AN: So I promise I actually do like Sansa as a character. I just need her to be an antagonist for a little while (but not much longer)! She does have her reasons though.

Also, sorry this took so long. Between working full time and school, things have been crazy. I apologize if this chapter is a bit rushed too. We'll be getting to the Long Night in the next one though!

Every Loyalty

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Chapter XIII:

A Knight, a Lord, a King

Larisa steeled herself before she finally left her chambers washed and in fresh clothes. It was later in the morning than she would've liked, thanks to that foolish man. She wasn't looking forward to the earful she was sure to get from Garda. That sullen cow.

Though as she crossed the snow-laden courtyards outside on her way to the kitchens, Larisa found it difficult to dampen a small smile. In the quiet of a winter morning, she was able to block out the dull sounds of woodwork and the scattering of people starting in the day.

And within the privacy of her wandering mind, she unintentionally conjured moments from the previous night. Even now, she could still feel Jon's hands like an imprint on her body, his kiss, uncharacteristically soft.

She huffed a sigh, forcing down her smile. It was embarrassing to say the least.

So distracting were her thoughts that Larisa nearly walked straight into the men that grabbed her. A gloved hand swallowed her short scream.

She didn't even have time to struggle before she was all but tossed into the snow on her knees. When she was able to raise her head, it was Sansa Stark that looked down on her.

"Enjoying a leisurely morning?" she asked. Her demeanor was pleasant as ever.

Larisa clenched her teeth to keep herself from speaking too harshly, but the result betrayed her wariness.

"What do you want?"

Sansa's men—Northerners and men from the Eyrie both—stood behind Larisa, providing them a shield of relative privacy behind a nearby tower against anyone who might have been passing by. She would rather die than admit it, but in that moment, it was real fear that Larisa felt like ice in her chest, and down her spine.

"What happened to that silver tongue of yours?" Sansa asked. "Thus far it seems you've been able to use it so cleverly to your advantage."

Larisa's lips pursed as anger made her flush hotly. She bit the inside of her cheek so hard that she tasted the slightest trace of blood. It took every ounce of restraint to keep her tone as civil as possible.

"I'm not sure what you mean, my lady," she replied.

Sansa nearly laughed, but her smile was fleeting.

"If we survive the Long Night," she began, her cold gaze dragging down to meet Larisa's, "I'll allow you to ride south with your brother and leave Winterfell."

Larisa's temper finally snapped at its leash.

"And if I don't, you'll slip poison into my wine?" She enjoyed the way Sansa's expression flashed with irritation.

"One way or another, you will disappear from our lives," Sansa said, "like cutting a weed out from the root."

Just then, Larisa fully understood. The Lady of Winterfell wasn't the cold stone she pretended to be. Larisa remembered well the young girl, alone and scared and far from her home, who was forced to withstand more than public humiliation at Joffrey's hands. And yet, that girl had bided her time for the utmost ingenious moment to escape that fate.

"You accept that Tyrion isn't the same as Joffrey or his wretched mother. Jaime the Kingslayer receives your unyielding mercy, but it's me you don't trust," Larisa said. She was trembling with cold; the snow beneath her was beginning to melt into her clothes, but her insides burned regardless.

"It's because…even though we all do what we must to protect ourselves in this world, you and I have survived much the same way," Larisa said. Frustration made her eyes sting with tears, which she quickly swept away. "You assume I'm playing the game."

"My brother gave you an opportunity to stay in the South. Evidently there must not be anything for you there, so you mean to make yourself a comfortable position here, in the only way you can," Sansa said. Her own anger finally showed in the way her pale hands clenched at her sides. She folded them into her sleeves to hide them.

"My brother may believe those tears, but I don't," she said pointedly. "I won't let someone like you harm my family ever again."

Despite every instinct within her that fairly shouted at her to hide her tears, and swallow anything that wasn't calm indifference, Larisa couldn't get ahold of herself. It was pathetic, considering she hadn't felt this low in a long while. Even when standing before Jon for the first time, not knowing if she was going to be killed or used as a woman held captive often was.

"I'm not trying to hurt him," she said.

