Stark would not be married nor betrothed against her will again.

If I marry again, let it be for love and love alone, or let death make a bride of me.

Sansa lifted her eyes to the walls of Winterfell. The keep she had once built from freshly fallen snow. She would give nearly anything to be within the familiar stone walls again. It was because her gaze was turned upward that she saw the flaming arrow streak across the darkened sky.

Stannis was in position.

The horse beneath her huffed, shifting, advancing a step.

Sansa felt the vibration of Stannis’s calvary through the saddle.

The banners of Stannis Baratheon flew high as the mounted army thundered onto the field. Sansa watched as men quickly fell under foot of the horses, saw the flashes of steel as soldiers were cut down.

The vial rolled forgotten from Sansa’s hand. A grin stretched her frozen cheeks even as tears slid from her eyes. The relief she felt was so sharp it was nearly pain.

They had done it. She had Winterfell and Jon and her name.

Sansa Stark was home.

The ground rumbled, hooves beating against the snow. It was the only warning Jon Snow had before the army of horses carved through the fighting. The crowned stag within the flaming heart was clearly emblazoned upon the banners.

Had Stannis’s army only just arrived? The charge was too strong for them to have pushed through from the rear.

Why had Sansa ordered the Free Folk to attack if Stannis had not singled?

Jon Snow had to push the thoughts from his mind. His leg still bled, the pain beginning to fog his mind. He did not know how long he had, nor how much blood he had lost. He had taken other wounds, most shallow, save from the slices across his left hand and where the dagger had pierced him.

There had been no sight of Ramsay upon the field, even as Jon came the closest he had to his home since that day he had left on the King’s Road. He could see the familiar stone of the outer wall. The air smelt of his childhood.

It would be his final resting place, Jon knew, or mayhaps hoped. Had he not been brought back, the men of the Night’s Watch would have burned his body. He would have only been remembered for being the youngest Lord Commander and for being the bastard of the honorable Eddard Stark. Aside from some maester’s tome, Jon Snow would have been forgotten.

Jon stared at the walls of Winterfell as snowflakes began to drift down, soft and gentle and so at odds with the battle still swirling around him.

Let it be said that it was my sword that restored House Stark to Winterfell and ensured that the name would live on. Jon blinked the snow from his vision. Let Sansa lay my body to rest in the crypts beneath Winterfell, as though I were a true Stark.

The thought, the desire, distracted Jon even more than the pain in his leg, his muscles, his hand. It meant that he did not hear the galloping of a rider approaching, not until the soldier was too close.

Turning, Jon prayed to see a Baratheon sigil displayed on the armor. Instead, he was met with a pink tunic.

Before Jon Snow could raise either his deadened sword arm or fling the dagger, there was a flash of steel, the burn of a white-hot pain.

Then there was nothing but cold. Cold and blackness.

Chapter Text

Sansa Stark could not recall with clarity the events that transpired after she witnessed Stannis’s army charge and turn the tide of battle. She remembered it had begun to snow. She remembered falling from her horse, someone carrying her to some place warm.

Sansa remembered dreaming that Jon lay beside her in the bed, warming her body with his. In her dream, he bore no more wounds or scars than the ones he had before dawn. In her dream, he embraced her as if she were truly his bride.

Sansa awoke with a start. She was alone in a stone chamber. A fire smoldered in the hearth, but the room was dark otherwise. She still wore the dress she had taken to impersonate Jeyne Poole.

How long had she slept? Was it still the very same day that they had won Winterfell, or was it deep into the night?

More pressingly, where was Jon? Sansa wondered. Had it been him to carry her to this bed? Was that why she had dreamt as she did?

Donning the cloak and pulling up the hood to hide the auburn in her hair, Sansa stepped into the corridors of her childhood. The sconces were lit along the hall and the diamond shaped windows revealed that it was just dusk.

It wasn’t until Sansa came upon the first group of reveling Baratheon soldiers that she realized that she could not simply ask where Jon Snow was. It was at her insistence that Jon had hid his identity, that he had not presented himself to Stannis as he had wanted to. How could she find him without using his name and revealing who he was?

“Where do the wildings celebrate?” Sansa asked.

“They camp in the yard.”

Would it not have drawn attention, Sansa would have run, but as it was, she walked as a lady should. Keeping her steps measured pained her. She needed to know that Jon was alive, that he was mostly unharmed. She needed to thank Jon for fighting against Ramsay as he had, for winning them Winterfell.

She needed to apologize for bringing him back only to put him in danger.

Within the courtyard the tents of Stannis’s army had been erected. Men sat around fires, gripping horns of ale. Sansa did not see Jon amongst them, but Quenn was not either.

“Do you know of my husband’s whereabouts?”

“We’ve not seen him.”

At each fire she approached, the answer was the same. None had seen Jon. They all knew of whom she spoke, complimented how he had fought in single combat, but none knew what had become of him after the charge.

Sansa began checking the tents then, where the wisewomen were treating their wounded. It was there she found Quenn and Yarrow, but not Jon Snow.

“Mayhaps he is celebrating in the Great Hall with the kneeler king’s men?” Quenn suggested as his wounds were stitched closed.

“I’ll accompany you in your search,” Yarrow said.

Joined arm in arm with Yarrow, Sansa returned to the keep, asking all she had come across if any had information about the wildling in the white wolf’s hood. Half ignored her questions entirely, and the other half did not claim to recognize the description.

Sansa stood in the familiar Great Hall of her youth, surrounded by unfamiliar faces, and she did not know what to do.

“Mayhaps…” Yarrow whispered. “Mayhaps we should look among the fallen.”

“No.” Sansa shook her head, even as Yarrow took her by the hand.

“We have looked everywhere else.”

“No, no, he’s not…”

Jon cannot be dead, Sansa thought. He can’t have been brought back just to die on this battlefield that I brought him to.

“Would you prefer me to search alone?”

“No.” Sansa’s response was immediate. To sit and wait for Yarrow to report back would be immeasurably worse than to walk along the fallen and know that Jon Snow was not one of them.

Though Sansa was sure that Jon Snow was not dead, though she was sure that she would feel it if he departed from this world, she wept openly as Yarrow led her back outside and onto the battlefield.

The dead Sansa had seen before had been killed by execution, by poison. Never before had she seen the grisly destruction wrought by a battle so closely.

“Might the direwolf be of help?” Yarrow asked, holding a torch high as they inspected body after body.

“Ghost? Is he here?”

Yarrow’s face grew sympathetic as she shook her head.

“I had thought… Could you call him? I thought the direwolf yours.”

“No. Ghost belongs to Jon.”

“Oh. The way he followed you around… We all thought…”

“I cannot summon him.”

Yarrow took Sansa’s hand in hers again before they continued on, rounding the outer wall of Winterfell. Sansa saw how there were more bodies here; the blood on the snow appeared black in the dim moonlight. She tried her best to step only where the snow was white or grey, but Sansa quickly found that was impossible. All of the snow here was bloodstained. There was not a single spot of white before her.

Except for nearest the wall. Sansa saw the smallest strip of pure white. As white as Ghost’s fur.

Sansa stepped forward.

“Alayne, I would not—”

Yarrow’s grip on her hand was a vice. Sansa saw quickly why.

That bit of pure white was the fur of a hood, shaped to a wolf’s head.

Yarrow rushed forward, her hands on Jon’s chest.

Sansa fell to her knees, her sight too marred by tears to see Yarrow’s expression. A scream shredded her throat. A scream so raw and primal that it could only be described as a widow’s wail.

Hands gripped her, pulling her closer to Jon Snow’s body.

“He lives yet!” Yarrow’s voice barely cut through the sound of Sansa’s grief. “Feel his heart beat! Your husband lives!” The girl pressed Sansa’s hands to Jon’s chest.

It wasn’t until Sansa felt the slow, dull thump beneath Jon Snow’s ribs that she allowed herself to look at his face. He was covered in blood and gore, his hair and beard matted, but Sansa would know Jon’s face in any light, in any condition. She sobbed, keeping her hands on his heart, as Yarrow ran for aid.   

In the chambers where Sansa had awoken not two hours ago, she wet a cloth in a bowl of warmed water. Jon Snow lay bandaged on the very bed where she had dreamed that he had warmed her with his body.

The wisewomen had come and treated the worst of his wounds. They had assured Sansa that he would live. He had lost a lot of blood from his thigh, but they said that the dagger had failed to puncture anything critical. Sansa had heard them whispering as they had left about his eye, however. Jon Snow would live, but it was as like as not that he would lose his eye. A gash had been cut from his left temple, through his eye, to the bridge of his nose.

Sansa pressed the wet cloth to Jon’s hair, washing the blood away as gently as she could. He did not flinch or stir at her touch. Sansa hoped that it meant that nothing she did caused him pain.

Slowly and softly, Sansa cleaned the blood from Jon’s hair and beard. She had only just started on the dried blood on his face, careful to avoid the bandage the wisewomen secured, when Yarrow returned.

“The men of the kneeler king have given this, for his pain,” she said, handing Sansa a bowl of milky white liquid. “They could only spare a little. The whispers say their king has suffered a grievous wound from falling from his horse.”

“Give them my gratitude.”

Sansa lifted Jon’s head and poured a small dose into his mouth.

“I will leave you to tend to your husband.”

Sansa took up the cloth again, wiping the blood from Jon’s cheek, from his lips.

Yarrow and the other wisewomen had once told her that she should learn the arts of healing, if she had a warrior for a husband. Was this what they had meant? Seeing a man they cared for deeply on the brink of death, hoping that their own hands were enough to bring him back?

I cannot lose you, Sansa thought, brushing back Jon’s hair with her fingers.

Sansa knew she had seen her lady mother do the same to her lord father often. She recalled how her father would close his eyes, as if her mother’s touch was all there was in the world.

If Jon were awake, would he feel the same, or would he recoil at her too familiar touch?

Jon Snow roused suddenly, his eye opening. Sansa saw how unfocused his gaze was, unable to latch on to anything. His lips parted and Sansa thought he might speak, might call out. Instead, he raised his bandaged hand, his fingers as soft on her cheek as falling snow.

Sansa caught his hand, holding it to her face, until it went limp and his eye closed again.

He mistakes me for his dead lover, Sansa thought, gently placing his arm across his chest.

The thought caused more hurt than she thought it might. Sansa wondered about the spearwife he had loved. Loved or lain with? Yarrow and the others had implied that it was all but a marriage, some forbidden love like from all of her favorite songs. When she had asked Jon about her, he had said it wasn’t a nice story. Was that only because she died or because he had to return to the Wall?

Was she very beautiful? Sansa wanted to know, and was she a fearsome fighter? If the answer to both was yes, Sansa wondered which Jon had valued more.

Lying his right arm across her lap, Sansa continued to clean the blood from his skin.

If she were truly Jeyne Poole or Alayne Stone, would Jon love her as a wife? As her parents had loved each other?

Sansa looked at Jon’s naked chest, the exposed scars, at the bandage across his face. She thought again of her wedding night, how ugly that scar from the Battle of the Blackwater had made Tyrion. She knew that the slice across Jon’s face would scar, she knew that he was like to lose the eye that had been cut by the blade, but Sansa still did not believe that ugly described Jon Snow.

Bloody and bruised and scarred, she still found him beautiful.

Sansa heard a commotion at the door. She had requested some of the Free Folk stand guard until Ghost found his way back to Winterfell after hunting in the wolfswood. Jon was still unconscious from the dose of milk of the poppy and did not stir at the noise. Sansa rushed to the door to ensure that he stayed asleep.

“She’s demanding she be allowed entrance.”

The scent of spices and smoke filled her nose; Sansa stared at the red priestess from Castle Black.

“I saw Jon Snow risen in my fires. I know you shield him.”

“It is my wildling lover whose wounds I treat,” Sansa answered, blocking the witch’s view of the chambers.

“You cannot lie to me, child. The Lord of Light has blessed me with visions and I know the truth of the man you hide, just as I knew the truth of your name in those ice cells.”

Sansa felt a spike of fear. She knew that the witch had magic enough to bring Jon Snow back to life. It would follow that she could also see truth in flames. The red priestess could, indeed would, tell Stannis that he had two Starks within the walls of Winterfell.

“The man you seek is recovering from wounds and needs rest.”

“I must speak with him. I have seen him leading armies and winning glory at Stannis’s side. He will be the sword Stannis wields to defeat the Great Other.”

Anger spilled down Sansa’s throat. Was this not why she had stolen him from Castle Black, from the clutches of her very god?

“He is a man, not a sword.”

“He has been claimed by R’hllor. He will be Stannis’s warrior in the war against the coming darkness.”

“He cannot be claimed by your god.”

“R’hllor is the one true god. Praying to the false gods does not change what the flames have shown me. Whose claim of him could be stronger than a god’s?”

“Mine,” Sansa spat. “I claim him.”

The red priestess laughed, deep and smoky.

“Your claim is nothing in the eyes of R’hllor.”

“And yet he has been hidden from you until now. It was my claiming him that brought him out of Castle Black. It was my blood you used to bring him back. It will be my claim that continues to protect Jon Snow from you and your god.”

The witch stepped back, just as Ghost came down the corridor, pink smeared across his muzzle, eyes glinting ruby in the torchlight. The direwolf did not bare his teeth, but he did stand between Sansa and the woman in red.

“Jon Snow belongs to House Stark and Winterfell, both of which belong to the old gods. He belongs to me.”

Sansa could see the anger burning in the red priestess’s eyes yet, but she continued another step back.

“When Jon Snow wakes, I will speak with him,” she said before departing.

Sansa waited until the Red Woman had vanished, until even the scent of smoke and spice had dissipated, before turning to the Free Folk guards.

“I will not have her near Jon Snow. I do not trust her, nor her god.”

“Aye.”

“Ghost, come.”

Sansa ushered the direwolf into the chamber, where he laid on the rug before the fire. Sitting at Jon’s bedside, Sansa resumed brushing his still damp hair with her fingers.

“We’re home, Jon. You won’t have to fight anymore,” she whispered. “I promise.”

Chapter Text

Jon Snow was standing before the entrance to Winterfell’s crypts. Voices from inside called to him. Jon did not want to go down into the crypts. He could see nothing but blackness and the spiraling stairs.

Jon turned away from the door to the crypts, ignoring the voices that called his name.

“Jon?”

This voice was lighter, sweeter than the others. A woman’s.

Ygritte? he wondered.

Jon turned toward the entrance only to see a weirwood, as tall and broad as the heart tree in the godswood, burst from the frozen ground. It blocked the doorway, preventing him from entering the crypts.

“Jon! Help me, Jon!” The woman sounded afraid. It had Jon’s hands shaking.

Who called his name so fearfully?

“I’m coming!” he yelled.

Pushing his arm through the gap, Jon felt the frozen wood against his face, the stone against his back. It scraped and pressed as Jon tried to squeeze through.

“Save me, Jon!”

Jon felt movement beneath his hand on the trunk of the tree. The carved face shifted. It resembled his lord father’s, long and solemn. There was judgement in those carved red eyes, Jon knew. He was failing in his duty. He couldn’t get to who he was meant to be protecting in the crypts.

Jon had no weapon. He could not break the tree’s branches to allow him access.

Trying again to force his body into the minute opening, Jon heard sobbing from below.

“I’m trying!”

He succeeded in pushing through to his shoulder. His bones ground against the wood, the stone.

“You promised.” The voice was faint now, more sad than scared.

“Hold on! Hold on! I’m almost there!”

Jon wedged his leg, his torso, half into the crypts.

“You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

“You promised, you promised.”

Tears welled in his eyes, at both the pain and the voices. He would fail her, whoever she was. He would break whatever promise he made. He would not be able to reach her, to save her from whatever was in the crypts.

With all the strength he possessed, Jon Snow did all he could to reshape himself to get to her. He felt pressed thin, unable to breathe, as he got the entirety of his body flattened against the trunk of the weirwood tree.

The refrain continued, until you promised, you promised and you know nothing, Jon Snow, melded together, sounding as though both sets of words came from one voice.

He could see nothing but blackness before him, felt nothing but pain and despair. Her voice filled his ears.

He was suffocating. He couldn’t draw a breath.

“You promised—You know nothing—You promised—Jon Snow—You promised—You know nothing—You promised—Jon Snow—”

His shoulders screamed. His lungs ached.

Jon’s fingers scrabbled against the tree and the wall, trying to find purchase, until finally, finally, he was able to pull himself free.

Jon faced the weirwood tree. The back of the trunk was carved with a woman’s face. She cried red tears and wore a sad smile.  

“You promised—You know nothing—You promised—Jon Snow—”

Turning from the face, Jon ran for the voice, down the spiraling stairs and into the dark.

A woman kneeled before a large statue. There was a lone candle before her. She continued to cry quietly, but the voices no longer called his name or reminded him of promises.

She did not turn at the sound of his feet, even as he approached. The small light played tricks with the shadows and the color of her hair. One moment it appeared as red as a flame, the next as dark as his own. Jon could not tell which was the true color. The only detail that stayed consistent was that it fell in curls down her back.

As he stepped closer, Jon heard that she was whispering a prayer. He could not make out the words, other than protect and promise.

There was no immediate threat that he could tell. Why had she cried for him to save her?

Jon Snow reached out his hand to touch her shoulder. She turned with a startled gasp.

Sansa Stark stared at him with tearstained cheeks. Lifting his hand, Jon ran his thumb beneath her eye, just as she crumbled into dust.

Jon yelped and leapt backward, staring at the statue Sansa had kneeled before. The face resembled that of his lord father, but it was not Ice that the stone hands held. It was Longclaw.

Jon Snow’s body felt heavy, as though it were weighted down by stone. His mind was muddled and fogged. His tongue tasted of iron and a familiar bitterness.

When he opened his eye, his vision was cloudy. A blurry shape moved, standing over him. Auburn hair blazed like a torch as soft hands touched his face.

Jon blinked, willing his sight to return fully. Was this Sansa who tended him? Had the dye been washed from her hair and the Tully auburn restored?

“You need rest still.” The voice was soft and sweet. The hands that cradled his head, held a bowl to his lips, were gentle and warm. Jon drank. “Sleep, Jon.”

Jon let his gaze linger long enough to see that her hair was brown yet, save for the crown, before letting sleep consume him.

Jon Snow lay on a feather bed, wooly-minded and with a cotton tongue. He thought himself in a hell. The pain in his face, in his thigh, was enough to have him weeping were it not for the sight before him.

A woman with brown hair was unlacing her bodice, her back turned to him. Only, her hair was not truly brown. Strands of copper and dark honey caught in the dim light from the hearth.

This is punishment for being a wanton bastard, Jon thought, watching as the dress dropped to the floor.

Jon Snow was unable to move, his body too ladened and too heavy to shift. Away or closer, he wasn’t sure which he wanted.

Had the gods conjured a woman to tempt him even in his dreams? For she seemed every bit Sansa Stark, save from the way she continued to undress before him. Save for the way her face stayed turned away, allowing him to believe that Alayne Stone truly existed.

The simple woolen shift the woman still wore did little and less to hide the shape of her body; slender and willowy but undeniably that of a woman.

Jon knew that the honorable thing would be to close his eyes, to warn her that he had woken.

Was that the test? Whether he could retain his honor even in his dreams? Even in a hell?

The shift slipped from one shoulder then, exposing the pale skin beneath.

He had to speak now—now, or be branded as the wicked beast he was—but his tongue was stuck to the top of his mouth. It was well and truly affixed. His throat swelled closed. His heart galloped.

The shift slid from her other shoulder.

Jon had to look away. He should look away. Eddard Stark’s son would look away.

Jon Snow could not, his gaze as pinned as his tongue had been.

The curtain of her hair hid most of her back and the shift pooled at the curve of her waist, protecting her modesty.

Jon Snow was finally able to shut his eyes before he could fail such a test of honor even further.

The first thing that Jon Snow felt, other than the dulled ache of pain, was fingers brushing his hair. Had the pain been so unbearable that he had retreated unwittingly into Ghost?

Jon knew unquestionably that it was Sansa’s touch. He had felt it before, as Ghost, before he recognized her with her changed hair. It was as gentle as a caress, as a lover’s touch; far softer than Ygritte had ever handled him. He could only be in Ghost. To believe or to want otherwise was foolish.

Even addled by pain and the milk of the poppy that he had drank, Jon knew that to be untrue, though he failed to understand it. When he was in Ghost, he had never felt his own pain, even dampened as it was. It was undeniably his pain. Jon took stock of the wounds he had accrued in the battle: the double-edged blade of his sword cutting into his palm, his fingers, as Ramsay swung the falchion down; the dagger he had taken to the thigh by the half-dead Bolton bannerman; the slice across his face that he thought had sent him to his death.

Jon recalled the blackness that followed the blinding pain of that cut. He had fallen on the battlefield, had he not? How had he returned?

Sansa did not trust the Red Woman. She would not call on the powers of the Lord of Light to raise him a second time.

Jon attempted to open his eyes, but found only one able to obey the command. Half his vision was blackened. Raising his hand, Jon felt the bandage that crossed his face.

The fingers in his hair stilled.

“Does your eye pain you? A small measure of milk of the poppy remains.”

Jon’s vision adjusted slowly. Sansa did not appear as a woman who had just won back her home. She looked pale, he thought, tired.

“No…no more poppy.”

The dreams he had already endured were strange enough. Jon was not sure that he could bear more knowing what her fingers against his scalp felt like.

“But your wounds—”

“No. Please.”

“Are you not in pain?” Sansa asked, sitting beside him.

Jon could not lie to her. The milk of the poppy was beginning to fade. The pain in his hand was nothing worse than what he felt before, but his thigh, his eye was enough to make him vomit. He couldn’t stand the thought of Sansa having to bear witness to his weakness, nor could he waste away more days lost in strange dreams.

“If you are in pain, you should have it.”

“I-I cannot.”

Jon could feel the weight of Sansa’s look. He was sure she would fight him on it. If she asked again, would he have the strength to say no?

“Would you allow me to see to your bandages at the least? Yarrow and the other wisewomen said they were to be changed frequently, the wounds repacked.”

No, Jon Snow wanted to respond. You don’t need to see the ugliness of battle so close. It is not your duty to tend to me.

Much like his dream—it had been a dream, hadn’t it?—Jon found his tongue had been fused to his teeth. Instead, closing his sole good eye, Jon nodded.

To his utter relief, Sansa began with his hand. His hand was easy. The wound there was not so bad, and she had touched his hand many times. To feel her unwind the bandage, trace the salve along the edges of the cuts, was easy enough to pretend he did not feel her skin against his.

Without sight, Jon found himself slipping either beneath the lingering effect of the milk of the poppy or his own dreaming. Sansa’s hands, bandaging his wounds from sparring in the yard of Winterfell when they were younger. Her soft touch soothing his weeping after he burned his hand saving Mormont from the wright. The loving way she would treat her son’s boyhood scrapes with her own hands, as Catelyn had for Robb, instead of being sent to the Maester, as Jon had been.

Even when Sansa moved on to his eye, it was easy enough to simply relish in the tender touch. He could believe that the warmth he felt towards her was brotherly. Aside from Maesters and his brothers at the Wall, who else had ever treated his wounds for him?

While Sansa worked on the slash across his eye, Jon found himself mostly bracing against whatever noise of disgust she would make, for surely that gash was far uglier than the small ones on his hand.

Only the lone time Sansa spoke was to apologize when he gasped against the sudden sensation of the herb paste against the rawness of the open wound.

Jon wanted to tell her that she needn’t apologize, that it was enough that she was willing to look after him so, that she was the last person who should apologize to him. Jon should be apologizing to her, he thought.

It was not her duty to tend to him as though she were truly his bride. For that was a wife’s duty, was it not? Had the Lady Catelyn tended to his lord father’s?

Had his own mother?

Had that been the sordid story of his own birth? A kind woman with gentle hands, tending to the wounds of an honorable lord?

Jon Snow was wholly consumed by his own musings, all but forgetting that it was Sansa Stark’s fingers that wrapped a fresh piece of linen around his head, until those same hands were at the cloth covering his waist. Whatever sluggishness the poppy might have given his limbs was suddenly gone as his hand shot out to catch her wrist.

“A wisewoman can change that bandage.”

Her fingers stayed on the roughspun.

“I’ve seen a naked man before, Jon.”

Jon was frozen, unable to remove his hand from her wrist. His grip tightened briefly. He thought to remove her hand, but her words stopped that. Instead, he was filled with horror and revulsion. With anger, or something deeper. Something more akin to murderous rage.

“Who?”

“Tyrion Lannister, on the night we were wed.”

“I had thought you said—”

“I maintained my maidenhead, as I told you, but only because he was not so drunk or so cruel that he could not see my terror.”

When Jon Snow had left Winterfell to join the Night’s Watch, he had ridden to the Wall with Tyrion Lannister, the very man Sansa had been forced to wed. On the journey, Jon had grown to think of Tyrion as a friend. Hearing the way Sansa spoke of him, however, had Jon rethinking his view of the dwarf.  Sansa had said that he had been kinder than most in King’s Landing, that he had allowed her to keep her maidenhead for those months they were wed, but Jon could hear how her voice trembled as she spoke of that night. How far had Tyrion pushed their bedding before acquiescing to Sansa’s fear? If Tyrion had truly been kind, would Sansa know the sight of a naked man?

If he ever faced Tyrion Lannister again, Jon vowed that Sansa would be made a widow.

“And you, before the Red Woman began her rite.”

Jon Snow’s hand fell limply from Sansa’s wrist. With a quick movement, she removed the linen, exposing his smallclothes, his thighs. The scars from the mutiny.

This was the wound that Jon had worried about her redressing. Her fingers, the heat of her skin, would be so close to his manhood. Would he be able to ignore the sensation or how his bastard body would respond?

With her words echoing, Jon forgot entirely about her hands.

Jon Snow would have never considered himself to be vain. He knew that he looked like his lord father, the Stark bloodline evident in his appearance, and yet he wanted to ask what she had thought. Could a beautiful highborn lady such as herself every find him desirable?

In truth, that wasn’t the question the monster within him craved an answer to—it was could she ever find it in herself to desire him?

No, Jon rebuked. She was his sister and what sort of beast was he to wish otherwise, especially after all she had endured?

The feeling of her hands on his leg brought Jon back into his body. He would have disappeared into Ghost, had he not worried it would have scared Sansa.

Jon had closed his eye so as not to watch Sansa work, as he had before, but he found with her fingers near his manhood, his mind ran amok. If her fingers were just a little closer—

Jon Snow’s eye flew open.

How often had he wondered what could make the honorable Eddard Stark break his wedding vows? During Robert’s Rebellion, what would have had him falling into a bed other than his marital one?

Jon had heard japes of Robert Baratheon’s fondness for ale and wine, that after some battle, Eddard Stark must have been persuaded to join in with the festivities. Jon had never thought that had made much sense to him. His lord father wouldn’t lose his honor in his cups.

But wounded and weary, with a beautiful highborn lady and her soft hands tending far too close to his sex? Jon Snow understood how even his lord father could forget his honor then, for he felt his own slipping.

Chapter Text

Sansa had not lied to Jon. She had seen a naked man before, two if she counted that brief glimpse of Jon Snow’s body in the ice cells, but she had never touched a man so low on his body. A man’s arms, shoulders, chest, all seemed innocent enough. Touching Jon Snow’s thigh felt different.

The skin was far hotter than she expected, than his hand or face had been. Sansa wasn’t sure if that was the wound or if every man’s leg was hot this near his manhood. The dark hair that covered his upper thighs felt downy. She had thought it might feel wiry. The hair on Tyrion’s body had all looked coarse, as though it would hurt to touch.

His skin of his inner thigh was far softer than she expected as well.

Sansa felt a flush heating her body. Something new thrummed hot and low in her belly.

The muscles in Jon’s leg quivered as she lifted his knee to rewrap the bandage. It felt akin to the fluttering in her heart.

When Sansa had first begun to befriend the wisewomen at Mole’s Town, Yarrow had asked if her bedding had been different with Jon. At the time, Sansa had been more surprised that she had given that part of their lie little thought. She had known in her gut that Jon would have been kinder than Tyrion, though Sansa knew little and less of what that truly meant.

Sansa thought to ask what it had been like, when Jon had bedded his spearwife, but the other time she had asked him about her, he had all but refused to answer.

Sansa turned from Jon Snow’s body, pushing the thoughts from her mind. He was not truly her husband, though of all the men she had been betrothed to, he was by far the kindest, the most gentle.

The men and monsters she had encountered had made Sansa turn her skin to porcelain, to ivory, to steel.  

Joffrey had been a monster. Her aunt Lysa had voiced the notion of marrying her to the little lord Robert, if only for her claim, though he was far younger than her, a child yet in every way. Petyr Baelish had then tried to orchestrate her marriage to Harry the Heir, a man only a year or two older than Jon Snow who had already beget two bastard children. When Harry was crushed beneath the hooves of his mount in the lists, Petyr had come to her chambers, deep in his cups, calling her by her mother’s name, begging her for a kiss, just as the Hound had demanded a song.

But, with Jon, her skin needn’t be hard or sharp. She did not have to defend herself. She needed no armor.

Her skin could be as fragile as glass, as soft as the petals of a rose with Jon Snow.

In the months since they had been reunited, Jon had not once asked her for anything, and she had asked so much of him.

It was his sword that had won them Winterfell.

How could she ever repay him?

Sansa busied her hands with the herbs and bandages, trying to ignore how her fingertips still tingled from touching Jon’s skin.

She had thought Jon may have fallen back to sleep. The wisewomen had warned that he would need rest in order to heal. Mayhaps she hoped that he had, so that Jon would not question the way her cheeks had surely blushed from bandaging his thigh.

“How fared Stannis?”

“A broken leg. The Bolton bannermen cut down his horse and his leg was crushed beneath. They have given him milk of the poppy and he sleeps yet.”

Jon was quiet while she tended to the bowls of herbs and bandages.

“Did the army charge early? It had seemed to be some time before I saw any of Stannis’s men,” Jon asked while Sansa’s back was still turned.

Sansa pressed her palms into the wood table. She should have known that Jon would notice that the Free Folk had charged early, that he would want to know why.

Sansa did not have any answer other than she would not lose him too.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Why? Surely Quenn knew—”

“It was not Quenn’s order.”

Jon did not immediately speak, though Sansa knew he had questions. It was only when he was silent for too long that Sansa dared face him, thinking him asleep.

His eye was open yet, seemingly fixed on the ceiling.

Sansa flew to his side, taking up his scarred hand.

“Are you in pain? What can—”

“Why?”

His voice was as changed as Sansa had heard it before he brawled with Quenn, the growl of a direwolf. Had he been any other man, Sansa might have felt fear, but Sansa could never be afraid of Jon Snow.

“Ramsay had you on the ground,” she breathed, sitting beside him again. Sansa kept Jon’s hand in hers, thankful that he didn’t pull away. “And you screamed. And…And I…”

I knew in that moment between you and Winterfell, I would rather have you.

The words did not spill from her lips, but tears did streak down her cheeks, fast and free.

Jon’s hand left hers suddenly, and Sansa nearly sobbed. Was he so angry that he could not bear her touch? She pressed her hands to her stomach, holding in her grief, even as she continued to cry.

Something warm and rough grazed her cheek, brushed away a tear.

Sansa opened her eyes to see Jon’s arm extended, his fingers soft on her face, as they had been when he had dreamt of his lover, when he had touched her cheek. She grasped his hand, holding his palm to her face, her other gripping his wrist.

“I did not mean to upset you,” Jon murmured. He made no attempt to remove his hand.

“You didn’t.”

“Your tears betray you.”

Sansa shook her head, pressing her face further into his hand.

“When it was you who stepped forward…I was afraid, but Quenn said you were more skilled with a blade than Ramsay. And when Ghost joined the fray, I was so relieved. He never would have leapt in to protect Quenn against the hounds. Every time you were at disadvantage, I was a half a breath away from giving the orders, but when you screamed…I didn’t have a choice.”

Jon’s eye closed. Sansa saw a tear of his own slide down his cheek.

“Thank you, then. If the army hadn’t charged…Ramsay would have killed me. I would have failed you.”

“No,” Sansa breathed. She had yet to release his hand.

Jon’s gaze found hers again, his thumb sweeping the rest of her tears away.

“Have you slept at all?”

“It has not yet been two days since the battle.”

“And you have not rested?”

Jon’s hand left hers. Sansa’s hands fell to her lap, useless.

Sansa had intended to, after the wisewomen had assured her that Jon would live. She knew that Stannis would summon her once he woke from the poppy. She knew that she ought to be well rested to face him with her wits about her. That all had been before the Red Woman had revealed herself and sought an audience with Jon Snow. Once she knew that the witch had joined Stannis, Sansa was too afraid to leave him, for fear that he would be stolen from her.

“You have been too consumed caring for me that you’ve been remiss in caring for yourself.”

“It was not I who was injured in battle.”

“You may not have fought with swords, but you faced Ramsay all the same. You deserve rest the same as any soldier.”

Sansa stared at her hands. She had slept at Jon’s side since she had arrived at Castle Black, before he was even fully pulled from the grave. Was this his way of dismissing her, now that they were home? Was she to sleep alone? Her vision blurred.

“You weep with exhaustion,” Jon murmured.

Jon’s gaze felt heavy on her face. She couldn’t bear to look up.

“Sansa.”

She startled at the sound of her own name. Jon’s voice was as low, as rough, as it had sounded when he asked why she had allowed the Free Folk to charge, as it had been when he challenged Quenn. It was half beast, more wolf than man.

Her shock had little and less to do with the sound of Jon’s voice and more to do with the unexpectedness of the sound. Had they not been within the stone walls of the keep, she would have been glancing over her shoulder to ensure that none had heard who she truly was.

When had Sansa last heard Jon use her name?

It was enough to make her raise her eyes.

His Stark grey eye looked the color of broken steel, Sansa thought.

Jon held out his arm, granting her space in the narrow bed.

“You need sleep, Sansa.”

Sansa held his gaze, waiting for him to withdraw his offer. When he didn’t, Sansa laid beside him, tucked into his side that held less injuries.

She was asleep before her head was pillowed on Jon’s shoulder.

Sansa was slow to rise from the clutches of sleep. Pleasant dreams called to her, even as she opened her eyes. Dreams that belonged to a little girl—offering a chivalrous knight her favor, a handkerchief embroidered with a direwolf, the knight promising to return, to earn a kiss by returning the favor as snow white as it was when she made it. When the knight rode away, a sword with a white pommel was strapped to his back.

The knocking at the door pulled Sansa more quickly from the dreams she yearned to stay in. Worse yet, the knocking forced her from Jon’s arm that was still around her shoulder, his hand modestly resting against the crook of her elbow.

Sansa was pleased to see that Jon had fallen asleep as well, and was not waking as easily as she had.

It was only the incessant pounding at the door that stopped her from lingering, from pushing his hair back from his bandage again.

From the urgent sound coming from the door, Sansa had expected to be faced with Stannis’s witch again. Only who she saw was Yarrow, supporting Jeyne Poole.

“Are you well?” Sansa asked, grasping her friend’s arm to take some of her weight from Yarrow.

“Well enough. I shall be better once they have confirmed that Ramsay Bolton is amongst the dead.”

Jeyne’s words spent a bolt of fear through Sansa. She had not known that the body of Ramsay Bolton was unaccounted for yet.

“I swore to Jon Snow that I would give you this, after the battle,” Jeyne said, presenting her with a sword. The white pommel caught Sansa’s eye. The same as she had seen the knight wear in her dream.

It was Jon’s sword, Longclaw.

“How did you come by it?”

“Jon Snow left it in my possession before the battle. He bade me to give it to you, for your sons.”

Sansa gripped the pommel, lifting the sword. The sword belonged to Jon; he had told her the story of how he came by it in Mole’s Town. Why would he not wield it in the battle? Why leave it with Jeyne Poole?

She stared dumbly at it in her hands.

“He said nothing else?”

Jeyne shook her head.

“Just that the Starks deserved an ancestral sword, and that it should be yours as the Lady of Winterfell.”

“Thank you, Jeyne.”

Both Yarrow and Jeyne turned to leave, but they only made it a handful of steps before Jeyne Poole looked back. Sansa saw how Jeyne’s eyes lingered on the sword, then on Sansa’s unbound hair. She knew that the crown of her head was Tully auburn, the length of it Stark brown.

“Jon Snow is a good man,” she whispered.

Sansa stood frozen, still gripping Jon’s sword. Had she not just been thinking of how gentle he was, compared to all the other men she had encountered? How had she not managed to give him that title that he so rightly deserved? A good man.

Sansa thought again of the dream she had woken from. A chivalrous knight, off to fight a war to protect his home. To protect the maiden he would be leaving behind.

The man in her dream was a true knight. He was a good man, as was Jon.

Sansa stumbled back into the chambers, collapsing into the chair at Jon’s bedside. The sword was balanced across her lap. Sansa’s thumb traced the snarl on the pommel, the garnet chips for eyes.

She had thought Jon her hero several times since he had awoken in Mole’s Town. She had oft noted his difference from the monsters of King’s Landing and the Vale. She should have been comparing him to the true knights from her favorite songs, Florian the Fool and Ser Aemon the Dragonknight.

Mayhaps, she thought, staring at Jon, at how his arm was slung open to allow space for her, mayhaps once the wars are done, the bards will sing songs of Jon Snow, the man who won back Winterfell. He deserves to be in a song.

Sansa smiled at the thought. She imagined Old Nan with children gathered around, telling the tale of Jon Snow walking onto a frozen field. Old Nan would have claimed that he was half a wolf when he fought Ramsay, that it wasn’t a sword he battled with, but claws and teeth. The children would laugh and scream the way she, her siblings, and Jon Snow had. She and Jon would be listening in the doorway, as her parents had. Sansa would scold Old Nan when the story became too gruesome, as her lady mother often did. Jon would carry the children on his shoulders, in his arms, wrapped around his legs, off to bed when it got too late.

As a young girl, Sansa had dreamed of being married to a prince. To become queen beside him; have their children running around a grand keep, with beautiful gardens. Somewhere warm and sunny, like King’s Landing or Highgarden. As a child, she hated how far removed Winterfell was. Guests and bards had been rare.

Now, Sansa never wanted to go south again, and didn’t care a whit for titles.

Sansa wanted to marry for love, not for her claim, and she wanted children to fill the empty keep.

I want it to be as it was, she thought. Her thumb still traced the etchings of the pommel. Full of laughter and love.

Sansa knew she should put up the sword, return to her dreams. Mayhaps she would dream of children, a little boy who looked like Robb, dragging Longclaw behind him far too young and a little girl who looked like Arya, racing far too fast on a horse.

Rising, Sansa set the sword against the wall, as she had seen Jon do, before she took her place at Jon’s side, her cheek against his chest.

Eyes closed, Sansa fell into the dream she had conjured, Old Nan telling the tale of Bael the Bard to the children at her feet. Sansa stood in the doorway, listening, a smile on her face as she studied her children with both the Stark and the Tully look.

