Jon and Sansa, trailed by Ghost, reached the iron gate of the Godswood, Sansa halted abruptly. Jon sensed she was about to share something important, something that would require his utmost attention. He braced himself for her words, aware that Ghost's presence might complicate matters.
"Jon, no matter what happens, we must proceed with caution. You must trust me," Sansa whispered urgently, her voice barely above a murmur. "I may say and do things that seem odd to you, or contradictory. I might have to feign innocence and deceive those around us. You may not agree with my actions or words. That's why the secret passage between Mother's and Father's chambers is crucial. We will need to communicate in secret."
Jon furrowed his brow. "What am I missing?" he asked, sensing there was more to Sansa's warning.
"The political intrigue of King's Landing has followed me here. I'm playing a dangerous game, and you'll need to play along. Please, try to emulate Father," Sansa implored, managing a small smile. "Though, I suspect that won't be too difficult for you." Her expression sobered. "But with Lord Baelish lurking about, it's not safe. He's the most cunning and treacherous man in the Seven Kingdoms. Littlefinger was infatuated with my mother, and now he seems to have transferred that obsession to me. It's not love; it's a desire to possess me, as if I were merely an object."
Jon pressed his lips together, absorbing Sansa's words. "I won't be welcomed here, will I?" he ventured.
Sansa shook her head. "Mm-mm. How skilled are you at deception? If memory serves, you were quite terrible at it as a child."
"Honourable fools don't rise to become the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch," Jon retorted dryly.
Sansa huffed. "Honourable, foolish Lord Commanders of the Night's Watch often meet their demise at the hands of their sworn brothers."
"Observant," Jon conceded, giving her a cautious glance. "You've changed."
"It was necessary for survival," Sansa replied sombrely. "Now, you'll need to adapt as well. For the time being, you must embody Father's demeanour. Can you manage that?"
With a heavy sigh, Jon nodded. "Aye, but I demand an explanation for what's going on."
As Sansa heard the crunch of snow behind them, Ghost's presence came to mind. "It might be wise for him to remain out of sight until word spreads of your return," she suggested, nodding towards the enormous direwolf. "Ghost could startle those present if they don't realize he has a master. They might react before we can explain."
"But surely people will recognize him," Jon insisted.
"You won't know the people here, and it's unlikely anyone will recognize you. Even less likely to have been around when Ghost was a pup. I had to look at you twice." She confessed. It was true; despite the scars, Jon was far more handsome than their father, or even Robb. Although he possessed some Stark features, the colouring and long face; it was superficial. There was an intangible quality about him, she couldn't quite fathom. Perhaps his time as Lord Commander had moulded him into that kind of man. Women would overlook his bastard status in a heartbeat. For that, Sansa was sure.
"I haven't changed." Jon protested, his confusion clear.
"You have, Jon. You don't resemble Father anymore." Sansa clarified, trying to soften her observation. But Jon's expression fell, and Sansa realised she had misspoken. "Whoever your mother was, she must have been a great beauty." She added quickly, attempting to smooth over her mistake. When Jon still looked unconvinced, Sansa dropped the subject. "Come, let's go visit Rickon and father." She suggested, tucking her arm inside Jon's.
They had only taken a few steps into the lichyard when an out-of-breath Lord Royce, accompanied by Lord Baelish, approached them. Sansa had forgotten that Lord Royce might recognize Jon, but Littlefinger would be completely oblivious to Jon's identity.
Sansa wasn't surprised when Littlefinger noticed how she stood with her arm tucked inside Jon's elbow. They must have made a striking couple as they left the Godswood. Those unfamiliar with Jon might have mistaken him for her Lord husband.
"My Lady, you weren't in your solar, so we came here to look for you. I thought I heard a scream, although Lord Royce heard nothing," Littlefinger explained, his beady eyes examining Jon before flitting back to Sansa. "Are you alright, my dear?"
