Jon knew, as soon as he had both scrolls in his hands, one from Daenerys and one from Sam, that there was no other way. He had to travel to Dragonstone himself. The dragonglass was too important, too vital to the war effort. Even if his men, and his sister, didn't know it.

Sansa. Jon closed his eyes for a moment. He'd given himself only a few minutes to pack, and his horse was waiting for him. He could see Littlefinger's face in front of him in the crypts. Littlefinger had tried and failed to pry Jon's fingers free. Jon had fought with himself not to kill the man. He'd barely won.

And why? Because Littlefinger had made him realize something he'd tried to keep hidden from himself.

He loved her. Not just as a brother loved a sister. Jon's stomach turned. Best for him, and for her, that he leave quickly. He couldn't handle the emotions roiling inside him.

She'll be safe here with the Northern lords and Brienne to protect her. She'll be safe from her bastard brother and his twisted feelings.

Jon shoved another pair of gloves in his bag. It would be good to be riding again. Away from the kingship, away from the council meetings, away from the sight of her red hair. It was craven of him, but he still felt a twinge of relief at the thought.

"Jon?"

Sansa's light knock made his stomach drop. He'd hoped to avoid her, to mount his horse and wave, from a distance. No risk of her knowing what had happened in the crypts. But she was here, now, and he had to let her in.

"Come in, Sansa."

She looked shy as she drew closer. Her blue eyes were soft. He feared that softness, because it made him weak. Made him want to stay by her side. He gave her a half-smile.

Sansa didn't smile back. "Were you not even going to say goodbye?"

What could he say to that? "I..."

She saved both of them, as she often did when he was at a loss for words. "Well I'm glad you haven't left yet." She drew two pieces of cloth from her pocket. "I've been working on these. I wanted to give them to you when you left. I only thought you'd stay longer."

Jon heard the pain in her voice. He swallowed.

She held out the two squares of fabric. Each was embroidered with a finely worked direwolf.

She spoke quickly as she held one out to him. "It's not a favor, exactly, that wouldn't be right, I'm not your...well I meant for them to be matching direwolves. And for you to take one with you when you rode into battle. I'd keep one, here, so we could...we could be two wolves who remembered each other."

Jon managed to speak past the lump in his throat. "Sansa, I won't forget you. I couldn't. You're my sister."

Say it enough times, and maybe the word would conjure up some barrier he could hold fast between them. Beat back the wave of longing at the thought of taking her favor with him.

She looked down. "Would you bring it with you, Jon?"

He took the linen square from her and their fingers touched. She flushed, and took a step back. "I'd meant to finish the fur, highlight it with silver, but there wasn't enough time."

The grey direwolf was perfect, in his eyes. "It's beautiful, Sansa." He wasn't sure where to put the square. He didn't know how to handle something so fine and beautiful. Neither the woman before him, nor the gift she'd given him.

She saw his distress. "Just...maybe pack it away with your things?"

He placed it carefully on top of his gloves. When he turned to her again the anguish written on her face was too much, and he took her in his arms.

Foolish. Foolhardy. But he pulled her in for a tight embrace. He was holding onto her for too long. She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his neck. He could feel her warmth and smell the scent of lavender in her hair.

Gods, I have to leave now. I have to.

"Come back to me Jon. Swear it. Please." Sansa's voice was high and tight. He couldn't deny her, not like this, not when his heart was pounding in his chest.

"I will, Sansa. I swear it. I'll keep..." He almost said your favor but stopped himself. "I'll keep my direwolf close, always." He drew back. Sansa's eyes were swimming with tears. He tried to smile again. "Will you keep yours?"

"Yes, Jon. Always." The fierce way she said it caught like a hook in his heart. "And I'll see you again. Soon. I'll hold the North for you."

"No one could do it better."

She gave him a quick nod and then fled from his rooms. He closed his eyes for another long moment, then finished packing.

On the journey to Dragonstone, he ran his fingers over the delicate ridges of the stitching while he rode. Out of her sight, he let himself think of it as her favor, her gift. From the woman who held his heart in her hands, back at Winterfell.