Jon and Sansa stepped over the threshold into the comforting embrace of Sansa's chambers. Jon, disregarding all sense of formality, tossed his cloak over a plush, green-upholstered chair positioned near the crackling hearth.
"He wants me dead!" Jon's words sliced through the air, his frustration palpable. "He doesn't even know me," he continued, his voice rising with indignation.
"Lower your voice, Jon. Walls have ears," Sansa cautioned, as she shed her leather gloves and cloak, gracefully draping both over a nearby stand. "Of course he wants you dead. You're a threat to him."
Jon's brow furrowed in confusion. "How am I a threat? I'm just a bastard, in case you've forgotten. Your lady mother never hesitated to remind me," he muttered bitterly, regretting the words as soon as they left his lips. Sansa's reaction was immediate, her gaze sharp as daggers as she turned to face him.
"Mother treated you terribly, and I followed suit," Sansa admitted, her voice tinged with remorse as she lowered her eyes. Jon wished he could retract his earlier statement.
"We were just children," Jon sighed, feeling the weight of the past pressing down on him.
"That's no excuse for my behaviour. Mother had her reasons, but it was incorrect of me to treat you as I did," Sansa confessed softly, her movements graceful as she fetched two goblets and a horn for ale. "Wine or ale?"
"Ale," Jon replied, grateful for the opportunity to move past their tense exchange.
Sansa poured Jon a horn of ale, extending it to him with a soft apology. "I'm sorry for the way I treated you as a child. Can you forgive me?"
Accepting the horn, Jon settled into his seat. "There's nothing to forgive. But if it eases your heart, then yes, I forgive you. And as for your Lady mother, I understand she had her reasons."
As Sansa poured herself some wine and joined Jon by the fire, she continued their conversation. "Mother's disdain for you is one reason Littlefinger would want you dead. But his intentions go beyond mere assassination. He seeks to drive a wedge between us. Though unspoken, I know his desire to wed me."
"I'll kill him before he lays a hand on you," Jon growled, his demeanour taking on the fierce essence of a direwolf.
Sansa chuckled lightly. "And that's precisely why you pose a threat to him. You're an acknowledged bastard and a former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. While these titles may hold little sway for Lord Baelish, they garner respect among the northern Lords. I have no qualms about you serving as my protector. Even Mother would have endorsed it if it meant ensuring my safety."
"So his ambitions extend to Winterfell and the North," Jon deduced.
"Yes, to further bolster his web of power," Sansa confirmed. "He already holds sway as Lord of Harrenhal, regent to Lord Arryn, and Lord Protector of the Vale. Marrying me would secure Winterfell, granting him control over a significant portion of the Seven Kingdoms. My husband Harry, is deceased, likely a casualty orchestrated by Littlefinger. My cousin almost suffered a similar fate. He would have slowly succumbed to poison, had I not stepped in. Once Littlefinger has got what he needs from me, I fear a similar destiny awaits."
Jon rubbed his weary eyes, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle upon him. "Seven hells, Sansa," he muttered, his tone heavy with fatigue.
A sharp rap at the door interrupted their conversation. "Yes?" Sansa called out, her voice betraying a hint of tension.
"Lunch for the Lady of Winterfell and her brother, Lord Commander Snow," the servant's voice echoed from the other side of the door.
Jon rose from his seat, crossing the room to open the door. "Come in," he invited, ushering the servant inside with their meal, which she promptly arranged on the table near the crackling hearth.
As the servant departed, Jon turned his attention back to Sansa, his gaze fixated on the dancing flames. "How do you plan on thwarting him?" he inquired, his voice laced with concern.
"He's already proven himself capable of murder, even his own wife," Sansa remarked grimly. "I've compiled a mental ledger of his transgressions."
"Why not execute him now, then?" Jon frowned, puzzled by the delay in justice.
"I need the support of the Vale knights to secure the castle until I can rally the northern Lords to pledge their loyalty to me," Sansa explained, idly picking at the bread and cheese left by the servant.
"And now the Freefolk are on their way," Jon added, recognizing the added complexity of the situation for Sansa.
The revelation about the Freefolk's impending arrival was the last thing Sansa wanted to hear. Although she'd never heard them referred to as "Freefolk" before, it didn't require a genius to deduce who Jon meant.
"I need some time to think," Sansa declared, her mind already racing with strategies. "Sewing helps." With purpose, she rose from her seat and retrieved an armful of clothing from one of the sizeable chests near the wardrobe. It wasn't until she drew closer that Jon recognized them as men's garments, he remembered some belonging to Robb.
"After we've eaten, I want you to change into some of these clothes," Sansa instructed, her tone decisive. "I'll alter them to fit you properly. Maintaining a lordly image will be crucial."
