Sansa's hands trembled as she unfurled the scroll, her heart pounding with an ominous dread. Ever since the haunting dream foretelling Jon's demise, she had braced herself for confirmation.
Once, she had paid little heed to her half-brother among her siblings, but in recent times, his presence had grown significant. Unbeknownst to him, Jon had become her unwavering support, her guiding light in times of need. Sansa yearned to express her gratitude, yet now, such sentiments felt futile. For within her grasp lay the dreaded missive, bearing the black seal of the Night's Watch.
Sansa opened the letter and read its contents;
Lord Bolton
I am writing with a heavy heart to notify you of the loss of the 998th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Jon Snow. He passed away during the night from a fever.
I, Ser Alliser Thorne, will be the Acting Lord Commander until a new one is selected. As such, I will deal with the wildling issue. A problem which I know you, and the rest of the north had taken such issue with.
Letters have been sent to the Lord Paramounts of every region, King Tommen and the Citadel, confirming Jon Snow's death. I will update you with any further developments.
Ser Alliser Thorne,
Acting Lord Commander of the Night's Watch
Sansa's lower lip trembled, her entire body quaking with emotion. She collapsed into the embrace of the sturdy oak chair, a relic from her father's days, she wept with a depth she had not felt since losing Robb, Bran, Rickon, or Arya. Her love for Jon surpassed that for her other siblings, but because she had borne witness to his demise first-hand The pretext of illness was a hollow falsehood; Jon had never faltered in health. While others succumbed to sickness, he remained untouched by affliction.
In her heart, Sansa harboured the grim truth: Jon had been slain for aiding the wildlings. Why?, Sansa wondered. What knowledge had driven him to such perilous action, to defy the very duty he was sworn to uphold? As she brushed away her tears, she resolved to seek solace in the familiar tranquillity of the Godswood.
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With haste, Sansa exited the solar, her steps quickening as she descended into the courtyard and made her way towards the Godswood. Although she no longer held faith in any gods, old or new, she felt a profound connection to this sacred place. If there was anywhere she could find solace and commune with Jon, it was here among the ancient trees.
Sansa raced through the Winterfell Godswood, her heart pounded with a tumultuous blend of grief and fury, each footfall echoing her inner turmoil. The gentle descent of snowflakes mirrored the flurry of thoughts swirling in her mind, obscuring her path, yet compelling her onward with unwavering determination.
With every stride, Sansa's breath caught in her throat, her chest heavy with sorrow and disbelief. Jon had been betrayed by the very institution he had sworn to serve. Anguish gnawed at her soul as she grappled with the harsh reality of his murder.
Beneath the red canopy of the heart tree, Sansa sank to her knees, her body trembling with emotion. With a shuddering exhale, she reached out to touch the weathered bark, seeking solace in its silent presence. Her breath mingled with the crisp winter air, carrying her whispered words to Jon, as if they could penetrate the bark and reach him deep within the roots of the tree.
"I'm sorry I was too late." Sansa whispered, her voice thick with sorrow. "I wanted to write to you, to apologise for not treating you as you deserved. You don't know this, but you guided me through the last year. You were the closest thing I've had to a true hero." Tears streamed down her cheeks, unchecked.
"I wish I knew why you did what you did." She continued, her voice trembling with emotion. "I don't care what the letter said. They killed you, and you had your reasons for letting them through the wall. I want to support your decision, but how can I if I don't know why you did it?" Sansa's anger flared, directed for her own shortcomings, at the men who had taken Jon from her, and at Jon himself for what she saw as a foolish act.
"I need something, a sign." She pleaded, her voice choked with grief. "Please Jon, Help me help you in whatever you were trying to do. I know it wasn't for power or glory. You must have had a valid reason." Her words dissolved into sobs, her shoulders shaking with the weight of her despair.
A movement beyond the tree caught her attention, drawing her gaze upward. Had the gods listening to her? Sansa wondered as she lifted her tear-streaked face. And then she saw it; a magnificent white figure, with eyes like fiery garnets, emerging from the depths of the woods.
