The final chapter. I hope everyone enjoyed the story.
Sansa
Their singular clandestine liaison, a fragile flame flickering in the shadows, standing as a testament to the forbidden allure that bound Jon and Sansa, was never repeated. Yet, the looming spectre of exposure, the ever-present risk that cast its shadows over their stolen moments, became an insurmountable weight. How could they, architects of the North's destiny, weave the intricate web of alliances if the world uncovered their secret desires? Jon and Sansa, locked in the clandestine dance of passion, silently acknowledged the perils of their chosen path. The risk of scandal, like a sword dangling above their heads, threatened to sever the threads they had delicately woven in the tapestry of their clandestine trysts. That one fleeting night of stolen passion, while intoxicating, paled in comparison to the potential downfall that awaited them in the harsh light of exposure. In the quiet recesses of their shared understanding, Jon and Sansa recognized the inevitability of others entering their lives.
The clandestine bed, where stolen moments had been exchanged, held the promise of warmth from potential intruders. Their unspoken agreement hovered in the air, a silent acknowledgment that the path of secrecy was fraught with danger. Yet, hidden in the folds of Sansa's thoughts, Jon remained blissfully ignorant of a clandestine vow she had sworn to herself—a solemn commitment to celibacy. If Jon, the beating heart of her clandestine passion, was forever beyond her grasp, Sansa vowed never to surrender herself to another man. Her bed, untainted by the presence of a stranger, would remain cold and unshared until the day she drew her last breath.
The silent oath, like a whispered secret, bound Sansa to a lifetime of solitude, an unyielding testament to the depth of her devotion and the sacrifices made in the name of their forbidden love.
The chamber, once a haven for their clandestine rendezvous, transformed into a silent observer of vows made in the shadows of unfulfilled desires. Sansa would never forget the hearth's flames, lighting up Jon, like he was the god the Freefolk believed him to be. The soft glow of fire reflected the flickering resolve within Sansa, cast an intimate ambiance over the room. There, at Castle Black, a fortress shrouded in duty and secrets, cradled within its ancient stone walls, was the remnants of a love relegated to the hidden recesses of the Lord Commander's bedchamber. The hearth's glow danced upon the walls, casting shadows that mimicked the ebb and flow of Sansa's emotions. The room, a silent confidante to her unspoken struggles, held within its confines the echoes of their shared passion, now relegated to memories buried in the stone and mortar.
In the aftermath of Jon's return from Dragonstone, Winterfell became the theatre where Sansa Stark grappled with the tempest within. The heart, burdened by the weight of devastation, bore the silent scars of turmoil, all concealed behind Sansa's practiced facade of finesse. A maestro of concealment, she unveiled nothing to the world. Jon knew nothing of this turmoil. He wandered around in blissful ignorance, unaware of the storm that raged beneath the poised exterior.
Sansa's eyes, windows to the tempest within, reflected a subtle dance of emotions. The practiced finesse that shielded her true feelings from the outside world became a delicate ballet, performed for the audience of one. Jon, oblivious to the turmoil beneath the surface, stood in the glow of the hearth, a silent witness to the enigma that Sansa had become.
Sansa's interactions with Daenerys, the enigmatic Dragon Queen, were a subtle dance revealing the tempest within. Her measured demeanour, a facade carefully crafted, couldn't conceal the turmoil simmering beneath the surface. To Jon, ever reserved on matters of the heart, the intricacies of Sansa's emotional labyrinth remained an uncharted territory. The Winterfell courtyard, where Sansa's glances and measured words unfolded, became the stage for the silent drama.
The Northern winds carried whispers of conflict, and the ancient stones bore witness to the unspoken tension that lingered between Stark and Targaryen. Jon's private declarations to Sansa, of the absence of love between him and the silver-haired monarch failed to quell Sansa's unease. His forgiving nature, a trait she had observed throughout his life, left room for doubt to seed in Sansa's mind.
The shadows cast by the allure of the Dragon Queen painted Jon's professed detachment in shades of uncertainty. As the political landscape shifted, Sansa grappled with the enigma of Daenerys and Jon's connection, a puzzle that eluded even the astute eyes of those who believed they knew the intricacies of the game of thrones.
Amidst the labyrinthine corridors of revelation, truth materialised like a winter wind weaving through the stone halls of Winterfell. Jon Snow, once the embodiment of her half-brother, revealed himself as a cousin, Aegon Targaryen, was his true name. An unexpected gust of icy reality that chilled Sansa to the core. The revelation, like a sudden frost, permeated the very foundations of her understanding, leaving Sansa grappling with the shards of a shattered truth.