A warm hand touched her back. Sansa turned to her husband. The father of the children before Old Nan.

His left eye was hidden by an eye patch, though the scar that cut across his face was still visible. Even so, his gaze was as soft as it always when he looked at her. Sansa felt herself blushing, as though she was a maid yet. His hand moved from her back to her face, a palm cradling her cheek. His touch was as gentle as it always was. She knew of nothing else from him.

He married me for love, not for my claim nor his honor, Sansa thought, as she oft did when he looked at her so tenderly. She leaned forward, kissing him quickly, despite the chorus of embarrassment from their children. Her husband grinned against her lips.

Sansa sank deeper into her dreams, a small smile on her face, even whilst she slept.

Chapter Text

Jon Snow awoke slowly, comforted by the warmth against his chest. The pain that lingered felt dull in comparison. There was the weight of a head on his chest, a warm hand on his stomach. Jon kept his eye closed, unsure if he dreamed still. The feeling of it was too sweet.

Opening his eye, Jon hoped to dispel the feeling, hoped to realize it was simply a dream.

Instead, Jon saw a feminine hand low on his abdomen, and an auburn crown just beneath his jaw. For a moment, Jon thought himself back beyond the Wall. Ygritte had laid with him like this before, after the first time he had broken his vows. Jon remembered how the warmth of her head on his chest had stirred something more inside of him than the wet heat of her sex had.

Jon gripped her waist, pulling her closer. He buried his nose in her hair, remembering how she claimed that the color marked her as lucky. Kissed by fire, she had said.

Only the hair that spilled down her back was not the bright red he was expected. It was a dark brown, nearly the same as his own.

Jon’s hand fell from her body.

It was not Ygritte that he held, but Sansa.

Jon Snow filled with shame and horror.

Shame at his weakness for letting her so close; horror at the hardness swelling beneath his smallclothes.

Sansa was asleep yet, and Jon could not wake her, even for the sake of his own honor. She had been exhausted. Jon had feared that if he hadn’t told her to rest, she would’ve fallen asleep on her feet. No, he would not wake her, though that left him at her mercy. Jon prayed that his manhood would soften by the time she awoke.

It was the milk of the poppy, Jon thought, it clouded my mind, making me forget my honor. Without his pain, without the poppy, Jon would have never allowed her so close.

This was not the innocent way they had shared a bed in Mole’s Town, nor how they had slept side by side on the road. Even on that singular night when he had dreamt in his own body and awoke with her spine against his chest, they had the excuse of the bitter cold. There had been layers of cloth between them. While Sansa still wore a dress, Jon was naked save for his smallclothes and the linen covering his waist. All the parts of his body that her skin touched were bare.

Jon could not let his thoughts linger on how her body touched his, and yet he was powerless to remove himself from beneath her.

The only thing Jon had the strength to do was turn his head away from the sight of her Tully red crown, her hand too low on his belly. If he had tried to sleep again, he knew the dreams would be half memory, half imagining, but wholly a bastard’s desires.

Leaned against the wall, the garnet eyes of Longclaw flickered with light from the hearth.

The sight of the sword had dread forming like a stone in Jon’s gut.

If Sansa had Longclaw, it would only be because Jeyne Poole had brought it to her. Jon was sure that Jeyne would have told Sansa what he said, that it was for her sons, once she became Lady of Winterfell. She would know that he did not wield it in the battle, had walked onto the field intending to fight Ramsay with a common blade. She would undoubtedly remember that Jon had warned her that Stannis had offered him Winterfell, that he had been loath to grant it to Sansa while she was still married to the dwarf.

Sansa was clever, Jon knew that well enough. She was certainly clever enough to understand why he had left the sword behind for her as Lady of Winterfell.

Sansa would have indeed come to the conclusion that Jon Snow had not intended to leave the battlefield alive.

The knowledge that he would wake to her wrath was only cooled by the realization that Jeyne must have come while Jon had slept still. Sansa would have had to left the bed to answer the door, to take the sword and place it against the wall. And yet she was within his arms, as she had been before sleep had dragged him under.

Jon knew it meant nothing. The room was outfitted with only the single bed, and they had shared a bed for many months now. She had been exhausted; of course she would have gone back to sleep.

She had simply returned to the bed, not to his arms. It meant nothing.

It was only a short while later that Jon felt Sansa begin to stir, her fingers flexing on his stomach, her cheek pressing more closely against his chest. Jon would have sworn he felt the softness of her lips against his skin. He was thankful that the blanket still covered his waist, hiding his wicked body’s response.

Sansa did not immediately move from within his arm. Despite how he tried, Jon had not been able to keep his hand from holding some part of her. Every time he dropped his arm, dangled it off the bed, it ran numb, and he was forced to replace it. Instead, Sansa lingered, though Jon knew she must have woken fully. He could feel the change in her breathing.

“You won’t awake me, if that’s what you’re avoiding,” he murmured. Sansa sat up quickly, leaving Jon both bereft and relieved.

“I hadn’t realized you were awake. How do you feel? Your wounds?”

“The pain has lessened.”

Sansa’s finger traced the edge of his bandage. Jon could just feel the heat of her skin across his brow, along the edge of his nose.

“Your bandages should be changed.”

“Let the wisewomen do it.”

Sansa’s fingers left his face.

“I suppose that would be best. They will need to assess how they’ve begun to heal.” Sansa rose fully and the length of bed she had occupied felt suddenly cold.

Jon watched through his good eye as Sansa moved across the room, fetching the pitcher of water, stoking the fire. Tasks that should have been his duty. It was because Jon was watching her that Jon saw how she paused before Longclaw.

“Jeyne brought your sword while you slept,” Sansa began. Her voice betrayed nothing. “She told me what you said, that you left it for me. That you gave it to her before the battle had begun.”

Jon Snow flexed his sword hand. He had never intended to have this conversation.

“Aye. She spoke true.”

“Why?” Sansa still faced the sword, her voice less than a whisper.

“You’ll be Lady of Winterfell soon enough. It should be yours. I did not want it looted on the battlefield if I fell.”

“What of your own sons?”

“Should I have any, they would bear the name Snow. It seems unfit to pass on an ancestral blade with no name, no lands, no House.”

The words were true. Jon knew they were true. He had always known. The truth of them did not sweeten the bitterness of their taste.

Sansa’s back was to him yet. Jon couldn’t begin to guess what she thought. She was quiet longer than Jon liked, though.

“You truly don’t want it?” she asked at last.

Jon Snow swallowed against every desire he ever had. Of course he wanted it. He wanted everything. That had been the problem, why he had sworn the vows of the Night’s Watch, because he wanted more than a bastard should have.

But what good was an ancestral sword with no lands, no name, and no sons?

If Jon couldn’t have everything he desired, he wanted none of it.

“No,” he lied. “It is yours, and Winterfell’s.”

Hours later, Sansa had gone to see to Jeyne, leaving Jon alone for the first time since they had retaken Winterfell. It might have been a relief, to not have her so near, if only it hadn’t felt as lonely. Ghost had gone hunting, and Jon was unable to rise from the bed. There was naught he could do but lie there and watch the fire.

As pained as Jon Snow felt being so near Sansa so constantly, being left alone with his thoughts was immeasurably worse. His mind returned time and time again to Sansa dressing his wounds, stroking his hair. The way she felt against his naked skin as she slept with her head on his chest. His dreams of a highborn wife and sons named Stark.

Jon slipped into Ghost to escape his own thoughts. He would rather feel the hunger and the gush of blood from a kill than let his thoughts wander too closely to imagining how it would feel to truly be wed to Sansa—stolen, cloaked, and bedded.

Ghost was tracking a scent unfamiliar to Jon. The singular focus was strange, too. As soon as Jon was within the direwolf’s skin, Jon knew that this was not a hare or deer that Ghost hunted.

Jon recalled wolf dreams he had had before as Ghost had stalked prey. Ghost had not moved so swiftly, nose to the ground. Whatever Ghost tracked, it was with more focus and determination than he did as he searched for food.

Winding around the trees, moving deeper and deeper into the wolfswood, Jon struggled to place the scent. It was only half animal, almost familiar, like a wolf’s but not. The other half was human; cold and iron lingered beneath salt and the stench of fear.

Who did Ghost hunt?

The arrival of the wisewomen some hours later was a relief. Jon had retreated back into his own body once Ghost’s trail had run cold.

Both Yarrow and the crone who led the wisewomen worked in silence, their movements deft and precise. There was little warmth in their touch and their hands did not linger as Sansa’s had when she had changed his bandages. Try as he might, Jon Snow found it hard to not wish for Sansa’s hands instead. There had been warmth and affection in her touch. The wisewomen’s tending felt no different than a Maester’s.

“Is Quenn well?” Jon asked as the women began on his eye. The silence had left him trapped with his own thoughts, and Jon would do anything to escape them.

“Aye. He had a wound that required stitching but naught else.”

“And how fared the army?”

“Fair enough. Had some losses, but many only wounded. Of those who survived, your wounds are the most grievous.”

“Fortune smiled on you,” Yarrow interjected. “Were it not for Alayne, you would have joined the fallen on the battlefield.”

“Aye. Her giving the orders saved my life.”

“The orders? No. Did she not…?”

“Yarrow. Mayhaps it is not your place.”

“No, tell me,” Jon ordered. He struggled to push himself onto his elbows so that he could see Yarrow across the room. Knotted hands pushed him back down.

“She had fainted after the battle and was taken to rest. When she woke, her first thought was of you. We searched through all of the revelry and healers’ tents. We were forced to search amongst those who fell on the battlefield…”

A chill soaked into Jon Snow’s bones. Sansa had told him none of this.

“I’ll not quickly forget the sound of her scream when she thought you dead.”

Bile rose in Jon’s throat that had little and less to do with the pain in his eye or his leg. He had not thought to wonder how he had been found. He had not thought to ask.

“Scream?” he repeated dumbly.

Yarrow moved back above him. Jon saw how she shook her head.

“It was as though your pain was hers. As if her heart had been ripped from her. I’ve never seen a maid weep so.” Yarrow began wrapping a clean linen around his eye. “I’d asked her once, if the bedding was different, seeing as she stole you. She had told me aye, but watching her collapse upon seeing your body… it must truly be different.”

The air from Jon’s lungs vanished. He struggled to draw a breath.

All Jon Snow had tried to do since waking in Mole’s Town was protect Sansa, yet it seemed that at every turn all he did was frighten her or put her in danger. How could he fail at his sole duty so entirely?

“Had she not found you, this wound in your leg would have killed you, as like as not,” the crone said.

Jon found that he did not have to fight to keep his manhood from reacting as the gnarled hands of the oldest wisewoman began to treat where the dagger had sunk into his thigh.

“Will I heal fully?” Jon asked once his breath returned.

The crone paused in her ministrations, turning to face him fully.

“The wounds to your hand will heal easy enough. The blade was not so sharp that it cut to the bone. Your leg will take more time, but with proper care, it should not cause lingering pain nor should it confine you to a chair.” The wisewoman went quiet then, turning her face away.

“And my eye?”

The wisewoman shook her head.

Jon’s tongue was too thick for him to swallow properly.

“Once the wound around it has begun to heal, we will need to remove the eye itself.”

“Alayne is skilled with a needle. Mayhaps she can stitch you a patch to cover it?”

The horror of how his marred eye would look was a secondary thought. The more pressing concern Jon Snow saw was how losing an eye rendered him useless. How could he fight in a battle if he could not see attacks from the left? The only service he could be to Sansa was as a fighter. How could he fulfil his duty, injured as he was?

What use would Sansa have of him?

Jon Snow laid in the bed, turning over the wisewoman’s words. The two wounds would heal as his others had, but to lose an eye…

Was half his sight worth Winterfell? Worth protecting Sansa?

The thoughts filled Jon with shame. He had been ready to lay down his life for Winterfell and Sansa, and yet he was mourning an eye?

An eye was not a hand, was not a leg.

An eye was nothing.

He had nearly lost one to Orell’s eagle.

Jon Snow knew all of that to be true, yet it did nothing to cool his anger.

By the time Sansa returned, Jon Snow’s rage had begun to boil.

“Did Yarrow say how your wounds have begun to heal?” Sansa asked. Her voice was as soft as it had been since he had woken within the walls of Winterfell. It should have been a comfort, but it only fueled his anger.

Sansa Stark was everything his bastard status denied him.

“My eye is lost.”

Jon directed his gaze at the stones of the ceiling. He could not face her. He could not stare into the face of all he had ever desired.

“When you were first treated, they had thought as much,” Sansa whispered.

“You knew?” His voice was louder than it should have been. He shouldn’t dare speak to Sansa Stark in such a way.

Jon did not apologize.

“It had not been confirmed.” Jon had expected her to sound small or even angry with him. Instead, she sounded as though she were mollifying a child. “I did not want to tell you. I had hoped that they might be able to save it.”

“What use will I be with only one eye?”

Jon hated how sullen he sounded. It was as though he was still a boy and not a man grown.

“You maintain half your sight. Of course you’ll have use.”

“None on a battlefield. My ability to wield a sword is all I have.”

“What of when the wars are won? There won’t always be battles. Father only fought in the two rebellions. After all the fighting, do we not deserve some peace?”

Without the Night’s Watch, a battle is the only way for a bastard to rise, to win glory, Jon thought bitterly. The words would not come, for Jon knew that Sansa would dismiss them as foolish. She would undoubtedly say that he had already won glory, battling Ramsay.

“Even so… Aemond Targaryen lost an eye as a child and was still a fearsome swordsman. It can be done.”

At Sansa’s words, that fury that Jon was grappling to keep a hold of finally slipped from his grasp. It was true that he be at a severe disadvantage in a vanguard with only one eye, but that did not mean that he would never fight again. Sansa was right, too, in her hopes for peace. Winter was coming and soon any battles left to fight would be left until spring.

With his anger gone, Jon was finally able to look at Sansa. She sat beside him; her hands primly folded as a proper lady’s should be. It was the first since he had woken that Sansa made no effort to reach for him.

“Is Jeyne well?”

“She will be better once Ramsay’s body has been found, but she is eating more and sleeping less.”

Jon struggled to rise. Warm hands were instantly upon his shoulders, pushing him back flat. Jon hated how he knew that Sansa would not have him rising. He hated how he knew that if he tried, she would touch him.

Jon Snow hated the relief he felt at the warmth of her touch.

“Ramsay’s body is missing?”

“None recall seeing him after the armies charged. Theon warned of his tricks and disguises, but there has been no sign of him in the keep. Most believe that he fell on the battlefield. Both Stannis’s soldiers and the Free Folk have not yet finished laying their dead to rest.”

On the battlefield, Jon had only two goals and he failed at both of them. He had not killed Ramsay Bolton, and he had not died, leaving Sansa the only Stark to claim Winterfell.

Chapter Text

Sansa could feel Jon’s anger but it did not frighten her the way that of other men had. She knew that it was not truly directed at her, and she knew that Jon would never hurt her. She understood his hurt at being kept in the dark, though.

Jon Snow had risked his life, lost an eye, to give her Winterfell, and Sansa would give him anything he desired.

She couldn’t keep secrets from him.

Sansa’s hands twisted in her lap.

“There’s more I have yet to tell you.”

Jon’s eye flew to hers. “More?”

“The Red Woman is here. She saw you in her fires. She knows you live. I would wager that Stannis does as well.”

“You saw her?”

“She tried to demand entry. I refused her and had Free Folk stand as guards.”

Jon’s face did not reflect the fear Sansa felt. She thought he should be terrified, as she was. What would the Red Woman do to ensure that Jon Snow would bring her visions to truth? Would Stannis order Jon to follow him in his conquest south?

“When was this?”

“When we first recovered you, after your wounds had been bound while the milk of the poppy had you in dreams. She claims that you will be a sword in the wars against some darkness, that Stannis will wield you to win glory.”

An acerbic laugh slipped from Jon.

“Her god must have failed to show the wounds I received.”

Sansa turned to study him. It was not the first bitterness he had shown for the wounds he had endured to win her back Winterfell.

Did he regret it, she wondered. Does he wish we had gone on to Bear Island? Or that I never gave that witch my blood?

The Red Woman had claimed to need Sansa’s blood to bring Jon Snow back from the dead. When Sansa was faced with her outside the door to this very chamber, she had said that she had known the truth of her identity within the ice cells.

Was it Sansa’s blood she needed only because Stark blood was what both she and Jon shared, or was there something more to it?

The blood of the First Men was thought to run through the veins of House Stark. From Sansa’s history lessons, she recalled that they had first settled in the stormlands. Had the Storm Kings of old claimed to be descended from the First Men as well? Could House Baratheon, if traced back far enough, also share that same ancient bloodline?

If it was the blood of the First Men that the Red Woman needed to preform her rites…was that why she needed Jon? Was that why she cared little that his wounds would be a hindrance on a battlefield?

“What if… What if it’s your blood she needs as a weapon, not your skill with a sword?” Sansa whispered.

“Blood?”

“She used my blood to bring you back. What if she intends to keep you at Stannis’s side, so that she can use yours to bring him back, should he fall?”

Jon shook his head. Sansa saw how the tiny gesture caused him to wince.

“She scares me, Jon.”

“You have Winterfell. You needn’t be afraid anymore.” Jon took her hand in his and Sansa found great comfort in his touch.

“Even so, might I sleep here again? I fear I won’t feel truly home until Stannis and his witch move their armies onward.”

Jon’s eye squeezed shut as though he were in pain.

“Aye. As long as you wish.”

The passing of time in the days following was slow.

Sansa did her best to fill her days outside of the chamber where Jon Snow recovered. Stannis was also still convalescing from wounds he endured in the battle and had not yet summoned her or Jon to discuss Winterfell’s stores or when his army would move south. It made it difficult to perform the duties that would typically fall to the Lady of Winterfell. Stannis’s soldiers were loath to take orders from her without Stannis’s explicit instruction, and with him still trapped in poppy dreams, Sansa could do little and less to help prepare Winterfell for the oncoming winter.

Even her hours spent comforting Jeyne Poole seemed to stretch on. Jeyne was well enough that she could spend the days awake, though she still took tonics to sleep without nightmares. Sansa was sure the discovery of Ramsay Bolton’s body would put her girlhood friend finally at peace.

It was the first question that left Jeyne Poole’s lips each morn upon Sansa’s arrival to her chamber. Every morning, it pained Sansa to say that no, there had been no news.

Every night, Sansa returned to the chamber she had begun to think of as hers and Jon’s. It was not one of the rooms her, Jon, or any of her siblings had claimed when they were children, nor was it the chambers of the lord and lady. The rooms were larger than what they shared in Mole’s Town, and the bed made of feather instead of straw.

When Stannis officially named her as the Lady of Winterfell, she would move into the chambers her lord father had used. Would Jon join me? Sansa oft wondered once Jon had fallen asleep, Or would he prefer to choose chambers of his own? Would they be nearby, so that I could still visit him?

Sansa had grown so used to sleeping with his warmth beside her. The bed of the lord’s chambers was far larger than either this bed or the one from Mole’s Town. How cold and empty would it feel when she slept in it alone?

Sansa returned from Jeyne Poole’s chambers to find Jon Snow sitting up, breeches covering his bandaged leg. She was surprised to see Ghost was not before the hearth, as he oft was when she retired each evening. He had been gone last night too.

“Where’s Ghost?”

“Hunting, most like.”

Jon was braced at the edge of the bed, as though he meant to rise.

“Have the wisewomen given you leave to stand?”

Jon’s singular eye flashed to hers. The anger that seemed to flare more often since he had been told about his eye rose to the surface.

“I cannot lie here any longer.”

“Allow me to help.”

Sansa had thought that Jon would refuse her, that he would try to rise on his own. Instead, when she pulled his arm around her shoulders, he did not protest. The sound of pain Jon made as he rose tore at her heart.

“Mayhaps you should let your leg heal a little while longer.”

“I’ve felt worse pain.”

“I’m sorry,” Sansa whispered. “It’s my fault that you were injured. If I hadn’t ridden out as Jeyne…”

Jon turned to face her. His arm was still around her shoulders and it brought his face close to hers. As close as Petyr’s had been, smelling of wine, asking for a kiss and calling her after her lady mother. Sansa’s belly had roiled then; all she felt now was a fluttering.

“No. No, it is not your fault. My choices were my own.” Jon’s fingers gripped her shoulder, forcing her to meet his eye. “Yarrow told me that it was you who found me. The crone said I would have died, had you not.” Sansa felt tears well. Jon’s hand was rough on her jaw. “She said…when you found my body… That you screamed as if you suffered from the same injuries I did.”

She nodded. “I had thought you dead. You were surrounded by corpses and covered in blood…”

Sansa thought she felt Jon’s hand tremble against her face.

“The pain in my leg is nothing compared to how it felt when she told me that.”

“Yarrow shouldn’t have—”

A knocking at the door cut off Sansa’s words.

Jon’s hand dropped from her face and he slowly lowered himself back onto the bed, allowing her to answer the door.

Quenn stood before her, his face ruddy from the wind and cold.

“Your direwolf has returned. You’ll want to see what he’s brought.”

Sansa followed Quenn’s gaze to Jon behind her. Her stomach churned at how Jon nodded, how he rose to his feet. Sansa could see how his breathing was labored, how his face twisted in pain. She bit her tongue to keep from telling him that he should stay abed a little while longer.

“We will join you presently,” Sansa told Quenn before shutting the door. “Let me help you dress.”

Jon’s nod was slow.

Neither she nor Jon broached the topic of his pain or what Yarrow had told him. They did not speak as she helped to pull the tunic over his head or as she laced his jerkin.

In the yard, Sansa watched Jon’s face turn to stone as he limped across the snow with no assistance. He showed none of the pain that she knew he was in.

“What is it you wanted me to see?” Jon asked Quenn.

Sansa stood a few paces back. Stannis’s men were everywhere. She knew that Stannis was still kept in poppy dreams, but Sansa did not know if the Red Woman had shared with anyone else that Jon Snow was alive. She kept a wary eye to all whose eyes lingered on Jon, even with the white wolf’s hood pulled to shadow his face.

“See for yourself.”

Quenn motioned to the great direwolf that paced before the gates.

“Ghost, come.”

The direwolf trotted forward and dropped something at Jon’s feet. Sansa found herself stepping closer to see what it was. She knew it couldn’t have been any animal. Ghost didn’t behave that way with hares and deer.

In the snow lay a frozen human hand.

“Ghost found the body of Ramsay Bolton,” Jon said, picking up the hand.

Sansa wanted to ask how Jon knew. The hand bore no distinctive markings that she could see.

“Fetch me a horse.”

Sansa closed the distance between them quickly. “You could barely stand on your own naught an hour ago. You can’t ride out into the wolfswood on your own at dusk.”

“I will take Quenn and Ghost with me. Ghost can lead the way and ensure we won’t be lost in the darkness.”

“But—”

“It should have been me who killed Ramsay Bolton. Allow me to be the one who brings back his body.”

Sansa could hear the desperation clearly in his voice, just as clearly as she could see the pain he was hiding in his lone eye.

She sighed. “You’ll be quick to return?”

“Aye. Tell Jeyne. I know it will come as a relief to see him dead.”

“I will. We’ll be waiting for you.”

Jon stepped away without reaching for her. Sansa had expected it. They had won Winterfell and were surrounded by those who knew the truth of their identities, of who they were to each other. She knew that they should not be so familiar with each other in front of Stannis’s men. Sansa knew all of that, but it left her wishing for Mole’s Town all the same.

Sansa stood with Jeyne on the battlements, overlooking the yard. They had both wrapped blankets over their cloaks as night had fully fallen. Torchlight flickered and cast the open gates in further darkness.

Jon had left with Quenn and Ghost only a few hours ago. They had not been gone so long that she truly had cause for worry, though Sansa had felt it since Jon had asked for a horse.

“The guards on the wall move. They must see something,” Jeyne whispered.

Sansa gripped the railing, willing her eyes to see into the blackness of the wolfswood beyond the gate.

Ghost appeared first, white and spectral. Quenn’s horse came into the light second. Sansa could see something tied behind his saddle.

It wasn’t until Jon appeared, sitting tall and proud astride his mount, that Sansa let herself breathe a sigh of relief.

With Jeyne clinging to her arm, the pair approached the men untying the body from Quenn’s horse.

“Is it truly him?” Jeyne whispered.

“Aye. He must have fled from the battle into the wolfswood. He mayhaps hoped to sneak back into the keep once the fighting was over.”

“Was it his wounds that killed him?”

Sansa saw the shadow pass over Jon’s face.

“Most injuries I dealt were to his face. What killed him was no blow I delivered.”

“Wolves killed him, most like. His bowels and innards were eaten. He would have been easy prey, hungry and moving slow. His body freezing was all that kept the rest of him whole.” Quenn laid the body in the snow.

Sansa felt Jeyne sobbed beside her. “He is truly dead and rotting in the Seven Hells.” Jeyne flung herself into Jon’s arms then, whispering thank you over and over.

Sansa watched as Jon’s arms closed over Jeyne’s back. She noticed how he did not grip Jeyne as he had her only hours ago. Was it because Jon was scared to frighten Jeyne that he held her so loosely?

Jon’s eye found hers over Jeyne’s shoulder. Sansa felt heat rise to her cheeks and she had to look away.

On the narrow bed that night, Sansa was curled at Jon Snow’s side. Jon had long since fallen asleep, but Sansa could not conjure the sweet dreams she had every other night since reclaiming Winterfell. She was distracted by the security of Jon’s body beside her. She could feel the strength of him, even as he slept.

Had her own lady mother laid like this beside her lord father? Admiring the controlled power in the body of the man in her bed? How his hands could wield such violence against men like Ramsay but then touch her so tenderly?

She knew Jon was strong, and yet every time he touched her it was soft, gentle. The only times she had felt his strength was when she had hugged him before the battle and again when he told her of what Yarrow said when they had discovered his body on the battlefield. His grip had been forceful, so tight that she might have felt fear with any other man.

What other man would she feel so safe lying beside, night after night?

Jon behaved as a knight in a song, save for not lying his sword between them. Sansa knew that he would have, should she have asked.

In King’s Landing, how often had Sansa prayed for a true knight to rescue her? She had thought that the gods had turned a blind eye to her pleas after being sent men like Dontos and Petyr Baelish.

Lying awake beside Jon Snow, Sansa realized that the gods had answered her prayers.

It was a cruel jape, their answer. They had finally sent her a true knight, a hero, only in the form of her half-brother.

Was he truly still my half-brother, Sansa found herself wondering after many hours of failing to sleep.

The half-brother she had been raised alongside had been a boy that Robb bested in most things, more oft than not. The man who slept next to her seemed to be Robb’s equal, or near enough, in swordsmanship and strategy. He had lost the childishness of his face, of his body, and was unmistakably a man grown.

The half-brother she had known had been killed in a mutiny at Castle Black.

The man who shared her bed had been raised from the dead.

Was he still that same boy?

And even if he was, did Sansa truly care? He was a gift from the gods, she knew. Why else would his touch feel hallowed and holy?

Why else would being in Jon Snow’s arms feel like home?

Sansa remembered the Red Woman’s comment when she had discovered Sansa crying over Jon Snow’s body. She had said you weep over this man as if you loved him. Sansa had thought mayhaps she had, when they were children. She supposed she had to have loved him, to cry so openly over his corpse. Now, Sansa realized that the love she had felt then had been born of duty alone. Jon Snow was her brother and, half or otherwise, it was her duty to love him.

The love she felt now had nothing to do with duty. In fact, Sansa suspected that she loved Jon Snow in spite of her duty and her family.

Chapter Text

The pain Jon Snow felt in his thigh the following morning was similar to when he had been pierced by Ygritte’s arrow. He should have known better to aggravate his wounds, but the pride he had in being the one to lay Ramsay Bolton’s corpse at Sansa’s feet was unparalleled, even if he hadn’t been the one to deliver the killing blow.

When the crone and Yarrow came to see him, he expected to be scolded for walking, for riding so soon on his injured leg. Instead, the crone said nothing about his leg. It was his eye she came to treat.

“The cut around is healed well enough. It’s time for the eye to come out, afore it festers.”

“I shall fetch Alayne to offer some comfort,” Yarrow said, turning for the door.

“No. I’ll not have her here. Bar her entry if you must. Fetch Quenn instead.”

“Quenn’s not one for comfort. The touch of your wife would do more against pain.”

Jon Snow shook his head. He could not have Sansa there to witness them cutting his eye from its casing, nor could he seek comfort in her touch when it was all he ever desired.

“We have no poppy to offer you to dull the pain.”

“I would refuse it if you had. I cannot lose more time to its dreams.” In truth, Jon was terrified of what sorts of dreams more milk of the poppy would bring him. “Fetch Quenn.”

“Aye.”

Yarrow left as the crone began unwrapping the dressing from his head.

“It was wise to keep your wife away. Nasty doings, removing an eye.”

Jon swallowed against the mounting fear. It was as he expected.

The pain from his burned hand, from Ygritte’s arrow, he knew would be second to this. Sweat soaked his skin.

Yarrow arrived with Quenn only a few moments later.

“Hold him down,” the crone ordered. The big man’s hands were on Jon’s shoulders, pushing him down further into the bed. “Bite.” Jon bit down on the leather strip she placed between his teeth.

With his singular working eye, Jon saw the approach of the fired knife. The metal only just touched his skin and then he was bellowing against the leather, trashing against Quenn’s hold on him.

Blood pounded in his ears before he greeted the blackness with relief.

Pain fogged Jon Snow’s senses. It was all he felt. He had only vomited the once after waking, though his skin still ran cold and clammy.

“Jon?”

Sansa’s voice came from afar. When had she returned to the chambers? He had no voice left with which to respond.

“Are you well?”

Jon felt cool fingers against his sweaty temple, stroking his hair back. For a moment, Jon forgot about the pain. All he felt was Sansa’s touch.

“Well enough,” he managed.

“If I’d known… I would have been here,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“Can I be of any comfort to you?”

“You already are. Your fingers soothe.”

Jon was still delirious from the pain. He must have been. Why else would he admit that her brushing his hair, as she had once for Ghost in Castle Black, lessened all the pain he still felt?

Jon Snow, were he in his right mind, might have felt shame at telling his half-sister such. He might have yet, if her hands had not continued slowly and gently, until he was lulled to a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

The news that Stannis had finally woken from the milk of the poppy he had been given came the day following. The pain in Jon Snow’s eye had lessened enough that it was more a discomfort than anything. The other pains, his leg, his hand, his shame of his feelings for Sansa, were so familiar now that he barely felt them.

The summons was expected. Jon had been braced for it since Sansa had told him that the Red Woman was in Winterfell and had seen him in her fires.

Jon knew that Stannis would send for them both immediately upon waking, and yet he felt more trepidation crossing Winterfell with Sansa at his side than he had stepping forward to face Ramsay on the battlefield.

It was not the lord’s chambers that Stannis had claimed, but others deep into the heart of Winterfell. Jon could not recall who they had belonged to when he had been a boy yet.

The rooms were warm, a fire roaring in the hearth. Stannis was yet abed, his leg bandaged in a cradle.

“It appears that Melisandre spoke true of her visions. Even less an eye, you favor your lord father. Were you aware, Lady Lannister, that Jon Snow was amongst the wildling army?”

Jon Snow wanted to correct Stannis—it was Lady Stark who stood at his side. The crown of her Tully auburn hair shone as red as the leaves of a heart tree in the firelight. Without her hood, she could not be mistaken for Jeyne or Arya, or even Alayne.

“Yes.”

“And yet you elected to conceal that information?”

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. I wanted to ensure that one of us would live through the battle to make it so.”

Sansa spoke as calmly and evenly as Jon had heard when he wore Ghost’s skin into Stannis’s camp. Deep lines were etched into Stannis’s face. Jon recognized the anger brewing. He wanted to step in front of her, as he had in Ghost. He could not protect her from Stannis’s wrath with bared teeth when he was in his own body. He did not know how to protect her at all.

Melisandre stepped from the shadows. Jon Snow felt Sansa stiffen beside him.

“It was the will of R’hllor, for I was unable to see him in my fires until the day was won.”

“The will of R’hllor could have lost us—”

“Do you question the Lord of Light, who has chosen you to be Azor Ahai reborn? Who has gifted you Lightbringer?”

Stannis snapped his mouth shut, his face darkening.

“Whatever the reason, it is done. You are alive and no longer the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Melisandre told me of how she rose you from the dead, before you were stolen from her grasp.” Stannis’s gaze flicked to Sansa. Jon again wanted to block her from Stannis’s view. “You have denied me once, but there are no excuses for you to hide behind now. Bend the knee, Jon Snow, and rise Jon Stark.”

The breath left Jon Snow’s lungs. Sansa Stark stood beside him, and yet Stannis offered him Winterfell yet again.

“Winterfell belongs to Sansa. She is the last trueborn child of Eddard Stark. It is hers to claim.”

Sansa did not move, did not speak.

“Aye, she has the Stark blood, but you do as well. You also don’t bare the name of Lannister.”

“I was a hostage in King’s Landing, not a blushing maiden. Vows said at the point of a sword are not recognized by the Faith. Are they by your god?”

“Did you have a blade to your throat as you said your vows to the Imp?”

Sansa did not respond. Jon glanced toward her. The inferno burning in her eyes was unmistakable. He wished that he could reach for her hand, as he would have if they were alone. There was no comfort he could offer her.

“My marriage to Tyrion Lannister was never consummated, a fact well-known in King’s Landing. It could be set aside by a Council of the Faith.”

“I cannot set the marriage aside. The Lord of Light is the one true god, but I fear that if my priestess sets your marriage aside, those who worship the false gods would take advantage. They could claim that the vows still stand and try to make a play for Winterfell.”

Jon heard Sansa’s exhale—sharp and swift, as though she had been struck.

“Tyrion has not been seen since Joffrey’s death. I’m as like as not a widow.”

“With no proof of his death, Cersei could, indeed would, use your marriage to claim Winterfell. Even as a Lannister widow, she would no doubt do all in her power to use you as a pawn. No, it’s safest not in your hands at all.”

Jon’s belly roiled as though he was going to vomit. He did not fight Ramsay Bolton so that he could become the Lord of Winterfell. He had never wanted to steal it from Sansa.

“Bend the knee, pledge your sword to me, and you will be the Lord of Winterfell.”

Jon Snow could not. He would not.

“Last you promised me Winterfell, you would have me burn the godswood. I cannot, will not, allow the godswood burned.”

“Nor I,” Sansa said swiftly. “Will you offer Winterfell to a Karstark or an Umber, until you find one willing to burn the heart of Winterfell into ash? Will you tell them how you passed over the last of the Starks for that very reason?”

“The north will not recognize a Lord of Winterfell not of a northern House. Especially not some southroner who would see the godswood burned.”

Anger flared on Stannis’s face. Jon could not recall if he had seen the man so enraged ever in their previous interactions.

“You need the support of the northern lords and the swords of Jon’s wildlings, if you want to continue your conquest beyond the Neck. Do you believe you could win at the Twins with only your bannermen and winter quickly coming?”

Jon turned his head so that he could keep both Sansa and Stannis in his line of sight. It meant that he saw how Sansa turned to face Melisandre, who still kept to the shadows.

“Do you see the glory of your king without the backing of the north in your fires?”

The Red Woman was silent, the flickering flames making her face unreadable.

“When Stannis sit upon the Iron Throne, after the defeat of the Great Other, all will recognize the Lord of Light as the one true god. False gods and trees will be ripped from their plinths.”

“Lady Lannister speaks true enough. We have not the men to advance on the Twins, let alone win against your shadow god.” Stannis made like he meant to stand, a grimace overtaking his face. Jon thought he looked as pale as a weirwood tree as he gripped the post of the bed and stood upright. “You may keep your godswood—”

“R’hllor demands—”

“This is a war and sacrifices must be made, as you well know.” Stannis turned back to face him again. The mask of pain was gone, replaced by something Jon found far more sinister. “You may keep your trees until I sit upon the Iron Throne.”

Jon Snow wondered if Stannis Baratheon was indeed to be the next Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Would Jon have a hand in placing him on that chair? Would the realm truly fall to worship the Lord of Light and him alone?

“If you are crowned the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, the Protector of the Realm, we will see the godswood burned,” Sansa agreed before Jon could untangle his thoughts.

No, Jon wanted to tell her. No, we cannot. Winterfell would not be Winterfell without the godswood.

“Then kneel, Jon Snow.”

I cannot. I will not.

“Jon also sustained an injury to his leg during the battle. I fear he will find it hard to kneel,” Sansa said. Jon turned fully toward her. Did she believe that Stannis would grant her Winterfell because of his wounded leg? “If you would but give us a moment.”

Jon failed to understand Sansa’s actions even as she unclasped the cloak she wore and began to fold it. He stared as she placed the folded material before him, as she held out a hand to hold some of his weight.

Eye closed in pain and in shame, Jon lowered his knees to the cushion of Sansa’s cloak. He barely heard the words Stannis spoke, the words his own mouth repeated back, for the roaring in his ears.

“Rise, Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.”

Jon’s legs trembled beneath him. One hand braced to the ground, Jon did not know if he could rise without shaming himself, vomiting before Stannis, before Sansa for the pain in his leg.

“Rise, Jon,” a softer voice whispered, stirring the hair around his ear. Jon opened his eye to see Sansa kneeling beside him, a palm open. It was only with the assistance of Sansa Stark that Jon Snow was able to stand upright again.

“I’m told the lord’s chambers have been prepared. They are yours to take.” Stannis lowered himself back down, hauling the wooden cradle that supported his leg back onto the bed with his hands. “I grow weary, but I would speak to you again. We must have a count of mouths and take stock of the stores.”

Jon agreed, though he found his own voice to sound cold and hollow. It was the voice he had used as Lord Commander, when he gave orders to switch the babes and send Sam to Oldtown.

After he and Sansa had taken their leave, Jon was sure he would be met with the cold and steely Sansa that he had seen before Stannis. The one that he thought made her look most like her lady mother, even with her Stark brown hair.

I have never wanted to want any of it, Jon wanted to tell her. I never wanted to steal it from you.

“It should be yours,” he muttered. “Stannis’s fear of the Lannisters—”

“Is not unfounded. It is clever, to anticipate where Cersei might see an advantage.”

Jon shook his head.

“I wondered… Might I take my lady mother’s old rooms, if you are to have the lord’s chambers?”

“Take Father’s chambers. The rooms of my childhood suit me fine.”

“Those belonged to a child, not the Lord of Winterfell. It is only proper that you take them. You should have Longclaw as well, for your Stark sons.”

Jon’s footsteps stilled. Sansa turned back, giving him a watery and bittersweet smile.

It was the worst pain that Jon had felt yet.

Chapter Text

Sansa lay awake in the hottest rooms of Winterfell. Though the rooms were plenty warm, the empty stretch of bed beside her was cold. Jon had followed Stannis’s orders to take the lord’s chambers, and Sansa did not have the courage to ask if she could stay with him again.

She found that she could not sleep alone though.

