A.N.: Essay done! Now I can play for a little while! This chapter is dedicated to Ketsueko, in the hopes you'll grin and bear it for a little while as I get things in place for the story we both would rather be reading! And to spacevoyage, thank you for your lovely review!

Valyrian Steel

06

The Sharpest Blades

"Jon…"

He looked up from the table, littered with raven-scrolls and papers from the maesters, sums and estimations, and set down the census Maester Wolkan had gathered on all the able bodies who had arrived at Winterfell since he called the banners - their trade, their children, any skills with weapons. As much as he wanted to ensure every able-bodied person in the North could wield an obsidian dagger against the coming storm…a little voice inside his head, that had sounded suspiciously like Larra, had reminded him that they still had to believe that they might survive the Long Night, and that…they couldn't risk losing their craftsmen - their blacksmiths and joiners, crofters and carpenters, their hunters and tanners, cooks, butchers and millers. They had to go on planning for the future - even if it might never come.

Because there had to be that glimmer, that faint spark of hope…that maybe it would - maybe they could survive, maybe it would be enough…

They had to be prudent about who they risked.

So, a census. To figure out who…who they sacrificed.

Larra had called them her 'designated survivors'.

As children, Maester Luwin had taught them cyvasse. Robb had been especially brilliant at battle-strategy; Larra, cunning and cautious about committing to anything that would cause significant loss of life. And she always had her list. Her designated survivors - those who would be intrinsic in rebuilding after any significant conflict. And because it made sense, however horrible it sounded to place one person above any other, they had started to adapt their own strategies. Learning…they had always learned from each other, as much as Maester Luwin. Now, Jon was applying what he remembered from those cyvasse games, Larra's strategies for minimum-casualties…

His father had always told them, never ask a stranger to fight for you. Jon was asking them to die for him. For all the living North; for the world, truly.

It was a hateful thing to have to do. But it was necessary.

But…

Eyes aching in the candlelight, he knew it was well past the hour of the wolf. He'd get no rest, though, until he had faced the Night King. One way, or another, he'd rest.

If it didn't leave him sick to his stomach to think what might become of Sansa if he did, Jon would have given in to the desire simply to rest a good long while ago…

He'd been fighting since he left Winterfell, and even his return home had been marked with violence that had reached legendary status - the Battle of the Bastards. He had avenged the Red Wedding… He had fought on the moors before Winterfell; and now he fought almost daily in the Great Hall, arguing with, and trying to convince, his lords and ladies… Trying to convince them that a threat they didn't believe was real, could barely imagine, was real, and set on ending everything they held precious to them…

He was still fighting.

He almost wouldn't mind being one of those sacrificed to stop the Night King. If it meant his work was finished, his fight was over…if it meant Sansa was safe at Winterfell…but it was Sansa that kept him from giving in. As he'd said to her, the day she arrived at Castle Black, if he didn't watch over her, Father's ghost would come back and murder him…

After his own men had murdered him, his brothers, all Jon had wanted when they dragged him back was to walk away. To leave the Wall, leave the North, and just…rest. Stop fighting.

Go back to that cave…

It was the flicker of red hair. Sometimes he caught Sansa in the right light, and the glint of her hair shining like firelight made his heart clench in his chest, feeling the knife twist a second time. Like now.

She was no warrior, but sometimes, Jon could be forgiven for thinking Sansa shared some of Ygritte's ferocity. Tenacity, sternness tempered by her pain and strength and grief and hope, paired with the elegance he always remembered as intrinsic in Sansa. She had always been beautiful; now there was something cold and untouchable about her, something hostile and strong and warning, gentle to him and protective. Wolflike. She was more beautiful than he even remembered. And he hated - hated - that she sewed herself into her new dresses, lashed in by fiddly straps and thick leather belts and sharp needle-pointed chains, layers and layers of fabric - to protect herself. Here, at Winterfell, in her own home, she still came to the solar in the dark of night, her hair casually braided over her shoulder like a wolf's tail, as she would wear it to bed, but she was shrouded in a heavy wool cloak, wrapped around her quilted dress, into which she was tightly laced.

