The Last Wolves - Chapter 3
He runs, faster and faster. The castle walls, the melting mounds of snow, and the celebrating men rushing past him in a blur. He is faster than the cold breeze that he sprints through, faster than the startled guards he runs past, faster than the call of the heart tree which is a mere faint whisper by the time he is past the godswood.
He does not know where he is headed to, but he can hear her following him, as quick as he is, quicker even.
Leave me alone, he warns her.
But she is stubborn, this sister of his. She comes after him, spotting him even through the snow that lends him a blanket of invisibility, hearing him even though he is the most soundless creature in the silence of the night.
For once, he hates that he shares a mind with her, that he cannot keep her away from his thoughts, neither the wolfish ones nor the human ones.
He still persists though, running on and on, his legs having a mind of their own, until he finds a heavy weight lunging at him, pushing him sideways and throwing him off his intended path: it is her, of course. Nymeria.
He makes to snap his jaw at her in fury, but it is she who growls angrily, yellow eyes golden in the moonlight.
Pack, she growls. Together.
He only snorts, looking away from her, feeling a queer sort of irritation with her – an emotion that belongs more to the man that he truly is, not the wolf he is hiding in now.
He knows what his sudden annoyance has stemmed from: Nymeria's loud howl that made him turn away from the pretty red-haired woman, from Sansa, whose wide blue eyes had turned suddenly big and hurt as he backed away from her, the unspoken pain in her words making him feel strangely sad… and guilty – not the usual guilt he feels: for the lives he couldn't save, for the lives that ended just because his foolish father and foolish mother saw it fit to plunge the realm into war for their selfish desires, for the lies Eddard Stark had to utter for Jon Snow to survive… This is a different kind of guilt, arising from the duty he bears to Sansa, from the vows he swore under the heart tree… and something else that his half-wolf mind cannot yet identify.
Brother, Nymeria growls again, though her tone is softer now, as if she senses the conundrum of emotions the human part of him is feeling, as if she knows that even seeking refuge in Ghost isn't enough to drive his conflict away tonight.
Brother, she says again, nudging at him with her snout. He leans into her, sniffing in her scent that reminds him of a time long past – of a skinny girl with messy hair and a mischievous glint in her eyes… Arya…
And just like that, with the slightest memory of her, his irritation with Nymeria is forgotten.
He nips at his she-wolf's ear now, almost playfully. And as he looks around them, breathing in the cool air and the scent of the woods, he is suddenly glad to be away from the man-rock, from the crowds of lords and ladies and men and women, from the pungent smells and the raucous noises, from the chains of kingship and courtesy and duty that bind him tightly to the weirwood throne – but his joy is only momentary; for when he thinks of Winterfell, with its grey walls, and its hot pools, and the crypts with the kings and their swords, and the distance that now lies between him and the castle, he feels that familiar ache begin to prick at him – one he has known since the moment he arose from the flames, desperate for only two things: Winterfell and Arya.
Brother, Nymeria says again, rousing him from his faint longing for Winterfell, running away from him and coaxing him to catch up with her.
He follows her, like he has since the moment he met her at the Trident.
He catches up with her soon, Nymeria back to her usual self now that she knows he isn't miffed with her, now that they're together again – brother and sister, man and wolf.
On and on they go, as he lets Ghost take over, listening for signs of prey. But all the while something keeps nagging at him – it is his need for Winterfell, he thinks. But something tells him it isn't; for her face keeps flashing in his mind's eyes, with a gleam in those blue eyes and her erratic breaths, her hand holding his… that moment when he had truly felt like a man again, with desires of own that had nothing to do with the castle or his lost sister… and her hair, her red hair that brought hints of memories buried deep within his mind – of a wild girl with fire in her hair singing a sad song about Giants, moving above him under the furs… Ygritte, they tell him her name was. Perhaps, it was those faint memories of Ygritte that made him desire Sansa, he decides… and lets it go, too weary and conflicted to dwell on it now, too relieved to find a semblance of calm in Ghost's wolfish mind to think of the many things that ail Jon Snow—Jon Stark now.
He lets the train of thought trail off, catching up with Nymeria who is racing ahead, the night silent but for the buzzing of insects and the fluttering of the leaves and their paws heavy on the uneven ground.
On and on they go together, Nymeria eagerly, while he merely looks around quietly at the tall oaks, the ancient ironwoods, the towering sentinels, at the rare nocturnal bird flying overhead, and then, slowly, at the little clearing in the distance with that massive misshapen stone lying in the middle.
There's something he knows of this particular place, he thinks, his paws slowing down but his heart racing for some reason, feeling suddenly light-headed. There's a strange sort of feeling in his belly, in his heart even, making him feel as if there's something just within his grasp but yet too far for him to touch it… Something tells him that he's been here, on his own horse, with a group of men he once knew. And when he shuts his eyes on a sudden whim, he can hear them, their voices.
Race you to that boulder, Snow! the fluttering leaves of the oak whisper, in a boyish voice that haunts his dreams sometimes.
Robb! he thinks, his heart skipping a beat, picturing a blurry vision of a red-haired lad who comes rushing at Jon with a wooden sword, laughing all the while – a picture that drifts away before Jon he can even see it clearly.
Be careful now, lads, the bear could be around us somewhere, warns a voice that flies away with the light breeze, a voice that sounds stern yet concerned at the same time, reminding him faintly of the happier days gone by, what seems like a thousand years ago, of a bearded man with a solemn face that always broke into a little smile for his bastard son.
Father! he thinks, that was Father. He brought us here, hunting.
There's a sudden surge of joy he feels – something that happens oh-so-rarely that he's taken aback for a moment.
He tries harder now, his eyes scrunched shut. He wants to see them in his mind's eyes, he wants to remember the brother he knows he still loves, remember his blue eyes (like Sansa's, he thinks), remember the long face that belonged to Father (Uncle, he was my Uncle, corrects his betrayed soul), remember the familiar-faced young man who was riding alongside Father, chuckling at something Robb said (Jory, was he called?).
But before he can grab at the little wisps of the voices, the weak threads of the memories, they're gone, leaving only the silent oak and ironwood staring coldly at him when he opens his eyes.
No! Father, wait! he thinks, groping desperately for the fleeing images, the disappearing memories, feeling blindly for them, but ending up with nothing but the familiar agony that seems to tear him apart at times like these.
