The Song of Winter
By MADJACKc1940
This work is original to GRRM, I claim no credit to his books or the show.
Note: I'm caught up (not recently) on the latest book and I have watched the whole show. Writing in a fictional world this complex is difficult for a lot of reasons. As a result, if there are some holes between where I'm starting it with fine details in the original work, I apologize, but I'm just going to jump right in.
Chapter 1
Sansa sat stone-faced next to her bastard half-brother as all of North cheered his new title, "King in the North! King in the North! King in the North! Long live Jon Snow!" She gripped her chair nervously, not for fear of her kin's new status, but out of consternation over all the looming threats to come. To the North, was the Night King plotting the destruction of all living things. To the South, were the Lannisters and all the madness of the court of the Iron Throne. There was fresh word that The Mother of Dragons was marshalling her armies to cross the Narrow Sea to make her move on Westeros, her three full-grown dragons in company.
In her late experience, Sansa had only known the reality of a complete lack of control. From the time she had left Winterfell with her father at the young age of four and ten, her life had been that of a twig in a relentless current. She had been a trophy, paraded and wedded for legitimacy or amusement. Three times she was engaged. Twice she was married. Once she was divorced. And recently she was now widowed, although the death of Ramsay Bolton by her own action was perhaps the greatest act of rebellion to her wayward existence that she had yet taken.
Sansa, now seven and ten, finally felt as though she had some measure of control. She was still a twig, but the current of her life had settled to a slower pace, at least for the moment. She recalled seeing Jon for the first time in years and feeling the first sense of stability she had felt since just before her father's execution. It had almost been frightening in of itself; her experience with Bolton had her questioning every feeling of security in case it might be a façade in order to give her fresh terror. But when Jon had rushed up to her and threw his arms around his long-lost sibling, she knew it was real. It was real, and that kindled a fire within her to ensure that this time, her sense of security stayed.
With her new position as the Lady of Winterfell, she was going to use all the influence she had to keep the remnants of her small family safe and secure in their position. Just like her father always used to say, "The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives." Which brought her back to her current conundrum. The North did not have a good history in the Game of Thrones. Her father had been executed a traitor in King's Landing. Her brother Robb, her mother, and the strength of the northern armies had been killed at the Twins in the Red Wedding. Jon had reputedly died and been resurrected at the Wall, after being declared a traitor to the Night's Watch. This was a feat she did not yet know if she believed. Even now, one of the veteran players of the Game, and perhaps the most devious of them all now stood amid the celebrations for her brother.
Petyr Baelish stayed aside in the great hall of the Winterfell with his Vale knights. He eyed Jon Snow, his face expressionless. His gaze flicked to her and back to Jon. She knew not what could be going through his head. The guile of the man was unknowable. His savviness had raised him up from a minor Riverland House to the Small Counsel in King's Landing, culminating in his ascension as Regent to the Lord of the Vale, her cousin Robyn Arryn, through his marriage to her late aunt, mad Lysa Arryn. The only thing that had kept Sansa alive through her time at King's Landing had been the man's affection to her late mother and Sansa's notable resemblance to the woman. This had been the motive for Baelish to assist her escape from the claws of the Lions, which had likely saved Sansa's life. But even her appearance wasn't enough to overcome Baelish's own self-serving nature, as he wed Sansa to Ramsay Bolton in order to gain influence in the North. Influence that was now in question with Ramsay's death and his lack of control over the actions of the North's new king.
This threat to Petyr Baelish's power had Sansa the most nervous of all the threats arrayed against her family. For whatever reason he had his knights rush to the aid of Jon's losing force in the Battle of the Bastards. This action wasn't made out of mere good will. Littlefinger was a veteran of the Game, and everything he did was a calculated gamble meant to advance his standing, which was always at someone else's expense and right now Jon had the most to lose. Sansa knew she was going to have to act fast to outplay Baelish. The answer was as simple as involving Jon.
The nobility and sense of honor that Ned Stark had instilled in his sons was both a blessing and a curse as far as ruling was concerned. In the North, those traits stood for something. A man was only as good as his word. If a man stuck his neck out south of Moat Cailin and still held to those virtues, it wouldn't be long before his head would roll. Those virtues received lip service in the court of the Iron Throne, but the real power laid in gold and intelligence. The North was of a different cut. As the late conflict proved, dishonorable northern houses would be humbled, and men of virtue would be uplifted. Sansa knew that this goodness and integrity, though deemed naïve in the South, had to be protected in the North. Schemers like Littlefinger did not belong here. And his underestimation of the North's cold integrity was going to be his undoing.