Sansa laughed. "No, I simply had quite a fright." She looked up at Jon with an enormous smile on her face, one that made Jon's heart melt. "I didn't expect to find such good company in the Godswood." She squeezed Jon's arm tighter; he could tell she was nervous.
"I'm afraid we have not been introduced, my Lord," Littlefinger said with one of the most disingenuous smiles Jon had ever seen.
Jon was about to correct him when Lord Royce spoke up. "He's not a Lord," he huffed. "That's Jon Snow, Ned Stark's bastard." The words stung. Jon was used to a bit more reverence since becoming the Lord Commander. However, Lord Royce quickly made up for his initial statement. "Now he's Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Quite an achievement, if you ask me. Far rarer than a Lord of the Seven Kingdoms," he added with a broad smile.
"Thank you, Lord Royce," Jon replied, bowing his head. "I wasn't sure you'd remember me."
"Strange, we heard of your demise. I see the reports were untrue," remarked the man Jon suspected was Lord Baelish.
Sansa's head snapped up. She hadn't shown him the letter from Ser Alliser. How did he know Jon was dead? And why hadn't he told her? She decided to table that concern for another day.
"Former Lord Commander," Jon corrected, turning to Lord Baelish. "There is an element of truth in my demise. However, as you can see, the situation was not a permanent one. Fortunately, my 'temporary' death fulfilled the Night's Watch vows. I had a choice: repeat my vows or come home and get warm. The nights at the Wall are becoming rather chilly of late. I chose to get warm." Jon's voice dripped with sarcasm, prompting Sansa to nudge him to tone it down.
"How can death be temporary?" Littlefinger inquired.
Jon didn't trust Littlefinger; he was a snake. But at least Jon had been forewarned of how dangerous the man was.
"You're asking the wrong question, Lord Baelish. But I believe the best way to explain my presence here is divine intervention." Jon replied, giving the man a warning smile.
"How can we be sure this man is not an imposter?" Littlefinger pressed. "How many years has it been since you laid eyes on him?"
Despite Sansa's earlier warning, Jon knew the proof lay in the Godswood. Without needing to be summoned, Ghost emerged from the rusting iron gate and stood beside Jon. Both Littlefinger and Lord Royce took a few steps back at the terrifying sight of the enormous white direwolf, with garnet red eyes.
"Lady Sansa, I must urge you. That creature is dangerous," Littlefinger said, genuine terror in his eyes for the first time.
Ghost, ever clever and observant, padded over to Sansa and sat on his haunches, laying his head on her shoulder. Sansa reciprocated the gesture and tickled him under the chin.
"I doubt anyone else could get away with that. Myself included," Jon japed.
Sensing the growing tension, Sansa changed the subject. "Jon and I are making our way to the crypts. Jon would like to pay his respects to Rickon and see Father's statue." She turned to Lord Royce. "Lord Royce, could you organise for the Lord's chambers to be cleaned and readied for Jon?"
Littlefinger looked more than a little affronted, presumably having vied for those chambers himself, Jon thought.
"Are you sure you ought to give the Lord's chambers to your bastard brother?" Littlefinger turned to Jon, looking like he was sucking on a sour lemon. "I mean no offence, but aren't they reserved for the Lord of Winterfell?"
"There is no Lord of Winterfell right now, Lord Baelish," Sansa reminded him. "Jon is Father's eldest, and as far as we know, only surviving son. That is, of course, unless Bran returns to us safely. I say it is most certainly proper for him to take those chambers. And as the Lady of Winterfell, it is my choice whether Jon can use those rooms. In my experience, there is no harm in breaking the rules for bastards, would you not say, Lord Baelish? After all, that was the lesson you taught me."
Jon was confused by Sansa's statement. What did she know of being a bastard? She was only breaking the rules because he was the last of her family.
It was Lord Royce who once again saved the day. "It would be my pleasure, Lady Sansa," he said. "Mayhaps we should give them a little privacy to grieve their younger sibling. Do you not think, Lord Baelish?" he suggested.