He tries to picture them again, refusing to give up when he was so close – the red-haired boy, and the dark-haired man… but they're gone now, turning blurry and fainter in his mind's eyes until there's nothing left of them.
And he finds that he wants to howl, he wants to scream, he wants to sob for the people he doesn't remember losing, but whose loss pricks painfully at him every moment, whether he's awake or sleeping.
Father! Robb! he wants to shout for them, beg them to remind him of the years he spent with them: sparring with Robb and listening to Father's tales as they sat by the hearth. But they're long dead, he knows, their bones lying peacefully in their tombs in the crypts, while Jon Snow remains alive in this accursed second life of his, drowning in the familiar disappointment, the suffocating sorrow – though it is more acute now, borne out of the emptiness and frustration of years of being unable to remember his past.
He finds himself turning to his only confidante.
Nymeria! he begs, looking at the grey-furred wolf, pleading, wanting to remember the hunt Father took them on, wanting to remember whether he beat Robb at the race, whether they managed to hunt down the bear, just remember how Father and Robb looked – not those silent, cold statues in the crypts, but the living, breathing men they had been.
Nymeria, he calls to her, meeting her yellow-eyed gaze.
But she doesn't remember. She wasn't there at all. It was long before she was born to their dead mother, in that litter of six pups of which only he and her remain.
But she senses it – his pain, his loss, and his longing. And she howls, long and loud, a howl of pain and mourning, of all that they both have lost. From far away, he hears her wolf pack joining in with their own howls, the night air coming alive with the calls of a hundred wolves.
Look, Nymeria tells him, whimpering as she feels the onslaught of his sorrow. Look, Jon, she says, and she shows him what she knows will make him happy again, which will take away the grief that is threatening to drown her, too: a picture of that day, with the clothes strewn all around the open trunk, a thin little sword lying in its soft-leathered sheath, of the skinny girl putting her arms around him.
I wish you were coming with us, she says, the dark-haired girl in Nymeria's memory.
Arya, he thinks, Arya!
He remembers now, feeling a warmth that is welcome despite the much-hated, ever-present heat in his resurrected body, a warmth that seems to seep through his fur into his very bones and his very soul – or whatever is left of it.
He remembers how he had mussed up her hair now, remembers how those dark, messy locks felt under his fingers, he remembers how she had run to him for that last hug, showering him with kisses.
Arya, he thinks tremulously – feeling overwhelming joy and extreme sorrow at the same time, something that always arises whenever he remembers something of Arya. But along with those utterly differing emotions, there's the pain as well when he recalls that she isn't here with him, the sister he so loves, the only person he truly remembers loving. But it is a different kind of pain, this – a constant ache in his abominable heart, a yearning that never leaves him, that hasn't let him sleep peacefully since the day he awoke to this second life.
Arya, Arya, Arya, he chants, feeling her lips on his cheek, her thin arms around his neck, the joy sparkling in her eyes when he gave her that sword. Arya, little sister.
But suddenly, before he can touch her unruly hair, before he can clutch her skinny form even closer to himself, he finds her arms disappearing from around his neck, her image seeming to blur.
"Jon!" she calls to him.
He reaches out to her, panicked, unwilling to let her go.
"Jon!" she repeats, "Jon!"
"Arya!" he calls, frightened that he shall never see her again, desperate to hold on to the girl he loves. "Arya, wait!"
"JON!"
He wakes up with a start, finding a pair of blue eyes staring down at him, wide with panic. It takes him a moment to realise that Arya is gone, that Arya was never there at all, that he was never in the woods. Ghost was.
I was in Ghost, he thinks, I was Ghost. And Arya was never here. It was all a dream… Nymeria's memory of us…
"Jon," Sansa repeats, still panicked. He finds himself wanting to shy away from her hand that is on his hot, damp forehead, brushing his hair away. "Are you alright, Jon? What happened?" She asks him, voice thick with worry.
She is still in her wedding gown, he notes, only now remembering what had happened just hours ago when he had turned away from her, when she had stared at him, hurt and pained, when Nymeria had called out to him, reminded him of who he is and who she is.
"I am fine," he hears himself saying; though for half a moment he is far away, lying down next to Nymeria in the woods as she licks at his fur affectionately, snuggling into him, sharing her warmth in the cold of the night. "I am fine, my lady," he repeats.
"You were shouting," Sansa says quietly; and he can hear her heartbeats slowing back to normal, almost as if he is Ghost and not Jon. "You were shouting for her, for Arya."
There's a terseness in her tone, some note of accusation in her eyes that make him look away from her, something that feels like guilt and shame wrestling in his gut.
He is her husband now, he knows. This isn't fair to her. He isn't supposed to wake up screaming in the middle of the night – their wedding night – with another lady's name on his lips.
But it was Arya! he argues with himself. I saw Arya, I remembered that last day with her.
"Jon?" Sansa's voice brings him back to the present. "You were shouting for Arya," she repeats. "Did you dream of her?"
He nods reluctantly; she is his wife, and he does not think he ought to lie to her after he already slighted her on the night when they should have been husband and wife in the true sense of the terms.
Finding himself at a loss for words, he watches Sansa instead. There's what seems like wistfulness in her gaze now, something like curiosity, but a slight sense of irritation, too – emotions he is surprised at having recognised considering how rarely she lets her stoic mask fall, never letting people see what truly goes on in her mind, and considering how little he cares for what others feel, more occupied with his simple yearning for prey when he is wolfish, and the dreary, complicated emotions that arise when he is Jon Snow.
"Tell me," she says, finally withdrawing her hand from his brow, (and he is surprised to realise that he misses her cold touch the moment she takes her hand away). She settles back on her side of the huge bed, leaning against the pillows. "Tell me what you dreamt. Tell me about Arya."
He is a little taken aback at her demand. Nobody has asked him to talk of Arya yet. Even when Lord Manderly's scouts return empty-handed with no news of Arya, the plump lord skirts around the issue, promising that he will find the princess, but never remarking on Jon's unnatural longing for her. When a pall of gloom descends upon him at the lack of any knowledge on where his sister is, even Sam prefers to remain mum on the matter, not knowing how to respond to the unnatural thoughts Jon has for the girl who was his sister.
So Sansa's waiting gaze leaves him all at sea.
