Chapter 11: Shared Secret

After she left his room Sansa tried to think of what to do with what she'd learned and what happened. He wasn't her brother but her cousin. He was was rightful heir to the Iron Throne. He'd kissed her back. What she wanted and what would happen would be different, but she still found herself hoping, just like that naive girl with a head full of songs.

It was easy enough to avoid him the next day. Jon spent most of his day riding around the camp and checking supplies with the lords while Sansa, Brienne and Podrick met with those Jon had assigned to her guard. To her surprise she found mostly women and two men, spearwives and free folk she recognized. Ones Jon was closer to, ones he trusted, so she trusted them as much as she could.

Supper was somber, quiet compared to some of the others they'd had. Eventually they all retired for the night, and though she'd contemplated going to speak with him she decided to let him rest before they marched out early in the morning. To her joy she found Ghost waiting beside her door to join her for the night.

Dawn came and she rode beside Jon with the other lords, keeping with him until they settled for the night. Podrick and some of her guard took to raising her tent before she had even dismounted, setting it beside Jon's. After thanking them all she and Brienne joined them around the fire for supper.

She was laughing at one of their crude jokes when she noticed Jon stride over to Davos and Tormund, pulling them from their conversation for a quick word before departing. Her smile faltered, but she pushed it back as she turned her attention to her guards and laughed at Laul's rude gesture to a passing Thenn.

Once they'd finished eating, Sansa made her way toward her tent and heard voices from inside Jon's. Curiosity got the better of her and she tried to listen in but their voices were quiet until Tormund scoffed.

"Don't see how it changes anything. You're still a southron prick."

Jon laughed. "Thanks, Tormund."

Realizing what was happening, Sansa called into the tent. "Jon?"

After a moment he called back. "Come in, Sansa."

Opening the flap to enter she found Jon stood with Davos, Tormund, Melisandre, and Howland Reed. Sansa looked to them all before turning to Jon. "They know?"

Jon seemed pleased she'd put it together while the others seemed shocked she did. "I just told them. I was thinking of telling Brienne as well, but I felt it wasn't my place to call on your sworn sword."

"Why make it a secret?" asked Tormund. "What does it matter whose cunt you came from or whose prick planted you there? S'not as if knowing means you haven't lived the life you have, become the man you are. Crow, free folk, southron shit, it doesn't matter. You're Jon Snow."

Sansa had never appreciated Tormund as much as she did then, seeing Jon's lips quirk into a smile, casting a brief glance her way before he nodded. "Thank you, Tormund. Truly."

Tormund gave him a firm nod, seeing it had affected Jon. "Still have a little prick for a god."

Jon sighed, shaking his head and looking to Davos and Melisandre. The Red Woman wore a smug smile, as though she'd always known the truth. "King's blood flows through your veins, Jon Snow. It's no wonder not even death could stop you. Men will tremble before you, earth will quake because you demand it, the sun will rise because you make it. You are the Prince Who Was Promised, hidden by a lie."

Davos sighed as though he agreed with her but wished he didn't. "This could work either way. They may turn against you in the end, fear you'll be another southron king come to take what isn't his. Or they could see all you've done for them, see how much you take from your mother and the man who raised you as his son. I can't say I know which they'll think, but I believe only a fool would deny the man you are."

"I'm not king," Jon said shaking his head.

Davos crossed his arms. "What else would you call yourself? Forget who fathered you, think of all you've done. You've brought together more than half the houses of the North to march beside the free folk and reclaim your home. They know you as a bastard, and yet every lord here comes to you. The men all look to you as much as their own lords. You've seen more than any man here, you've died and risen again, you know what lies beyond the wall and the kingdoms below. Who better than you to be king when the Long Night comes?"

"I'm not a king, I'm-"

A bastard. They all knew the words that hung on his lips, the lie her father had told them all. The lie that colored his entire life. The lie that made her mother hate him and made Sansa ignore him. Sansa had never been more disappointed in her father than she was watching Jon struggle to admit what he was.

"You're my king," said Sansa, drawing their eyes. "When we win and retake Winterfell I'll be the Stark in Winterfell. I don't believe they'll doubt you, but if they do then they'll be loyal to me, and I'll always be loyal to you. You're a king, Jon. Maybe not in name, not yet, but you are. The same way you'll always be a Stark, no matter your name."

Tormund grinned as he nodded, looking to Jon. "We ain't kneelers like you southron shits, but free folk would never move for a man who hadn't earned it." He placed a hand on Jon's shoulder with a grunt. "No crow or lord's earned it before, only Mance, but you're the one got us past the Wall. I doubt there's any more deserving your Iron Throne either."

Jon looked to each of them, taking them in with a breath. "Aegon Targaryen. Jon Snow. I'll be whoever I need to helps us win."

"And that's why you deserve it," Sansa said walking over to placed a hand on his elbow. "If you can't trust yourself… trust us, Jon."