Jon eyed the doublet sceptically, his expression contorting in distaste. "Father never wore clothes like this," he remarked, holding up the garment.
"When Father was in King's Landing, they viewed him as a northern simpleton," Sansa explained, her fingers deftly sorting through her sewing supplies. "He stood out and refused to conform. Winterfell may be our home, but it's now filled with southron influences. You need to embody a lordly presence they can understand."
With a confident nod, Sansa approached Jon with her sewing box in tow. "We'll maintain a northern aesthetic but infuse it with a touch of refinement. Rest-assured, you won't resemble Robb's hand-me-downs when I'm finished."
Perplexed, Jon furrowed his brow. "Sansa, can you please explain why you want to dress me like Joffrey?"
Sansa winced at the mention of Joffrey's name, prompting Jon to suspect that her memories of King's Landing weren't filled with fondness. Curiosity gnawed at him, but he set it aside for now, focusing instead on presenting his case. He wasn't keen on being dressed like a southern dandy.
"You allowed the wildlings through the Wall. The northern Lords are enraged and distrustful," Sansa explained, her movements purposeful as she gathered pins and measuring tools from her sewing box. "If you appear too staunchly northern, they'll question your allegiance. But if you adopt a more southern style, they'll question your intentions—just different ones."
Sansa shot him a pointed look, waiting for his response. He hadn't yet disclosed why he'd brought them south, a fact that was already raising eyebrows among the northern Lords. Hother Umber had made that clear, despite Jon's mere half-day return.
"Alright," Jon conceded sheepishly, focusing on his meal. He knew he couldn't delay sharing his reasons with Sansa for much longer. The inquiries from the northern Lords were mounting, and he needed her support.
Meanwhile, Sansa rummaged through the clothing, selecting a smart grey woollen doublet and dark grey breeches. They were suitable but could benefit from a touch of embellishment to reflect Jon's identity. She planned to add a white direwolf with red eyes—a symbol of Ghost—to his attire, representing his faithful companion.
Once Jon had finished his meal, Sansa handed him the doublet and breeches. "Go change behind the screen over there," she instructed, nodding towards a magnificent changing screen adorned with embroidered direwolves in motion.
Jon furrowed his brow. "This doesn't feel proper," he hesitated.
Sansa rolled her eyes, dismissing his concerns. "Jon, I'm well-versed in propriety, but given the life I've led, I care little for it unless it serves a purpose. Besides, do you see anyone else in this room?" she reasoned, gesturing around the empty chamber. Jon shook his head. "Then how would anyone know that you're..." she paused, choosing her words carefully, "...you're merely being fitted for new clothes?" With a slight blush, she regained her composure and stood up, guiding him behind the screen.
With her back to Jon, Sansa rummaged through her box for her grey and white thread, simultaneously assessing which needles she would require. Amidst the rustle of fabric, she could discern Jon changing into Robb's old attire.
When Jon emerged from behind the screen, Sansa gasped. The clothes hung loosely on him, but with a bit of tailoring, they would fit perfectly. Yet, beyond mere fit, she recognized their potential. Among the northern women, Jon would be a coveted prize.
Since the War of the Five Kings, eligible young lords and lordlings had become scarce. Should women inherit houses and seek husbands, a highborn bastard willing to bear their name could become an attractive prospect. Despite the familial bond, Sansa couldn't deny the allure Jon would hold for many. If he weren't her brother, she mused, he would undoubtedly top her list of suitors. Quickly banishing such thoughts, she refocused on the task at hand—adjusting the garments for him.
"Arms up!" Sansa commanded, and Jon complied, a playful glint in his eye.
"Ever consider leading a battle?" he japed, breaking the tension with uncharacteristic humour.
Sansa tugged at the seams, her movements methodical as she worked to adjust the fit. "Jon, this is grave," she began, her tone serious. "By tomorrow, Lord Baelish will seek grounds to try you as a deserter. And you, of all people, understand the consequences of such an accusation." Settling onto a stool, she focused on pinning in the waist.
"All he needs to do is consult Acting Lord Commander Tollett," Jon remarked grimly.
"He desires your demise, not the truth," Sansa countered, meeting his gaze. "You must convince him you didn't abandon your post. Show him the knife wounds. Just reveal the one to the heart—the one inflicted by Olly." As the words left her lips, Sansa paused, noting Jon's sudden stillness.
His voice was strained. "How do you know about that?"
Sansa rose to face him, her own apprehension bubbling to the surface. "Does 'For the watch' hold meaning for you?" she inquired, her heart pounding. She didn't need a verbal confirmation; Jon's reaction spoke volumes as he recoiled, his face drained of colour. Tears welled in Sansa's eyes; she knew her suspicions were validated.
