Author's Note: My first Jon/Sansa fiction :)
The Last Wolves - Chapter One
She walks through the godswood, following the familiar path to the heart tree. The snows of the winter have begun melting now, and the ground beneath her feet is a little muddy, her shoes making squishy sounds as she walks, one foot after the other, all the while hoping the knot in her belly will loosen; but instead, the nervousness and hesitance make her insides seem to swirl and tighten, making her feel almost queasy.
He must be there, she knows. He always is. When he is done with inspecting the reparations of the castle, sparring with the menfolk, returning from his usual ride around Wintertown and finishing the rest of his lordly duties, he always comes to the godswood, Ghost at his feet, Nymeria alongside her brother.
She glances upwards at the dark canopy that the twisted branches of the oaks and sentinels and ironwoods weave overhead, melting snow dripping down the tips of the glistening sloping leaves and bare branches, the soggy ground a little uneven due to the misshapen roots that she knows duel for space beneath.
She closes her eyes, praying to the nameless old gods for the strength to do what she seeks to, for making him give in to her.
When she opens her eyes again, for a moment, she can see Father, beneath the heart tree, sitting on that big stone, the swatch of oiled leather in his hand moving with a delicateness that was hardly something one would expect in the cold, stern-faced Lord of Winterfell.
When she glances at the dark, deep pool, she can see the weirwood's bone-white trunk and its blood-red leaves reflected in the still waters; and when she shuts her eyes yet again, she can imagine Father's own reflection mirrored there, the Valyrian steel of Ice gleaming bright on the dark, unmoving liquid.
But when her eyelids flutter open, it isn't Father who is sitting beneath the weirdwood, but Jon. He isn't sitting on the stone Father used to sit on, but at the foot of the stone. There is no Ice in his hands, but there's Longclaw lying by his side, and Ghost too, as white as the trunk of the weirwood; his eyes – as red as the fluttering leaves of the heart tree – stare at her, as do Nymeria's eyes, as wild and stubborn as Arya's were. The thought of her lost sister sends a pang through her heart.
"Sansa," Jon says gruffly, looking up at her; and she realises yet again how different he sounds from the half-brother of her childhood. His voice is far deeper now, gruffer, with a sort of sorrow and emptiness always lingering in his tone. His eyes meet hers, dark and unblinking, searching and not finding, looking at her, butnot looking at her too – if that even makes sense. When she looks to the giant red-eyed beast by Jon's side, she finds Ghost staring at her just like Jon is, but the direwolf's gaze somehow seems more human than Jon's, a little curious, with a sense of familiarity and even tenderness in the blood-red irises – something she has never seen in Jon's gaze yet, much to her sorrow.
He is the wolf, my lady, she remembers Lord Howland Reed telling her that dark evening, when the frozen waters of the Trident had been tinged red, quivering and decayed limbs littered around, with dying warriors and moaning men, with wildling spearwives and their babes clutched to their breasts, and some of her smallfolk of the Riverlands torn apart by the Wights, some corpses of the Vale army caught in the dragons' fierce flames, burnt and bleeding, while Jon had stood in the middle of the carnage surrounded by the unearthly Great Other, Ghost and Nymeria flanking him, the Dragon Queen flying above on her black dragon which was billowing red, deathly fire.
He is the wolf, my lady, she remembers Howland's words again, and the wolf is him.
And she clings to the hope that perhaps the familiarity she sees in Ghost's gaze is Jon's, not the direwolf's.
"Sansa," Jon repeats, as she lays her cloak on the floor of the godswood and sits beside him.
She runs a hesitant hand through Nymeria's fur. In the days when Sansa had met Nymeria and her huge pack in the Riverlands, the wolf pack killing as many Freys as some of the renowned Vale warriors had, Nymeria never left Sansa's side, always protecting her, barring her teeth at anyone who sought to harm her. But now, it is Jonwhose side Nymeria never leaves… almost like Arya was when they were children, when she used to follow their bastard half-brother around on tottering feet even as a babe, her smile fierce and her eyes wide and bright as Jon gathered her into his arms, tickling her until they both fell to the floor in a fit of giggles.
Watching the two of them, the grey-eyed man and the grey-furred wolf, Sansa feels almost jealous, and, sadly,alone. Sansa had never been overtly warm towards Jon in their childhood; but even if she had, Sansa knows Arya would still be the sister Jon would have preferred, the sister he perhaps loved more than all the rest of his siblings, even Robb…the only person for whom he set out to break the oath he had sworn to the Night's Watch, theonly person Jon remembers loving.
