Jon

In the Council Chamber at King's Landing, Jon Snow, now a King, held the letter he had just received from his half-sister, Sansa Stark. His eyes scanned the words as Davos Seaworth, his Hand, waited patiently.

Jon took a deep breath and began reading aloud:

"King Jon Snow, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,

I hope this letter finds you in good health. I write to you with a mixture of gratitude and perplexity, as I do not understand why men who have recently approached me with marital intentions have abruptly withdrawn their proposals. Henry Whitehill, for example, mentioned that you advised him not to proceed, suggesting that I was not ready for such a commitment. I wonder, dear brother, what might be the reason for such interference?

The North needs stability, and for that, heirs are necessary. As Warden of the North, I understand the importance of a strategic marriage to strengthen our alliances. However, it seems that every attempt to find a husband has been sabotaged by forces which, according to what I have heard, are connected to you.

Jon, I ask that you come to Winterfell as soon as possible. We need to discuss these matters, which are of vital importance to our House and the North's future. I wish to understand your motivations and make informed decisions about our fate.

I await your response,

Lady Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Protector of the North."

Jon finished reading the letter, his expression stern. Davos, always cautious when addressing the king, pondered his words before speaking.

— Lady Stark... seems somewhat troubled by recent events — Davos began, his voice low and full of care. — And I must say, Your Grace, she is not wrong to seek clarity on what's happening...

Jon looked up at Davos, his grey eyes intense.

— All I want is to ensure that Sansa finds the perfect suitor, someone worthy of her and the North. Nothing more, Davos.

Davos nodded slowly but couldn't help probing further, carefully.

— I understand, Your Grace. But... of course, you want the best for her. Still, perhaps, deep down, there's something else driving these decisions? Something that... maybe isn't as clear to Lady Sansa, or even to yourself?

Jon closed the letter abruptly, his features hardening.

— There is nothing, Davos. Sansa remains like a sister to me, and as such, it's my duty to protect her. I only want to ensure she doesn't end up in a marriage that isn't worthy of her.

Davos stepped back a bit, realizing he had touched a nerve.

— Yes, of course, Your Grace. Protecting Lady Stark is undoubtedly a priority.

Jon rose, still holding the letter. His thoughts were a whirlwind, but he kept his voice steady as he addressed Davos.

— I will go to Winterfell. Sansa and I need to discuss this matter in person. But you, Davos, will remain here in King's Landing. As my Hand, you must ensure things run smoothly during my absence.

Davos tried to hide his surprise.

— Are you certain it wouldn't be wiser to bring someone trusted to the North? You are the King, and your presence here is...

Jon interrupted, shaking his head.

— Samwell Tarly will come with me. He has a good understanding of Northern politics and can advise me if needed. Besides, he's close to Sansa as well. You, Davos, are needed here. I don't want the counselors or the lords to feel my absence more than necessary.

Davos knew arguing would be pointless.

— As you wish, Your Grace. I'll do what's necessary to keep everything in order until your return.

Jon nodded.

— Prepare my entourage, nothing large. The road to the North is long and difficult, and I don't need hundreds of people slowing me down further. We leave at dawn.

As Davos left the chamber to make preparations, Jon stood alone, reflecting on what he was about to do. Sansa's letter weighed in his hands as if it were twice its real weight, and he couldn't shake the feeling that his journey North would be more than just a simple visit.

His feelings for Sansa, which he had always tried to suppress, resurfaced like an inevitable tide. No matter how much he tried to convince himself that his actions were driven purely by brotherly protection, he knew deep down that there was something more, something he wasn't willing to confront.

Yet he also knew that whatever it was, it could not interfere with his responsibilities. The North needed stability, and Sansa needed a strong husband, someone who could rule by her side. Jon vowed to himself that, when he reached Winterfell, he would do whatever was necessary to secure her future — even if it meant facing his own feelings.

And with that, Jon left the Council Chamber, determined, but with a restlessness he could not shake.

Jon Snow gripped his sword tightly, sweat dripping from his forehead. He was alone in the courtyard of the Red Keep, surrounded by the oppressive silence of the night. The moonlight bathed the area in a cold, silver glow, casting long shadows that seemed to dance to the rhythm of the furious strikes Jon delivered to the straw and wood dummies. Tomorrow, he would leave for Winterfell. The North had always been his home, but returning meant facing Sansa, and the mere thought brought with it a whirlwind of emotions he could barely comprehend, let alone control.

Jon moved with the precision of a trained warrior, but his heart was far from there. His thoughts wandered to the past, to the days in Winterfell when he was still a nameless, futureless bastard. He remembered Sansa, the girl who had always been so distant, so much like the mother who despised him. Sansa was a vision of beauty and grace, a Stark of Winterfell, unattainable for someone like him. He still remembered being fourteen, spending hours watching Sansa from afar as she practiced dancing with the other noble girls, spinning and twirling like a leaf carried by the autumn wind.