If it had not been so late already, she might have gone to find either Yarrow or Jeyne Poole, but Sansa was sure the whole of the keep was long since asleep.

Sansa threw back the covers and took up the candle at her bedside.

She would not go see Jon, but she could not just lay in the bed any longer.

In a chest that had once belonged to her lady mother, Sansa found an embroidery hoop and spools of thread.

In Mole’s Town, Sansa had filled the hours between retiring and sleep with sewing Jon’s cloak. Mayhaps if she stitched long enough, she would grow tired enough to sleep alone.

Sansa stepped onto the cracked stones that formed the footpath through the godswoods. The canopy of leaves formed so densely above her that the path was mostly free of snow. The wood and the walls surrounding it silenced the sounds of the armies in the keep. The only noise was the sound of her own footfalls as Sansa followed the path to the center of the wood.

When had Sansa last walked this path? As a girl, she had worshipped in the sept with her lady mother. She only recalled praying before the heart tree once, when she wished for more singers to come. Sansa had oft thought of the godswoods as her lord father’s domain. A place not meant for her, much the same as his solar was.

It was only once she was isolated in King’s Landing that Sansa found solace in the godswood. A quiet place where she was allowed to be alone, unwatched, that reminded her of home.

Sansa had forgotten how old Winterfell’s godswood felt, compared to the ones she had frequented in King’s Landing and the Eyrie.

Would she truly allow the ancient wood to be burned, should Stannis sit on the Iron Throne? Would Jon?

Sansa supposed it would not be her call to make, if Stannis was crowned. Jon was the Lord of Winterfell now and it would be his decision to either allow the heart tree burned to pacify the red witch’s god or dissent and be named traitor.

Jon had rejected Stannis’s offer before for the sake of the godswood, Sansa reminded herself. He would not see it burned. If he refused, would he go to war to save the heart tree? The North had been an independent kingdom for years before the conquest. If Stannis was king and the realm forced to worship the Lord of Light, the North could be independent again, with Jon as its king.

If Jon was king, he would set my marriage aside, Sansa thought bitterly. Rage flared in her anew. She knew that Stannis was right in that Cersei would make a play for Winterfell if Sansa was named its lady, even if Tyrion was presumed dead. She thought that his refusal to set her marriage aside was cruel, though.

In the Vale, Sansa had been afraid that no one would ever marry her for love. That it was her claim they would all seek, not her. With Jon being named Lord of Winterfell, it left her free to marry for love, or at the very least for something other than her claim to Winterfell. Sansa might have felt relief or happiness at Jon’s being named Lord, save for Stannis’s refusal to set her marriage aside.

Even if she had been married for her claim, she could have grown to love her husband, as had happened with her parents. But if her marriage was not set aside, if she was thought of as still being wed to Tyrion Lannister, it would be an empty life, bereft of love or children.

Sansa Stark had not realized that there was a fate worse than being married for her claim alone.

Was she to live at Winterfell, with Jon and his family? She would be home, at the very least. Mayhaps she could befriend whoever Jon took to wife. Mayhaps it would not be so lonely, as she imagined.

Would he have Jeyne Poole? Sansa wondered. She would be a good lady to Winterfell, and Jon a good husband to her. He would teach her of tenderness. Sansa would be happy to see Jeyne raised to such station.

If he were to marry Jeyne Poole, I would be happy for them, Sansa promised herself. But if he married some other highborn daughter, or if Stannis arranged for his marriage, as he would have her own, could she accept it so easily?

Would Stannis send for some Southron daughter of a lesser House trying to gain footing, or would Jon be wed to a daughter of a great House in order to stitch the realm back together?

Jealousy boiled in Sansa’s belly. She had been sold, but only to monsters. Why could she not have been promised to a man like Jon?

Whoever she is, she should love him. He is as gentle and kind as any knight, Sansa thought, coming up to the black pool beneath the heart tree. The water was impossibly still. Her reflection was as clear as if she gazed into a looking glass. The hood of the cloak she wore masked her Tully auburn crown. She could be Jeyne Poole or Arya, if she were older. Slowly, Sansa lowered her hood. Her lady mother’s face stared back at her.

She knew that her lady mother would be angry at Jon being named Stark and being granted Winterfell. Sansa knew that her parents loved each other deeply, but she also knew that Catelyn Stark had resented Jon’s existence.

If Jon were married to some highborn maid from somewhere in the south, would she begrudge him his legitimacy? Sansa would hope not. Birth and blood were not near as important as a kind heart and gentle hands, she had come to learn.

Sansa stooped, splashing the water and breaking the image.

The black water rippled out from where she stood. Sansa followed the movement with her eyes until she stared into the carved melancholy face of the heart tree.

The very tree Stannis and his witch would see burned.

Sansa circled the pool, her footsteps silenced by the moss and humus. The godswood was still, no wind stirring the leaves. She was the lone creature moving through the wood, and yet Sansa felt the weight of a primordial gaze upon her. Even in King’s Landing, Sansa had felt the presence of ancient and wild beings within the godswood.

Sansa pressed her palm to the bone white trunk of the tree. She did not want to see Stannis Baratheon on the Iron Throne, or the Red Woman raised to High Septon. She did not want to see the heart tree burned and the godswood destroyed.

The red sap in the deep cut eyes of the heart tree bored into her. The face stared into her very heart.

In truth, she did not want to see Jon married, to Jeyne Poole or any other maid. She did not want to see him with a bride, her belly round with a babe, while she lived her life alone, married to a ghost that no one would free her from.

When Jon married, it would be the woman who was truly his bride who would sleep at his side, and Sansa would be sleeping alone, for the rest of her life.

Sansa wrenched her gaze from the heart tree, just as a tear fell. The black pool rippled, the lone proof of her heartbreak.

Sansa sat across from Jon, the table littered with parchment. Stannis’s men had finally allowed Jon, as Lord of Winterfell, into the solar to begin taking stock of their provisions and the process of rebuilding that the Boltons had already started.

“With Stannis’s leg broken, how long do you think he and his army will linger? Not through the winter, surely…” Sansa asked, staring at the numbers before her.

“No, I believe he wants to move south before winter truly comes.”

“Even less his soldiers…”

“I know,” Jon murmured.

“The Vale has stored a surplus of food…”

“Aye. I saw reports as Lord Commander.”

“I could send a raven to House Royce at the Gates of the Moon,” Sansa offered. “I became friends with Lady Myranda Royce as Alayne Stone. It was she who aided my escape.”

Jon’s eye cut to hers.

“Would that not give away where you are? You fled from the Vale.”

“I fled from Petyr Baelish. House Royce was kind to me.”

“Did he hurt you?”

Sansa had not realized that in all their months together, she had not told Jon why she had finally fled north.

“I was passed off as Petyr Baelish’s bastard daughter, Alayne Stone. When he became the Lord Protector of the Vale after Aunt Lysa’s death, Petyr arranged my betrothal to Harry Hardyng, the heir to the Vale and Eyrie after little lord Robert Arryn.”

“Was he any kinder than Tyrion?”

Jon’s question surprised Sansa. She knew she had spoken to him of the monsters she had met, but she hadn’t truly counted Tyrion as one of them. The growl in Jon’s voice suggested that he thought otherwise.

“He, I think, was resentful that his foster-mother agreed to his marrying a bastard. I know that he beget two of his own, though he was only your age or mayhaps a little older. I did not know him well enough to say if he would have been a kind or a cruel husband.”

“Was he the reason you fled?”

“No. There was a tourney at the Gates of the Moon for the Brotherhood of Winged Knights. Harry was meant to do well.” Sansa paused, recalling the feast where she had danced with Harry. “He asked to wear my favor,” she whispered. If she had given it to him, would he have won the tilt? Would he have lived? “He was killed during the tourney. Unseated during the joust and trampled. All of Petyr’s careful planning came unraveled and he was left with nothing.”

“What would Baelish have gained if you married?”

“His plan was to have us wed after Harry was made Lord of the Eryie. Robert Arryn is a sickly child, unlike to live a long life. Once he had the knights of the Vale at his disposal, Petyr planned to reveal my true name and win Winterfell.”

“I still don’t understand what he stood to gain.”

Sansa thought back to all the teachings and promises Petyr had made. She knew that Jon was right—Littlefinger had not plotted to win her Winterfell as a simple kindness. Would he have been made the Lord of the Vale if Harry Hardyng was married to the Lady of Winterfell?

“Why did Harry’s death lead you to flee?”

Sansa’s hands twisted in her lap.

“The night after the tourney, Petyr came to my chambers, deep in his cups. He mistook me for my lady mother, whom he had loved…”

Sansa saw as Jon’s mouth twisted into a snarl. She knew she needn’t explain more.

“I will meet with some of the other northern lords. Mayhaps they have more stores that they can share. We will find another way. I won’t have you risk sending a raven to House Royce if it would put you in harm’s way.”

“Thank you, Jon,” she whispered. Both she and Jon fell quiet again then. Sansa’s mind turned to her thoughts from the godswood instead of food. “You said that Stannis had offered you Winterfell before?” Jon nodded. “Had he said anything of your heirs when he made the offer?”

“Aye,” Jon said slowly. “He would have had me wed to Val, a woman of the Free Folk he believed a princess.”

Something hot boiled in her belly.

“A princess?”

Jon shrugged. “She was the sister to Mance Rayder’s wife. Stannis believed that made her a princess. The Free Folk would disagree.”

“You would not marry a princess?”

“Not if it would have seen the godswood burned.” Jon was quiet for a moment, his eye on the parchments before him. Sansa watched his face, noting the way his skin seemed to flush. “She would have chafed beneath the yolk of lady, and against the yolk of wife.”

Sansa wondered at that. Was the princess Val like Arya, who would have rather spent her time out of doors, and who would no doubt have felt the same about being wed to a noble lord?

“Would your lover have made for a good lady?”

Something akin to a smile ghosted across Jon’s mouth.

“No. She would have made Arya look every bit as proper as you.”

Sansa felt heat rise to her own face then. Was she as proper as he believed, if she felt so angry that both his lover and the princess that he might have wed were so unlike herself?

“Do you think Stannis would have you wed to a Free Folk maiden or some Southron lady?” Sansa asked, thankful that her voice did not betray her.

“A bastard raised to usurp his trueborn sister? A turn cloak and the bastard of a traitor, no less? No,” Jon muttered. “If Stannis wants heirs for Winterfell from my seed, it won’t be by joining our House to some Southron daughter.” Sansa could hear the bitterness clearly in his voice. “What proper highborn lady would have me?” Jon asked so softly Sansa wondered if he had meant to speak at all.

Her heart swelled against her ribs. I would, Sansa thought. I would have you, happily.

Chapter Text

The lord’s chambers were ones Jon had never recalled visiting in his youth. They were large, in the heart of Winterfell. Jon Snow thought that they felt too big for only a single person, even with Ghost’s massive body stretched before the hearth.

Sansa’s questions lingering in his head did not help how empty or quiet the chambers felt.

Do you think Stannis would have you wed to a Free Folk maiden or some Southron lady, Sansa had asked. Until she mentioned Stannis’s first offer of Winterfell, Jon had not given any thought to the notion of heirs or a wife. His being lord, being named Stark, was still too new, too raw. Too wrong, Jon thought, rolling over in the large feather bed. This was not meant to be mine.

There were duties he was willing to fulfill as lord, duties that had been his as Lord Commander, but heirs and a political marriage? Those were duties meant for Sansa, not him.

Stannis had thought to marry him to Val before. Would he try again? Jon did not know what had happened to her after the mutiny. Had she used the chaos to finally free? Was she being held captive by the very men who had killed him? Gods help them if they try to tame her, Jon thought. She had threatened to geld him, should he ever try to steal her.

Jon truly believed what he said to Sansa to be the truth. Stannis would know better than to marry a legitimized bastard to some Southron daughter. His bride would have to be either a girl from a northern House—though Jon didn’t know of any of marrying age who weren’t already wed—or some Free Folk maiden. Stannis would no doubt try to find another he could call princess or some other title to make her seem highborn. It would not change her nature, Jon Snow knew. Even by the roughened northern standards a spearwife or any such Free Folk maid would never be the Lady of Winterfell that Catelyn Stark had been, that Sansa Stark was meant to be.

Jon Snow had been summoned to Stannis’s chambers to discuss the best route through the Neck before the roads became unpassable. Jon had wanted to tell Stannis that he knew little and less of southern roads. He had only ever travelled north of Winterfell, not south, but Jon read Stannis’s maps all the same.

“You’ll want to leave soon, before winter truly comes.”

“Aye. My thoughts are to leave on the next full moon. Melisandre claims it will be an auspicious omen.”

Jon nodded. It was not as soon as he would have preferred, but it was not as long as he had feared.

There were other questions Jon had for Stannis, though. His conversation with Sansa was all he had been able to think of the past several days. He had barely slept since being named lord, her voice keeping him awake.

“What plans have you for Winterfell, once the wars are over and spring has come?” Jon asked Stannis.

“Settling the Gift with all these wildlings coming south of the Wall. Ensuring that no other rebellions break out. All the same duties your lord father preformed at the behest of my brother.”

“What of marriages or heirs?”

Stannis raised his eyes to Jon’s.

“Yours? Or your sister’s?”

Jon knew that Stannis had thought Sansa’s marriage to Tyrion Lannister a threat to Winterfell. Sansa had agreed, she said, though Jon didn’t understand what Cersei could do from King’s Landing. Sansa was young yet, and Tyrion Lannister believed dead. Once Stannis was on the throne and Cersei disposed, what threat could her marriage hold?

“Both. At Castle Black, you had thought to wed me to Val of the Free Folk. I know not what became of her, but no maid of the Free Folk would be the proper lady to befit the position of Lady of Winterfell, and I fear that Southron ladies tend to find the north hostile. There is also my scarring and my blood. Few highborn daughters would accept a match to me.”

“Your worries about raising a wildling to be lady of such a great House may prove true,” Stannis allowed. “But any Southron daughter should know her duty, as your sister did. She married the Imp, and your scarring makes you no more ugly than him, and his being a dwarf was equal to your being a bastard in the eyes of most the realm.”

Jon had heard much the same from Tyrion himself when they had first met in Winterfell. All dwarves are bastards in their father’s eyes, Tyrion had said. It had been when Jon had thought they shared a kinship of sorts. Now the comparison filled Jon with fury.

Sansa had been a prisoner with no choice, Jon thought, and should my bride be much the same, I’ll not disrobe before I see her terror. I would be kinder than he was to Sansa.

“You said both. What pleas do you make on your sister’s behalf?”

“Sansa is young still. To keep her chained in a marriage she was forced into… Is she meant to never marry again? To never have children?”

“Your words are soft, as though they have come from the heart of a woman.”

“They are the fears Sansa expressed to me.”

“They are the fears of a foolish girl. The whole of the kingdom is at stake, and she is worried about whether she will be allowed to wed again?”

Jon felt that fury burn into a wrath. He would dare speak of Sansa in such a way? If it were not Stannis who spoke so, Jon would have grabbed him by the throat. He would have beaten him as he had Quenn and Ramsay. Crown or no, Jon knew that kings could bleed.

“We are the only two left with the Stark blood. Should she not marry to also continue the bloodline?”

“So that her children could contest the claim of your own?”

Jon Snow’s teeth ground together. Let them, he thought. It should be her sons inheriting it by rights.

“I cannot fault your logic that she is young yet. Once there is proof of Tyrion’s death, and Cersei’s bastards no longer sit on the Iron Throne, I will see a match made for her.”

Was that not all that Jon wanted? Sansa happy and cared for? And yet Stannis’s words only made the fire of his anger burn all the more hotly.

No, Jon thought. Enough matches have been made for her. She should have some say.

Another voice whispered in his mind, dark and cold, Whether she has say or no, it will not be you she wants.

Jon did his best to ignore his own thoughts, his own rage. As long as the lord she was wed to was kinder than Tyrion that was all that mattered, he reminded himself.

“Will you allow me final say in her match? As her sole kin?” Jon asked, despite himself.

“Aye, that is your right.”

Stannis busied himself again with the map before him on the table.

“Your men will kneel to me without question, yes?”

“Must they kneel to march behind you?”

Stannis’s face grew cold.

“How could I trust savages in my army if they do not accept me as king?”

Jon knew the truth of Stannis’s words. Quenn had charged against Stannis once, as had many of the others. They had trusted Jon Snow, but knew nothing of Stannis or the kneeler ways. Why would they follow Stannis on his conquest south?

He and Sansa had all but promised his men to keep Winterfell and the godswood intact. He couldn’t ask them to ride south with Stannis, and he very well couldn’t order them. Jon still did not fully understand why they had agreed to fight with him to win back Winterfell.

Jon knew the only way was to go with them. He could lead the Free Folk in Stannis’s army. Jon knew that they would follow him, and the northern bannermen were sworn to him now, as Lord of Winterfell.

Could he leave Sansa here, though? How could he protect her if he rode with Stannis?

We have won Winterfell. Who would seek to harm her here? Had not Jon told her much the same, that she was home and needn’t be frightened any longer? What else did Jon Snow have to protect Sansa from, aside from himself and his own bastard desires?

“I will ride with you, as my lord father rode with your brother.”

He expected Stannis to tell him that his duty was here, being the Lord of Winterfell, but Stannis said nothing of the sort.

“It is well known that I was not overly fond of my brother, nor your lord father, but the realm cannot deny that when a Stark and Baratheon ride to war, the very fabric of the kingdom is resewn. I will be happy to have you at my side, Jon Stark.”

It was not the first instance that Stannis had referred to him as such, but it felt as wrong as it had when Sansa helped him to stand. I’m not a Stark sat on his tongue, as though it was burned into the flesh.

Jon knew that Stannis was readying his armies to leave, to march south with the light of the full moon, but the craven he was, he had not yet told Sansa that he meant to leave alongside them. He had met with her often in the days following his meeting with Stannis to discuss the readying of Winterfell for winter, and she had gifted him a patch for his eye, but Jon had not found it in himself to tell Sansa that he would be leaving Winterfell in her hands.

Sansa would be angry, Jon was sure. Angry that he hadn’t told her, angry that he would be journeying with the Red Woman that she so mistrusted. Jon told himself that it was her anger that he was avoiding, not his own fear.

In the darkest moments of night, when he awoke alone in the lord’s chamber, Jon Snow wondered if Sansa wouldn’t be relieved to find out that he was leaving. Her bastard usurper brother would finally be gone, giving her her rightful place.

Stannis was set to begin his march on the next morning. Every piece of boiled leather, every blanket, every blade, and every bite of food that could be spared for the armies had been.

In another time, the Lord of Winterfell might have been expected to give his king a grand feast on the eve before departure, but with winter quickly approaching and foods scarce, the most he and Sansa had been able to offer was a hearty stew and some ale.

Jon had been thankful that Sansa had been seated far from Stannis, or anyone else who knew that Jon intended to lead the Free Folk and northern bannermen south with Stannis. He couldn’t imagine what Sansa’s response would have been if anyone other than him broke the news to her.

The moon was hanging swollen over Winterfell and Jon Snow was out of time.

Dread pooled in Jon Snow’s stomach as he approached the chambers that Sansa claimed as her own. His arm felt as heavy as it had in the battle, nearly impossible to lift, as he knocked on her door.

Sansa opened her door dressed in a woolen shift rather than the gown Jon had seen her in earlier.

“Jon?”

“May I come in?”

“Of course,” Sansa said, stepping aside and ushering him in.

The first detail Jon noticed in Sansa’s chambers were the rumpled bedsheets, as if she had risen just to open the door. Was the cloth still warmed from her body? Did it still smell of her skin?

The layers Jon still wore were suddenly heavy. His skin felt hot beneath the linen and leather.

“I am ready for Stannis and his men to quit Winterfell. It has not truly felt like home with soldiers all around,” Sansa said. Jon pulled his gaze from Sansa’s featherbed. She stood near the hearth; her arms crossed before her waist.

“I…” The words tangled in his throat. Would it be anger he would face, or relief? “It will not only be Stannis leaving in the morn.”

“Yes, the witch will finally leave us in peace. I’m not sure which excites me more.”

“No,” Jon whispered. “I will be joining them.”

Sansa’s response was immediate. “Why?”

“Stannis fears the Free Folk will be unmanageable without me.”

“No, no. You cannot go with him. His priestess—”

“I have to go.”

“No,” Sansa shook her head, rushing closer to him. “You’re a lord now. You have responsibilities here. Stannis understands that—” She gripped his hands tightly. “You can’t leave,” she beseeched. “Winterfell needs you.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Jon muttered, stepping away. Her hands were too soft, too warm.

“Yes, it does. You are the lord of Winterfell. Who will see to your duties if not you?”

“You,” Jon whispered. “With me gone, you will be free to be Lady of Winterfell, as is your right.”

“What?” Sansa gasped.

“Winterfell’s yours. It’ll always be yours. If I don’t return… Stannis won’t have any choice. Your sons will be lord after you.”

“If you don’t return…” Sansa’s voice was brittle, wavering as though she was on the verge of tears. Jon closed his eye. He had not meant to say that. “If you leave…who will protect me?” The words and her tears were a dagger between his ribs.

“This is me protecting you.” Jon turned from her. He could not stomach the pain on her face. “It’s the only way I know how.”

“How is you leaving me protecting me? What are you protecting me from?”

Myself, Jon thought. His being named a Stark did nothing to change his blood, his desires. He was still a bastard who lusted after his sister.

“You’re safe. You’re home.”

“We both know that doesn’t mean much. Bran and Rickon were murdered here.”

Jon flinched. The door was before him. Sansa knew his intent to leave. He did not need to convince her that it was the right choice. He was a lord. He did not need her permission. Yet Jon knew that he could not walk out on her. If he did, it would expose him as a craven and she would know how weak he truly was.

“I have given you Winterfell. I brought you home. I did my duty as well as I could.”

Jon felt himself turning suddenly, Sansa’s hands gripping his shoulders. Fires burned in her Tully blue eyes.

“Is that the only reason you’ve done all you have? Duty and honor?”

The heat of her anger stoked the flames of his own.

“It’s all I have.”

“It’s not, Jon,” she pleaded. Her hands slid down his arms, her fingers entwining with his.

“It is!” he roared, ripping his hands away. “I have nothing else I can give you.”

“All I ask is for you to be by my side!” Sansa’s voice rose to match his own. “Are you saying you cannot give me that?”

Jon did not answer. Sansa strode closer. Jon hated how the firelight danced across her face. He hated how beautiful he thought her, face flushed in anger.

“Tell me what I have done to make you abandon our home so quickly.”

“No,” he growled. “I cannot.”

“Why?” Sansa shouted. She reached for him again. Jon jerked away.

“Do not ask this of me, Sansa,” he murmured, trying to corral his anger. Jon tore his eye away from her face. The rosiness that made her all the more lovely.

“Do you dislike me so much that you would leave me here alone?”

The anger and heat in Sansa’s voice dissipated, leaving her sounding pained and wounded. It flayed him open wide.

“No. No, of course not,” he whispered, turning back for her.

“Then tell me!” Sansa demanded.

“Because I have dreamed of going back to Mole’s Town, of your hair being brown and you being Alayne! Being my wife!” Jon yelled. He hated his bastard tongue for forming the words. His bastard lips for allowing the words out. His bastard voice for saying it aloud. Sansa staggered back, her chest raising and falling rapidly. “Only with us being wed in more than just name. In my dreams, you are my bride in body. That is why I must go.”

The task of raising his eye to Sansa’s face was one of the most arduous Jon Snow had completed. He expected fear, horror, disgust. He thought she might cry or run screaming from him.

Instead, Sansa stared at him unflinchingly. Her Tully blue eyes blazed with a heat that Jon could not name. She raised her chin.

“Make me your bride in body, then.”

Jon felt his manhood harden at her words. His body flushed hot.

No, Jon told himself. She does not truly mean it. Would she make me a monster?

Jon Snow had given his blood to win her Winterfell, he intended to give up his title as lord, his name of Stark, to allow her to keep it. He would give his life for her. He had tried to die to protect her. There was only one thing that Jon would deny her. One thing he could not bring himself to give her: himself.

“I will not father a bastard,” he whispered. It was that fear that was so deep in his bones that allowed Jon to deny her.

“Will I lead half a life then, married to a ghost? Devoid of love and affection? To never know the warmth of a lover’s touch?”

“When the wars are over and Cersei no longer a threat, Stannis will order the marriage set aside if Tyrion has not been found dead. You will fall in love with a highborn lord and have many sons. He has promised me I will have a final say in your match.”

Sansa shook her head, stepping away from him.

“Does my heart not matter to you at all?” she asked, soft and broken.

Can’t you see that I’m trying to protect your heart? Jon wanted to scream. What man would have her if they knew she had been touched and soiled by her lowly bastard brother?

“It does. You haven’t known enough gentle men. You simply mistake warmth and familiarity for love,” Jon told her softly, even as it broke him. “When the wars are won and spring has come, you’ll find a lord who’s as gentle as a knight in the songs you favor. A man worthy of you.”

Tears slipped from Sansa’s eyes.

Jon Snow stepped forward, cradling her head. He closed his eye and pressed a kiss to her forehead. His hands trembled as he held her. It was a gesture befitting a brother. He had kissed Arya’s forehead before, even if he hadn’t relished in the softness of her skin against his lips. Jon Snow did not allow his mind to stray, to wonder. He knew already that it would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life.

Chapter Text

Sansa sat in the chair before the fire, where she had collapsed after Jon had left. Her tears had only recently ceased. Now all she could do was stare at the flames, feeling the fresh ache of Jon’s rejection. She had not truly believed that he would love her, could love her, but when he admitted how he felt, Sansa couldn’t help the future she imagined. One like she had seen in her dream, Winterfell full of children, and Jon’s touch as gentle as always.

As relieved as she was that Jon had spoken to Stannis about her marriage, Sansa doubted that she would fall in love with a highborn lord as Jon had claimed she would. How could she, when he was the only one that she wanted?

Sansa had met plenty of highborn men in the years since she had left Winterfell. None she had met were as kind nor as gentle as Jon. How could he believe that she would fall in love with someone else? There were few men like Jon from what she had seen.

The other ones she knew only existed in the songs.

Sansa rose suddenly, fetching the embroidery hoop from beside her bed.

After she had finished the patch she had made for Jon’s eye, she had started a new handkerchief. Something that could serve as a lady’s favor, she supposed. It was only the second one of its kind that she had made. The first had been in the Vale, but that had been the favor of Petyr Baelish’s bastard, embroidered with a mockingbird. It had not been her favor, truly. Sansa Stark had never given her favor to a knight. She knew that the wars and winter would mean that tourneys and jousts would be few and far between until spring came again. Even once the snows melted and the wars were won, Sansa knew that none were like to ask for her favor.

As foolish has it had seemed, it had made her feel as though she was still the girl she had been, before she left Winterfell, and Sansa didn’t know how else to sleep in a cold bed, without Jon beside her.

She had completed a border of red weirwood leaves, but then had been unsure of what sigil to sew in the middle. Not a bird, she knew, nor a lion. She wouldn’t use any but a direwolf, but should it be the grey head emblazoned on the banners, or should she claim her own, since she was not Winterfell’s lady?

Sansa supposed it mattered little and less, now. She was tempted to toss it into the fire before her. What good was a lady’s favor without a knight to gift it to?

She knew that Jon would tell her to finish it, to save it for after the wars. He would tell her that there will be someone worthy of it, once the realm was at peace.

Harry had asked for her favor, before the tourney for the Brotherhood of the Winged Knights, and she had refused. Petyr had assured her that Harry would do well at the tourney, but then he had been killed in his first tilt. If she had given him her favor for luck, would he have survived?

Could she have saved him, if she had gifted it to him?

Abandoning the red thread, Sansa reached for the spools of white and grey. She knew what sigil she would sew.

Sansa rose and dressed early, though she had barely slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she was afraid that she would sleep too late and Jon would depart before she got a chance to say her goodbyes. Before she left her chambers, Sansa pressed her fingers to her heart, ensuring that the folded linen she had tucked against her breastbone for luck late last night was still there.

Sansa made straight for the lord’s chambers, hopeful that Jon had not yet left. When her knock was answered only by silence, Sansa was filled with dread. Had they left while it was dark yet, with the full moon still lighting their road?

Careful to keep her steps measured, Sansa walked as briskly as she could for the battlements, for surely it would be immediately evident whether the armies still lingered.

Seeing the yard filled with men gave Sansa a sense of relief for the first time. If the armies were still present, then Jon must be within the keep somewhere too. Sansa did not see Ghost amongst the readying armies, so Sansa supposed that Jon was meeting with Stannis or mayhaps with Quenn.

Since Sansa did not want to miss the armies leaving by searching for Jon, she waited on the battlements, her eyes on the ground before her.

Sansa did not have to wait so long that she became cold before Jon, followed by Ghost, came into the yard. He was wearing the cloak she had made him yet, Sansa realized with surprise. She would have thought he would have found something more suited for a lord, not a wildling warrior as the wolf’s hood made him look. Something warmed in her as she rushed down and into the yard.

“My lord,” she called, pulling the handkerchief from her bodice. She saw how Jon startled before he turned slowly to face her.

“I’m no lord,” he muttered once she was close enough that the words wouldn’t travel. Sansa ignored both what he said and the way his face looked entirely too flushed for only just stepping into the cold wind.

“I’ve made this for you. To bring you good fortunes,” Sansa said. She held out the handkerchief for Jon to take, the sigil unmistakable. The silhouette of two direwolves, one grey and the other white, both wreathed in the red leaves of a weirwood, matching the border.

Jon made no motion to reach for linen in her outstretched hand.

“I cannot accept that.”

“I mean it as a gesture of my faith in you only, not…” Sansa paused, swallowing the words she wished to say.

“It’s beautiful, but it can’t be mine. Save it for after the wars. Save it for a true suitor.”

Sansa’s hand did not tremble, did not shake. She did not crumple the cloth in her fingers.

“Bring it back to me, then.”

Jon’s eye was slow to meet hers. His fingers even slower to take the handkerchief from her. Sansa’s belly fluttered again when Jon tucked it beneath his tunic, near his heart.

“I’m leaving Ghost with you. He’ll protect you,” Jon said, motioning for the direwolf.

“It’s you who’ll need protecting, from the witch and the battles you’ll fight in. You saw how Ghost charged in when you were dueling Ramsay. There were whispers and stories about how Grey Wind and Robb fought as one—you and Ghost are much the same. Ghost should stay at your side.”

“Are you certain? I would feel better knowing…”

Sansa wanted to ask what right her safety was of his, since he was leaving. Since she had offered him everything and he had rejected her. But she knew that Jon was good and only cared for her.

“I am. I’m safe here at home, as you said yourself.”

The words were sharper than she meant them to be. She saw how Jon winced as they landed. She could not deny their truth, though. If Jon thought she was protected enough in Winterfell that he could leave, then she would not have him ordering Ghost to stay behind. Not when what she would prefer was Jon staying.

Neither Jon nor she spoke. Sansa wanted more than anything to be hugged by him. To be crushed against his chest and held tightly, as he had done before. There were too many around who knew the truth or near enough. Sansa supposed at some point she would have to explain to Yarrow and all the others who remained at Winterfell that her name was not Alayne, nor was she Jon’s bride. Even if she wished that their lies were true.

“Winterfell is yours, my lady,” Jon said at last. Sansa’s breath caught, leaving her unable to respond, even as Jon turned and mounted his horse.

Sansa watched with unshed tears as Jon joined Stannis at the front, as soldiers fell in line behind.

Just before he reached the gate, Jon turned in his saddle. Sansa raised her hand in farewell, and the first tears slipped from her eyes as Jon mirrored her gesture before riding past the gate and vanishing from sight.

Once the armies departed Winterfell, Sansa went about her duties as Lady of Winterfell. She ensured that all of those who stayed in the keep had a warm place to sleep and that there was enough food being prepared for their meals. She enlisted Free Folk, wisewomen, and those too injured to advance south to see to the fires and the like. It was all she had done in the Eyrie and more, and yet it did not feel as fulfilling as she had dreamed that it would, when Petyr would whisper to her that Winterfell would be hers, after she married Harry.

She thought it would simply take time, and that it would feel differently once it was full of Winterfell’s people again. Mayhaps, she thought, once Jon has returned.

When Sansa retired that night, she was shocked to find Longclaw laid across her bed. Sansa rushed across the room, lifting the sword to ensure that it was not a figment of her imagination. It was as heavy as she remembered from when Jeyne brought it to her.

But…how did it come to be here? Sansa wondered. Surely, she would have noticed if Jon hadn’t had it when he rode through the gates. She closed her eyes, trying to recall if she had seen it. All her mind conjured was the image from her dream weeks ago, a knight with a sword strapped to his back, the white pommel clear.

Sansa gently set the sword back on her bed. Her fingers brushed a bit of parchment she had failed to notice beneath the sword.

Should I fall, read the first line. Sansa shook her head, though Jon wasn’t present. The second line said: The lord’s chambers are yours. He signed it simply Jon.

Sansa’s first inclination was to crumple the note, toss it into the flames roaring in the hearth. She was still furious at Jon for leaving, for telling her that he wanted her but refusing to steal her, the way he had stolen his spearwife. After believing that Jon would never love her because she was such a far cry from the warriors he seemed to be drawn to, Sansa had felt such hope when he yelled that he wished she was truly his bride. It had broken her, his refusal to take her.

Sansa was angry and hurt, but she could not—she would not—destroy anything that came from Jon. Instead, she folded the parchment and tucked it into her bodice, where she had kept the handkerchief she had embroidered.

Hefting Longclaw, Sansa left her chambers, making for Jon’s.

The lord’s chambers were far colder, the fire burned to embers. Sansa set Jon’s sword beside the door. She made no movement to reignite the fire. Instead, she laid in the featherbed where Jon had just slept the night before. Buried beneath the mound of furs, Sansa breathed deeply, hoping that something of Jon lingered still. All she smelled was cold and home, but there was something comforting in that scent enough to allow her to sleep.

A few days after the armies had quit Winterfell, Sansa asked Jeyne if she would sleep beside her in the lord’s bed. It was too large for a single person, and Sansa was lonely with Jon gone. Jeyne was healing slowly, and Sansa knew that nights were the hardest for her still.

Sansa had grown so used to sleeping with Jon beside her that Jeyne was a comfort.

At night, Sansa and Jeyne whispered parts of their stories. Jeyne’s always ended with the both of them weeping, Sansa apologizing that she had not been able to protect her in King’s Landing. Jeyne said only that she was glad that Sansa had not endured the same horrors she had.

Sansa told Jeyne of being wed to Tyrion, of becoming Alayne, and of her flight to Castle Black. The only part of her story that Sansa kept secret was the lie she and Jon had told in Mole’s Town. Sansa let Jeyne believe that the Free Folk all believed them siblings, not wed. She told Jeyne of how fiercely Jon protected her, between dueling Quenn and fighting Ramsay.

When Jeyne fell asleep, Sansa whispered to the darkness how dearly she missed Jon.

A fortnight passed, slowly, numbly. The days were dark and cold, the snows piling deep outside of Winterfell. The houses of winter town that had sat empty for most of Sansa’s life had been inhabited by the villagers, clansmen, and smallfolk that typically lived in the more remote regions of the north. Every day, Sansa was told of the new arrivals, seeking shelter from the quickly approaching winter.

She knew that there were many on the King’s Road, coming from all directions. Each time that a messenger approached, alerting her to those taking up residence or asking for audience, Sansa hoped that it was news of the armies, that they were spotted on the road.

She hoped that Jon was returning.

“M’lady. There is a man who has arrived on the King’s Road. He has requested an audience.”

“A man?” Sansa asked. Has Jon returned on his own? Why would he not simply come and find me? “Take me to him.”

Sansa was led to the Great Hall where a cloaked man waited. Her heart swelled, thinking that Jon had indeed deserted Stannis’s army and had returned to her.

The man turned as she entered, lowering his hood.

Sansa’s steps faltered.

“The Lady of Winterfell. Well done, sweetling.”

Petyr Baelish grinned at her with pride.

Chapter Text

Jon Snow leaned into the warmth of Ghost’s fur. The nights, despite moving south, were more bitterly cold than what they had been when he and the host of Free Folk came south to Winterfell. He was grateful to have the massive direwolf at his side.

When he had offered to leave Ghost at Winterfell to watch over Sansa, he did truly mean to ride with Stannis without the direwolf. Jon had survived without him beyond the Wall. He could do just fine riding south. Jon had thought that Sansa would appreciate having Ghost to protect her; he had never thought she would refuse. Though he was glad that she did. Jon Snow was weak, and had he left Ghost behind, Jon knew that he would have been wearing the direwolf’s skin too often, simply to see Sansa. To sleep beside her again. Keeping the direwolf with him meant that he would not fall victim to that temptation.

From beneath his tunic and jerkin, Jon pulled the handkerchief Sansa had gifted him. It was warm from his own skin, but he could imagine that it was hers that had heated it. Jon pressed the linen to his nose, as he had every night before falling asleep and every morning upon waking. No scent lingered on it but his own. Even the first night, when it had so recently been in her palm, he smelled nothing but the cold and snow. He wondered if he was in Ghost’s skin, with the direwolf’s nose, would he be able to smell her still?

Not for the first time, Jon Snow studied the stitches in the dim light from the waning moon. The red of the weirwood leaves that matched the red of Ghost’s eyes. The white wolf’s head curving before the smaller grey wolf’s. How the white stitches and the grey blended together where the wolves looked like they had touched. How the white thread was woven over the grey, into it. It was too easy to imagine that Sansa had meant the wolves to be she and Jon. The white wolf identical to Ghost, and the grey looked much as he remembered Sansa’s direwolf, Lady, had.

Jon couldn’t allow himself to believe that that was her intent. It was a coincidence, nothing more.  

Sansa had commanded him to take it if only to bring it back to her. He loved and hated that command in equal measure. Loved that she had given it—that even after he revealed to her what a monster he was, she wanted him to return to her—but he hated that he knew that he would follow it. He would have to return to Winterfell, to return her favor to her. So that she could gift it to someone worthy.

With care, Jon folded the handkerchief and placed it back beside his heart. He closed his eye, the images of his dreams dancing before him. Sansa tending to his wounds with her warm and gentle hands. Sansa’s head on his chest as she slept. Sansa’s voice ringing out across the yard, calling him my lord. How his body had responded to that title coming from her lips. Sansa’s Tully blue eyes blazing as she raised her chin and told him to make her his wife in body. Her skin beneath his lips as he kissed her forehead. The tears in her eyes as she said does my heart matter to you at all?

Her tears and the broken sound of her voice haunted him. Jon Snow had done the honorable thing, he knew, but had it been the right thing?

Sansa’s question made him wonder.

Jon Snow had thought himself a beast for lusting after his sister, but if Sansa wanted him too… She was no monster, he knew. Was it truly as horrible as he thought, if Sansa desired him as more than a brother?

