Chapter Text
Jon I -
He rode hard from White Harbor, leaving his Kings Guard behind in the dead of night. He snuck away like a criminal escaping justice. The irony was not lost on him.
He’d left a note. As Sansa would have wanted him to do.
He had been away from Winterfell for seven months too long. Every day of being away, he regretted more and more having offered the North to his aunt’s conquest. He could give a rat’s ass about the South and its poison.
He must make haste to Winterfell, and they have already been slowed enough. He had been detained in White Harbor after seeing his aunt crowned. Slavers had been caught by Lord Manderly’s men, and it was pertinent the slavers be made examples of. It would set the groundwork for the just tri-kingdoms Sansa longed for, and as such, he needed to preside over the public trials. Each man was given their own day to defend themselves, and in the end, out of the seven, two met the executioner’s axe. As it turned out, the two oldest men were brothers and the others their sons, all Snows, a family business. The youngest son was ten name-days, and the oldest was just a man at one and six.
A King of absolutes would have them all beheaded. A King of mercy would send them all, life intact, to the wall and the Night’s Watch to live out their days in cold boredom. Jon was neither of these things. He would not be eager to deal out death in judgement. For even the very wise cannot see all ends. He did not know what type of King he was yet; it remained to be seen. So he delivered punishment to the individual based on their defence.
The youngest he sent home to his mother. There would be no punishment for the child who was only doing as his family asked. He ordered that the child be seen by a septon once a week for spiritual guidance, as the family followed the Seven. Though, the Northern tradition of the Old Gods would be instilled as well. Jon did not want a Kingdom of divided faith, having seen enough of that through the Red Women and further yet from Sansa’s stories of the South.
The second youngest was ten and two, old enough to become an apprentice. He was sent away from his mother to work for a tanner, one of the most challenging occupations. He was old enough to know better but not old enough to say ‘no.’
The last three oldest, a set of twins of ten and five and the oldest at ten and six, were being brought to Winterfell; they would begin training for the standing army of Winterfell.
It was a novel idea presented to him by Samwise, who had grown frustrated with Jon’s recounting of the time it took to gather arms for the Long Night. It would be a place for those with no title, land, occupation, or name to go. Winterfell would no longer have to call on the banners to defend the North. Some lords were angry at the suggestion; it took power from their hands. These lords were noted by Sansa, and Jon would not be surprised if, by his return home, those lords would no longer pose a threat. Either dead or replaced, Jon would not stand in her way of securing the North. He knows better than to oppose her clever plans. For the last ten years, the North has been notoriously faithless for supposedly loyal folk.
More lords were in support; it unburdened them from their duty and allowed them to place second and third sons into a position of power within reach of the Court of the North. They would fulfil a duty to their King, and after serving for many years, they would be granted land of their own.
And on Arya’s insistence, they welcomed girls as well. But, to Arya’s disappointment, the idea had not caught on as well as she’d hoped. Jon had assured her that in time, the ranks would be filled by warrior women. Many a spire-wife had already taken up soldiering duties in the New Gift as told by Sansa in their many letters exchanged over the past months, it was not the same as being home, but it helped.
The night after the trial, he had slipped away from his King’s Guard and, more particularly, Wolf Guard, Ser Brienne. She had been sent by Sansa as a private escort to ensure he was left unmolested by his trip South with the words, “Stark men do not fare well in the South; if anything goes amiss, she will spirit you away to Tarth, and you can journey home from there.” It was just like Sansa to always have a plan. And that included having one for their Kingdom as well.
He and Sansa had discussed the Kingdom they desired at length, one where their children and all children could grow without fear or hunger and with opportunity. But, if they wanted that Kingdom, they needed to work at it every day, and that included the days leading up to the birth of their first child.
It was the birth of their first child that spurred him into the night and up the road of the White Knife. It was pleasantly cold, and he had missed the sharp air every day he was south. Seven months was seven months too long to be away.
Their first child was a terrifying thought, something Jon had considered out of his reach for many years. First being a bastard, then the Night’s Watch and then that place close to death. When Sansa had come to him secretly two months after their laying together and told him she was with child, he had opened his stupid mouth, in hurt and confusion, asking who the father was. It had only taken a moment for Sansa’s hand to find his cheek, echoing through the Godswood, so loud that it startled a crow from its branch.
