the last ones left
Winterfell's summer snows were falling when Jon visited on his way from King's Landing to the Wall. Sansa was at the gates to greet him, her kissed-by-fire hair cut short and whipping around her cheeks like daggers of flame. He'd asked about her hair when he'd last seen her, back when Dany was still reining in the wild beast that was Westeros. "It was my hair," Sansa had told him, with a bitter twist to her smile, "or my neck. And severed heads don't often grow back." Jon had thought of Robb when she'd said that, of Robb and Grey Wind, and of Lord Eddard Stark. He'd remembered that Sansa had seen her father's execution with her own eyes; he had nightmares about it often enough, and he had been tucked up safely at the Wall while Sansa had stood by the Great Sept of Baelor and watched its holy stones run red with Stark blood.
Now, with the cool breeze blowing his cloak behind him like a banner of the Night's Watch, his half-sister - for no matter what Dany or Aegon or anyone else said, Jon was still a Stark and had grown up in the North, facts that no-one could ever take away from him - looked so like her mother it made him uncomfortable. When she smiled, however, there was Northern steel in her Tully-blue eyes.
"Will you stay the night, Lord Commander?" she asked above the wind, already knowing what his answer would be. They had played this game of thrones together for too long to not know what the other was thinking.
"Not today, my lady." Winterfell held too many memories for him, memories that would spill over and out from the confines of his heart the moment he stepped inside those great stone walls. "I merely wished to say farewell, and offer my congratulations. If it please you." His eyes fell to her slowly swelling stomach, then rose to the standards fluttering from the Great Keep: a grey direwolf racing across a snowy field, directly beside the golden lion of Lannister upon a bloody background. Jon had yet to understand how Sansa had convinced the Northmen to allow a lion so much influence over the Warden of the North, for Rickon was still too young to rule and trusted his advisors, foremost amongst them a Lannister, to govern the North.
"I thank you, Jon," Sansa smiled, her hand creeping protectively over the bump. "You are welcome in Winterfell whenever you wish." We are the last ones left, her eyes seemed to say. You are welcome to this castle of ghosts, to dine in the Great Hall of memories upon dreams and dust.
"The Night's Watch will remember," Jon promised. The North remembers. "I will not keep you."
He had already flicked his hood up and slipped back into the saddle when Sansa spoke again. "I'll miss you." Her voice quavered, and Jon hesitated on his horse for a teetering moment, before dismounting and hurrying to gather his half-sister into his arms. She smelled of snow and winter and something flowery. Like home, Jon thought for a moment, and allowed himself the luxury of imagining life as it once had been, all those years ago.
"I miss you already," he said into her hair, the words sticking in his throat. I miss you, Sansa, and Rickon who's still too wild to know any better, and Arya who's somewhere across the sea, and Bran, and Robb, and the man who I'd called my lord father and even Catelyn Stark, who have all gone to a place there is no return from. "Tell your husband the Night's Watch misses his company also."
Sansa let out a gurgling laugh, pulling away from Jon and staring across at him through her lashes. Across, not up, Jon realised. She's grown so tall. "Stay safe, Jon. Winter is coming." She brushed the snowflakes from his cheeks and then hunkered down to bid goodbye to Ghost, who licked Sansa's jaw and, for a second, looked the slightest bit like Lady.
"Winter is coming," he echoed, mounting his horse for good this time and whistling for his direwolf to follow. He gave Sansa a final smile, savoured the sight of her standing there for a moment longer, then wheeled around and began the long ride up the kingsroad back to the Wall. Winterfell receded behind him, and soon all he could see of Sansa against the grey of the castle and the white of the snow was her kissed-by-fire hair, not quite Tully-red, not quite Lannister-crimson, but a colour all her own. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, Jon remembered, and smiled.
Author's Note: Well, this little bastard has been brewing in me for a while. I've wanted to do a JonSansa family piece for so long. And trust me; there'll be plenty more where this came from. Obviously, this will be AU once Winds of Winter comes out (because asdfghjkl GRRM just doesn't write happy endings, does he?), but I've sort of made my own ending up in my head, which this drabble complies with. Basically, Jon's a Targaryen (AND ISN'T DEAD), Sansa and Tyrion stay married, Dany takes the throne with Aegon as her heir, Arya's still doing who-knows-what in Braavos, NO-ONE KNOWS Bran's still alive (yet), and the North is once more under Stark rule (with a little Lannister help, of course). Jon and Sansa's relationship is still a little strained here, because come on, she despised him for being her half-brother for so long, and a leopard can't always change its spots. But they're "the last ones left" (aside from Rickon, though he's still too young, and Arya, who's still off having adventures) and have to stick together as Starks, in either name or blood. Hope you liked it, please don't fave/follow without reviewing - and if you're doing neither, just review anyway. xx