authorsnote: this chapter gave me goosebumps, and may be one of my favourites of this story

do enjoy, leave a review if you can, fav/follow and all that'

song recs: bad romance - J2 (cover)

Everything felt cold.

The stones under her hands as she had entered the crypt, her feet on the stairs, the air itself, swirling through the air, stale down here, and yet freezing. Everything around her was ice, colder even than a Northern winter.

So was her blood, freezing inside of her veins she was sure, cold, and harsh, so much so she near spluttered, let out a gasp, the chill racing through her bones, lodging inside of her, so cold, near frozen.

'I'm going South'

It wasn't cold though she realised, as she stared at Jon, his face determined, too determined, an expression she'd seen before; one that said, 'I've already made up my mind', there'd be no swaying him now. No, as she looked at him, it wasn't cold in her veins, but fear.

So potent it near choked her, clawing up her throat, ripping at her vocal cords rendering her mute. Pure terror racing to her heart, threatening to stop it, crush it in its grip and leave her broken. Horror emerging behind her eyes, skittering beneath her skin, and emerging in a gush of blood.

Fear, so real it felt like dying.

'I'm going South'

Nothing good lay South, not for them, not for Starks. Just death, death if you were lucky, pain, torture if you weren't. Stark men did not do well in the South, neither did the women now; she'd barely escaped alive or sane, Kings Landing had nearly killed her, come close to breaking her, a few more years there and one would have been inevitable.

She had, had nightmares about that, about dying in Kings Landing, trapped their forever, her prison becoming her coffin. She'd wondered if they'd return her bones to Winterfell, or if the Capitol would become her crypt too.

That had always been her fear, to live her last years and then die and be buried in the prison she had once thought could be called home – had been stupid enough to think, was Jon doing the same?

And yet Jon wasn't stupid, he was smart (if sometimes a little too noble, the old Stark streak), and so what was he thinking? What could he be thinking to make such a foolish decision, and without consulting her?

That sent another chill up her spine, but this one had nothing to do with the cold; had Jon decided to stop consulting her? Was there a reason why? She lived for and valued the importance Jon placed on her position here, her place as his advisor. She needed it, there was nothing else that brought her so much joy.

She knew it wasn't traditional, that according to all traditions she should be married now, packed off to a Northern Lord to strengthen ties, have babies bound to the Stark name and for the Northern cause, and to live her life running her husbands household, in much the way she did Winterfell, just with less power, less meaning.

But that was not what she wanted.

She wanted to be here, running Winterfell, by Jon's side, as she had been since they had returned. She had almost grown to live with the growing anxiety it would one day end, when Jon took a Queen and her place almost as the Queen in the peoples eyes was gone … it killed her to think, but she'd always passed it off as 'in the future' and 'not now', and yet was this it? Only Jon hadn't needed a Queen to replace her?

She remembered when Jon and her had spoken about that tradition; packing her off to be married. She remembered every word they'd shared, the conversation burned onto her brain.

'I don't want to be married' Fear lilting her voice.

'What do you mean?' Jon's voice only returning concern.

'Don't marry me off' She'd clutched at him then, hands grabbing his tunic, grasping, fear chasing through her veins too. 'Don't, don't make me go'

'Never'

And that was that.

She felt a touch sick, nerves fluttering in her belly, her heart pounding in her chest. She was being assaulted on two fronts; Jon side-lining her, and worse, so much worse, Jon wanting to go South, away from his home, away from his people, away from her.

Perhaps she could live with being cast aside, as much as it would kill her, she could live with it, if it kept Jon alive, if somehow it meant he didn't go South.

Nothing was more important to her than Jon now, his rule; even with her family returned, who she too loved dearly, nothing could usurp the most important thing. Jon.

That was the way it was now, and suspected would always be.

'Don't make me go'

'Never'

Cold continued to build in her chest, like a wall of ice around her heart, shivering her, her hands shaking as she looked down at Jon. Only seconds had passed as she'd entered the crypts, not anything more than a minute, and yet it felt like hours, allowing the cold to leech into her bones and freeze her within.

"South?" She managed to choke out, and yet she knew her body was locked in panic, pure fear and nothing more. The very thought of Jon crossing the Neck, it made her want to be sick.

"Aye" He returned, though he wasn't looking at her now, rather off into the distance, and she noticed he too seemed cold (though Jon had confided in her he didn't really feel it anymore), though his hands didn't shake, just clenched into fists at his side. "I have to"

"Why?" She spluttered then, feeling as though not only ice, but cold water was rushing up her throat, choking her truly, she could barely get the words out.

Jon still didn't turn to her, which in itself was strange. Any sign of distress and he was normally with her in an instance, but now he continued to look off, eyes hard, cold, distant.

It was a miracle Sansa didn't faint she was sure, she felt close to it, like her head had been dunked in ice cold water, and she'd yet to surface.

If Jon went South, would she ever?

"To win the war" Was all he offered, and the first concern came to her again; sidelining her, but why? What had happened? His parentage being revealed? Did he not trust her anymore? Were she not stuck still with fear, unable to even move a muscle, she'd have descended the steps and shaken Jon, grabbed his shoulders and demanded answers.

Only she couldn't move, paralysed, as though she were back in Kings Landing, avoiding Joffrey or Cersei, and yet stuck in place as she saw them; fight or flight or freeze, Maester Luwin had explained it once, and Sansa had always gone to freeze, perhaps flight if able.