"How do you know what transpired?" Jon's voice trembled with a mixture of fear and disbelief.
"We journeyed up the White Knife, from White Harbor to Winterfell," Sansa began, her voice trembling with the weight of her recollection. "Though we didn't reach our intended destination due to a blizzard, we made camp. On the second night, I was haunted by a nightmare—an omen about you." She recounted the chilling scene with a shiver. "Men surrounded a sign bearing the word 'TRAITOR' in crimson. You were lured there under false pretences. A man plunged a knife into you, uttering 'for the watch.' As you knelt, a boy akin to Bran's age approached. You spoke his name—Olly. And then..." Sansa's voice faltered, her grip tightening as she relived the harrowing memory. "He drove the blade into your heart. You whispered Ghost's name before collapsing in the snow, crimson staining the pristine white around you." Sansa held Jon's gaze, her own eyes brimming with anguish. "That's what transpired, isn't it?"
Jon's expression was grave as he whispered, "Yes."
Sansa crumbled, collapsing to the floor, overwhelmed by emotion. Jon swiftly knelt beside her, enfolding her in his arms and gently rocking her, offering comfort in the wake of her distress. As he held her, he couldn't ignore the weight of her witnessing his resurrection through her dreams, recognizing the lingering trauma it must have inflicted.
Looking up at him, tears streaming down her cheeks, Sansa's voice trembled with disbelief. "How are you even alive? You were gone," she whispered, her hand resting over the spot where Olly had struck him.
Jon hesitated, reluctant to broach the topic of Melisandre so soon, but knowing it was unavoidable. "Have you heard of Lady Melisandre, Stannis Baratheon's red priestess?" he asked gently.
Sansa nodded, her expression troubled. "Doesn't she burn people alive?" she inquired, recalling the grim reputation of the fiery priestess.
"Yes," Jon confirmed with a solemn nod.
Frowning in confusion, Sansa pressed further. "Yet she brought you back to life. Why?"
"Do you remember Old Nan's tales? About the Long Night and the terrors that lurk beyond the Wall?" Jon prompted, seeking to connect the dots for Sansa.
Sitting up, Sansa wiped away her tears, weariness clear in her gaze. "Vaguely. I always preferred the stories of Aemon the Dragonknight, Florian, and Jonquil. The scary ones unsettled me."
"They weren't merely tales, Sansa. I've witnessed the truth they spoke of—the army of the dead. The Long Night is real, and the dead will march with it," Jon explained gravely.
Puzzled, Sansa sought clarification. "What does that have to do with her bringing you back to life?"
"I journeyed to a place called Hardhome to rescue the Freefolk," Jon recounted, his voice tinged with gravity. "The army of the dead descended upon us. Though we saved some of the Freefolk, most perished. As we sailed away, their leader, the Night King, appeared. He gazed at me, arms outstretched, and all those claimed by his army rose once more—lifeless husks awaiting his command, ready to kill."
Sansa's expression revealed a mix of scepticism and fear. "Why did you save them? They're wildlings," she questioned.
"Because the Night King can raise every fallen body and bolster his ranks," Jon explained, his tone resolute. "Every soul north of the Wall was a potential soldier for him, not for us—elderly, women, children. No one was spared. Mance Rayder rallied most of the Freefolk, amassing a hundred thousand. Would you rather have them fighting for us or against us?" Sansa's eyes widened in comprehension.
"And the Night's Watch, they didn't understand?" Sansa conjectured.
Jon shook his head solemnly. "Thorne wasn't present; otherwise, I'd still be at the Wall. Melisandre placed her faith in Stannis to lead us in the Long Night, but he fell to Ramsay Bolton. She saw me in her visions but dismissed me as a mere bastard. When I died, she was confounded. She knew the battle against the dead would come, with me fighting on the front lines, yet I fell to the Watch's blades. Despite my lineage, I was the closest thing she had to a highborn ally."
Sansa considered his words before suggesting, "She could have attempted to resurrect Stannis."
"Melisandre fixated on prophecy, believing Stannis to be the chosen one due to his royal blood," Jon elaborated, his voice tinged with frustration.
"And now she thinks it's you?" Sansa's inquiry hung in the air, to which Jon offered a confirming nod.
"Bastard or not, I still bear the blood of the Kings of Winter. Although she believes there's royal lineage from elsewhere," Jon explained, a furrow forming on his brow.
Sansa's eyes widened in astonishment. "Your mother?" she ventured.
Jon gave a sceptical look. "She claims it's akin to Stannis," he replied, a note of disbelief in his voice.
Sansa chuckled lightly. "Baratheon blood in you? Better keep that from Cersei," she remarked, a wry smile playing on her lips.
