Snow
"You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow,"
Amy Lowell.
Jon knows nothing.
That is the only truth he knows now, as he sits before the tomb of Lyanna Stark. His mother. Princess married willingly to Prince Rhaegar. Even history is wrong, a willing captive. A secret marriage gone horribly wrong... It is not as warm, here, in this enormous, cavernous place as it is in the Keep proper, but warm enough that his breath wasn't visible. Beyond that his is a child of the North, it would have to severally cold for it to bother him terribly. This was nothing. This was normal, even pleasant...He huddles in his cloak, regretting the fact that he had not bothered to dress beyond his cloak and boots, not even bothering with a tunic nor simple shirt. It wasn't terribly cold nor freezing, but he still felt a coolness along his skin, huddled in his cloak, wrapping it tightly around him.
The Crypt of Winterfell is a quiet, cool place, hallow and his breathing, the only noise he hears, echoes loudly against the vaulted ceiling, against the far away stone wonders why Arya loves to play here, amongst the old Kings of the North, stone faces pale, watching, direwolves curled at their feet in an awareness. Faces snarling, aggressive and unwelcoming. It felt as if a thousand eyes were upon him, those icy eyes of Kings past, his ancestors placing judgment on the present. He felt uneasy... Unwanted here now. Perhaps it is because he is a dragon, not a wolf, that they stare so disapprovingly, so unhappily. Torrhen Stark may have taken the knee to Dragons and he was of that family, but before him were Kings that had fought fiercely against everything that had come for them. The Kings and Lords of the First Men and the Andals.
He feels small, amongst Lords, Kings, and ghosts.
Before, he never spent much time in this place, for he had no reason to, never having known any of the people his fath- Uncle had buried here. He had mourned without knowing, his Uncle, Grandfather, what he thought to be his Aunt certainly, but... Not keenly. Not with knowledge and true grief. They were memories of his fath- Uncle. Distant, sweet things that sometimes seemed to weigh the Lord of Winterfell down. The young woman's grave in front of him is a pretty, fine thing. Finely made. Lovingly made. Strange, as she is one of the few female statues, a strange thing for his fath- Uncle, to have done for his sister. A gesture usually only made for Kings and the Lords of the past. But it was a gesture of true love, perhaps a brief, cryptic nod of what she had been before she had died in the Tower of Joy. A Princess, of the entire Seven Kingdom, perhaps even Queen had she and the Rhaegar had lived.
He looks up at that carved woman, beautiful and still, but inhuman grace. If he were to see the women carved in stone before him, he would not be able to recognize her. For this is a pale imitation And she looked so young, frightfully young amongst the bearded faces of Lords and Kings. She was only four name days older than him. Barely a woman, if that, old enough to have him and die because of it, but not much older. He will never know her face, nor his true father's. That hurts more than anything, the knowledge that Eddard Stark is not his father.
That his entire life is a mummer's farce.
He had not been entirely content with his life as the Snow of Winterfell, the one blight in Eddard Stark's honor, but he would do anything to remove the knowledge from his mind. To be that bastard again, for it made him insignificant, an unimportant note of a great House. But he was the son of a prince, the grandson of Kings, the Mad King's grandson. His mere existence called Eddard Stark a traitor, endangered his family to be labeled the same. And the rest! Madness is what he can think to rationally explain Sansa's wild tale of being of the future. But… But Sansa had never looked at him like that, looked at him at all once she understood the meaning of the name Snow, of the word bastard. Never looked at him with so much esteem and love, since she had been but a babe toddling after him and Robb and Theon.
He looks at the still face of his mother dead, because of him, due to his birth. And wonders if Lord Stark, as his Uncle, protected him for his own sake, not just for the promise he said to his late… Mother. If he was worth any of this.
Can I dream of the wall with the knowledge of who my mother and father is? With… What Sansa said came of me leaving?
"I had a feeling… That you would be here," says a soft, voice, and he turns, rapidly.
Sansa.
The little Lady of Winterfell, the most Southern in attitude* of all the Stark children. She was… Different, it was the best way to describe it. She was looking at him with warm, loving eyes when before they had been narrowed with childish unease and dislike. She is now dressed, in a dark, drab dress that does not match her recent wardrobe of silks and lush fur that she had demanded a few name days past. It fits her very illy, hanging too short, just above her ankles, and too taunt across her broadening hips and shoulders. But she looked comfortable, despite this, with a great fur cloak(her father's) draped across her shoulders, grey and dwarfing her ridiculously. Her hair, a tumble of red fire, is bound in the simplest braid he has seen in a long time, only one, draped across her shoulders. A spark of color, amongst the dark. She smiles, and holds out food, tray, piping hot soup and what looks like hot cider, bread, and, he sees with humor, lemon cakes and it makes his stomach growl.
"I-"
"I came here often, after… He told me of it," she says coming to sit next to him. She cares not of dirt or dust upon the floor, pays no mind to it at all as she leans against him, pushing the tray into his lap. The Sansa he knew would wrinkle her small nose, and whine about what the dirt would do to her dress, and how a Lady does not sit on the ground, but this Sansa is not moved or is uncaring of it. She is also a warm against him, firm and unbothered in the gesture of affection, just like Arya would be, "For it was proof of what I had come to learned. The most beautiful songs are based on horrible tragedy."
