Chapter 12 | Jon
Jon signed the final document on his desk with a hurried flourish and pushed it towards Ser Davos who sat opposite him in a wide leather chair. They'd been at it for hours, dealing with the seemingly endless matters of various lands and houses that had been neglected under the Bolton's rule. Though he'd started just after sun up, he could see the dim winter light outside his window beginning the subtle shift into evening.
"If that's the last of it, Ser Davos," said Jon placing his pen back into the ink well, "I think it's high time that we called for the ale."
Ser Davos slid the paper from the desk, gathering it neatly with the rest of the pile and stowed it in a leather satchel.
"There is still one more matter to attend to," he said, "but I think you might want to call for the ale first."
"That sounds ominous," said Jon, motioning for the boy standing in wait in the corner, "I guess we'll drink first then."
Jon stood and stretched, his muscles aching from the hours hunched over his desk.
"I never knew it was possible to get so exhausted sitting in a chair," he said, a nod of his head indicating to Ser Davos that they should move to the chairs by the fire.
"Young blood doesn't like to stay still," Ser Davos replied as the men settled into the chairs together.
The boy scrambled to place the glasses on the table between them, filling them with an unsteady hand. Jon looked at the boy who could be no older than eight, his eyes landing on an old mottled bruise that was yellowing around his eye. He must have been one of Ramsay's, spared and given refuge after the siege. Jon suddenly felt like he was back on his knees inside the castle gates, Ramsay's bloodied face crunching wetly beneath his fists.
"What's your name, lad?" he asked gently as the boy's trembling hand sloshed ale over the rim of the glass.
"I—I'm sorry, Your Grace," he said, his face going pale.
"It's fine, lad," said Jon. "You aren't the first person to spill ale in this room, and I'm sure you won't be the last." The boy looked up at him furtively, his face a mask of his fear.
"What's your name?" Jon asked again.
"R—Robb, You Grace," he replied his eyes cast downward.
"That's a good, solid name," said Jon lifting his ale from the table. "That was my brother's name."
"I know, Your Grace. I was named for him."
"You look strong, Robb. Are you good with a sword?"
"I'm learning, Your Grace."
"Well, keep at it, Robb. Everyone, even great knights, have to start somewhere. If you'd like you can take lessons with the fencing master in the mornings before you start work. Then maybe in a few months you can show me what you've learned. Would you like that?"
"Yes, Your Grace," the boy still looked apprehensive, but his eyes flashed with excitement. Jon smiled at him warmly.
"Alright then. I'll arrange it. You can start next week. Now run along, Robb. We can serve ourselves from here."
"Thank you, Your Grace," he said, backing away with a bow. He scrambled to the door and was gone.
Jon handed the glass in his hand to Ser Davos and then picked up the other for himself. When he met the man's eyes, they were twinkling at him.
"I'm proud to serve you," said Ser Davos lifting his glass. Jon raised his in return. He should have said something gracious and kingly in reply, but he found that the words stuck in his throat. He caught himself thinking of his father sometimes when Ser Davos spoke, and he found increasingly that his good opinion of him meant more than he could entirely explain.
The men fell into a comfortable silence, both of them resting their boots on the table in front of them, the fire roaring in the imposing fireplace.
"Being a king isn't at all how you imagine it when you play at it as a boy," said Jon finally, staring into the flames.
"No, I'm sure that it isn't," said Ser Davos.
"It's all paperwork and decisions. I thought it would be all wars and battles and glory — though I suppose that I was wrong about what those things were like, as well," he mused taking a long drink of ale.
"If we told boys what wars were really like," said Ser Davos, "there'd be no one to fight them."
"Isn't that the truth," said Jon with a wry smile. "So what is this final matter that we need to discuss?"
"The matter of your marriage." Ser Davos let the words hang in the air.
"It's only been a few days," said Jon sighing deeply. "Surely it can wait a few weeks? A few months?"
"I wish that it could," he replied, his face filled with genuine compassion, "but unfortunately the reality of your parentage means that you need to make a match with a lady of the one the great houses to secure your claim on Winterfell. You'll need their support — and you won't truly have it until you tie yourselves to them through marriage."
Jon's hand fisted on the arm of his chair. He knew he needed to do his duty, but so soon? He wasn't ready. He saw Sansa's red hair in the flames and shut his eyes.
"And who do you suggest that I wed?" asked Jon, his voice harder than he meant it to be as he asked the question through gritted teeth.
"You can have your pick of ladies, but I would suggest Lyanna Mormont," replied Ser Davos.
"Lyanna?" asked Jon, incredulous. "Lyanna is a child! What is she, ten?"