Never fight, Sansa had never been a fighter, never would be.

Only she wasn't back in Kings Landing, she had vowed never to go back, never would, would rather die first, the same with the rest of the South. And yet Jon … why?

"What do you mean?" She managed, and it was then Jon turned to her, his gaze distant for just a moment before it cleared, and he was on her, hands grasping her shoulders, clearly worried about how distraught she was, stuck on the step, hands shaking, face completely pale, like a ghost haunting the crypts. Only at Jon's touch did she move a touch, sag a little, but not enough, still panicked, still frozen.

Fight, flight, freeze … like a block of ice, it was always the latter.

"Sansa, it's alright" He offered, hands grasping her tightly, and she leaned into him, of course she took a step closer, and then her hands were on Jon's chest, clutching his tunic, tightly, her hands balling into little fists, just like they had once before…

'Don't make me go'

'Never'

"No it's not" She said, no words between the lies, no doubt in her tone; it most certainly was not alright, "You can't…" She began, but her hands shook again, and she clutched Jon harder, digging her nails in, and yet he didn't flinch, "You can't go South"

"I have to" Jon said, his eyes finding hers now, gaze meeting gaze, and she could see he hadn't expected her to be this effected, near beside herself, and he pulled her closer, one of his hands even going to cup her cheek, to which she leaned into him.

"No" She shook her head, "Stark men, you know they can't go South"

"I'm not a Stark" He said, and yet it was sadder than when he'd said it before, presumed a bastard, now they knew he wasn't a Stark nor bastard, but a Targaryen instead; which was worse?

"You are to me" She fired back, just as furious as every other time she'd said it before, she believed every word, it was clear as she said it, every single word didn't hold a fleck of doubt.

"Sansa" His tone was gentle, and yet they still held onto one another far too tightly, hidden away in the crypts, each others lifelines, as they were above ground too. "I have to go, for the war"

"For the war?" She said, shaking her head, "How could going South help? They won't help us, you know they won't!"

"They'll have to" Jon said, "I'll make them see reason"

"Who?" She asked, her bones chilling even more, if that were possible, "Not Kings Landing, Jon not…"

"No" He cut in, clearly sensing that if he did say he was going to the Capitol she might chain him to his solar desk and lock him in; it wasn't far off her thoughts, if they weren't submerged in panic. "To Dragonstone"

"The Dragon Queen?" Her voice was a whisper now, and that old fear, of being replaced, of being shoved aside, a Queen taking her place; as it should be, though Sansa couldn't stand the thought, rose up, before she pushed it aside, crushed it, right now there were more important things, more important than her own happiness, there was Jon's.

"What fights ice Sansa?" His voice was a whisper now, and then it dropped, like a stone in her stomach, like her heart having leapt into her throat, crashed then, through her chest and to the floor, shattering on impact.

Before she'd been terrified, utterly, and completely, but there had been a chance, a chance that Jon wouldn't go South, that he would stay here, that she could keep him here, with her, in Winterfell, as King in the North, where he belonged.

With her.

Now, something closer to dread settled over her, for she knew, as much as she hated to admit it, as much as she couldn't even say it out loud; Jon was right.

Ice and fire. The ice they were facing, and only one other person had the fire, the fire they needed to save them, to save them all.

Dragons.

"Oh no" She let out, not even meaning to, and yet it came unprompted. This was it, Sansa knew Jon was right, he had to go, it was what they needed, if they stood any chance at all.

"I know" Jon said, and then his forehead was resting against hers, his hand sliding to cup the back of her neck, and she leaned in, her hands turning to palms resting on his chest. No clutching, no fury, but just acceptance, as they stood, stock still, like the statues that surrounded them. "I have to go"

It was silent in the crypt, as Sansa and Jon stood among the dead, frozen in place for a moment, just a moment.

What could she say? Not only had Jon made up his mind, but Sansa knew he was right, he had to go South, if they were to stand a chance, he had to at least try, to save them, to save their family, finally whole again, and to save their people – Jon's people, as King it was his duty.

And that was that, as Northerners, as Starks (no matter Jon's birthname, or right, he was a Stark always where it mattered), there was no higher calling than duty, none.

'Duty is the death of love'

'Love is the death of duty'

But then something came to her, among the fear, among the worry, something, almost like a light, something bright in the darkness. As though someone had lit a candle in the crypt, perhaps for one of the dead, like Sansa had when she had first returned home, had lit one of her Father, for her Mother. She realised then she'd need to bring her family down here, to light candles for Lyanna, for Benjen, for their family.

As they were together again, still so many had been lost.

Her mind flickered then but stayed resolute on her epiphany almost – it came to her, perhaps not like a bolt of light, but the candle she was thinking of. It was the solution, the only solution she could think of to an impossible, awful, unfair situation.

Jon had to go South, as much as the thought near paralyzed her with fear, she knew he had to, acceptance had come as soon as she had understood. He had to go, to save them, to save them all.

And yet, he did not have to go alone.

And so, as Jon and Sansa clutched one another, as they stayed, like statues, blocks of ice, carved and resting. As his hands cupped her cheeks and she moved hers to encircle his wrists, as though to keep him in place, close to her, with her, not alone, never alone.

She said it in a whisper, and yet she almost felt it echo across the crypts, into the silence, among the dead.

"Then I'm going with you"

sooo thoughts?

there we go ... now soon we go south.

do let me know watcha thought, I love to hear it! and as always do fav/follow.

speak soon