Old eyes look at him, from behind his sweet sis- cousin's face.
"Did I come? The… Other Jon?" he whispers, wondering.
Sansa nods him, smiling softly.
"When he could, he was very busy. I made flowers once, out of cloth because we could not spare space in the glass gardens after a point. Roses, out of a childhood dress of mine. He asked them to be blue..."
Her eyes drift. Far away. Unfocused and seeing something he cannot.
"Sansa, I can't be sure if I can believe you," he whispered to her, "What you spoke of- It is too incredible. Madness."
She looks at him, tired eyes.
"I understand. I must seem mad. But ask me anything, and I guaranteed to know it… The Other Jon and I spent hours just… Talking. I'm sure I know you better than you would expect from… Me."
"What do you mean about that?"
She raises a single, fine brow, and that looks much more like his most distant sister. Proud, proper and elegant as she tried so hard to strive for. But now it seemed to come so naturally, not the fumbles of a girl of ten, charming and with merit, but ill practiced. Now they are natural and easy to her.
"I have treated you horribly, Jon. Distanced myself from you the second I learned what it meant to have someone named Snow in the family," she said voice soft and regretful, "But when I needed you most, it did not matter to you. We are brother and sister, and I will never abandon you ever again."
Jon felt the fool for the heat in his eyes, at the ardent way she was looking at him.
"But we are not. Eddard Stark isn't even my father. We're… Kin, yes, but not brother and sister."
She smiled, hand, so small, touching his cheek.
"It doesn't matter. We grew up together. Your blood is my blood. We are Starks. And as Starks, we stay together."
He felt more heat, a trail of tears slipping past his resolve.
"I- You. I am not that Jon. The Jon that you love so much," he said, desperate to understand.
"No. No… That Jon is forever lost to me. But you," her other hand raises, to his other cheek. Her hands were warm, a blaze against his skin, "But you are still my brother. The boy who snuck me lemon cakes from the kitchens at odd hours when I had nightmares, the boy that played dolls with me even as Robb laughed at you. The boy that cried when Arya was born."
"I didn't cry," he muttered, automatically.
Sansa grins.
"You cried. She was the first Stark to have grey eyes like you and father."
"You were so young when she was born-"
"I don't remember. The other Jon told me of it."
He looks at her and then sighs. He shrugs uncomfortably away from her grip, and she lets her hands drop neatly to her lap. She was touching him so much now, without hesitation or disgust at the 'living sin'.
But I suppose I'm not that. She said Rhaegar and Lyanna were married.
"Tell me something that Sansa could not possibly know?"
She looked down at her hands, wringing the fingertips together before she looked back to him.
"Eat. Drink, and I will tell you of things."
Jon looked at the trey before he picked up the spoon and slowly began to eat. The soup was good, of course, as was the cider, and the bread. She had brought him some of the nicest things served, not rare for him to eat, but the fact that she had brought him his favorite soup, one made of chicken and kernels of corn, made him wonder if she asked them to be made. Even the bread was perfectly buttered and toasted to a near char, as he liked it.
"Hmm. You sneak Arya out at night, teach her archery. You let her use your younger practice bows."
He pauses, spoon midway to his mouth. She wiggles her brow, a sly grin on her face, and gestures to the spoon. He eats.
"You could have spotted us," he said, utterly reasonable.
She looks at her hands again.
"When you were two and ten, Theon made you go to the brothel out in Wintertown."
Jon freezes. He looks to his sister, flushing bright red, all the way to the roots of his hair. His cousin only smiles, faintly.
"Of course Robb, you and Theon were kicked out for being uppity lordlings much too young to deal with whores, coin or no."
"No one knows of that."
She inclines her head.
"Are you not ashamed of me?"
Sansa blinks.
"Why would I be?"
"For going into a brothel!"
Sansa laughs.
"Once upon a time, a whore was my greatest ally*," she said sadly, "I care not what people do with their lives or bodies, Jon. The finest people in the Seven Kingdoms, with the finest breeding and noble past times, have committed atrocities. While the lowest of the low did wonderful things..."
Sansa looks at him, and again, Jon is struck with who old the look in her eyes was. It was hard to see because she was so young, but something about the way those large blue eyes looked sent shivers of unease down his spine.
"Finish your soup at least, Jon. You haven't eaten anything all day."
He looks down at his soup, and downs it quickly, before bringing the bread up to his mouth. He chewed quietly, before he placed it down, and sipped at the hot cider, which was sweet, with extra cinnamon as he liked it. He made a show of eating his bread as well before he looked on at the two lemon cakes. He grabs one and offers it to his sister, who accepts it with a brilliant smile.
"And how did you get those?" he asks.
"The cooks always have them for me, I have found out. Of course, I nearly had them scrambling when I came into the kitchen. I haven't done that since I was very young, apparently, Gods! I'd forgotten what they tasted like. Lemons were put to better use, of course, during Winter. Excellent vitamins..."