She was drawn out of her thoughts by Jon speaking to her. The reverie of his impromptu coronation had died down and food and ale had been broken out in celebration for some time during her lengthy ponderance. She regarded her half-brother sitting next to her at the high table. "I'm sorry, Your Grace, my mind was elsewhere. Please repeat your question."
"None of this 'Your Grace' business between us, my lady," Jon chuckled warmly, "to the best of our knowledge, we're all that remains of House Stark." They both paused at the fresh memory of what had happened to their youngest brother Rickon. Jon had already apologized profusely to Sansa for failing to rescue him. She had merely shaken her head, brought to tears at the time, and denied him any responsibility in Rickon's death. He glanced at her, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring that up. What I mean to say, is that I know we were distant from each other before the family separated years ago…"
Sansa met his gaze, "I'm sorry for being cold to you back then." This was also a settled apology. She had already broached the issue after their embrace at Castle Black and Jon had waved off her concern over the issue then, just as he did again now.
"It's in the past, my lady," Jon stated simply, "I wanted to say, with my being crowned, I don't want there to be any new barriers between us. Right now, you and I are all we have left, and we need to cling to that, just like Father would have wanted. I find myself reflective. I was thinking of visiting the crypt and seeing Father and Rickon, would you like to join me?"
Sansa nodded after a moment, "I would like that…Jon." It took a small effort to break from her training as a lady to dispense with formal title. His sentiment warmed her. She couldn't think of any other person she would feel comfortable with trusting at this point in her life except a close blood relative. Her experience now showed her how much she had taken her large family for granted, especially her half-brother and her only sister. Wherever Arya was, she prayed she was safe. If she was still alive. "Also, please call me Sansa if I'm to address you without title. It is your preference, after all," she continued with a small smile. She visited the crypt frequently in the last few days, but she hadn't had company since Rickon's interment which was only she, Jon, Ghost, and a few assistants. This would also give her a perfect opportunity to confer with Jon about her concerns in true privacy.
Jon nodded at her assent to visit the crypt. They waited a little while longer while Sansa finished her meal. She had only been picking at it and sipping her wine during her contemplation. When she set her goblet down, she nodded at Jon, and he rose to his feet. The din of conversation quieted as the king left his chair. He made a quick address to his bannermen. "My loyal Lords," Jon began, "tonight is truly a momentous night!"
"Hear, hear!" yelled the lords.
"I am humbled by your decision to put your faith in me as you did for my brother and our father before him. Never did I ever see such an occasion happening when my family separated years ago. I am but a bastard, after all. Going forward, I hope to be half the leader that my father was. But above all, I will strive to keep a strong and independent Northern kingdom. For too long has the treacherous reach of the Iron Throne held sway over the honorable North! Go now to your rest, and sleep peacefully in the knowledge that integrity is once again restored to the land. To Lord Baelish and his Vale knights, we thank you for your aid and we will be sure to address the debt we owe to you at court within the next few days." The North raised their glasses in the direction of the men of the Vale. For a split second, Sansa could see the flash of ambition across the face of Littlefinger before it was quickly schooled into a benign smile in the direction of the assembled northern lords. "My Lady Sister and I will now retire for the night. We will address further business on the morrow."
Jon then held out his hand for Sansa and assisted her to her feet. They departed the great hall shoulder to shoulder. Sansa could feel the gaze of Littlefinger on her back until they rounded a corner and disappeared. She shivered noticeably as they went outside into the cold night air. Jon noticed and put a hand around her shoulder, pulling her closer to him for warmth. His arm remained across the back of her thick, dark-blue cloak as they walked through the courtyard to the entrance of the crypt. Small flecks of snow fell from the dark sky, it was a few hours past dusk. "You've spent too much time in the South if this cold is enough to make you quake," Jon stated amusedly. Sansa didn't mention that it wasn't the cold, but the gaze of Baelish that had unsettled her and had made her shiver. They would discuss the man soon enough once they were away from open ears. Her disquiet was settled by the feel of Jon's arm across her shoulders. This had her wondering. She actively avoided the contact of men after her awful experiences in King's Landing and her marriage bed with Ramsay Bolton. But she felt no discomfort at Jon's casual contact with her.