Yet, the cruel timing of revelation conspired against Sansa. Jon, seemingly already enchanted, slipped beyond the grasp of familial claims that once bound them. The threads of their connection, woven through the tapestry of shared experiences, now frayed and tenuous in the wake of newfound knowledge.
The Dragon Queen, with her silver mane and burning ambitions, emerged as a formidable spectre, casting a shadow over Jon's place in Sansa's world. The revelation of Jon's true lineage, his entitlement to the Iron Throne, dangled like a sword above their tangled fates. Sansa, caught in the intricate dance of love and duty, seethed with a fury as fierce as the Northern winds.
Within Sansa, a wildfire of resentment raged, fuelled by a deep-seated hatred for the audacious Dragon Queen, Daenerys Targaryen. The flames of disdain burned with an intensity that knew no bounds, stoked by the woman's daring claim to what Sansa deemed rightfully hers, namely Jon. In her desperate pursuit to shield Jon, Sansa found herself standing at the precipice of betrayal, teetering on the edge of choices that could shatter the fragile balance of their world.
Daenerys, wielding the authority of her position as Jon's lover, demanded his silence. A pact to bury his true identity beneath the snow-laden grounds of their ancestral home. Although Sansa wished for him to take his rightful place upon the Iron Throne, Sansa knew, Jon would not live long while his claim was greater than that of Daenerys, as her dragons would see to that.
The burning need to shield Jon from the fiery wrath of Daenerys pressed upon Sansa's shoulders like a burden too heavy to bear. The sacrifice of their love became an inevitable offering on the altar of necessity, the echoes of their shared past dissipating like smoke in the cold Northern air.
Jon, once the heart that beat in tandem with hers, transformed into a distant figure—a silhouette against the stark backdrop of Winterfell's towers. Sansa's desperate grasp for forgiveness slipped through her fingers like sand through an open fist, the grains scattering in the unforgiving winds of duty and sacrifice.
Sansa's actions, born out of necessity and driven by a ferocious need to protect, painted a complex portrait of a woman navigating the treacherous waters of love, duty, and the unyielding demands of power.
Then Jon killed Daenerys, and everything changed.
In the bustling chaos of King's Landing docks, the year 305 AC, Sansa Stark stood resolute amidst the ebb and flow of the crowd, her keen gaze fixated upon the ship that carried Jon Snow away. The briny tang of the sea, laden with the scent of salt and adventure, wrapped around her like a familiar cloak, and the distant cries of gulls echoed in the air.
The throngs of people, a mosaic of faces with stories untold, moved around Sansa like ripples in a pond. She felt the pulse of the city, the heartbeat of King's Landing, as it reverberated through the cobblestone streets beneath her boots. The sun, dipping low on the horizon, painted the sky in hues of amber and rose, casting a warm glow over the scene.
Tears welled in Sansa's eyes, defying her attempts to hold them back. The turmoil within her mirrored the churning tides of Blackwater Bay. She, the one who had pleaded fervently for Jon's life, who had stood defiant in the face of political turmoil, now stood as a silent spectator to his departure.
The weight of her emotions, like the relentless waves crashing against the docks, threatened to engulf her. Sansa's determination, once a flame that had burned bright in the face of adversity, now flickered like a candle in the wind. The dockside hustle and bustle faded into a distant hum as she grappled with the bittersweet reality of Jon's fate. She could taste the salt from the sea, on her lips, mingled with the saltiness of her tears, an undeniable reminder of the sacrifices made for duty and the ache of farewells. The ship, a vessel disappearing into the vastness of the Narrow Sea, became a symbol of parting and the unpredictable currents of fate. As the sails caught the dying sunlight, Sansa's heart carried the weight of unspoken words and the echo of a love that sailed away, leaving her standing alone amidst the teeming chaos of King's Landing docks.
In the sombre aftermath of betrayal, Jon Snow's forgiveness remained an elusive spectre haunting the chambers of Winterfell. Like Daenerys, who sought the hush of secrecy, Jon desired silence. Sansa, however, craved what she believed was the best for Westeros—Jon's rightful place as a leader. Their conflicting desires birthed dire consequences, leaving the tapestry of their relationship tattered and fractured.
Amidst the tumultuous circumstances that surrounded them, Sansa couldn't quell the yearning within her. She desired for Jon to carve his own destiny, whether it led him to ascend as a king or to find solace in the familiar embrace of Winterfell. In the quiet corners of her heart, a secret desire lingered—a vision of Sansa as Queen in the North, with Jon standing beside her as a devoted consort. The unspoken truth, the last piece of her clandestine vision, remained locked within the chambers of her mind, a whispered hope in the echoes of her thoughts. Yet, the hands of fate, guided by Bran's solemn decree, wove a different tapestry.
