To a child of the north raised among villages and towns King's Landing is immense, a city huge beyond understanding, but in truth it does not take long for Jon to learn its rhythms and ways and moods, and those of the Red Keep are easier still. Lord Stark's bastard, all the court calls him. The castles servants and cooks and pages are blunter: that Stark bastard they call him, or sometimes simply Winterfell bastard.

Make your name your armor so none can ever use it to hurt you, Tyrion Lannister had told Jon once, and so even though it causes him to grit his teeth hard enough to ache, Jon smiles and pretends he cannot hear the whispers. There are advantages to being a bastard in the Red Keep he realizes quickly: servants who would never speak to a knight or lady think nothing of gossiping with a bastard, and the court squires are happy to welcome him among them so long as he pays for a round of ale every fortnight.

Even so Jon finds himself keeping to the Tower of the Hand more than not. He is too much a child of the north to ever truly feel at home in this strange southron city and prefers best the company of Jory and the other men of his father's guard; likes best those times when Arya drags him along with her to explore the Red Keep or practice needlework with the Braavosi dancing master their father has allowed her.

Of Sansa he sees little and less. After the crossroads he cannot look at her without a fist of guilt clenching in his gut and it is easy enough to avoid her. They have never been close, and here in Kingslanding she is always laughing and gossiping among the empty headed ladies of court or sowing beside the vain Lannister queen or beaming in the company of her betrothed. In Winterfell she'd been a flower hiding its petals, but here in the court of King's Landing she is in full bloom, the laughing and beautiful and shining lady she was always meant to be.

A month after they reach the capital Tyrion Lannister returns from the Wall, and Jon finds himself falling into the little man's orbit. He makes good company, and knows the ways of King's Landing better than any. More than once he insists Jon come whoring with him, but each time Jon refuses. He will father no bastards, he tells Tyrion seriously, but the little man always smiles his crooked smile and laughs. "It is not so hard to escape fathering bastards, Snow. Why, look at me. A hundred women my cock has known, and not one bastard. If you must worry then spill your seed on her leg or find a woodswitch to brew her a good strong cup of moon tea."

Still Jon refuses. He knows too well what it is to be a bastard to ever risk the same for a child of his own.

Jaime Lannister too refuses his brother's attempts to get him to come whoring with him, though always with a laugh or strange smile. Before Tyrion Jon had only ever seen him from afar in court, a gold haired knight clad in the armor of the Kingsguard, but the brothers often spent time in each other's company and so once and again Jon sees him, lips always curled in a smile as if to some jest only he understands. Bastard or Snow he calls Jon, and each time Jon must grit his teeth not to throw back at him the name of Kingslayer.

"Go on," Jaime laughs one day as though he knows. "Do you think I've not heard it before?" The smile he gives Jon is hard, eyes glittering. "Kingslayer men may call me, but few to my face. Do you know why? For all the pretty vows a knight takes it is his skill with a sword that matters above all else, and no man is more skilled than I."

And so though he prefers the company of Arya and the other Winterfell men best, Jon forces himself spar with any squire who is willing until he ends each day soaked with sweat and his arms aching. And when there are no more squires to spar with he forces himself to learn from Arya's odd dancing master and his strange fluid way of fighting. In the north Jon had never dreamed of knighthood, but here in the south he begins to, begins to dream of a life where his name can be more than Snow. A life where deeds and valor and skill with a sword can wash away a bastard's birth.

Strangely, as the year passes Sansa begins to spend less and less of her time with her lord husband to be. Though she sits always at Joffrey's side at feasts and court, the rest of her time she spends in the Hand's tower until Arya can stand it no longer.

"Why don't you go back to your rooms?" Arya snaps after Sansa corrects a line of her stitching. Every few months septa Mordane makes a new effort to civilize her, and Arya has been chafing under this latest. "No one asked you here."

Sansa clucks her tongue. "Don't spoil things, Arya. I'm only stopping them from being crooked."

"I don't care if they're crooked." Arya scowls at her. "No one wants you here, Sansa. Father keeps saying how you're going to be queen, so go be with Joffrey."

Jon sighs and lowers the sword he's been silently polishing in the corner. He's seen this enough times to know how Sansa's lips will thin in the way that only Arya can make them and spit back something and then there will be no end to it. But this time Sansa's face pales sudden as though she's been struck. She stands abruptly and whirls as if she's about to leave, but doesn't take a step. The moment stretches and Arya's brow furrows. She opens her mouth to say something else, but Jon stands before she can. "Come on, Arya," he says sheathing his sword. "Let's find Syrio and go riding. It's too hot to be inside."