He does not know what to say; he cannot find words to describe what he saw of Arya – that wild tangle of uncombed hair, as dark as his own, those beautiful grey eyes that had him mesmerised, telling him so much more than her words ever could, her skinny arms around his neck, and her level voice that broke at the end, belying just how much she would miss him when they went their different ways…
The ache descends upon him again, fiercely now, making him agitated and desperate for Arya, knowing he can never tell Sansa what Arya means to him, knowing nobody can ever understand the gaping hole that his lost sister carved into his heart – a hole that not even Bran's words from the heart tree can ever fill, let alone this other sister of theirs who is little more than a stranger to him despite the time they have spent together since their betrothal.
He is restless now, longing for the escape that is waiting for him in the wolfswood, in Ghost's familiar mind and body, in Nymeria's furry head resting against his, in the link that the she-wolf holds to his sister, away from the emptiness and longing that assails him now.
He gets off the bed, finding that he wants to get far away from this room that had once belonged to Lady Stark, away from this sister who has nothing of the North in her looks, away from the plethora of emotions warring within him that make him want to pull at his hair.
"Jon, wait," Sansa calls, a note of hurt in her voice.
He glances at her, taking in her fair colouring and her blue eyes, her brilliant red hair that is bright in the light from the torches. For a moment, he wishes it was her sister here with him. He wishes she was Arya.
Sansa's face falls, her eyes glistening now; and he wonders if she can read his mind, whether she knows that it is Arya he wants and not her.
He finds a sheet of shame enveloping him now. He shouldn't feel this way, he knows. He shouldn't make Sansa feel this way.
She deserves so much better, he thinks, pained, she has always been good to me since I met her at the Trident. She deserves better than what I am now – an accursed, broken shell of the man I once was.
"Forgive me," he says, the shame washing over him, the sorrow and longing not far behind – a muddled mess that consumes him whole. He is surprised to find his voice breaking at the words, a little lump in his throat now that seems foreign to him. He doesn't remember ever shedding tears since his resurrection, not when he saw his friends dying, not when Rickon died in his arms, not even tears of relief and joy when they vanquished the Others. But here, faced with Sansa's anguish, his own guilt, and the maddening battle that Arya always causes in his mind and heart, he finds himself overwhelmed at it all.
"It is alright, Jon," Sansa whispers softly.
The sense of understanding in her words only adds to his guilt, and with a nod at her, he walks away from her, knowing Ghost is waiting to grant him blessed refuge again.
oOo
The days fly by, and it is as if nothing has changed. He is married to Sansa, yes. But they never share a chamber again – it is as if they were never wed at all. They never talk of that night, they never talk of Nymeria's howl that made him back away from her, they never talk of him waking up with Arya's name on his lips. Instead, they go about their chores and duties like they did when they were just cousins who were once half-siblings, not the man and wife they swore to be.
He spends his days overseeing the rebuilding of the castle. He overseeing the training of his men, and visits the lands closest to him; Lady Maege and the lords in his council help him in finalising the new contracts for selling timber to traders in some of the Free Cities.
Lords Manderly and Glover are not too happy about Larence being awarded the Hornwood lands and lordship. Some of Sansa's Riverlander lords are always at odds with each other too, their ravens keep flying in. They're my bannermen too now, the lords of the Riverlands, he reminds himself. But he cannot help but feel out of place with the lords and ladies, knowing he isn't at all adept at diplomacy and inking truces and settlements that will satisfy each of them.
I was never meant to be a King, he thinks despairingly one evening, after a particularly harrowing time over the fate of the Dreadfort.
I was never meant for this, I was never meant to be a lord, let alone a King, he broods.
Sometimes, he feels like this Kingship has shackled him, bound him with duties and responsibilities he cannot throw off, no matter how much he wants to. Sometimes, like now, all he wishes is to run free in the Wolfswood, as Ghost, as a wolf, with nothing on his mind but the wind lashing at his fur and the scent of fresh prey as Nymeria races past him.
She's still here now, Arya's wolf, trotting by his side, like always. She follows him everywhere, like she once used to follow Sansa, he thinks. But for all that the she-wolf is annoyed with Sansa, Jon knows that she still loves their red-haired sister.
"Where's your brother?" he asks Nymeria, who only growls in irritation. But Jon already knows where his wolf is.
He hesitates momentarily, and then takes off to collect his direwolf from the woman whose side the massive beast hardly leaves nowadays.
He stands for a long moment before the tall doors of Sansa's chamber. He has been there only once before, on their wedding night. He threads his fingers thought Nymeria's thick fur, and then knocks twice on the door.
"Come in," comes her reply.
Again, it is Nymeria who leads him, her clawed paws clacking on the stone floor as she walks past him into the chambers.
It is the warmth in the room that he notices first. And only then does his gaze fall on her. Her hair is loosely braided, tendrils of hair fluttering in the breeze blowing in through the window. The lone candle-flame flickering at the table she is sitting at illuminates her face, and makes her red tresses seem redder. She looked weary before he came in, he knows, for Ghost tells him so. But now, she seems pleasantly surprised at seeing him here.
"My King," she says, graceful even in the simple act of getting to her feet.
"Jon," he says without thinking, "Call me Jon."
He is fed up of people calling him Your Grace. Only Lord Reed calls him Jon when they speak in private, and Sam sometimes, though he corrects himself soon after, and Bran through the heart tree, and Nymeria. But he thinks it shall be nice being called Jon by—well, by his wife, no matter how tough he still finds finding himself with a wife, who was once my sister, like Arya. He brushes the thought away before the familiar emptiness can assail him. But he cannot, of course. He cannot forget, even if he tries. But the pain is only a dull thudding somewhere in his heart now, not how it feels like it is physically tearing him apart sometimes.
"You must call me Sansa, then," she interrupts his thoughts, meeting his eyes with a clear, blue-eyed gaze, "None of the 'My Queen' and 'My Lady'. I am your wife, Jon, you must call me by my name."
He hesitates a moment. Calling her Sansa somehow reminds him that she was once his sister, that they once called the same man father and grew up as half-siblings. It reminds him that the sister he truly wants is not here with him, while the one who is with him is now his wife. Calling Sansa by her name and not her title only rekindles the conflict that wars within him daily, and the yearning that grows deeper with each passing day. But he cannot tell that to Sansa. He does not want to see the hurt swimming in those blue eyes again, like it did when he spurned her on their wedding night.
