Silence enveloped the courtyard as Jon and Sansa made their way across its expanse. All eyes drawn to them. It was a familiar sensation, a scrutiny born of their unusual lives, yet now it felt strangely discomfiting.
"I see news of your return has spread like wildfire, Lord Commander," Sansa remarked with practised composure as they crossed the threshold into the keep, mindful of the ears nearby. Only in private could they address each other by name.
"I doubt calling me 'Lord Commander' is wise," Jon replied, his faithful companion Ghost trailing close behind. "It serves as a stark reminder of my resignation—a rarity among Night's Watch commanders, often met with dire consequences."
Ascending the winding stairs, Sansa continued their conversation. "Would you prefer 'Lord Jon' or 'Lord Snow'?" she inquired.
Memories flooded Jon's mind as he recalled Ser Alliser's mocking tone, his insistence on the moniker "Lord Snow." It was a title he had grown accustomed to, albeit reluctantly, a reminder of his fraught past within the Night's Watch—a chapter he preferred left unopened.
"I'm not a lord," he protested as they rounded the final corner toward the Lord's Chambers, where Sansa halted, turning to meet his gaze.
"True, but as the sole surviving sibling I know of, you are my heir. 'Jon' simply won't suffice. 'Lord Jon' will have to do, for now," she declared firmly.
Jon couldn't help but roll his eyes at her insistence on propriety. "Always the stickler for tradition."
"Indeed, my lord," Sansa retorted with a teasing smirk. "Shall we inspect your quarters to ensure they meet your lofty standards?"
Drawing in a steadying breath, Jon pushed open the imposing ironwood door. His visits to his father's chambers had been few and far between, leaving his recollection of the room hazy at best. Stepping over the threshold, he braced himself to confront his new bedroom.
The Lord's Chambers exuded grandeur and authority, its spaciousness and imposing aura clear from the moment one entered. At its heart stood a magnificent bed, intricately carved and adorned with plush furs and sumptuous linens, beckoning rest and reprieve. Flanking it were oak night-stands, each topped with a flickering candle casting a warm glow.
Tall, diamond-shaped windows offered commanding views of the snow-clad landscape and the bustling courtyard below, while a sturdy oak desk provided a dignified space for administrative duties. Alongside, bookshelves brimmed with volumes of history and strategy, standing beside a crackling hearth that bathed the room in a comforting warmth. A scattering of comfortable chairs and a modest table completed the furnishings, inviting moments of respite and reflection.
Though the tapestries, once the pride of the walls, had yet to be reinstated, the room stood as the most opulent Jon had ever encountered. Next to the roaring fire, an inviting bath brimmed with steaming water, promising solace and relaxation.
Turning to Sansa, Jon found her beaming with pride. "This is too much," he murmured, overwhelmed by the lavishness before him. "I'm not accustomed to such finery."
"It befits your station as my heir," Sansa gently chided, her tone firm yet affectionate. "Come," she continued, her smile widening, "I'll show you the secret door."
The bookcase near the window appeared unassuming at first glance, blending seamlessly with its surroundings until Sansa withdrew a tome titled 'Targaryens, the Last Dragonlords of Valyria.'
"Place your hand inside and pull the lever," Sansa instructed, her voice steady as Jon followed her guidance without hesitation. A subtle click echoed as he pulled the lever, causing the bookshelf to glide back from the wall, revealing two wooden doors concealed behind.
"Press down the bolt and open the left door," she directed, gesturing towards a latch on the door's left side.
Jon complied, feeling a satisfying click emanating from the opposite door as he followed Sansa's instructions. With a deft motion, he pushed down the bolt and watched as a lever emerged from the right door.
"The bolt releases the lock on my side, and the same mechanism on the other side in my room," Sansa explained, leading Jon through into her chambers.
Once inside, Sansa showed Jon the locking mechanism, guiding Jon through the process of pulling a rope to lift the corresponding bolt.
"It triggers the closure of the bookcase on the other side," she said, ensuring Jon understood the intricacies of their secret door.
Jon remained silent throughout Sansa's explanation, his mind reeling from the revelation of the intricate mechanism concealing the secret door. Though taken aback by its complexity, he recognized its necessity. In a place where trust was scarce and secrets were currency, discretion was paramount—especially with Lord Baelish, whom, despite never meeting the man until today, Jon suspected of possessing an extensive network of spies, lurking in the shadows.