It took a full two days for the cheek to cease being red and two days more for him to work up the courage to ask Sansa to marry him. Being cousins was well-known now that his aunt had legitimized him as his uncle Benjen’s son. A story scarcely believed, but Northmen would look away if his name was Stark. She had agreed in her benevolence so that he may marry Sansa without shame. She had taken his birthright, but she would “gift him, Sansa,” as though Sansa was his aunt’s to gift, saving the shame of a bastard. He would not be his Targaryen sire who brought shame to the Starks. A septon in the South may have annulled Rhaegar’s marriage upon request, but that was acceptable by the New Gods but not the old. As far as the Old Gods were concerned, both married individuals had to agree to separate, and Jon was hard-pressed to believe that Elia Martell agreed to be set aside. In the same motion, his aunt had placed an iron circlet upon his head; a public legitimization had become a crowning.
He had been shocked and completely off balance and deeply suspicious. As soon as he was re-crowned, with not as much enthusiasm as last time, Lord Edmure Tully and Lord Yohn Royce bent the knee to him and declared that they would have their loyalty to the North as part of his Kingdom. He had whipped his head towards Sansa, who, as always, had a face carved of ice. She gave the slightest of nods, encouraging him, which pushed him to accept the additional responsibility.
His suspicions only grew. The whole thing stunk like a farce. There was no need for the Vale and the Riverlands to kneel to him. Sansa had been the one to rally the Vale to the Riverland cause two years prior. Her ultimate goal was North, but the Riverlands needed to come first. It had only taken four months of the fresh Vale army to decimate the fatigued Lannister army, pushing them back to their borders. With the Riverlands settled, they were able to send some men north to help with defending the realm from eternal night.
After the ceremony, he had sought out Sansa in the Godswood once again; she could be found here a lot as of late. Praying? For the silence? Plotting? He could not say.
She stood resolutely not unlike a weirwood; her hair she had piled high atop her head in heavy braids, and her cloak was near white, with grey fur trim. He believed she skinned the rabbits herself to get that much beautiful fur, loath to let anyone do the work for her. And like a weirwood, she was hauntingly beautiful, which simply was not fair. He desired her madly but also desired to be mad at her.
He approached with a heavy step, knowing better than to sneak close to her lest he found her needle necklace in his throat.
“I don’t want it.” He started. A lie. He might as well get to the point.
“I know.” She responded, not bothering to turn to him. Her voice had almost a sad tone to it. She knew that dark, shameful desire of his. A keep. A wife. A family. Everything he could never have before. Before .
“Look at me,” he had demanded, grabbing her by the arm. He regretted this immediately. She had flinched away, and his stomach had churned at his crassness. He was a bastard at heart, no matter what a Southern Seption said in a book’s footnote. But he pressed on.
“What did you do?” he asked, trying to gentle his tone; yelling would only close her off from him like it did so many times before; they were better together now but still learning. One brick at a time to build a strong foundation.
“What makes you think I did anything?” a question asked and a question as an answer. A very southern thing to do, at least it was not doublespeak. He did not have the patience to keep up with that.
“Come off it, Sansa. This was by your design, even though I told you that I didn’t want the crown. I don’t know why you did it, but I know it was you.” It would always be her, her and her clever plotting mind.
“Was it the Vale and Riverlands bending the knee to you that gave me away?” she asked almost playfully, and Jon had to prevent himself from smirking at her audacity.
“Yes,” he had answered simply, indulging her for a moment.
“But this isn’t a game Sansa. First, you taunt her and then you somehow remove three Kingdoms from her grasp. Kingdoms she feels entitled to. This is not going to end well. My aunt will not be satisfied with four, she will turn back North and pillage us into submission once again, and we can’t afford yet another war. We are barely sending anyone south as it is. I got her to agree on only ten thousand; I had to beg for that.” He had wanted to shake her but at the last moment remembered the baby, their baby. He could feel the fury leave him as quickly as it came. His anger was a sparking fire, burning itself out as quickly as it came.
“Believe it or not, your aunt is capable of rational thought. And I gave her a rational thought.”
“Was this your plan all along?” He was accusing her now in place of anything else to say. He would play along with her plans if she gave him the chance to. He was a fool last time; he would not be made a fool of again.