Jon, a practical Northman, with experience at the Wall, wore the same leathers in Father's solar as he wore on the battlefield: Sansa wore her quilted dress, tufted with raven-feathers, a tiny needle in her fist and leather bracing her waist, cinching everything in, the belt difficult to unbuckle, the dress impossible to wriggle out of. Even now, months later, she would not walk the halls of their home without her armour. Not even to see him.

Not when Littlefinger lingered, gazing hungrily at the Lady of Winterfell.

Jon wasn't stupid. His worst imaginings couldn't compare to what Sansa had endured - and she had; she had survived horrors beyond imagining, and proven that she was strong, and could never be broken… And he couldn't bear to ask her; knew she would never tell him. How could she? He couldn't put into words what it felt to be murdered: How could she tell him how it felt to be tortured?

In spite of all that…here she was. The Lady of Winterfell. The Stark in Winterfell.

If it hadn't been for her, they never would have taken back their home. They never could have protected the North. Never could have united to fight the Night King.

He would have left the Wall and never looked back. He was tired.

And then she had appeared in the yard, tired and cold and pained, the look on her face like her heart was breaking with relief at the sight of him. He'd never forget that day in the yard, as the snow fell gently, in her grey dress, and her bright braid draped over her shoulder, the way her blue eyes filled with tears warm against his lips as he kissed her frozen cheeks, the way she shivered in his arms as he held her so tightly he could feel how thin she was, and saw the grimace of pain she tried to hide. Sansa.

Sansa had changed everything.

Lady Melisandre had warmed his heart again with her Lord's magic: But Sansa had given him a second lease on life. Given him a dose of whatever it was he had been fighting so hard to reclaim, something he couldn't even name or describe but knew when the well was running dry… He was tired: She gave him strength. Reminded him of his purpose.

Her gentle smile, now edged with steel, gave him that spark he sometimes needed. Whether she was frustrating him to the point of distraction, or making him laugh as she choked on bad ale… He sometimes needed the reminder why he had been fighting so hard.

He'd been so tired for so long.

"You should be in bed," he sighed, kneading his aching eyes.

"I wonder you're not in bed," Sansa sighed, bolting the door to the solar behind her. She strode around Winterfell in the quilted dresses she sewed herself, but at least, with him, if him alone, she peeled off the heavy cloak she draped around herself, revealing herself. She lay the cloak over one of the chairs in front of his work-table, and went to stoke the fire. She turned to him, her hair glowing in the dark. "You're going to fall off your horse if you don't rest."

"I'll try and get a couple of hours' sleep before dawn," Jon muttered, shrugging unconcernedly, though his body ached. The gods knew he'd stayed awake longer, doing more arduous tasks than deciphering Maester Wolkan's tiny scribble. If he'd stopped to rest while scaling the Wall, he'd have been flat as a drop-scone at the bottom of it…

Sometimes he felt as if he was still scaling that impossible sheer wall, no end in sight, his body aching and his mind ensnared by thoughts of pure terror, exhilaration - determination…

Sometimes he forgot that he'd seen the dawn break as he reached the top, and never seen anything more welcome. It was the climb he remembered; the kiss lay in the realms of his memory where he daren't venture to linger too long, or be lost. That was where Ygritte lived. And Robb, and Larra, and Bran and Rickon and Arya and Father and every brother he'd lost since he left Winterfell those years ago.

"Perhaps some mulled wine would help?" Sansa pondered. It was their drink of choice, here at home, at Winterfell: She couldn't abide the taste of ale, and he would drink anything. He'd had to teach her how to prepare it, though, the Northern way, after so long in the capital - the same way he used to prepare it for Lord Commander Mormont. It was a ritual they had: If something was bothering her, Sansa would come and sit in the solar, prepare mulled wine, and share a single cup with him. A single cup, no more, no less, passed between them: She never finished it if it had gone cold - he hated to waste it, so drank it even if it was cold, and the spices tasted strange on his tongue.