She ate the cake slowly, seemingly savoring every little bite. It was a stark difference to Sansa he remembered, as lemon cakes were the only thing he ever saw her devour like a child, quickly, messily and with a soft joy. He remembers when he saw the icing on her face, the jellied lemon's sugar on her lips, that the little girl that toddled behind him and Robb was still there. He blinked at the difference and frowned at his own cake before he started to eat it. He passed the cider to her, wordlessly, when she had finished the cake, and she drank, without hesitation, the girl who would so regularly wrinkle her nose when he passed her so much as napkin during meal times.
"You… You really aren't the Sansa I know."
The girl blinks before her head whipped up, and those old eyes widen.
"I-"
"You're so different."
She nods, sadly, a soft smile on her face.
"Yes. I had to be."
"Do… Do you miss being who you were? The Sansa that I knew?"
She looks at her hands.
"Yes. I wish… I wished so long to come back to who I had been before my innocence was killed from me. But I… I also appreciate what I've become."
Her eyes look far away. Distant. Still.
"Where was Robb? You said you were hostage for five years. But he was King in the North, surely-"
"He had a war to win, and I was just one person. One person in face of the North and the Riverlands. And then Robb was dead," her voice was flat.
"I- He should have broken my Night's Vows and gone for you!"
Sansa looks at him. Understanding dawning, she only sighs. Her face is still, even and does not so much as twitch.
"He would've died trying. I was hostage in King's Landing, Jon. No one could save me there."
"Why don't you blame them?!" he screamed, standing abruptly, the trey and the rest of the bowl, as well as the last of the hot cider fell to the ground. Tears came to his eyes again, but they were fueled by anger, not affection or acceptance, "For what was done to you! You- you were r-rap-"
They fell, drop by drop, as he was unable to finish his sentence. Sansa sighed, standing, dusting her ill-fitting skirt. She looked at him, face still maddening even. Why did it not crumble, as before in the Solar? Why did she look so composed?
"I did. Sometimes. When they were beating me for every victory that Robb won from the army of the Realm."
Jon flinches, horrified.
"When they touched me for being a pretty little thing when he forced himself into me. I hated everything and everyone for not coming for me," she said with strength, with a darkness that made Jon reel back, "I dreamed of it, of being a tragic girl in a song, rescued by a Knight, by her King brother. Either of them. But life is not a Song. I saved myself, Jon. And sometimes that is the most important thing. No one came for me, at least not in time. But I saved myself."
He looks at her, at her heaving chest, at her flushed face, at the tears she holds back. Uncaring, but slightly hesitating, half expecting rejection, Jon launches himself at Sansa, bringing his arms around her. She does not hold the same hesitation and holds him back. She is so small, his sister. He can feel the delicateness of her thin limbs, of her frail shoulders, and his stomach turns at the thought of anyone touching her illy. She was always the most sensitive of all of them, crying in frustration or unease, and someone was willing to take that person and break them apart… And in a way, they already had.
"See?" she whispers, against his chest, "You are Jon, you may not be the Other Jon. But you are Jon and that is more than enough for me. I love you, brother."
More tears and his grateful that she does not mention it, even as they drop into her red hair. Silently, Jon Snow makes a vow.
I vow that my family will survive what is to come
"I love you, too… Sansa."
AN: I do not own A Song of Ice & Fire or A Game of Thrones in any sense. It's universe, characters all belong to its amazing creator, George R.R. Martin, its publishing and broadcasting companies.
This is me, playing in its sandbox, making misshapen sandcastles.
1*: I never said that Sansa was the only person that looked like a Tully in the fic. I said that she was the most Southern of the Stark children, which is not equating her appearance only. I know people are getting on me for using the show heavily, but I just want to clear that up a bit.
2*: I always figured that Tyrion would eventually explain who Shae was. And despite her betrayal, Sansa would look kindly to her support of her to an extent. I know, I know, she isn't Sansa's handmaid in the books, but I like her arc in the show, so that's that
Dear God I never expected a response to be so large for this fic. Thank you, kindly, for anyone who has reviewed, followed and favorited. Much obliged, much appreciated even the critiques.
I know all the responses have not been positive- and for that, I say that everyone is completely valid in their opinion. I know I am not the best author and evidently, A Song of Ice & Fire is something that is very near and dear to many's hearts. As it should be- George R.R. Martin is a master at his craft and I have immense respect for the world he created(except for the ill-conceived thoughts on how vaginas work, he got that wrong). This fic is just a response and my interpretation. If you do not like it, that's fine. This is something I'm doing for fun, with a character I happen to enjoy. Because of her potential in the books, for the role she takes in the show. Beyond that, I can't really see what I can say in response to the reviews, especially because the reviews I speak of are mainly guest reviews. I rather not devote an insanely large part of the authors note to respond to someone that most likely does not care for one in the first place(more so than I have already). If anyone wishes for a proper response a PM would be answered.
Also, as per the pacing for the fic, I'm just getting started. The first few chapters are, prologue and the next three are reactions on Sansa's part and the Starks. My very next chapter, Summer, will include a small time skip(a couple of months from this day) and be from Arya's POV. Sansa's next chapter will be chapter seven, Earth.
~Happy Reading,
Moon Witch '96