“For an independent North? Absolutely.” She was forthcoming, and it made him feel uneasy, like he was misstepping, not an unfamiliar feeling in regards to Sansa. He always felt behind, like she was worlds ahead of him. She would secure their future, no matter what it took .
“No,” He said low, and he gave a vague gesture to her. Trying to say without words what he means. Her borrow furrowed in annoyance, and he repressed the desire to soothe it. He was supposed to be mad at her.
“I’ll admit that I planned the independent North; there would be no peace until we were free once again from the South.” Jon had felt a familiar stab of guilt at her words. It was all his fault. It was all his fault. It was all his fault.
“But I didn’t plan for our baby.” Her face softened then, ever so slightly.
“Sansa!” He bit out. “I don’t know what you did to take the three kingdoms away from her, but the cost must have been too high. There is no way that she parted from them freely, regardless of what she told the lords of rewarding me.”
She stepped forward now, into his space, looking down on him with her slightly superior height. To a lesser man, it would be intimidating. To him, it was maddening.
“There is no price too high for our safety. There is no price I would not pay to see our family safe for once. And like I said, your aunt, if given proper consideration, can be cooperative.” She said this with fury as cold as the snow around them. She would bleed herself dry for the North if the Old Gods demanded it of her. He knew this.
“And having me as King ensures that?” everything Jon has learned tells him differently; there would always be someone against them now, and they would always be targeted.
“Of course. You have always chosen to protect us, protect me, time and time again. For the gods sake, you threw yourself at a dead dragon to save the North. Don’t lie about it; I know you did. I can only imagine who you will be once this is all over.” When his aunt is gone. When he returns to rule a united North. Stronger than the Kings of Winter of the past.
Sansa took a deep breath and placed a bare hand on his cheek. She ran her nails through his beard; he would need to trim it soon. He raised his hand up to hold her hand where it lay, it had been a while since they’d been close, and by the Gods, he missed her.
“I wasn’t lying when I said you were good at ruling. I have met many a King, and none are like you, Jon. I won’t permit myself to be governed by anyone else but you, Your Grace.” Her lips turned up at her confession. It was not exactly a romantic notion, but Jon would take what he could get.
“And truly, Sansa, you didn’t plan on falling pregnant?” He needed to know, he needed to know that he wasn’t used as a mechanism of her clever plots in that way . He needed it to be real. Sansa had shaken her head quickly, blush blooming on her cheeks.
“Jon, we were only together that one time. It was as surprising to me as it was to you.” She had taken a step back, her hand falling away; Jon wanted to chase the warmth.
In a fluid grace that only Sansa possessed, she swept her cloak out behind her and bent to one knee. Jon’s eyes widen as the only thought running through his head is that pregnant women shouldn’t be kneeling. He decided it would be his first decree as King when he returned from the South. Or he would make it, so Sansa never kneels for anyone.
“Your Grace,” She began, voice soft but firm, “I beg that you do not ask me to marry someone of your choosing as is common with women in my circumstance ,” Jon opened his mouth to interject, but Sansa pressed on, “I know it is your right to do so as my King, but after two marriages, I’ve quite lost the taste for it and I much rather not marry. I also ask, in fear that I’m asking too much, that you don’t send me away.” Jon’s heart gave a lurch then, not knowing how to feel or what to do. He had asked to be legitimized so that he may marry Sansa and bring no shame to her and their child, but if Sansa did not want to marry, he would not make her.
But that dark little thought was there. That dark little thought reminded him that he was her King , and he could demand her hand. He could demand her hand and truly get everything he ever wanted. A name, a lady wife, and a keep all his own. But his demand would make her hate him, truly and completely. He would not demand it of her, but he would ask anyway.
If she said no, it would not matter. As long as she stayed by his side, he would not press her. He would even deny the son as his, though it would break his heart every day to see him grow and not be able to father him. It was at that moment that Jon found a kinship with the Kingslayer made Queenslayer. He would have to ask him for tips .
Jon fell to his knees and grabbed both of Sansa’s hands in his. He would be remiss if he did not ask to give her the option. He was King now, and he could make her Queen. As she always wanted.
The biting cold reminded him of his intentions, and he took a deep breath. He was not laying his heart to Sansa; they were not in love, but something akin to it. Something better; for who can say they share as they do; reclaim the North, fighting the dead and defying a Queen who breathes fire?
Jon would remember the day for the rest of his life; the day he made Sansa Stark, ice in all but her heart, blink in bewilderment.
