Snow

"You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow,"

Amy Lowell.

Jon Snow knows nothing.

That is the only truth that is real to him now.

In the morning, when he had woken to the commotion outside his small room, he had not expected his life to be completely uprooted. He had rushed out, not bothering to grab a shirt, rushing to reach the startled shouts and pleas outside his room at such early an hour. Life at Winterfell was peaceful, and it was rare for Jon to hear so much distress. He had longed to have a sword with him, something more than a simple knife as he had left his room, but he had resolved to do what he could to help.

He had expected an intruder, or perhaps a servant caught stealing, or a guard chasing out some sort of wild animal.

He had not expected his Father and Lady Stark in their sleeping shifts, shouting, running about the family wing in a panic, his brothers and sister Arya lingering by their rooms' doors with confused expressions. He had never seen the Lady of Winterfell in anything less than her full dress, pressed and clean and perfect, let alone in her sleeping attire. He froze at the end of the hallway, eyes wide at the sight of his family in obvious distress, in panic...

With Sansa of all people in the middle of it.

Her hair had been wild and unbound from her usual careful and strange arrangements, unbrushed for the first time in a very long time. It had struck him as queer, to see her hair so messy, knotted, and a riot about her face. Even more unsettling than to see Lady Stark, his most proper sister was in her own sleeping shift. Since she had been five namedays, he had never seen Sansa in anything so rumpled, stiff with what he could guess was dried sweat and covered in small rips and dirt on one side. She looked a mess, she looked half-wild.

But it had been her face that unsettled him the most. Flushed with exertion, tear-filled eyes so wide she looked manic. Her small face had changed when she had seen him, blossomed into the sweetest, surest smile had had ever seen in his sister, let alone directed towards him.

Her calling his name in such a way had been shocking. So lovingly, happily, and her tears finally spilling over her full cheeks. He had barely registered his shock as she had charged him.

Her jumping on him had been unthinkable, her kissing him everywhere she could reach had been confusing, and her joy of seeing him had been strange, at the least. Sansa Stark was his sister, but after a certain point, she was also a lady, and in being a lady, she had decided to follow in her Mother's footsteps. That meant that she had little time and affection for her bastard brother. She was never unkind, as she was to Arya, but she was so distant that it did not matter. When she spoke to him, it was with politeness, it was with a courtesy. But they might as well be strangers, for all her politeness matter. Jon could not even recall the last time they had spoken when she had reached for him calling his name.

And she had clung to him then. Without pause for etiquette, without censure of her Mother's reaction. With the fierceness of little Arya. Sansa had held him with the surety and clear affection of Robb. With desperation that he had never witnessed in anyone, at least not directed to him.

Her story, in the Lord of Winterfell's solar, had been fantastical, horrifying, and completely impossible.

Returning from the future. Dying by her own hand- Being ra- Knowing who his mother was... And subsequently my true Father. All his life, he had the certainty of being a bastard. He had endured the scorn of his father's wife. The scorn of having to walk a step behind his brother Robb, of watching his little sister Sansa drift away from him for the sake of appearances as she understood what the word meant. Of watching Theon sending him looks of superiority. Now, as he sits before the tomb of Lyanna Stark, he knew nothing he had ever known was true. His mother. Princess. Married willingly to Prince Rhaegar, the man she loved. Even history is wrong, a willing captive. A secret marriage went horribly wrong...

The Crypt of Winterfell is a quiet, cool place, hallow, and his breathing, the only noise he hears, echoes loudly against the vaulted ceiling, against the faraway stone. He wonders why Arya loves to play here, amongst the old Kings of the North, stone faces pale, watching, direwolves curled at their feet in an awareness. He cannot see the appeal. The faces of the Lords and Kings of the North are snarling, aggressive, and unwelcoming. It felt as if a thousand eyes were upon him, those icy eyes of Kings past, his ancestors placing judgment on the present. He felt uneasy... Unwanted here. Perhaps it is because he is a dragon, not a wolf, that they stare so disapprovingly, so unhappily. Torrhen Stark may have taken the knee to Dragons and he was of that family, but before him were the Kings that had fought fiercely against everything that had come for them.

The Kings and Lords of the First Men and the Andals.

He feels small, amongst Lords, Kings, and ghosts. It is not as warm, here, in this enormous, cavernous place as it is in the Keep proper, but warm enough that his breath wasn't visible. Beyond that he is a child of the North, it would have to severally cold for it to bother him terribly. This was nothing. He huddles in his cloak, regretting the fact that he had not bothered to dress beyond his cloak and boots, not even bothering with a tunic nor simple shirt. It wasn't terribly cold nor freezing, but he still felt a coolness along his skin, huddled in his cloak, wrapping it tightly around him.