So many times, in those moments, Jon wished he were someone else, someone who could be worthy of Sansa. Not a Snow, not even a Stark. Even if he were a Stark, he couldn't court her because of their blood tie. No, Jon dreamed of being a lord from some other great house, someone who could one day ask for her hand without it being a sin. But those were foolish dreams, he knew. He was Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell, while Sansa was Eddard Stark's daughter, destined to marry a prince or a lord.

He remembered the day he learned that Sansa had been betrothed to Joffrey Baratheon. The news struck him like a cold blade. The thought of Sansa marrying Joffrey, that spoiled, cruel boy, filled him with blind fury. He had punched the walls of his room until his knuckles bled, not knowing how to handle the rage consuming him. But in time, Jon realized it wasn't just rage. It was envy, a bitter jealousy that burned in his chest. He hated Joffrey for having something he could never have: the chance to hold Sansa's hand, to call her his.

Jon shook his head, trying to push those painful memories away, but they kept coming, insistent. He thought about the reunion with Sansa at Castle Black, when she had arrived exhausted and wounded, but still as beautiful as he remembered. They embraced, and Jon felt a mixture of joy and sadness that left him breathless. Sansa had changed so much; the horrors she had faced had shaped her into a strong, determined woman, different from the girl he had known in Winterfell. Yet Jon found that he desired her with the same intensity as before. Every smile, every accidental touch between them made his heart race in a way he couldn't explain.

Jon's strikes became more violent, his anger and frustration seeping into every movement. He thought of the retaking of Winterfell, of how Littlefinger always seemed to be near Sansa, always whispering in her ear, always looking at her with that gaze Jon hated so much. One night, he had seen them together in the Hall of Ancestry, and something inside him broke. After Sansa left the hall, he marched up to Petyr Baelish, his hand already closing around Littlefinger's collar before he even realized what he was doing.

— Stop hovering around my sister — Jon growled, his teeth clenched, pulling Littlefinger by the collar.

Petyr, however, didn't seem intimidated. On the contrary, an irritating smile spread across his face, as if he was amused by Jon's fury.

— Oh, Jon Snow — he said softly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. — The bastard of Winterfell who became King in the North. But tell me, what gives you the right to drive other men away from your sister? You desire her as much as I do, don't you?

Jon felt his blood boil. He shoved Littlefinger hard against the stone wall, his fists trembling with rage.

— Shut your mouth, or I swear I'll make you regret every word.

Petyr only laughed, a dry, unpleasant sound that echoed off the stone walls.

— Don't lie to me, Jon. I see how you look at her. With desire, with that hunger only a man can have. There's no difference between us. You want her in your bed just as much as I do.

It was the last straw. With a roar of anger, Jon punched Littlefinger in the face, feeling the bones in his hand crack with the impact. And he didn't stop there; blow after blow landed, fueled by a fury he could no longer contain. Littlefinger's face was covered in blood, and still Jon kept going, not caring about the consequences. Until the guards separated them.

Some time after the incident, Sansa confronted him, her face pale with concern.

— What happened, Jon? Why did you do that?

Jon took a deep breath, trying to calm his heart, which had started racing again, afraid that Littlefinger had repeated to Sansa what he had said to him. — He... He said things. About you. Things that weren't appropriate.

Sansa furrowed her brow, her light blue eyes locked on his.

— I can handle Petyr — she said finally, her voice firm, but there was something in her gaze that suggested a deep sadness, as if she wanted Jon to deal with the man so that she could find peace.

Jon nodded, unable to find the words to confess what Littlefinger had really said, what he had revealed about Jon's own feelings. He felt dirty, ashamed. How could he have let those thoughts grow inside him?

Now, back in the Red Keep, Jon struck the dummies with renewed intensity, trying to drown the guilt and shame in each thrust. He thought of Daenerys, the passion that had blossomed between them. Perhaps he had thrown himself into that relationship hoping to push Sansa out of his mind, to convince himself that his feelings for her were merely remnants of youthful desire. But no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he convinced himself that he loved Daenerys, what he felt for Sansa was something completely different, something much deeper and more disturbing.

Each memory, each thought made him attack the dummies with more force, as if he could exorcise the demons that haunted him. His strikes grew wilder, his breathing heavier, until, with a desperate cry, his sword finally gave way, breaking under the pressure of his rage.

Panting, Jon looked at the pieces of the blade now lying on the ground. The only thing he had to be grateful for at the moment was that he wasn't training with his official sword, Longclaw, but with a regular one. He felt as broken as the sword in his hands, a man torn between duty and a love that he should never have allowed to blossom.

As night fell around him, Jon Snow realized that, no matter how hard he tried, he could never escape the feelings he harbored for Sansa Stark, and thus, the time he would spend in Winterfell would be among the most frightening of his life.