Littlefinger smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. "Of course. I shall leave you to your grief," he said. "Come, Lord Royce. Let us ensure the former Lord Commander is well accommodated." He turned to Sansa. "Lady Sansa," and then to Jon, "Lord Commander."
A shiver ran down Jon's spine. Being referred to as 'Lord Commander' was more dangerous than as Ned Stark's bastard. After all, suggesting he was the current Lord Commander and had deserted his post, warranted his execution. Gods, he was confused. Sansa's suggestion of adjoining rooms could not have been more welcome.
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They made their way across the snow-covered lichyard, heading towards the entrance of the crypts. The ground lay mostly flat, save a freshly dug mound near the crypt entrance, marked the resting place of Jeyne Poole.
Two immense stone direwolves stood sentinel by the large ironwood door. Jon pushed it open, and they descended into the crypts, accompanied by Ghost, padding behind them. Granite statues of Winterfell's long-departed Lords loomed overhead as they ventured deeper into the vaults, towards the newer burials.
Ned Stark's imposing statue presided over them, awaiting the internment of his remains. Beside him lay a small mound of freshly turned earth, a stark reminder of Rickon's tender age when he met his end.
To Jon's surprise, Sansa turned into his chest and sobbed. He instinctively wrapped his arms protectively around her, drawing her close as he nestled his cheek in her hair. Since his resurrection, Jon had felt a profound sense of imbalance. He had lost his once unwavering honour and duty, and an underlying anger simmered within him. But in this moment, cradling Sansa in his arms, he found a rare peace. Here, amidst the turmoil, he had all he needed, his pack.
The longer Jon stared at Rickon's final resting place, the harder it became to suppress his tears. He had grieved for Rickon three years prior, believing Theon had killed both Bran and Rickon. Rickon's return had never felt entirely real to Jon. For him, Rickon had died at the hands of Theon, and while the pain was not as raw, the grave only confirmed what Jon had long known in his heart.
Jon's gaze shifted to the statue of his father, attempting to discern any resemblance to Ned Stark. However, the features seemed elusive, slipping from his memory like grains of sand through his fingers.
"It's not a very accurate likeness," Jon remarked, voicing his doubts. Sansa's gaze followed his, settling on the stone figure of her father.
"I suppose not," she conceded, her tone tinged with resignation. "How could it be? The finest stonemasons were likely either deceased or lacked a clear image to sculpt from."
"He appears far too severe," Jon observed, noting the stern countenance of the statue.
Sansa's eyes wandered to the other statues nearby, her expression thoughtful. "I wonder if any truly capture the essence of the person they represent," she pondered aloud, her gaze alighting on the figure of Lyanna. "Arya is said to resemble Aunt Lyanna, yet her statue bears little resemblance to her."
Following her gaze, Jon contemplated her words. "I suspect they all differ. Perhaps it would have been wiser for the Lords to oversee their likenesses while they still lived."
Sansa's demeanour tensed, and she met Jon's gaze squarely. "Would you wish to see your own likeness carved in stone before your passing?" she inquired, her voice soft with uncertainty.
Jon froze, the memory of Torrhen Stark's admonishment echoing in his mind, a stark reminder of his outsider status within the crypts. Swallowing hard, he uttered, "I'm not a Stark."
Sansa pivoted, her demeanour regal and composed as always. With a gentle touch, she placed her hands on his biceps and locked eyes with him. "You are to me." she asserted firmly.
Jon's scepticism lingered. "I doubt the kings of Winter would agree," he countered.
"Who cares? They're dead. They don't get to dictate the present," Sansa retorted, her words catching Jon off guard and evoking memories of another woman who had spoken with similar defiance.
'Fuck 'em, they're dead,' Karsi's words echoed in Jon's mind, resonating with Sansa's sentiment.
With a heavy sigh, Jon conceded, "It doesn't matter. I don't belong down here. Come, let us see if my chambers are ready." He turned to leave, but Sansa remained rooted in place, her gaze fixed once more on Rickon's resting place.