Before, he never spent much time in this place, for he had no reason to, never having known any of the people his fath- Uncle had buried here. He had mourned without knowing, his Uncle, Grandfather, what he thought to be his Aunt certainly, but... Not keenly. Not with knowledge and true grief. They were memories of his fath- Uncle. Distant, sweet things that sometimes seemed to weigh the Lord of Winterfell down. The young woman's grave in front of him is a pretty, fine thing. Finely made. Lovingly made. Strange, as she is one of the few female statues, a strange thing for his fath- Uncle, to have done for his sister. A gesture usually only made for Kings and the Lords of the past. But it was a gesture of true love, perhaps a brief, cryptic nod of what she had been before she had died in the Tower of Joy. A Princess of the entire Seven Kingdom, perhaps even Queen had she and the Rhaegar had lived.

He looks up at that carved woman, beautiful and still, but inhuman grace. If he were to see the women carved in stone before him, he would not be able to recognize her. For this is a pale imitation of her. And she looked so young, frightfully young amongst the bearded faces of Lords and Kings. She was only four name days older than him. Barely a woman, if that, old enough to have him and die because of it, but not much older. He will never know her face, nor his true father's. That hurts more than anything, the knowledge that Eddard Stark is not his father.

That his entire life is a mummer's farce.

He had not been entirely content with his life as the Snow of Winterfell, the one blight in Eddard Stark's honor. But he would do anything to remove the knowledge from his mind. To be that bastard again, for it made him insignificant, an unimportant note of a Great House. But he was the son of a prince, the grandson of a King, the Mad King's grandson. His mere existence called Eddard Stark a traitor, endangered his family to be labeled the same. And the rest! Madness is what he can think to rationally explain Sansa's wild tale of being of the future. But… But Sansa had never looked at him like that, looked at him at all once she understood the meaning of the name Snow, of the word bastard. Never looked at him with so much esteem and love, since she had been but a babe toddling after him and Robb and Theon.

He looks at the still face of his mother dead, because of him, due to his birth. And wonders if Lord Stark, as his Uncle, protected him for his own sake, not just for the promise he said to his late… Mother. If he was worth any of this.

Can I dream of the Wall with the knowledge of who my mother and father are? With… What Sansa said came of me leaving?

"I had a feeling… That you would be here," says a soft, voice, and he turns, rapidly.

Sansa.

The Little Lady of Winterfell, the most Southern in attitude of all the Stark children. She was… Different, it was the best way to describe it. She was looking at him with warm, loving eyes when before they had been narrowed with childish unease and dislike. She is now dressed, in a dark, drab dress that does not match her recent wardrobe of silks and lush fur that she had demanded a few name days past. It fits her very illy, hanging too short, just to her upper shins, and too taunt across her broadening hips and shoulders. But she looked comfortable, despite this, with a great fur cloak -her father's- draped across her shoulders, grey and dwarfing her ridiculously. Her hair, a tumble of red fire, is bound in the simplest braid he has seen in a long time, only one, draped across her shoulders. A spark of color, amongst the dark. She smiles and holds out food, a tray, piping hot soup, and what looks like hot cider, bread, and, he sees with humor, lemon cakes and it makes his stomach growl.

"I-"

"I came here often, after… He told me the truth," she says coming to sit next to him. She cares not of dirt or dust upon the floor, pays no mind to it at all as she leans against him, pushing the tray into his lap. The Sansa he knew would wrinkle her small nose, and whine about what the dirt would do to her dress, and how a Lady does not sit on the ground, but this Sansa is not moved or is uncaring of it. She is also a warm against him, firm and unbothered in the gesture of affection, just like Arya would be, "For it was proof of what I had come to learned. The most beautiful songs are based on horrible tragedy."

Old eyes look at him, from behind his sweet sis- cousin's face.

"Did I come? The… Other Jon?" he whispers, wondering.

Sansa nods him, smiling softly.

"When he could, he was very busy. I made flowers once, out of cloth because we could not spare space in the glass gardens after a point. Roses, out of a childhood dress of mine. He asked them to be blue..."

Her eyes drift. Far away. Unfocused and seeing something he cannot.

"Sansa, I can't be sure if I can believe you," he whispered to her, "What you spoke of- It is too incredible. Madness."

She looks at him with tired eyes.

"I understand. I must seem mad. But ask me anything, and I guaranteed to know it… The Other Jon and I spent hours just… Talking. I'm sure I know you better than you would expect from… Me."

"What do you mean about that?"

She raises a single, fine brow, and that looks much more like his most distant sister. Proud, proper, and elegant as she tried so hard to strive for. But now it seemed to come so naturally, not the fumbles of a girl of ten, charming and with merit, but ill practiced. Now they are natural and easy to her.