The wine was Sansa's way of getting him away from his work. He had to set the papers down, and join her at the high-backed settle before the fire. It was freshly-upholstered with a cushioned leather seat, the high back engraved, at Sansa's request, with a motif of the Battle of the Bastards. No flayed men, though: It showed the Starks' conquest, the Free Folk, Wun Wun the last giant, and the Knights of the Vale riding in. Their enemies were featureless, their uniforms unmarked, no sigil upon their tattered banners. As Sansa had told her husband, all memory of him would disappear: She would ensure it. Feather-stuffed cushions embroidered with rich symbolism, gifts from the Northern ladies ensconced at Winterfell for their safety, made the settle one of the most comfortable places to sit in the solar. One of Sansa's heavy knitted blankets, and a fur throw, Sansa's little footstool, made it the cosiest Jon remembered ever being, with Sansa tucked up beside him, passing a cup of mulled wine between them as they watched the flames flickering back into life in the grate. Sometimes Sansa would sew, but she didn't sing anymore.

Usually she relaxed; tonight, she was sat bolt upright, hand around the steaming cup of wine, staring at the fire as if she couldn't bear to look at him. The flickering light illuminated her eyes, stark and far-away, her face bleached of expression.

"I don't want you to go," she finally said, softly, gazing at the flames. He grimaced as he sipped the wine, though the flavours coated his tongue and fire warmed his belly.

"I know," he told her grimly. In the quiet of the room, he could hear Sansa's breathing, quick and shallow; he could read her well, now. Knew she was anxious. Perhaps even terrified for him. Dragonstone. In his role as Lord Commander, he had been so focused on the Free Folk and the Night King that he'd rarely given second thought to the politics of the world beyond the New Gift, news brought by ravens, or by the wandering crows bringing fresh recruits. And while his gaze was turned north, a new Queen had appeared in the south. Another queen. There were two, now. The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Cersei Lannister; and the Targaryen girl they called the Mother of Dragons, who had made berth at Dragonstone after setting sail from her colony in Essos, declaring herself rightful heir to the Iron Throne.

A Targaryen. The Mad King's daughter.

She had taken Dragonstone, her birth-right - and an inconvenience: They needed obsidian. Needed a mountain of it. And now the Targaryen girl sat atop it, with, they said, an army of Unsullied, a horde of Dothraki screamers and three dragons.

Ser Davos thought Jon might convince her to ally with them: Jon was sceptical.

Daenerys Stormborn had not sailed across half the world to commit her troops to fighting the Night King: She had come for the Iron Throne.

To reclaim what was snatched from her family after centuries of their madness and brutality finally came to a head. Father and son had almost destroyed the Seven Kingdoms to get what they wanted.

Jon Arryn had called his banners to protect his two wards, Ned and Robert: But it was Aerys and Rhaegar who, combined, provoked a rebellion that overthrew a dynasty - their own. One burned father and son alive: The other, abducted and abused their daughter, their sister. Rickard and Brandon and Lyanna…

All dead because of one Targaryen or another.

And Jon had to go and ask for help from the last of them, and offer nothing in return: He could not yield the North - would not. Not to a Targaryen. Not when his adviser, not when every lord and lady in the North remembered the Mad King, remembered Jon's grandfather, his uncle, his aunt, and vehemently opposed Jon risking the journey south to meet the Mad King's daughter - but they hadn't seen, couldn't know, only his brothers and the Free Folk who'd fought and fled them ever could: He'd risk the dragonfire if it meant getting them dragonglass.

Or they were all lost.

It didn't mean he wanted to go. Didn't mean he didn't dread leaving Winterfell - and Sansa. Not after all the horrors and years they had endured to return to each other.

"You know I've no choice," he sighed heavily. Truly, he knew, instinctively, that Daenerys Stormborn would never capitulate to one of his lords or ladies. She had declared herself Queen of the Seven Kingdoms: Jon had been named King of one of those kingdoms, independent of the Iron Throne. The Targaryen queen would just as likely incinerate any emissary than consider gifting them dragonglass for their trouble in journeying so far south. "I wouldn't be going if I could think of any other way…we need the obsidian."

"But do you have to go yourself?"

"You know I do," Jon said gently. "If it costs my life to secure the dragonglass, so be it; I'm just one man among many. Just because I'm your brother doesn't mean my name should be added on to the list of designated survivors."