So he only manages a nod. "Sansa," he agrees.
She smiles – a bright, genuine smile that somehow makes him smile too.
They remain silent for a moment, awkward and uncertain, before Jon whistles softly to Ghost, wanting to take him with him. It isn't often that he gets a peaceful sleep unless he is in the direwolf's skin. But Ghost huffs loudly from his spot at Sansa's feet, refusing to budge, even when Jon reaches out to him.
It is only when Nymeria growls a low growl, calling for her brother, that Ghost snorts and gets to his paws, nudging Sansa's hand with his snout, and then following his sister out of the chambers.
Jon makes to bid Sansa goodnight and follow the direwolves. But suddenly, he notices that Sansa's smile has faded, almost as if she doesn't want him to leave.
He cannot blame her. He is her husband. He should have shared a bedchamber with her for dozens of nights now, to give her the babes he knows she longs for (for Ghost has seen the way she is always reluctant to let go of baby Aemon, Sam and Gilly's son, and the bitter-sweet smile she flashes whenever she sees the two maids who are big with child). He knows he ought to do his duty as a husband, fulfil the vows he swore to her.
But she is your sister, like Arya, reminds a voice in his mind; it sounds like Nymeria.
But she is not, is she? Sansa is his cousin, and his wife now.
But if Sansa was never his sister at all, that means Arya was never his sister too—and that is a thought he cannot bear.
Brother, Nymeria calls to him fiercely, as they lie side by side on the Myrish rug in Jon's room. Brother! You are my brother!
He licks at Nymeria's grey fur, tasting mud and snow and the faded memories of the life he once lived with his sister. Arya, he agrees with the she-wolf, little sister.
He can still see her in his mind's eye, even though he cannot remember much of her. Nymeria's memories of her paint a picture of a wild, feisty girl, who sneaked out from the Septa's sewing lessons, and battled with wooden sticks with a butcher's boy. The girl who completed sentences with him, and peppered his face with a dozen kisses when he gave her that sword.
Oh, how he wants her. He wants Arya more than he wants anything. He loved her, and he loves her still, if he is even capable of love. What else could it be? This deep longing for her, the constant ache in his heart, the feeling that the only thing even remotely capable of setting him right again is the girl he pines for, the feeling that he would give up his kingship, his castle and maybe even his wife for a single glimpse of Arya.
I shouldn't feel like this for Arya, he berates himself, I shouldn't feel like this for a sister—no, she was never my sister at all.
Nymeria growls from beside him on the rug, snapping her jaw at him, but he tries to ignore her. I shouldn't feel this way when I have a wife now.
But Arya occupies his thoughts every waking minute, he looks for glimpses of her in everything he sees. The scullery maid's daughter's wild hair reminds him of Arya, as does the Master of Horse's sister's toothy smile. He looks for her in his mother's statue in the crypts, and in his own face that reflects on the still waters of the pool in the godswood. When he runs his hand through Nymeria's fur, he imagines it is Arya's hair he is mussing up, and when he sleeps next to Nymeria in the godswood, he wishes she were Arya instead, snuggling up to him in the cold of the night, her scent enveloping him, her voice in his ears, his arms holding her as tightly as they did the last time he embraced her, never letting her part from him again.
Arya, he thinks, Arya.
"Jon?" says Sansa softly.
For a moment, he is stunned that he is standing before her, this sister who isn't the one he wants. He is stunned that he isn't the wolf lying with Nymeria on the rug in his own bedchambers, but King Jon Stark standing before his Queen.
Somehow, he cannot meet Sansa's gaze now.
My heart belongs to Arya, he thinks fiercely, it always did and it always will.
But he cannot say that to Sansa, of course. He cannot hurt her; he doesn't want to.
She is my wife, he reminds himself, looking anywhere but at those blue eyes. His gaze falls on the ledgers that lie on her table, the quills resting beside the inkpot.
"Doesn't the steward keep the books of account?" he asks her instead, anything to take his mind away from the battle within.
"He does," Sansa replies, "I am just reviewing the figures. A lot of our stocks were spent on the wedding and the guests. The granaries are almost empty. The new consignment from the Reach should arrive at White Harbour within the moon. That will replenish our stocks."
He nods. He knew she looked into the ledgers. But he did not know she took such an interest in the food stores and the like.
"My—well, my Mother used to review the figures when she was the Lady of Winterfell," Sansa says quietly, as if she read his mind.
Jon does not remember much of Lady Catelyn Stark. But sometimes, when he looks at Sansa going about her duties as the lady of the castle, he feels a pall of unease descending on him, a bit of gloom and the feeling of being inferior, of being left out – Sansa reminds him of another woman in Stark colours, with red hair and blue eyes that either looked through him or glared at him with question and derision. You shouldn't be here, he thinks he remembers Lady Catelyn's mute gaze saying sometimes, you shouldn't be here, with my true-born children. Winterfell does not belong to you.
He had disliked Catelyn Stark once. Perhaps, he had even hated her. He does not remember. But recently, he has found himself carrying none of those sentiments for the deceased lady. Instead, he searches for traces of Arya in the faint memories of her mother that Sansa invokes in him.
But now, when he sees Sansa's face fall as she speaks of her mother, when he sees how hollow her smile is, he, strangely, does not quite think of Arya. Jon knows why Sansa is upset. He knows why thinking of Lady Catelyn always makes her sad. Lady Stoneheart, he thinks, remembering the reports that he had heard of her during the War.
"Mother used to often sit with Vayon Poole the steward and Maester Luwin to review the figures," Sansa goes on, looking away from him and down at the parchment now.
Jon can almost feel her sorrow, her agonising loss. He never met his mother, but he still longs for her sometimes. Sansa, though, had known and loved her mother… and to know that she had been butchered at the Red Wedding and then turned into the horrific Lady Stoneheart…
He cannot fathom the extent of Sansa's grief as he watches her, knowing he should do something, say something to console her. He misses Ghost acutely now. If Ghost was here, he could have licked at Sansa's palm, where he knows she is ticklish, and made her giggle. But Ghost has left with Nymeria. And Jon is alone with Sansa now, his wife.
He should do something, he knows, anything, but he can find no words. Instead, he hesitates again, before gently taking her hand in his, hoping the gesture tells her all that he cannot say.