"I have treated you horribly, Jon. Distanced myself from you the second I learned what it meant to have someone named Snow in the family," she said voice soft and regretful, "But when I needed you most, it did not matter to you. We are brother and sister, and I will never abandon you ever again."

Jon felt the fool for the heat in his eyes, at the ardent way she was looking at him.

"But we are not. Eddard Stark isn't even my father. We're… Kin, yes, but not brother and sister."

She smiled, hand, so small, touching his cheek.

"It doesn't matter. We grew up together. Your blood is my blood. We are Starks. And as Starks, we stay together."

He felt more heat, a trail of tears slipping past his resolve.

"I- You. I am not that Jon. The Jon that you love so much," he said, desperate to understand.

"No. No… That Jon is forever lost to me. But you," her other hand raises, to his other cheek. Her hands were warm, a blaze against his skin, "But you are still my brother. The boy who snuck me lemon cakes from the kitchens at odd hours when I had nightmares, the boy that played dolls with me even as Robb laughed at you. The boy that cried when Arya was born."

"I didn't cry," he muttered, automatically.

Sansa grins.

"You cried. She was the first Stark to have grey eyes like you and father."

"You were so young when she was born-"

"I don't remember. The other Jon told me of it."

He looks at her and then sighs. He shrugs uncomfortably away from her grip, and she lets her hands drop neatly to her lap. She was touching him so much now, without hesitation or disgust at the 'living sin'.

But I suppose I'm not that. She said Rhaegar and Lyanna were married.

"Tell me something that Sansa could not possibly know?"

She looked down at her hands, wringing the fingertips together before she looked back to him.

"Eat. Drink, and I will tell you of things."

Jon looked at the trey before he picked up the spoon and slowly began to eat. The soup was good, of course, as was the cider, and the bread. She had brought him some of the nicest things served, not rare for him to eat, but the fact that she had brought him his favorite soup, one made of chicken and kernels of corn, made him wonder if she asked them to be made. Even the bread was perfectly buttered and toasted to a near char, as he liked it.

"Hmm. You sneak Arya out at night, teach her archery. You let her use your younger practice bows."

He pauses, spoon midway to his mouth. She wiggles her brow, a sly grin on her face, and gestures to the spoon. He eats.

"You could have spotted us," he said, utterly reasonable.

She looks at her hands again.

"When you were two and ten, Theon made you go to the brothel out in Wintertown."

Jon freezes. He looks to his sister, flushing bright red, all the way to the roots of his hair. His cousin only smiles, faintly.

"Of course Robb, you and Theon were kicked out for being uppity lordlings much too young to deal with whores, coin or no."

"No one knows of that."

She inclines her head.

"Are you not ashamed of me?"

Sansa blinks.

"Why would I be?"

"For going into a brothel!"

Sansa laughs.

"Once upon a time, a whore was my greatest ally," she said sadly, "I care not what people do with their lives or bodies, Jon. The finest people in the Seven Kingdoms, with the finest breeding and noble past times, have committed atrocities. While the lowest of the low did wonderful things..."

Sansa looks at him, and again, Jon is struck with how old the look in her eyes was. It was hard to see because she was so young, but something about the way those large blue eyes looked at him sent shivers of unease down his spine.

"Finish your soup at least, Jon. You haven't eaten anything all day."

He looks down at his soup, and downs it quickly, before bringing the bread up to his mouth. He chewed quietly, before he placed it down, and sipped at the hot cider, which was sweet, with extra cinnamon as he liked it. He made a show of eating his bread as well before he looked on at the two lemon cakes. He grabs one and offers it to his sister, who accepts it with a brilliant smile.

"And how did you get those?" he asks.

"The cooks always have them for me, I have found out. Of course, I nearly had them scrambling when I came into the kitchen. I haven't done that since I was very young, apparently, Gods! I'd forgotten what they tasted like. Lemons were put to better use, of course, during Winter. Excellent vitamins..."

She ate the cake slowly, seemingly savoring every little bite. It was a stark difference to Sansa he remembered, as lemon cakes were the only thing he ever saw her devour like a child, quickly, messily, and with a soft joy. He remembers when he saw the icing on her face, the jellied lemon's sugar on her lips, that the little girl that toddled behind him and Robb was still there. He blinked at the difference and frowned at his own cake before he started to eat it. He passed the cider to her, wordlessly, when she had finished the cake, and she drank, without hesitation, the girl who would so regularly wrinkle her nose when he passed her so much as napkin during meal times.

"You… You really aren't the Sansa I know."

The girl blinks before her head whipped up, and those old eyes widen.

