It was the night before the king's caravan was to arrive and Winterfell was alight with excitement. Sansa sat at the high table with her family and nervously picked at her food. Ever since their conversation in the godswood, she had been second-guessing her decision. She knew it was her duty to marry as commanded, to help solidify an alliance, and to be the perfect lady. But what if the husband chosen for her mistreated her? What if he was unfaithful to her? She recalled Theon's vulgar words- surely the crown prince would have his pick of women..and they would only become more available once he became king. She knew it was her duty to love and obey her lord husband, regardless of his treatment of her, but surely her father would not wish such an unhappy match for his daughter! She knew her parents loved her and would never willingly select such a husband for her, but her father had never met the prince. There was so much that could go wrong, and as the days had dwindled, she had gotten only more and more anxious.
All around her, she could hear chatter and everyone seemed to be discussing the same topic: the arriving royals. Would the king greet their lord as an old friend, or would the years and distance have taken their toll? Would the queen be as lovely as she was rumored to be? How would she find Winterfell when she was so used to the grandeur of the south. Would the princes and the princess look Lannister, or would they share the Baratheon build. Would the queen's brothers live up to their drastically different reputations? She could even catch a few poorly concealed glances towards her as they speculated how the royal family would receive the girl who was to join their ranks.
Suddenly the warming din of the grand hall was suffocating. Sansa felt her breath come short and her tight lacings dig into her skin as sweat dripped down her back. She gasped and dropped her fork onto the table, causing Arya to whip her head around. Uncaring of the scene she was sure to make, Sansa stood, pushing her chair back with a screech, and fled the main hall in a flurry of wool skirts. She ignored her mother's voice calling after her and pushed the heavy doors of the hall open, desperate to be away from the oppressive air of the crowded space.
She ran down the corridor, light-footed in her leather slippers, and out into the frozen night. The crisp air flooded into her lungs, filling her with an icy relief as she gasped. She slowed her pace, but still moved forward, out towards Mikken's hut, away from any onlookers. Only now that she was outside did she feel the tears on her cheeks as they chilled. She furiously rubbed them away as she caught her breath and forced her mind to stop spinning. She flopped down gracelessly onto a bench and held her face in her hands, willing herself to calm down. She knew she had earned quite the lecture from her septa for her unladylike behaviour, but she couldn't help the fear that had gripped her as the king's company loomed closer, bringing with it her uncertain future. She couldn't help but think of the cruel green eyes from her dream all those weeks ago.
She had been raised in such isolation here at Winterfell. While at times, she had insisted to be bored with life in the north, she had never known any different and the unknown terrified her. She had loved her family and had even become so much closer to her siblings in the past few weeks. How could she survive without her pack?
As her shaking sobs subsided, she suddenly became aware that she was no longer alone. She gasped, raising her head from her hands and met eyes with an awkward looking Jon Snow. He stood a few paces away from her and the uncomfortable concern on his face was clear. He seemed so hesitant to approach her. Shame hit her as she had to acknowledge the reason for his hesitation. While their relationship had been improving over the past few weeks, it had been too little too late. He would never hesitate to comfort their sister, who had always treated him like a brother. Yet here he was, looking like a frightened boy at the sight of her distress. Fresh tears welled instantly with this new realization that she would not have time to mend the relationship with her estranged brother fully. As her face crumpled again, Jon sprung into action.
He moved quickly towards her, spinning around and sinking down onto the snow-covered bench beside her. She hiccuped and allowed him to sweep his cape around her shoulders. Only when she felt the warmth of the furs envelope her did she realize how foolish she had been to come out in the cold as she had. She waited for him to say something- some form of chastisement for acting so recklessly, so unladylike. Arya and Bran would have mocked her for her silly antics and drug her back inside with mild teasing, Robb would demand that she return to the safety of inside warmth and would force a mug of heated milk into her hands, her parents would probably suggest she return to the great hall with her head held high, her septa most certainly would insist she reappear with a smile and an apology. But Jon did none of these things. He just sat there, stoic as always, staring out ahead of them at the pristine snow, marked only by the pair of footprints they had left. He sat beside her until her tears had ceased and her breath had returned to normal. Even then, he just waited patiently, a forever calm companion.
They sat in a comfortable silence before footsteps approached, the crunch of snow overcoming the soft sound of the icy breeze. Sansa glanced up from under her frozen eyelashes and was dismayed to see their father standing before them. He carried her soft grey cape over his arm and his discerning eyes swept over her blotchy face before flicking to Jon. He nodded almost imperceptibly and Jon, quick to read his wordless expression, jumped to his feet and walked back towards the keep, knowing Sansa was in good hands.
Left alone with her imposing father, Sansa missed the steady, comforting presence of her silent brother. She glanced up at Lord Eddard apologetically.