“Sanas, I know your heart. I know of your dreams, and I know them to be crushed. I know them because they are my own dream, the dreams of a bastard who had nothing and could offer nothing. But I am not that bastard anymore.” Jon swallowed; he wasn’t selling himself very well; even with the crown of the North on his head, he still felt the bastard unworthy.
“Jon, I would not presume,” Sansa started, but Jon needed to say his bit; he needed it in the open between them.
“I will not force you nor send you away. But I would have us raise him together, here, as we were, as Husband and Wife, as a Father and a Mother. I would make you a Queen of Winter. You raised me to power to protect you, and I would raise you with me. I want to take you to wife Sansa Stark.” Sansa took two deep breaths before turning her head and looking up at the ancient weirwood tree. The bloody face had its sap frozen from the biting cold; the Long Night was over, but Winter had Come.
Sansa turned towards him once again and blinked softly, a swift redness colouring her cheeks.
“I would have you regardless of your name. Stark or Targaryen. I know you still think of yourself as a bastard. But I would have you kiss me as a Snow.” A terribly romantic notion.
Snow must love the weirwood it lands upon for it to kiss so gently and soft.
And he kissed her as Snow, as only the Queen of Winter could demand.
They did not have a lot of time before Jon had to go South. But that short time they were together was not wasted. They were building something sweet and new, something truly good. They were unburdened together; the finality of it settled something in them both. Whatever the future may hold, they would do it together.
Jon needed to return home. The need was so strong he took a horse and provisions and struck out on his own against the wishes of his escort. It would have taken twelve days too long to reach home. Jon alone could reduce that just to seven.
The cold wind bit him as the pink of morning twilight painted the sparkling snow. Soon the snow would melt, and spring would see the world green again. The lightness of a burden lifted as Jon rode more north. He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that as he broke over the top of a hill, he nearly trampled a small traveller and their goat.
The traveller let out a choked yell as they dived into the road ditch, the goat bleating terribly before racing out into the near field. He reared his horse to the side with a sharp tug. The horse stopped abruptly as Jon turned to check on the person moving up from the ditch. It was an older woman, bent at the back from many years of burden. She had fabric tied about her head in the Northern fashion and aged rough spun clothing.
She opened her mouth, no doubt about to yell at him for his carelessness but was interrupted by wailing from the bundle upon her back. Jon had nearly run over a baby and its grandmother. A great amount of guilt sat in Jon’s stomach. He jumped down from his horse and started out after the goat in the field. The goat was distracted enough from digging through the snow and finding yellowed grass underneath.
He grabbed the rope hanging from its neck and gave it a soft tug to get it to follow him. It did not move. He gave a stronger tug, yet it did not yield. The old woman scoffed before waddling over to him. She grabbed at the horn of the goat and began leading it away to the road. Jon followed, feeling entirely useless but with urgency in his step.
“Lordlin’ doesn’t even know how to handle a goat,” She muttered darkly to herself. She was right, and Jon was not about to correct her about who he was lest she takes him by the ear as old Nan once did.
“I apologize, My Lady; I did not see you in the dim of the light. It is not wise to travel as you are, lest accidents happen.”
“I might find myself forgiven’ you’d give coin for my troubles.” She grinned and held out her hand expectantly. Jon scowled but could not bring himself to be truly mad at the old woman. She had a tiny baby and a goat. Her clothes were worn and looked worse for wear. Jon fished out a bronze coin from his satchel. The old woman inspected it before grinning broadly at him and thanked him.
“Where are you off to so early in the morn’?” her voice cracked with age.
Jon could not suppress his slight grin. He opened his mouth and then frowned. Sansa would advise him to not tell the whole truth lest he was speaking to someone who wished him harm. Arya would advise him to tell the woman to fuck off because it was none of her business. He should err on the side of caution.
“To my family, my cousin is having her baby.” Not a lie.
The old woman nodded sagely, “Lots’ of babies are’ been’ born now; that awful war has ended, and spring is on its way. Lots of folks had’a themselves a las’ go of it, not thinking they would live through that wintery darkness.” The Northern accent is thick and pleasant.
“Aye, I’m glad it’s over.” Jon reached for his horses’ reins, wanting to make haste; he had lingered long enough.