Arya throws down her sewing and stands. As they pass Sansa a strange look of relief flashes over her face as she smooths her skirts and takes her place back in her seat. It lodges itself in Jon's mind, and he cannot shake it free as he and Arya ride through the Kingswood.

Next Jon sees Sansa it is a week later as he spars in the yard. He doesn't notice her at first, too focused on Garth opposite him. He's Ser Balon Swann's squire, a header taller than Jon, and mercilessly swift, each stroke of his sword a hammer blow against Jon's shield arm. Dimly, through the sweat stinging his eyes, Jon is aware of the other squires ringing the yard; a few sparing, but more watching his and Garth's dance from the corner of their eyes. There is a kind of pack among the squires of the yard, and even those he counts as friends would chuckle at seeing mighty lord Stark's bastard take a fall.

The knowledge only tightens Jon's grip on his sword. Garth lunges, a powerful downward stroke from the shoulder, and Jon moves out of instinct honed razor thin by the stinging tip of Syrio Forrel's practice sword. Flow as a river, strike as an ocean surge, the old water dancer has sing-songed half a hundred times, and Jon does just that. In one smooth movement he feints a pommel strike at Garth's eyes, steps into the tall squire's lunge, and as Garth stumbles back Jon hooks his leg and sends him tumbling to the ground.

"I told you to watch your legs," Jon says, but reaches down to haul Garth back to his feet to take the sting from it. "You're large enough that's all most of us can reach."

Garth scowls. "You might take less pleasure in being right."

Jon grins. Garth is always bitter after losing, but come the morrow will be back to joking and laughing with the rest of the squires. "Another round?"

Garth shakes his head, scowl deepening. "I'd prefer not to land in the dirt again before a crowd."

Jon follows his gaze to the edge of the yard where a knot of ladies in waiting dressed in silk stand watching. Among them Jon catches sight of Sansa's auburn hair. He chews the inside of his cheek. While he'd prefer to slink back among the other squires Jon knows it would be uncourteous, and before his eyes flits again the strange look of relief on her face from the week before.

A few of the ladies wrinkle their noses as he trudges across the yard, and belatedly Jon remembers that this late in the day he no doubt stinks of sweat. Sansa doesn't wrinkle her nose, and Jon finds himself absurdly grateful for that as he reaches her. "Jon," she says with a dip of her head. "You fought valiantly."

Jon shifts his weight awkwardly. "Garth is better with a lance than sword."

Sansa's lips twitch. "You might thank me for the compliment. A knight would."

"A knight might, but I'm no knight." Not yet. The attention of the ladies in waiting has drifted to the other squires on the far side of the yard. Sansa's auburn hair is pinned high to either of her temples, and Jon eyes where it falls loose around her shoulders. "You don't come to the yard."

"Joffrey is to break lances with Ser Loras." There is something queer in Sansa's voice, an uncertain edge to it that Jon cannot place. "He asked I watch."

He bites his lip, but does not know what to say. Since she'd been old enough to curl up in old Nan's lap Sansa had dreamed of marrying a lord like Joffrey, a shining prince with flashing blue eyes and gold hair. This is the song she's always wanted: and she is not his sister in the way Arya is, in the way where he can ask her what troubles her. "The tourney lane is past the yard." He says finally with a nudge of his chin. "You'll find him and Loras there."

Sansa makes no move to start across the yard. "I heard the other squires speaking of you," she says. "They said you're already fierce as a knight with sword and lance. They called you the Wolf of Winterfell."

"Wolf?" Jon raises an eyebrow. "Bastard of Winterfell, I think you mean."

Sansa has the grace to blush. "Not all of them."

"I've heard it before." Jon shrugs, but somehow still it stings. Even now, even here a thousand leagues from Winterfell, he cannot escape his name. But soon. "I know my name is Snow."

Sansa frowns, but before she can answer one of the other ladies is grabbing her arm. "Oh please let's go, Sansa. I want to catch a glimpse of Ser Loras before he closes his visor."

Sansa lets herself by pulled away, but not before casting Jon a last lingering look. "They will call you it one day. Ser Jon Snow, the White Wolf of Winterfell."

Sansa marries Joffrey in the Baratheon cloak of gold and black a year later.