To avert the looming threat of war with the Dothraki, Unsullied, and Ironborn, Jon faced a stark punishment. The words of the Night's Watch echoed through the streets of Kings Landing—he would take the black. A life bound by duty to the Wall, where vows would be sworn, and the weight of leadership would be replaced by the chill winds that swept across the icy expanse. No wife, no children, a path chosen for him by the necessity of preserving peace in a realm teetering on the brink of chaos.
The uncertainties of Jon's feelings had lingered like a ghost haunting the corridors of Winterfell until the eve of his departure. Yet, it was not Jon who unravelled the enigma, but the newfound King of the Six Kingdoms—Sansa's brother, Bran, the enigmatic Three-Eyed-Raven.
Bran, a vessel of knowledge, a seer of destinies, had seen through the veils of time. In this rare instance, the future, usually shrouded in ambiguity, unfolded with remarkable clarity. The revelation of Jon's destiny, the intricate dance of forgiveness and understanding, lay in the hands of fate, guided by Bran's vision. The winds of change whispered through Winterfell, carrying the weight of both loss and anticipation.
Bran's resolve held steadfast as he orchestrated Jon's northward journey. It was a strategic manoeuvrer, not solely for Jon's benefit but a calculated move aimed at providing both Jon and Sansa the chance to find solace and heal the festering wounds beneath their composed exteriors. This departure served a dual purpose, affording the realm some time to absorb the revelation of Jon's true lineage—a revelation that transformed him from Ned Stark's presumed bastard to a Targaryen with royal blood coursing through his veins.
Time, akin to a soothing ointment, was deemed a necessary element for the buds of forgiveness to bloom in the hearts of both Jon and Sansa. Bran, in his role as the orchestrator of fate, promised a future where Jon, once mended and forgiven, would receive absolution by the joint grace of Sansa and himself. The terms were stringent—Jon's abode must be the North, the very region where his roots were deeply entwined.
Still, Bran's assurances left a subtle veil of uncertainty hanging in the air. The pledge of Jon's return to Winterfell carried the weight of myriad possibilities, shrouded in the intricate tapestry of destiny. The halls of Winterfell, where secrets intertwined with fates, reverberated with the gentle resonance of assurances given and the enigmatic riddle of futures waiting to unfurl.
Like the northern winds that whispered through the castle's stones, the promise lingered, promising a new chapter or perhaps only a reunion in the ever-turning pages of destiny.
In the sacred enclave of Winterfell's Godswood, in the year 307 AC, where a poignant chapter of destiny unfolded.
Jon Snow, adorned in the black and red cloak of House Targaryen, standing on the verge of a profound transformation. The emblem of his ancestral lineage, a symbol steeped in fire and blood, found a new purpose on the shoulders of Sansa Stark—a cloak that bore witness to the convergence of their intertwined fates. This singular moment marked the sole occasion when Jon would don the colours of House Targaryen. The decision to shed his former identity and embrace the Stark name, a long-cherished desire, materialised as a ceremonial metamorphosis. Sansa, the architect of this symbolic shift, turned to meet Jon, and their lips met in a silent communion.
"Do you remember the token I once took from you?" he whispered, his words carrying a weight that transcended the physical realm. Sansa's furrowed brow betrayed her confusion as Jon broached a topic seemingly lost in the folds of time.
Sansa shook her head, a cascade of auburn hair framing her face. "I never gave you a token of my affection," she replied, her tone a curious blend of uncertainty and intrigue.
A cryptic smile played on Jon's lips as he unravelled a secret that had lingered in the recesses of his heart. "Yes, you did. One I've kept with me in every battle. I've always kept it close to my heart. Even in the moments of pain. It helped me understand your motives," he revealed, the revelation hanging in the air like the delicate frost on a winter morning. Sansa, still puzzled, awaited further explanation.
"It is made of white silk, with tiny blue bows," Jon added, the description weaving a tapestry of memories and emotions that only the two of them shared.
In the subtle interplay of candlelight and shadows, a revelation unfolded, casting a rosy hue across Sansa Stark's face. The room, ensconced in the echoes of shared history, witnessed the unearthing of a secret held in the folds of time.
"My smallclothes from Castle Black?" Sansa inquired, her voice a delicate blend of shock, recognition and a hint of embarrassment. Jon nodded, the unspoken understanding between them deepening.