Larisa knew it wasn't enough, even if it was the truth. Sansa had no real reason to believe her, and every reason to trust her experience. Yet her expression began to soften, into disdain.

Her black feathered coat trailed after her as she left with her men. At last Larisa was alone, and freezing in the snow. She turned her head, wary of anyone that may be watching her. She eventually noticed, with something heavy dropping in the pit of her stomach, that the Kingslayer stood resting his back against the tower wall. He looked back at her with something strange. Pity perhaps, or something like it.

When Jaime approached, she was at first too shocked to do more than allow him as he helped her stand. He idly brushed off snow from her clothing with his left hand. It lingered on her shoulder while the other rested heavily on his belt.

"At least she doesn't hold a grudge," he quipped. "Not that I blame you…we don't choose the ones we love."

Larisa regained her wits enough to jerk out of his grasp.

"Don't ever touch me again," she hissed.

Ignoring the resignation taking hold on the man's face, her steps faltered a bit as she started off, away from the kitchens and the dining hall. She wiped at her face the best she could and wrapped shaking arms inside her cloak.

Jon was finding it hard to believe that a man like Samwell Tarley had been able to evade him for this long. Even more that they'd be reunited in a place like this, in front of his father's crypt.

"But I've been here for weeks now. How could'ya not—"

"I told you I didn't mean to," Sam said, in that earnest way that always made it impossible to be angry with him. There was something else though, Jon could tell. Something wasn't right.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "Gilly, is she all right?"

"She's good."

"Little Sam?"

"Did you know?" Sam asked. His tone was worrying. Jon felt the beginnings of unease prickle at his spine.

"Know what?"

"Danaerys, she executed my father and brother…they were her prisoners," Sam said. The raw grief was still in his eyes. As little love as he'd had for his father, Jon knew the pain of losing brothers. Yet he could only stare mutely back at him. "She didn't tell you?"

Jon worked to find the words, anything that wasn't so awfully inadequate as I'm sorry.

"Would you have done it?" Sam asked.

Once again, Jon came up short. "I've executed men who disobeyed me."

"You've also spared men. Thousands of Wildlings when they refused to kneel," Sam pointed out.

"I wasn't a king," Jon refuted.

"But you were," Sam said. "You've always been."

The more Sam spoke, the more that the warm firelight within the Crypts seemed a shallow comfort.

The Godswood was frigid as ever. Only the occasional cutting winds broke the silence, until he heard footsteps crunching the snow behind him. Jon was too deep in his thoughts to do more than glance over. When he truly saw her, the deep hole continuing to churn his stomach lessened a bit.

"We have a problem," she said.

Jon nodded, "Aye."

He offered Larisa a place to sit beside him under the heart tree. She did so, but she was clearly strung tight as a bow. Her hands were clenched in her lap, her cheeks pale. He doubted he looked much better.

"Your sister," she said, "is very protective of you."

Jon grumbled a sigh. This again?

His skin fairy itched with the sheer force of his aggravation. He'd never wanted the chance for a good fight more than he did now—anything to get him out of yet another conversation like this one.

"You shouldn't let her get to you," he said.

Larisa sent him a terse look. "Oh, shouldn't I? Just this morning, she—"

"Sansa is the least of our worries. You get that, don't you?" he snapped, and finally stood. He half-paced without meaning to, much like a caged animal with nowhere to go.

Larisa got to her feet and matched his sharpness, "What is wrong with you?"

Jon stayed quiet and brooding. Part of him wanted to confide in her. A deep and aching part of him craved those moments they had shared on the ship; during the long voyage from Dragonstone to Winterfell, where they had shared their secrets between shadows and candlelight. There, in those moments, he could just be Jon Snow.

Here and now, he was the Lord of Winterfell.

But he could feel Larisa's glare burning the side of his face.

"Are you going to tell me, or continue acting like a child?" she said.

Jon shook his head. He looked up at the tree, the one place where Ned Stark had always come for peace.

"My father," even that left a stale taste in his mouth. "He lied to me. Before I left Winterfell, he promised he would tell me the truth."