It is the first time he is touching her since when he woke up screaming Arya's name.
She has kept her distance from him since that night, like she did before they were wed, nothing like she was in the godswood, where she clasped his hand between her cold ones, nor like that wedding night that still plagues him with guilt, when she had danced with him, twirling with an elegance that had him momentarily mesmerised, and later, when he had cupped her cheek and found himself wanting to feel her mouth with his.
"Mother was good at these things," Sansa goes on. She is smiling again now, he sees, making something flutter in his belly. "She used to keep note of the stocks, and appoint people to posts when Father was away. She was used to doing it all at Riverrun, when Grandfather Hoster was away and Grandmother Minisa died."
He is hearing her, but not really listening to her. Instead, he dwells on how he likes feeling her hand in his, with her hair fluttering as a gust of breeze flies in from the window.
It is different, this, watching Sansa with his own eyes. He prefers doing it from within Ghost, where his thoughts regarding his wife are far less conflicted, where he can observe her quietly – when she sings to herself as she sews, when she charms everyone with her lilting smiles and sweet words, when she greets all the smallfolk who throng to the castle to see their new King and Queen, and sits quietly by the heart tree, reading. She makes a beautiful picture at all times, with her braided hair and the Stark colours she dons, looking the regal Queen she is.
But now, even though she is dressed in just a simple shift beneath her night-robe that clings to her – and how his insides seem to somersault at that observation – he thinks she has never looked prettier than she does now, in the glow of the flame of the candle.
"I was never really good with numbers, unlike Mother," says Sansa, her voice still level, but her eyes shining with an emotion that makes him want to clasp her hand tighter, "Maester Luwin used to teach us all, but Robb and Arya were far better—"
Just like that, with the merest mention of Arya, the spell is broken.
"Arya was good with numbers, then?" He asks her eagerly. His hold on her hand tightens for an entirely different reason now. He wants nothing more than to know about Arya. He cares for nothing but Arya.
"She was," says Sansa softly, "She was good at riding a horse, too. She could ride faster than anyone in Winterfell. Even faster than Robb and you."
He imagines her in his mind's eyes – a skinny little girl on a horse, wild hair flying in the wind as she laughs aloud. She looks a little like the Arya from the memory that Nymeria had shown him that night, all messy-haired and skinny-limbed. She looks a little like the statue of his mother in the crypts too, because he has heard so often that Arya looked like Lyanna. But she also looks a little like Sansa, the only living human link he has to his sister – a realisation that makes him remember that he is still in Sansa's bedchambers, with her hand still clasped in his.
He stares at Sansa, wanting to ask her more about Arya, but worried it would only seek to hurt her.
This isn't right, he knows. He shouldn't be in his wife's bedchambers with another girl on his mind and in his heart. But he wants to know, he has to know about Arya – to fill the gaping hole inside him, to dull the rising pain.
"Jon," says Sansa quietly, squeezing his hand gently now. "Do you want to know more about Arya, Jon?"
He stares at her, taken aback at her words. He hesitates only a moment before he nods.
She leads him to her bed, where he sits down beside her, and she begins telling him of their sister.
oOo
The days fly past faster now. He spends his mornings doing his kingly duties, his evenings in the godswood or the crypts, and his nights wearing Ghost's skin, Nymeria snoring softly by his side.
But on some nights, he finds himself in Sansa's bedchambers.
She tells him about Arya – about how she never liked to play with her dolls when she was younger, but followed her brothers on her unsteady little legs to watch them spar under Ser Rodrick's watchful eyes.
She tells him how Arya made friends with just anyone – from the squires and the grooms, to the serving girls at Winterfell. She tells him how she stole pies from the indulgent cooks in the kitchens and played come-into-my-castle and monsters-and-maidens with their children.
She tells him how bold Arya was, how she went up and chattered with the coarsest-looking freeriders, gritty young squires and grizzled men-at-arms, throwing snowballs at them, laughing all the while. She tells him how unafraid she was even when she tried to mount Father's fastest destrier, claiming she could outrace them all. How bravely she stood up for the butcher's boy against the very Prince, and how courageously she spoke the truth in front of the King and the Queen!
(But she also tells him that for all that his little sister claimed to be unaffected by Old Nan's scary stories, Arya would sneak out of the bedchambers she shared with Sansa in the middle of the night, climbing into Jon's bed as he promised her that they would together slay the monsters who crawled into her dreams.)
He begins sitting with Sansa and Sam in his solar on some evenings, Ghost by her feet and Nymeria at his. On most evenings, she talks to him as his Queen, on matters of the realm and the ravens from the Riverlander lords. Sam reads missives sent from his Aunt, the Dragon Queen, sometimes. And it is Sansa who decides what reply to send; she is far better in dealing with his Aunt that either Sam or he are, Jon notices.
Sometimes, Old Nan sits with them, sewing and telling them about all the Brandon Starks of old, her voice whispery and trembling yet containing a power that has them spellbound at her tales.
Slowly, Sam ceases to join them as frequently as he used to, leaving Jon alone with his wife and his wolves – Ghost calm and quiet, and Nymeria looking at Sansa, her gaze conflicted.
Most evenings, they speak on matters of the realm, making Jon a little surprised at how their views concur more often than not.
But sometimes, Sansa sits with the ledgers, humming softly to herself, one of Ghost's ears perked up as he listens to her sweet voice. He watches her – her long fingers, the quill scratching swiftly over the book, the letters elegant. He watches how she worries at her lip sometimes, when the numbers don't add up. He watches how some of the songs she hums make her smile; but how the one song she sings, a Southron song about the Riverlands, makes her eyes glisten sometimes, and he knows that it reminds her of her mother.
Sometimes they sit in silence – awkward at first, and comfortable with each new evening they spend together.
Sometimes he watches how the last of the sunrays flashing in from the window make her hair seem to glow as bright as fire. It reminds him faintly of another girl – the wildling girl who once made love to him under the furs. But sometimes, he just marvels at the beauty of Sansa's hair, wishing he could run his fingers through the silken strands just to know how they feel to his touch.
Sometimes she reads to him about the Stark Kings of old, about Brandon the Builder and Bran the Daughterless, the Hungry Wolf, and Rodrick Stark who won Bear Island from the Ironborn in a wrestling match. Once, she even accompanies him to the crypts, telling him that Father used to bring Robb and him there sometimes, telling them about all their fierce ancestors, ensuring that Robb could name each and every lord and king.