"I-"

"You're so different."

She nods, sadly, a soft smile on her face.

"Yes. I had to be."

"Do… Do you miss being who you were? The Sansa that I knew?"

She looks at her hands.

"Yes. I wish… I wished so long to come back to who I had been before my innocence was killed from me. But I… I also appreciate what I've become."

Her eyes look far away. Distant. Still.

"Where was Robb? You said you were hostage for five years. But you said he was King in the North, surely-"

"He had a war to win, and I was just one person. One person in face of the North and the Riverlands. And then Robb was dead," her voice was flat.

"I- He should have broken my Night's Vows and gone for you!"

Sansa looks at him. Understanding dawning, she only sighs. Her face is still, even, and does not so much as twitch.

"He would've died trying. I was a hostage in King's Landing, Jon. No one could save me there."

"Why don't you blame them?!" he screamed, standing abruptly, the tray and the rest of the bowl, as well as the last of the hot cider, fell to the ground. Tears came to his eyes again, but they were fueled by anger, not affection or acceptance, "For what was done to you! You- you were r-rap-"

They fell, drop by drop, as he was unable to finish his sentence. Sansa sighed, standing calmly. Her fingers automatically dusting her ill-fitting skirt. She looked at him, face still maddening even. Why did it not crumble, as it had before in the Solar? Why did she look so composed?

"I did. Sometimes. When they were beating me for every victory that Robb won from the army of the Realm."

Jon flinched, horrified.

"When they touched me for being a pretty little thing when he forced himself into me. I hated everything and everyone for not coming for me," she said with strength, with a darkness that made Jon reel back, "I dreamed of it, of being a tragic girl in a song, rescued by a Knight, by her King brother. But life is not a Song. I saved myself, Jon. And sometimes that is the most important thing. No one came for me, at least not in time. But I saved myself."

He looks at her, at her heaving chest, at her flushed face, at the tears she holds back. Uncaring, but slightly hesitating, half expecting rejection, Jon launches himself at Sansa, bringing his arms around her. She does not hold the same hesitation and holds him back. She is so small, his sister. He can feel the delicateness of her thin limbs, of her frail shoulders, and his stomach turns at the thought of anyone touching her illy. She was always the most sensitive of all of them, crying in frustration or unease, and someone was willing to take that person and break them apart… And in a way, they already had.

"See?" she whispers, against his chest, "You are Jon, you may not be my King Jon. But you are Jon and that is more than enough for me. I love you."

More tears and he is grateful that she does not mention it, even as they drop into her red hair. Silently, Jon Snow makes a vow.

I vow that my family will survive what is to come

"I love you, too… Sansa."

AN: I do not own A Song of Ice & Fire or A Game of Thrones in any sense. It's universe, characters all belong to its amazing creator, George R.R. Martin, its publishing and broadcasting companies.

This is me, playing in its sandbox, making misshapen sandcastles.

EDIT: 15 OCTOBER 2020

NOTES:

1: I never said that Sansa was the only person that looked like a Tully in the fic. I said that she was the most Southern of the Stark children, which is not equating her appearance only. I know people are getting on me for using the show heavily, but I just want to clear that up a bit.

2: I always figured that Tyrion would eventually explain who Shae was. And despite her betrayal, Sansa would look kindly to her support of her to an extent. I know, I know, she isn't Sansa's handmaid in the books, but I like her arc in the show, so that's that

Dear God I never expected a response to be so large for this fic. Thank you, kindly, for anyone who has reviewed, followed, and favorited. Much obliged, much appreciated even the critiques.

I know all the responses have not been positive- and for that, I say that everyone is completely valid in their opinion. I know I am not the best author and evidently, A Song of Ice & Fire is something that is very near and dear to many's hearts. As it should be- George R.R. Martin is a master at his craft and I have immense respect for the world he created(except for the ill-conceived thoughts on how vaginas work, he got that wrong). This fic is just a response and my interpretation. If you do not like it, that's fine. This is something I'm doing for fun, with a character I happen to enjoy. Because of her potential in the books, for the role she takes in the show. Beyond that, I can't really see what I can say in response to the reviews, especially because the reviews I speak of are mainly guest reviews. I rather not devote an insanely large part of the authors note to respond to someone that most likely does not care for one in the first place(more so than I have already). If anyone wishes for a proper response a PM would be answered.

Also, as per the pacing for the fic, I'm just getting started. The first few chapters are, prologue and the next three are reactions on Sansa's part and the Starks. My very next chapter, Summer, will include a small time skip(a couple of months from this day) and be from Arya's POV. Sansa's next chapter will be chapter seven, Earth.

~Happy Reading,

Moon Witch '96