Sansa's chambers, while smaller than Jon's, held a charm of their own. He grasped her reasoning for choosing them: their reputation as Winterfell's warmest quarters. The room echoed the grandeur of the Lord's Chambers but with a distinctly feminine touch. In place of a desk, a vanity table stood adorned with brushes, a jewellery box, hairpins, oils, and other feminine accoutrements Tapestries adorned the walls, depicting wolves engaged in various forms of pack play—a departure from the historical motifs found elsewhere in the castle, suggesting a more personal touch and a sense of warmth and belonging.
A sudden wave of discomfort washed over Jon as he found himself in the bedchamber of an unmarried woman, even if she was his sister, a fact he struggled to come to terms with. It seemed Sansa had also sensed his unease, for she broke the awkward silence.
"Hother Umber's sentence is to be carried out before noon. I suggest you make use of that hot bath before we attend to what promises to be a sombre affair," she suggested, her voice carrying a weight of solemnity.
"What will be done with the body?" Jon inquired, his tone serious.
"It will be sent back to Last Hearth for burial. Why do you ask?" Sansa replied, her brow furrowing in confusion.
"We must burn every corpse from now on. I witnessed the rows of bodies outside the battlefield. Were you planning to burn them or bury them?" Jon's voice held a sense of urgency.
Sansa's expression darkened. "I am uncertain of Lord Baelish's intentions."
Jon hadn't been back in Winterfell for long, yet already he could discern the influence Lord Baelish wielded within its walls. It was as if the cunning snake were assuming the role of Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, despite lacking the official titles. Concern gnawed at Jon as he wondered if Sansa shared his apprehension, especially given her recent ordeal with grief. He knew he had to address the issue promptly.
"How do you plan to handle Lord Baelish? If I didn't know any better, I'd think he held the seat of power in Winterfell," Jon ventured cautiously.
"Of course he doesn't," Sansa retorted, her tone defiant.
"He certainly acts like it. My suggestion: gather the names of every fallen soldier, pay respects to their families, and ensure their bodies are given proper cremation. If Lord Baelish opposes, we'll see whose directives are followed," Jon proposed firmly.
"Why burn the bodies, Jon?" Sansa inquired, her curiosity piqued.
"After Hother Umber's sentence is carried out, we'll retire to your chambers, share some ale, and catch up. I'm eager to hear everything that's transpired since we parted ways, and I'm sure you have plenty of questions for me," Jon proposed.
Closing the gap between them, Sansa grasped Jon's hands in hers, her expression filled with genuine warmth. "I'm so glad you're home," she confessed, her smile radiant.
Jon's scarred brow softened with a reciprocal smile. "So am I," he replied, gently lifting her hands to his lips and pressing a kiss to the back of them. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Lady Stark, I must bathe and change."
Turning his attention to the concealed entrance, Jon released the bolt on the door, allowing it to swing open.
"Make sure you trim that beard. I want you to look every bit the lord," Sansa teased, her tone playful yet firm. "We can find you some suitable attire—perhaps some of Father's more distinguished garments."
"Sansa," Jon protested with a chuckle.
"Appearance is as formidable a weapon as any sword in the game of politics. The more commanding you appear, the greater the fear you inspire. Or, you can choose to remain elusive, allowing others to underestimate you, as Lord Baelish does," Sansa insisted, her gaze unwavering.
Raising his hands in mock surrender, Jon laughed. "Alright, you win. Dress me like a proper southron lord if you must. Just don't expect me to dance to Little-whatever-his-name-is tune," he quipped before departing for his first bath in over a month.
"Littlefinger." Sansa laughed.
⸺⸺⸺◊◊◊⸺⸺⸺
Sansa discovered an old chest with many of Robb's old garments, which had remained untouched by the Boltons. Adjustments could be made to accommodate Jon's slimmer frame compared to Robb's broader stature. Among the findings was one of their father's doublets, which had been handed down to Robb, a black leather one in wearable condition—a sight that brought a glimmer of satisfaction to Jon. At the very least, it was a vast improvement over his previous attire and carried a much more pleasant smell.
As they convened outside their chambers to proceed to the sentencing, Sansa couldn't help but notice the transformation in Jon. With his beard trimmed, clad in clean clothes, and freshly bathed, he looked markedly more presentable, handsome, with a commanding presence surrounding him.
Descending the winding staircase and entering the main courtyard, they were met by a gathering crowd. The earlier snowfall had left a delicate dusting upon the ground, though the skies above now hung heavy with gray and white clouds.