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

They were the only ones Jon told his secret, deciding it best to wait until the first war was won before they risk losing the next. Sansa found herself watching him more than usual, taking note of how he sat tall no matter who he rode with, spoke as equal to soldier and lord alike. He held their attention when he spoke.

She found she enjoyed the company of her guards as well, though at times she felt a pang of sorrow at how much some of the spearwives reminded her of Arya. Ever since they first saw the dagger she kept with her as they rode, the spear wives had taken to her as well. Laul spent an hour every day talking about how she should fight, telling Sansa of how she'd fought off a dozen men before letting Rothin take her as his wife, how she still had nightmares that she would see him again with blue eyes and rotted flesh.

"I see you're getting along with your fireguard," Tormund said one day as they sat around a fire.

Looking up from her stew she asked, "Fireguard?"

Tormund snickered. "Your little guard group. Jon told us about how you kneelers have a kingsguard and he wanted to make one for you. Some of the lads took to the name once they saw you."

"After they saw me?"

"You're kissed by fire," he motioned to his hair, grinning, "like me."

Sansa chuckled. "I suppose so."

"It means we're lucky."

Sansa nodded. "That we are."

"I suppose it's best he surround himself with us," Tormund said with a nod to Jon, sat between Lyanna Mormont and Harwood Stout. "Not many I've met had worse luck, even before he died. Riding off to war after you've been murdered is a special kind of fucked."

Sansa's snicker grew to a laugh, her shoulders shaking. Glancing over to Jon she remembered he was doing this for her. She'd been the one who wanted to retake Winterfell. She'd started him on this path before he died, before she wanted to run from it all, but he kept her to it. He knew there'd always be a part of her that wanted it.

"I guess we're meant to make up for it all."

Tormund looked to her with a smirk. "Maybe we are."

Once they'd settled in for the night, Sansa made her way to Jon's tent. Opening the flap she found Jon sat on his small cot swirling the ale within the mug he held between his legs.

His eyes rose, barely lit by the candle burning in the corner. "Sansa?"

"Do you mind?" she asked, holding the flap until he shook his head and she stepped inside. She made her way toward him, sitting next to him on the bed. "How many have you told so far?"

"No one else since Brienne."

Sansa smiled remembering the tall woman's gawking face before she knelt and called him 'your grace'. He'd smiled and asked her not to call him that, saying she was one of a handful who knew so far and he'd rather not have people thinking he assumes himself their king.

Sansa held the edge of the mattress, leaning forward slightly to look at Jon. "I don't regret it," she said quietly. He turned to her and she clarified, "Kissing you." Facing forward she sighed. "I've wanted to do that since Castle Black. It was mostly out of relief when I first saw you, and again when you woke up. After that… I wanted to kiss you like that when you said we would go home."

Jon's head slipped forward, smiling. "It was there when I woke up," he admitted, making her turn to look at him, shocked. "I worried maybe I'd come back wrong or twisted, but it was like I knew you hadn't left me and I didn't want you to leave, not ever again. After that it just… grew.

"When Howland told me about the lie I was angry because of what it did to my life. I was sad because it stole the only family I ever knew. I hated myself because even knowing what he said I keep thinking of every story they told us growing up, how Rhaegar took her and raped her, and I wondered if maybe Howland lied too and I'm just a bastard born of rape, the same as Ramsay."

"You're nothing like him," Sansa assured.

A hollow laugh came from his throat. "The only thing that made me glad for it wasn't the throne, but the thought that it meant maybe I wasn't as awful as I feared." He looked to her. "Maybe it wasn't all bad."

"Maybe not," she said reaching for his cheek, leaning forward where Jon met her with his lips.

Jon let the mug drop from his hand, his left hand pressing into the mattress as he turned to deepen their kiss, slipping his right through her hair. Her right slid along his jaw to the back of his head, her left pressing against the muscles of his chest through his jerkin and tunic. Their tongues brushed as she went to brush hers against his lips.

The leather on her palm and the feel of his chest beneath made her want more. She wanted to touch every part of him, to have him touch every part of her.

Instead he pulled his lips from hers, sighing as he rested his forehead against hers.

Her fingers brushed through his hair while she caught her breath, keeping her eyes closed until she felt him move back and met his gaze. Slowly a wry smile crept across his lips. Sansa snickered, shaking her head as they separated.

"I'll see you in the morning," she said placing a kiss on his cheek before rising to leave. "I don't want my fireguard to worry." That earned a laugh from Jon, who picked his mug off the floor.

She felt like a girl again, half worried her mother would suddenly walk through and find them. Gods, her mother would be so angry… but she was a fool. Even if her father lied to them, Jon never deserved her mother's anger. Then again it seemed Jon rarely got what he deserved.

Maybe she could help him find the happiness he deserved.