"The what?" Sansa asked, frowning delicately. Jon sighed, and reached behind him for the maester's census. He showed Sansa the scribbles, and his own annotations. "When we were still in the schoolroom, Maester Luwin taught us cyvasse. A war-game of strategy and conquest and risk… Larra…used to keep a list, her 'designated survivors', the people she'd never risk, even in the event of open war, when every last man counted. She used to say you have to strategize as if you'll win; but assume that the effort to rebuild will be more arduous than the war itself. Especially if all your tradesmen and their apprentices are dead."

"Jon…you're the King," Sansa murmured, eyes widening. "We need you."

"You don't need me," Jon said, shaking his head. "Not now. I've done my part. Winter is coming, and you'll meet it when it does. You, and all the living North…" Sansa stared at him, her eyes glowing in the firelight; she looked at once furious and heartbroken. He frowned, biting his lip, gazing back at her, realizing. "Sansa…you know what to do, if I don't return. You can't let anything distract you, nothing, not even my death, not vengeance or politics - nothing else matters. Not Cersei, not Daenerys; only this fight. We fight for the living."

"Jon…"

"If I don't return, work with Lord Royce and Lord Manderly, they're experienced commanders; work with Karsi and Tormund, they've faced the wights and the Night King before," Jon said, reaching out to rub her shoulder; she looked so distraught, overwhelmed. But why shouldn't he plan for his execution? He needed to make sure she understood - it wasn't about southern politics. It was about the living. "They'll make sure the threat isn't underestimated… You remember what I taught you. " Sansa blinked, and he gave her a look. "Where is it?" She grimaced subtly, but reached down and unsheathed the slender dagger tucked into a neat sheath sewn into her thick wool stockings. "You're still not happy to conceal it on you."

"It's…unfamiliar," Sansa said, delicately holding the slender blade. It wasn't much, nothing to Long Claw, but after the little needle he'd first seen her wear on the chain around her neck, he'd asked one of the new smiths to forge it in likeness of a Braavosi stiletto blade, a sister to Arya's Needle, delicate but deadly. Sansa eyed the blade critically as the firelight flickered over the steel. "I don't think it would do me much good, anyway."

"Those who don't know how to use them often end up dying on them," Jon said grimly, taking the knife from Sansa to twirl it around his fingers. She watched his fingers move, frowning subtly, as if trying to work out how he handled the blade so confidently.

"Larra knew how to wield a weapon…Arya was training in King's Landing," Sansa said, and a muscle ticked in her jaw as she clenched it, her eyes turning cold and hard as she stared at the blade.

Jon flinched, and sighed heavily. "Lady Brienne said she saw Arya alive…and Larra - she went beyond the Wall with Bran." Sam had told him, years ago, that he had come across Bran and Hodor and Larra at the Night Fort…the mutiny had just happened at Craster's Keep, and he'd been set on avenging Jeor Mormont - and preventing scouts from Mance Rayder's army from finding the brothers who had betrayed them, feeding them information to the wildling army… He'd returned, and Sam had told him: And he'd grieved more, perhaps, for the fate of Larra and Bran and Hodor, far in the desolate North, than he had about Father, or Robb. He could only imagine their fates; but he knew what happened to those who surrendered to the storm.

"Mance Rayder united the Free Folk to march south and flee the Night King's army; and Larra and Bran went north headed straight for them…" Sansa said thoughtfully, that stern, thoughtful bite to her tone. "Do you think Larra could fight her way through the dead - even our Larra?"

Jon smiled grimly, at the implication - that their Larra was fierce beyond belief, a she-wolf of Winterfell if ever there was one…the faith in their sister… But against the Night King? Did Jon have any hope she and Bran had survived the true North with only a pair of direwolves and a simple giant?

"Sansa," he said, pained, because thinking about Larra hurt. "I'm not worried about the Night King. Not while the Wall still stands between us and the dead… I worry about you with him." Sansa's eyes locked on his, and he knew she understood. How could she not; they had been discussing Lord Baelish's presence at Winterfell for weeks. "I know he wants you. Men like him have a way of always getting what they want."