Seated upon the dais were Lord Baelish, Lord Royce, Lady Dustin, and Lord Manderly, their gazes fixed intently on Jon and Sansa. Only Lord Royce seemed unaffected by Jon's presence. Sansa scanned the crowd, searching for familiar faces, notably Lyn Corbray, whom she hadn't seen since the battle. Despite sustaining a superficial arm wound, there was no reason for his absence unless Lord Baelish had dispatched him on some errand.
Sansa observed only one chair was left on the dais, presumably intended for her. Littlefinger had neglected to provide one for Jon—a deliberate omission, likely meant to provoke him. However, what Lord Baelish failed to grasp was that Jon had endured such slights throughout his life; he was hardly fazed by this particular insult. Sansa, who had spent a year enduring the hardships of being a bastard, keenly felt the sting of the snub.
"Who arranged the seating?" Sansa inquired, her tone laced with the authority she could muster at her tender age.
"I did, Lady Stark," Lady Dustin responded with a smile.
"Did Lord Baelish not inform you of my brother's arrival?" Sansa pressed further.
"Lord Baelish failed to mention his intention to join us. One would think his journey from Castle Black would have been quite taxing, especially for someone who is supposedly deceased," Lady Dustin remarked, casting a disapproving glance at Jon. "I must confess, I had doubts regarding the validity of the claims."
"It's of no consequence, Lady Stark," Lord Baelish interjected smoothly, as a servant hurried over with a chair for Jon. "There's plenty of room for everyone," he added, his smile seemingly gracious.
The chair brought forth to the dais proved to be a rickety stool, positioned at the farthest end, near the back—a deliberate placement that distanced Jon as much as possible from Sansa.
"I prefer to stand, Lord Baelish," Jon declared, his tone firm.
Sansa turned to him with a furrowed brow, silently questioning his decision.
"He who passes the sentence must swing the sword. Rickon is your brother. As Lady of Winterfell, you are the one who must render judgment. Should Hother choose the sword, I will carry out the execution on your behalf. Though he hardly deserves the honour of a Valyrian blade. I'd opt for something rustier," Jon said with a menacing tone in his voice.
"Would you?" Sansa whispered, taken aback by Jon's resolve.
"He delivered Rickon into the clutches of that bastard. I want to see justice served," Jon replied, assisting Sansa as she ascended the dais. "It's better if I remain standing."
Sansa nodded in understanding, smoothing the back of her skirts as she settled onto the chair positioned between Lord Baelish and Lady Dustin. Meanwhile, Jon descended from the dais, and stood nearby as he awaited the prisoner's arrival.
The clinking of shackles and chains echoed through the courtyard, signalling the approach of Hother Umber. Flanked by guards, he shuffled forward until he stood before the assembled jury.
Lord Baelish started the proceedings. "Yesterday, Hother Umber, you were found guilty of abduction and conspiracy to murder Rickon Stark."
"I never conspired to murder him," Hother Umber protested, his voice resolute. "I was trying to save Winterfell from the Boltons."
Jon furrowed his brow, taken aback by the revelation. This was news to him; he would need to discuss it with Sansa later.
Ignoring Hother's assertion, Lord Baelish pressed on. "You were given a choice: take the black or face execution. Have you made your decision?"
Hother's gaze shifted to Jon. "Is that you? The bastard of Winterfell? First, you allow wildlings into the North, and now I hear you're dead. Yet here you stand before me. How can that be?"
"Do I look dead to you?" Jon retorted.
"Jon's well-being is not your concern, Lord Hother," Sansa interjected firmly.
"It is if I'm to join the Night's Watch. Are they now made up of wildlings and corpses?" Hother sneered, his disdain clear he glared at Jon. "No wonder Thorne sought your demise. He had my support," he added, spitting on the ground before refocusing on Sansa. "Take my head if you must. I refuse to go to that wretched place if it's overrun with wildlings. And I suggest you have that deserter's head properly severed as well."
Having heard enough and determined to quash any further attempts by Umber to sway opinion, Sansa rose to her feet, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "Enough!" she declared, fixing a steely gaze on Hother Umber. "I, Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Wardeness of the North, sentence you, Hother Umber, to die."
As Sansa pronounced the sentence, Lyn Corbray arrived, revealing why he had been lurking in the shadows. So that's why he'd been hiding. He's ready to conduct the executions, she thought.