No, Jon Snow scolded himself. She does not truly want me. She confused desire and affection after all the horrors she endured. That had to be the truth of it. Jon Snow did not know what he would do otherwise.

Does my heart matter to you at all she had asked.

It is all that matters to me, Jon would have answered, had he the strength. It is the only thing that matters.

The trek south moved far more slowly than it had when Jon Snow lead the garrison from Mole’s Town. It was partially due to the size of the army and the fact that Stannis had ordered them to stay off the road in hopes to keep their march south a secret. The other reason was Stannis himself. His leg was still bound in the cradle, preventing him from being able to walk or ride for any great distance. Stannis was prideful though, insisting at being the head of the caravan, even as they forged through snow and trees.

From beneath the shadows of the wolfswood, Jon Snow stared south down the King’s Road.

It was the direction his lord father had travelled last. Jon had never thought that he would journey this same route. When he joined the Night’s Watch, Jon had thought going south would have meant returning home to Winterfell, not riding south in a warband alongside a king for the Riverlands.

Jon’s gaze turned north, the yearning burning in his throat. It was stronger than he had ever known. Even when he had journeyed beyond the Wall and turned his cloak, his desire for returning paled to what he felt riding south now.

I was not meant to take this road, Jon thought.

“The road is busy,” Quenn whispered beside him. Jon nodded. There had been multiple riders that had passed them, all headed north. “We are too large and move too slowly. We will not have surprise on our side.”

“Aye.” Jon Snow knew that Quenn was right. He had thought similarly.

“Why is it we march south? You know as well as I that the true threat is to the north, beyond the Wall. Does your kneeler king not believe in the Others who make their way to the Wall?”

“Stannis knows of the Others, and the threat they pose to the realm. He fears, rightly so I think, that his armies are too few and too weak to fight them. The battle for Winterfell against the Boltons reduced our numbers even further. Stannis believes if we have the men of the Riverlands, the Twins…” The Vale, Jon thought, though he did not include them in his list. He did not want to be joined by the Knights of the Vale, the men who were more like than not commanded by Petyr Baelish himself. Jon Snow knew that their numbers would be necessary, but he feared what bringing them to Winterfell might mean for Sansa. “Stannis believed that if he can win enough men to his side, if he can raise an army large enough, he will return to Winterfell or Castle Black to fight the Others. He believes that if he wins, he will be made king. Or mayhaps it is his priestess who believes. In order to defeat the Others in the north, we must first win the south. Or, at the very least, the regions with the strongest ties to the north that would be under threat if it fell to the Others. And the ones that are not distracted by the games for the throne being played out in King’s Landing.”

Quenn was silent. Jon turned so that he could see the big man studying the road.

“Your king’s wound could prove dangerous. If he does not allow it to heal… I’ve seen lesser kill better men.”

Jon said nothing, though he had already thought that Stannis should have stayed at Winterfell or waited until he was healed. He thought to agree could be seen as treason.

“If he falls to his wound, do we return to Winterfell?”

Jon supposed that they would have to. He certainly wouldn’t continue into the Riverlands, the Twins if he was not following a king. He didn’t know where else they could possibly go other than Winterfell.

“You would be glad to return. Have you been this long absent your bride before?”

Jon Snow swallowed, pushing down both desires and lies.

“Did Alayne give you a token to warm you at night?”

The handkerchief tucked against Jon’s heart felt hot enough to burn.

“Her name is not Alayne,” Jon bit out. “Nor is she my bride.”

“Aye, I’d heard her use another name. But she must be your bride. None else would behave as such.”

“No,” he whispered. “Her name is Sansa Stark. Her father was Lord Eddard Stark. As was mine.”

“You are called Snow, though.”

“Aye. I am his bastard son. My mother was not his wife.”

Quenn shook his head. The confusion was clear on his face. Jon turned his head so that he could not see Quenn’s disgust form.

“She created the lie while I was yet in the grave, for her own protection. There are many who would have harmed her simply for her name. She was afraid that if you all knew the truth of her identity… It was all born of her fear and fear alone. She meant no malice in her lies.”

Jon Snow believed his words, even if her lie cut him more deeply than the daggers in the dark had.

“I cannot believe it,” Jon heard Quenn mutter. “You did not fight me in Mole’s Town in a bout of playacting, nor was that you simply protecting the honor of your sister.”

Jon recalled how Ygritte had painfully punched his arm when he asked if she had been bedded by Longspear, how she equated it to bedding his sister. Vile was the word she had used. Jon could not—he would not—admit his beastly feelings for Sansa, especially not to someone who believed stealing a girl from his own clan would be as foul as if Jon had truly stolen Sansa.

Jon had never answered Ygritte’s question of whether he would bed his sister, he had been too confused by her comparing Longspear and a sister of his. When she had asked, he had pictured Arya, with her brown hair and long face so like his own. Of course not, Jon Snow might have said, had he understood how that question matched his. Sansa had not crossed his mind then. It was as though he had only had the lone sister in that moment.

Jon wondered if it was because as children, Sansa seemed to always keep him at such a distance, reminding him of the fact he was her half-brother. He suspected not. He was afraid that it was because the dreadful feelings he had for Sansa were not born of his being raised from the dead, but simply unearthed from the darkest, most inner parts of his heart.

“A spearwife I bedded beyond the Wall told me that to steal a girl from your own village was the same as bedding your sister,” Jon began, as though he was going to tell Quenn everything.

Quenn shook his head.

“Aye, that is true. Of some clans, in the valleys and hills. The clans further north? In the caves and along the Frozen Shore? What choice do some of them have but to steal a girl of their own village?”

Ygritte had spoken as though it were law when she had exclaimed, that’s vile. Would you bed your sister? Jon had not considered how far men would have to travel to steal a maid from a different clan.

Quenn’s words did not insinuate that a clan of the Free Folk would think him any less a monster, but the suggestion that there was some clan out there that more like than not had some shared blood? It did dull some of the beastly clawing that had been scraping at his innards since waking in Mole’s Town.

When Jon Snow had journeyed from Mole’s Town to Winterfell, he had escaped into Ghost’s skin to avoid his own dreams. He had been afraid of what his mind would conjure with Sansa pressed beside him. Now Jon did not seek wolf dreams to escape his own, if only because his dreams were the same whether he was asleep or awake. Even with his eye open, marching shoulder to shoulder with the Free Folk that followed Stannis’s train, Sansa dominated his thoughts, his daydreams.

Every step, Jon Snow wondered what would have happened if he had kissed Sansa’s lips rather than her forehead. Would she have realized with horror that what she felt was a sisterly love after all? Or would she have kissed him back? It would have been a sweet kiss, had she kissed him. Jon would have stopped with that, he vowed. A simple, sweet kiss, just as he had given her on her forehead.

He would have stopped…wouldn’t he have?

Jon believed that he would have, but he had also sworn not to break his vows to the Night’s Watch while he was amongst the Free Folk beyond the Wall. And then Ygritte had slipped beneath his furs and Jon had felt he had no choice if he was truly to play the part of a turn cloak.

I would have never hurt her, Jon believed—he knew—but if she hadn’t asked him to stop? If she had wanted it, truly, as much as he did?

What would Jon Snow have done then?

Jon would have lowered her to bed gently, carefully, her head cradled by his hands and the pillow. Her hair would have spilled like flames across the bedclothes. The rooms she called her own were the warmest in Winterfell, heated by the waters from the hot springs piped through the walls. There would have been no need for the furs or bedsheets covering them.  

We would have loved in a featherbed, deep and soft, Jon imagined, not beneath a pile of furs, rutting like dogs, with others around.

Jon recalled how beautiful Sansa had been, her face rosy in the light of the hearth. Would the rest of her flush such a shade of pink? Would her skin glisten with sweat? Her curls darken at her temples?

Would she make noises as Ygritte had, or would hers all be soft and sweet, just as she was?

Ygritte had instructed him, told him how to move, how hard, how rough. Jon wondered if Sansa would want it slower, gentler. I could learn, Jon thought, marching forward. He was in the middle of the vanguard of Free Folk and had to pay little attention to his surroundings. I could learn what to do to ensure that she felt as good.

Sansa had described with little detail the eve of her wedding, only that Tyrion had seen her fear and had stopped. She had been very clear that she had kept her maidenhood. Ygritte had japed that he had been a maiden himself, after the first time he had been inside her. He had not been afraid of Ygritte the way Sansa had been of Tyrion, but he had been fearful of being discovered. That he would reject her and Ygritte would know him for a crow and a turn cloak.

There would be no fear between us, only love.

When Jon Snow bedded down beside Ghost, his mind oft wondered to his own lord father. Had his mother presented herself to him, told him to make me your bride in body, or had she crawled beneath his furs and touched him until he was hard and wanting?

Had it only been the once? Had that been enough to quicken his mother’s womb? Or had it been half a hundred times, as he had spilled his seed inside of Ygritte?

Had his lord father told himself that it was just the once? Had he been able to get a hold of his honor with the morning sun?

Jon Snow had been too weak to keep that promise to himself beyond the Wall. Even if he had allowed himself to steal Sansa, he knew that just the once would never be enough.

You know nothing, Jon Snow, Ygritte had said in the caves, the first time he had truly seen her.

I know some things, Jon thought bitterly, his fingers gripping Sansa’s handkerchief. I know that I want Sansa, and I know that it makes me a monster.

Jon Snow knew that, but it changed nothing.

Chapter Text

Sansa was poised to order the arrest of Petyr Baelish, to reveal that she knew that he had sold Jeyne Poole to the Boltons, disguised as Arya. Sansa knew all of the crimes he had committed in the Vale, knew the parts he played in Joffrey’s death and the chaos of King’s Landing. She knew that as the acting Lady of Winterfell, they would follow her orders. She could keep Petyr in the dungeons until Jon returned and they could decide what to do with him together.

“I rode ahead. There’s several wagons of food, mayhaps a week behind me. I knew whichever Stark had taken Winterfell would need supplies and allies. The Knights of the Vale are ready to march as soon as I send a raven.”

Rage burned in Sansa. She knew very well that she could not arrest him when it would mean endangering those in her protection. Those wagons of food would be essential in their surviving the winter. The Knights of the Vale would nearly double the numbers of Stannis, of Jon. If she arrested Petyr, she would surely lose both.

“Thank you. I shall send someone to see you to your rooms.”

“Being lady suits you,” Petyr said, even as Sansa turned from the room.

As soon as Sansa left Petyr Baelish with a serving girl to find him accommodations, she rushed for Yarrow. It should have been Jeyne Poole, she knew, and she would tell Jeyne as soon as she spoke with Yarrow, but Sansa thought that Yarrow and the other Free Folk were who she needed to speak to first.

All of those from Mole’s Town who had stayed at Winterfell still called her Alayne, called her Jon’s bride, called her the maiden who stole Jon Snow from Castle Black. Sansa had not minded. All of Stannis’s men believed that the Alayne the Free Folk spoke of was someone else, that she existed separately from Sansa Stark, some bastard who fled the wars and winter to Castle Black and was taken to wife by a deserter of the Night’s Watch.

In truth, a part of her enjoyed playing Alayne when the role meant that she was Jon’s wife. But Sansa Stark could not be Alayne Stone with Petyr Baelish in Winterfell.

She found Yarrow in the kitchens, tying bundles of herbs to dry. Sansa gripped both of the girl’s wrists, forcing her to drop the string she held.

“Alayne, what—”

“No!” Sansa whispered fiercely. “You mustn’t call me that. My name is Sansa. Sansa. I can tell you all, but you cannot call me Alayne any longer, nor can you refer to me as Jon’s wife or say that I stole him. He is my half-brother, not my husband.”

“I-I do not understand.”

“Come to my chambers tonight and I will explain, but please, please, tell the others that my name is Sansa Stark and that Jon Snow is my brother only.”

“Aye. Aye, I will.”

Sansa could see the confusion and fear clear in Yarrow’s face, but she returned Sansa’s grip with a reassuring squeeze.

Sansa was unsurprised when Petyr Baelish somehow found himself sitting beside her at dinner. Sansa eyed his plate and wished that she could refuse him bread and salt. It would be improper, she knew, as the acting Lady of Winterfell, to deny him guest rights when he was offering food and men. She imagined his fury if he had entered the hall and saw her sitting at the high table, Longclaw bare across her knees.

Would Jon have denied him? Sansa wondered. She could see the image of him clearly: his eye patch casting his face even more unreadable, his knees spread wide to brace the blade, Longclaw’s Valyrian steel reflecting the torchlight back onto Jon’s face. In her vision, Jon was as menacing as an evil king in a song, but it made her heart flutter just the same.

I wish Jon was here, Sansa thought, swallowing the sweet mead she drank with her supper.

“When I had heard that the Starks defeated the Boltons and won Winterfell, I had not thought to suspect you involved. I had thought it Arya, rallying the bannermen to overthrow her husband’s House.”

Sansa’s knuckles were white on the knife she held. Sansa knew what Petyr had done to Jeyne Poole, all the horrors and abuse she was forced to endure at his orchestration. Now he spoke as though he knew none of it. As though he truly believed it was her sister that had been wed to Ramsay.

Sansa bit her tongue until she tasted blood. Petyr had taught her well enough that she knew it would not be wise to reveal all she knew yet. She would save the information until she could use it to win her and Jon the most favors.

“And now, here you sit, the Lady of Winterfell,” Petyr continued. “The very image of your lady mother. If only your hair weren’t still darkened.” Petyr reached out and touched a tendril of hair at her temple where her Tully auburn met the dyed brown.

“I am only acting as lady while Jon fights alongside Stannis. It he who is the Lord of Winterfell,” Sansa demurred.

“Don’t you worry about that, sweetling. Winterfell will be yours yet,” Petyr said, patting her hand. Sansa wanted to slap his hand way. She wanted to stab him with the knife she still held.

“If you thought it Arya who raised the armies to fight the Boltons, why come all this way?”

“I had thought that if you heard the same rumors, wherever you were hidden, you might make your away here also. I wanted to ensure that you were safe, after you vanished from the Gates of the Moon. None would admit that they had knowledge of your whereabouts. It is my duty to protect you—when I last spoke to your lady mother in King’s Landing, I vowed to her that I would watch over you.”

It is my duty to protect you, Littlefinger claimed. Had Jon not said something similar to her on the eve before he departed? Before he admitted that he wished she was truly his bride? Sansa had felt a flash of anger then, at the insinuation that he was only protecting her out of some misplaced sense of duty, but that was a candle compared to the wildfire that burned in her now.

It is not your duty, Sansa thought angrily. That right belongs to Jon.

“Have you come alone? What’s become of the little Lord Robert?”

“Robert is safe at the Gates of the Moon. I left as soon as the rumors could be confirmed, and I feared that the journey would be too demanding for the frail boy. And as I told you, several wagons of food are a week or so behind me on the King’s Road. I feared how the battles and Boltons could have depleted the stores of Winterfell.”

Sansa knew that the food and stores would be necessary. She had offered to Jon to write House Royce and ask for them to send any that they could spare already. Sansa still had had half a mind to send a raven until Petyr’s arrival.

“I am glad that I came as quickly as I did. How terrified you must be, alone with no husband and no kin but a younger sister to keep you safe. You did you duties well as Alayne, but managing the Eyrie is not the same as managing Winterfell, what with winter town full and at the onset of winter. I shall stay, to aid you in becoming the high lady that your lady mother had been.”

At the mention of her mother, Petyr touched her hair again. Sansa closed her eyes, fighting the bile burning her throat.

“Jon will return before winter is here. He has experience as Lord Commander of Castle Black. He will know what to do.”

Please return quickly, Sansa prayed, resting her hand for only a second over her heart, to feel Jon’s letter for her to take the lord’s chambers that was hidden there. Sansa willed herself to draw strength from the ink and parchment.

It was barely twilight when Sansa retired to her chambers. Petyr had encouraged her to linger in the Great Hall, enjoy another cup of mead with him by the fires, and regale him with her tale of her flight north. She had feigned exhaustion and promised to tell him her story at another point.

Yarrow was already waiting for her within the lord’s chambers. The girl still looked as confused as she had in the kitchens.

“Allow me to change, and I will tell you all,” Sansa said. Her tone had not lost the formality she had used with Petyr during dinner. Sansa wished that she could soften her voice, to behave as if Yarrow was her friend, was Jeyne, but with Petyr Baelish in Winterfell, Sansa was worried whether or not she could truly trust the maid.

Could she truly trust anyone, aside from Jon?

Yarrow nodded and took a seat by the fire, her back to Sansa. Sansa disrobed quickly, down to her woolen shift she slept in when the nights were cold. With hesitance, Sansa joined Yarrow at the hearth.

“I suppose, in order for you to truly understand, I must start at the very beginning,” Sansa began. Then, with more detail than she gave either Jon or Jeyne Poole, Sansa told Yarrow everything. She spoke of traveling the King’s Road, of losing Lady, of being foolishly in love with Joffrey, her lord father’s arrest and beheading. How she was held captive in the capital, beaten and humiliated, and then forcibly wed to Tyrion Lannister, a man over a decade her senior. Sansa spoke of the Tyrells, the women she had thought her friends, her saviors, only to use her as a pawn at the Purple Wedding and her subsequent escape with the help of Dontos and Petyr Baelish. Then Sansa explained how she had become Alayne Stone, how she was kissed in a snow-filled bailey, how she was threatened, nearly killed, how Petyr flung her aunt from the Moon Door.

Sansa’s eyes did not fill with tears until she began speaking of the tourney at the Gates of the Moon, of how Harry the Heir was trampled and left bloody in the lists. How Petyr Baelish drank until he was deep in his cups, cursing Harry, cursing the Brotherhood, cursing the Lords Declarant and the Lannisters, cursing Alayne for the idea of the tourney. Cursing Sansa Stark for not being Catelyn Tully.

Cursing both Eddard and Brandon Stark for stealing the woman he loved.

It was then that Sansa left him to his own devices, fearful of what he might do so drunk.

Sansa had been asleep in her bed when Petyr came in, calling her Cat, his Cat, and trying to steal a kiss.

How she fled her bedchambers once Petyr had collapsed snoring into her bed, running tearfully for Myranda Royce. How Myranda helped her escape once again, and then how she nearly died alone on horseback, fleeing for Castle Black and Jon Snow.

Sansa surprised herself by telling Yarrow about the Red Woman, about giving the priestess her blood to bring Jon back, and the fear she felt when the witch spoke of Jon being a weapon in the wars and their flight to Mole’s Town.

“Jon had not yet risen when we arrived in Castle Black, and I was unsure if the witch’s rite would work. If it did… I wanted to ensure I was with him when he woke. Your people made assumptions and we… We did not correct them. It felt easier, safer, that way, after all I endured,” Sansa finished.  

“The lie I understand,” Yarrow said slowly. “Though I don’t know that I believe it. You stole him. He fought Quenn for you. He fought to win you this grand castle. I have many a brother, and none would treat me as Jon treats you.”

“How do you mean?”

“Even if he is your brother, he behaves as your husband.”

Heat crawled up Sansa’s skin. She knew Yarrow would believe it vile, if she knew what they had said before he had departed. Both the old gods and the new declared it foul. She knew that if she had stolen Jon, if Jon had taken her, the realm would shun them, exile them. Strip Winterfell from them.

But if they knew Jon, they would understand, Sansa thought. She thought of how he trembled as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. How his lips against her skin felt as soft as snowflakes drifting down. How angry he seemed, and yet he had not hurt her nor threatened her. He had only raised his voice after she raised her own.

In truth, I wish he was my husband. I want him to be sat poised on her tongue. The only thing that saved her from admitting it was a knock on the door.

Sansa rose, answering the door, and allowed Jeyne Poole to enter as she did every night. Sansa knew that Yarrow no doubt had more questions, but none could be answered with Jeyne present. Despite knowing this, Sansa asked for both girls to spend the night, for the bed was too large even with her and Jeyne.

Deep in the middle of the night, in Winterfell, surrounded by her friends, Sansa almost felt like a girl again, young and innocent and almost happy.

If only it was Jon beside her instead.

In the following days, Sansa was careful to keep someone at her side at all times. She did not want Petyr to catch her alone and unawares. She doubted he would mistake her for her lady mother without cups and cups of wine, not during the day, and certainly not with many witnesses around, but… But the only other time Sansa had been that terrified was when another man broke into her room and demanded a song.

As careful as she was to not be caught alone, Petyr still found his way to her side at each meal.

More oft than not, Petyr asked her of her time at Castle Black, about the battle for Winterfell, or for details about Stannis’s army. Sansa gave half-truths or played the part of the stupid little girl who didn’t have a mind for battles and strategies. She told him nothing of the Red Woman or her powers to raise the dead. Nothing of Mole’s Town. Nothing of how without Jon, they never would have won Winterfell.

Sansa found the conversation irritating for the most part, just as she fount Petyr irritating. She was thankful for the stores that he promised would arrive at Winterfell in the coming days, but she wished that he would leave. He was nothing but a nuisance. He had promised to assist her in the running of Winterfell and helping to prepare for the oncoming winter, but all he had done so far was pester her.

The newest line of questioning set Sansa’s teeth on edge.

“Tyrion Lannister has not been seen since his trial by combat. Cersei has ordered his death if any find him. As Lady of Winterfell, you will need a husband and heirs.”

“No, Jon is the Lord of Winterfell. It is his children who would inherit. Stannis legitimized him.”

“Stannis is a crownless king. He does not have the power to legitimize him until he has sat on the Iron Throne. Jon Snow is a usurping bastard of a traitor. Winterfell is yours, my sweet.”

Sansa’s knife scraped against her plate.

“I am also the daughter of a traitor, am I not?”

Petyr laughed as though she had made a particularly funny jape.

The discussion of marriage and heirs was one that Petyr seemed to be loath to let go of. Each evening Petyr reminded her of her duties as the Lady of Winterfell, that she was the key to ensure the north did not fall. Each evening, Petyr’s chair seemed to inch closer to her own, his voice dropping in volume. Sansa was tired of it, frustrated that Petyr did not believe Jon to be lord. She felt no jealousy of Jon’s status or the idea that it would be his sons and not hers that would become lord one day. No, her jealousy was rooted more in the notion that it would not be their sons who would wield Longclaw, bear the title of the Warden of the North.

Sansa knew better than to give Petyr any information he could use against her or against Jon, so Sansa did her best keep her tone level and face neutral.

Even if Petyr’s hot breath in her ear made her stomach roil.

Sansa thought Jon had been gone for too long. It had been weeks since he ridden through the gates. She knew that the journey south was a long one, especially with the size army Jon rode with and the snows covering the road, but she missed him so. She was lonely in Winterfell, even with Yarrow and Jeyne keeping her company at night, deterring her fears of Petyr stumbling in drunk and calling her Catelyn again. She wished it was Jon who slept beside her, who protected her from Petyr.

Petyr, who continued to grow bolder in his machinations. Ever since the wagons of food arrived from the Vale as he had promised, he seemed to imply that Sansa was indebted to him. Sansa would have burned the stores if she didn’t know all too well how important food was. She would have given anything to cut ties with Littlefinger, to summon Jon to her, but she could not endanger the smallfolk she was responsible for with the winters and wars that would surely make food even more scarce than it was already.

Much like she had in King’s Landing, Sansa found herself regularly seeking solace in the godswood. In King’s Landing, Dontos was the only one she ever encountered while everyone else believed that she was praying. When he had ferried her through the streets and onto Littlefinger’s ship, Sansa should have realized that it had all been orchestrated by him; Dontos only found her there on the orders of Lord Baelish.

Sansa should have expected that Petyr knew she would hide in the godswood. That he would inevitably seek her out there to get her alone.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding, sweetling.”

The soft earth and humus silenced Petyr’s footsteps. His voice startled her, breaking her reverie.

“I was praying for an easy winter, for enough food that we don’t go hungry, and for spring to bring peace,” Sansa said. She omitted the other thing she prayed for daily. That Jon returns quickly and safely.

“I suppose it’s only fitting to have this discussion here, before the heart tree. It is how those who worship the old gods say their wedding vows, is it not?”

Despite sitting outdoors for hours, Sansa had not yet felt cold until Petyr spoke of wedding vows.

“I have realized my mistake after we fled King’s Landing. I never should have had you play the part of my daughter. The feelings I have for you are not those befitting a father. You should have been my bride.” Petyr stepped closer to her, kneeling and taking her hands. Sansa sat frozen. “I love you, Sansa. As I had once loved your lady mother.”

Sansa could not open her mouth. She could not say no. She could not speak, could not move.

“It is you who should be the Lady of Winterfell, not your father’s bastard. If we marry, I can ensure that Winterfell is yours.”

Sansa shook her head. She had seen what Petyr had done to her aunt Lysa when she threatened his plans. What he had done to Jeyne Poole. All the horror wrought at his hands. Sansa knew that when Petyr said I can ensure that Winterfell is yours, it meant danger for Jon.

“I cannot,” Sansa whispered. “I cannot marry without Jon’s permission as he is the last of my kin. There is also my marriage to Tyrion that must be set aside.”

“I could send a raven to the High Septon, the High Sparrow he’s called. I could formally request that he or a Council of the Faith set the marriage aside. I would assure them that the marriage was never consummated.”

Petyr crept closer. Sansa could smell the mint of his breath. She had thought before how his smile never touched his eyes. They oft seemed cold and conniving. Sansa wasn’t sure she would use those words to describe his gaze now however. There was a heat in his eyes that Sansa had only just glimpsed when he had drunkenly come to her bedchambers. Sansa’s skin crawled; the smell of mint turned cloying so close.

Sansa thought of when Jon said that he wished she was his bride in body and she had flushed so warmly. She should have been frightened—a half-brother who desired his sister? They were not Targaryens. And yet she had felt anything but afraid. She had felt safe for one of the first times since her lord father lost his head.

And yet, with Petyr’s eyes on her, studying her hair, and still talking of how Tyrion had never taken her maidenhood, even before Winterfell’s heart tree, Sansa was terrified.

“Together, we could rebuild Winterfell as the seat of House Baelish. The time of wolves has come to an end.”

Sansa snatched her hands back.

“What?”

“When we marry, you will be Lady of Winterfell, but you will be Lady Baelish. Our sons will belong to House Baelish.”

No, Sansa thought, Winterfell belongs to the Starks.

“Would we be able to keep the Stark sigil? Or mayhaps incorporate it, as Joffrey had done with the stags and lions?” she asked foolishly.

“Of course not,” Littlefinger said instantly. “We will be mockingbirds and rise high. None would dare jape that House Baelish of the Fingers was too low, too small, too little, with you as my bride and Winterfell as the seat of our House.”

“Stannis refused to set my marriage aside,” she reiterated.

Petyr shook his head, a rueful smile coiling across his lips.

“If only I had been able to talk Cersei into allowing me to wed you to begin with. All of this could have been avoided.”

“What?”

“When we discovered what the Tyrells plotted, I offered to marry you. The Lannisters believed my birth too low to be a suitable match, and wed you to Tyrion instead.”

Sansa thought she would vomit into the black pool. Tyrion had undressed, had touched her, but in the end he had stopped before taking her maidenhead. Would Petyr have done the same?

No, Sansa knew. He would not have stopped and he would have called me by my mother’s name.

“As I said, nothing could be done until my marriage is set aside,” Sansa said diplomatically. She was afraid of what Petyr might do if she definitively refused him. But she would. She would have to.

I am a Stark of Winterfell, a direwolf, and no other House will ever claim me.

“I will handle everything, sweetling.”

The fire had burned low but Sansa did not move to stoke it back to life. It was late and she should have been asleep in bed. Both Yarrow and Jeyne Poole had been called to dreams hours ago. She had not told either of them of what Petyr had confessed to her in the godswood. She could not say Petyr wished to marry me out loud. She knew Jeyne would be rightfully terrified for her and that Yarrow would be confused. The young wisewoman still believed her to be entangled somehow to Jon.

The only person Sansa wanted to tell was Jon. Jon, who would never allow it. Jon, who if she asked, would duel Petyr as he had Quenn. Jon, who vowed to protect her.

Jon, who she wished had been the man who asked her to be his bride in the godswood.

Rising, Sansa fetched a bit of parchment from the desk.

Come home, please, was all she is able to write before tears marred her sight. Save me, she wished she could have written. Wed me in truth so that Petyr cannot.

She could not set such thoughts into ink, where they could fall so easily into the wrong hands.

Sansa could not write her reasonings for summoning Jon back to Winterfell, and she knew that if he believed her in danger, he would come. She could not ask him to leave Stannis’s side when it could cast doubt over his loyalty. She could not send the letter.

Sansa thought to toss it into the flames and destroy the evidence of her longing for Jon.

Come home, please.

Those words were innocent enough. It was a request a sister might make of a brother, or a wife to her husband. It would be impossible to tell which was the intent.

Sansa folded the parchment, tucking it beside the other one she kept close to her heart. Mayhaps, when Jon returned, she could give so that Jon knew how dearly she missed him.

Hours later, when Sansa succumbed to her dreams, she was in the godswood again, beneath the heart tree. Instead of Petyr approaching her though, it was Jon whose steps were muted by the soil and humus. His approach did not startle her, though it should have. It was as though she was expecting him. In her dream, Jon kneeled beside her. Sansa stared into Jon’s eye, warmed by the tenderness of his gaze.

“Make me your bride, Jon,” she whispered.

Jon took her hand and pulled her to her knees.

Before the heart tree, they said the vows, and Sansa said I take this man willingly, with full confidence that she was taking a man worthy of her, someone brave and gentle and strong.

Jon kissed her then, not her forehead as he had before he left, but her lips. He lowered her to the soft ground beneath the heart tree. Their clothes fell away until it was just the heat and the press of his body above her.

Sansa awoke in a sweat. She immediately looked towards the door. Sansa held her breath as she stared, waiting for whatever pulled her from her sleep. The room was silent. The door stood barred as it had been when she had shut it hours ago. Both Yarrow and Jeyne slept soundly still. The fire in the hearth was low and nothing about the room appeared changed.

Slowly, Sansa shifted to a cooler part of the bed, lying her head back on her pillow. Once she had shut her eyes again, Sansa felt pulled to return to her dream, but instead of being under the canopy of red weirwood leaves, it was a blanket of stars. There was snow all around her. And Jon, asleep at her side, his hands curled against his heart.

Chapter Text

It was dark yet when Jon Snow woke. He kept his eye closed, thinking he was still in Mole’s Town, thinking Sansa was asleep beside him. It was only once he realized the size of the body that Jon opened his eye. It was Ghost who laid next to him, asleep and undisturbed by the cold.

Jon pushed himself up, unable to shake the feeling that Sansa was close. He wandered further from the camp to piss. Only the guards were awake. None others stirred as he stepped between them and into the oppressive dark.

Alone and far from camp, something flickered in the distance. It was green, Jon thought—or no, a fire? A torch? Was there someone out there, watching them?

Tugging on his breeches with haste, Jon stumbled forward, searching for that light. Had it been a reflection? Some signal?

The light was gone. Jon stood there, unmoving, waiting to see if it returned. When it didn’t, Jon Snow made his way back to camp, thinking it was his eye playing tricks on him in the darkness, as it had done before.

It was not quite dawn when Stannis summoned Jon Snow to his fires. Most of camp remained asleep and unbroken. They had marched well past dusk the evening before, for twilight had been coming far sooner than it had been. The days had grown colder, shorter and with it so had the distance they were able to cover. Jon suspected that Stannis would have preferred them to be much further, given how many weeks they had been on the road, and Jon wondered if that was what Stannis wanted to discuss. They had only just rounded Moat Cailin a handful of days ago.

“The scouts say we will be passing through the Neck over the next few days. We are near the Green Fork and House Reed’s crannogmen no doubt lurk in the shadows.”

Had that been what Jon had seen in the darkness not hours ago? He had half a mind to mention it, studying Stannis from across the fire. He looks pale, Jon thought, though Stannis’s face shone with sweat, as though he was fevered. Quenn had said he had seen lesser wounds kill better men. Would his leg be the thing to kill Stannis?

“I plan to set decoys at the head of our train. Reed has not declared for any side since Robb Stark’s death, and I fear that his crannogmen will shoot any soldier who does not bear the Stark sigil.”

Jon thought that mentioning what he might have seen would only feed Stannis’s paranoia. The other thought he had would insult Stannis’s pride, Jon knew. Stannis had named him Stark, given him Winterfell, but there were no Stark banners in their army. The only ones that were raised were Stannis’s—the crowned stag with the flaming heart.

“Prepare your men for our longest march. I will not stop until we are through the Neck and far from the crannogmen.”

It is not the men who must prepare themselves, Jon thought. Stannis was the cause, more oft than not, for the brevity of their treks. His leg had not healed as well as Jon thought it should have, still bound in a cradle. Had Jon brought along any wisewomen, he might have asked for Stannis to allow them to inspect the wound. Stannis had no Maesters and Jon was doubtful of the priestess’s ability to heal a broken bone, even if she had been able to bring him back from the dead.

The crone who had cut his eye from its casing had said it had needed to be removed before it festered. Was that what was happening in Stannis’s wound?

Would Stannis be able to maintain such a pace to get them through the Green Fork so quickly?

Jon knew that winter had no doubt arrived, but he had wrongfully thought that the trek would get easier the further south they travelled. Passing through the Neck meant crossing into the south. Jon thought it would have meant less snow, less cold, even just marginally.

Jon Snow did not expect a blizzard.

He could barely see Quenn beside him, let alone Stannis before him. Even Melisandre, with her dark red far ahead, was impossible to see. Ghost had all but vanished in the storm.

Stannis’s paranoia and fear of the crannogmen meant that he had ordered his guard to enclose him hidden amongst the Free Folk while others rode as decoys near the front of the vanguard.

Snow to cover our tracks would be fortuitous, Jon supposed, if it were not a blizzard.

Stannis had already struggled to walk more than a few hours on packed snow. How would he fare as the snow piled higher and the ground became more treacherous? As the winds grew colder and his leg sore?

The thought had barely crossed Jon’s mind before he saw Stannis stumble ahead of him.

The guard around him righted their king quickly, and they continued on as though he were fine. Jon thought that Stannis might give the signal to pause, to rest, even briefly, but he only moved forward. Quenn had said that he thought that the broken leg could kill him. Jon disagreed. It wouldn’t be the wound; it would be his pride.

It was a naught a half hour later that Stannis’s leg gave out for the third time, sending the king sprawling into the snow. As they had every time prior, the guard reached to lift him from the ground. Jon watched as Stannis took a single step before his leg buckled under his weight again.

When Stannis’s guard was not able to set him successfully on his feet again, Jon pushed forward, ready to hear Stannis’s order to send scouts to find shelter. Instead, Stannis barked orders to fetch him a litter, or fashion one if need be.

“We continue on. I would have us far from the Green Fork before nightfall.”

Stannis’s countenance had been pale and feverish at the break of day. Now it appeared ashen, his face bloodless. His lips, which by all rights Jon thought should have looked blue had they been any color, were as white as bone. Though snow fell steadily around them and the wind howled, rivulets of sweat ran down his face. As Stannis had spoken, Jon could have sworn his gaze was not fixed on his lone eye, but somewhere to his left.

“It’s too dangerous in this storm. Without the road to lead us, we’re as like as not to arrive in Winterfell.”

“I will not spend longer than I need where Howland Reed’s crannogmen lurk.”

Jon Snow remembered that Eddard Stark had always spoken highly of Howland Reed, had claimed that he had saved his life during the rebellion. Jon could not recall another man, save for mayhaps his Uncle Benjen, that his lord father had held in such high regard. Even Robert Baratheon, the man Eddard Stark rode to war beside, had not received the same praise. He did not understand Stannis’s fear of Howland Reed or his men. From what Jon knew, House Reed was rarely involved in the affairs of the realm. Would they truly attempt to sabotage Stannis’s attempts for the throne, simply because he passed through the Green Fork? To Jon, that was the behavior of squabbling clans beyond the Wall, not a House that was led by the man who saved the life of Eddard Stark.

Are we to die in this storm? Jon wondered as they continued marching into the dark, far past dusk, Stannis being hauled behind a rotating guard. The sky was darkened by a thick blanket of clouds when just the night before, Jon had been able to see the King’s Crown and the Moonmaid. There were no stars now, nor a moon. Nothing to light their way, nor guide it. Jon had to trust in those leading, the decoy Stannis at the front, and hope that Ghost would steer him if needed.

The direction in which they travelled was a secondary concern to the wind and the snow that still fell, thick and wet. Even if Stannis allowed them to rest for the night, they had no shelter nor any way to start a fire. If we stop, it will be death.

The thought had no more crossed his mind before Jon was clutching the handkerchief he kept at his heart.

If they did die in this storm, he would not see Sansa again. He would not be able to fulfil his promise to return her favor to her. Mayhaps that’s for the best. I would not have to watch her bestow it on someone worthy.

Jon Snow thought of the final moments he had been with Sansa before he left Winterfell. Kissing her forehead in the warmest chambers. Her calling him my lord in the yard. The pink in her cheeks and the blaze in her eyes when she said bring it back to me, then. He would cherish the vision of her he held in his mind. It would be what would warm him in his heart as he froze in this storm, following Stannis’s folly.

It was when the guard that was meant to be pulling Stannis’s litter began to struggle, lurching and staggering from the weight they pulled, from the snow that had only just began to lighten, from the numbness in their toes, their feet, that Jon Snow finally ordered them to stop.

With caution, he approached Stannis’s sled, ready to be berated, to be told that it wasn’t his place. Stannis did not speak. His eyes were closed.

Has he died? Jon wondered. He crouched low, yanking his glove from his hand with his teeth. The cold bit into his skin, his bones, instantly. It was faint, Jon barely able to feel it, but Stannis’s breath came from his nose, slow but regular.

Smoke and spice filled Jon’s nose before he had been able to replace his glove. Melisandre knelt in the snow beside him.

“He lives,” Jon supplied. For how long is the question.

“I would know if he has passed on to R’hllor. I would feel it.” The Red Woman placed her uncovered hands to Stannis’s face, his chest. “The nights are too dark, too cold. He cannot feel the fires of R’hllor.” She dropped her hands and stood. “A pyre. We must have a pyre.”

With what wood? The land here was barren. There were marshes beneath the snow. Even if they were able to find enough for a pyre, it would be wet from the snow. It would produce more smoke than flame.

“Fetch firewood!” Melisandre ordered. “The king requires firewood!”

Even with the freshly fallen snow that covered the ground, there was too little light to send men wandering about in search of wood. The orders would no doubt send men to their deaths.

“I shall take a few to search,” Jon offered. “Along with Ghost.”

The Red Woman was too far from him to hear, still demanding that firewood be brought to Stannis immediately.

Jon Snow’s eye was playing tricks on him again. There was something ahead in the darkness, green and flickering. Was it green? Or yellow, mayhaps? A torch reflecting on a steel blade? There was something just before the horizon. Wasn’t there?

He turned to Quenn to ask, but Ghost bounded ahead, streaking past Jon.

Ghost was the only safety Jon felt they had this far from the camp. The direwolf was Jon’s other eye.