"If Littlefinger got what he wanted, you'd be burned alive on Dragonstone, Cersei and Daenerys Targaryen would tear each other to ribbons, and at the end of it, I'd be sat on a little stool gazing up lovingly at him on the Iron Throne with my belly fat with his heir," Sansa said tartly, making Jon raise his eyebrows. It had never been like Sansa to be blunt: She had always been a romantic, spending her afternoons daydreaming about handsome princes and the dozen babies she'd name after her favourite heroines from the songs. It wasn't easy, not with who she was now, not wrapped in her armour, with her simple braids and furs and stern beauty, but sometimes Jon did forget; and it was jarring to hear this clever, curt, fierce Sansa speak plainly…but after what she had endured…

"Sansa," he winced, because it wasn't like her to talk like this, and he knew she had to have been thinking a lot about this, more than he'd thought. He was worried the Night King would destroy the North, the world: She was worried Littlefinger would destroy their family, just as it was rebuilding.

"You can be certain if we survive the Night King, you will not long survive Littlefinger," Sansa said plainly, her eyes not accusatory but solemn, warning. "You're in the way."

"And you're the key to the North," Jon said, gazing back at her. Anyone would be a fool not to realise how beautiful Sansa was; and how talented. While Jon prepared for war, she ruled Winterfell. He didn't want her worried about anything else, not him, not Littlefinger. Just the people. Their people, who mattered, after all was said and done. "I could take him south with me."

"No. I wouldn't let him anywhere near that Targaryen girl," Sansa said coolly. "He's far too dangerous to let him leave Winterfell!"

"Alright…then I'm trusting you to do what you need to. The North is yours, remember that. You act in the North's interests. And you protect yourself, from any threat," Jon said solemnly, gazing into Sansa's eyes, as he handed back the knife. "Promise me…if you need to use it, you won't hesitate."

Sansa sighed, but accepted the knife back, relaxing slightly. He could tell just by the way she held it that she wasn't happy it rested in her grasp. She was not a natural swordswoman, and never would be; but he'd been determined she have some way of defending herself if it fell upon Sansa alone to keep herself alive. "I promise… Perhaps I shall ask Podrick for some private training; I watched him training with Lady Brienne on our way to the Wall. They are both sworn to me. And he is discreet."

Jon nodded slowly. He'd watched the quiet squire, determinedly training with Lady Brienne day and night. There was something quietly dignified about the way he just kept trying, no matter what, unfazed by setbacks, learning from them. Lady Brienne seemed content to have him around; and as Sansa said, he had journeyed with her to the Wall. Jon knew he had been squire to the Imp when Sansa was briefly married to him. That was interesting in itself; but Jon had no time to pick apart Sansa's marriage to Lord Tyrion, or question how his squire had ended up in the service of a Stormlord's daughter, so far North. "Aye, he seems a good man," Jon said, because he'd know a bad one a mile off. Sansa tucked the knife into her stocking again, her skirts billowing over her knees, and she rested against the settle, close to him, watching the fire burning low again. She didn't move to stoke the embers, and neither did he. He could almost fall asleep, and Sansa's breathing slowed, relaxed. He ruined it.

"Sansa…if I don't return…if there is no obsidian…fire is the only way to fight the armies of the dead."

Sansa reached over, and placed her hand over his. Her fingers were long and white and elegant, unscarred; her nails were clean and neat. A lady's hands. But meticulous, and strong: How many gowns had she sewn, how many tunics had she gifted him, emblazoned with the Stark direwolf? Needles were her weapon: She used them to create armour, to illustrate warnings, show her story on her sleeves. They didn't look a traditional warrior's hands, but there was skill and precision in them, courage and tenacity.

She squeezed his hand, and turned to gaze at him solemnly, her eyes glinting with fervour. "We'll do it, Jon. We'll stop the Night King. We'll protect the North."