A torch burned in a sconce at the entrance to the dark passage that led deep into the foundations of the castle. Jon removed his arm from Sansa's shoulders, contact she found herself missing, and removed the torch from its place. He examined the torch to estimate the amount of time it would remain burning and nodded at what he determined to be enough for a long visit in the crypt. He put the torch in his opposite hand and reached for Sansa's own gloved hand. A gesture which she gratefully accepted. Jon looked her over in the torchlight. Her hair was drawn back in a northern braid befitting the Lady of Winterfell. Small flakes of snow settled in her hair and across her cloak. She truly was a remarkable beauty. He eyed her hair, which he couldn't stop comparing to the fiery locks of his late first love. She is my sister! He thought to himself. But he couldn't always rein himself in. Sansa had always had a distant appeal to him, especially after she had started isolating herself from her brothers at the behest of her lady mother. Back then he had never viewed Sansa with any more thought than that she was his beautiful sister. But she had always set an unreachable ideal for him at the time. She was the archetype of the cold, beautiful highborn Lady that was beyond him as a simple bastard.
His once-limited prospects as a highborn bastard left a remaining sense of inferiority that he found difficult reconciling with his new station. The reduced decorum in Northern society meant that pomp and gravitas were less necessary. Legitimacy still mattered, but to a lesser extent than the other six Kingdoms. Tradition and merit were valued higher, which aided in his ascension as King in the North. With the general distrust of the South and the hatred of the Lions shared by much of the Northern nobility, Jon's bastard heritage mattered much less in view of his reputation and connection to the honorable Ned Stark. The Starks of Winterfell had ruled the North for a thousand years. It was the way of things, and such establishment went even deeper than valued tradition. The Starks' history was more highly regarded than the origins of any other Great House's lineage within their own realms. Any other option was simply taboo.
The pair descended the steps into the crypt. The chill from the air remained deep into the tunnel. But to the Northern siblings it was no hindrance. Sansa took after her mother in looks, but she was a Direwolf at her core. Jon had faced much worse conditions from his time in the Watch. They progressed through the passage, passing the silent tombs of their forebears until they came upon the cold visage of their father's statue. Sansa regarded the silent gaze of her father's effigy. "I wish we could've found a carver who had known father's likeness better," she stated.
Jon nodded in agreement. "Most of the old castle staff are dead or gone," Jon reminded her. The carver of Ned Stark's statue had to make do with secondhand descriptions of their father from before the Boltons had taken control of their home. "I'm surprised the Bolton occupiers didn't destroy this place," said Jon, looking at the other tombs.
"Ramsay Bolton was more concerned with desecrating the living than the dead," Sansa mentioned coldly, another shiver passing through her frame at the memory of her terrible, late husband. She felt a tingle in some of the scars the man had left on her body, some still not fully healed. Jon pulled her to him again, an arm around her shoulders in comfort. She hadn't confessed exactly what the man had done to her, but his brutal reputation of cruelty and Sansa's body language when discussing him implied enough. He was also aware of how Bolton died, she never confessed to that either and he didn't ask any questions. "Roose and to a lesser extent his bastard…sorry Jon," she winced at her casual dismissal of illegitimate children that her mother had ingrained in her, a habit she was quickly trying to drop, "they weren't unaware of their tenuous hold on the North. Even with me wedded to Ramsay, they were wise enough not to rub salt in the wounds of our family in view of the rest of our bannermen."
Jon nodded in understanding. They looked upon their father's tomb in silence for several moments, paying respect to the memory of the Quiet Wolf. Rickon's tomb sat next to that of their father. Sansa knelt and placed a hand of Rickon's tomb. She pulled a winter rose from her cloak and placed it between the two resting places. "Do you think we're all that's left of our family?" she asked Jon without looking up.
"I don't know," Jon replied thoughtfully, "before we knew of Rickon's survival, the rumors were that he and Bran had been burnt by the Greyjoys. And yet, Rickon lived. Bran may still be out there…although with his condition, I don't know how he would have made it. Uncle Benjen has been missing beyond the Wall for years now. He is likely dead." Sansa did look up at this, they hadn't discussed their uncle. She didn't know how to process this news. She loved her distant uncle, but it wasn't as large of a blow considering their youngest brother's recent discovery and subsequent loss. "What of Arya, do you think that she lives?"