Is she in Nymeria, Jon, like you are in Ghost? Sansa wants to ask him. Is she lost to us, or is she still alive in Nymeria? Is that why Nymeria never leaves Ghost, like Ghost never leaves her? Is that why you seem to care more for the direwolf than you do for me, your own sister—cousin, she amends in her thoughts, the questions she knows she will never ask him, because she fears he wouldn't reply, because she fears he would turn further away from her if she demands answers.
"Jon," she says instead, the knots in her belly tightening again. "We are the last two Starks, Jon," she tells him quietly, as a low growl rumbles in Nymeria's throat. But Sansa pays the wolf no attention. "The Lords of the Riverlands swear fealty to me. But the North—"
"The North is yours, Sansa," he interrupts her, a flicker of something in his grey eyes that belies the stern face he is putting on, his lord's face, as Mother would have called it,Father's face... "Winterfell belongs to you, my lady. I am no Stark, I never was."
His expression is firm, unchanged, as is the tone of his voice. But Sansa thinks she can sense it all – his bitterness at the truth of his birth, at the loss of his very identity, his rage at how Father kept the secret hidden from him… and his sorrow that the man, whose son he had always wanted to be remembered as, isn't his father at all.
She clasps his hand, noticing that he hasn't worn his gloves. He doesn't need to; his blood runs hot, they say, since the moment he arose from the dead, from the flaming pyre his corpse was supposed to burn in. It is the first time she is touching him since the day at the Trident when she saw him and flew into his arms, clutching at him as if her very life depended on him, the first of her family she had seen in years, afraid that if she let go, he would be lost to her like Father and Mother and Robb, taking with him all the hopes and memories of their family and home. She had clung to him, but he hadn't even hugged her back, merely stared in bewilderment when she let go, as if he never knew her at all, as if he had neverknown her.
I am your sister, Jon. I am Sansa, she had said, voice trembling, wondering why he was saying nothing, why he was watching her as if she was one of the unknown, perplexing creatures from beyond the fallen Wall. It was only when Lord Reed spoke to her of Jon's death and resurrection that she had finally known of his loss of everything that had made him Jon Snow.
She pushes the thoughts of that day away, and stares at their entwined fingers instead. His hand is unusually warm; she can feel the heat of his skin even through her own gloves. She watches the scars on his hand – the burn scars. She had asked him once, she remembers, of where he had got them from, regretting it the moment she did, because he had no answer to it, he remembered nothing of it, just like he remembered nothing of most things since he was brought back to life, the gods taking his memories in lieu of the life they granted him, leaving behind only a deep yearning – for Winterfell, and for Arya, the latter far more than the former.
"You are a Stark," she tells him softly, "as much as I am. You may be born of Rhaegar Targeryan's seed, but you are Eddard Stark's son – everyone can see that, Jon. That is why they named you King in the North, that is why the mountain clans and even the wildlings followed you to take back Winterfell and lead the battle against the Others—"
"I'm no King," he says, almost fiercely, "and I am no Stark. If Robb—" his brow furrows for a moment, almost if he is trying to remember something of the brother they both lost (for she knows Robb shall always remain Jon's brother, no matter that they never shared a father at all). "If Robb knew I wasn't Father's—" he falls abruptly silent.
Father. It almost makes her smile at how easily the word comes to Jon. For all his bitterness at how Father kept him in the dark about his parentage, Sansa knows Eddard Stark is the only father Jon ever had, and the only father he will ever want.
Jon sighs, silent and brooding again.
Nymeria, seeming to sense his distress, nudges at his hand, golden eyes unusually soft, slipping her nose beneath his pale palm and fingers until all of her huge head lies underneath Jon's hand, his fingers almost absently threading through Nymeria's fur, seeming more affectionate with their sister's direwolf than he even is with his own.
"What do you want, Sansa?" Jon breaks the silence after a long moment, looking up at her again.
She stares at him, all the unspoken words of the past many moons simmering in her breast, wanting to be heard, wanting to let them all out, wanting the last family left to her to understand.
"I want to remain in the North," she whispers, glancing at the sad eyes of the heart tree – Bran's eyes, she thinks sometimes. "I never want to go south of the Neck again. I never want to leave Winterfell again."
"You don't have to," he says, almost softly – and there's a little of the understanding she wanted, the sense of shared yearning, of shared loss, of the shared home they both fear to leave again.
"The Riverlords have sworn their fealty to me," she says quietly. "The Riverlands shall not bow to the Dragon Queen. But the North…" she trails off, thinking of how the North shall never foreswear Jon, the King they chose, the man who ended the Long Night, the man who helped rid them of the fearsome Others, the man some claim is Azor Ahai reborn.
"Sansa?" he urges her, a sliver of curiosity and wariness in his gaze now.
