3 weeks later
Littlefinger tore open the letter from his source at Winterfell. He scanned it quickly, sitting alone in his study at the Eyrie. It took him 3 readings before the feeling sunk in completely. Loss. Rage. Betrayal.
He swore, standing, and began to throw things in a rage. Plucking books and pots of ink off the desk, he hurled them at the walls. He screamed in frustration.
He'd kill them. He'd kill them both when he was king.
When he left his study, he was composed and gathered. Behind him, a scene of chaos that contradicted his demeanor.
"M'lord?" a guard asked, raising a brow at the mess behind him.
"Have someone pack my things. I leave to Winterfell tonight. Urgent business, I must go at once." he said politely.
Arya and Jon dueled in the courtyard, metal clanging as they dashed back and fourth.
"You're almost as good as me, little sister!" Jon cried out, as she blocked a particularly swift blow. He parried her suddenly, and got her caught between his blade and a wagon. She frowned, realizing he'd won. "Almost." he said.
"Someday." she hissed. "I am faster you though."
"Because your sword weighs nothing." he said. "If I had a stick like that I'd be quite fast too."
She scooped a pouch of water off a nearby barrel, and gulped it down.
Arya looked different than she had when she first arrived. Instead of her brown hair loose, she wore it in a simple braid. She wore tight riding pants, most of the time, as they were the warmest thing she could actually move in. Today, she wore an embroidered velvet shirt, patterns carefully sewn on by Sansa in golden grey thread atop black fabric, as well as a leather jacket lined with white fur.
She put the sword in the sheath at her hip, and cocked her hips to the side, looking at Jon.
"I quite like my sword." she said. "Not a fan of the cocky twat who gave it to me."
He laughed.
"Hungry?" he asked.
"Is that even a question?" she replied, and again, he laughed.
"I hear they made fish stew."
"Oh like Nan used to make?" Arya asked.
"Think so."
"Mmmmmm, that sounds marvelous right now."
"Come on." he said, nodding towards the dining hall. She followed him through the snow, squinting against the glare of the sun on the layer of ice.
"Littlefinger is coming." A voice said behind them.
Sansa rushed, as well as she could, towards them by the dining hall. She ran slightly, holding out the letter in one hand.
"For what reason?" Jon demanded, taking the parchment from her hand. He read it carefully, his brow knotted in anger. "How did he find out? Did someone tell him?"
"Must have." she said.
"That slimy bastard." Arya hissed, reading the letter after taking it from Jon's hands.
"He says he wants to discuss another proposition of marriage." Sansa said, and the pair nodded. "Does that mean Arya, or our heir?"
"Either way, it's not happening." Jon said. "He doesn't end up with a Stark. Ever. I don't care what he thinks we owe him."
He turned, and pushed into the dining hall, the girls behind him.
"We could just kill him." Arya offered, and Sansa shot her a look.
"As much as I would enjoy that," Sansa offered "doing it would be a horribly stupid idea."
"She's right." Jon looked at Arya apologetically. "I'd like it too, trust me."
"Well, seeing he sold Sansa to a monster, I'm sure the north would understand, if not help kill him."
"The north isn't loyal to Littlefinger, no, but they're loyal to House Arryn. And it will be perceived as an attack on House Arryn, not Baelish." Sansa explained.
"It could be an accident." Arya shrugged.
"No, Arya." Sansa said, trying very hard to break her little sister of her murderous habits.
Arya looked at Jon with pleading eyes. He shook his head once. She sighed, stomping her foot. A teenage girl not getting her way.
"I need to talk to you, Jon." Sansa said quietly as Arya pushed in the door to the kitchens.
"Lady Stark!" A cook said, startled, jumping up from her seat chopping roots. "And...Lady and and Lord Stark. Please, let us get the table set-"
"It's fine, Monira." Arya assured her. "They don't mind eating in the kitchen, either."
Jon and Sansa looked at Arya, puzzled, as she took a seat.
"I just don't like being doted on." she said, in defense.
"We'll be right back." Jon said, and Arya opened her mouth to protest, but Jon gave her a look, and she smacked her mouth shut.
"Fine. I will be here, just eating my soup." she said. "Waiting patiently for mother and father to come tell me what to do."
Jon sighed, deciding to deal with Arya later.
"There's something I have to tell you." Sansa said, as soon as they were alone in the dining hall.
Jon eyed her warily. "What is it?" he asked.
"Before the houses came together and called allegiance to you, Littlefinger told me he was going to marry me." Sansa whispered. "When I was at the godswood, a couple days after the battle. Right after he asked me, all the houses came together, and he saw me. And saw the way I was looking up at you. And he knew I was going to pick you."
"What?" Jon asked, shocked. "Are you joking?"
"No, Jon, I'm not. Really." she said. "And I know I should have told you earlier, and we can argue about that later, but he was so angry, Jon. And I thought maybe I got through to him, when he came back later and offered Robin to me...but I guess this set him off."
"He wanted to marry you?"
"He said he wanted to sit on the iron throne, with me by his side."
"Well, I guess he offered more than me, then." Jon said, slightly cold. "I don't have an Iron Throne for you, I'm afraid."
"Jon. I'm not telling you this to see how jealous you'll get. I'm telling you because I'm worried what he could have up his sleeves, now."
"Don't worry, Sansa." Jon assured her. "I'll council with him, you don't even have to see him if you don't want to."
"No. No I want to see the look on his face when we walk up, hand in hand." she whispered, dangerously.
He leaned into her, kissing her lightly on the lips, and then pressing his forehead on hers.
"Never lose that fire, Lady Stark."
She grinned.
Jon awoke to his own screaming thoughts, racing through his mind. He sat up slowly, trying not to wake Sansa beside him. He stepped out of bed, and went to the chair, sitting, staring at the fire with unseeing eyes.
There was something, Jon felt, different about Sansa lately. Since their marriage, she seemed just that much stronger. She spoke louder, and shouted when other men cut her off.`She insisted on being present for guard meetings now. Her spirit hadn't been repaired, but instead given a new life entirely.
They were both like that, Jon thought to himself. Stone cold on the outside, fearsome and confident. But when they were together, late at night, alone in their chamber, they could also both be as gentle and sensitive as The Mother herself.
Jon got flashes of their future, falling asleep sometimes. Of Sansa as a mother, warm and sweet, comforting her crying child. Kneeling down, brushing their hair and tears from their face. Scooping them up, pointing over the walls of Winterfell, at the distant land that would all be theirs. Sometimes she was whispering stories of their grandfather beside the fire, holding their half asleep toddler, or she and him walking hand in hand in the hallways, talking of dinner or something else just as meaningless.
It was a fairytale life that seemed just as hopeless as anything. But then again, he thought, he was hopeless of ever seeing her face again, just a year before. And now here he was, married to her, the King in the North.
He glanced at her sleeping figure behind him. Curled up, snoring softly.
It would be alright, he assured himself. She was getting better. They were the strongest they'd ever been.
It would be alright.