"I wouldn't entrust it to anyone else…" he said earnestly, placing his hand on top of hers and stroking his thumb tenderly. Rare moments like this, he cherished; how long had it been since he had contact like this with someone he loved? He remembered cuddling with Bran and Rickon; mussing Arya's hair; Larra sprawling over his bed annoying him, and burrowing under the covers during storms, cosy and content and protected… Never many memories of Sansa, but then, she'd been her mother's daughter, had learned disdain for Jon at Lady Catelyn's knee… He savoured their moments now. The embers burned low, twinkling like half-forgotten stars, and coolness started to seep through the chamber - not true cold; the natural hot-springs piped through the walls of Winterfell made it a refuge during the winter years, comfortable even in the worst snowstorms. But it was enough; and Jon had to pick his head up, finally exhausted, and rub his eyes. He gently roused Sansa from a doze, and they clambered off the settle, regretting it; it was a very comfortable seat, and Jon was glad Sansa had commissioned it for the solar. It had been her second gift to him - the first, the cloak she had stitched for him, just like the one Father used to wear, the Stark sigil embossed on the leather. She'd had the settle made as somewhere they could sit and spend time together - somewhere that wasn't around a table spread with siege maps and war preparations. Something that reminded Sansa, at least, of cosy snowy evenings ensconced in warmth and candlelight and heavy blankets and the sound of Father's soft laugh and her mother humming songs of the Faith, her brothers and sister playing at the hearth, Robb's long legs outstretched as he and Theon laughed at a joke she was too young to understand… Jon had always been made to feel an imposter on nights like those; he often receded to his own chamber, where usually Larra would have found him, with a scroll from the library, a flagon of ale and a game for them to play, cuddled up together, the two bastards of Winterfell.

Larra and Robb and Father and Lady Catelyn and Bran and Rickon and Arya, even Theon - they were all gone.

There was no-one now but them. Just him and Sansa. It was theirs, now; their home. They had fought for it; and Sansa seemed determined to remind Jon that it was his home, and always had been.

"Will you see me off in the morning?" he asked, pinching some of the candles still flickering stubbornly. He shouldn't use so many, he knew.

"Of course I will…" Sansa gazed at him, and Jon turned to look at her, tall and queenly, shrouded in her dark dress, her hair glinting like the dying firelight. Her expression was stark, almost tearful. "Promise you'll return."

"I promise."

"I really wish you didn't have to go…but I understand why you feel you must," Sansa finally acknowledged, on a long sigh, as if it cost her to admit it. "If this Targaryen girl is anything as prideful as Cersei, she would consider it an insult to be met by anyone less than the King in the North. She'll do all she can to undermine and manipulate you, Jon, intimidate you. She has Unsullied and Dothraki and dragons."

"I know."

"But the best weapon she has is between her legs."

"Sansa!" It caught him off-guard. But she looked stern and unrelenting, and he gaped at her.

"It's true. She can't have come this far in a world ruled by men without learning how to control them, and she can't use her dragons for delicate political negotiations," Sansa said sharply, any exhaustion forgotten: She seemed determined to impress the seriousness of this on him. "Never forget that you're in control; that no matter what she offers, or how she approaches you, what she demands of you - you let her believe she is manipulating you to get what she wants."

"I can't believe we're having this conversation - so what would you suggest I do?"

After a moment's consideration, Sansa gave him a measuring look, a sweep of her blue eyes up and down him, before they narrowed subtly. "Give her what she wants. Without giving her anything."

"You were in the capital too long; you're starting to pose riddles like the southerners." He frowned, though he knew what she was implying.

"I can't speak plainer: If she wants you in her bed hoping you'll cede the North, by all means, ride the dragon - but never forget why you're there," Sansa said, and Jon gaped, lost for words. He might even be blushing; he was glad at least the candles were almost extinguished.

"You don't half frighten me sometimes," he admitted wearily.

"Because you know I'm right."

"Aye. Sometimes I miss that little girl who sang and danced and dreamt of having a dozen babies in a sunlit southern castle…" He sighed, and reached forward, to take Sansa's hand. She gazed up at him, sorrowful of the girl that was lost, but stubborn. "But I prefer this woman before me. I know I've made the right choice - I want you to know that. No matter what happens, I don't regret going south, and I'd never second-guess leaving the North to you. Here."