"Wed me, Jon," the words tumble out of her before she can stop them. She has spent so many sleepless nights deciding on what she would say, of the words that would convince him of the merit of her idea. But now, faced with those eyes which remind her of Father and Arya, she finds herself forgetting all the things she had so painstakingly decided on.
Nymeria growls, standing up so suddenly that Jon's hand drops to the ground with a thud. The direwolf stares at Sansa fiercely, her lips pulled back, her teeth showing. But Jon puts his arm around her furry neck, and Nymeria reluctantly calms at his touch.
"Sansa," Jon whispers, turning his gaze from her to the direwolf. He withdraws his hand from hers; and she fears he is going to refuse.
"Marry me," she repeats, her desperateness fuelling a ferocity that seems foreign to her, something that would have suited Arya more than her. "I have the Riverlands, you have the North—"
"The North is yours," he cuts in stubbornly. "You are Eddard Stark's last living child. The North is yours… it always was."
Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa, he is said to have told Stannis Baratheon when he offered the Winterfell to Jon. It almost makes Sansa smile despite the trepidation she is feeling. She wonders if Jon remembers saying those words to the late Baratheon brother. But she knows better than to ask him.
"My blood does give me a right to claim Winterfell, but you are the man the North chose to lead them. And I shall not take that away from them," she tells him quietly. She knows how difficult it is to invoke respect and loyalty in her bannermen, to make them firm and faithful enough to give their lives fighting for her. She has walked that tough path when she claimed the Riverlands by virtue of her Tully blood, as the last living grandchild of Lord Hoster Tully. She knows that Jon perhaps walked the same path when he arose from the dead, leading the wildlings and the Mountain clans in the victorious battle against the Boltons, claiming the North as Eddard Stark's son, as the legitimised brother named heir by King Robb, until Howland Reed revealed the secret of his birth…
"Marry me," she repeats, heart hammering madly in her chest, "Marry me, and we shall hold our lands together – like Robb did, the Kingdom of the North and the Trident. The War is over, and it is for us to rebuild our kingdom again, bring peace and justice... like Robb would have done if they hadn't killed him..."
Like Father would have wanted, she wants to say, but she doesn't truly know whether Father would give their wedding his blessing, for Father had loved Jon like his own son; and she knows the mention of Father will only serve to make Jon more distant and reluctant.
Jon says nothing, staring at her as if she is someone unknown to him.
She thinks he will refuse. After all, hadn't he refused to wed the fearsome Daenerys? The Dragon Queen had raged and ranted and demanded that her nephew wed her, that they rule the Seven Kingdoms together. But Jon had stood firm, declining her, unafraid of her rage and of her last remaining dragon.
When the Dragon Queen couldn't make him budge, how will I? Sansa thinks, with a sense of defeat.
"You are my sister," Jon says finally.
"I am your cousin," she says, hating the words, knowing how they refute her claim of them both being Starks when she acknowledges that they don't share a father. But no matter Jon's dragon blood, he is the last brother left to her. She knows her words will only serve to grieve him as much as they grieve her, if he even finds her worth grieving for. "Grandfather Rickard married Grandmother Lyarra, and they were first cousins, like us—"
Jon shakes his head, solemn and stubborn. "You deserve better, Sansa. Marry a good man, someone kind and strong and gentle."
The way he says it, with his eyes so full of a sudden concern, with his long face and the dark hair… and those eyes again… grey eyes, Father's eyes… there's a little lump in her throat now.
What would you say, Father? she wonders. Would you want Jon and me to marry? Or would that make us as bad as Jamie and Cersei? After all, we were brought up as siblings. But Jon is everything that you wanted me to have – strong and brave, and even gentle and kind sometimes… and above all, someone who wouldn't look at me and see only my lands and titles and kingdom and claim.
"I want to remain in Winterfell. It is our home," she says, taking his scarred hand again. "I want us to rule our kingdom together. I want you, Jon."
Jon says nothing. He stares at their entwined fingers for a long moment, her heart thumping madly the longer he maintains his silence. The heart tree's leaves flutter, and Jon suddenly looks up at the sad face carved in the tree, his eyes a little wide, as if he is listening to something Sansa can't hear. His gaze moves back to their clasped hands, pensive, his bearded jaw tightening, a steeliness in his gaze now.
Nymeria growls a low, almost threatening sound.
But Ghost gets up, silent like always. He walks to Sansa, something almost human in his eyes again as he nudges her with his snout, settling down at her feet now.
Jon nods.
A/N: Thoughts on this will be very much appreciated. I've got a lengthy AU Jon/Arya one-shot in the works. But it's a Jon/Sansa/Arya love triangle in this one :)