Jon Snow didn’t think. He ran.

It was only darkness before him, around him. Jon Snow had not run since losing his eye. He was thankful it was not into a forest that Ghost disappeared into. There was little for him to injure himself on, aside from his own two feet.

Distantly, he heard Quenn’s shout. It sounded much further away than it should have. He couldn’t have run that far that quickly. Though Ghost was only just ahead of him, and Jon knew Ghost to be fast.

The ground beneath his feet was no longer the frozen soil buried beneath snow. It was not the hardpack Jon had grown used to marching on. It was wet, even beneath the snow, uneven, shifting with his weight.

Jon Snow stood frozen, feeling how the ground around him continued to move.

He had followed Ghost into a swamp.

Ghost loped further into it, either unaware or unaffected.

“Ghost,” Jon called. “Come, Ghost.”

The direwolf did not turn, did not respond. He only continued into the swamp.

Beyond Ghost, something flickered again. Closer than he’d seen it yet. And Ghost seemed drawn to it.

Jon took a tentative step forward, his boot encased in Ghost’s paw print. The swamp wobbled but held his weight.

Following the trail his direwolf left, Jon crossed the swamp. Ghost and that distant flickering were all he could see in the overwhelming blackness of the night. The crunch of his boots in the snow all he could hear, too loud to allow him to sneak up on whatever was causing the light that lured Ghost.

As Jon Snow approached where Ghost stood unmoving, the flickering vanished entirely.

“Ghost,” Jon said, his fingers in the direwolf’s fur. He meant to haul the beast back to Quenn by the scruff of his neck if necessary, when Ghost sat. “Come,” he tried again.

The massive white direwolf did not move.

“Jon Snow.”

Jon startled, his right hand flexing as he reached for Longclaw. His fingers gripped an unfamiliar hilt instead.

A figure emerged from the blackness, cloaked in shadow. He did not stand any taller than Jon, and while Jon knew he was slim, the man before him was half as broad.

“You are Jon Snow, I presume. Ned had written of your claiming an albino direwolf.”

Jon’s hand stilled, the blade only partially exposed, at the use of his lord father’s name.

“You knew my father?”

The man stepped forward, drawing back his hood. There was too little light to see much, other than a bearded man with a thin face, near in age to his lord father.

“Aye. I rode alongside him in the Rebellion. My name is Howland Reed. Welcome to Greywater Watch, Jon Snow.”

“Greywater Watch?” Jon had not seen any evidence of keep in the distance.

“Near enough.”

Jon wondered if Stannis had been right in his paranoia. Had Howland Reed sent crannogmen to guard the Green Fork against any who didn’t march under the Stark banner? Had he been lured here while the camp was ambushed?

“Did you lure me here? Was that your light I saw?”

Howland Reed shook his head.

“I’m unfamiliar with the light of which you speak. I had wondered, though, if your direwolf would find himself here if you crossed through close enough to Greywater.”

“Why?”

“The direwolves are believed to have once hunted the children of the forest, though some stories tell of the children summoning them to aid them in battle. Their magic still lingers here. I wondered if your direwolf would be able to sense it. Some ancient instinct.”

Jon Snow’s fingers tightened in Ghost’s fur. He had travelled beyond the Wall and had seen the magic that still lived in its beauty. He had not known that there was magic south of the Wall yet.

“My father said you saved his life in the Rebellion.”

“At the Tower of Joy, yes. There had been seven of us in total, against three. Your father and I were all who survived.”

From Jon’s history lessons, he recalled Maester Luwin’s description of events of Robert’s Rebellion. He knew that the Rebellion had only extended into Dorne at the very end of the war, after King’s Landing had fallen.

Jon Snow did not know much of his birth or his conception. All he knew was that Eddard Stark married Catelyn Tully in the Riverlands before riding back to end the war in the south and when he returned, it was with an infant bastard son in arm. If Howland Reed had accompanied Ned Stark into Dorne, then surely he knew the story of Jon Snow’s birth?

“Did you know my mother?”

“Aye. Very well.”

Jon Snow had hoped, but he had expected a denial or a rounding answer. The three words Howland Reed said were nearly as many as his own lord father had ever spoken about his mother.

With Reed’s assent, so many questions filled Jon’s mouth. Was she highborn, as he had always dreamed? What had she looked like? Why hadn’t she wanted him?

One question pushed its way to the forefront of his tongue.

The one that mattered above all others.

“Did my father love her?”

“Yes. Very much so.”

Something within Jon Snow relaxed at Howland Reed’s confirmation. There was something forgivable about his birth, Jon thought, if it was truly love that brought him into the world.

“What happened to her?” Jon asked softly. It was a question that he had not expected to need the answer to, just as much as he had the first question.

“She died, soon after your birth.”

Some deep-seated anger that Jon had never recognized, never knew had been there, cooled. A weight that had been so heavy for so long that he had forgotten he was carrying it suddenly eased. His lord father had not kept him from his mother. She was not out in the world, wondering what had become of him. She, mayhaps, would have kept him, had she had the chance.

“Who was she? What was her name?”

Her name, Jon thought. All I want is her name. His other questions that had burned in him so long—was she highborn, how did she meet his lord father—he thought could be answered well enough simply with her name. Jon Snow would be satisfied with just those three questions answered. He had loved her, she died soon after my birth, and her name.

Howland Reed sighed, heavy and weary.

“She, your mother, bade Ned to promise her…”

Rage clawed into Jon’s blood, into his heart. After all these years of never being able to ask a question of who his mother was, after the early years of learning that the Lady Catelyn was not his mother, that he was a bastard, after Eddard Stark refused to answer any questions about her, Howland Reed would deny him her name.

“She made him promise to not tell me her name?” he spat, spiteful and petulant. “Why would she…”

That raging fire that had sunk its teeth into him quieted into a different burning he was far too familiar with.

“She was ashamed of me.”

“No. No, my dear boy. That was not the promise, nor was she ashamed of you.”

“Then why?” Jon shouted.

His voice echoed in the silent, snowy swamp. In his own mind, it was not his words nor his own voice he heard. It was Sansa’s Then tell me! Her voice hurt and desperate, so unlike how his own had just sounded.

“You must understand… After the sack of King’s Landing, after Robert’s glee at the murder of children… Your mother was rightfully terrified of what Robert would do. She knew well enough what sort of temper Robert had and what he would be inclined to do if he learned what had become of his stolen bride.”

Jon shook his head. He did not understand what the sack of King’s Landing or Robert Baratheon had to do with his mother.

“Stolen bride?”

Jon knew all too well that he was the singular stain of dishonor on Eddard Stark’s name, but he could not believe that his lord father would have stolen any woman from Robert Baratheon, bride, mistress, or whore.

There was not enough light to truly see Howland Reed’s face, though Jon suspected even at high sun, the man would be as unreadable as his own lord father had been.

It was in the silence that Maester Luwin’s lessons came back to Jon Snow.

He recalled being a boy, seated beside Robb, studying the lineages of House Stark. He remembered seeing the name listed before his father’s and the names after. Benjen was the only sibling of his father’s that they knew. It had been Robb who asked what happened. Luwin’s answers had been brief, curt.

Robert Baratheon was betrothed to Lyanna Stark, who was kidnapped by the crown prince, Rhaegar Targaryen. When Rickard Stark and his heir, Brandon, learned of the kidnapping they rode to King’s Landing to demand justice, where they were tortured and executed by the Mad King.

Lyanna was Robert’s stolen bride, but…

No, Jon thought. Though I desire Sansa, I know my lord father did not have beastly intentions on his own sister.

“I don’t understand.”

“It was not Robert who ordered Elia Martell and her children murdered, but he did not share Ned’s outrage and disgust. Dragonspawn, he had called the children of Rhaegar’s seed, dragonspawn, not babes. I am unsure if Lyanna had heard that detail from her captors, or if she had known Robert well enough to take a guess, though I reckon she was smart enough to know her betrothed and his temper. It was why she was terrified of what he might do, should he discover who you were. It was why she made her brother promise to protect you however he could. Protect you from Robert and those who would seek to kill you… Because, Jon Snow, Eddard Stark was not your father. Lyanna Stark was your mother.”

No, no, no, Jon thought. It cannot be. I am Eddard Stark’s bastard.

Jon Snow told Howland Reed as much, but he just shook his head.

“We found her in that tower after battling the three men Rhaegar set as her guard. Ned and I were the only survivors. She was abed, fevered and bleeding still. The room was filled with dead winter roses. Like the crown Rhaegar had put in her lap at that tourney. Ned held her hand as she died. I found him still holding her body. It was my hands that pulled Ned from his sister, and it was my hands who placed you in his arms. You were in a cradle near the only window. You did not cry, even as I lifted you. Even as Ned wept over you.”

Howland Reed’s story felt to Jon as foreign and fantastical as one of Old Nan’s. How oft had he dreamed as a boy, after first learning what a bastard meant, that mayhaps he wasn’t one? That there had been some mistake?

Even more recently, he had wished that it would be revealed that Sansa was not his sister—that the woman he lusted for was an imposter, not the daughter of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully. But that was not the case—he had fallen in love with a Stark daughter. It was him who was the imposter. He was not Eddard Stark’s son. He may have the Stark blood, but he had never been Ned Stark’s bastard.

How deeply had Jon hated being Ned Stark’s bastard? How deeply did he resent being named Snow? For the first time in his life, Jon Snow wished that he was. To be the bastard of Eddard Stark had been a stain, but everyone had whispered how Ned must have loved her, to forget his honor and his new wife. There had been some sense of duty, Jon had felt, to be worthy and honorable.

But to be a Targaryen bastard?

To have been born from a kidnapping? From rape? For undoubtedly, if Lyanna had been kidnapped and gotten with babe…

Bile burned Jon’s throat.

Was that where the monster in him came from?

Was that why he wished Sansa his bride and not his sister?

Because half of his blood was Targaryen, and he was born of lust and violence?

Jon Snow lunged away from Howland Reed, from Ghost, vomiting into the snow.

He stayed doubled over, hands braced on his knees. His breathing was ragged.

“Why would he do that? Why would she…” Jon gasped, wiping the spittle from his mouth.

Why beg him to protect me? Why try to save me, if… Even within his own mind, Jon was unable to finish the thought. His throat seared as he vomited again.

“I cannot speak to Lyanna’s wishes or reasoning, but Ned loved his sister Lyanna, and you were all he had left of her. I know that he loved you dearly, more than his own honor. He would have sacrificed all to protect you. Some may say that he did.”

Jon thought of how cold the Lady Catelyn Stark had always been. She had not known, she could not have, and still treated him with such hostility, Jon thought. Ned never told her. To protect me, to keep a promise to his sister, he never told his wife the truth of my conception.

It might have offered him some sense of relief, to not be Ned’s bastard. To not be the only blemish on Eddard Stark’s honor. To realize that his mother was not some maid who made him forget his honor. To not be the living proof of how Ned betrayed his new wife while their marriage bed was still warm.

The revelation of his birth offered him nothing other than a cold, hollow disappointment.

“All my life, all I wanted was to be a trueborn son of Eddard Stark. Now you tell me I’m not even his bastard?”

“You may not have been born of his seed, but Eddard Stark was your father. I see much of him in you.”

“Aye. I have the Stark look.” Though it is my mother who has given it to me, it seems.

“No. I meant your speech. Your behavior. Your choices.”

“What do you know of my choices?”

“The leaves whisper that you fought the Boltons to reclaim Winterfell for you sister, for no personal glory of your own. Ned had done the same for his own family, alongside Robert Baratheon.”

Jon Snow wanted to disagree, to argue. He had fought to win Sansa Winterfell, only for Stannis to refuse because of her marriage, to legitimize Jon Snow into Jon Stark instead.

But if Howland speaks true… Sansa is not my sister. She never was.

I could have her, Jon thought, something other than bile and vomit swelling in his chest. If Howland speaks true, Sansa is my cousin and I could have her without it being wrong and vile.

Jon Snow would have made his way to Winterfell with haste, were it not for his duty to Stannis as Lord of Winterfell. If he abandoned Stannis’s cause, would Stannis brand him craven, traitor, turn cloak, as he had been before? Would Stannis continue south and leave Winterfell to fight the Others on their own?

No, as acutely as Jon yearned to be in Winterfell, to have Sansa offer him her favor, her body, once again, he would not until he knew he was returning with enough swords to ensure they would win against the threats brought on by winter.

But if Howland speaks true… I truly have no claim to Winterfell. If I am Lyanna’s son, I would also be Eddard Stark’s nephew, not his son. Winterfell should be Sansa’s. It was always meant to be hers.

“The leaves whisper that you ride south with Stannis’s army.”

“Aye. With the hopes to gain more men at the Twins and the Riverlands before returning to Winterfell and fighting against the Others that are coming from beyond the Wall.”

“Do you support Stannis in his bid for the throne?”

“If he helps to save us from the Others,” Jon shrugged. The war for the throne down south did not concern Jon Snow. As long as Winterfell and Sansa were safe, Jon did not care who won the games the Southron families played. “My sole concern is for Winterfell.”

“And if Stannis falls to his wound?”

“What do you know of that?”

“He is fading. He will not survive to cross the Neck.”

“He travels with a priestess that worships the Lord of Light. She has the power to bring men back from the dead. It…It is how I am able to be here.”

Howland Reed shook his head. “It will not be so.”

“I was dead for quite some time before she was able to pull me from the grave.”

“It is not the length that concerns me, but the location. Whatever magic her god grants her will not work this near to Greywater Watch.”

“Why?”

“It is still owned by the children of the forest. Their magic is all that works here. If Stannis dies here, he will stay dead.”

“Does his priestess know, would you think?”

“No. If she knows of the children of the forest, she would not suspect that their magic still lingers with such strength. She no doubt believes her god to be infallible. She will try, and she will fail.”

Jon turned, looking back for the first time, across the distance he had followed Ghost into the swamp. Was Stannis dying as they spoke? Had he already died? Was the Red Woman looking for him, to use his blood as Sansa suspected?

“When Stannis does die, what will you do? Take up his bid for the throne? With Cersei’s children deemed bastards and the last Baratheon brother gone, you have a strong claim for that chair. Or will you return to Winterfell to fight the Others with the army you possess?”

Jon Snow had not thought, or mayhaps not allowed himself to think, of what his lineage could grant him in the south. Being the son of Rhaegar Targaryen was a lesser concern than the fact he was not born of Eddard Stark’s seed, or the fact that his birth was the result of a kidnapping…of rape.

If he was the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, even the bastard son…

As a boy, he had dreamed of being the Lord of Winterfell before he realized that the title would be Robb’s. If what Howland Reed said was the truth, he could be king.

King, Jon thought, with a beautiful and kind highborn queen at my side.

Jon Snow tried to envision himself on the Iron Throne, a crown upon his brow. Each time he tried to hold the image, it distorted to the Great Hall of Winterfell, him crownless, with Sansa beside him, where Lady Catelyn had sat next to his lord father.

No, next to Eddard Stark, my uncle.

Jon turned his gaze skyward, surprised to find that the clouds had thinned enough that a handful of stars were visible.

“All I want is for Winterfell to be secured.”

Something bright streaked across a gap in the clouds, too quickly for Jon Snow to see the color of it.

“And how do you plan to see to that?”

Jon studied the sky for another moment, hoping to read the answers he needed in the very stars themselves.

“Which road will you take, Jon Snow?”

Chapter Text

A week had passed slowly since Petyr had cornered her in the godswood. Sansa had done her best to avoid Petyr, keeping Yarrow or another at her side at all times. She was never alone. She had taken to eating her meals in the solar, claiming that the duties of lady kept her too busy to spend hours in the Great Hall, eating with everyone else. She no longer allowed herself moments of peace, of prayer in the godswood. Petyr had taken even that from her.

She had not dared mention Petyr’s proposal to either Jeyne Poole or Yarrow. The only person who she wished to tell, who would no doubt say I would never allow it and take it from her hands, was Jon, who was still gone.

None of the new arrivals to Winterfell had made mention of an army on the road, though Sansa was too fearful to ask outright. Jon had said that they would be avoiding the King’s Road, in hopes of keeping their arrival a surprise, so she did her best to hold onto hope that they were successful in eluding spies who would report on their movements.

Though a part of her wished, late at night, that Jon had encountered Petyr Baelish on the road. She wished that Jon would have dragged him from his horse and beat him as he done Ramsay Bolton. They would not have the supplies or men that Baelish provided and promised, but she could have written to House Royce. She would not have been fearful in her own home, if Jon left Petyr bleeding on the side of a snowy road.

While still betrothed to Joffrey in King’s Landing, he made mention of gifting her Robb’s head after he raised a host. She had replied maybe my brother will give me your head. The Hound had struck her then. Robb was dead and Joffrey too, but there were new heroes and monsters in Sansa’s song now.

If, when Jon returned, Petyr was still frightening her… If Petyr did not accept Jon’s refusing his proposal on her behalf…

Would Jon throw him down and take off his head, as Ilyn Payne had done to her father? As she had prayed someone would do with the frog-faced Lord Slynt?

Would Jon kill Petyr Baelish, if Sansa asked?

Sansa knew that she could not avoid a dinner in the Great Hall any longer. She could say stores and ledgers consumed her for only so many evenings. Sansa knew too, that as soon as she took her seat, that Petyr would maneuver his way to one beside her.

“You look tired, sweetling,” Petyr said, once all other conversations had turned away from them.

“I am oft kept awake with worries of winter,” Sansa admitted, mayhaps too honestly. Winter was one of several worries that left her sleepless, the only one she could admit out loud. Her worries about Jon returning, Petyr’s proposal, and having heirs to secure that Winterfell would always belong to House Stark, were ones she could never voice.

“It is as I told you. Winterfell is not the same as the Eyrie, especially for a Lady who was born during a long summer, who has never seen a true winter. It is why you need a husband with experience. To show you how it should be done.”

“That would require someone setting my marriage aside or providing proof of Tyrion’s death, and Jon’s approval, as he is both my lord and my sole kin. As I said in the godswood.”

“Mayhaps you should send a raven. Tell him of your circumstances.”

Sansa sipped the honeyed wine before her instead of responding.

“While you await his response, I will write to the Gates of the Moon and request whatever you desire.”

You do not have the power to grant me what I desire, she thought. And Jon is not at the Gates of the Moon.

“I cannot ask that of you.”

“It is the least I can do for my future bride.” Petyr’s fingers touched her temple where her hair was Tully auburn. It made Sansa wished that she had continued to dye it brown. He had not touched her hair with such frequency when it was still darkened.

I shall never be your bride.

Sansa had retired soon after Petyr’s mention of her being his future bride, and Jeyne Poole found her abed with fresh tears still spilling.

Jeyne was beside her instantly, stroking her hair and clutching her hand. It was strange, Sansa thought, to be comforted. Other than Jon, she could not recall who had last held her as she cried.

“Petyr Baelish wishes to marry me,” she confessed. Jeyne’s fingers stilled.

“He’s a horrible man. He’ll… Your wedding night would not be gentle or soft.”

“I suspected as much. I tried to remind him that I am married yet, to Tyrion Lannister, though it was unconsummated, and that I would require Jon’s permission to remarry. He keeps offering supplies and men from the Vale. Both of which we need, dearly.” Sansa wiped the tearstains from her cheeks and sat upright. “I must find a way to hold him off until Jon is home.”

“Jon would reject his offer?”

“Yes,” Sansa responded immediately, with complete conviction. “Jon promised me a say in who I marry. He promised me a match with someone worthy, someone as gentle as a knight in a song.”

“Do you suppose there is a man so gentle in all the kingdoms?”

Jon is, Sansa thought.

“I can only hope that there is.”

Jeyne’s fingers continue to soothe Sansa, enough that she reclined, her eyes growing heavy, until Jeyne spoke again.

“I do hope Jon returns soon,” Jeyne began, “for Littlefinger is an impatient man. I fear what he might do if he is made to wait too long.”

Sansa sat, a cold chilling her to her bones.

“What do you mean?”

“He could force your hand.”

“I am married still. What could he do?”

Jeyne’s face grew impassive, her voice seeming detached from the emotion she had just exhibited.

“He could orchestrate for you to be compromised. He knows that you maintain your maidenhood, despite your marriage. If it were believed that your maidenhead broken, even if it was not… He could force Jon to agree, to save your reputation. And if some tragedy were to befall Jon while he rides with Stannis… you would be made Lady. To keep the northern lords happy, you would need marry for heirs, which would be made much harder if all believed you to no longer be a maid. If the father of your sons would be in question.”

Sansa had thought she knew Petyr Baelish, knew Littlefinger, and all he was capable of scheming. As soon as Jeyne spoke her thoughts, Sansa knew them to be a true possibility. What frightened her more though was that she had not thought to anticipate it herself.

When Jon Snow returned to the makeshift camp, he found that logs had been arranged for a pyre, but saw no evidence of a fire.

“Were it not for that direwolf of yours, I would question how you found your way back to camp with no light,” Quenn greeted upon his arrival.

“Stannis?”

“He lives yet, though he’s unlike to see dawn. Neither the witch nor her god have been able to make snow-soaked wood catch fire.”

“Gather the men. We make for shelter.”

“Your beast?”

“Aye.”

While Quenn made to rouse those who had fallen into slumber from the cold, Jon Snow knew his duty was to compel Melisandre to allow them to bring Stannis along to the shelter that Howland Reed had offered for only the night.

Jon knew better than to make any mention of the children of the forest, or how Howland Reed had claimed that their magic would prevent the Red Woman from bringing Stannis back from the dead. He knew that if Melisandre knew, she would drag Stannis’s body with her own strength to where the rite could work.

“Ghost found shelter. We will sleep there tonight and continue on come dawn,” Jon said, crouching beside the Red Woman. Her ungloved hands continued to move the wood, as though a different configuration would allow it to catch fire.

“I cannot move him.”

“You must. Even if he were well, a night in this cold and snow would be the death of most men.”

“He has been chosen by the Lord of Light to be Azor Ahai reborn.”

“You said yourself that the nights here are too dark and too cold. We will bring him someplace warm, with dry wood and kindling. You won’t get your pyre with this wet wood.”

There was a long moment before the Red Woman removed her hands from the pile of wood.

“You know of the power my god holds, Jon Snow. Do not seek his wrath.”

Does she know, Jon wondered, but Melisandre said nothing as several of his men hefted the sled that carried Stannis.

“Do not trust your eyes. Follow only Ghost.” Howland Reed had claimed that he did not know the lights that Jon Snow had seen, but Jon had heard enough of Old Nan’s tales to be wary. “If you see a light in the distance, know that as like as not it is a lure to draw you off the path and into the swamps.”

None of the men raised a question, even as Jon and Ghost led them into the swamps of Greywater Watch.

As they trekked the path left by his own boot prints and Ghost’s paws, Jon’s focus drifted, Howland’s words still occupying his thoughts.

Which road will you take, Jon Snow?

Jon’s plan extended no further than seeing his men warm and rested for the night. Come morning, he still did not have an answer to Howland Reed’s question. A part of him hoped that Stannis lived so that he was not forced to make a choice. With Stannis alive still, Jon knew that he would follow the king into the Twins and the Riverlands, for they needed men. Though Jon was beginning to worry that the quest south to gain the numbers was foolish, if the nights continued to be as cold with as little food. They were as like as not to lose as many men as they could gain if the conditions didn’t improve.

But if they were to return to Winterfell, even with their low numbers… If they were quick enough on the road, they could take the time to recuperate, to heal, and grow strong again before the army of Others descended.

It would dwindle the stores of Winterfell all the more quickly to feed this many mouths, Jon thought. Before he had left, Sansa had offered to write to House Royce to ask for supplies. Jon thought it too dangerous, with Petyr Baelish believed to still be in control of much of the Vale. Mayhaps he should have, either written himself or allowed Sansa to send a raven. Food was scarce between the onset of winter and the wars in the south.

Even if they lived to defeat the Others, without more food, winter would be as dangerous if not more so.

Jon knew that Stannis had intended to journey to the Vale in his efforts to bolster his army. If Stannis lived, Jon could request that excess foods be sent to Winterfell, as long as they made their way there before the road became impassible.

If Stannis died, though…

I could return to Winterfell, to Sansa.

Even just thinking her name brought Jon Snow warmth that he had barely felt since leaving. Only when he thought of her, when he held her favor in his fingers, did he feel that heat.

I could have her, he thought again. If there was any benefit of not being the son of Eddard Stark, bastard or trueborn, it was that he could take Sansa to wife without being deemed a monster by gods and men alike.

Does she truly want me, though? Jon could not help but wonder. How oft had he thought it while clutching the handkerchief? Had her offer of make me your bride in body only been her bluffing? Had she been terrified of him deep down, and only pretending that she felt the same? Jon Snow knew that she had endured many betrothals and advances that had been unwanted. Was this how she coped when he broke her trust by admitting how he desired her?

Even if Sansa did truly feel the same, even if her offer to be his bride in body had been genuine, would she still when she learned that his father was a Targaryen? Or would she be as revolted by blood as he was?

Petyr had made the offer several more times, to send a raven to the Gates of the Moon for her, for Winterfell. Sansa knew that if Jon returned with Stannis, with more men, they would need far more food to face the winter. She could not allow Petyr to believe that she was in his debt any more than he already thought she was. The wagon’s worth of food she had not asked for and therefore there was an argument to be made that she did not owe Petyr for it. If she requested that he procured them more food, more men, however… Petyr would undoubtedly seek confirmation that they would be married as soon as she was free to be. At the very least, he would want a kiss, as he had before.

Sansa would not allow him to kiss her again.

No man’s hands would touch her, save for Jon’s.

Sansa dipped her quill into the ink, hesitating with how to close the letter. She had written to Myranda and her father, asking if they had food to spare or knights to assist. She told them of her brother joining with Stannis, that if the knights rode north, the army could potentially be found near the Neck. She had not wanted to give away their position, but… Sansa did not see another way to secure the men that Jon needed without giving Petyr more power. She asked after the little lord Robert’s health, and invited Myranda to join her in Winterfell, after the hospitality she showed Alayne in the Vale.

Did she sign as Alayne, or her true name?

Myranda knew the truth of her identity, but had rumors traveled yet that Sansa Stark was indeed in Winterfell? If they had not, and the letter fell into the wrong hands…

Sansa signed it simply Lady of Winterfell.

From against her heart, Sansa pulled the letter she had began to Jon when Petyr had found her in the godswood. Come home, please was all she had written. Sansa had decided that she could not send it then. She thought about sending it now, along with a warning that she had written to House Royce, giving them where she thought Jon and his men were. She thought that if she wrote Jon, he could try to intercept the Knights of the Vale on the King’s Road. She thought that maybe he would not be angry with her for giving away their positioning. She hoped that maybe, if Jon and Stannis knew that the Vale was joining their cause, Stannis would allow Jon to return all the more quickly.

But Sansa did not know if House Royce would agree to sending men and food. She did not know if, even if they agreed, the supplies would get to Winterfell before the roads became too dangerous to travel. She did not want to make promises to Jon when she didn’t know if she could keep them.

Resigned, Sansa folded come home and please so that they lay atop each other before returning the parchment to her breast.

She would not write to Jon until she had news she was sure of, until her eagerness to have him to return was more a need than a want.

Sansa made no mentions to Petyr Baelish that she had written to the Vale, to House Royce, on her own. She knew from all his teachings he had imparted on her that information was power. It was those very same teachings that had Sansa wishing that she could continue to hold onto the knowledge she had without Petyr learning of it, but Jeyne Poole’s assessment of him had been insightful. If Jon took too long to return, Petyr very well would orchestrate a means to force her hand.

Sansa would not allow him to do so, and nor would Jeyne.

It was mayhaps why Jeyne Poole had agreed, despite her fears.

In all the time that they were at Winterfell, Jeyne Poole had taken her meals within the confines of her chambers. She was not one for wandering the corridors. She only ventured out when accompanied by Sansa, Yarrow, or some other girl that she found trustworthy. None still called her Arya; few called her Jeyne. Most were unaware of her existence in the keep, or of her significance.

Aside from when he first arrived, Petyr had not mentioned Arya or Jeyne, or that Sansa was supposed to have other kin at Winterfell at all. Sansa was unsure if he did not want to broach the subject for fear of revealing something that would give her cause to order his arrest, or if he assumed she had died in the battle and was therefore irrelevant. Either way, Sansa knew it was the only move she had that would strike enough fear into Petyr to buy her enough time until Jon returned.

Sansa arrived for dinner early, taking her usual place in what should have been Jon’s chair. She had requested that one of Jon’s Free Folk sat to her left. Someone she recalled fighting well in the battle, but who had been too injured to travel south with Jon and the rest of the army. Most nights, Sansa paid little mind to who sat where in the hall. She found that things such as decorum and ceremony mattered little and less during the wars and the winter, when making sure each mouth was fed was far more important.

Petyr’s thoughts seemed to differ on the matter, given that every meal she ate in the Great Hall, he sat at her right hand. In the chair that she believed to be hers, had Jon sat in the lord’s chair, as he should have.

While she ate, waiting for Petyr’s arrival, Sansa was careful to not look over her shoulder, at the shadowed doorway. She made polite conversation with the Free Folk warrior, until she saw the doors of the hall open and Petyr stride through.

He acts as though he is lord, Sansa observed. Would he dare to behave in such a way if Jon were here?

No, Sansa thought. If Jon were here, Petyr would not be walking free.

It was the thought of Jon that gave Sansa the confidence she required, sitting taller in her chair.

“I must apologize,” Sansa said as Petyr gripped the chair beside hers, “I promised that seat to another.” Sansa saw how his knuckles turned white in how tightly he held the wood.

“May I ask to whom?”

“My dear sister. She has finally recovered enough to join me at dinner.” Petyr’s hand dropped from the chair. “Ah! She arrives at last!” Sansa stood, fetching Jeyne from the door at the back of the hall. “It pleases me to see you feeling so improved!”

She escorted Jeyne to the chair that Petyr believed to be his. The poor girl’s hands trembled despite how tightly Sansa clutched her.

“I believe I do see an empty chair near some of the men Stannis left behind. I shall share this meal with my sister, Arya.”

Petyr’s anger was immediate, his face puce, his lips covered in spittle as he sputtered an attempt at an argument. Sansa turned her face, giving Jeyne her full attention. She did not recall ever seeing him so angry, even in private, even after the disastrous tourney. Instead of sitting in the empty chair she mentioned, he marched from the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

“Eat quickly, and we shall retire,” Sansa said, continuing to grip Jeyne’s hand beneath the table.

The flickering torchlight in the distance initially gave Jon Snow pause. Was it another trick of his eye or some magic that the children of the forest used to lure the First Men into their swamps? This light was warmer, more clearly from fire than the others he had seen. This one did not appear to flit and move as the others had.

A tower emerged out of the shadows then, behind the light.

It was the first building that Jon had seen since entering the swamps of the Neck.

“I fear I cannot offer more shelter than this, but it will keep you from the harsh winds for the night. To allow so many the knowledge of Greywater Watch’s location would be to invite death and destruction upon my House. The watchtower falls in and out of use, but there will be firewood within.”

“I ask for nothing more,” Jon Snow said, stepping forward into the light from Howland Reed’s torch. It was in that moment that Jon saw that Howland Reed was accompanied by a lone knight.

“Lord Glover has been a guest in Greywater since soon after the betrayal of Walder Frey at the Twins. When he heard that the northern lords marched with Stannis, and that a direwolf traveled amongst them, he bade me to make an introduction.”

“Lord Glover?” Jon asked. House Glover had been loyal to House Stark. Their ancestral seat was Deepwood Motte, which Stannis had won back from the Greyjoys at Jon’s suggestion. The Glover that sat in Deepwood had declared for Stannis, but that had been when it was assumed that Galbert Glover, the rightful lord, had been killed during the War of the Five Kings.

Had he been at Greywater Watch all this time? And what orders had him leaving Robb’s side, surviving here in secret, instead? Jon wondered.

“You are Jon Snow? The last surviving son of Eddard Stark?” Lord Glover asked, stepping further into the light.

“Aye.” The assent pained Jon, though he knew it was a lie he would burden. None should know the truth of his birth until he had reckoned with it himself. Until he told Sansa.

“I would speak with you. Tonight. Before you continue onwards.”

“Aye. Aye, I’ll speak with you. I would be warmed by a fire first, and see my men settled with a roof above their heads.”

“Aye.” Lord Glover’s face broke into a grin. “As Robb would have.”

The comparison to Robb caused him to ache even more. Robb, who was not his half-brother. Robb, who he should have died beside. Robb, who should have been the one to lead these men alongside Stannis. Robb, who had been king.

The men were packed into the four floors of the watchtower. There was little space on the lower floors for much movement, where most of the men bedded down, though Jon Snow supposed it would help to keep them warm. The first two floors boasted a hearth each and Jon himself aided in building fires in both.

The third floor, which seemed to be the living quarters for those not on duty, held several small chambers, each with a fireplace of their own. It was in one of those chambers that Melisandre had Stannis’s body and a blazing pyre. Jon had suspected that the king that would be was already dead when he was carried up the stairs, but the Red Woman seemed confident that he would wake come dawn. She had not yet asked for his blood, as Sansa had warned him, though Jon was braced for it still.

In truth, Melisandre, Stannis, and his blood were secondary concerns. As he sat with Howland Reed, Quenn, Donnel Flint and his half-brother of the First Flints, Larence Snow of the Hornwoods, Alysane Mormont, Mors Umber, and men of Houses Cerwyn and Tallhart, it was Lord Glover that Jon Snow was worried worst about.

Galbert Glover was the one to request each of the northern houses to speak together away from the other men downstairs. Jon knew that all of these Houses had members slain alongside Robb at the Red Wedding, aside from House Reed, and had declared for Stannis after the Boltons had claimed Winterfell.

What need did Glover have of all of them?

“Robb sent Maege Mormont and myself to search for Greywater Watch. It was why I was not beside him as I should have been in the Twins. He sent me with false orders, in case of capture, but I was one of six with him at Hag’s Mire, who witnessed his choice of successor. The Lady Catelyn Stark, her brother Edmure Tully, Maege, the Greatjon Umber, and Jason Mallister. Of those, all but Maege were either killed or captured. I have not seen or heard of Maege since we departed Seagard. So it falls to me, it seems, to see the successor to Robb Stark crowned.”

Jon Snow glanced at the faces before him. Had Robb named a lord or son of another House to follow in his footsteps as King in the North? With Bran and Rickon dead, and Sansa still being held prisoner in the south, Jon knew that Robb had few options. It was more like than not that Arya was long dead, same as the younger boys. A Karstark would have some Stark blood, at the least, but there was not a Karstark amongst them.

“If Robb Stark were to die without a child, without the north secured, he wanted you declared legitimate, and to be his heir.” Galbert Glover eyes did not waver, though Jon Snow was sure he spoke wrong. “He named his brother heir.”

“Me? No, no, he…” Jon shook his head. I’m not a Stark. I’m not a Snow. I’m not even his brother. Robb would not, could not, have known the truth of his birth, but… To learn that Robb named him heir after learning the truth felt cruel, somehow.

“You were his only choice to keep Winterfell, keep the North, in Stark hands. He feared that if he died without issue, without declaring an heir, it would fall to the Lannisters when his traitorous sister whelped lion cubs instead of pups.”

The dagger was in his hand, the steel flashing in the firelight, as Jon Snow held the blade to Galbert Glover’s neck.

“Those vows were said while she was held hostage. They stand as valid as any promise you would profess now, with my blade to your throat.” Lord Glover raised his hands, taking a step back. Only a handful of others stood. In the silence, Jon heard the Red Woman’s chanting. “Sansa is not a Lannister. She never has been. It was her strategy that won us Winterfell.” Jon lowered the dagger, sheathing it. “She’s a Stark. She’s more Stark than I am,” he murmured. It was all he could do to keep his eye from straying to Howland Reed.

“That may be,” Glover said slowly. His eyes were fixed on the hilt at Jon’s waist. “But Robb named you heir.”

Heir. King.

“I know you ride with Stannis…”

“I owed Stannis a debt for his assistance in recapturing Winterfell. He required my men to aid in his quest for the Iron Throne. I bear him no further loyalty.”

“The Southron kingdoms are in turmoil. They are as like as not to destroy each other and leave naught but ashes in their wake. If we continue to fight in wars that no longer concern us, we’ll be destroyed alongside them.” Alysane Mormont’s voice was quiet but as strong as Glover’s had been. “The north stood independent for thousands of years. Torrhen Stark only bent the knee for fear of what dragons would do to his people. The dragons are gone and their riders with them. What is there left to fear?”

“There are rumors of dragons being seen in Essos.”

“Across the Narrow Sea. I won’t be frightened by what’s a world away.”

“What’s there to fear from a dragon with no rider?”

“The Targaryens are all dead. The Lannisters saw to that. It’s lions we should fear, if anything.”

“I heard whispers of one that still lives.” Jon Snow’s jaw clenched. Had Howland Reed told others? “One that escaped the sacking of King’s Landing.”

“If any escaped, they are but a child still.”

“Robb Stark was born at the end the Rebellion, mind you. Would you dismiss him so quickly?”

“I would see Winterfell secure. The north, secure. If that means independence…” Jon spoke so quietly that his voice vanished beneath the din.

A wail silenced all of them.

“Stannis is dead, then,” Jon muttered. He felt the weight of all their eyes as heavily as stones. “She will try to raise him… I don’t know how long she will try before she realizes the futility.”

“Will we stay with her?” Quenn asked. “Or continue his journey south?”

“We won’t stay. But we do need the men Stannis sought. I would send messengers to Riverrun, to the Twins, to… To the Vale to request men, arms, supplies. Tell them of what’s coming from beyond the Wall. Warn them of what winter will bring, what could destroy the realm before the games for the throne do the very same.”

“And us?”

“North. To Winterfell. I would have us there before the roads become untraversable and all who stay there are left undefended.”

North, to Winterfell, to my home.

To Sansa.

“Aye. We will follow and see the north an independent kingdom once again, ruled by a Stark.” Donnel Flint knelt before Jon, pledging an oath of fealty. The other lords and northmen followed suit, save Quenn, whom Jon did not expect to.

Alysane knelt last. “House Mormont will follow you, Jon Stark, as the King in the North.”

“The King in the North,” echoed throughout the chamber.

Jon hadn’t wanted titles or land beyond Winterfell. Becoming lord had been reaching too far as a bastard. King was not something he had ever dared to dream of. Jon thought he should have felt good, knowing Robb had either trusted him or loved him enough to name him heir, to raise him to a Stark.

The title felt hollow, Jon Snow felt, for what was a king without his queen?

Chapter Text

For the first time in weeks, Sansa did not dream that she had slept beside Jon on cold, snowy ground. Instead, her dreams had been a quiet blackness, something she might have prayed for once. When she woke and realized that her sleep had been dreamless, something deep within her ached, empty and hollow. Her dreams were the only place that she could see Jon. She had not realized how profoundly she relied on those dreams to offer her comfort until she was without.

