A/N:

It's really hard not to bring in too many book!facts since this story is show-based. But I have done the best I can.

As always, thank you to those who have read and reviewed this experiment of a story.

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Chapter 8 - Liberality: New Ways, New Words

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Jon flexes his burned hand as he watches a boy younger than Olly once was, break stone with a hammer too big for him to carry. The boy has sweat on his brow regardless of the snow, and his fingers are too small to hold the handle well.

"You should watch yourself," he says by way of a friendly greeting, waiting for the boy to see him and drop his tools in a panic before bowing haphazardly. "The last thing we need is for our stonemason's apprentice to suffer an injury."

The boy smiles shyly as he wipes his hands on a dirty rag. "Aye... Your Grace. I try. How can we help you then?"

Jon laughs. "You need not call me that. I'm looking for Henly. It's time to focus on the work to be done in the South Tower. Where is he?"

The boy looks at him in confusion, his next words almost a stutter. "Why, he's…. He's in the crypt... m'lord. Like he's always been."

"The crypt?"

"Aye. He's been working in the crypt for three weeks past. He doesn't let me go down there. He says a boy my age shouldn't."

Jon thanks the boy as quickly as he can, his own confusion rising as he trudges through the snow, his thoughts far from occupied by what it should be. He welcomes the distraction. He is yet to respond with a raven to the alliance offered by a Hand of the Queen who claims a war to the South will be greater than any battle Westeros has ever seen. Jon wishes he could take the youngest Lannister with him beyond the Wall to show him what a true battle will be. He has no answer as yet. He could not care less who sits on the Iron Throne, so long as the men he has, have sufficient weapons to kill the monsters the cold brings.

As he nears the entrance to the crypt, Jon hesitates. He remembers the dreams that he once had. The crypts had called to him, the darkness too dense for him to do anything but scream. He remembers the way the kings of old, with blades across their laps and direwolves around their feet had risen from their thrones, yelling at him to leave this place. They told him that he had no place here.

He has not had that dream for a long while. As it were, he does not dream as he once used to. He has not dreamt since life was given to him once again. Perhaps, that is the singular blessing that has happened from what the Red Woman had done to him.

Jon remembers how silent the crypt used to be, how Arya once was so frightened that he had worn flour in his hair and pretended to be a ghost to scare her. She had hit him with little fists right after and he had laughed so hard that his belly hurt. He wonders where she is now. He prays that she is safe.

As he descends the cold, stone steps, Jon hears the unmistakable sound of men at work. The fires burn hot and bright, the heat enough to make him want to shed the fur he wears.

He follows the fires to the top most level of the crypt where the bones of the recent Lords of Winterfell rest. The sound of metal against stone drowning his footfalls as he comes closer to the place where the tombs of his father, and his father's father's tombs before him, resides.

As he enters that part of the crypt, he sees her.

Sansa has her back to him as she speaks to the stonemason, her hair like fire in the dark halls. His chest collapses, as it always does when he sees her, his steps becoming slower, the closer he moves towards her.

It is by chance when he sees the work of the stonemason and his workers. His chest hurts when he sees Robb's likeness near his father. Something else, something deep in his chest cheers and screams and cries, when he sees the tomb being shaped beside Robb.

"Sansa." He says her name softly, but his voice carries in the dark hall and they all stop their work. His half-sister eyes him in panic, and he knows he has caught her in an act that she did not want to be found guilty of.

He steps towards her, his eyes only on her. "This is not right."

"Jon—"

"Leave us," he says forcefully, and he watches, as with a final glance towards their Lady, the masons put down their tools and leave the dark hallway. Jon waits until he does not hear their footfalls, his expression one of disappointment. "What are you doing?"

"I know you don't approve."

"I'm not a Stark," he says angrily. "I have no place here."

He watches as her eyes narrow at him. She stands straighter, her gaze blazing with anger. "You can say it however many times you want, that won't make it true."

He wishes he could shake her. He wishes he could make her understand. "The crypt is meant for the Lords of Winterfell," he says slowly, almost as if he is explaining this to a child. "Only Starks have tombs here. Not Bastards."

"I don't care."

Her words anger him further. "Sansa—"

"Father didn't care either. Before him, only Lords were given tombs. Father broke that tradition by making tombs for his siblings. You are our brother, aren't you?"

He falters, as he always does when she uses sense against him. "I am not a Stark," he says finally, his voice defeated.

"You know I don't see you that way. Not now. Robb never did. Neither did Arya, Bran or Rickon. You were a Stark to them from the day they were born." She looks away from him, her voice soft. "I was wrong to call you what I did when I was young."

Her words make him feel better and worse. He thinks of how her lips were sweet against his and how her hand had cupped his cheek. He doesn't want to be her brother. He would give anything to not be. He would even give up the name Stark, as much as it pains him.

He wishes she knew how much her actions hurt him.

"You need to take this down," he says finally, his voice thick. "You need to burn it."

She looks at him stubbornly. "I won't."

"Then I will have it done."

"If you do so, I will have no choice but to replace it."

He feels defeated by her words and actions. He does not understand why this is so important to her. "Why are you doing this?" he asks finally, his voice tired.

She shrugs, her eyes wet. "I'm trying to make amends." She smiles through her tears and his chest hurts at the sight. "I was awful to you."

He shakes his head. "You weren't."

"I was. I didn't love you the way I loved Robb. I didn't love you like a brother. Did you love me? Like you loved Arya?"

He feels the word stuck in his throat, but he says it, even though it comes out barely above a whisper. "No."

She nods, because she always knew his answer. "It's my fault we are what we are. I didn't love you the way I should have loved a brother. Because of that, I've never seen you as my brother. Do you see me as your sister?"

Jon falters, and then he shakes his head. He wishes he could step closer to her. He wishes he could take the tears falling down her cheeks that pain him as much as they pain her.

"If I only loved you as a brother and you loved me as a sister…" She does not finish her words. He watches as she rubs the tears from her eyes delicately, her smile saddened. "You are all I have. I don't want us to be strangers."

"We're not strangers," he says, although he does not believe it.

"We are," she says sadly. "You don't speak to me. You barely look at me." Her laugh is soft and pained. "Even now we could put half a Kingsguard between us."

"What do you want from me?" he asks, saddened by how he has no answer. He cannot step closer to her, no matter how much he desires it.

"I want you to be my brother," she says through tears. "I want you to be a Stark. I want you to love me as a brother loves his sister and I want to love you like a sister loves her brother." She watches him with a yearning that he will never be able to understand. And he knows, that he must do this for her.

Her next words are a whisper, and it is sufficient for Jon to break the vow he had made to himself to touch her never again.

"That's what I want. Please, Jon."

He is impulsive by nature. He has been told this time and again from those who had raised him and from those who had known him for barely a moment. This is why he curses the Gods and moves towards her, his arms enveloping her so that his face could be buried in her hair. She cries against him, her body shaking with sobs, and his eyes fall on the tomb that she intends to be his. He looks more like their father than Robb ever did. Robb and Sansa had the colouring of a trout, as did their other siblings. Arya and Jon were more wolf than them all.

He stares at her hair—kissed by fire—at the soft strands that coat his fingers. He saw Robb as a brother, why not see Sansa as his sister?

She is his sister, he thinks, even as the stirrings inside him are far from honourable.

He is not Stark. He will never be a Stark. Yet, Sansa is his sister and he will treat her as such.