"About what?" Larisa asked. She came closer but stayed behind him, allowing him distance.

"My mother. Who she was, where she was from…I spent my whole life trying to picture her face," he said, "never knowing I'd already seen it in our family's crypts."

Saying it aloud finally eased some of the burden from his shoulders, enough that he could look back and meet Larisa's eyes. Her confusion was understandable.

"My mother was Lyanna Stark. My father…my father by blood, was Rhaegar Targaryen," he said. The more he explained, the easier it became to breathe. Once again Larisa listened to him without interrupting. She hardly even moved while snow sprinkled over them between tree branches. Her shock was obvious as silence fell between them, but she eventually hid it well.

"What do you plan to do?" Larisa asked. When he couldn't answer, she eyed him knowingly and framed it another way. "What happens when Daenerys discovers she's your aunt by blood, that you're the rightful heir to the Iron Throne?"

"This doesn't change anything. She's my queen, and I made an oath to be true to my word," Jon said.

"You mean to tell her?" Larisa asked incredulously. "Do you have no sense of self-preservation with whatsoever?"

"There's no sense in lying when there's so much more at stake than a damn throne. Why do I have to keep sayin' it?" Jon said, his voice raising.

"Forgive me if I'm preoccupied with how you intend to live long enough to fight that battle. Gods forbid I consider what should happen if we all survive!" Larisa exclaimed. "Daenerys certainly will!"

Jon made a sound of pure frustration. "It's no wonder you and Sansa are at each other's throats. You're exactly alike!"

"Then I should be more like you. Not worrying about tomorrow, or the consequences of my decisions," she said bitingly. "What are we doing then? Is that why you even let me into your bed in the first place?"

Jon reeled at the speed of that particular assumption. "What?"

"Is that what you thought?" she asked. "The world is going to end anyway, so might as well?"

This was his life now, he reflected. He still didn't know how they'd gotten here, to this point, but he wondered if it was supposed to be this hard.

"Are you really that insecure, or are you just insane?" he said. It slipped from his mouth before he could reclaim it, and he regretted it straight afterwards.

Deeper hurt flashed across her face, as well as the incendiary anger he was familiar with. Larisa turned away from him, but he grabbed her hand to bring her back, her name on his lips.

Jon was able to catch her by the arms then, and pull her in close. He stared down at the tears welling in her eyes as guilt stung him.

"Let me go, Jon," she said, somewhat shakily, but still firm.

He let her go.

Larisa paid for her absence at the kitchens the day before with spine-bending labor in the next. Garda was ruthless, but also fair, Larisa supposed. The woman never gave her any task she couldn't handle, and if she truly was struggling due to exhaustion, Garda appeared at her side with an extra rag or a sharp word of…well, not exactly encouragement, but it was enough to keep Larisa moving.

At the evening meal, she did her best to ignore how closely Sansa spoke with Theon Greyjoy, who'd just arrived that morning. They'd had a very public and emotional reunion which, from what Larisa understood, stemmed back from when the man had led Sansa out of Ramsay Bolton's grasp while he met Stannis on the battlefield.

It only further proved to her that Sansa Stark was indeed still human after all.

But Larisa also found that she cared less about Sansa, as the days were growing shorter, darker, and colder.

Later that evening, after the cleaning was finally done, she returned to the main keep and nearly stumbled upon Theon Greyjoy once again. This time it wasn't Sansa that sat closely with him by the fire, but Martha, who stood at his side serving him wine.

"It's warmer than ale," she said, smiling pleasantly. He offered her a slight smile in return.

"It is," he said. He hesitated with the cup to his mouth, but eventually he looked up at her. "…What's your name?"

"O-Oh," she ducked her head. "Martha, my lord."

"I'm not a lord," he shook his head. The smile dropped from his face as his gaze diverted from hers. He couldn't see how her expression fell as well. Though he added a bit late, "my lady."

Martha gave a small smile. "I'm not really a lady either. Not anymore, I think."

Theon raised his head again, if only briefly.

"Thank you…for the drink, I mean."

Larisa couldn't watch any longer, lest she be sick to her stomach. But she did wait in the shadows of the staircase. Soon enough, Martha began to make her way up.