The pain of not dreaming of Jon felt akin to when she lost Lady in the Trident. As though something had been carved out of her. How oft had she thought if only she had Lady again then she could be brave? And once she had been reunited with Jon, she had felt she could be as bold and strong as her lady mother, as her lord father, with Jon at her side. Without him…

Without him, Sansa was beginning to wonder if she had conjured the warmth and affection she had felt. She worried that when he returned, he would return with a wife. Someone Stannis married him to in order to secure heirs for Winterfell. She worried that he would realize it was only the relief of seeing kin again that made them so close so quickly. Or that it was because it was her blood that raised him.

If Jon’s feelings, his desires, weren’t genuine…

The ache in Sansa’s heart sank lower into her belly.

Both Yarrow and Jeyne Poole slept yet, so Sansa laid back down, hands clutching her tummy, and prayed to see Jon when she closed her eyes.

The sunlight, wan and cold, woke Sansa the second time. The bed beside her was empty, though the fire had clearly been stoked recently. The room was warm enough to have her skin, her shift, and the bedclothes all soaked with sweat. Sansa didn’t understand how the chambers had grown so hot—the ones she had claimed while Jon had slept in the lord’s bed would have made sense, for those were the hottest in all the keep. The lord’s chambers Sansa oft thought caught a draft, keeping them from ever getting so warm.

Sansa pushed the pile of furs she had slept beneath back, baring her arms. She gasped at the chill in the air.

The chambers were not warm at all, certainly not enough to drench her in sweat, and yet the stickiness between her thighs was undeniable.

With trepidation, Sansa threw back her covers.

Blooming just below her belly was a stain so dark it was garnet.

Sansa’s fingers trembled as she raised the skirt of her shift and saw the blood between her thighs.

When Sansa had first flowered in King’s Landing, she had burned the sheets, hoping that the maids would not tell Cersei or Joffrey that she was old enough to be bedded.

After fleeing King’s Landing and becoming Alayne, Sansa had grown accustom to her monthly cycles. Without Joffrey, she did not fear the blood as she once had.

It was only in that moment, staring at the blood and feeling as though it were her first flowering again, that Sansa realized she did not recall the last time she had bled.

She had not since they had reclaimed Winterfell, had not in Mole’s Town or at her brief stay in Castle Black. She did not recall having to manage it while she fled to the Wall. Had it been at the Gates of the Moon?

She had not bled for months—was that common, she wondered? Would it mean she would have spells where her womb wouldn’t quicken?

Jon’s voice echoed through her mind as she stared at the blood.

I will not father a bastard, he had said, when she told him to claim her, take her, make her his bride. She remembered, with stark clarity, the fear and anger in his voice. Sansa had been too hurt at the rejection to wonder at it then.

Sansa knew that Jon had been jealous as a boy, of Robb namely, but of all of them too, for their being trueborn children. As a girl, Sansa had not truly understood it, for she saw him at Robb’s side always. They received the same lessons, same trainings. It was only at feasts that he sat away from the rest of the family. Sansa had understood enough that Jon’s illegitimacy would have been treated far differently by any other lord or House.

As a woman grown, after pretending to be Alayne Stone, Sansa understood far more about Jon, and how it must have been to be raised alongside Robb, but never truly his equal. That realization did not prepare her for the vitriol in his voice at the notion of fathering a bastard of his own.

It would be different, Sansa thought, as she began to clean herself. Father had brought home another woman’s babe. While she and Jon were unwed, any babes of their love would be deemed bastards, but… I would love him. We would raise him as heir, as a Stark, not a Snow. He would not be relegated to back tables at feasts.

While she washed her thighs, Sansa remembered whispers she had heard, both in the Vale and King’s Landing, of a tea that could prevent a quickening womb.

If his fear of fathering a bastard was all that prevented Jon from taking her to wife… If she could ensure that her womb didn’t quicken…

Would Jon take her, as she so deeply wished he would?

Sansa found Yarrow collecting moss and bark in the godswood. She was thankful that the other girl was alone, for the question she wanted to ask could not be overheard by prying ears.

Sansa perched on a fallen log, watching Yarrow with her basket, trying to muster the courage voice her musings aloud.

“Have you ever…lain with a man?” Sansa asked quietly.

“Been stolen? No, no I’ve not. My sisters all have. They’ve told me their stories.”

“Is it…pleasant?”

“Oh, aye. Though my sisters say that oft you have to teach a man how you like to be touched.” A flush crawled across Sansa’s face. She did not know how she liked to be touched. She wasn’t sure she would know how to teach a man that. “But aye, my sisters all said it was pleasurable.”

“Do they all have babes?”

“No. Only one of them has sons.”

“So…there’s a way, then. To stop a womb from quickening?”

“My sisters have said there are things you can do that would not produce babes. There is a tea, as well.”

Sansa wondered at what could be done that would not produce babes. Was that not the point in lying together, was to quicken wombs and create children? Though, Sansa supposed, teas and bastards would be far less common if man and woman only laid together for the sake of heirs.

“Do you know how to prepare the tea?”

“Aye. I have all the necessary components… Do you wish for me to make you…?”

Sansa’s fingers twisted together in her lap. Did she want it prepared? She wanted to alleviate Jon’s fears of a bastard, but…

She didn’t need the tea without Jon returning to Winterfell.

“No. Not yet. But would you, if I asked you to?”

“Aye. I shall ensure to keep the herbs ready.”

“Thank you.”

Dawn broke, cold and bleak.

The men were gathered below, ready to return to Winterfell, save for the dozen Jon Snow had ordered to continue onwards. Four men each to the Twins, to the Vale, and to the Riverlands. Jon would have sent more, had they had more horses. As it was, they only had enough for a single horse per pair of riders. Those twelve had left as soon as the horses had been fed and watered, as soon as Jon had been able to issue orders as Robb’s heir, as the King in the North, warning of the threat that came from beyond the Wall, requesting supplies, men, arms.

Jon Snow could still hear the Red Woman’s desperate chanting. She had not left the chambers once throughout the night. Jon knew that she would be unsuccessful in her attempts, but he also knew the power of her god. He would not be alive without it.

It was for that reason that Jon Snow remained in the watchtower, while all the others readied to march, a dagger poised over his palm. Sansa had said it was a small bowl of her blood that she gave to raise him. Melisandre had not yet asked him for his own.

Jon sliced the dagger across his skin, watching the crimson drip into the bowl beneath his hand.

He had not informed Melisandre that they were leaving Greywater Watch, that he was taking Stannis’s men and returning to Winterfell. None of the commotion of readying the men or his being crowned the night before had summoned her from the room she had claimed for her rite.

A bowl of his blood was all he could offer, even with the knowledge that her rite would fail.

Jon Snow cleaned the blade with a scrap of linen before wrapping it around his hand, pulling it tight with his teeth. The leather soles of his boots were as silent as Ghost as he approached the door, setting the bowl of blood where the witch would find it, should she choose to venture from the room.

Jon left the watchtower just as quietly, the urgency of her chanting masking all sounds he made.

On the frozen swamps, a host of an army, solely under his command, stood, waiting for the orders of their king.

Howland Reed was just beyond the door of the watchtower. Despite the weak sunlight, Jon thought that the man still seemed shadowed. His features hard to distinguish. His hood was drawn over his face, his eyes hidden. The most Jon could see of him was his narrow beard.

“Would you join us? Come to Winterfell?”

As soon as Jon spoke, he knew the words were foolish. Even at the height of the wars, Howland Reed had not left Greywater. It was a fact well known throughout all the kingdoms. Howland Reed would not accompany him simply because he asked. He would offer to guard the King’s Road, as he had done for Robb.

Jon Snow knew there was little and less he could say to try to convince Howland Reed to join him, yet Jon continued speaking.

“It is only…” Jon whispered, stepping closer to ensure that his voice would not travel. “You are the only person living who knew my mother. Who could tell me of her.”

Howland Reed’s face was carved of stone, impossible to read, and yet Jon thought he saw an imperceivable shift in the man’s expression.

“Aye. Aye, I will join you. Allow me to prepare my House for my departure, and I will meet you on the road.”

They journeyed for several days, passing Moat Cailin, and questions about his mother piled on Jon Snow’s tongue. It was all he could do to keep them held tightly between his teeth so that he could remember them when Howland finally joined them.

It was all consuming, his questions, his wondering. It dictated the pace he set—far quicker than when they had travelled with Stannis—but Jon was equally terrified of moving so quickly that Howland Reed would not be able to meet them on the road. He knew, though, that to linger too long would be death for them all. If winter had not come, it was only days away.

He yearned to be home, but he yearned even more for Howland to find them and grant him the answers he had always wanted.

It was twilight on the third day past Moat Cailin when Howland Reed’s small army joined them.

“I stationed half the men I could spare at Moat Cailin to guard the King’s Road, though with winter coming, the wars in the south are unlike to venture so far north.”

“What of your House?”

“Greywater Watch is well protected from threats of any kind.”

“And the Red Woman?”

“Has locked herself in the watchtower. None have seen her leave.”

Jon nodded. Half of him wondered if she would stay in that tower until she died, trying to bring Stannis back.

“Come dawn, I’ll answer any questions you have of Lyanna to the best I am capable.”

Jon Snow walked alongside Howland Reed on the snow-covered King’s Road. Jon did not share Stannis’s concerns in using the road, especially since they were making their way toward Winterfell and their arrival needn’t be a surprise. The only ones who were ahead were the scouts. The rest of their army marched behind, with enough space that Jon felt they could speak openly.

“What would want to know of her?” Howland asked.

Jon tasted blood from biting back everything.

“What was she like?”

“Wild, much as Ned described the little Arya in his letters, both in appearance and demeanor. She was a skilled rider. I saw her once attack three boys her own age with a tourney sword for disrespecting… For disrespecting one of her father’s men.”

“She knew how to wield a sword?” Jon thought of Needle, the sword he had gifted Arya before he left for the Wall. Had his own mother had something similar?

“She had not been trained, no, though if the Lord Rickard allowed it, she no doubt would have.” Jon tried to imagine a girl who looked like him, like Arya, only older. He pictured a sword like Needle on her belt. “She was kind,” Howland said after a pause.

“She was?”

To Jon, this was a more precious piece of information than her wildness or beauty.

“Aye. She was kind and caring and gentle, even with the touch of wildness. She was mayhaps one of the kindest people I knew.”

Jon Snow closed his eye against tears he felt pooling. She was kind, she was beautiful, and she was highborn. She was all he dreamed she would be.

“If she was wild… How did…?” Jon struggled to put the question into words. He recalled what he thought Arya would do if she still had Needle, when he still believed it was her that had been married to Ramsay Bolton. If Lyanna was like Arya…

“No one knows the truth of how Rhaegar took her,” Howland Reed started slowly. “Rickard and Brandon, even Ned, believed she had been kidnapped, captured. There were many, though, who wondered…” Jon swallowed back his questions when Howland paused. “Those who knew her knew that she was not happy with her betrothal to Robert. If she thought she found a way to escape…” Howland shrugged. “She was smart, your mother, but she was also a maid of sixteen. The only thing I know for sure is that she loved you and she wanted you safe. How you came into the world didn’t seem to matter to her.”

“Would she have been proud, do you think?”

Howland Reed did not ask if Jon meant of his being named Robb’s heir, becoming King in the North, or if he spoke of his winning back Winterfell, or being elected the youngest Lord Commander in history. Howland Reed did not mention Jon’s skill with a blade or his strategy or political savvy.

Howland Reed simply said, “Aye. She would have been.”

After the arrival of Howland Reed and his men, Jon Snow pushed the speed at which they travelled. The nights grew colder, the days shorter, and their meals fewer. It was mayhaps reckless, the brutality of their pace, but Jon Snow saw no way around it. They needed to return to Winterfell.

On the way south, Jon had recalled seeing the occasional rider heading for Winterfell. Now, the road was entirely empty. It had not snowed since before they had taken shelter at the watchtower in Greywater, and yet there were no tracks to be seen.

Jon supposed that he should be thankful that he did not have to worry about droves of hungry men descending on Winterfell. He did not have to fear Sansa alone in the keep, without himself or Ghost to protect her. Though Jon’s thoughts decided instead to dwell on all the tracks that the snow could have hidden.

Had any of the riders they had seen made it to Winterfell? Did any of them seek to put Sansa in danger?

With Howland answering his questions about his mother, Jon found his mind instead consumed by Sansa.

He thought of Mole’s Town with fondness. Even the trek to Winterfell, when he would slip nightly into Ghost, brought him warmth. The gentle way Sansa had treated and tended his wounds, the way she had soothed him, had him clawing to keep from imagining her fingers on his body late at night.

The handkerchief that Sansa had gifted him smelled only of his own body, but that didn’t stop him from holding it to his face when his missing her was most fraught.

Jon Snow’s chest ached with how desperately he wished to be with her.

Sansa stood on the battlements, wrapped in a cloak of fur and wool. She was hoping for a raven. The black wings would be easy to spot against the white sky, she thought. It had been weeks since it last snowed, though the clouds looked ripe with it.

Her raven to House Royce had gone unanswered. Petyr had not sat beside her at dinner again, but Sansa knew too well that if Royce wouldn’t aid them after her letter, she would have to use Petyr. Sansa did not want that. She wanted him gone from Winterfell. She wanted Jon back.

Sansa was still staring at the sky when movement caught her attention.

It was the flap of a bird’s wings, though it was not a black raven bearing a message from House Royce as she had hoped.

The raven that descended on Winterfell was white.

Sansa Stark knew that a white raven could only mean one thing.

Winter had come.

“There are tracks,” the scouts reported, less than a week from Winterfell.

“Tracks? Headed north?”

Jon Snow studied the road. There had been no tracks visible since they had left Greywater and there had been no snow. There were no roads branching off of the King’s Road this far north. How had tracks only just appeared?

“Aye. They come across the plains. I’d wager a few hundred at least. They travel with heavy wagons, from the depth of the tracks. Mayhaps half a dozen?”

“White Knife lies in that direction. They could have taken a boat as far as the rapids,” Jon mused. “Though I doubt any of our messengers could have convinced a lord to raise their banners with such haste. How old do you suppose the tracks are?”

“A few days at most.”

Jon knelt, studying the deep ruts left behind by the wheels. It was impossible to tell how many men had walked through with the wheels cutting across the tracks.

“Let us hope they are friend, rather than foe,” Jon said, rising.

“Do we have many of those?” Quenn japed.

“No,” was Jon’s gruff response. “Prepare the men. We push on until we reach Winterfell.”

The gates of Winterfell were just visible in the distance. It was only because they didn’t have any horses left that Jon Snow did not mount one and kick it into a gallop. It was all he had left of his dignity to keep him from sprinting that distance himself.

It was worse, returning, than it had been leaving. Even more so than it had been when he battled his way close to the walls while he searched for Ramsay Bolton. Then he had been sure that he would not live to see the inside of the gates. Now he knew he would live long enough to pass through them, but was unsure about what would greet him on the other side.

The tracks they had seen continued all the way up to the gates.

In the days between their initial discovery of the tracks and the realization that they led directly into Winterfell, Jon’s mind swirled with who would have travelled all the way, and with such heavy wagonloads. He prayed each night, clutching Sansa’s handkerchief, that it was a House loyal to the Starks—Manderley, mayhaps, or the Flints from Widow’s Watch. He prayed that it was not a Southron House—the Lannisters, coming to claim Winterfell by way of Sansa’s marriage, or some other House he had not yet thought to fear. Siege machines, some had whispered, could cut deep ruts, just the same as heavy wagons of food stores could.

If it was the Lannisters, if it was siege machines, if harm had befallen Sansa…

Jon Snow would burn all Seven Kingdoms to the ground.

Chapter Text

“My lady, a host has been spotted on the road, quickly approaching.”

Sansa looked up from the numbers that were making her head swim. Sums had never been her strongest suit, even during her lessons.

“What banners do they ride under?”

“They are still too far out, my lady.”

Sansa was standing instantly, fetching her cloak.

Jon has returned at last, she thought.

When she stood on the battlements though, watching the approaching army, Sansa knew that Jon was not amongst them.

Their banners were not ones belonging to a northern lord, nor was it the one that Stannis had carried. One was a bronze field, covered in black iron studs, bordered with ancient runes. The other was sky blue, with a falcon soaring upwards, outlined by a full moon.

They were both standards that Sansa, or mayhaps Alayne, knew well.

House Royce had answered her raven, and had brought the Knights of the Vale to Winterfell.

In the yard, Sansa warily waited for Petyr Baelish to show himself, to attempt to claim this as a victory of his orchestration. She was unsure if he had heard yet, that supplies, men, and arms, had arrived from a region that was supposedly under his control. Would he claim that they acted on his orders, even as he would surely suspect that Sansa had sent a raven? Would he attempt to deny House Royce’s aid, in that they acted without his authority?

Sansa was hesitant. How would she intercede if Baelish did what she feared? She wanted to be strong, be brave, and act as her own parents would. But Sansa, staring as people were helped down from the wagons, was feeling anything but brave, strong, or clever.

Sansa’s fears ebbed when she saw a familiar face.

Myranda Royce stood in the yard of Winterfell, her smile as merry as Sansa remembered it.

“I see your hair has started to return,” Myranda said by way of greeting. Sansa knew the auburn had grown to hear ears. The length of it was still the dark brown of Alayne Stone.

“Not quickly enough.” Myranda enclosed her in a warm embrace. “I must thank you for the haste of your response. This is…far more than I had hoped for.”

“Aye, I received your raven. I had been fearful, after Littlefinger disappeared…”

“He’s here,” Sansa whispered. “I’m surprised he has not yet appeared, tried to claim this as his own cleverness.”

“I fear I’m not surprised. He was…despondent after Alayne vanished. Most believed his tears were truly for his daughter. Few knew otherwise. The little lord Robert was miserable as well. He was very offended that Alayne had not said goodbye.”

“How does he fare?”

“He has seemed better of late, since Lord Baelish left him in our care. Mayhaps the soil, or the difference in air, so high up in sky at the Eyrie. It was him I showed your raven to. I told him that you had to return to your home, but needed his help to get through the winter. He agreed to send aid, so long as he can visit come spring.”

Sansa found herself smiling.

“Mayhaps my lord would see fit to foster him, after the wars and winter.”

“Your lord?”

“Stannis Baratheon named Jon Snow Lord of Winterfell, after we won it back from the Boltons. He rides alongside him now, seeking men and arms in the Riverlands.”

“Jon Snow? The Lord Commander?”

“Yes, he had been.”

“That is mayhaps good fortune, then. We travelled from White Harbor with a man seeking the Lord Commander. He joined our riverboat and our caravan. I thought him safe, as he seemed familiar with your father’s bastard.”

Sansa pushed aside her feelings of Jon being called your father’s bastard and instead turned to take in the men in the yard.

“The final wagon, nearest the gates.”

Sansa extended her thanks before allowing Myranda to be escorted into Winterfell and making her way to that final wagon.

At the wagon nearest the gates, Sansa found a round man garbed as though he was a maester, though he wore no chain. At his side sat a young, pretty woman with large, brown eyes. Her gown was plain, but clearly finely made. Neither of them had the look of the smallfolk who sought shelter in winter town, nor did they have the appearance of warriors.

“We heard when we landed in White Harbor that the Starks have reclaimed Winterfell? That Jon Snow was made lord? Is that true?”

Sansa studied the pair. Neither bore any sigil or House colors. The man’s accent sounded similar to that of the Tyrells, but he lacked the curly brown hair and brown eyes that Sansa knew the Tyrells to have. Myranda had said they sought the Lord Commander, though this man did not wear the black of the Night’s Watch.

“What do you know of Jon Snow?” she asked with caution.

“We trained together at Castle Black. He sent me to the Citadel to become a maester.”

“Yet you have no chain.”

“No, no… I made a discovery, while studying for my copper link. I thought it prudent that I deliver it specifically into the hands of Jon Snow myself. Once the roads clear, I will return to the Citadel, under the orders of my Lord Commander.”

“A maester?” Sansa repeated. “Are you… Sam?”

“Aye. Samwell Tarly. This is Gilly. Is Jon truly lord?”

“He is, but he rode south with Stannis and a small army. He left Winterfell in my care.”

Sansa found her eyes straying to the covered cart. What discovery could this man have made that he abandoned his training? That he left Oldtown immediately and made the journey to Winterfell, despite how treacherous the weather made the trek?

“There’s few Jon would have trusted Winterfell with. Are you his sister?” Sam asked, stepping down.

“Sansa,” she said. “May I ask if you’ve brought supplies? House Royce, who arrived with you, has come with grain and food stores to help see us through winter.”

“It’s not grain, but it is supplies…of a sort. Jon will understand its worth. I fear…I would wait for him, to unload the cart. Is there someplace safe…?”

“I will ensure it’s well protected. Please, the others are gathering in the hall to warm themselves. I have others I must attend to, but I shall save a seat for you both tonight? I would love to hear of your journey, of your time at the Wall.”

Both Sam and Gilly granted her a small smile, and Sansa understood why Jon had befriended the man.

Sansa was deep in the cellars and undercrofts beneath Winterfell’s Great Hall. Sansa had ordered Sam’s cart of supplies to be brought down, still covered and packed in crates. She swore to Sam that she would personally see that it was hidden in behind the food stores from the Vale. She had posted a guard at the top of the stairs, but had not brought any down with her. Sam had only spoken in hushed ambiguities of what he had discovered, what he had brought north. She did not what to invite any further questions as she covered the crates with surplus roughspun.

She would save the crates to be opened by Jon, her lord.

Walking through the gates of Winterfell offered Jon Snow a little relief. It was clear that the wagon tracks they had followed had been food stores, not siege machines. The banners planted against the outer walls were not Lannister. Jon quickly recognized House Arryn’s blue falcon. The other he was less familiar with, though he was fairly confident that it was from a lesser House in the Vale.

It was only because of those banners that Jon didn’t run through the keep to see Sansa. Instead, Jon found himself drawn across the yard. Drawn to the crypts.

Jon Snow had dreamed of the crypts after the battle, trapped in dreams of the poppy. He could not recall the last time he had been in them. Had it been when he was a boy yet, scaring the younger children by covering himself in flour?

He had dreamed of them before, at Castle Black. He had been afraid of them, in his dreams both times.

Taking up a torch from the wall, Jon descended into the blackness, braced for the fear to overtake him.

Within the crypts, Jon stood before a statue he had never taken much note of as a child. It was one of the newest, he knew, flanked with the statues of Lord Rickard and Brandon Stark. As a boy, Jon hadn’t thought much of the fact that there was a lone woman’s statue in all the crypts.

Now he knew that it belonged to his mother.

Holding the torch high, Jon did his best to study the face carved into the stone. Did her nose slope in the same way his did? Was the bow of her lips similar? The shape of her jaw, her brow? He wished the masons had been more generous with detail. It was impossible to tell what was an imperfection of stone and what an aspect of her appearance.

She was undeniably beautiful. Howland Reed had said she was much like Arya in her appearance, and Jon supposed that was probably true, if she had the Stark coloring, though Jon also thought there were similarities with Sansa’s beauty. The shape of her face. The way her stone hair fell across her shoulders.

Mother, he thought.

It was the first time he could relate that term to anything more than a dream.

She had been here, so close, his entire life.

Jon reached up to touch her cheek. The stone was rough beneath his palm, cold.

He wished that he had brought her flowers.

“Lyanna was a beauty.”

The voice startled Jon. He jumped away from the statue.

A thin man with a sharp, pointed beard stood at the foot of the steps. Jon Snow did not recognize him.

“Forgive me, we have not met. I knew you instantly though. You resemble so closely your father.” No, Jon thought, I resemble my mother. “And I recognized the craftsmanship of your cloak. Sansa is very skilled with a needle.”

Jon did not respond. The familiar use of Sansa’s name set him on edge.

“Lord Petyr Baelish.” Jon Snow’s right hand was stiff as he tried to grip the hilt of his dagger. “I was a dear friend of the Lady Catelyn Tully, and of your sister. I had heard whispers of a Stark daughter reclaiming Winterfell, and I knew that either of Catelyn’s daughters would be in need of men, of arms, and food to see them through the winter. I summoned the Knights of the Vale and gathered everything we could spare.”

Jon had heard enough from Sansa to not trust anything that the man before him said. He would not thank Littlefinger until he knew the truth from Sansa.

“I did hope to have an audience with you private. I had a matter I wished to discuss with you.”

Jon remained unmoved.

“I have heard that Stannis legitimized you, named you Lord of Winterfell. I am much like you, though I am not a bastard.” Littlefinger’s mouth twitched as he walked closer.

Jon’s fingers closed tightly around the hilt.

“My grandfather was a hedge knight, my father an unimportant lord. But I too have risen beyond my birth. I have been made Lord of Harrenhal, Lord Paramount of the Trident, and Lord Protector of the Eyrie and the Vale of Arryn. I once asked for Sansa’s hand in marriage, in King’s Landing…” Jon felt bile curl up his throat. If he had been in Ghost, Petyr Baelish would have cowered from his bared teeth. “…but was denied for my low birth. With the titles I now hold, a highborn bride would be a fair match. I would quell the squabbling of the Riverland lords, and a marriage with a Tully daughter could unite Riverrun and the Vale. I would ask your permission to wed Sansa. Rest assured, it would be more than a cold political marriage, as her marriage to the Imp had been. I love her, as I had once loved her mother.”

The torch fell from Jon’s hand as he lunged. Jon Snow slammed Petyr Baelish into the body of the statue beside his mother’s. The torch flickered from the ground. For a moment, Jon almost thought it looked as though the statue moved. He spared the stone the briefest glance. Brandon Stark, the first son and heir, stared down as Jon lifted Baelish further from the ground.

The scrabbling of Littlefinger’s feet echoed in the silence of the crypts as he searched for purchase.

Jon Snow’s bandaged hand was around Petyr Baelish’s neck. Jon squeezed, wishing it was claws or teeth instead of just fingers. Would that his nails were as sharp as the claws of a direwolf, Baelish’s throat would have been torn out. His scarred hand had his dagger pressed between Littlefinger’s legs, just beside his manhood.

“I do not grant my permission,” Jon growled. He pushed the tip of the blade through the fine make of his breeches. “If you touch her, go near her, it’ll not be my blade that slices you open. I’ll do it with my bare hands.”

Jon released him. Petyr crumpled at Brandon’s stone feet.

“You don’t belong down here. I must ask that you leave,” Jon Snow ordered, retrieving the torch.

Petyr Baelish’s face was mottled with rage. If he were any other man, Jon would have readied to defend against an attack. He knew though, from everything Sansa had told him, that Petyr Baelish did not fight his battles with steel.

No, despite his unmistakable fury, Petyr Baelish did not draw a blade. Instead, he pushed himself from the ground, rightened his clothes, and left silently.

It was only then that Jon Snow saw the blackened and dried flower petals before his mother’s statue.

Littlefinger must have vanished into the keep, for Jon did not see him in the yard, even amongst the chaos. Jon had delayed finding Sansa when he thought that the banners had only meant aid. He had not realized that Littlefinger was within in Winterfell. He had not realized that there was a threat to Sansa in their home.

Would he find her in the lord’s solar? Or in the Great Hall?

She surely would have been notified of their arrival.

Was she looking for him?

Jon Snow knew he should see to the men, make introductions with the envoys of House Arryn and the other Vale lords, ensure that Howland Reed was made comfortable, but all of that was secondary to his own needs. Jon had neither changed his clothes nor bathed since he had departed alongside Stannis. It was no different than it had been beyond the Wall, but Ygritte had been a spearwife of the Free Folk. Jon recalled the lady Catelyn ordering Ned to the hot springs every time he returned from long travels on the road. Mayhaps it was best that he had not yet seen Sansa. He would bathe, change from the linens that had grown stiff with sweat, with hoarfrost. He could greet Sansa as a proper lord—a king—might greet a lady. Not smelling of fear and piss and smoke.

Once the men were settled and the yard emptied, Jon sent for a change of clothes before slipping away, unnoticed, into the godswood.

At the edge of the warmest of the pools, Jon Snow stripped the clothing from his body, removing even the patch that covered his empty eye. His wounds had healed enough that he had not needed bandages since he had left Winterfell, though the scars were all still pink, shiny, and raw.

Naked as his name day, Jon Snow slid into the heat of the pool. The water, the warmth was a relief. He had grown deaf to the screaming of his muscles in his haste to return.

The godswood was as silent as Jon had ever known it. The high stone walls silenced whatever noises from the keep might have disturbed his peace. The steam that rose from the water clouded his vision. The heat, the quiet, the steam all had him being lulled like a babe in a cradle.

Jon Snow supposed he should get out. To fall asleep in the hot springs was foolish, dangerous. And yet Jon did not remove himself. Only a few minutes longer, he told himself, resting his head against the mossy ground at the edge of the spring. A few minutes longer, and then he would return to his duties.

The footsteps were hurried, too quick to be quiet. They echoed in the silence of the godswood. Jon startled. He lunged for the dagger he had stupidly left at the other side of the pool, near his clothes.

For a brief moment, Jon Snow believed it was a ghost that raced up the cracked stone path, skirts held aloft. His mother, coming to greet him, now that he knew the truth. Catelyn Stark, to banish him from the godswood, from Winterfell, for usurping her children.

It wasn’t until the woman collapsed to her knees beside the pool that Jon saw that the woman did not have the Stark brown hair of his mother, nor the Tully auburn of Catelyn Stark, but both. An auburn crown and brown curls.

It was Sansa Stark who kneeled beside him, not a ghost.

Jon quickly abandoned his attempts to reach his weapon, instead sinking deeply into the pool, hoping that Sansa had not seen his nakedness.

“You’ve returned,” Sansa whispered. Jon could feel her gaze on his face. He wished that he had kept the eye patch on. He was sure the scar was grotesque. As grotesque as his blood—Targaryen. Jon had nearly forgotten the truth of his identity in the warmth and serenity of the godswood. Sansa’s hands cradled his face before he could flinch away from the chill of her hands. “Are you well? No wounds, no more scars?” she asked, tilting his face to study it in the dim light of the godswood.

“No. I am fine. Only tired and weary. The worst of it is only the chill in my bones.”

“I was afraid—when I saw Quenn and Ghost without you—And you didn’t…” Sansa’s hands dropped from his face. Jon drifted further into the middle of the pool. “I didn’t see Stannis amongst the men. Did he release you from your duties?”

Jon shook his head.

“He should have waited to travel south. His leg was not yet healed enough for such an arduous journey.”

“He’s dead, then?”

“Aye. Near Greywater Watch. The Red Woman kept a vigil over his body, trying to raise him. We returned to Winterfell.”

“She is gone as well?”

“Until she realizes the futility of her actions. From there, only the gods could guess where she would go.”

Sansa nodded. The mist and vapor rising from the water distorted her silhouette. She looked a vision. A beautiful and highborn lady from a dream Jon Snow never dared to have.

“I saw the banners in the yard. House Arryn?”

“I wrote to Myranda Royce. She brought men, arms, supplies. The young lord Robert Arryn sent the Knights of the Vale.”

“And Petyr Baelish?”

“Came on his own, not long after you had departed. He was why I wrote to Myranda, though had you warned me not to. He kept offering to send a raven on my behalf, if… If I would marry him. I wrote to her so that it would be one less move he could use against me, against us. I know you were wary of me sending—“

“No, no.” Jon swam closer and took her hand. Her skin was cool from the winter air. The water that dropped from his fingers darkened the wool of her skirt. Her knees were already darkened from the wet moss at the pool’s edge. “It was only for your safety that I was hesitant. I am glad that you did.” Sansa’s hand tightened around his. The heat from his skin had already warmed hers. Her skin was too soft, too warm, and he was too tired, too naked.

Jon dropped her hand. He should get out, he knew. His skin was beginning to wrinkle from lingering, but to get out would mean to have to ask her to turn around, or have her bear witness to his nakedness.

“He asked me for your hand. He found me in the crypts right after we returned…” Jon found himself saying, putting distance between his body and hers again.

“The crypts?” Her voice was quiet initially, then as sharp as a blade. “What did you say?”

I promised his death, Jon thought. I would have killed him, if I was confident that it was what you wanted.

“I rejected his offer.” Sansa closed her eyes. “Did I overstep?” Jon asked after Sansa was silent for too long. Jon had thought he knew what her answer would be. She had fled the Gates of the Moon because she was so frightened of him. And…she had offered herself to him on the eve of his departure. He had wondered, hoped, that she might again. The news of his birth made his having her a possibility without making him a monster. But would she want him still, when she learned the truth? She wanted him when she thought him born of the seed of a noble and honorable man. When she learned that he the spawn of a Targaryen… The House that had killed how many Stark men? That had made them wardens of the lands they had once ruled as kings? There was Stark blood in his veins sure enough, but would that be enough to war against his father’s House?

“No. You did not overstep. I do not wish to marry him. He… He frightens me, Jon. I dislike him being in our home. I was not brave enough to reject him outright without you.”

“Tell me what you wish and I’ll see it done,” Jon vowed. He had somehow drifted closer to her once again. The hot spring no longer had him feeling tired. Instead he was all too aware of the sensations of the water against his skin. The heat around his manhood. He had once imagined swimming, bedding Ygritte in this very pool. It had been a nightmare, where her skin had boiled and sloughed off. That was enough to cool the desire he felt beginning to burn in his belly.

“I’m so very relieved that you’re back, Jon.”

Her voice was so quiet that Jon almost did not hear her.

Would she still be relieved when she learned the truth of his blood? When she learned of Robb’s will?

“I have much to tell you.” Sansa shifted how she sat, as though she was getting comfortable to hear his story. Jon’s gaze was pulled again to the darkness blooming still on her skirt. “Mayhaps it best in the keep, after I’ve had some food, some rest.”

The sun had started to set and the density of the trees kept the godswood dim, but Jon saw the blush that spilled across Sansa’s face all the same.

“Of course. Forgive me. I hadn’t thought—I was so eager—“

“I am glad to see you too,” Jon whispered, elbows resting on the edge of the pool, beside her. “I’ll be gladder yet to see you once I am clothed.”

The pink of Sansa’s flush darkened to a red. She scrambled quickly to her feet, backing away from the hot spring.

“I-I’m sorry…” She turned, giving him her back. Jon hoisted himself from the water and dressed quickly. All the while he kept his eyes on Sansa, praying that she turned back around. He remembered his hesitancy when she had changed the bandages around his thigh after they had reclaimed Winterfell. I have seen a naked man before, she had told him, bold and defiant. There was none of that now, as she waited for him to finish dressing.

Once his breeches were laced and his tunic on, Jon Snow approached Sansa. He was damp yet from the water, but Sansa turned and threw her arms around him all the same. Her embrace was tight, her body flush against his. Her breath tickled where his neck was still wet. Gooseflesh rose as she exhaled again, clutching him all the more fiercely. Jon closed his eyes, holding her, and prayed that it would not be the last she allowed him to do so.

Chapter Text

Sansa followed Jon back into the keep, a strong part of her wishing that they could stay within the confines of the godswood. She felt safe there, as if she and Jon had slipped through time, into one of Old Nan’s stories.

Once they arrived back at the keep, Sansa ordered some food to be brought to the lord’s chamber, sure that Jon had not eaten at midday when the rest of the men who he’d brought had. In the solar, Sansa took the chair that she had most often used when she and Jon would share the desk, before he joined Stannis on his march south; Jon sat across from her. She expected him to ask for accounts of what transpired when he was gone, to view the ledgers and verify her figuring. She hoped that he might reach for her, once they were alone. She had been so afraid that he would come back with some bride that Stannis had arranged for him. With Stannis dead and Jon returned, she prayed that he would take her for a bride. She knew how the rest of the realm would view it—monstrous, especially to flaunt it in defiance of the gods. But there was nothing monstrous about Jon, or how she felt about him.

“We did not travel far, barely passed Moat Cailin,” Jon began. He had closed the ledgers Sansa had left open, moving them to the side. His hands rested, folded, well within reach for her own, should she wish to touch him. “We somehow found our way to Greywater Watch. Lord Howland Reed allowed us a night of rest in a watchtower before we turned north.”

“Howland Reed, Father’s friend?”

“Aye. I met him, and Galbert Glover, who had been sent to find him by Robb.”

The name was a blow. She had been praying just moments ago for Jon to ask her to return to the godswood and saw their vows before the heart tree, and he was speaking of the brother they shared.

“Robb had a will, should he die without issue. It was kept a secret. Only six were privy to his innermost thoughts that he set down. Galbert Glover is the only one who knew Robb’s mind, who is not dead or captured.” Jon’s voice was solemn, as ominous as dark clouds.

“A will?” Sansa repeated lamely. She supposed it followed, him being king, her being captured, and their youngest siblings lost or dead. Had he named some Karstark heir? Or a Tully? Had they fought to reclaim Winterfell tooth and claw only to be forced to hand it over to someone who had no Stark blood? “Who?” she whispered.

“According to Galbert Glover’s reports…me. Robb’s will legitimized me, named me heir.” Jon’s voice was coarse, as it had been when he had first awoke in Mole’s Town all those months ago.

“The King in the North’s heir would make you…”

“King,” Jon whispered. “Glover proclaimed it before the northern lords in Greywater’s watchtower. They all bent the knee.”

King, Sansa thought. She thought of how happy she had been when she heard of Robb’s coronation. She had been pleased that some good seemed to come from the beheading of her father. Jon will be a good king, she thought, kind and just. I am glad for him, she vowed.

A knock at the door sounded and Jon rose to fetch the tray of food delivered for his supper. Sansa sat, struck dumb by Robb’s will. The implications of it.

Robb’s naming Jon his heir made sense, she knew. With her married to Tyrion, granting Jon Winterfell kept it safe and out of Lannister hands. But how oft had she been told that her claim to Winterfell was the only value she had? It was why the Lannisters and Tyrells had both wanted her, why her aunt Lysa wanted to marry her to the little lord Robert, why Peter wanted to marry her to Harry the Heir, wanted to marry her himself. Sansa recalled how her greatest fear had been that she would never marry for love—they all only wanted her for her claim. And Winterfell hadn’t even been hers to claim.

“I did not greet you properly, then, I fear,” Sansa said, rising and dipping into a low curtsey. “Your Grace.”

“No,” Jon murmured. She heard the tray being dropped on the desk before she felt Jon’s hands on her arms, tugging her into a rise. “No.”

Sansa studied his singular grey eye. He looked agonized, she thought, the way he had when he pressed a kiss to her forehead. Sansa loved Jon, she knew that. She loved and desired him equally. She had thought Jon loved her as well, as a bride and not as a sister. Those were the dreams of a little girl, she realized. Love and desire were different and one did not require the other. The Hound had desired her, as had Tyrion, and neither felt something akin for love. Jon had admitted that he wanted her, and Sansa assumed that he loved her too. Not out of duty or family, but a love like the songs. Why would he be in pain if it was love he felt?

“If you are named King in the North…There’s little power Petyr could wield over you.”

Jon dropped his hand and reclaimed his chair, pulling the food towards him.