(When he goes to the crypts next, he does watch Lyanna's statue as he yearns for Arya, but he also imagines Father there with him, his voice soft even in the silence of the crypts as he regales his son—no, his nephew— with tales of the Kings of Winter.)
oOo
Sometimes, she reads to him of the Dragon Kings. And although hearing about that side of his family makes him feel uneasy, he discovers that he likes how sweet Sansa's voice is when she reads to him, how delicately she turns the pages of the book, how her eyes dance with a hundred emotions when she tells him that Robb loved reading about the battles and Bran loved listening to tales of the Kingsguard.
(The next time he finds himself in the library, he imagines a little Bran, blue eyes alight as he listens to tales of the Dragonknight and sers Erryk and Arryk and the Star of the Morning. When his eyes fall on an account of the Battle of the Ninepenny Kings, he imagines Robb's awed face as he reads about his Uncle Blackfish's exploits in the battle).
oOo
Most times, Sansa tells him about Arya, but sometimes, she tells him about how her day went – how she named the kitchen maid's new babe Jeyne for her childhood friend Jeyne Poole, how she has asked for whatever books remain in Castle Black's library to be brought to Winterfell, and about the new foal birthed by the grey mare in the stables.
Sansa speaks and she speaks, and he listens… until he begins speaking to her too.
He tells her about his own day, how he won a sparring bout against one of the giant-like Last Hearth men, and how Alla the spearwife would make a good addition of Sansa's Queensguard, and how little Aemon has now started playing with his little wooden sword instead of the toy knight he dragged all around. He tells her about his talks with Tormund and the freefolk, and about the blacksmiths he has appointed to forge new weapons for the almost-empty armoury.
He starts telling her about how unsuitable he finds himself in dealing with some of his lords, who grapple with each other for the best of the lands left lord-less, the Bolton and Dustin lands in the forefront. For all his interactions with the lords when they named him King in the North – from trusting Lord Manderly's counsel to drinking with the Umber brothers and dining with ladies Cerwyn and Glover – he now finds himself all at sea.
"Let me do that," he tells her one evening, as he watches her bite at her lip, worrying over the cost of the Myrish glass they have decided to import. She protests only lightly before she hands the quill to him, a flutter in his belly when her cold fingers touch his. "I can do this for you," he tells her when he is finished adding up the costs and deciding the amount of glass that they can afford with their meagre gold. "I can review the ledgers and finalise the contracts." She has told him she isn't too good with numbers, he remembers, and he decides quietly that he wants to make things easier for her.
"Thank you," she says, smiling – a different smile, this, as if this simple gesture of his has touched her heart in some way.
She is silent for a moment before she speaks again. "I could speak to the lords," she says quietly. "I can think I can deal with them on matters of the lands and the lordships."
He nods.
oOo
Before he knows it, she makes her way into their bannermen's hearts. She has not known the Northern lords as long and well as he has. She has not led them into battle like he had. But he finds that for all that they undervalue her views in the beginning – perhaps, because she is a woman and they do not know her well – they slowly begin seeing her as a Queen in her own right.
In her sweet voice beneath which dwells the innate strength and sense of command that comes with being a daughter of the much-loved Eddard Stark, she placates Lord Manderly, appointing him the Master of Coin in lieu of him giving up eyeing the lands he covets. She brings an end to the constant bickering between Tormund and the GreatJon too. Soon, the furious letters flying in from the Brackens and the Blackwoods reduce drastically in number, after the settlements she makes them decide upon, and the marriage she suggests between the two warring families.
Jon marvels at her sometimes, as she sits beside him on the weirwood throne, the bronze crown resting proudly on her head as she listens to the grievances some of the smallfolk bring. He values that despite how far cleverer than him she is in these matters, she never undermines his authority as the King chosen by the North, just like he lets her handle the Riverlands who chose her as their leader.
As the days pass by, it is her quiet, wise counsel that makes him decide that his Kingship isn't quite as taxing as it was before.
oOo
He finds himself visiting her bedchambers in the night far more often than he used to. But for every moment he watches Sansa, he yearns to listen to more tales of his lost sister.
Now, he knows far more about Arya than he ever did, for Sansa paints a glorious picture of the girl he longs for.
He now knows that Arya never liked to wear pretty gowns, how she was more at home in her riding leathers and her jerkin, how she never liked to let anyone brush her hair, uncaring even when it turned into a rat's nest after days of being uncombed.
He knows that he was Arya's favourite brother – and how that makes his heart beat faster, blooming with a fierce joy, followed by a powerful longing. He knows she would be secretly upset when Sansa and Jeyne called her Arya Horseface, (he notices how ashamed and sad Sansa looks at that admission). And that she would smile in pleased disbelief when Father and Jon told her she was pretty.
He knows that Arya would sometimes sneak out of Maester Luwin's lessons on House words and sigils to play at hoops with Bran and Jon and baby Rickon, a little chastised when Father scolded her later, but always making him forgive her with her big eyes and her mischievous smiles and a loving kiss to Father's bearded cheek.
He knows how Arya would vex Lady Catelyn with her unladylike manners, but make her mother smile by eventide, her hair wild, her face muddy, and a bunch of painstakingly-collected flowers in her hand – yellow and red and white, ones she knew reminded Lady Catelyn of her home in the Riverlands. He knows how Arya had collected flowers on the kingsroad, too, presenting them to their father.
(And when he is in Ghost on moonlit nights, Nymeria by his side, he finds himself sniffing at the patches in the wolfswood where the tiny flowers grow, imagining a pretty, wild-haired girl in muddy clothes, picking the flowers as she smiles broadly at her bastard brother).
oOo
He does not realise until much later that he does not spend as much time within Ghost as he used to.
He does not realise that now when he sits with Sansa in the solar in the evenings, Nymeria and Ghost do not join them.
He does not realise that instead of watching her with Ghost's eyes, he now watches her with his own, as a man instead of a wolf.
oOo
Sansa tells him about the one time Robb and he played that prank on their siblings – with a flour-covered Jon stepping out of the open tomb in the crypts, moaning for blood. She tells how him baby Bran's eyes had gotten as big as saucers as he clung to Robb's leg, sobbing; and how Sansa ran for the stairs herself, shrieking.