“Mayhaps’ your cousins’ bab’ will share a nameday with the Queens?” The old woman inquired, and he could only swallow and bite his tongue lest he says something stupid and giddy.
“All I wish is for it to be blessed with good health.” What else could he say that didn’t give him away.
“Aye, a blessing on a babe’ would not be remiss.” The woman took the baby from her back and into her arms; Jon could see that it was awake. Wrapped in fine grey cloth, the edges looking as though some attached piece had been left behind, stray threads threatened to unravel it. It was tiny and squishy and red-faced. Its inky blue eyes blinked against the cold. A lurching in his stomach reminded him that he would soon have his own child in his arms; he was not nervous, but rather a swell of anticipation nearly made him mount his horse then and there.
The old woman thrust the baby towards him without warning. With fear, John’s hands shot out to grab up the baby, not wanting it to fall.
“If you would, Your Grace.” The old woman nodded at the baby in his arms. Jon had the mind to make himself look confused. The old woman raised a brow at him expectantly. No matter if he denied it, she would not believe his lies.
“It was the wolf on your leathers, too elegantly done to be the hand of anyone but the queen.” She pointed to the leather strap across his chest. Jon felt a fool for not remembering he was wearing his cloak made by Sansa. After his second crowning, she had added a silver thread to embellish it in a “most kingly manner,” as commented on by Satin, who liked to remind him of the importance of such things.
Jon wasn’t quite sure how to bless a baby as a king. He knew the old way to bless a new member of the family; a small amount of blood from the father and mother was to be painted across the cheeks in blessing, something he and Sansa had agreed upon doing.
“Is he of the Old Gods or the Seven? and what is his name?” If of the seven, then a kiss would suffice. If of the Old Gods, he would place his King’s blood on his cheeks; the child was not of his family, but he was of the North. It felt disingenuous to do this without a weirwood and on the roadside.
“Both, Your Grace. And he is unnamed until he is blessed.” The old woman almost had a wicked gleam in her eye. Probably taking joy from keeping him in her presents. Something he noticed a lot of people liked to do, was take his time from him; he would be annoyed if it were for any other reason.
Jon carefully held the child as he pulled a leather glove with his teeth and tucked it into his belt. It was difficult to pull his dirk from its sheath, but he managed with considerable effort. He looked at the blade in his hand and back at the baby. The old woman, seeing his dilemma, took the handle side from him and motioned for him to hold out his hand.
With an expert twist of the blade, the tip of his thumb was slashed with a thin line. Blood beaded up quickly.
“My husband was a butcher; I know my way around a knife.” The old woman had seen his surprise at her quick work. The bundle in his arms started to squirm, and Jon decided he was not going to question it. He had lingered too long already.
He took his thumb and ran it across a cheek, then the nose to the other cheek. The skin was squishy, as all babies tend to be, but the skin was chapped from the cold. Jon had the vague thought that he hoped the two were not travelling far. Only enough to make a faint pink line was left from the blood. He did not know the words in the old tongue nor the proper words for the Seven. But his words as King would have to suffice.
“Though I’ve not tidings of honey and wheat to give, I ask of the gods to look upon this new life and see it through Summer and Winters, long and short. I pledge on to thee a king’s blessing by the flowing waters of the stream, the growth of the forest and age of the stone so mote it be.”
He kissed the child on its forehead gently. The baby was young; the new baby smell still clung to him. A heaviness took hold of Jon as he passed the child back. To bless a child was a great honour best saved for a father and mother. Though he is King, the child must be motherless and fatherless for him to be the one to perform the pitiful blessing on a roadside, with nothing but fields and a river for a witness. He did not know if the Old Gods approved, but nothing struck him down in the doing of it. But there wasn’t even a weirwood to hold the blessing. Was he doing the Gods a disservice?
He nodded his head before turning back to his horse and mounting up with an almost graceful leap. The old woman was grinning at him again with that wicked tilt of her lips.
“I would thank you, Your Grace. Now the child can boast of your blessing. He has yet to be named, but I do like Eddard as a name, or perhaps Robb. Yes, good strong names. Perhaps even Theon or Bran; they have some meaning to them, don’t they? Rickon is a sweet name.” She nodded vigorously, joy from being able to name her grandchild now that a blessing had been done. Jon thought they were terrible names, burdened with the lives of those long passed. But he would hold his tongue, he was King, but he would not demand the use of those names to stop.
