When Jon thought about it, he wished he had been the one to kill that damned Ramsay Bolton. He'd come close to it of course, maybe a few punches shy of it, but then he'd saw Sansa and something inside of him had broke. The look in her blue eyes had been clear the day and Jon knew he had to let her have it. He had to allow her to rise above the monster that had hurt her, the bastard son that had stolen from her so very much.

And so he'd pulled himself free from Ramsay and called for his men to take him away, to be chained up and left for Sansa to do with as she pleased. He had told her so that same night, before he had retired to his rooms to clean himself up. He had stripped himself of his bloody, disgusting clothes and washed until every inch of him was clean. When the chamberlain had done away with the bloody water and rags, he'd waved away the healing woman at his door, her basket of supplies there in her hands. "Your injuries-" she began, but Jon turned away, pulling back the blankets on his bed. He had offered this room to Sansa, but she'd denied him, saying she would be fine in the smaller quarters just down the hall. It took a moment longer but the woman knew she would not win this argument and rather closed the door behind her as she disappeared down the hall.

Pouring himself a strong mug of ale, he drowned it in one large gulp and slammed the cup back down onto his table. Adrenaline still yet coursed through his veins as images from the battle flashed before his eyes. So very close they had come to losing, he himself close to losing the life he'd had restored. But then, because of Sansa's meddling, they had won. He would be ever thankful for her decision to reach out to Petyr Baelish, even if he didn't trust the man. And though he'd wished that Sansa had spoken to him in regards to her planning, he would not fault her for it; he recalled the words she'd spoken to him weeks ago, when they had first been reunited,that she would die before returning to Bolton. He never would have allowed her to return to that monster, but had she not inteferred, he might truly not have been able to protect her as he'd promised to do.

Climbing into his bed, Jon pulled the covers close to his chest, burying himself beneath the furs as he'd once done as a child. Beneath the covers, even for a few short hours, he was safe and he was warm. There in bed, he could finally rest knowing Ramsay Bolton was in chains in his own prison cell, that he could no longer hurt Sansa or anyone else for that matter. And so Jon closed his eyes and slept, a long dreamless sleep he'd not had in many weeks. Even if but for this one single night, he could rest.

[ x x x ]

What drew him from his slumber the next morning was the sunlight pouring in through his curtains. Cursing beneath his breath, Jon rolled over onto his side and already he could hear the sound of his chamberlain knocking on the door. "My lord," the older man greeted as he entered, ignoring Jon's sound of protest at such a greeting. "Your wounds still yet need tending." The man went on as he approached the bedside, knowing well that his master had needed the sleep he'd gotten that night. How many sleepless nights had Jon Snow had in these last few months? Far too many. "Allow me to call a maester."

As Jon sat up, he gave a single shake of his head, gesturing for the man to throw him the clean pair of breeches draped over a chair. "Call my sister, if you must call someone." Her hands were so much gentler than any of the maesters and if they insisted upon dressing his wounds, then it would be by someone he trusted with his very life.

"I shall call upon her my lord, though it is said she was ill most of last night." The man bowed and headed to the door, hoping to escape before Jon could question him further, knowing it was not his place to tell the man what the servants already whispered of his sister. But then he paused, turning back to look at the man who very well could become their newest King. "My lord, Ramsay Bolton is dead." And then he was gone, allowing the door to fall closed behind him, leaving Jon to his own racing mind. Ramsay... Dead? Then that meant Sansa had done what he had expected of her. Perhaps that explained this illness of hers. Taking a life... No matter how evil of a life it was, it was life changing. Now he had to wonder if he should have shoulder the burden of death for her, regardless of her need for revenge against the man that had hurt her so. Perhaps he should not have allowed her to stain her hands with Ramsay's blood.

So he waited, anxious to see her face in the doorway, heart pounding as he waited to hear her name announced at his door. Several minutes later, Jon had swung his aching legs over the edge of his bed, pulling on the clean breeches moments before the guard at his door announced her arrival. When Sansa came through the door, Jon could not help but to take a moment to drink in the sight of her; pale and drawn, her hair loose about her face and dressed in a dark and somber gown of black. She looked worse than he felt, in truth. "I had wondered how long they'd allow you to remain abed," her attempt at a jest brought a smile to his lips and he rose to his feet. Only then did he realize how very painful his various wounds felt, how tight and aching his body truly was. His knees threatened to give way beneath his weight, but then Sansa was there, steadying him enough so he might cross the room and drop down onto the chair, where she could better attend to his wounds.

It was as she began to tend to a sword cut on his left bicep that he spoke, leaning in as he caught a whiff of her familiar scent. "They said you were ill last night." Sansa drew back then, hands ceasing their movements as her blue eyes found his brown. "Sansa..." She sat back on her hunches, black gown gathered all around her as she sat there on the ground beside his chair, blue eyes widening in her pale features.

"Indeed," she finally responded, careful of the words she used to explain to her brother the reason behind her illness. There was no reason to express to him the truth, or to anyone really. She knew servants would talk, but she would never speak the truth to anyone ever again. Only she and Brienne would ever know what she'd cast away the night before. "It is only my courses, if you must know." She spoke a bit more sharper than intended and returned to her work, winding a bandage around the wound which she'd already covered in a healing salve. When she glanced up a moment later, it was only to find Jon yet still staring at her, a look of sympathy in his eyes that she couldn't stand to see. "That is all." She spoke softly, looking as if she dared him to disagree.

Something unspoken fell between them and then Jon gave a single nod, allowing himself to believe the words that she spoke to him. In silence she finished bandaging his wounds and it was as she rose to her feet that another knock came to his door. Again appeared the chamberlain, who smiled upon the young woman before speaking to his master. "Lord Manderly and the others have arrived, my lord." Beside him, Sansa shifted and then nodded as well, knowing well why the men had come. "I shall tell them you will recieve them shortly." And then he was gone.

"It's time then." Sansa spoke first, turning to her brother with the smallest of smiles. "King in the North." Jon felt a pounding in his heart but gave a small nod, as if to say if we must. And then Sansa slipped her arm through his and together, perhaps the last two remaining Stark's, made their way down to stand before the lords of Winterfell, where the next chapter would begin to unfold.