Jon sighed, shaking his head. "Melisandre believes I possess what she calls 'fire blood.'"
Understanding dawned on Sansa. "So, one of your ancestors was a Targaryen?" she surmised.
"I suppose so," Jon conceded with a shrug. "Likely a Dragonseed."
Since parting ways with Melisandre at the Freefolk camp, Jon couldn't shake off their conversation. She claimed his blood burned brighter than Stannis's, whose grandmother was a Targaryen and his great-grandfather was Aegon the Fifth. Jon pondered the implications of the suggestion his blood burned brighter. Did he possess more Targaryen kingsblood than Stannis? If Melisandre's words held true, it meant his grandfather was either Jaehaerys the Second or, gods forbid, the Mad King.
The notion that either of them could have fathered a female bastard weighed heavily on Jon's mind. While it was well-known that the Mad King had multiple mistresses, who could have potentially sired illegitimate children, Jon hesitated to share these musings with Sansa without solid evidence. The last thing he wanted was to stir up uncertainty without proof.
"Well, that explains a lot," Sansa remarked with a smile, though Jon's expression remained solemn. "You have a hot temper, and you are very handsome. They say the Targaryens were beautiful," she added, reaching out to touch his face. "So are you."
Jon shifted uncomfortably, causing Sansa to retract her hand. "Please don't tell anyone," he requested, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.
"Jon, I wouldn't be surprised if half the population of King's Landing were descended from Targaryens," Sansa quipped, attempting to lighten the mood, though Jon sensed her underlying sincerity. "Can I see your scars?" she asked.
"They're not pretty," Jon cautioned, hesitant to expose his vulnerabilities, yet understanding the necessity for Sansa to see the truth for herself.
"I don't expect them to be," Sansa replied gently.
With careful deliberation, Jon removed his doublet and shirt, revealing the marks of the stab wounds on his chest. Though uncomfortable with baring himself so fully to Sansa, he recognized the importance of this moment.
Sansa's reaction was visceral, her hand flying to her mouth in horror as she gasped. Her gaze met Jon's, and in that exchange, amidst all their discussions and revelations, the scars brought a stark reality to their conversation.
"Can... can I touch them?" Sansa asked tentatively, her voice trembling with emotion.
Jon, uncertain of her intentions, nodded in acquiescence. "Aye, if you want."
Sansa's gentle fingers, soft and warm, traced the outline of the gouge over his heart. "Does they hurt?" she whispered, her fascination clear.
"Not anymore. They did at first though," Jon admitted, feeling his heart quicken at the sensation of her touch.
Sansa placed her hand flat over the scar, feeling for his heartbeat. She smiled. "It still beats. That is all that matters."
Jon smiled in return, nodding. "Aye, it does," he acknowledged, feeling a shiver despite the warmth of the room. There was something about Sansa that stirred within him, a sensation he couldn't quite comprehend—a lightning bolt passing through his heart.
"I'm sorry, my hands are cold," Sansa apologised, her cheeks flushing as she realised the intimate nature of their interaction. "We... err... we should get back to pinning the doublet."
"Oh, yeah," Jon agreed, turning around and pulling his tunic over his head.
Sansa knew she shouldn't look, but she couldn't help but notice the contours of muscle on his back, undoubtedly honed from sword practice. His chest had been as firm as stone, and she wondered if his back was the same. As the realization of her thoughts dawned on her, she felt a surge of disgust. She had aspired to be like Cersei, but lusting after her own kin wasn't what she had envisioned.
To distract herself from her unsettling thoughts, Sansa focused on devising a plan to ensure Jon's survival. The Lords would undoubtedly demand proof of his wounds to verify his claim of being stabbed. However, it would require a maester's expertise to confirm that the wound to the heart was fatal. Yet, any maester within Winterfell could be influenced by Littlefinger's machinations. What they needed was a maester affiliated with someone who harboured animosity towards Littlefinger. Sansa knew exactly whom to approach.
"We need Lord Manderly to send for his maester," Sansa declared, her tone resolute.
"Why?" Jon inquired, struggling with the laces of his doublet. Sansa deftly took over, threading the laces with practised speed.
"To provide indisputable evidence that you didn't break your vows," Sansa explained. "We require an impartial maester. Lord Manderly, being a northern Lord present here, could despatch his maester to Winterfell within a sennight. If he confirms the lethality of your wounds, you cannot be executed as a deserter. However, this doesn't address the issue of why you brought the wildlings south. I'm uncertain if the Lords will readily accept your explanation."
Jon smiled at her. "They may if I have proof."
Sansa's eyes widened. "Do you?"
"It is already on its way," he said.