"Eleven," he replied. "and she's from a great house. Choosing her would give you the chance to show that you reward loyalty. And her age means that you could have a long betrothal which would buy you some time — to move on." Jon froze, his glass half raised to his lips.
"I don't think I catch your meaning, Ser Davos," he replied darkly.
"Ah, but I think that you do, Jon," his voice was gentle, but his eyes were steady, not backing down. "I see the way that you look at her, and it won't be long before everyone else does, too. And I wouldn't be serving you if I didn't try to steer you from it."
Jon couldn't find it in himself to deny it — not to Davos. He lowered his feet to the ground and put his head in hands, squeezing his temples between them trying to block out the roaring in his ears.
"You don't have to feel ashamed in front of me," Ser Davos continued, "Of all of the horrors that I've seen in this world, I can't judge a man for who he loves. I know who you are, and I meant what I said — I am proud to serve you. But Jon, this wouldn't just be your ruin, but the ruin of the North. It would be the ruin of her."
Jon knew the truth of his words. It was nothing that he hadn't thought himself. But to hear it from someone else's lips — to hear it from someone whom he so deeply respected, shook him to the core. He thought that his feelings for Sansa could be his secret, but apparently this was not a secret that could stay buried. He was telling it with his every glance, his every move. His need for her was a fever, a sickness that was growing in him, eating away at him like a progressive rot that threatened to devour not only him, but everything left that he held dear if he didn't put an end to it somehow.
"Tell me what to do," Jon said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"You know what you have to do, Jon. You have to send her away. Marry her to someone who can protect her — a good man, someone far away. And then you must marry another and try to forget."
Jon sat back, pounding his fist on the arm of his chair. Tears brimmed in his eyes that he didn't bother to wipe away in front of Ser Davos. He was already exposed.
"I love her," he said finally meeting the older man's gaze.
"Then save her," replied Ser Davos, his eyes grave and sad.
Jon looked at him for a long moment more and then nodded, turning back to the fire. Ser Davos stood, clapping one hand on Jon's shoulder.
"It's like you said, being a king is all about decisions," he said as he turned to leave. "We can talk more later."
Jon waited until he heard the door close behind him before throwing his glass into the fire, the shards dancing and skittering in the flames.
He needed to see her. He knew it was madness, but he was on his feet before he could stop himself. If he was going to send her away, what harm could it do to see her now?
Wiping his face on the back of his sleeve, he grabbed his cloak and threw open the door.
"Ser Dandrick," he said to the man standing outside. "Do you know where Lady Sansa is?"
"The last I heard she was in the Godswood, Your Grace," he replied with a bow.
"Thank you," said Jon, striding down the passageway to the courtyard below.
His boots pounded down the stairs, and then out into the fresh snow outside, driven by some mad impulse. He didn't even think about what he was going to say until he was almost upon her.
He froze at the edge of the clearing when he saw her, feeling suddenly uncertain. She sat on one of the large, gnarled roots of the weirwood staring into the frozen pool, her face propped on one delicate gloved hand.
Ghost had followed him soundlessly, and as Jon stopped he trotted past him, rounding the pool toward Sansa. She was lost in thought, only looking up when Ghost approached her, lowering his large head to nudge against Sansa's knee.
Sansa looked up with a small smile, scratching him behind one ear, her eyes sweeping the clearing until she met Jon's. He walked slowly toward her as she spoke softly to Ghost, stroking his white fur as he knelt down at her feet. It was rare for Ghost to invite physical contact from anyone but Jon himself, but he was eager and submissive as a puppy at Sansa's feet.
"He's not like that with anyone," said Jon as he approached, settling himself on an outcropping of roots a few feet away. "He knows you're a Stark. He senses the wolf's blood in you."
Something unfathomable and almost pained flashed behind Sansa's eyes, but with her lips she smiled.
They fell into silence. Jon stared down at his gloved hands uncertain of what to say.
"What are you doing here?" she asked finally.
"Looking for you," said Jon, meeting her gaze with a small smile. "What are you doing here?"
Sansa regarded him for a moment and then lifted a leather flask from where it had been nestled in her skirts. Jon chuckled and reached out his hand.
"What is this?" he asked as she passed it to him.
"Some sort of wildly expensive brandy from the south," she replied. "Petyr brought casks of it with him." Jon had never heard her use his first name before and the familiar sound of it on her lips made him uneasy.
"He certainly doesn't travel light," said Jon, his voice tinged with scorn as he lifted the flask to his lips. It was richer and sweeter than anything he'd ever tasted as it sloshed over his tongue and curled warmly into his belly.
"Seven hells that's good. That fancy prick knows his drink, at least. I'll give him that" he said, taking another swig.