She tells him how Arya, courageous even when she'd been little, had stood her ground and given the spirit-Jon a punch, scolding him about scaring the baby, before the four of them laughed and laughed and laughed.
(When he visits the crypts next, he finds that the Kings of Winter do not glare at him as much as they used to, they do not tell him that this isn't his place and he isn't a Stark. Instead, he finds himself imagining a familiar flash of red as a shrieking Sansa runs up the stairs. And he imagines a little Arya and baby Bran and Robb, laughing and laughing till baby Bran drops to the floor in splits.
It feels bitter-sweet instead of the painful longing he usually feels, and for every moment he spends at his mother's statue for many nights after, drawing Arya in his mind's eye, he hears the crypts echoing with the hearty laughter of the siblings who once meant the world to him.)
oOo
He knows what Sansa is doing, of course – for every new thing he knows about Arya, he knows one about another member of their family. He knows Bran's favourite food now and Rickon's favourite toy; he knows Robb's favourite King of Winter and the names of Father's most trusted men. He knows every metal that Maester Luwin wore in his chain and the name of every boy Robb and he used to play with. He even knows about Theon Greyjoy and Jory and Mikken and Farlen.
He remembers the time when he never liked speaking of them at all before. He remembers the hole in his heart where they had all once dwelled and the hole in his mind that once held every moment he had ever spent with them. He remembers that feeling of loss and desperation and that he shouldn't have been alive when they were all dead, leaving him with not even their memories. He remembers when thinking of them would only worsen the emptiness.
But now, he finds that he can dwell on them with a little less of the sorrow, as Sansa's words fill in a little of the void they had left.
He thinks of the snow melting in Robb's hair the last time he saw him without the usual pang of loss.
When he thinks of Rickon, he doesn't think of the corpse lying dead and bloodied in his arms, but of a little boy with red hair, as wild and feisty as a direwolf, a child who thought the world of his older brother, uncaring of his bastardy.
When he thinks of Bran, he doesn't just think of the voice from the heart tree, but he tries to remember the boy who loved to climb up walls and trees, with stars in his eyes as he spoke of being a knight.
And when he thinks of Father, the pain and the guilt and the thousand questions don't descend upon him. Instead, he tries to remember the honourable man who put an orphaned child above his own honour. The man who kept such a terrible secret, knowing it would sour his ties with his wife – all for a boy who wasn't even his own. The man who taught his bastard nephew everything that he taught his own son and heir. The man who, despite not being Jon's father at all, was the only father Jon could ever want.
"I am your son," he tells the silent statue of Eddard Stark in the crypts one night. "I am your son, and you shall always be my father."
He is startled to find his eyes moist.
The statue says nothing, of course. But behind him, he hears Sansa speak.
"Jon," is all she says.
And when she sinks to the ground beside him, he finds that he lets her put her arms around him, her cold a welcome respite from the ever-present warmth of his own skin, her body soft against his, giving him a sense of comfort he doesn't ever remember feeling.
He finds that he doesn't pull away from her when she runs an affectionate hand through his hair. Instead, he finds his hold on her tightening, as he rests his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in her flowery scent.
(It is only later that he wonders why Nymeria, who was next to him all the time in the crypts, never alerted him when Sansa arrived – a sharp contrast to how angry and sullen the she-wolf usually is around his wife.
It is only later that he wonders why he took comfort from Sansa instead of Arya's direwolf.
It is only later that he wonders why Nymeria crept away when he let Sansa press a soft kiss to his cheek.)
oOo
He lies in bed restless one night, unable to sleep with Ghost and Nymeria off hunting in the woods – an activity for which he does not accompany them anymore. Hunting down prey and eating them raw does not hold the same appeal it once did to him. Instead, he finds that he likes dining with Sansa in the Great Hall, with the benches full of cheerful men and the air heavy with a hundred delicious smells.
He tosses and turns in his bed, sleep hard to come as always.
So, he walks to Sansa's chambers, eager to know more about Arya, and even about their father and their siblings.
But when he enters her chambers he sees that she is fast asleep.
He walks slowly to Sansa's side, wondering how it would feel to just touch her, to take her hand in his. He knows he likes that - she is cold to his warm touch, and her coolness reminds him of something of his previous life, of the brilliant colours of the Wall and the snow melting in a head full of red curls, and shivering in a cell of ice. It reminds him of the days when he would feel the cold, when he was a Snow with Stark blood in his veins. It reminds him of his siblings and his father and the time when Winterfell rang with childish laughter and the yapping of wolf pups.
He watches her for a long, long moment – the strands of red hair that have escaped her loosely-tied braid, how red her eyelashes look against her pale colouring, her high cheekbones, how peaceful she looks when she is asleep.
Sansa, my wife, he thinks, stunned at just how beautiful she is, prettier than anyone he has ever seen, prettier than even the Dragon Queen.
It startles him, this – really seeing Sansa as a woman.
When walks closer to her, he notices that she is clad only in a shift, unlike how she always wears a robe when he visits her at night. He notices how sheer the shift is, how he can see her pale breasts in the light of the torches.
It takes him by surprise – how he wishes he could kiss those full lips, and wonder how it would be to caress those breasts. He feels a tightening in his breeches, a lust simmering in the pit of his belly that is more welcome than any warmth he has felt yet.
He backs away from her.
Sister, he thinks, she is my sister.
My wife, he thinks then, she is my wife.
Suddenly, he misses having Nymeria by his side – the one anchor who held him in place in this second life, feeling utterly lost with all the feelings that watching Sansa is bringing to him.
I am a man, he tells himself, I have nothing to be ashamed of for thinking so about my wife.
But when he looks at her face again, he remembers that this is the girl he once called sister, the one he always let win in monsters-and-dragons, the daughter cherished by Eddard and Catelyn Stark, Arya's sister.
There's a war raging in his mind now, and in his heart—no, not my heart. My heart belongs to Arya. He reaches out to Ghost, feeling him lying by Nymeria's side, the she-wolf quiet unlike her usual boisterous self.
Brother, she calls to him, Jon. Mine.