"Ghost!" Sansa cried out in relief, her heart lifting at the sight of Jon's loyal companion. The enormous white direwolf padded over to her.
"This is a sign," Sansa thought, a glimmer of hope kindling in her heart. "If Jon can't be here, at least I have a part of him, a piece of our pack to hold on to." With tender reverence, she enveloped the massive head of the white direwolf in her arms, seeking comfort in his familiar presence. The scent of his fur, reminiscent of winter and memories of her childhood home, washed over her, transporting her back to a time before her world had been shattered. In that moment, cradled against Ghost's warm body, Sansa felt a sense of security she hadn't known since the day she left Winterfell to go to Kings Landing.
As the wind whispered through the trees, Sansa thought she heard a faint murmur, a voice carried on the breeze. But Ghost remained unperturbed, his watchful gaze unwavering, and Sansa dismissed the sound as a trick of the wind. "Just my imagination," she mused, seeking reassurance in the familiar rationalisations of her mind.
A man tutted. "He never lets me do that." The voice, male and tinged with a northern brogue, shattered the tranquillity of the moment, sending a chill down Sansa's spine. "He'd go for me if I tried to cuddle him." Fear gripped Sansa's heart as she realised the implications of the intruder's words. With a sense of dread creeping over her, she felt Ghost slip from her embrace, leaving her feeling exposed and vulnerable.
Refusing to turn and face the speaker, Sansa's mind raced with disbelief. Jon was dead—she had dreamt it, and the letter she had earlier held in her hand from Ser Alliser Thorne, had confirmed it. It couldn't be Jon, could it?
Under the weight of the man's footsteps, the snow crunched with a soft, rhythmic cadence as he approached, followed by Ghost. Sansa kept her gaze fixed downward, her attention drawn instead to the telltale signs of his presence—the rustle of a black cloak, the sturdy leather boots, and the ominous presence of a scabbard at his side, holding a sword. As Ghost settled beside him, Sansa's pulse quickened, a mixture of anticipation and trepidation coursing through her veins.
"Sansa." The man's voice was gentle, a whisper amid the falling snow. "Are you alright?"
Sansa's emotions churned within her, a whirlwind of conflicting feelings threatening to overwhelm her senses. Uncertainty gripped her heart as she struggled to process the surreal moment unfolding before her. Her breath quickened, her chest tightening with each passing second. Squinting against the thickening veil of snow, she finally lifted her gaze to meet his.
The man, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Jon, sank to his knees before her. His attire spoke of the North, a black cloak adorned with a rabbit fur collar draped over Stark leather armour. Though obscured by melting snow, his dark hair was drawn back into a ponytail, accentuating the distinctive widows peak that framed his face. As he met her gaze, Sansa felt the weight of his grey eyes boring into hers. Yet, despite the familiarity of his features, she couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that he was different somehow. His face bore the marks of time, weathered and worn, reminiscent of her haunting dreams of him at Castle Black—the scar above his right eye and the neatly kept beard, now longer and more untidy than she remembered.
Sansa's breaths grew ragged, her heart pounding in her chest. Was this a cruel nightmare, or had the ghost of Jon materialised before her? Both possibilities were terrifying. When the figure of Jon extended his hand toward her, Sansa's terror reached its peak, and she succumbed to darkness, her screams echoing through the snow-covered silence, as she sunk to the ground in a dead faint.
"Shit!" Jon cursed.
He rushed over and pulled Sansa into his arms, seeking to shield her from the snow now falling more heavily than before. Casting a quick glance over her body, he assessed whether he could carry her back into the castle if she didn't awaken. He couldn't bear the thought of leaving her out here in the cold and wet; she was far too much of a Lady for such discomfort.