"Do you think Bran is still alive?" Sansa's question caught Jon off guard. The possibility hadn't crossed his mind. His gut told him no, otherwise Rickon would have been with him. Yet, if there was even a sliver of hope, perhaps they owed it to Bran to search for him.
"He could be," Jon conceded. "But I'm not sure where to look."
"Hother Umber," Sansa interjected. "He escorted Rickon here. But we must act swiftly if we're to inquire."
"Why the urgency?" Jon inquired.
"Lord Hother faces imminent execution or a transfer to Castle Black," Sansa explained. "He may possess information Rickon shared. Otherwise, we may have to approach Theon."
The mere mention of Theon ignited a blaze of fury within Jon. He harboured a visceral desire to exact vengeance upon the man who had laid siege to Winterfell. Their childhood animosity only fuelled Jon's ire further, but for Sansa's sake, he reined in his emotions, swallowing his anger.
"Let's start with Lord Hother," Jon decided, his tone firm. "Theon is our last resort."
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They proceeded to the dungeons near the guards' hall, situated close to the East Gate, where Hother Umber had been confined the day prior. However, upon Jon and Sansa's arrival, the guards informed them that Umber had been moved to a more secure dungeon at the behest of Lord Baelish. Only Littlefinger could speak with him.
Sansa seethed with anger. What authority did Littlefinger possess to bar her from seeing her own prisoners? Though she could have pressed the issue, it would likely have been futile. Most of the castle's soldiers hailed from the Vale, under Littlefinger's influence, leaving Sansa feeling vulnerable and unprotected in her own stronghold.
Jon intervened to seek clarity. "What about Theon Greyjoy? Is he imprisoned here?"
The guard furrowed his brow. "I am not aware of any Theon Greyjoy, my Lord."
"What of Reek?" Sansa inquired. "Where is he being held?"
Understanding dawned on the guard's face, and he motioned towards one of the corridors. "Third cell on your left. Though you may not glean much sense from him. That one is paralysed by fear, even of his own shadow."
"Thank you," Sansa acknowledged with a smile, as Jon retrieved the key and a torch to light their way.
The dungeons exuded a nauseating blend of darkness, dampness, and the unmistakable odour of urine and human waste. Had Sansa not already weathered the aftermath of battle, she might have succumbed to the urge to retch. Now, however, she had grown somewhat accustomed to the fetid stench. It was Jon who seemed to struggle more with the foul smell.
"It reeks down here," he grimaced in disgust, prompting Sansa to chuckle.
"Thank the Seven you weren't here after the battle," she remarked as they traversed past the dimly lit cells. "It was much worse than this," she added.
"Doesn't usually bother me. But after almost a moon in fresh open air, it comes as a bit of a shock." He said as they halted.
Sansa placed a reassuring hand on Jon's arm. "Promise me you won't harm him," she implored. "Littlefinger is correct; he could serve as a valuable hostage, especially given the current turmoil among the Ironborn. With their infighting, Asha would likely welcome the chance to see her brother again."
"Hmm," Jon replied, though his conviction remained unshaken as he passed the torch to Sansa. "You hold this while I unlock the door."
With a turn of the key, Jon unlocked the heavy ironwood door, its hinges creaking as he swung it open. Stepping into the cell first, he motioned for Sansa to stay behind for safety. However, what greeted him inside was not the Theon Greyjoy he expected to see.
Initially, Jon assumed the guard had erred, mistaking this emaciated figure for yet another prisoner named Reek. The elderly looking man before him appeared severely malnourished, his hair stark white, and his face worn and gaunt. His missing teeth, fingers, and toes, accentuated his decrepit appearance. Yet, it was his reaction, particularly to Jon, that confirmed his identity. The man, Reek, recoiled in terror, as if attempting to vanish into the wall.
"Theon?" Sansa ventured closer, only to recoil as the overpowering stench of sweat, urine, and excrement assaulted her senses.