The cold Northern wind blew softly, cutting through the dark, twisted trees that surrounded the narrow embankment on which Jon's company struggled to advance. The moisture in the air seeped through the men's furs and armor, intensifying the growing fatigue with each passing day. The Neck was treacherous, a labyrinth of swamps and winding paths that offered no rest. Even after ten days, it seemed that the crossing was far from over.

Jon Snow rode in silence, his jaw tense and his eyes fixed on the uncertain horizon ahead. Samwell Tarly, mounted beside him, glanced at him sideways, noticing the unease emanating from the King. Jon had always been reserved, but there was something more troubling in his behavior lately, something Sam couldn't ignore.

With a gentle tug on the reins, Sam guided his horse closer to Jon's, closing the distance even further.

— You seem to have the weight of Winterfell and the Wall on your shoulders, Jon — Sam commented, trying to keep his tone light, though his concern was genuine.

Jon shot a quick glance at Sam, noticing the worry in his eyes. He hesitated for a moment but soon gave in to the desire to confide, tired of carrying the burden of his thoughts alone.

— Let's move a bit away from the company — Jon suggested, guiding his horse onto a side trail where the trees formed a natural wall that muffled the sounds of the small troop that followed them.

When they finally felt sufficiently isolated, Jon stopped and turned to Sam. He took a deep breath, as if needing to gather strength to face what he was about to say.

— It's not easy being a king, Sam — he began, his voice low and grave. — Not because of the responsibilities... I was already used to leading. But because of... feelings I can't simply ignore.

Sam watched Jon closely, waiting for him to continue.

— It's Sansa, isn't it? — Sam asked, with a tone more affirmative than questioning.

Jon looked up, surprised by Sam's precise guess. For a moment, he remained silent, searching for the right words.

— You... you noticed? — he asked, unsettled.

Sam gave a half-smile, a comforting gesture.

— Jon, I saw you with Ygritte. I know how you act when your feelings are involved. The looks, the way you try to hide it, but without success. It's not hard to notice, at least not for someone who knows you well.

Jon lowered his head, feeling exposed. He hadn't expected anyone, not even Sam, to be able to read his thoughts so clearly.

— I thought it might just be brotherly concern, something normal after all we've been through together. But it's not just that. It's deeper, more... complicated — He paused, as if carefully choosing his next words. — Sometimes, when I look at her... I don't see her as just my sister anymore.

Sam remained silent, letting Jon speak.

— I protected her from all those suitors — Jon continued, his tone becoming more bitter. — I pushed away any man who showed the slightest interest in her. And I know that's not right. Sansa deserves to be happy, to choose her own path. But I... I can't bear the thought of seeing her with someone else.

Sam pondered for a moment before responding.

— Are you afraid that the weight of the crown is clouding your judgment, Jon? That you're letting power go to your head?

Jon lifted his eyes, staring at Sam with an intensity that reflected his inner conflicts.

— Yes — he admitted, his throat tight. — What if I become one of those men who put their personal desires above duty? What if I become someone I would despise?

Sam took a deep breath, thinking carefully about his response. He knew Jon like few others did, knew the weight he carried and the constant battle between duty and heart.

— Even the most honorable men have weaknesses, Jon — Sam finally said. — And when it comes to women, to love... those weaknesses become even harder to handle. But you are a man of duty, always have been. That's what defines you. In the end, I know you'll do the right thing.

Jon let out a heavy sigh but still seemed troubled.

— And what would the right thing be, Sam? Let her go with another man, watch her marry, have children... while I watch from afar, with a pain in my heart I can't ignore?

Sam felt Jon's anguish and tried to offer some comfort.

— Sometimes, the right thing is also the most painful. If you love Sansa, truly love her, perhaps the greatest proof of that love is to let her be happy, even if that means letting her go.

Jon closed his eyes, absorbing Sam's words. He knew his friend was right, but that didn't make the decision any less difficult.

— I just wish things were different — he murmured.

Sam placed a hand on Jon's shoulder, a gesture of solidarity.

— We all do, Jon. But the world is as it is, not as we wish it to be. Whatever happens, you don't have to go through this alone. I'm here, as I've always been.

Jon opened his eyes and gave a slight nod, grateful for Sam's support.

— Thank you, Sam. Your friendship means more to me than you can imagine.

The two remained there for a few more minutes, letting the silence fill the space between them. The distant sound of the company occasionally reached them, a reminder that their responsibilities as King were still there, waiting.

Finally, Jon pulled his horse's reins, ready to return to the group.

— Let's go, we still have a long way ahead.

Sam nodded, following Jon back to the embankment. As they rode in silence, Jon couldn't help but wonder what the next step would be. The crossing of the Neck was only the beginning, and it made Jon wish the journey to Winterfell would take even longer, delaying his reunion with

Sansa. Another part of him, however, longed to gallop ahead like a madman, to find Sansa as soon as possible.

Jon had only a few days left to reconcile his duty with the desires of his heart.