“You are mistaken. He’s a threat to you which means he wields much power over me.”

Sansa felt herself blush. She hated that she didn’t know if he meant that as a brother or a husband.

“As king, you have the means to get rid of him. Send him to the Wall or—"

“Execute him?”

Sansa did not respond. She was not sure which she would rather have Jon order. It was her mention of the Wall in which she found an escape.

“One of your friends from Castle Black, Samwell Tarly, arrived with the men and supplies from the Vale.”

“Sam’s here?”

“He and a young maid. Gilly, she said, like the flower.”

Something softened in Jon’s face at the name, both Sam’s and the girl’s, that reminded Sansa that though Jon was battle hardened, had served as Lord Commander, as Lord of Winterfell, was named Robb’s heir as King in the North, and had been raised from the dead, he was still barely a man grown. He was only a handful of years her senior. Though he was older now than Robb would ever be.

“He said he made a discovery while studying for his copper link. Something that you would think significant. Something he wanted kept secret. There are crates stored in the undercrofts he brought and said he would only have them opened for you.”

“I should see to it. I’ve been remiss in my duties. I should—"

Jon stood, his plate barely touched.

“Your Grace, you have had a hard and arduous journey. You are weary. You should retire. I should as well.”

He shook his head.

“Jon. Please.”

“But you are my king, and it is only proper—“

“I won’t be for long. There’s no use to use such titles.”

Sansa had made to stand but her body locked at Jon’s words, cold and fearful.

“Wh—Won’t be king for long?”

Was he leaving Winterfell? In whose hands? Robb named him heir, named him king. Why would Jon give up that title and all that came with it?

Why would he give up her?

Had her worse fear come to pass? Had Jon found a bride on his way south?

“I fear I have more to tell you. Information that came to light, that will surely put Robb’s crown and Winterfell in jeopardy.”

Sansa’s heart ran as wild as an ensnared hare’s. They were safe, they were home. What further price must she pay to be happy?

From beneath his jerkin and tunic, Jon pulled a folded white linen. Her handkerchief, the favor she had made for him. He was returning it to her.

“Thank you. It was a great comfort while I was away.”

Sansa left it between them.

“It was made for you. I meant for you to keep it.”

“Make that choice after you hear all I have to say.”

The coldness of his voice should have sent a shiver through her, but this was Jon and she knew he would never hurt her. Not if he could help it, leastwise.

“Howland Reed knows the truth of my mother.”

Sansa could not stifle her gasp. In truth, she had given little consideration to Jon’s mother, who she was or how she had encountered her lord father. Obviously she knew that Jon had one, but she had rather suspected that the woman had died. Why else would her father have brought home his bastard so soon after his marriage, after the birth of his heir? It was wartime and so far from home, none would have learned of his indiscretion if her lord father had not brought Jon home. Sansa assumed that simply had not been a choice left to him.

She wondered though, for the first time, how often Jon had thought about her. She did not ask the prompting questions on her tongue. She waited patiently instead, allowing Jon to tell his story at his pace.

“I had dreamed when I was young that she was beautiful, highborn, and kind. I prayed that there had been some honor in it, somehow. I…” Jon picked up the handkerchief. Sansa watched how his thumb traced over the embroidered wolves. “I had thought of finding her, when I was barely older than baby Rickon. When I first understood that the Lady Catelyn was not…” His knuckles were as white as the linen. “I feared that she had given me up. That she hadn’t wanted the shame. I feared that Lord Stark had taken me from her. That she hadn’t had a choice in the matter.” Jon turned his head. All so could see was his black eyepatch. His face as unreadable as stone. “I carried the shame and burden of being a bastard, being his bastard.” Jon swallowed. “And it was all a lie.”

Sansa reached across the desk, grasping his hand. The handkerchief was caught between their palms.

“Who was she, Jon?”

Jon tugged his hand, trying to free it. Sansa only held on all the more tightly.

“It was all a lie. I’m not Lord Stark’s bastard. I’m not his son.”

Sansa felt a swell of emotions in her, so tangled and snarled that she didn’t dare try to understand, but she refused to release his hand.

“But…you so closely resemble Father. You have his eyes, his face, his coloring. None would dare say that you’re anyone’s son but his.”

An acerbic laugh tore from Jon.

“Fortunes either smiled on Lord Stark or the gods granted his prayers. His lie never would have held else wise.”

“Jon—“

“Did you ever hear the story of Howland Reed saved Lord Stark’s life at the end of the Rebellion?”

Sansa shook her head. She had no taste for war stories, and her lady mother rarely entertained any story from the Rebellion. She listened as Jon spoke of the small group of men who rode alongside her lord father—whom Jon only referred to as Lord Stark—from King’s Landing down to Dorne and the Tower of Joy. Jon told her how Howland Reed and Eddard Stark were the only survivors of the battle against three of the Kingsguard.

Sansa was confused—what did this war story have to do with his mother?

Until Jon paused, started again, but this time his voice thick.

“Lyanna was there, dying of a fever. And…Howland said…in the cradle by the window…” He faltered, his hand flexing in hers. “In the cradle—“ A strangled sound rose from his throat.

Sansa stood instantly, coming to Jon’s side of the desk. She wrapped her arms him, holding his head to her breast before he could flinch away.

“I understand, Jon. I understand. You don’t have to say anything more.”

She felt him shaking with tears. A few slipped from her own eyes. She had heard rumors and whispers of her aunt Lyanna and Prince Rhaegar. She heard of how he had kidnapped her, raped her, some said.

Sansa stroked his hair and his arms were a vice around her waist.

“I went to the crypts to see her.”

Sansa recalled the statue of her aunt. She was not often in the crypts as a child, but Lyanna’s statue had always been her favorite. Mayhaps because it was the only woman’s.

“It’s her you resemble.”

Jon only allowed her a few more minutes to hold and comfort him before he broke away.

“I was studying her statue when Littlefinger came into the crypts. He saw me with her. Howland Reed swore he was the only one who knew the truth that still lives. From the beginning, it was only he and Lord Stark,” he said once she reclaimed her seat.

Sansa’s hands twisted in her lap. She wished to be holding his yet.

“Petyr’s clever enough to guess, even if he has no proof.”

“They won’t want me as their king, let alone Lord of Winterfell, if they learn the truth. And to keep it hidden, especially if Petyr knows that I went to her statue immediately upon my return…”

Sansa nodded. If Petyr Baelish thought he had the means to destroy Jon, Sansa felt certain that he would do it, regardless of the chaos it would surely throw all Seven Kingdoms into. They could not keep it a secret and hope that the news never escaped, and they could not sit idle with the threat of Petyr’s manipulations constantly looming.

A notion bloomed in Sansa’s mind—a seed, not yet taken root.

“We need not do anything yet. We can sleep on it, make our choices come morn, once you’ve rested.”

Sansa stood to take her leave. As she did, she noted the white linen gripped in Jon’s fist.

“Sansa,” Jon called just before her fingers brushed the iron of the door. He will ask me to stay, she thought. “What would you have me do about Littlefinger?”

Sansa was of two minds. She wanted him gone from Winterfell and nowhere he could seek more power. To send him to the Wall, make him take the black, would strip him of land and titles, prevent him from taking a wife. It was a mercy, like the one her father had been denied. Instead, Joffrey had ordered Ilyn Payne to swing Ice a final time and behead her father. She wanted to be kind, merciful, but what mercy had Petyr shown Jeyne Poole?

“As I said, we can sleep on it and make our choices come morn,” Sansa said. She waited, for either Jon to question her hesitancy or agree to wait till morning. She waited, hoping that Jon would ask her to stay.

“Aye. Caution is wise. I hope you sleep well.”

Sansa’s fingers closed fully around the cold iron.

“You as well, Your Grace.”

It did not matter how still she lie or how long she kept her eyes shut, Sansa Stark could not sleep. Jon’s words turned over in her mind again and again and again.

His fear over losing Robb’s crown, losing Winterfell, were well founded. When the northern lords learned of Eddard Stark’s lies, learned the truth of his parentage, they would be angry. They had accepted Jon as Ned Stark’s bastard, as the only son he had living. Jon was neither of those things.

They will not trust him, she knew. It was Lyanna’s capture that had the north riding to war nearly two decades ago. While Jon was Lyanna’s child, he was Rhaegar’s son and that was what would terrify the north. A Targaryen king, or even a lord, would not be accepted. Not while the wounds of the rebellion were still too fresh, too raw to yet be scars.

There were none left in Westeros, she thought, all having been killed in the Rebellion or having fled to Essos. Would there be assassins, coming to kill Jon, simply for whose seed he was born from?

Would the northern lords want Jon dead as soon as they learned the truth?

What would happen to Winterfell once they knew?

Sansa knew that they all still thought her to be Lannister, as her marriage had not yet been set aside nor had Tyrion been found dead. They would not be overly fond of Winterfell becoming hers with all the risk her marriage still posed. They had also made it clear that the north would not bend its knee to the Iron Throne again, regardless of who sat upon it.

If neither she nor Jon held Winterfell, held a northern crown, it would surely fall to a different House.

They can’t have it, she thought petulantly. It’s mine and Jon’s. We fought for it, we won it back. It’s ours. She knew the thoughts were childish. It was how a little girl would tantum, stopping her foot and crying that it wasn’t fair, as she had done so often when Arya would come in covered in dirt and never get scolded. She could not behave as a child would. It would not allow them to keep Winterfell, allow Jon to keep his crown.

There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, she remembered. The voice in her head sounded like her lord father’s. Cold and distant, as Jon’s had been.

That was the argument she must make to the northern lords.

Sansa rolled to her side, adjusting the furs to cover her shoulder. She thought sleep might claim her now that she had a plan.

It was far too soon that Sansa’s eyes flew open. The room was dark—only the pale light from the moon through the window and the glowing embers in the hearth.

They will say that neither of us are Starks. There must always be a Stark and neither of us have the name. They will agree and name a Karstark as lord.

Sansa hated her marriage more in that moment than she had since she fled King’s Landing. If she hadn’t been married, she would be undoubtedly a Stark, Robb’s heir, and the safest steward for Winterfell.

I am still a Stark. My blood did not change when I was wed to Tyrion.

Arya would say it’s stupid that the father’s House was who claimed a babe. She would ask why it matters if it was Jon’s father or his mother that the Stark blood came from. Why should they follow him when he was the son of Eddard Stark, but not when he was Lyanna’s?

Jon is not the son of Eddard Stark, Sansa realized. She felt a stupid little girl. He is not my brother, half or otherwise. He is my cousin.

They could marry and ensure that the Starks held Winterfell, held the North. Neither of them by rights had the Stark name, until her marriage was set aside, but their children would undeniably be Starks.

Sansa could not, would not, sleep until she spoke to Jon, for surely this would be the only way.

Pulling a dressing gown around herself, Sansa slipped quietly from the chambers she had taken again upon Jon’s return, and stole down the corridor to the lord’s chambers.

Though she knocked lightly, the sound of it echoed loud enough to wake the dead.

She expected Jon to take longer to answer—he must have been exhausted—but the door flew open almost immediately.

Though there were deep lines in his face, making him appear haggard and withdraw, he had clearly been getting as little sleep as she had been.

“Are you well? Did something—Did Petyr…?”

“No, no, nothing of that sort. I… Might I come in?”

Jon held the door open, inviting her in. Sansa would have liked to sit beside him in the bed to share her plan, but she knew that would be too familiar. Instead, she paced before the still roaring fire.

“We must tell the northern lords the truth of your birth, you were right. But we must come to them with a solution. I will not risk us losing Winterfell.”

Jon sat in the chair near the fire, his elbows braced on his knees. She thought the chair looked closer to the fire than was safe. She wondered if he was still fighting that chill that he said seeped into his bones.

“It’s will be yours, all of it. I will tell them the truth and abdicate all titles to you.”

Sansa shook her head.

“It’s not that simple, Jon. I’m still the wife of Tyrion Lannister. The lords would never kneel to a Lannister bride. But, once that is set side, I will be a Stark again.”

“Those vows shouldn’t stand. They were said while you were captive. They as good as had a blade to your throat.”

“You heard Stannis. They all think me a Lannister pawn while I am still, by rights, his wife. Once I am his no longer…” Sansa paused in both her speech and her pacing. She stood before Jon, pulling her shoulders back so that she stood as tall and proud as her lady mother. “Once I am his no longer, I will be free to be your bride.”

Jon’s reaction was not what Sansa had hoped for. He did not rise to lift her, twirl her, compliment her cleverness. He did not take her hand, vowing to love her. He did not ask her to stand before the heart tree as soon as tonight.

Jon groaned, dropping his head.

“Sansa…” he warned.

“No, listen. If you are Lyanna’s son, we are naught but cousins. The lords would have to agree that it is what is best for Winterfell, for the north.”

Jon’s face turned toward the fire, casting his unscarred side into shadow, his face as unreadable as ever.

“You heard Stannis. They all think me a Lannister pawn while I am still, by rights, his wife. Once I am his no longer…” Jon Snow risked allowing himself to look at Sansa. When he had answered his chamber door, he had thought himself dreaming. “Once I am his no longer, I will be free to be your bride.” He wasn’t yet convinced that he was awake.

“Sansa…” he breathed. He wished that he could beg her to stop with this line of thinking.

“No, listen. If you are Lyanna’s son, we are naught but cousins. The lords would have to agree that it is what is best for Winterfell, for the north.”

Jon turned his face toward the fire, trying to mask the hope he couldn’t tramp down with the shadows.

“I promised you a choice in your match. If you wait until after the wars, after the winter, you might realize…” Jon flexed his sword hand. “There will be better matches. Once your marriage is set aside, you will become the Lady of Winterfell and then you will have your pick of any lord—”

“I don’t want any lord!” Sansa’s voice tore at the quiet. Jon’s head turned immediately for the door. The light shining on Sansa’s auburn roots told him she did the same.

When no alarm was raised, no knock sounded at the door, Sansa knelt before him, taking both of his hands in hers. Jon closed his eye against the immediate heat of her fingers, the softness of her skin.

“You needn’t fall on the sword by marrying me,” he muttered.

“I am not,” she beseeched. “Is…” Sansa dropped his hands, shooting to her feet. “Is that how you would view our marriage? Only duty would compel you to wed me?”

“I would throw the question back to you. Do you not view it your duty to protect Winterfell?”

A small sound escaped Sansa and Jon Snow tasted blood for how quickly his mouth snapped shut.

“Yes, to protect Winterfell is my duty. The way I see it, if all that were motivating me was my duty, there are two paths I could take. I could marry a northern lord, whoever lives through the war, be they unkind or a drunkard, ancient or barely weaned. I could make peace with my sons belonging to a different House, with the Stark name dying, and the knowledge that in a few short generations, the bloodline would be all but forgotten. Or, I could wait for spring and marry some lord from a low enough House that naming our sons Starks would not mortify my new husband or his family. I could hope that we either have sons or that our daughters wed men of equally low Houses that the Stark name lives for only a few generations longer.”

Sansa’s voice was cold and hollow as she spoke. The fire that had burned in her words just moments ago completely snuffed out.

“Either way, I would risk having a hard, cruel life or a loveless one. Which would you prefer me to have, Jon?”

Jon’s teeth ground. He did not trust his tongue. He was afraid that if she spoke, he would tell her that he needed no compulsion to marry her. He would do it this very night if her marriage was set aside, if he thought this was truly what she wanted.

“I…” Sansa’s voice was less than a breath. Jon glanced at her. She stood in the shadows beyond the fire, her arms wrapped around her waist. Jon Snow struggled to understand the expression she wore. “When I was in the Vale, I realized that all the betrothals would be for my claim. That I would never marry for love.” Sansa stepped fully into the light. Jon could clearly see the tears that streaked down her cheeks. “Do you love me, Jon?”

“Of co—”

“Not as a sister. Not a love born of duty. Do you? Or…could you, some day?”

Jon stood so quickly that his chair toppled. He took Sansa’s tearstained face between his palms.

“I do, I do,” he whispered and rested his forehead against hers. “I do, I—”

Jon Snow’s continued utterance that he did love her already was disrupted by Sansa pressing her lips, soft and trembling, to his.

His hands flexed on Sansa’s waist. It took all of his control to not pull her closer, flush against him. It was all he could do to not drown in her kiss, the sensation of her lips, the warmth of her hands on his chest.

It was only seconds later that she leaned back, breaking the kiss. Jon took comfort in the fact that she did not attempt to step out of his hands, even if she looked bashful and hesitant. Her face, though still streaked with tears, was flushed.

“Forgive me, I—”

“No, no. There’s no need. I’ve…” Jon sighed. He still held her waist in his hands. Her palms still rested on his chest. “I’ve wanted to do that before. Since Mole’s Town.” Sansa’s eyes lifted to his, searching and hopeful. “In the morn, we will tell the lords your plan. I will make them see that you were coerced to say your vows and since the marriage was never consummated, and Tyrion’s been presumed dead, you should be free to marry.” Something akin to a giggle let loose from Sansa’s lips. Jon felt his own tug up. “Then we will be wed as soon as they will agree. Winterfell will be secured.”

Sansa flung herself into his arms then, tighter than she had ever held him. Jon Snow embraced her fiercely, lifting her feet from the ground, his eye squeezed shut.

“Thank you, Jon. Thank you.”

Chapter Text

Jon Snow led Samwell Tarly down into the undercrofts, where Sansa had mentioned she had stored the crates Sam had brought along with the foodstuffs from the Vale. He had sought out Sam early, just after sunrise. Sansa had yet been asleep. She had slept tucked into his side, as they had when she was still Alayne. It was her who consumed Jon’s thoughts, even as Sam recited from the ancient tomes that he had read while studying for his copper link.

“The copper link is history, you know. I hadn’t thought it would grant such a significant revelation so quickly. I thought it simply the fastest link to obtain. The warcraft link, I had assumed, would have been the one to grant me more information, if not the link of Valyrian steel for higher mysteries. Of course, that link is rare and would not have granted such an immediate boon.”

Sam still had not told him what was in the crates, nor had he mentioned why he and Gilly had come to Winterfell or what had happened to the babe Jon had sent with them. Jon had learned of Maester Aemon’s death before their arrival at Oldtown. Jon had known the old maester had been sickly and had lived long enough that death was likely, but he was saddened to hear the news all the same. Jon had been fond of Aemon.

He supposed, given the truth of his lineage, Aemon had been kin. Distant kin, he was sure, but kin nonetheless. Jon allowed himself, for the briefest of moments, to wonder if Aemon had ever suspected the truth. If he had ever seen something familiar in his countenance or disposition. He knew if he stewed too long on that—or on the fact that there was now one less person who had personally known the man responsible for his birth left in the world—it would only lead to madness. Jon Snow instead focused on Sam’s ramblings of the dusty tomes.

“Sam. Tell me plainly. What’s in the crates?”

Sam produced a dagger and pried the lid from a crate with more skill than Jon expected.

Black shimmered beneath the straw.

“Dragonglass,” said Sam with pride.

Jon withdrew a blade of obsidian, holding it to the light, and grinned.

“Well done, Sam the Slayer.” Replacing the blade, Jon took notice of the other crates, calculating how many weapons could be made if each crate was as full as the one Sam had opened. “How did you come into so much so quickly?”

“There had been stories at the Wall, of how the children of the forest had used it against the Others. The Citadel had tomes confirming that their weapons had all been made of dragonglass. It also had texts describing where it most commonly could be found and mined. Dragonstone. Using a seal from the Citadel, I sent a raven. They had already been ordered to mine for it by Stannis. They had shipments they were readying to send to Winterfell, and I… I will return to forge my chain, but I would see this done first.”

Jon Snow recalled with stark clarity the crying, craven man he had first met in the training yard of Castle Black. The man who stood before him did not snivel or shrink from the gaze of the man he considered his Lord Commander.

“And Gilly? Dalla’s babe?”

Sam sighed.

“Gilly…was not happy in Horn Hill. When she heard I would be traveling to Winterfell, she begged me to take her. She yearned to see snow again.”

Jon snorted. “Horn Hill will see snow soon enough.”

“I told her as such, but she was miserable, inconsolable. Baby Aemon stayed with my lady mother, in Horn Hill. Gilly wanted to bring him with us, but with winter and the war, I thought him safest there.”

“Aemon?”

“Aye. She’ll name him Aemon Steelsong or Aemon Battleborn once he’s lived to be two. She’s named him for Maester Aemon.”

“He would have liked that, I’m sure.”

Sam smiled, soft and warm. Jon Snow thought he seemed much changed from when they had last spoke.

He supposed the same would be true for himself. For Sansa as well—had he not indeed wondered if she was even truly the girl he had known from his childhood?

Sansa, who he had left asleep in his bed. Sansa, who he would be wed to, if they could convince the lords.

“Much must have changed, for you to have become Lord of Winterfell,” Sam said.

Jon used his dagger to pry the lid off of another crate. He would need to take stock of all the dragonglass that could be used against the Others.

“Aye.” To tell Sam everything would take hours he did not have. He had arranged a meeting with the northern lords to discuss Sansa’s plan. He still had much to do before then. “Much has.”

Sansa sat beside Jon in the hall, her hands clenched to hide how they trembled. Before them were lords and ladies from every northern House that had sworn loyalty to the Starks, who had bent the knee to Jon in Greywater Watch. Houses Mormont, Cerwyn, Tallhart, Umber, Hornwood, Reed, Glover, and two of the Flints all sat in attendance. Over half of her lord father’s bannermen. Only five Houses were notably absent—Dustin, Manderly, and Ryswell Sansa knew were tied to House Bolton by marriage and she did not regret their absence. No, the only House unrepresented whose lack of presence Sansa felt as sharp as a thorn was Karstark.

As Jon spoke of Others and the dragonglass brought by Sam, Sansa found that her eyes strayed continuously toward the entrances to the chamber. Petyr Baelish had not been invited to attend, though Sansa was sure as soon as he learned of the gathering, he would find a way to insert himself and manipulate their circumstances to put himself into a position of power—something he currently lacked after Myranda’s arrival. Sansa had ordered guards at all of the doors, though she knew that a man as cunning and as honey tongued as Petyr could not be stopped by such a simple obstacle.

The conversation was war and strategy, with Jon and those who had seen the Others speaking of their experiences. Sansa had heard Jon speak of Others, of wights, before. She had struggled to believe him—undead and frozen creatures who came with the snow—until she recalled the red witch’s magic and how Sansa had wept over the corpse of the man sitting beside her. Now she found his stories frightening, mayhaps more so than any she experienced herself. The men she had endured were monstrous, yes, but they were mortal men. What Jon had seen, had killed, was the stuff she thought only lived in Bran’s favorites of Old Nan’s tales.

There was discussion of where the battle should take place. Several argued for Castle Black, to prevent them from ever crossing the Wall. Most spoke against that, for how many of their small army could be lost in the journey? It was wisest to stay at Winterfell, where there was food and warmth, to keep their strength.

Jon claimed that the obsidian, the dragonglass, brought by Sam was the only weapon capable of defeating them, besides fire. They spoke of numbers; how many more could be summoned to fight. Jon spoke of the numbers at the various keeps along the Wall yet, numbers given by Quenn, and by a man called Tormund of the Free Folk, and numbers of a House Thenn, which Sansa had not heard of before. The lords and ladies gave their numbers, how many more could be summoned to fight.

“There are Houses not present, Manderly and Karstark most notably, whose bannermen would make a considerable difference,” said Galbert Glover. “Both have daughters of marrying age. Might we make an alliance of marriage with one of them, to bring their numbers to our cause?”

They speak of having Jon marry. Sansa’s nails bit into the skin of her palms. She wished that she sat on Jon’s other side. She could not see his eye, only the black patch.

“Alys Karstark is wed already, to Sigorn, Magnar of Thenn. She and House Thenn’s two hundred warriors are currently housed at Castle Black.” Jon spoke calmly. There was no anger or bitterness in his tone. Sansa knew if she were speaking, her words would be venom.

“Lord Manderly has two daughters who have flowered. Both were betrothed recently, to little Freys, though the boys were thought to be killed before Winterfell had been reclaimed. Wynafryd, his eldest daughter, I’ve heard is quite comely with a mild temperament.”

Was that how Sansa had been bartered and sold? Quite comely with a mild temperament?

“Should we not seek an alliance with a Southron House? Myranda Royce is at Winterfell already, had has provided considerable men and supplies.”

“House Royce has already offered much. We should seek an alliance who could add to our numbers, not who we can already count as a part of them.”

“The bride should be northern. House Mormont is surplus in daughters. One them must have flowered.”

“My sisters will not be spoken of as such—”

“House Arryn has no daughters, nor does House Tully—”

Sansa sat, unmoving, wondering if any of the lords noticed the Tully auburn of her hair. The color had grown just passed her ears, nearly to her jaw. Discounting the darkened brown length, was she not reminiscent of her lady mother?

It might have been a comfort, in another time, for a younger girl, that her name was not mentioned.

Jon stood suddenly, jarring her.

“We are here to speak of winter and the threats it poses, not marriage,” Jon called out. Sansa felt blood pool under her nails. Weren’t they? “Though, I will confess…” Sansa turned, now wishing she could see any his face. Wishing that she could see his eye. That she could touch him, be comforted by him. While he stood and she sat, all she could see was his side, his shoulders, the line of his jaw, his throat. “I did summon you all here for a reason other than war strategy.”

From the back, Howland Reed stepped forward as if summoned.

“I know that you all have only kneeled to me, supported me, because you believed me to be the last living son of Eddard Stark,” began Jon. His voice was cold, she thought, and too loud. Anyone listening on the other side of the doors would be able to hear him.

There were calls of you are and aye. If Petyr hadn’t seen Jon in the crypts, if Jon weren’t worried that the information could be used to strip him of his crown, titles, position, take Winterfell from him, from her, would he tell them all? Would he take this secret to the grave, as her lord father had intended?

“It grieves me…” Jon’s voice faltered. When she leaned forward slightly, Sansa could see how his right hand flexed, as though he were literally grasping for the words.

“It grieves him, this news he must share.” Howland Reed fluidly stepped in, as though Jon had spoken to him before, had asked him to intervene should he fail.

As Howland Reed shared the same story Sansa had heard from Jon’s lips, Sansa allowed herself to turn and stare fully at Jon. She knew all those listening would be more focused on Howland’s story than her eyes.

Sansa still could not see his eye, being seated on his scarred side, but she found that there were other ways to read how he felt. She saw how, as Howland spoke of Robert’s glee at murdered children, at her lord father riding into Dorne, though his back was still straight and noble, Jon’s shoulders curled and hunched. How his right hand flexed with each new detail revealed, and how his left shook. When Howland told of Lyanna, dying in that bed and the cradle near the window, the knot in Jon’s throat bobbed and a muscle in his jaw ticked.

Other than his hands, Jon stood as still as stone, as proud and regal as any lord, seemingly as stoic as her lord father had been. In this room full of lords and ladies, Sansa knew that it was only her that could see how pained Jon was.

Sansa could not reach for him, not without breaking the illusion of indifference he was projecting, but Sansa needed to remind him that she was by his side. Shifting in her chair, Sansa flared out the skirt of her gown, as though she were simply adjusting how she sat after so many hours. Her skirt covered Jon’s boot. It was only because she was studying him so closely that Sansa saw his head tilt down, saw how the tension in his mouth released as he inhaled.

Shouting pulled Sansa violently back into the chambers, the conversation.

“Dragonspawn!”

“How dare you stand as Lord of Winterfell!”

“We named Rhaegar’s bastard King—”

The cries turned vile, full of wrath and rancor. Had the words been directed at her, Sansa was sure she would have been reduced to tears.

Jon did not flinch.

“It was Ned Stark’s son we put our trust and faith in. Not some Targaryen whelp gotten on a spoil of war.”

Sansa would have stepped in front of him if she thought it would shield him.

Howland Reed did step in front of Jon, though he was a man of slight build, suddenly he seemed as large as the Mountain.

“You claim to have put your faith in Ned Stark’s son.” His voice was thin and reedy, and yet it cut though the din with ease. “Why not Lyanna’s boy?”

The shouting increased. Jon remained silent. Howland attempted to continue to speak calmly, rationally, but his words were lost in the cacophony of the roar of angry voices.

“He’s not a Stark!”

“A Stark? He’s not even a Snow!”

Sansa felt the rage beneath her skin; she was standing before she knew what she was doing.

“His blood is still half Stark, same as it would be if he were truly my half-brother!” she cried out, the way Arya might have.

“My lady, it is not the amount of Stark blood that concerns us.”

“Aye. It’s the Targaryen. I’ll not hold my breath while we wait for your coin to land,” Mors Umber said. “Or that of any child of yours.”

“Any ambitious lord with an unwed daughter to use this to seat his House on the Iron Throne. This must not leave this room.”

“I have no designs on the Throne.” Sansa heard Jon clearly, for she stood right beside him, but the lords were shouting again.

“I would have you all quiet.” Sansa did not shout, did not cry out as she had before. She spoke calmly, coldly, but loudly; the embodiment of her lady mother. The commotion died down into a grumble. “I understand the shock of this revelation, the betrayal you might feel, after learning of my lord father’s lie. I felt much the same when Jon told me. The truth of Jon’s mother, his blood, is a threat to the North should he remain unwed and King in the North. With the proper bride, however, all risk could be nullified.”

“Who do you propose as a bride to grant him legitimacy as a Stark when his father is a Targaryen?”

“Someone with the Stark name to pass along to heirs.”

Sansa felt Jon’s gaze on her face. She knew that he must have turned to face her, but she did not look toward him.

There were several murmurers of House Stark dying, that there were no daughters left for Jon to wed, that if only Benjen hadn’t joined the Watch, if he had married, had daughters, there would be a cousin eligible. It was Alysane Mormont who stepped forward, understanding Sansa’s meaning.

“You mean yourself.”

“I do.”

“That’s vile!”

“You were raised as siblings!”

“There was as much distance between Jon and I as there was between myself and Theon Greyjoy, my lord father’s ward. If this was Theon and not Jon, would you be raising such protests?”

“Even so, you are wed still. Your marriage has not been set aside, nor has Tyrion Lannister been found dead.”

Jon, who had stood so still beside her, was moving suddenly. Before Sansa could blink, Jon had the jerkin of the lord in his fists and the man pressed against the table.

“She was a hostage, forced to say vows. She is free to marry as she chooses.”

“And if Tyrion is found alive?”

She startled at the voice. Jon released the Flint brother.

Sansa had forgotten to watch the doors.

“What then?” Littlefinger asked.

 Jon lunged and pulled Petyr Baelish to the front of the room by his throat.

“And who are you spying for? Lannister?”

“Or yourself?”

Jon forced Petyr down to his knees. Both Jon and Petyr stared up at her, from her position on the dais. There was a question in Jon’s eye, and an entreaty in Littlefinger’s. Sansa understood both without either having to speak.

She had implied to Jon her hesitancy about Petyr Baelish and what she would have Jon do. She had been inclined to show him mercy, to send him to the Wall, as had been promised to her lord father. That had been before she learned the truth, before she had learned that Petyr had been in the crypts and witnessed Jon before Lyanna’s statue, before she failed to pay attention to the doors and he had slipped into a meeting in which secrecy was paramount.

The lords’ debating was nothing but a rumble in her ears. She was sure they offered opinions and advice but she was deaf to it all. Jon did not speak, only continued to hold her gaze. Everything but Jon fell away and Sansa knew her choice.

Sansa Stark nodded.

Though no words were exchanged, Petyr Baelish was clever and cunning and knew the meaning of her nod.

“Your own mother begged Brandon for mercy, once. Will you not grant me that now? Cat—”

“You forget. I am not my mother,” said Sansa as Jon dragged Petyr from the chambers.

Jon Snow was sure that the yard was cold. Snow had fallen again, blanketing the ground, and yet he did not feel it. All he felt was the weight of Longclaw in his grasp.

Footsteps crunched on the snow behind him and Jon turned. Sansa stepped up beside him. She had worn her hair bound in a net. When he looked at her straight on, the dark brown of her hair was impossible to see. She almost looked like herself.

“You needn’t watch.”

“I do.” Sansa’s gaze was steady as she met his. “What was it that Father would say? The man who passes sentence should swing the sword?”

“That is not your burden.”

She turned then and Jon knew that she was looking at Littlefinger, bound before a block.

“I will not give him the satisfaction of thinking me weak. I will stay, and I will watch.”

Jon nodded, knowing he would not be able to dissuade her.

“There is no shame if you look away,” he whispered, praying that she would, before he stepped forward and unsheathed Longclaw.

Jon Snow was thankful that someone had thought to gag Littlefinger when he had been bound. Jon was confident that if he hadn’t been, he would have been doing all he could to manipulate Sansa into releasing him, or at least bearing the weight and the guilt of his death. He wished that she would go in, that at the very least she would look away. He knew that she had seen much in King’s Landing, but he did not believe that she needed to add this.

And yet, as Jon Snow raised Longclaw high, he could not help but glance toward her. Her face was unyielding, her eyes ice. Sansa Stark did not flinch as the Valyrian steel descended.

Chapter Text

The chambers were warm. Sansa knew that they must be, for a roaring fire blazed in the hearth. She did not feel the heat. Sweat did not bead on her skin, though she sat at the chair nearest the fire. It was not the flames she saw, but Longclaw arcing in the wintery sun.

Sansa knew that she had made the right choice. Petyr Baelish could not live if he knew the truth of Jon’s birth. Sansa was terrified to even consider what he would have leveraged with that information. Who he would have sold it to, and what would have become of Jon, of her, of Winterfell.

Petyr Baelish armed with the knowledge that Jon had not been Eddard Stark’s bastard, but the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna would have had the power to throw all of Westeros into chaos. Chaos, which he would have thrived in. No, Sansa Stark knew that Littlefinger, after entering that chamber, stood as an equal threat as the Others.

Your own mother begged Brandon for mercy, Petyr had besought.

When she was in King’s Landing, Sansa had argued for mercy for Dontos, for her lord father, for herself. Cersei had told her that fear was the only way to ensure loyalty. Sansa had thought even then that love was a surer route to loyalty, and what was mercy if not a type of love?

Though she had not bade Jon to swing Longclaw to engender fear.

She did what she had to in order to protect Jon, to protect Winterfell and the North’s independence.

And yet, Sansa did not feel the heat or see the dancing flames. Nor did she hear the knocking sounding at the door.

When a hand grasped her shoulder, Sansa jumped, frightened. She half expected to see a headless Baelish, coming to haunt her.

The scarred hand was nearly as familiar as her own.

“I didn’t mean to startle you. I knocked but… I wanted to make sure you were well,” Jon said. His hand left her shoulder and she felt the absence in a way that she failed to feel the fire’s heat.

“I-I…”

I am, she had wanted to say, calm and unaffected. She wanted to sink back into the skin of the Lady of Winterfell that she had worn before the lords. She found it too cumbersome before Jon.

“All I saw was Father’s head, how it had rolled after Ilyn Payne swung Ice. Petyr’s rolled just like his,” she whispered.

“Heads often do.” Jon sat in the chair across the fire from her.

“Have you beheaded many?” Sansa asked.

“One other. Janos Slynt at Castle Black. He was insubordinate and would have mustered a mutiny far sooner than Bowen Marsh had.”

Janos Slynt, Sansa thought. The man who had thrown her own lord father down for Ilyn Payne to behead. She remembered wishing that some hero would throw the frog-faced man down and cut off his head.

The revelation that Jon had done that very thing left her dazed.

“You told me much of what Littlefinger had done. Death was the only way to stop him. It was inevitable.”

“I know,” she whispered.  

He was a gift from the gods, Sansa recalled thinking after Jon had fought and bled to win Winterfell. An answer to my prayers for a true knight, like from the songs.

“His death is not yours to burden,” Jon said, as he had in the yard. This time he reached for her, taking her hand.

“Nor is it yours.”

Sansa watched him close enough to see a smile ghost over his lips. Those lips that she had kissed only the night before. It had been soft and sweet, nothing like the other kisses she had experienced. The cruel, hard mouth in a dark room lit only by green. The too-sweet and drunken lips of the bard in the Eyrie. The boyish and wet and cold mouth of Sweetrobin. Petyr’s minty breath and his pointed beard scratching her chin.

Kissing Jon felt like a song, soft as snow.

“You should rest. We will need to meet with the lords again.”

Jon rose. Sansa had slept beside him last night, comforted by his presence. She would have liked to again. She believed that he would be able to fight off any nightmares she might dream.

Jon stooped, pressing his lips to her forehead as he had done before he rode south with Stannis.

“Sleep well. Dream sweet,” he murmured.

She wanted to ask him to stay, to confess that she was frightened that Petyr would find her while she slept. But if she was able to convince the lords tomorrow that her being wed to Jon was the only way to save the North, she would spend the rest of her life in his bed.

And she was Sansa Stark, back within Winterfell. She could be brave. She could wait one more night.

When the northern lords reconvened after a night’s rest and breaking their fast, they were noticeably subdued. Jon Snow was not sure if it was because of his actions the evening prior—though many of the lords had called for Littlefinger’s head while he waited for Sansa’s decision. The ire and distress of his birth seemed to have cooled in the time since it had been revealed. Jon did suspect that Sansa’s plan, for them to marry and produce Stark heirs, was a large reason for it. He had expected far more balking, but Sansa’s words were irrefutable.

Jon and Sansa were cousins only, and had not been close as children.

Their circumstances were also undisputable—to keep him, unwed, as King in the North, or even Lord of Winterfell, was to leave the North open to danger. They could not trust that the truth of his birth would never be whispered outside of this circle who knew.

No, Sansa’s plan was clever—to have him wed before news could spread, before those with ambition could use it to their advantage.

“I understand,” Glover was saying, “the circumstances of your prior marriage, my lady. I am also familiar with the appetite for power that control men such as Littlefinger. I do wonder, though, if he did not raise a valid point. Tyrion Lannister has not been seen since he fled King’s Landing, but he has not yet been found dead. King’s Landing is in chaos, between Cersei, the Tyrells, and the High Sparrow. If Cersei falls…how do we not know that Tyrion will resurface? What will happen if he does?”

Jon Snow knew his answer to that but Sansa spoke before he could.

“I do not think that Tyrion cares for me enough that he would seek me out, should he return. And, if Cersei falls from power, there would be plenty for him to grab at in King’s Landing. There would be no need for him to come all this way or attempt to gain Winterfell, especially not if this winter will be as harsh as many believe.”

“Cersei is beheading dwarves in King’s Landing,” another said. “If he’s as clever as they say, he would have fled far.”

“I agree. It is unlike he is to return while Cersei still holds power, and with any luck, where he has traveled to will have been far enough afield that news of King’s Landing never reaches him,” Sansa said. Jon marveled at the composure of her voice.

“We do not anticipate him as a threat, then. And Cersei? Surely she held you captive in King’s Landing and married you to her brother in an attempt to gain a foothold in the North.”

“Yes, though with the turmoil in King’s Landing, she will be more focused on ensuring that she is able to maintain her power there. She will not be able to split her efforts.”