"Not Theon. Reek!" the man croaked.
"Let me see your face," Jon urged, stooped to grasp Theon's thin chin, his revulsion carefully concealed. Despite the shock of witnessing the pitiful state of the man before him, Jon maintained his composure. "You treacherous bastard!" he spat.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Theon whimpered, shrinking further into the corner of the cell.
"Theon, what happened to Bran and Rickon?" Sansa inquired, opting for a softer approach, hoping to coax information from the broken man before them.
"Not Theon. Reek!" Theon insisted, though Sansa remained undeterred.
"What happened to Bran and Rickon?" Sansa pressed, her voice weighted with urgency.
"Don't know," Theon muttered, his head bowed, his gaze averted. His entire demeanour radiated guilt, palpable even in the dim dungeon light.
"I know you didn't kill them," Sansa reassured him. "You let them go. Killed two others in their place."
"Two farm boys. The miller's boys," Theon confessed, unsure of how much to divulge, his fear of Jon's potential retribution mirroring the torment he had endured under Ramsay's cruelty.
"Ramsay can't hurt you," Sansa insisted, offering a glimmer of reassurance.
"Yes, he can. He can hurt anyone," Theon shuddered, his memories of Ramsay's brutality still haunting him.
"He's in one of the secure dungeons, guarded by soldiers from the Vale. He will pay for his crimes in the next few days. As will you. But if you help us, we might be more... lenient," Sansa offered, extending a tentative lifeline.
Theon trembled with fear, his entire body quaking. "Where's Bran?" Jon demanded, his voice edged with urgency.
"Don't know," Theon stammered, tears welling in his eyes.
Jon approached Theon, whose frantic pleas filled the dank dungeon air. "S..s.. sorry, Jon, please don't kill me. I didn't kill them," Theon begged, his hands shielding his face. "I didn't hurt them."
"You betrayed Robb and led the Ironborn mission to invade Winterfell. If you hadn't done that, Bran and Rickon might well be alive in this castle," Jon's voice dripped with lethal intensity. "I know you let them go, but I cannot believe Ramsay would not try to extract Bran's whereabouts from Rickon." Jon stooped, seizing Theon by the tattered fabric around his neck, and effortlessly hoisted him into the air. "Where did Rickon say Bran went?"
"Jon..." Sansa's voice pierced the tension, but Jon remained fixed on Theon, his rage unabated.
Theon squirmed in Jon's grip, but Jon's strength prevailed, rendering Theon immobile. "North," Theon gasped, his breath laboured "North of the wall."
"Damn it!" Jon released Theon, dropping him to the ground with disdainful force.
Sansa stood in stunned silence. How had Jon effortlessly lifted Theon with one hand, torch in the other, as though he were weightless? He didn't appear exceptionally strong, certainly not like the Hound, yet his display of power astonished her. And his subsequent demeanour, after casting Theon aside left her bewildered.
Stepping out of the cell, Jon's authoritative tone cut through the stale air. "See this man gets two extra blankets and double his rations," he commanded, leaving no room for argument.
Watching Jon take charge, Sansa couldn't help but marvel. This was the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, a man not to be trifled with. Gone was the boy she remembered from their childhood at Winterfell. In his place stood a leader, strong and powerful, embodying the essence of what a king should be. Sansa couldn't help her admiration. As a child, she would have likened adult Jon to Aemon the Dragonknight. Despite being a woman grown, she found herself in agreement with her younger self.
"Sansa," Jon's voice softened, breaking her reverie. "Shall we see if the chambers are ready?" He extended his arm to her.
Sansa took his arm, feeling a sense of comfort and solidarity, and together they emerged from the dim confines of the dungeon. Jon handed the key to the guard, who hastened down the corridor with the blankets. As they ascended into the snow-covered yard above, leaving the fetid stench of the dungeons behind, Sansa couldn't shake the feeling of gratitude for Jon's steadfast presence by her side.