Sansa giggled, the sound light and sparkling in the thick silence of the Godswood. Jon couldn't help but smile at her, and she smiled back, the warmth from the brandy riding high in her cheeks.
"Drinking in the Godswood," she said in mock horror. "What would father say?"
"It wouldn't be the first time," he said, passing the flask back to her.
Sansa looked genuinely surprised.
"You're bad," she said, before taking another dip swig. Ghost settled his head by her feet.
Jon regarded her for a moment, breathtaking and regal in profile against the white trunk of the weirwood, even as she drank, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. And yet just under the surface lurked a sadness that was almost palpable. It hung thick in the air around her.
"Are you OK, Sansa?" he asked her, his voice low and filled with concern.
Sansa looked at him with a smile so forced that it was more of a grimace, her eyes betraying her. She looked down at her hands.
"I remember coming here as a girl," she said. "I remember playing here with Arya, even though we weren't supposed to and father would yell at us. I feel like I can hear him better here. I can see him sitting in this spot sharpening his sword. Sometimes when I think of him, I can't bring his face to my mind anymore, but when I'm here it comes to me more clearly."
"I know what you mean," said Jon, his heart aching.
"Sometimes I have a hard time drawing a line between the girl that played here and the woman I am now. So much has happened. So much of it feels like a fever or a half remembered dream. I don't know which parts are real and which parts I only imagined. Sometimes it feels like I'm losing the thread of myself." Her voice broke, and she took another swig of brandy.
Pain lanced through Jon's chest as he listened to her words. He knew that he could only imagine the horrors that she'd been through. Watching their father's execution, being tortured by Joffrey, Ramsay —it was more than he could bear. He knelt beside her, placing the flask on the ground and wrapping both of her hands in his.
"You're Sansa Stark of Winterfell," he said looking up at her, seeking out her eyes. "And I won't let you lose yourself."
"I don't even know if I'm that anymore," she said, her eyes hard and bleak as the heaviest snows he'd seen beyond the wall. He longed to pull her into his arms and warm her, but instead he pulled her hands to his lips, kissing them gently.
"You are to me," he said. Recognition dawned on her face, breaking through her steely gaze, as she heard her own words to him on the battlements echoed back to her.
"Thank you, Jon" she said raising one hand lightly to his cheek.
"Always," he vowed.
Sansa shook her head as if to shake off the darkness that had settled there. When she looked at him again, her eyes were more clear, the storm seeming to have passed for the moment.
"So what did you come here to tell me?" she asked.
"We don't need to talk about that now," Jon replied sitting back on his heels.
"Jon," she said smoothing her skirts, "whatever it is you can tell me. I'm not nearly as delicate as I look. I won't break."
Jon sighed, rising to his feet and settling next to her.
"I know you won't," he said, nudging his shoulder into hers.
"So what is it?" she asked. Jon sighed deeply.
"Ser Davos says that I need to make a match for a wife. Soon." He steeled himself for her reaction, but when she spoke her voice was calm and even.
"I figured that was coming," she said. "Do you have someone in mind?"
"He suggested Lyanna Mormont. I know she's only a child, but—"
"She's a good choice," said Sansa quietly. "She's worthy of you, at least."
Jon looked at the ground, unsure what to say. She floated away from him so easily. One second she was there and the next she was gone. He was drawn in by her flames, but since the night that she had left him in his chambers, she somehow always left him in the cold grasping at smoke.
"And who am I to marry?" she asked picking up the flask out of the snow and taking another drink.
"Whomever you please," said Jon. "You know I won't force anything upon you. You don't have to get married again at all. You could stay with me here—"
"You know that I can't," she replied.
"Yes, you can. After everything that's happened, people will understand — and fuck them if they don't. I can keep you safe, and I—"
"She'll be your wife and she'll share your bed and you'll love her, in time," she said interrupting him with sudden venom, "She's fierce and good like you and she deserves your love. You'll owe her that. And I can't watch it, Jon, I—" her voice broke as she spoke, and that small crack in her cool façade stoked a fire in him that grew suddenly into an inferno.
Jon pulled her across his lap, leaning her back over his arm as he kissed her. Gods and duty be damned, he kissed her with all of the longing and passion that had filled him since the day that she rode through the gates at Castle Black. Their lips melded together, her body melting into his, the rest of the world obliterated by the rightness of her in his arms.
But then a great sob wracked her and she was pushing him away. Jon relented, his arms going limp as she scrambled to her feet.
"Jon, please," she said, her voice a wretched plea. "Don't make me survive this, too." She spun on her heels and retreated back through the clearing as darkness descended over the Godswood.