It was the same dream every night. Every fucking night. He would see her, standing on the battlements at Winterfell, waving. The dreams felt so real that he could feel himself riding on the back of his horse, swaying with the movements. He could feel the freshly fallen snow dusting his face, and the wind in his hair. He could feel the pace of his heart quicken at the sight of her fiery red hair standing out against the gray sky, her sapphire eyes meeting his across the courtyard.

He would dismount, and start to walk toward her, toward the stairs leading to where she was. He would climb the stairs, reach the top of the battlements and then- then she would be gone. Every night, every time, a slow panic would begin to rise in his chest, and although it was only a dream, the panic was all too real. He'd look around wildly, searching for her, but then snow had started to fall harder, and all he could see was white. And then, as real as the day it happened, he would smell the fire, the burning bodies, the burning city, and the snow would turn to ash in the sky.

"Jon!" he would whirl around, the cry of Sansa's voice, just as startling every time he dreamt.

"Jon, please!" her voice always sounded so far, so scared. He would try and get back down the stairs as quickly as he could, but the ash made it impossible to see. And when he finally would make it to the bottom, he would always wish he hadn't, for no longer was he in Winterfell, but stumbling down the streets of a Kings Landing on fire- the seven hells brought into this realm.

He would make his way further and further up the path to the Red Keep, and when he finally went to open the gate, he would find himself back in Winterfell, except this time…this time it was in ruins, as ruined as the Red Keep had been the day that Daenerys went mad. The day his life changed in a way that could never be undone. Well…one of the days anyway. And as he sorted through the ruins, he would spot that red hair, hidden by some rubble from far away. And then he would take off running. He would run as fast as he could, for as long as he could, but he could never reach her. Not once.

Please Jon.

He awoke that morning, like he did every morning- chest heaving, short of breath, and heart racing. This morning, he sprung up in bed, a single word leaving his lips in a breathy whisper.

Sansa

As sleep faded from his eyes, he looked at his surroundings, and drew in a shaky breath. It was the dream again. That Gods damned dream.

As his breathing began to slow, Jon glanced toward where Ghost was still sleeping by the hearth, the fire burning low. He got up and tried to stoke it for a moment, before giving up. Light was streaming through the window of his small cabin anyway, he might as well get moving.

As Jon dressed, he contemplated the dream for what felt like the thousandth time. The dream hadn't started until fairly recently- within the past three moons. And he was certain he knew what had started it. The first night he had the dream was the first night he had slept in his cabin.

For two years, Jon had traveled with the Wildlings in search of a new home for them. The first year mostly consisted of all of them trying to learn how to work together without Mance. They had continued their nomadic lifestyle, and without the threat of the White Walkers, it felt as though the entirety of the true north was at their fingertips…if only they could stop fighting one another.

At the end of that first year, it had been Jon who quietly suggested to Tormund that he take Mance's place as King Beyond the Wall. It took very little convincing- both of Tormund and the Free Folk, who were just happy to have someone to lead them once more. And so began his second year with them- finding a permanent home.

And then they finally did and so building began. They all pitched in- building crude cabins with just the bare necessities. But some of them had not adapted to the loss of their nomadic lifestyle so easily- and so that group scattered and Jon had gone with them. And then three more years went by- wandering, camping, scouting, and doing not much else. Jon wasn't sure why he had let it go on for three years. Something had always prevented him from wanting to go back to the new Free Folk state and stay there. It felt…final.

And then the big news had made its way from Westeros. He was so far North, he may as well have been sitting on top of the world, and even still word had reached him when the announcement that the Queen in the North was choosing a husband had reached him. Someone from the Free Folk had brought it back when they returned from a supply run to Castle Black. Once enemies, the Wildlings and Night's Watch now lived in peace and left one another alone, even trading with one another.

And suddenly- that was it. The moment Jon heard of Sansa's impending marriage, whatever had been blocking him from building his own cabin among the Wildlings had disappeared. He left the nomads and built himself a small dwelling just down the way from Tormund's. And life had been…well…it had been boring. But Jon told himself it was better than any alternative.

What was not boring was the nightmare that haunted him every time he slept. It never got any easier, in fact, it was starting to feel more and more real. And it was eating away at him.

He was snapped out of his contemplations when his door swung open to reveal Tormund standing in the doorway. Jon didn't even flinch, he was still tense from the dream.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Tormund demanded, ducking into the cabin and making himself at home, dropping into a wooden chair.

"Tell you what?" Jon asked, not bothering to point out that Tormund had just barrelled into his house as if it was his own. It was a fairly common occurrence.

"You know what," Tormund replied.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he mumbled, suddenly feeling the need to stoke the fire again.

"Eyva just told me the Queen in the North is getting married!" Tormund exclaimed.

Jon said nothing, and kept his eyes on the now roaring fire.