“I bid you a good day and safe journey.” Jon turned his horse and took off in a gallop, not looking back as he left the old woman and infant behind.
It was that night as Jon rode on, having stopped mid-day for a break and a light sleep; Jon looked to the dark and sparkling sky and saw the Gods dancing. Pale green and rose-pink, twisting and flicking over itself as the arms of the aurora reached North and further North still. He could imagine that it reached past the Wight Knife, over hill and forest. Atop villages and mountains, reaching Wintertown, swelled with life and building a new. On further to Winterfell, sparkling over the keep and Godswood, bathing it in ambient light. A blessing or a curse depending on which Northmen you ask. Jon chooses a blessing.
Jon did not see the aurora again on his travels.
It was six days later that Jon finally crossed into Wintertown. It was much as he remembered it before the Long Night, houses unburnt and thatched roofs thick. Smoke rose from every chimney, and piles of firewood lined every house wall. The number of dwellings had tripled since his departure, unsurprising as it did in every winter. But it was quiet for a town filled with life. There was no market in the square, and people passed each other quickly, not engaging in conversation. It was solemn and bleak.
He was glad to make it as far as he did without being recognized. It was only when he rode through the gate on the other end of the village did a guard in the watchtower shouted out a surprised “Your Grace!” as Jon passed below. Jon did not stop to say hello, not having the patients for niceties and kneeling.
He kicked his horse into a swift canter as he rode up the slush-covered road. The horse would be deserving of the freshest grain, and the best oats once settled. And a nice warm wash and brush. It had not tired yet, even at its blistering pace. He did not know where it hailed from, but a useful gift from his aunt he would not regret accepting.
The walls of the castle loomed overhead, and the Stark banners billowed gently against them. The new materials reflect the restoration of the Starks of Winterfell. A great comfort settled in Jon at the sight, almost giddy with anticipation. It is likely he missed the birth of the baby, but it would not have been long missed if he did. He could imagine it now, Arya would greet him because guards would have spotted him by now. Not too far off, wild Rickon would run to him before he even got the chance to dismount. Rickon was filling out more, becoming stronger to make up for his lack of height. Sansa had mourned his poor nutrition during his growing years. Sam and Satin would greet him as a brother and not a king and lead him to the Lord’s Chamber and to Sansa. Ser Brienne and Ser Jamie would be grinning at him; Jamie might even bring himself to pat Jon on the shoulder in congratulations. Sansa would be abed, and Ghost would be across her legs, remiss to leave her side. Every day Jon is more than sure that Ghost is her wolf now and no longer his. He would have it no other way . She would introduce his child to him in her gentle voice, soft from love and warmth. Absent from the ice that often coated her words and gestures.
It was a beautiful dream.
He was ripped from his musings by the cry of a wolf. Haunting, long and mournful. It bleeds out over the hills and valleys, echoing off the stone walls of the keep. A fear like no other grasps Jon’s heart. There is only one wolf in Winterfell, and he, by all accounts, is silent like the spectators he’s named for. Jon can only imagine the most terrible of things to rip that sound from his dearest companion.
Jon kicked his horse into a run for the last few minutes; they stretched on forever before he finally passed the open gate.
In the courtyard, it was only Sam and Satin who greeted him. There was no one else. It was barren for a castle that should be under construction. Their faces gave it away. Their eyes dropped to the ground, and they muttered “Your Grace” as he approached. They both dropped to a knee.
“What’s wrong?” He demanded, the voice of a king coming out without his say.
It was Sam who answered him with wobbly words and fresh tears. Satin continued looking at the ground, unable to do anything but clench his fist, leather glove crunching.
“Your Grace-Jon, I’m so so sorry.” Jon felt a lump form in his throat. His hand came up to his chest, and he clenched his fist over his heart.
“Just spit it out!” Jon nearly shouted; he could feel the lump only grow bigger. There were a thousand thoughts running through his head, and he knew one of them to be correct.
“Please, just tell it true.” Jon tried to temper his voice, but it would not due to shout at his closest friends, even in his grief. He could feel the cold grief pricked up his body, not dissimilar to when all the warmth of a doused fire leaves the room.
Sam’s jaw trembled but could not form the words Jon needed to hear. It was Satin now, voice strained and almost cold, attempting to do his duty above all else, that told Jon the new grief inside the walls of Winterfell.