Tucking a stray tendril of hair behind her ear, Jon paused, taking in the sight of her. She looked as she had in his death dream, which explained his earlier silence. He had hoped she remained unaware of his fate, but her reaction suggested otherwise; she mistook him for a ghost. The memory of their childhood prank flooded back—a simpler time when Jon, covered in flour, had startled Sansa, Bran, and Arya in the crypts, eliciting screams from the younger Starks, and laughter from Robb and Jon.
With her arm draped around his neck, Jon was preparing to lift her up in his arms. "C'mon, let's get you back into the castle before you catch your death." He urged, but when Sansa murmured in response, he stopped.
Anticipating Sansa waking up, he lingered for a moment, committing the sight of her to memory.
As a child, Sansa had always possessed a certain loveliness, but as a woman, she had blossomed into something breathtaking. Her auburn hair, woven into a northern braid, caught Jon off guard; she had often favoured a more southern style. Gone was the rounded face of her youth, replaced now by the elegant contours of high cheekbones reminiscent of her mother, complemented by plump, red lips. Dark red lashes framed her porcelain complexion, though a hint of blue beneath her eyes hinted at sleepless nights. The cold air had tinted her nose and cheeks with a rosy hue.
Jon attempted to avert his gaze from her feminine allure, but found it impossible to ignore. Sansa stood tall and graceful, her slender frame adorned with subtle curves that spoke of womanhood. Yet, it was her attire that struck him most deeply—a sombre black, no doubt worn in mourning. A pang of anguish gripped Jon's heart. Was it Arya, Rickon, or perhaps both, that Sansa mourned?
Ghost approached Sansa, nudging her with his snout, attempting to rouse her. Sansa's reaction—a wrinkled nose and a swatting hand—suggested that Ghost's method was indeed effective.
"Ew!" Sansa protested, pushing the large direwolf away.
Jon chuckled. "Ghost, leave her be. She's fine."
Ghost complied, but he remained nearby, his deep red eyes fixed on Sansa with what Jon interpreted as concern.
"Jon?" Sansa's voice was a whisper.
"Aye, it's me. And despite the snow in my hair, I assure you, I'm not covered in flour." Jon quipped, hoping to inject a touch of levity into the moment.
Sansa pulled away, regarding him with a wary expression. "Flour or not, you were dead. How can you be here?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"I was dead, but I'm not anymore." Jon replied. "How did you find out?"
"A letter came from someone named Ser Alliser Thorne. Does that name mean anything to you?" Sansa inquired.
Jon nodded. "Aye, it does."
"He said you died from a fever. But I knew it was a lie. You've never been sick in your whole life. You were murdered." Sansa whispered, her voice only just audible.
Unease settled over Jon. He wanted to address her concerns, but first, he needed to get them both inside the castle, where it was warm and dry. Yet, he couldn't shake the sense of dread brought on by her sombre attire.
"Why are you wearing black?" Jon asked, deflecting away from his own demise.
Tears welled in Sansa's Tully blue eyes. "Rickon." She whispered. "He killed him, right in front of me."
Uncertainty gnawed at Jon as he grappled with, knowing Thorne and his men killed him because of his decision to attack Winterfell to rescue Arya. Learning that Arya was not the one held captive by Ramsay, but rather Jeyne Poole, filled Jon with anger. Yet, he knew he had to mask his emotions in Sansa's presence, lest he alarm her.
Taking a deep breath, Jon suppressed his rage, channelling it inward as he changed the subject. "Let's get inside. You must be freezing," he said, rising to his feet and extending his hand to Sansa.
Sansa accepted his hand, allowing him to help her up. She shook off the snow from her dress and pulled her cloak tighter around her. Just as Jon turned toward the castle, Sansa's gloved hand rested on his chest, right over the spot where Olly had plunged the dagger into his heart. A strange sensation washed over Jon, as if a wave of magic coursed through him from her touch, spreading warmth throughout his body.
"Jon, wait. Theon is here." Sansa told him.
Jon's disbelief was palpable. "Is he alive or dead?" he asked.
"We need him alive." Sansa replied. "There are people who must stand trial for their crimes, and Theon will be a crucial witness."
"And what happens after the trials?" Jon pressed.