And he handed her the document he'd kept hidden for weeks, until it was ready, until he could give it to her, without promises that might never be fulfilled. She'd had too many of those in her life.

"What's this?" He brought the last candle closer.

"I had Maester Wolkan draw it up. The Northern lords and ladies have all signed it and witnessed. I'm not just leaving you in charge while I'm gone. Sansa Stark, I hereby name you my heir. The heir to Winterfell, the heir to the Northern kingdom," Jon said solemnly. "In the event of my death, or my abdication, you will succeed me as Queen in the North. Copies have already been sent by raven to all the High Lords of Westeros." Sansa's lips parted, her eyes widening, and she blinked from Jon's face to the parchment sealed with the sigils of the Northern lords and ladies, Jon's scrawl beneath the Stark seal.

Her lips parted, and closed, and she blinked, and he thought her hands might be trembling, making the parchment shiver. He offered her a kind smile.

"Daenerys Targaryen kills me, and she'll have the She-Wolf of Winterfell to deal with - and after she's finished destroying the Night King, a dragon will seem like child's play," he said playfully, and Sansa's lips quivered toward a smile.

"You have such faith in me."

"That little girl I remember is gone," Jon said, sadly, because though they had never been close, though she had been a brat at times and a dreamer, he still regretted all that Sansa had gone through that had killed that innocent girl in her. "Sansa Stark will weather any storm, and show her strength through it."

He rubbed his face, and made his way to the door, unbolting it. The guard stood at attention beyond, a torch flickering in the brazier. "Jon…you've not changed," Sansa said, and Jon glanced over his shoulder at Sansa. "You're still just as brave and gentle and strong as I remember."

Jon smiled softly. It was one of the kindest things she had ever said to him.

"Let's get some rest, while we can," he said gruffly, a pain in his stomach at the thought of what tomorrow would bring. To leave Winterfell, to leave her…to play supplicant to a Targaryen…

A Targaryen queen.

The Mad King's daughter.

The best weapon she has is between her legs…

Larra had once teased that the sharpest blades are sheathed in the softest pouches.

Forbidden swords, a woman's greatest weapon - if she was denied an education - was her body. And she had three brothers: Larra had appreciated the way men thought, and how easily manipulated they were. She had been much more tongue-in-cheek about phrasing it than Sansa, but the principle was the same.

Women had to find other ways of getting what they wanted, without swords - or dragons - and few things were as effective in making men lose reason as lust.

They said the Dragon Queen was beautiful. In the back of his mind, Larra snorted that powerful women always are beautiful, aren't they, even when they're not.

If Sansa was right…a beautiful woman who knew her way around a man, and had no compunction about going after exactly what she wanted - no matter what got in the way…or who… He half wished he was being sent to treat with the Night King.

At least Jon knew exactly what he was getting with the White Walkers. Non-negotiable, wholesale slaughter. No politics, no pleas, no ancient history or guile…just death. It was comforting, to know that's all the Night King wanted. Just death. The end of all things.

Not games. Games and seduction and dragons and ancient oaths and madmen and promises he couldn't keep to the sister he desperately wanted to protect.

He was venturing south. He was headed into territory Sansa had gracefully navigated for years: How could she distil years of experience into a few days' preparation for him? Treating with Mance Rayder, negotiating with Stannis Baratheon were very different to meeting with the Mad King's daughter. There was too much history; too much at risk. And in spite of all that, he had to do it. He had to try…

"Goodnight, Sansa," he said softly, her hair glinting as she smiled softly and turned: He watched her long braid sway down her back like a wolf's tail as she walked away, and he couldn't help but think, the little girl of his memory was gone…and in her place, a direwolf prowled Winterfell, protecting her family, cunning and cautious and loyal.

A.N.: I really wish we got to have the same kind of intimate scenes that we were spoiled with early on in the series, where it was simply two characters having meaningful conversations. I don't care about grand schemes for wars; or yet another subtitled monologue from Daenerys to faceless characters we don't care about; or twenty minutes of CGI dragonfire. I want to know what's going on in people's heads, I want to see how they're reaffirming old bonds. Damn it, I want exposition.