“I know you claim that there was distance between you in childhood…”

“Lord Stark did install me in his household, that is true. I received the same training and lessons as Robb, as Bran. I was a playmate to his trueborn children—save for Sansa. With the exception of meals, she and I were never close.” Jon turned his head so that he could see her profile. “Our entire childhood, I don’t believe she called me anything but half-brother.”

There was murmuring amongst the lords. Jon Snow knew that it went against everything they all believed—incest, after all, was a vile sin by both the old gods and the new. It had been the downfall of the Targaryens, some said. But their blood was only that of cousins and had he been raised as the son of any other Stark than Eddard, no questions would be raised. Sansa was correct in her claims that it was the only way to prevent a succession crisis.

“I mislike this. There is no way to verify the claim that you are not Eddard Stark’s bastard. Howland Reed’s word is not enough—”

“Does this not fit the man we knew?” Mors Umber asked. “It always sat funny, I thought, Ned having a bastard so soon after his marriage. Whoring had always been Brandon’s way, and Robert’s. Never Ned’s.”

“Aye. I’ll not argue that.”

“T’would also explain his anger about the boy’s mother. He never tolerated questions nor japes.”

“So. Lyanna’s boy and Ned’s daughter. Can’t say I’m right pleased about it, but…”

“Please, name a better match for the North,” Sansa said, leaning forward. The hall was silent. “The circumstances are odd, to say the least, but this is to ensure the North as an independent kingdom. It is what is best. It is our only choice.”

“And it is your choice?” Alysane Mormont inquired.

Jon turned so that he could see more than just Sansa’s profile. He expected her to blush or hesitate. With the same poise she had treated each other comment and question, she responded swiftly.

“Yes. It was I who suggested this to Jon, once he told me the truth of his birth and parentage.”

Whispering hummed, too low for him to hear.

“There is no septon here to perform the ceremony. I know not how quickly one will be able to arrive here.”

“We will need no septon, no sept. Only witnesses to escort us before the heart tree. I would wed before the gods of my lord father. The gods of House Stark.”

The gods of my mother, Jon Snow thought. The idea of knowing what gods his mother worshiped was odd, foreign. He had known of her identity for more than a fortnight and yet the information had not yet settled in his mind. It was his lord father he considered first and only after a moment’s pause did he correct himself. Jon Snow still grappled with the truth. Although Howland Reed had called him Lyanna’s boy and that felt more right and true than Ned’s bastard ever did.

“It would be my honor to escort you, my lady,” Howland Reed said, bowing his head to Sansa.

“I will go as well,” offered Alysane Mormont when no others quickly spoke up.

Jon thought to suggest Sam and Gilly to witness their union, but neither’s testimony would carry weight or importance. No, Jon knew that important Northern Houses must be the ones to hear he and Sansa exchange vows. And to ask them would mean he must tell them all. They hadn’t the time for Jon to explain that he was Lyanna’s boy, not Ned’s bastard.

“When would you have it done, my lady?”

“Tonight,” Sansa answered. Jon’s head jerked sharply so that he could see her. Sansa’s face betrayed nothing. Jon Snow feared that his had betrayed too much. “There is no need nor means for a feast. I need no gown. There are cloaks aplenty within Winterfell. Any will serve as a maiden’s cloak.”

“And what colors will he cloak you in, my lady? Red and black? Or white and grey?”

“The colors matter not. A threadbare blanket would serve if necessary.”

“Aye. Bear Island cloaks more oft than not are made of skins. Oft of bears or wolves we killed ourselves.”

If they had time enough, Jon would have made Sansa such a cloak. He and Ghost would hunt in the wolfswood for any animal whose skin she desired. Wolf, bear, stag, or dozens of hares if that was what she preferred. It would not be the velvet or silk she was no doubt cloaked in when she was wed in King’s Landing, but it would serve better than some motheaten, ragged blanket as she suggested.

Stolen, cloaked, and bedded echoed in Jon’s mind.

It would all be true within hours if Sansa had her way. No time for him to hunt and skin, even if he were in Ghost.

Quenn’s words from Mole’s Town followed. A crow, a cloak, and a maid.

Even a black cloak would serve. There would be truth in that, leastwise. Black for the crow he was. Black for his lord father’s house. Black for his bastard heart, even if Sansa was truly his cousin. He had not known the truth when he slipped into Ghost nightly to avoid the press of her breasts as they trekked to Winterfell. He had not known when he confessed his desire to make her his wife in body.

“After supper, once the moon has risen, we will meet at the godswood’s entrance.”

There was no dissent, though Jon Snow felt the resignation keenly. He had faced similar moods at Castle Black.

“Samwell Tarly is familiarizing himself with what remains of our rookery. It is him you should seek out to send ravens to all who you believe will help us in our cause. Time is against us and the winter will make travel to Winterfell difficult, near impossible. Make clear our need, our urgency, and that they must set out with haste,” Jon Snow said; his voice was the cold one belonging to the Lord Commander.

“Tarly? Are they not loyal to House Tyrell? What is one doing in Winterfell?”

“He is a member of the Night’s Watch. I sent him to Oldtown to forge a maester’s chain while I still held the title of Lord Commander. It is he who brought the dragonglass. He is loyal to the Watch and to me. You can trust him to send your ravens.”

The northern lords nodded and left without further words. Howland Reed offered a quiet tonight, my lady, Your Grace and was the last to leave.

Jon Snow turned to face Sansa fully for the first time once they were completely alone. He was surprised to see that her hands were shaking.

He did not know if it was the leftover shock of witnessing Littlefinger’s death or if it was the reality of their circumstances that made her shake. He did not know how to ask her. Nor did he plead that he wanted more time to find or create a cloak that was worthy of her.

Jon Snow failed to open his mouth, to usher any words out. All he could do was attempt to study her, but she had hidden the girl he knew, the girl from Mole’s Town, Alayne, the girl with the blazing eyes and defiant chin, buried her beneath a mask of courtesy and decorum.

Was this the maid he would carry from the heart tree and into a marital bed? Or would it be the Sansa Stark who boldly called out Ramsay Bolton, who ran Winterfell in his absence? Who told her bastard brother to make her his bride in body with nary a blush and kissed his lips when he confessed that he loved her already?

“I hope I did not overstep,” Sansa said, taking his hand in her own. “I could not suffer further suggestions of brides for you. And their worries are well founded. This news will out, even without Petyr to speed the whispers. You must be wed before any other House attempts to use you as I have been used.”

“News will take time to spread. In this, at least, we have time. We could wait out the winter. Wed after the Others—”

“You sent them to the rookery to send ravens. I believe they all will request men and arms, but will they tell of more? Even in this moment, ink may be giving life to Father’s secret. We must act soon, so that the truth and the news of our union arrive together.” Though she spoke calmly, Jon could hear the undercurrent of fear in her voice.

He nodded, relenting. “Tonight, then.”

Sansa’s smile was weary, though it was not yet time for a midday meal. He hoped that she had slept soundly, that nightmares had not plagued her.

He would have rather thought that if she had, she would have sought him out, sought his comfort.

“Tonight,” she agreed, dropping his hand. She exited the hall quickly, before Jon Snow was able to give voice to any of his thoughts.

Jon Snow had known that Winterfell had been sacked by the Boltons, but he thought that mayhaps a chest, somewhere, could have escaped fire and destruction. Mayhaps he could find a cloak to serve, something that had been left from before any of them had departed on the King’s Road.

Though Winterfell had belonged to the Starks for thousands of years, there did not exist a single cloak of fine make in grey, nor was there any with a direwolf emblazoned on it. Jon knew better than to hope for velvet, for silk, for anything embroidered with pearls or silvered thread. Doeskin or sable were common enough, he had hoped, and would have served well, regardless of color.

For all his hours spent searching, Jon Snow had nothing to show for it. Hunting in the wolfswood alongside—or within—Ghost would have been a better use of his time. It would not have yielded him a cloak to use, but he could have made one for her eventually, and it would have given them a few days’ worth of meat.

In all his wandering of the keep, at no point did he come across Sansa. He did not know how she filled the time, what duties she attended to. A part of him was hopeful that she had gone to bed and rested.

In the hall that evening, Jon Snow saw that Sansa had changed her gown. That morning she had worn something plain and woolen. He could not recall the color—brown or a navy, mayhaps. Jon suspected that this gown was also made from wool, as it was winter, but the shade of blue was far brighter. The fit was more flattering. With the brown of her hair bound back in a net again, she looked as Tully as her lady mother.

It might have startled him, once. Sansa dressed in Tully colors, her hair auburn and her eyes blue, sitting where the Lady Catelyn Stark had sat. Had looked at him coldly and ordered him to the distant tables when they dined with company.

Sansa’s smile, though, when she caught sight of him, was bashful, almost, he thought. Not weary, as it had been that morn, and her eyes were as warm as they ever were. Jon Snow’s steps did not falter as he approached the dais and took the seat at her side.

They ate quietly for two who would be wed after the sun set. There was none of the merry hubbub that had accompanied Alys Karstark’s wedding at Castle Black.

“I know you said any threadbare blanket would serve, but I had hoped to find something more proper for your bride’s cloak. It seems that the Boltons stripped Winterfell of even any chests of clothes that had been left behind. I have nothing to cloak you in.”

Sansa’s brow wrinkled; her spoon hung, suspended.

“What of your cloak?”

“Mine?”

“The one I made you in Mole’s Town.”

Jon Snow wanted to argue that it wasn’t a proper bride’s cloak. She had made it for him. He had worn it into battle. The white fur of the hood was still splattered with pink. When he had worn the hood, Jon knew it made him look a wild man, half wolf. As though he were a skinchanger or warg from Old Nan’s stories, or even Ygritte’s, trapped between beast and man.

If that was the symbol of his protection, what did that say about the type of husband he would be? To wrap his new bride in a bloodstained cloak.

Jon told her as much, that the cloak had been sullied in battle. Sansa’s face soured.

“It is your cloak and it is the only one I want. Had we truly had nothing better than a blanket, it would serve, but we do have better. The fur is white, the hood a wolf’s head, the wool faded enough to look grey. What better to serve a son of House Stark?”

That fire Jon Snow had seen in her Tully blue eyes before he left with Stannis blazed again now.

“It will be your bride’s cloak then. If that’s truly what you desire.”

“It is.”

“Have you something for a maiden’s cloak?”

“Myranda is lending me her travelling cloak. Dove grey and trimmed with white ermine fur.”

Jon Snow was pleased. He was sure whatever she had been cloaked in while she had been captive in King’s Landing was far grander, bejeweled and made of the richest fabrics, but at least she had chosen these cloaks. He hoped that more than made up for their unfitness.

Before the heart tree, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark kneeled.

Howland Reed, Alysane Mormont, and Ghost stood watchful as they spoke before the carved face. Howland had instructed them on the words in the yard while snowflakes drifted down. The snow had ceased soon after they had entered the godswood.

Jon had thought the words might echo within the empty and quiet wood, but he thought instead that they sounded muffled, as though they were meant for the ears of the ones present and the old gods alone.

Sansa’s voice, though quiet, was perfectly clear as she proclaimed, “I take this man.”

It was a wonder Jon Snow heard her over the pounding of his heart.

It was too cold, even in the godswood, to forgo gloves, but Jon wished desperately that he could feel her skin against his as they joined hands and bowed their heads.

After a moment of silence, they stood.

The dove grey cloak with its white ermine hood looked near enough to any Stark’s maiden cloak, Jon thought, and with the hood pulled against the cold, Sansa was a Tully beauty. Highborn and beautiful and kind.

Jon Snow removed the maiden’s cloak from her shoulders, passing it to Howland. He tried to unclasp his own quickly, before the frigid air could set in, but his right hand had grown stiff in the cold. It took several tries before he was unable to unfasten the cloak and wrap Sansa in it.

As he pulled the wolf’s head forward, hiding the dark hair bound in the net, hiding the Tully auburn, Sansa gifted him the smallest blushing smile. And when he swooped her into his arms, as was the northern custom, a girlish giggle bloomed from her lips.

Jon Snow carried his new bride from the godswood, holding her close. Close enough that he could feel the racing of her heart, sprinting like a hare’s. He could not hazard a guess if it was fear, excitement, or some combination of both that had her heart beating so rapidly.

“There will be no bedding ceremony,” Jon Snow told Howland and Alysane before they stepped out of the godswood. He still held Sansa tight in his arms.

Neither questioned his choice. Howland Reed said that he would see the cloak returned to the Lady Royce and both he and Alysane left them alone, with only Ghost.

Sansa was quiet. She did not argue nor did she profess gratitude. And still, her heart raced.

It was not the lord’s chambers that Jon Snow carried Sansa, but her own. He thought it safer. If any lords came looking for him, whether to confirm their bedding or in anger over the ceremony, they would undoubtedly seek him out there. Sansa’s were the hottest in all the keep, and as he carried her, he felt her shiver, even wrapped in his cloak.

Within her chambers, the door securely latched, Jon Snow set his new bride on the edge of the featherbed.

The wolf’s hood shadowed her features. Jon kneeled before her, removing first her gloves then his own. Only then did he reach to push the hood back. Her hands quivered in her lap.

Jon studied her face. She was the very image of the maiden bride, rosy cheeked and bright eyed. Beneath the excitement, though, even one-eyed, Jon Snow saw trepidation. Any new bride might feel some sense of nerves on the night of her bedding, he knew. Even he had felt it the first time Ygritte had slunk beneath his sleeping skins. If it had been the trepidation alone, Jon Snow might have given in to his desires.

Stolen, cloaked, and bedded.

Buried deep in those Tully blue eyes though, Jon Snow saw her fear.

He wondered if Sansa could see his own in his singular eye. Fear that he was reaching too far. To be named Stark, to be granted Winterfell, was all he dreamed, but… Sansa Stark as his bride? It went beyond dreams of avarice. Surely it would be too much—the scales would tip and something would be lost.

There was a darker fear too. Fear that to touch her as Ygritte had touched him would unleash the monster he was. The one who wished for claws and teeth when Jon had fought Quenn, had battled Ramsay and the Bolton men. Jon wanted to believe he would be gentle, that he would never hurt her, but if the beast he was took control? Would he mount her, rutting like he and Ygritte had?

Was that what Sansa’s fear was rooted in? He could not blame her.

Jon rose and leaned close, as though to kiss her, his hands sliding up the slender slope of her nape. Instead, he released her hair net. The dark brown waves cascaded.

“Not tonight.”

“When?” Her voice was small, young. Though she betrayed herself in her question—in her wisdom gained through experience rather than age—by asking when and not why.

Reaching out, Jon pulled the dyed strands of hair forward, to fall before her breasts.

“When your hair is auburn again,” he offered.

Jon wished that he could promise, but to make such a vow when there was no guarantee…

The winter was here and the Others would follow quickly. Jon Snow was no seer. He did not possess Melisandre’s ability to see futures in flames. He did not know that either of them would ever live to see her true coloring return.

Time was all he could offer her, as precious and scarce as it was.

Sansa took up a lock, fidgeting with the darkened length. After a moment, she nodded. Jon tried not to stare at the brown strands against the white fur of his cloak that she still wore, tried not to dream of Mole’s Town.

There was a third fear, Jon realized, beneath the fear of wanting too much and the fear of causing her pain. It was, mayhaps, the true reason he refused to touch her this night.

Jon Snow was afraid that to sink into her would be as a stone sinks into the sea.

Wholly, deeply, and irrevocably.

“Will you stay?”

Jon Snow’s answer sprang from his lips with no hesitation.

“Aye.”

Chapter Text

Sansa Stark awoke for the first time wrapped in the arms of her husband. She heard his quiet breath and knew that he slept still. When Jon had told her that he would not bed her, Sansa had first been angry and hurt. Why make her his bride if he would not touch her?

With Tyrion she had felt nothing but relief after he decided that they would not consummate the marriage, though he had only decided that after they had both lain naked, after he had touched her breast. With Jon, Sansa knew in her heart that Jon had made the decision whilst they were still in the godswood. Had he mistaken the way she had shivered in the cold as fear?

But she had been frightened. Not as she had been with Tyrion, and she was not afraid of Jon, but the act itself.

She was young still, and knew little and less of the duties expected of her as a wife. She knew the most base mechanics—that she would have to open her legs for Jon’s manhood, that he would climb atop her, that her womb could ripen—and that it oft hurt.

It was the fear of pain and her ignorance that scared her more than anything, but Sansa was unable to put any of that into words.

In Jon’s arms, Sansa felt grateful that he had mistaken her shiver for terror. He had gifted her with the time to learn how to be a proper wife, to shed her girlish ignorance.

Even more so, she was appreciative of how his words differed from Tyrion’s. Tyrion had said I will not touch you until you want me to. If Jon had said that instead of not tonight, Sansa would have begged him. I do want you to touch me, she would have pleaded. And Jon did touch her, his arms were still around her, his hands at her waist; even if they had not consummated their marriage, Sansa still felt cradled and protected in his embrace, as only a bride could feel in the arms of a husband.

The fortnight following the wedding brought many ravens and messengers to Winterfell. The northern bannermen had answered the calls of their lords with the promise to take up arms at the request of House Stark. Sansa knew it would be some time before the armies arrived—if they made it before the worst of the snow at all—but she felt hope all the same.

Of the messengers that appeared, most notably, Sansa thought, was the pair that Jon had sent to enlist House Frey in their fight against the Others.

The men were half starved, covered in hoarfrost, and like to lose several fingers and toes, if not a whole limb, to frostbite, but neither seemed as horrified by that as they were by what they found in the Twins.

The portcullises had been lifted; the walls empty of guards. They had approached with caution, fearing some new Frey trap. The gates of Water Tower, even, had stood open, as though the entirety of the keep had been deserted, fled in a panic. Both men spoke of the feeling of dread that only increased upon entering the keep proper.

“Were there bodies?” Jon had asked, “any evidence of a battle?”

Of a slaughter, Sansa wondered.

Not in the yards nor entrances, the men had said. No weapons nor blood nor bodies. Not until they had reached the Great Hall, which had been barred from within. The men had told of how they found a second entrance that had been blocked only with an overturned table they were able to shove past.

Only to find the devastation within.

House Frey, dead and rotting.

“A massacre?” Sansa asked, wondering who had finally repaid the Freys for the hospitality they had shown the Starks.

“Nay, there was no blood. Just molded bread and goblets of saltwater.”

“A plague, then?” Jon asked. “Or poison?”

The men shared a look that Sansa could not understand.

What else could kill an entire House with only molded bread and saltwater, if not some disease? She did not believe it could be poison, based on the number of bodies they had found. She remembered the black amethysts in the hairnet that carried the poison that killed Joffrey. To drop one in a single cup of wine unnoticed was one thing, but an entire Great Hall?

“A curse,” one murmured. “There was another body. A woman’s. She appeared beaten, drowned, and bloated. Whatever killed House Frey was not what killed her.”

“How do you know?” Sansa whispered. She clutched her hands to her belly.

“Her throat was slit, her face shredded. Her skull visible.”

“Her corpse was in the Lord Frey’s chair.”

“Where was Lord Frey?”

“He hanged behind her.”

“Was there no one living?”

Both men shook their heads.

“We saw neither tail nor feather of rats or crows, let alone a living soul.”

Sansa whispered to Jon that night, telling him of her childish belief.

“I believe them. That it was a curse that killed House Frey.” She expected him to chide her, to kiss her forehead and tell her that she was being silly.

“Aye. I thought the same.”

“What will it mean?”

“House Frey would have been a pleasant surprise if they joined us, but we did not expect them to. Of all the Houses in that region, they were the least likely. It’s no great injury to our army.”

“And the Crossing being undefended?”

“A problem for spring.”

It was then that Jon kissed her forehead. He did not kiss her lips, had not save for the single time she kissed him. Each night, as she lay beside him, he would tell her to dream sweetly and press his lips to her temple or above her brows. He slept with his arms around her, tucked safely at his side, as she wished he would have done on the road from Mole’s Town.

It was not what Sansa wanted, but she relished it all the same.

Another week, an additional two.

The moon waxed and waned and men continued to arrive. It was a continuous trickle—rarely a flood—but steady enough that there was no surprise in hearing the call that riders or hosts approached. Sansa had grown numb to the horns. She was tired and weary with days full of counting grains and preparing for when they would be forced to close the gates to Winterfell and winter town. For when the Others came and Jon would be forced into battle once again.

A desperate pounding awoke them late in the night. Sansa felt Jon jerk away from her, then saw him reach for a blade.

At the door was a guard, haggard and shivering.

She expected the guard to speak of a raven, of news from the Wall. She knew Jon sent ravens frequently to Dolorous Edd, most of which had gone unanswered. She did not rise from bed, believing Jon would be returning with a letter.

Instead, the guard said, “There’s a girl, Your Grace, at the gates. She claims to be your kin.”

Sansa rushed alongside Jon to the gates. She dared not to hope. It was too familiar, her and Jon racing hand in hand toward a brown-haired girl.

After they had dressed, the guard had supplied more detail. A tall woman, dressed as a knight, her squire, and a young girl with brown hair had arrived under the cover of darkness. All three had required a warm bed and a cup of stew, the guard had said, but they refused to be settled in the winter town, claiming that the child had kin within.

In the hall where the guards had settled the girl, the woman, and her squire near a fire, Sansa stumbled to a stop, disappointment flooding her. Jon’s hand left hers as he hurried forward.

That’s not Arya, Sansa wanted to yell. How could it be? No one had seen nor heard from her since that day in King’s Landing. And this girl looked both too old and too young to be Arya. She was small and skinny, but her face looked closer to Sansa’s own age. The girl did have the Stark look though, Sansa had to admit, more so than even Jeyne Poole. Her eyes were even grey, like Jon’s.

Sansa stared so intently that she had failed to notice that Jon had crossed the entire chamber, speaking quietly to the girl. The woman that had accompanied her had approached too, kneeling before Sansa.

She was dressed as a knight, as the guard had said, and was taller than nearly any man that Sansa knew. She looked the very part of a warrior. Arya would love her, Sansa thought, a lady knight.

“They said you were the Lady Sansa Stark, of Winterfell?”

“I am. And your name?”

“Brienne of Tarth, my lady. I swore an oath to your lady mother to see her daughters safely home.”

Sansa was startled, both at the mention of her mother and the notion that someone had been searching for her.

“You knew my mother?”

“I served her in the Riverlands.”

“You were not at her side when she was slain, though.”

“No, she tasked me in escorting Jamie Lannister back to King’s Landing—in exchange for you. By the time we arrived, you had vanished. Jamie gifted me this sword and sent me on a mission to find you. I have been searching all throughout Westeros.”

Sansa glanced at the pommel of the longsword that hung Brienne’s belt. It was a golden lion’s head with ruby eyes. Sansa thought it looked similar to Longclaw, as well as another sword she knew. One she watched a boy king use to hack apart a book given to him as a wedding gift.

“That’s a Lannister blade.”

“Forged from the ancestral Stark blade—its Valyrian steel was once Ice.”

Sansa understood why Brienne was compelled to tell her of the blade’s origins, but all she saw was the steel that cleaved her father’s head from his shoulders.

“Is that truly Arya?” Sansa asked, her voice naught but a whisper. If Brienne knew her mother, if she knew who she was on sight, even without her brown her bound so that only her Tully auburn showed, then she must know the difference between Arya and any other brown haired little girl?

“I believe her to be. I found her in Gulltown, whilst searching for you. I asked if she knew of a maid with auburn hair. She said her sister and her mother both were known for hair that color.”

“Gulltown?”

“She had sailed from Braavos, but that is all I know. She was insistent on making her way here, with my help or without. When we heard that the Starks had reclaimed Winterfell… I believe she would have flown here, had she wings. If she is not Arya, she is an excellent actress for a girl so young.”

Had Arya escaped Westeros altogether? Was that how she survived, why no one seemed to know of her whereabouts? Because she had fled to Essos?

Sansa looked toward the little girl by the fire. Jon was kneeling before her, cupping her face. The girl reached out, tracing the line his eyepatch cut across his temple. Sansa knew in that moment it could only be Arya.

She turned back to Brienne. “You have fulfilled your oath to my mother. You have brought my sister everyone believed dead safely home.”

“And you? You are safe? I heard whispers in winter town…”

“I am safe,” Sansa vowed.

Jon Snow only dimly noticed how Sansa’s hand slipped from his own. In any other circumstances, it would have undoubtedly stopped him cold, to no longer feel her hand in his. As it was, Jon continued stumbling forward, because the little girl in the chair near the fire wore a thin blade at her right hip. Jon Snow would have recognized that slender sword anywhere. He had Mikken make it special for a skinny little girl he had believed to be his sister.

Jon dropped to his knees before her and stared into the face that so closely resembled his own.

Arya launched herself into his arms instantly.

“You were dead,” she whispered, holding him just as tightly as he held her. “I heard that you were dead. That you were killed in a mutiny.”

Jon did not, could not, respond. He released her, setting her back into the chair, and pulled back so that he could examine her face. Her hair was shorter than he recalled, but she otherwise appeared the skinny little girl he had known. Her face bore no scars nor were her eyes hollowed as Sansa’s sometimes were.

“Have you been well? Safe?” Jon asked, cupping her face. “None have seen you since King’s Landing.”

“I tried to come to you. I made it to the Saltpans but no ship would take me north.”

“Where did you go instead?”

“Braavos.”

Arya Stark studied the face before her that was so changed. The Jon Snow she had known did not have scars, nor did he wear a beard. Both his hair and his beard had grown shaggy, much as she remembered her lord father wearing his when he returned from Bear Island when she was a very little girl. She had thought him transformed into a bear after his visit to the island, as though he was coming out of one of Old Nan’s stories.

The Jon Snow she had known had two eyes, not a black patch cutting across his face and obscuring the bulk of the pink scar that seemed to stretch from his temple to his nose.

Arya reached out, touching the patch.

In Braavos, Arya had heard the news of the mutiny at the Wall, how the boy Lord Commander had been poked full of holes. Arya had tried to forget what she heard at the docks. She had not been Arya when she had heard it. She had worn another girl’s face. She had another girl’s memories. That girl had no brothers, living or dead, but too many sisters.

When she had returned to the House of Black and White, had returned the girl’s face, the news filled her mind. She knew that the kindly man said a girl had no brothers, and Arya realized it was the truth.

A girl and Arya Stark both had no brothers. But a girl had no grief, no rage, and Arya Stark had too much.

When the first snowflake fell in Braavos, Arya had fetched Needle from the crack in the stairs where she had hidden it and sought passage across the Narrow Sea.

Jon Snow had many questions he wished to ask Arya. What had she seen, been forced to endure? Had she ever used the sword at her hip? Jon had gifted it to her, but he never dreamed that it would see blood. He did not ask only because he was too afraid of what he knew her answer would be.

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” she whispered.

“Not near as glad as I am that you’re home and safe.” Jon Snow mussed her hair as he used to, though he had to bite his tongue to not call her little sister, as he would have. She was not his sister, just as Sansa wasn’t.

Jon knew he would have to tell Arya soon, before she heard whispers, but he did not have it in himself to tell her just then.

No, he would give both her and himself one more night with the lie. One more evening where he was her brother.

Jon Snow was unable to sleep. Sansa laid beside him, as she did every night since their wedding, and most nights since Mole’s Town. It felt wrong though, in a way it hadn’t before, knowing that Arya was in chambers nearby. Jon had been careful last night not to touch Sansa in front of Arya. He knew it would fall to him to tell Arya the truth of his birth and what had been required of them to save Winterfell.

He needn’t tell her of Mole’s Town, of their confessions before he left with Stannis, of how he promised to bed her when her hair was auburn again.

Arya would find it vile, even more so than the lords had.

How could he make her understand that he was not their brother, never had been? That he and Sansa had never been close as siblings? How could he explain it without also telling her of how monstrous he was, because he wanted Sansa even before he knew the truth?

He did not want to frighten or anger Arya, but what choice did he have?

Jon Snow turned away from Sansa for the first time since Howland Reed told him the truth in Greywater Watch, and slipped into Ghost instead.

Sansa awoke alone. It was the first time since Jon carried her from the godswood wrapped in his cloak that she did. Even if Jon woke before she did, he was given to lingering beside her until she was awake enough to feel him leaving.

Sansa supposed that this was something she would have to get used to. Jon would not always be able to sleep beside her and she would not always be able to wake to his warmth.

Sansa dressed and prepared herself for another tedious day of preparing for winter, for battle.

She did not expect that battle to be with her sister.

It was no sooner than she stepped from her chambers that she was accosted and hauled into Arya’s girlhood chambers. The fury on her face was unmistakably familiar. Sansa could not believe that she had doubted the truth of her identity when she saw her before the fire last night.

“There are vile rumors being spread in winter town. Tell me that the bannermen and smallfolk are mistaken. Tell me the rumors are as wrong as the ones I heard about Jon’s murder in Braavos.”

Sansa wondered what rumors Arya heard, both in winter town and in Braavos. Nerves boiled in her gut. Jon should be the one to tell her, Sansa thought, he’ll be able to make her understand.

“I cannot speak about what I don’t know,” Sansa hedged, sitting while Arya paced before the hearth.

“They say you’ve married our brother!”

Sansa flinched at the vitriol of Arya’s tone and the veracity of her words. She fixed her gaze on her lap, afraid of the disgust she knew she would find on her sister’s face. The silence swelled as Arya’s pacing faltered, halted.

“So it’s true.”

Bile burned in Sansa’s throat at the revulsion and horror in Arya’s voice. She could not deny it, nor could she justify it, not without telling Arya the truth about Jon. Sansa could not, would not, take that from him. It was not her place. So, she sat, unmoving, as Arya hurled insults, pacing again.

“He was king. I heard them talking in winter town. The northern lords made him King in the North, gave him Robb’s crown and Winterfell, and you couldn’t stand it, to see our bastard brother raised above you!”

Sansa lifted her eyes then, pinning Arya with a glare.

“That’s not at all the truth.”

“You never cared for him. Why marry him if not to take his power for yourself?”

“Arya, you should speak with Jon. There is much that has changed.”

“He’s still our brother! What else could compel you—”

“Speak with Jon, Arya, I beg of you.”

Arya’s face was red and she looked like she would like to punch Sansa. She half expected her to, the way she might have when they were but little girls, before their lord father took them south.

“I was so fearful for you, when I heard you were married to the Imp. I knew then that you couldn’t have betrayed Father. I knew something was amiss, because you would have never chosen him above your precious prince. But he was Hand, wasn’t he? And now you’ve married a King. So I guess you’ve gotten everything you’ve ever wanted.”

The words themselves were sweet, but so was poison. Sansa felt as breathless as if Arya had truly struck her. Was that all Arya thought of her? That she married Jon simply because he was King? Not for the sake of Winterfell, or to allow him to keep his crown?

Though she could not know or understand that, because Arya still believed Jon Snow to be their half-brother. Sansa did not allow herself to set Arya right, but she could not help but to lash out as Arya headed for the door.

“I didn’t hold a dagger to his throat, Arya. Jon married me, too.”

Arya slammed the door, the motion guttering the flames throughout the entire chamber.

Jon Snow did not hear Arya’s approach. Even Ghost seemed startled by her rather sudden appearance in the yard.

She had tear tracks on her face but her grimace was wrathful.

“How could you marry her?” Arya did not shout, but her voice was not quiet. There were many also working in the yard, and while the marriage was not a secret, Jon could not afford to have his tenuous authority questioned so brazenly, so publicly.

“Come with me.” He gripped her by the arm and pulled her into the privacy of the godswood.

Once they reached the black pool, Jon released her. Arya stumbled away from him.

“Who told you?”

“It was whispered all over winter town. I thought it a rumor, like your death, but Sansa did not deny it. So why? Why marry her? She is your sister, even if she never believed herself to be.”

Jon sat beneath the tree where he had kneeled with Sansa, closing his eye.

“She’s not.”

“She is! Bastard or not, you are our brother!”

“Sit down, Arya.”

“No! Not until you tell me why!”

“I’m not your brother!” Jon roared, lunging to his feet. “I never was. Your father lied our entire lives.”

Arya froze.

“No,” she breathed. “No, you… You have Father’s eyes, his face. We look so alike I thought myself a bastard too. Neither of us had auburn hair or blue eyes…”

“Aye, I have Stark blood well enough, but not Eddard’s.”

Jon had been hesitant, though not quite fearful, telling Sansa the truth. The knowledge was still too new, too raw. He had been too focused on what his birth meant for his new crown. What his birth meant for he and Sansa.  

Telling Arya, however, had him afraid. She was the only one who treated him as a brother—not half, not bastard—and she the only he viewed truly as a sister.

What would the truth do to their relationship?

Would she be angry, hurt?

Would she still treat him as he always had?

Jon swallowed the bitterness and fear down to allow himself to spit out the words. “Lyanna Stark was my mother, and Rhaegar Targaryen my father.”

Arya was silent, impossibly still.

“Father was never unfaithful,” she said quietly. “He always only ever loved my mother. I knew it.”

Jon Snow was glad that Arya had paused with her back to him. He was afraid that he did not school his features quite as quickly as he would have liked. The pain flared too insistent, too acute, for him to suppress it.

“Aye. He lied to Lady Stark, to everyone, to protect the honor of his sister.”

Arya whirled to face him again.

“That does not explain why you would marry your sister!”

“She did it to save Winterfell, to allow me to keep my crown. Do you think the northern lords would allow me to wear Robb’s crown, when I was born of Rhaegar’s seed? After what the Targaryens did to Lord Rickard, to Brandon?” He reined in his voice. “To Lyanna?”

“But…”

“Sansa is protecting me, Winterfell, my crown, in every way she can. It is all she has done since she brought me back in Castle Black.”

“Brought you back? Back from where?”

“Nothing you’ve heard has been rumor. There was a mutiny. The Red Woman, a priestess of the Lord of Light, was there.”

“I’ve seen the kiss of life. Beric Dondarrion was slain by the Hound and Thoros of Myr brought him back. Six times, he did.”

“It wasn’t that. She needed blood. Sansa’s blood. And Sansa gave…”

Jon Snow recalled being in Ghost, not recognizing Sansa with her darkened hair, and smelling the fresh wound on her palm. Had it scarred, the cut? Jon had not paid enough attention to her hand. After leaving Mole’s Town, they had both worn gloves to stave off frostbite. It was only at night that he saw the skin of her hands, her wrists. Was there a pink line across her skin? Jon hoped not. He hoped that the cut was shallow enough to have healed on its own.

“She has sacrificed much to save me, save Winterfell.” Jon paused. “To save you.”

“What’s she done to save me?”

“If I was stripped of my crown and she still believed to be wed to a Lannister, upon your arrival you would have been wed to some northern lord or northern heir. Littlefinger called Jeyne Poole by your name and sold her to the Boltons so that they might claim Winterfell. Is marriage a fate you desire?”

Arya shook her head sharply.

“All I have done, all Sansa has done, has been to ensure that there will always be a Stark in Winterfell. Can you understand that?”

When Arya lifted her head to look at him, tears still fell freely. He wished to comfort her, but he had no notion of how to. She seemed so changed from the little sister he had once been closest with.

“You will have babes then? With Sansa?”

Jon Snow turned his gaze to the carved face of the heart tree. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. It would be their duty to produce heirs. But he recalled how Sansa’s blue eyes had shown with fear as he set her on their marital bed. He recalled his own fear of how beastly he might take her—not slow and gentle as she deserved.

“Not for quite some time.”

“How could you know that?” Arya whispered. The pain in her voice cut him.

“Arya.”

She sniffled and turned away from him fully. Jon Snow yearned to reach for her. To muss her hair and call her little sister as he had always done. He was afraid though, that if he reached for her, that she would flinch away. He did not think he could stand it if she spurned his comfort.

“There is much else we should speak of, if you are able to listen.”

“Mayhaps tomorrow.”

Jon Snow winced at the grief still soaking her voice. By the time he looked toward her again, she had vanished, as silently as she had appeared in the yard.

In the week following Arya’s arrival, Sansa was saddened to notice that Jon refused to touch her. Not in the way he had on their wedding night, but at all. She had grown used to his small touches in private. How he would kiss her forehead, her temple. How he would hold her as they slept. How he would reach for her hand when they spoke of wars or food, when she voiced her worries or he his.

Since they were woken by the guard and told that Arya had returned, Jon Snow had not touched even once. She waited in terror for the evening when he refused to join her in her chambers to sleep.

Jon had only told her briefly of his conversation with Arya in the godswood, but she could surmise how it had gone, given how her own had. She knew he felt some type of guilt, for how he turned his back to her every night, but Sansa did not know how to bring him back to her.

It was late. They had poured over numbers and stores until the candles burned low. They had only retired to sleep less than an hour ago.

Sansa could just see Jon’s silhouette beside her in the dim glow of the hearth. She would have touched his shoulder, had Arya not returned. She suspected that if she did, he would no longer sleep beside her.

“Jon?” He rolled on to his back but did not face her. “Have the lords said anything to you…about heirs? Or consummation?”

He sat instantly.

“Did one speak to you? Are there rumors?”

“No, no, I just… It was a worry I had.”

“We sleep in the same chambers each night. I’m sure they believe the marriage is well consummated.”

“And when my womb fails to ripen?”

Jon’s eye darted away from her face. Sansa thought she saw his face redden.

“It takes time for some. And with the wars and winter…none would expect us to hope for a babe with what we’ll soon be facing. Heirs are a worry for spring.”

Sansa did not know what she expected Jon’s reaction to be. She supposed she had half thought the reminders of heirs, of their duties, would be enough that he would bed her that very night. She could argue that because it takes time, he should be spilling his seed in her nightly, what with the uncertainty of the wars. Sansa knew too well that Jon would be in the vanguard, where the fighting would be thickest, when the Others finally descended on Winterfell. If something happened to Jon, before they had an heir, before the marriage was consummated… What would happen to Winterfell?

“We are no longer House Stark’s sole hope, what with Arya’s return. If anything should happen before we have heirs, Arya will be our heir, as I was Robb’s.”

Sansa bit her tongue to keep from arguing, to keep from asking if Arya had come back sooner, would he still have married her beneath the heart tree?

In truth, she had brought up the notion of heirs in hopes that he would comfort her as he had after they had heard the news of House Frey. Jon did not touch her in any capacity.

They spoke for a few moments longer before told her to dream sweet again, lying with his back to her as he had done every night since Arya arrived.

I miss you, Sansa thought, closing her eyes to the tears welling and praying for dreams where Jon behaved as her husband again.

It was nigh on another week later when Jon Snow was awoken again by a rapid knocking on the chamber doors. Ghost still slept before the hearth so Jon did not reach for a blade before approaching the door.

Beyond it stood Sam, gripping a bit of parchment.

“From the Wall.”

Jon heard Sansa stir in the bed. He ushered Sam into the corridor with a lantern both to not disturb Sansa’s sleep and to shield her, even from Sam.

“From Edd?”

Sam proffered the scroll.

There were naught but four words written upon it.

The Wall has fallen.