Jon swallowed hard, his heart heavy with grief. Wrapping his arms around Sansa, he held her close, seeking solace in their shared embrace. Closing his eyes, he rested his cheek against her head, taking in the comforting scent of winter roses.
"Was it quick?" Jon inquired, the thought of his brother's suffering weighing on his mind.
Sansa hiccuped, nodding in response. "An arrow through the heart. But Jeyne didn't fare so well."
Jon furrowed his brow. "Jeyne?"
"Jeyne Poole. Ramsay was parading her around as Arya. He must have known she wasn't the real Arya Stark, otherwise he'd have kept her alive. He wanted a real Stark wife instead, to give him legitimacy. When he found out I was on my way with the Vale army, he left me a parting gift. When I entered the castle, I saw her. She was fixed to a cross. Her face was untouched, but her body..." Sansa's voice faltered, overcome with emotion. Even Jon, accustomed to death, felt a wave of discomfort at the thought of such brutality inflicted upon someone he knew. "I know I should be glad it's not Arya, and I am. But I still loved Jeyne."
"I know," Jon murmured, rocking Sansa in his arms, hoping to offer her some semblance of comfort.
"If rumours are to be believed, keeping him alive may be more cruel than death. Ramsay tortured him. Lord Baelish also believes he may prove to be a valuable hostage in the future." Sansa replied.
"Hmm." Jon wasn't comfortable with that answer, his scepticism lingering despite Sansa's explanation. Yet, there was a more pressing question weighing on his mind. "Who is Lord Baelish?" he inquired, his thoughts drifting to whether this man held any significance to Sansa beyond political alliances.
Sansa shifted, her gaze falling downward. "He is my aunt Lysa's widower and my cousin, Lord Arryn's regent. He was the one who pledged support for Winterfell," she explained, though Jon sensed there was more to the story than she was revealing.
"So he's not your husband, then?" Jon asked, surprised by the sudden urgency of the question.
Sansa shook her head. "Not yet. He desires it, though. My husband, Harry, perished on the battlefield."
"I'm sorry." Jon offered, realising that she might be in mourning for her husband.
"It wasn't a love match." Sansa confessed with a wry smile, nudging him in the ribs. "In fact, we didn't get along at all. But I'll fill you in on the details later." She promised as they resumed walking. "Would you like to visit the crypts first, to pay respects to Father's statue and Rickon's grave? I can arrange for your old room to be prepared. Or you could have Robb's. You're even welcome to Father's old chambers." Sansa halted in her tracks. "You are staying, aren't you?"
Jon chuckled. "Try keeping me away. My death released me from my vows. Besides, I can be of more use to the Watch here than at Castle Black."
"Why?" Sansa inquired as they resumed their walk, Ghost bounding around them, frolicking in the snow like a playful pup.
Jon offered her his arm, which she accepted. "We'll discuss it later. But I'll take whatever room is next to yours." He remarked.
Sansa chewed on her bottom lip. "I'm taking Mother's old chambers. They're the warmest in the castle. Whichever room you choose, I want it to be close to mine. I want my pack nearby." She declared. "On one side are father's old chambers and the ones on the other side were Robb's."
Jon hesitated at the thought of claiming Robb's room. Too many memories of shared nights with his brother made the prospect too painful. The Lord's Chambers, which were reserved for the Lord of Winterfell, were unfamiliar to him, but he doubted he'd find ghosts haunting the space.
"Do you mind if I take Father's rooms?" Jon ventured. "Robb's chambers feel... too personal."
Sansa's grip tightened on Jon's arm. "I was hoping you'd say that. There's a secret door between the two rooms. It might prove useful," she revealed, her thoughts elsewhere.
"Why?" Jon pressed, curious about her cryptic statement. They were no longer children playing games of monsters and maidens. Jon had faced enough actual monsters to last a lifetime, and he knew there were more to come.
"We'll talk first. Then it will all make sense," Sansa replied, leading him towards the Godswood gate.