She stopped short with a gasp when she realized someone was there, her eyes growing wide and then averting nervously. It was all the evidence Larisa needed to confirm her suspicions.

"I suppose it's now I who owes you a debt," Larisa said, raising a wry brow. Martha opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out. It was no coincidence Sansa had sought her out on that particular morning. Larisa had obviously been seen, either entering or leaving his company. By now, it wasn't hard to deduce who saw her, and who then told Sansa Stark.

Larisa pulled her cloak closer to her body and started up the way to her chamber without looking back. Her voice still echoed on the walls.

"I wonder how I will repay you."

It wasn't often that Willem got a reprieve from Ser Davos. Helping him carry out tasks around the castle wasn't just exhausting. Most of the time, it was boring.

He was practicing his swordsmanship again in one of the courtyards outside the main keep. The icy air in his lungs actually helped him focus his energy as well as his breathing. Will found it easier to be alone than he used to.

Jon didn't have the time to train him much anymore, and he only saw his sister at mealtimes. That was all right, he supposed. It wasn't like he missed her nagging him about things that didn't really matter in the first place. But the more he saw her, the less she looked like herself.

"You're getting better, I suppose." The voice behind Will startled him into whipping around with the wooden sword poised, but it lowered slightly as he scowled.

Arya smirked, "a little."

"How are you so quiet?" Will stared at her suspiciously, until his gaze caught on Sansa and Brienne crossing the ramparts of the keep. He knew Larisa didn't get along with the Lady of Winterfell, but her red hair always managed to catch what little sun there was to be found.

Arya's amused expression didn't change.

"How are you still so small? What are you, eight?" she remarked, earning back his attention.

"I'm ten!" he snapped.

Arya raised a sly brow. "You're grown then? You've found a girl, have you?"

Will reddened, despite himself.

"It's none of your business!"

"You haven't, but you want to," she said, "a big one like Brienne, to hold you like a mother bear? Or a dainty one, like my sister?"

Will blinked, taken aback. He shook his head and went back to swinging his practice sword vigorously. He could still see Sansa Stark out of the corner of his eye though, as she walked down to greet some of her people. Blushing, he looked away.

"Y-You're crazy," he muttered.

"She would chew you up and spit you out, little boy," Arya scoffed. But she grabbed a nearby stick from the ground and tested its weight as she made her way around him.

"Does your sister mean to do that too?" she questioned. Will gave her a strange look.

"What?"

"With my brother, Jon."

She leaned back in her stance, and let the tip of her stick tap once, sharply against Will's practice sword. It shot out of his grip.

He glared at her again before he retrieved it from the snow.

"What do you mean?" he asked. "What does she have anything to do with—?"

Will yelped when the end of her stick slapped his hand, making his sword fall once again.

"Tighten your wrists," she barked. "Not very observant, are you?"

"What in the Seven Hells are you getting at?" Will shouted. He lunged forward, but Arya slipped easily out of reach. With one well-placed tap to the back of his ankle, he was sent into the snow. Arya bent at the waist, obnoxiously close to his face. Her smirk returned.

"You thought you'd grow up to be a lord, didn't you?" she asked. "Everyone was grooming you to wear gold and feast on wine and roast pheasant."

"No!" Will shot back. "I didn't care about that."

"Then what?"

"I'm going to be a knight!"

"Really. Serving House Lannister?"

"…No," Will said.

"House Stark?"

"I don't know, maybe," he said in annoyance.

"Then who?" Arya posed.

"I don't know! Someone," Will said. He finally started gathering himself and backed away from her enough to stand on his feet. "Someone great!"

Arya straightened. While Will was now disheveled, wet and freezing from being somewhat thrashed and covered in snow, she was untouched, almost unreal to him somehow.

"Why?" she asked. Her expression eased, less mocking and more amused, and understanding.

"I know what it's like to chase an idea of who you should be," she said. "But do you do it for yourself, or for the shadows you carry in your heart?"

Will remained sat on the ground, both frustrated and confused. He watched Arya as she twirled her stick to rest on her shoulder, and she walked away.