He watches Sansa for a long moment, and then he flees, never speaking of it again.
oOo
With each new dawn, the days turn a little brighter, the nights a little shorter. The mounds of snow on the castle courtyard melt completely, making little streams of muddy water carve a path between the gnarled roots that creep all over the godswood floor. Tiny green shoots peep out of the damp ground, growing stouter and taller with each new sunrise, some of them already blossoming with colourful flowers that awe Jon – blue and pink and yellow, they blossom everywhere, some even scattered in the dark and foreboding godswood, surging even through the stubborn moss and the dark pebbles around the pool, under the ever-watchful eyes of the heart tree, Bran's eyes.
He ventures deeper and deeper into the godswood, towards the vast wolfswood that he hasn't visited in weeks given how little time he has spent in Ghost recently.
The wolfswood is alive with a hundred new smells, and Jon finds Nymeria there, sniffing at everything like an eager little pup, curious and restless, her tail even wagging sometimes.
Nymeria whines softly when she sees him, touching his nose with hers and her cold tongue flicking out to lick at his muzzle. Ghost whines too, bumping his huge body with hers. She tugs at him playfully, wanting him to join her in exploring the huge forest, in the depths of which her wolf pack dwells.
Her pack isn't as huge as it used to be in the Riverlands; some of her little cousins perished in the battle for the Twins, some in the biting cold, and some at the hands of the Others and the Wights, Jon himself throwing burning torches at their fierce, animated corpses. Three of her male wolves, she slew herself, when they tried to mount her, try to get her with pup – Ghost bristles at the very thought of it, his teeth barred. She is my sister, Jon thinks. Mine, thinks Ghost.
Whatever remains of her pack now dwells deep in the wolfswood, away from the smallfolk of Wintertown who fear them.
They walk deeper and deeper into the woods, Nymeria close to him, when the quiet of the woods is suddenly broken by a cacophony of welcoming howls that makes his hair stand on end. Nymeria's wolves stride over to them, emerging from behind the thicket of closely-knit trees. Some of them are known to him, while the young ones eye him a little fearfully.
Nymeria launches into a loud, long howl; and they all join in, this little pack of hers.
Pack, Nymeria thinks, our pack.
He watches her, meeting the yellow eyes with his own.
Pack, he echoes. But there's something that nags at him, something that doesn't seem right. This isn't his pack, it is Nymeria's. And maybe Ghost's, but not Jon's.
Our pack, she insists stubbornly, snapping at him with her sharp teeth.
Pack, he wonders. But instead of the wolves, he finds his thoughts going to the pretty woman he clasped hands with under the heart tree, her blue eyes and her sweet voice and how she has filled up the hole in his heart, not completely, of course, but little by little. He thinks of her tinkling laughter, and her flowery scent, and how quick and nimble her fingers are when she twists her long hair into a braid. She thinks of the command in her voice in the Throne room, and the tears in her eyes as she speaks of her mother. He thinks of the flush in her cheeks when she comes back from riding her horse, and the curve of her breast under the gown she dons.
Pack, he thinks, Sansa.
Nymeria, wolf, pack, Ghost tells him, his wolfish mind overpowering Jon, Arya.
Sansa, he protests faintly.
Sansa. Arya. Sansa – his thoughts are a muddled mess, his mind ringing with the cacophony.
Mine! says Nymeria fiercely, you are mine! Pack! Together!
She lets out a sudden low, mournful howl now, his grey-furred sister, thinking of their dead siblings, their bones resting in the dark place underground – the savage brother, the swift brother, the wise brother and the sweet sister, all of them dead.
Not all, he reminds, their sweet sister is still alive. He senses her every day, in the pale-skinned girl Lady had belonged to.
Sansa, his human self reminds him, the girl's name is Sansa.
No! Wolf! Nymeria insists, only you and me, showing him their dead siblings again. You and me.
But I am Jon, he tells her, Sansa, wife, mate.
Nymeria bristles, her teeth barred menacingly. Wolf! Mine!
No, he protests, Jon… King Jon Stark, Sansa's husband…
Nymeria lets out a loud, furious howl.
Arya! she tells him, Arya, Arya, Arya!
And suddenly, her mind is alight with a thousand pictures – Arya's fingers getting entangled in her messed up hair as she tried to comb out the strands before Mother saw her, Arya's messy embroidery as she sat with the Septa, the wooden stick clacking against the butcher's boy's clumsy parries by the Trident, the tears in her eyes as she threw rocks at Nymeria, telling her to run off, Father's loving kiss on herbrow and his words in her ears – the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives… windmilling her arms as she struggled to stand on one leg, whispering Syrio's words under her breath, the ball of Arya's thumb brushing across Needle's smooth pommel, the cries of the seabirds overhead, the pool of water, black as ink and lit by dim red candles, Needle sticking into a dying boy's side, stabbing and stabbing and stabbing until he lay lifeless, kneading a mound of dough until she was told to stop, the soft plop of a silver fork as it sank below the waters, the stink of brine and fish as she wheeled a barrow on the cobbled path, the clack of wood against wood as the stick was knocked out of her hand, the blood gushing out of the singer's slit throat as she pushed him into the canal, Winterfell's grey walls and the earthy smell of the glass gardens, the north wind rattling the shutters of her room, and Jon's voice ringing in her ears – Stick them with the pointy end! Don't tell Sansa! – as she shoved Needle into a crack in the stones…
Stop! he cries, the memories too much for him to bear even though he is still hungry for more – the yearning for Arya receding yet increasing with every new thing Nymeria shows him.
Jon stares at the she-wolf now, stunned, exhilarated and stricken in equal measure, and then betrayed.
Nymeria knew this, she knew this all along, but told him nothing of these memories, of the new sights that Arya saw, the new smells she smelled, the new places she visited, the new things about Arya that he had never known because Nymeria never showed him!
Where is she? Is she alive, then? Where is she? Tell me! he demands of the she-wolf, watching the golden eyes glinting in the sun. Tell me! Sister! Tell me about Arya! Bring her home to me!
Nymeria whimpers, making keening sounds as she faces the onslaught of his questions, his joy and his sorrow, and most of all, the agonising longing that rears its head again.
Tell me! he demands furiously, Ghost's howl loud, seeming to tear through the very woods. Tell me!
Nymeria joins in his howl with a loud one of her own. And then, she takes off into the woods, not once looking back, already out of his sight as she sprints past the trees.
Nymeria! Come back! he calls, running after her, the red-haired woman in the castle waiting for him all but forgotten.
A/N: If this didn't make as much sense as it did inside my head, the two concluding chapters should hopefully clear it out :)