“Her Majesty Queen Sansa went into labour just over a sennight ago. It was quick but difficult. The baby was born still and blue. There was nothing to be done for your son. I’m so sorry, your grace.” Satin’s voice finally gave way to a crack, swallowed around a thick throat of sadness and remorse.
Jon didn’t say anything before abruptly turning towards the gate that led to the Great Keep and his family. He did not stop as he heard Sam and Satin scramble after him, running to keep up. He walks with purpose and quickness. Marching away from the numbness that seemed to fill his head.
“Please, your Grace,” Sam placed his hand on Jon’s shoulder, and Jon nearly pushed him off.
“Queen Sansa isn’t in the Keep.” He panted out, knowing Jon’s mind.
“Where is she then?” Jon bit out. Sam withdrew as though burned from Jons cold sharp voice.
It was a sharp howl that told him to go to the Godwood. Ghost would not leave Sansa for anything short of her command and would not make a sound unless under great distress. The only such time he had made noise was when one of the Others had their teeth to his ear and tore it from his flesh. Even then, it was a yelp. Even then, he did not howl or growl; he simply turned and did away with his offender.
Jon turned from the two men and made his way briskly to the Godswood. Like in town, there were few people about, and Jon now knew why. The numbness did not leave him as he left the two men behind.
It was with careful steps that he approached the Godswood; his vision had tunnelled, and blackness crept around the edges. He was seeing and moving without seeing and moving.
The trees loomed, ladened with perfect snow. The gray sky opened up, and thick flakes began to gently fall. Too soft, too gentle for what Jon had learned. Through the trees and down a path, the snow crunched under his boots. It is only a vague notion to Jon that he sees trakes down the path of heavy boots and light slippers, the softness of their outline indicating a long passage of time since they were set.
Even with winter still heavy and all greenery gone, it takes a few moments for Jon to spot the outline of one of two appointed “Wolf Guard” through the trees. Ser Jaime does not turn to Jon as he approaches. Jaime only stared into the clearing of the Heart Tree with sorrow and grief. Such open emotion, so unlike his arrogance and smirking.
The snow around him is piling up, for he has not moved since he had entered the Godwood many hours before. The silence of the wood is deafening; not even a winter bird chirps, nor does the wind disturb the many branches above.
It is with a soft sign that Ser Jaime finally turns his gaze away and bows at the waist, holding his sword on his hip, with his good hand and places his wood one over his heart in the Northern manner. He bows deep enough to be appropriate but not so much as to be pandering.
“Your Grace.” It was simple as a greeting and the only thing to do, for how can one speak to the heavy air that has settled over Winterfell. Not waiting to be told to rise, the Wolf Guard was not at the command of the King; Jaime turned towards the clearing again.
“How long have you been out here?” Jon asked, his eyes flicking from Jaime to the clearing and back again. Out in the clearing, beneath the ancient weirwood, sat Sansa. On her head, in her lap and on her soldiers, snow gently sat. Undisturbed by movement or wind. At her feet lay Ghost, his giant head resting on his paws, snow also piling up on his back. Her hands sat primly folded in her lap, caressing an embroidered strip of fabric. About her shoulders, her white cloak was fastened, but the hood did not sit on her head. Her face was still, cheek flushed, eyes closed, lips almost blue. If it wasn’t for the steady rise and fall of her chest and the slight movements of her hands, she would look dead.
She looks as though she had gone away, far from her grief and suffering, gone away inside where he could not reach her.
“Before sunrise.” Jaime sighed, his breath a smokey calling to the cold.
Jon’s eyes shot to Jaime, and it took considerable effort to temper his fury at the Kingslayer’s carelessness with Sansa.
“It is too cold for her,” he snapped. “Why haven’t you brought her in?”
Jamie gestured with his wood hand, the hand more suited for the cold, at Ghost.
“Your beast does not make a sound, but as soon as I try to approach, he lets out that horrid high howl. He does not let anyone approach, not even Rickon.” All politeness and decorum have left Jamie and been replaced with quiet desperation. He does not raise his voice at Jon as he ought to. Jon may be a King, but he could not command Jamie and Breanne, who only take orders from their Queen.
Without a pause, Jon strode forward into the clearing. He didn’t have the thought to hide his desperation for Ser Jamie, nor did he have the thought that a very private moment would be observed.