"That's why you've been sulking around here like a woman since you built this place," Tormund added. Jon glanced over his shoulder.

"I have not been sulking around like a-"

"You should go home, Snow," Tormund interjected, his voice uncharacteristically quiet.

Jon turned around and looked at his friend's earnest face.

"I am home," he replied. Tormund shook his head.

"You know what I mean. Home," he said, emphasizing the word his time. Jon stared back at him, but Tormund never looked away.

"There's no reason for that," he said, keeping his voice measured.

"What about what you told me? That night I told you that you should fuck Eyva and you punched me-"

"You told me in front of her," Jon shot back. Tormund chuckled before his face grew solemn again.

"What you told me that night…that's why you should go," he finished.

"Gods, I wish I hadn't told you that," Jon sighed, exasperated.

"You're a talkative drunk…it always surprises me," Tormund laughed.

"I was drunk. I don't even remember saying it," Jon lied. He did remember. The memory of it was burned into the back of his mind because as he had made the admission to Tormund- the admission that he did not see Sansa as a sister, and never had- it was also the first time he had admitted it aloud to anyone. Ever.

She was always so far removed when they were children…or rather…he was far removed. He knew Sansa had stayed away from him because of her mother, and he had never blamed her for it. But because of just how disdainfully she had treated him as a girl, she felt like a stranger when they were children. Of course he knew things about her that you would know from living with someone- how she dreamt of being Queen, her love of fairytales and beautiful things, but other than that…she was a stranger. A stranger he always wished he had gotten to know.

It wasn't until she came through the gates of Castle Black that he realized just how much he had missed her. She was a piece of home, of family, of life before everything had gone to shit. He had been resurrected only days before and suddenly, the moment he held her in his arms, he knew why. After all that she had endured, the horrors and the cruelty, he was there to keep her safe. And he vowed to himself that he would keep her safe for the rest of his days.

He had been surprised at how very unlike a stranger she felt immediately. It felt as though she had been his closest confidante for years by the time they had finished filling one another in on the years gone by. They did not get along all the time, in fact they fought quite often, and it was during their fights that he began to notice that although they were growing closer, he did not feel close to her in the way that he should.

Their fights would grow heated, passion-filled even. He doesn't remember the first time he noticed it, but after a while, it was difficult to ignore the way her chest heaved as her breathing grew labored from yelling at him, or the way she licked her lips after voicing her position. He had felt ashamed, guilty, and chalked it up to his bastard's blood. He shoved the thoughts down, locking them away in a box. But still…he couldn't ignore the joy he felt, the warmth and the happiness, when he was in her presence and they were getting along.

When he had left for Dragonstone, he thought it the perfect opportunity to rid himself of his inappropriate feelings once and for all. He focused on his mission- obtaining the dragonglass, and eventually the Dragon Queen and her army- by whatever means necessary. He let himself get lost in Daenerys, hoping to the Gods he would love her the way she wanted him too. But he couldn't. Because try as he might, when he would lay in bed at night, all he could think of was Sansa.

When he had returned to Winterfell and learned the truth of his parentage, it felt as though his world had been set ablaze, that everything he knew was a lie. And then…in the chaos and agony of it all, there she was. The one good thing, the only good thing about finding out he was not the son of the honorable Eddard Stark, was that it meant he was not a monster. That he was not depraved. That when he had let himself dare to dream of a world where Sansa returned his secret feelings, that maybe it was not such a wild idea.

And then the dead came. And Daenerys went mad. And he was banished. Because he killed the woman he had once hoped to love in order to save the woman he loved more than anything.

He did not speak of Sansa for years. Any time a thought of her entered his mind, he pushed it out, replaced it with the horrors he had witnessed. He had hoped that in doing so, the thoughts of her would stop. But they never did, not really. And then one night, when he was still roaming with the nomadic Wildlings, he had stopped back in the settlement to visit Tormund. Tormund had thrown a massive celebration for his visit, and both men ended up completely drunk fairly soon into the night.

Tormund had suggested Jon try to bed Eyva, a Wildling woman who was kissed by fire. Jon brushed him off and then Tormund had made a comment about her being the type of woman Jon liked.

You mean like Ygritte?

Aye, like Ygritte. And the Wolf Queen.

Jon had frozen then, suddenly it felt as though the room were spinning. At the mention of Sansa, he tried to replace her with something, anything else, but he could not. All he could think of was her. And that was when he had confessed everything to Tormund. He should have known it would come back to bite him in the arse.

"If you don't remember saying it, then how do you know what I'm talking about?" Tormund challenged him, bringing him back to the present.

"Because you won't shut up about it," Jon grumbled.

"The Queen in the North and King Crow…it makes sense," Tormund ignored Jon's disdain.

"She's probably married already," Jon shot back without thinking. He instantly regretted his words a slow smile spread across Tormund's face.

"But what if she's not?"