They had briefly discussed their youngest sister, only to conclude that she was likely dead. But with the revelation of Rickon's survival, the hope for their other sibling's survival had rekindled. "If she made it out of King's Landing, I like to think that she could have made it…" Sansa considered, "she was always so scrappy and resourceful. I don't know how she could have made it out though, with all the Gold Cloaks looking for her. The Lannisters said that she had been killed, but that would have been the better official statement to admitting that she had slipped through their grasp. In hindsight, if she had been killed, her body would have likely been brought before the court, or just me in private to torment me…"
Jon nodded. His mind trying to wrap around this twisted logic of the machinations of the Southern court. He was committed to ensuring that his court would not be so cutthroat. "When you explain it like that, it makes me question the wisdom of our family going south at all. Perhaps it would have been better for father to refuse Robert Baratheon's offer for the position of Hand and to live in disfavor to the Crown but remain in the North with all the family together. The consequences of that decision may have been considerably less than the journey into that nest of vipers."
Sansa stood and faced her brother. She placed her arm around his and drew close to his side. "Jon, I have been wishing to speak to you about just such a thing, especially away from the ears of others. You can't understate the importance of Northern independence, just like you mentioned in your speech to the bannermen tonight. Independence not only of the Iron Throne, but of the ideals of the Southern court and those same vipers who would try to foster those ideals in the North. Starks don't do well in the South, father knew this, and went there anyway…this has been worrying me greatly. Because right now, we have one of those vipers in our midst, and he is perhaps one of the most cunning that there was from my time in King's Landing. I do not wish to see you led astray."
Jon considered her words. "You speak of Baelish?"
Sansa shivered again at his side. "How did you know?" she questioned.
"I may have been raised to be a man of honor like the rest of our siblings, but my time at the Wall has made me more aware of the threat of these dishonest types of people. I have been betrayed and bear the scars of my mistakes. I know not to overly rely on the quality of Northern ideals being ingrained as well as Father had them learned in us. I'm waiting to hear what Baelish plans to do with the debt we owe for his aid. I am wary of what we can do to refuse him if he requests something we cannot afford to give."
"I have an idea," Sansa answered, "if you would hear my opinion on this issue." She did not yet know how Jon planned on delineating their shared authority, his new position so fresh. He was King in the North with his seat of power naturally being Winterfell. But he called her the Lady of Winterfell, and they were both children of Ned Stark, him also being the eldest. For all intents and purposes, he was now the head of her family. He could have her wed to secure his position without her consent and she would accept his decision as a dutiful highborn lady. As much as she dreaded such a thought, she was confident that it would not come to pass. Jon would not subject her to that, it was not in his nature to put her through such another ordeal. That did not, however, confirm that he valued her opinion on other matters regarding ruling. The treatment he had received from her late mother and from their siblings at her mother's behest, treatment that she had been the worst at continuing, did not bode well for her in his value of her opinions, even if he claimed that her poor treatment of him was forgiven.
Jon considered her. "I have been around the vipers for some time now…" Sansa continued, "I know of their ways and how they function. Knowledge of their nature has only convinced me of the superiority of Northern ideals, even if cunning must sometimes be met with cunning if we find ourselves faced with such an opponent. If we respond with underhanded methods for the preservation of our own ideals, then…we should do what we must. But only if we are forced to do so and with much restraint."
Jon sighed and nodded, recognizing the validity of her statement. He didn't know exactly what she had in mind with regards to "underhanded methods," but he knew that such innocence in refusing these tactics had ultimately been their father's downfall. He would do what he must, but he wouldn't enjoy it like the snakes south of the Neck. "Of course, I will hear your plan on this issue," he stated, "Sansa, yours is one of the few opinions I trust right now. Don't hesitate to be direct with me. It is as I said before, I don't want there to be any barriers between us, even more so when we are alone or in close company."
Sansa answered this assurance with one of the warmest smiles she could remember making since before her father's death. Even when she had seen Jon for the first time at Castle Black, her feeling was less of familial warmth and more of panicked relief. "Then here is what I think we should do with Petyr Baelish…"