"Fetch the executioners block." Lyn called out, but Jon stepped forward and looked up at Sansa.
"Ser Corbray. My father used to have a saying, he who passes the sentence, must swing the sword." Sansa began, a gust of wind lending an eerie edge to her words, causing a ripple of unease through the crowd. "As I do not wield a sword myself, it falls to me to select the executioner." Sansa turned to Jon, her gaze unwavering. "Lord Jon, would you be willing to act on my behalf?"
"It would be my honour, Lady Stark," Jon replied, inclining his head respectfully, as Lyn Corbray stepped back, his confusion clear.
The soldier tasked with bringing the executioner's block placed it on the ground before Jon, pushing Hother Umber down onto it despite the latter's resistance.
"Extend your neck, my lord," Jon instructed calmly, drawing Longclaw from its scabbard and positioning it point down. "Do you have any last words, Lord Hother?" he inquired in a composed tone, as if discussing the weather.
Hother Umber's retort lacked civility as he twisted his neck to glare up at Jon. "Bastard, deserter. They'll kill you for this."
Jon leaned in close, his voice low and laden with dark amusement. "You were right. I was murdered. Being dead is terrifying," he taunted with a smirk. "You'll never know peace."
Straightening up, Jon raised Longclaw high. With a single swift motion, the sword descended upon Hother Umber's neck. The only sound that followed was the dull thud as the severed head hit the ground, blood spattering the snow and staining it crimson. Jon swiftly cleaned Longclaw with a cloth before returning it to its scabbard. Turning to the dais, he stood tall, his gaze meeting Sansa's impassive expression.
Observing the surrounding reactions, Jon noted the solemnity etched upon Lady Dustin's and Lord Royce's faces. However, Lord Baelish's eyes gleamed with an unsettling satisfaction. Jon's unease grew, though he kept it concealed.
"Lady Stark," Jon addressed Sansa with a respectful bow of his head.
"Lord Jon," Sansa replied, rising from her seat, the others on the dais following suit.
Jon offered his hand to Sansa as she descended from the platform. He sensed Lord Baelish's hidden displeasure; it was clear the scheming lord coveted Sansa. If he dared make a move, Jon vowed silently, his fate would mirror Hother Umber's.
"Lady Stark, Lord Jon," Lord Baelish greeted as he approached.
"Lord Baelish," Sansa acknowledged with a polite smile.
"Lord Baelish," Jon responded with an impassive expression.
"I was thinking it might be wise for us to convene later today," Lord Baelish proposed, turning to Jon. "The news of your return has unsettled the servants; some even believe you to be some sort of spectre or demon. Perhaps it would be prudent for us to address this matter privately, the three of us."
Sansa let out an exasperated huff. "Lord Baelish, Jon and I haven't seen each other in four years. We have much catching up to do. Once we have spoken, then we can consider such a meeting. What do you say, Jon?" She turned to him, seeking his input.
"I agree. There are undoubtedly questions surrounding my presence here, which is understandable," Jon concurred. "The last thing I want is to instil fear in those who live and work within these walls."
"I'm pleased to hear it," Lord Baelish remarked with a smile. "I'm certain the rumours surrounding your supposed demise and desertion are entirely baseless."
Jon extended his hands in a gesture of openness. "I stand before you now, and I can assure you, I did not desert the Night's Watch. I'll leave you to decipher that puzzle, Lord Baelish."
"Rumour has it your men mutinied and stabbed you multiple times. I take it that is a lie?" Lord Baelish inquired.
"Am I being interrogated, my Lord?" Jon countered, tilting his head.
Lord Baelish chuckled. "Forgive my curiosity. I simply find it intriguing how you stand before me now. As the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, shouldn't you be at Castle Black? We wouldn't want people to assume you're a deserter. Granted, I'm not well-versed in the intricacies of the Night's Watch's rules, being from the South. I'm only looking out for your best interests, Lord Jon."
Jon stepped closer to Lord Baelish, sensing Sansa's attempt to restrain him.
"Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honour to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come.," Jon recited his vows solemnly. "I am the former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and those are the Night's Watch vows. I did not break my oath. Interpret it as you will, Lord Baelish." Jon tried his best to keep the menacing tone from his voice, but he knew he'd failed miserably. "Good-day to you, Lord Baelish," he said.
With that, Jon and Sansa departed, leaving Lord Baelish behind in the courtyard, and made their way back to their chambers.