"You once asked me if I loved her. I told you I didn't, although I suspect you never believed me. It was always your token I kept close, even when I was with her. Especially when I was with her. I needed it to help me do what I had to do. You were guiding me," Jon confessed, his words hanging in the air like the soft whisper of winter winds through the trees.
Sansa's admission was a poignant brushstroke on the canvas of their shared past. "I was broken-hearted," she revealed, the weight of those moments etched into the fabric of her being.
"I finally realized that. But so was I. And her death wasn't the reason. It was you who broke mine," Jon confessed, his words carrying the echo of past wounds.
Sansa's response, a soft-spoken apology, wove through the air like a gentle breeze. "I'm sorry. Can you forgive me?"
Jon's smile, a glimmer in the shadows, held the warmth of absolution. "For loving me? There's nothing to forgive. I'm sorry too. Can you forgive me?"
Sansa, her own smile carrying a touch of wryness, replied, "For breaking my heart? We wouldn't be here if I hadn't." Leaning into his ear, her keeping their intimate secret. "We've both forgiven you."
Unbeknownst to most, save for a chosen few—Bran, Arya, Tormund, Davos, Sam and Brienne—the Godswood cradled a secret, a truth that unfurled beneath the watchful gaze of ancient trees and whispered winds.
A secret joy, known only to those very few in Jon and Sansa's close circle of friends, and the life burgeoning within, cast a subtle glow upon the sacred space. The ancient trees, keepers of forgotten truths, seemed to whisper tales of anticipation and destiny.
Sansa, with child, carried the weight of this revelation, and the sacred space embraced the hues of her silent joy. The godswood, a realm where past and present intertwined, bore witness to the fusion of dreams and reality. In this enchanted haven, Sansa's eyes, glistening with unshed tears, lifted toward the heavens.
Her thoughts wove a tapestry of memories, threads of promises made by her father—the dream of a prince, someone brave, gentle, and strong. In Jon, she found the embodiment of those qualities, a fulfilment of pledges made in the hallowed past. The godswood, a silent observer to familial echoes and celestial dances, reflected the convergence of Sansa's past and her present.
Jon, attuned to the shimmering tears in Sansa's eyes, sought understanding. "Why are you crying?" he inquired, a manifestation of his ever-present concern in the tapestry of their shared moments.
"I'm just thinking about mother and father. And Robb, and Rickon," Sansa confessed, her words carrying the weight of memories and the bittersweet embrace of a destiny woven in the threads of time. Winterfell's godswood, an eternal witness to the saga of House Stark, cradled within its ancient branches the echoes of vows fulfilled and the promise of a new beginning.
Jon's fingers brushed away a solitary tear from Sansa's cheek, seeking out reassurance beneath the ancient canopy of heart trees. Sansa, her gaze drifting from the heavens to Jon's grey eyes, finding solace in the shared understanding that transcended spoken words.
"Do you think Father would approve?" Jon's query, a testament to the lingering shadows of parental expectations. Ned Stark would always remain Jon's father, regardless of his sire. His question hung in the air like the delicate fluttering of leaves.
Sansa, her hand entwined with Jon's, offered a solace as old as the godswood itself. "I think, if Father could have chosen any man for me, you would have been his first choice." She confessed, a whispered affirmation of a love that transcended the constraints of time and circumstance. The godswood, a sanctuary for the Stark legacy, bore witness to their exchange—a moment frozen in the amber glow of the heart trees' leaves.
"I love you, Jon Stark." Sansa declared, her words a tender melody that resonated in the sacred space. "You are the Prince who father promised to me."
Jon, a smile gracing his lips, reciprocated the sentiment. "You are, and have always been the Queen of my Heart." With a gentle tilt of her chin, he pressed his lips to hers, a kiss that echoed through the godswood, drawing cheers from the assembled guests. The godswood, a timeless witness to the vows and unions of House Stark, cradled their love beneath the intertwined branches of the heart trees.
The air carried the scent of blooming flowers and the earthy richness of the Goodwood's soil, grounding the couple in the reality of their shared journey. The taste of anticipation lingered in the breeze, an essence that hinted at the feast awaiting them.
Jon's arms encircled Sansa, a sturdy embrace that bespoke both protection and partnership. In the godswood, where the red leaves whispered ancient tales, the couple stood as a living testament to the endurance of House Stark. As Jon carried Sansa back to the castle, the cheers of well-wishers melded with the soft rustling of leaves, weaving a harmonious symphony that marked the beginning of their joined destiny.