It is done in the sept of Baelor, and when her new husband's cloak is draped over her shoulders a great cheer goes up through all assembled. It is nothing compared to the roar that greets prince Joffrey and his new bride as they emerge from the sept. As they ride back to the Red Keep all through the streets ring shouts to their good health and happiness.

Seven courses for the seven gods are served once the prince and his bride have taken their place at the head of the table. Fat king Robert staggers to his feet and bellows out a bawdy toast to the fruitfulness of their marriage bed, and all but Jon and Arya raise their cups. "The two deserve each other," Arya had grumbled the day before while making a face, and Jon had laughed. But now among all the raised cups and merriment Jon cannot help but notice something strange in Sansa's eyes when their gazes happen on each other for a moment, something glazed and distant in them that he does not understand. Perhaps she finally realizes what a little shit Joffrey is, Jon thinks to himself as he finishes his cup and tries to put it from mind.

But try as he may the thought gnaws as the feast goes on and he drains one cup of wine and then another. Her coming marriage had seemed like it was all Sansa ever spoke of when they first arrived at Kingslanding, but as he casts his mind back Jon finds he cannot think of a time in the last year when she's spoken of it lightly or even with a smile. The two deserve each other, Arya had said, and Jon had laughed, but did anyone truly deserve Joffrey?

One after another each of the seven courses is consumed until all are full near to bursting and some unlucky fools drunk under the table. Finally, Robert staggers to his feet again and shouts that it is time for the bedding. Hoots and suggestions come from all across the hall as Joffrey and Sansa rise from their seats on the high dais and descend. Jon dutifully rises to his feet, finds Jory, and together they shove through the crowd of men and knights already beginning to call out bawdy jokes as they form around Sansa.

In her wedding gown Sansa is a sight lovely enough to make men weep: she wears a gown of blue samite sewn with freshwater pearls that hugs her waist and bodice, her neck long and lovely and pale, red hair pinned to fall in loose spirals and whorls. She turns as Jon and Jory push through the circle of men, gaze flitting to Jon's face, eyes distant and desperate as a doe caught in a snare, and for a moment Jon is back on the Kingsroad the day Lady died, Sansa's eyes seeking him out from within the circle of men around her.

Jory elbows him, and Jon realizes he's stopped stiff in his tracks. He forces himself to step forward, the sound of revelry dimming around him as he touches Sansa's arm. She gives a stiff nod, and gentle as he can Jon bends and lifts her slender frame onto his shoulders as on her other side Jory does the same. Across the hall the women of court have hoisted Joffrey up as well and are already beginning to snatch away pieces of his clothing.

By the time both processions reach Joffrey's bedchambers husband and wife have been stripped of clothes like a bush stripped of berries by magpies. Jory trips over the the threshold of the bedchamber and Jon suddenly finds himself holding Sansa alone in the prince's bedchamber. Joffrey is still in the hallway outside, shouts from the ladies holding him aloft echoing against the stone walls, but all of it seems very far away compared to the silk slide of Sansa's shift in Jon's arms, and he is suddenly overwhelmed by how slender and delicate and truly fragile she is.

Carefully, Jon lowers her into the bed, and only then does Sansa look at him again, eyes trapped, the line of her jaw clenched and sharp and fragile as a shard of glass. The night's wine has left Jon's mind murky and slow. "Your grace," he mumbles, tongue thick, meaning to step back. Her hand flashes out, fingers clutching his sleeve. "Don't call me that," she whispers, eyes pleading, "please don't call me that. I'm still Sansa."

The gale of voices of the ladies holding Joffrey aloft in the corridor is louder now, the sound pulsing in Jon's blood. He reaches up and wraps his hand around Sansa's fingers, and it takes all the will he has not to kneel in that moment and swear to her by the old gods and the new that he will protect her from Joffrey and the Lannisters and all the realm. But this is not a song and he is not a knight, not any more than he has ever been a Stark. Carefully, he untangles her fingers from his sleeve and gives them a tight squeeze. "Sansa," he says meeting her eyes, and later he knows he will tell himself it is the wine that makes him step forward and brush his lips against her forehead. "Sansa Stark."

And then Joffrey is inside the chamber and Jon is stumbling back as a gaggle of highborn women dump Joffrey already as naked as his name day into the bed next to Sansa. The last glimpse of Sansa Jon catches before he's swept away by the tide of women out of the bedchamber is her eyes still holding his, trapped and pleading.

AN: Follow me on tumblr at TacitWhisky for a sneak peak at the next chapter.