He approaches carefully, ensuring that his footfalls make the snow crunch in his wake. At last, Sansa opened her eyes, frozen water clinging to the top of her lashes. Jon could see a slight tremble in her shoulders, and it is a little wonder, for she has her cloak on and only a morning dress of thin Stomeland cotton under it. He had sent her the bolt of fabric as a gift of his aunt’s Southern conquests in hopes she would make many fine things with it. When he asked his aunt for the fabric, she dared not refuse his request. He had taken nor demanded little else.
Ghost stood from his spot at Sansa’s feet, shaking the snow from his fur. He moved to the side but sat back down only a few feet away. Even sitting, Ghost’s head reached Jon’s shoulders, being the longest-lived of his siblings.
Jon reached out and patted the soft white fur of his neck, whispering a quiet “thank you.”
He steps before Sansa in a slow manner, resisting the urge to embrace her. Instead, they stared at each other for a moment, calculating, before Sansa broke their seven-month silence.
“Oh, Jon,” she holds up her hands to him. She has the embroidered fabric strip wrapped around her hand several times. The embroidery was typical of the Northern tradition of storytelling through thread. Oftentimes, mothers would stitch a border on their baby’s blankets to tell a story of their family.
It is with no thought that Jon falls to his knees before her and grasps her hands with his. Her hands are frozen and stiff. Jon gently begins to run his thumbs over the back of her hands in small circles. She manages to lift the corner of her lips for him in a mockery of a smile. There is no happiness to be found here in the godswood, but she managed all the same.
“I thought,” Jon mutters out, “I thought you went away, away inside your head, where I could not reach you.” It was an ever-present fear of Jons, finding Sansa absent of mind, gone away inside her head where no harm could find her. Her episodes of going away are fewer now, rare even. After she reclaimed Winterfell, her security and stability had been restored; thus, less need to go away. But it still happened from time to time; her last small episode before Jon had departed for the South had occurred after a drunk lord thought himself bold and laid his fat hand upon her waist. That lord no longer had a hand.
It was with the swelling of a lump in his throat that Jon pitched forward, letting go of her hands. His head finds her lap, and his arms find her waist. The snow is melting under his heat, but he pays it no mind. Her hands fall onto his head and stroke his thick hair gently.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Jon could feel the tears begin to fall. That numbness had been warmed away at her gentle touch through his hair, as though he was the one needing consoling.
Perhaps he did.
He can feel Sansa leaning over him in a near embrace. Her head rests on his shoulder as she bends in the middle, falling over him and enveloping him in bodily warmth. He cannot smell the fragrant oils on her hair nor soap on her skin; it is the lingering scent of bitter cold.
“I die over and over again. Everyday.” Sansa whispers into his shoulder. He simply holds her tighter. He would share this loss with her as no one else could. They will share their grief as a husband and wife should; they would share their grief but return to the world with nothing left to wring out of them. What is another body on the pier?
“The snow keeps falling, and I am buried, Jon.” Her hands tighten into fists along his back, firm and trembling. “I am so sorry.” She whispered. “I do not deserve to cry.”
He wanted to rebuke her words and assure her that this loss was not her fault. But she would not listen; the Stark Stubbornness was rooted deeply in her bones as it was his, as it was Arya and as it was with Rickon.
“I’m sorry too,” he whispered; there was nothing left to say.
Sansa leaned back against the weirwood, and Jon sat up from her lap. Her hair, loose from any braids near glowing from the wetness of the melted snow, whips quickly with a burst of wind that cracks the branches of the trees. A thick strand finds itself wound around Jons’s fingers. He rolled it between his fingers and thought long on the Freefolk idiom Kissed by Fire. It was to be lucky. Sansa has been anything but lucky in her life, but the same could be said for himself.
Jon brought the strands of hair to his lips and kissed them gently. He did not close his eyes as a lover from a tale would. He looked upon Sansa as she looked upon him; his eyes had not seen Sansa for seven long months, and he would not look away now.
Letting go of the strands, Jon leaned forward and captured her face between his palms. He could feel the dampness from days and nights of tears and yet still from her eyes, more still fall. He wiped away with his thumb back and forth twice, thrice over.
He leaned forward and met his lips to hers.
Snow must love the weirwood it lands upon for it to kiss so gently and softly.