"Father...I'm sorry-" she began, but her father's cold gaze instantly warmed. He moved forward, taking Jon's vacant seat beside her. He immediately wrapped his arms around Sansa and pulled her closer into his embrace. He rested his chin on her head and squeezed her gently. She felt herself shake as she gave into the warm embrace of her father. It had felt like so long since he held her like this. She had wanted to be a grown lady as soon as possible, but now that her childhood felt like it was ending, she just wanted to cry in her father's arms.
"Nothing to apologize for, sweet girl. What is wrong? I thought you were looking forward to meeting the king and his family," he rasped gently.
"I am.." she hiccuped again. "I'm so sorry...I know it is my duty...I'm just so scared, father. I don't know the prince. Do you?" she gazed up at him guilelessly and saw him slightly flinch.
"No," he murmured reluctantly. "But I know his father. King Robert was a great friend to me as we grew up. When I was fostered at The Vale, we were as close as brothers. And when Lyanna..." he paused and Sansa could feel the pain that still radiated off of him on the rare times he spoke of his lost sister. "We fought together to bring her back. I owe him my life a thousand times over and I know he owes me the same." His gruff tone hid the sorrow she knew he still felt. "He was a good man, and if the capitol and the crown hasn't changed him, I expect him to be one still," she nodded. "If his son is anything like his father, I trust he will treat you well and honorably, Sansa. I hope you know that I would never allow anyone to hurt you."
Her heart swelled, but the fear was still there. "But how can you protect me? Father, if I am betrothed to the prince before we can see if he is like his father, then there is nothing to save me if he is not! You cannot break a betrothal asked for by a king and blessed by the gods..." she looked down, squeezing her fingers around Jon's cloak. "I am not trying to avoid my duty, father. I just... I always thought I'd marry a northern man. A man who had come to Winterfell to seek my hand. A man we would know. It is the mystery that scares me, father. Not my duty." Suddenly ashamed at her childish behaviour, she brushed the tears from her eyes and willed her decorum to return. She untangled herself from her father's arms and stood, brushing the snow from her gown. She took a deep breath and turned to face her father again.
"I apologize, father, for my weakness. I will not shame you tomorrow with my silly insecurities. I will, of course, obey your word and will marry as I am bid." She curtisied slightly at her father, but when she met his eyes, he seemed stricken by her formality. Not trusting herself to give into weakness again, she deepened her curtsy slightly before standing tall. "If you will excuse me, I shall return to the main hall, say my goodnights, and take to my bed. Tomorrow is a big day, after all." She stepped forward and pressed a kiss to her father's cheek before spinning on her heel and heading back to the warmth.
Ned watched his eldest daughter leave with a heavy heart. She had felt like a little girl in his arms, but walked away a young woman. It would break the hardest of men's hearts to see their darling daughter grow up, but it hurt all the more to see the resignation in her eyes. Had he failed as a father? He had raised his daughters as well as he could, sheltering them from all the horrors of the world and of men. Yet here he was, on the eve of ending his daughter's childhood, and he couldn't help the feeling that he had failed.
A soft crunch of snow broke him out of his thoughts and he glanced away from the direction Sansa had left, meeting eyes with the boy who he had brought home.
"Son," he greeted gruffly. "Thank you for watching out for your sister." His lip twitched at the irony that the boy who looked more Stark than his own sons would care so much for the girl who looked so much like the woman who despised him. Had Cat's cold reception of the boy not solidified his grand lie, he would have put a stop to it long ago... But he was pleased to see how much all his children loved Jon and how much that love was returned in kind. He may not actually be their brother, but he was their blood.
"Of course..." Jon hesitated, looking unsure of himself.
"Well don't choke on your words, boy. Let's hear them," the boy went red.
"Will Sansa really marry the prince?"
Ned sighed heavily. "Nothing yet is decided, but aye...I believe so. No doubt Robert will want to join our families."
"But why does he have to with Sansa?" Jon blurted. "There's a young princess, isn't there? And the littlest one. Why must it be Sansa and the crown prince?" At Ned's questioning glace, Jon looked away, embarrassed. "I've heard things...servant's talk, but still... That the boy is rotten. You said you'd protect her," But you're not. The unsaid accusation rang in his ears.
"She'd be a queen," he reasoned, almost more to himself than Jon. "What kind of father would I be if I kept her from an opportunity like that? It's all she ever wanted."
"She's just wanted to be happy, father. To be loved. Yes, she's wanted to be a grand lady since she knew what that meant. But in all our games of knights and ladies, her grand fairytale has always ended up happily ever after with a man who loves her. I'm just saying..." he trailed off, but continued at Ned's glance. "I'm just saying there's no reason to agree to anything before we know."
Ned sat back, pondering over his son's words. "I may not have a choice," he admitted. "Robert is the king."
"But he is your friend, isn't he?"
"He was. Might be he still is." They sat in silence for a moment before Ned stood, brushing off the snow and rolling his neck to release the tension this conversation had built. "Come. Back inside with you. Tomorrow shall be a long one."