Sansa's favorite story growing up had been that of Florian and Jonquil. It had always struck her as a story that personified the truth of love and chivalry and what they should be.
Florian, as the story went, was a fool in a noble lord's court before saving the nobleman's son from a rampaging beast.
Her mother and Septa Mordane differed on what the beast had been and how the nobleman's young son had encountered it. Her mother's version of the story told of the young boy swimming in coastal waters whilst the noble family was negotiating a deal with another noble family that lived upon the island where they were staying. The young heir was about to be set upon by a shark but in its eagerness, the creature rose its dorsal fin out of the water within Florian's sight. The fool had then charged out into the water heedless of his own safety and dragged the boy back to shore, losing a chunk of his motley and his flesh to the shark's hungry mouth in the process.
Meanwhile, Septa Mordane's version had Florian accompanying the nobleman's family as they traversed the rocky and narrow paths of the Vale. When they came upon a cave that might serve as shelter for the night, Florian had called into the cave to see if his voice echoed. When the angry roar of a bear had answered back, he had urged the young boy toward his father and the armed guards with him while he drew the bear's attention with his brightly colored clothes, exaggerated gestures and distractingly loud shouts, gaining many a bloody bruise and slash from the bear's claws for his troubles.
Both versions had ended with Florian managing to keep the lord's young heir safe from the creature. Afterward the grateful son begged his father to make Florian a knight for his service. The nobleman had obliged, unable to deny the wish of the boy who looked up to the simple jester who'd saved his life with such admiration. But even with his newfound status Florian's previous role informed his actions as a knight: he wouldn't wear armor or learn to ride a horse. He wasn't confirmed in the faith of the seven and he hated the idea of fighting anyone. But still he served his lord faithfully, his motley becoming a regular sight around the Lord's court. Eventually Florian had been sent as an envoy to treat with another noble family in the town whose name would later come to reflect his tale and his love.
For in this town, he did not immediately greet the lord. Upon reaching the town and having a meal he had instead asked if there was a river nearby where he could wash his motley. For what fool came before a lord with dirty and dull colors unless he wanted the lord concentrating more upon his stench and filth than the japes that came from his lips? As he searched out a spring that the smallfolk had told him was nearby, he came upon seven young maidens bathing within it. Florian was a knight perhaps but he was also a fool. And so instead of averting his eyes and leaving, he instead entered the clearing: making himself known to the highborn ladies there. Six of the ladies had shrieked and sought to escape the abrupt entrance of this man, convinced that he intended ravishment or harm. But Jonquil had looked beyond his first appearance and saw that with his homely looks and modest demeanor, Florian would no more have harmed them than he would've himself.
As he sank to his knees before her vision of loveliness, she at last recognized the combination of motley clothing and steel sword at his hip.
"I know you." She had said of him. "Your lord may have titled you Knight, but many speak of you as Florian the Fool."
Florian had not refuted her words as many a proud man might've. For his time as a fool had shown him the folly of excess pride.
"I am my lady." He freely confessed.
"I am as great a fool as ever lived. And as great a knight as that." The brightly colored man said.
"A fool and a knight?" She asked, robing herself as he stayed in his kneeling position.
"I have never heard such a queer notion before." Jonquil observed.
"Tis not so queer an idea gentle lady." Florian answered.
"For are not all men fools and knights in equal measure where women are concerned?" He asked.
Her mother had said that it was in that moment, when Florian had made no move to harm Jonquil whilst still freely admitting to his own faults before her as a penitent man might before a Septon, that she began to feel love in her heart for him.
Of course, as was the tradition of chivalrous love, Florian had still needed to prove himself to her father and her family to try and win Jonquil's hand. His lack of noble birth and his refusal to act as a truly proper knight hampered him at every turn. But eventually Jonquil was engaged to be married to the noble son Florian had saved in youth from the marauding animal: a far more suitable match for her station.
When it became clear that he would not have Jonquil's hand, Florian's love had spurred him to make a final request. But again his time as a fool caused him to surprise those around him. For rather than fight the boy he'd once saved for the woman he now loved, Florian instead had asked to come with his former young ward to be the fool knight in their court: to continue serving the two people who he loved and had cherished him in turn. In time Jonquil bore her unnamed husband sons and daughters. Eventually the two passed away and their children grew to rule the area that came to be known as Maidenpool as fair and wise lords and ladies while the Fool Knight continued to live. And when at last Florian's hands were shaking too much to pick up his steel sword and his legs could not dance without aching, Florian was placed upon a feather bed in order to live his last days in comfort.
The former fool, when he felt the end drawing near, had asked the eldest son to attend him. He had only one request for the boy whom he had entertained and watched over as he had his father before him. That he be buried as he had lived: wearing his bright fool's motley. The eldest son said he would do so, but asked Florian one question he had wanted answered before his family's beloved protective jester passed away upon his deathbed. He asked Florian how he could stand to do it: how he could stand to serve the lady he had once courted and loved so much.
And Florian, ever honest even at the end, had replied:
"I have only ever been a great fool. Never the greatest. For only the greatest of fools seeks to live their life alone. I have loved and been loved in turn by those whose lives I treasure more than my own selfish follies. And for a great fool such as I, that is more than enough."
It always made Sansa cry softly, thinking of Florian's nobility of spirit that allowed him to love Jonquil so and yet allow her to find her place in the world without disgracing her or her family with his affection despite his low birth and lowly profession. A knight in spirit if not in heritage.
It was something she'd been forced to think about more frequently these days. With Arya barely speaking to her even when they occasionally encountered each other in the Tower of the Hand, her lord father busy with the business of Westeros as Hand of the King and Jon off doing gods only knew what, she was essentially left alone with Septa Mordane and Jayne Poole.
Much as the Septa had taught her growing up, she wasn't about to tell her anything truly personal about her inner thoughts and conflicted feelings. That would've been akin to telling her father's steward Vayon Poole about her problems with Arya's pranks or her romantic dreams of home life. Well enough and good for a girl her own age like his daughter Jayne, but not someone who wasn't her family to talk about. Though even when she'd tried to express her doubts and ask Jayne whether she'd done the right thing by refusing to tell the truth of what had happened with Joffrey, her friend didn't know what to say. Eventually she'd settled on saying that Joffrey was Sansa's betrothed and the crown prince. An almost tacit admission that in Sansa's place, Jayne would've likely done the same as she had.
Yet somehow it didn't make Sansa feel less guilty about Jon's needless punishment.
Especially once the tournament commemorating her father's appointment as Hand came about. She'd been so enraptured with Ser Loras Tyrell as he jousted his opponents without ever being budged from the saddle that it had completely slipped her mind that her half-brother was going to be competing in the melee portion of the tournament.
And then Jon had taken the field and Sansa's breath had refused to come to her. The entire atmosphere of the fight had been what she had never imagined a battle must be like, except somehow miraculously lacking in blood. She could barely stand to watch as multiple men suffered bone fractures and brutal strikes from their competitors, especially from her brother: who not only appeared to be thriving on the battlefield but managed to talk the strange man with the flaming sword into allying with him.
She had briefly wondered if they had met before the tournament and agreed to fight together on the field to try and improve their chances. But that notion was quickly dismissed when they were the final two competitors and so summarily turned their blades on each other.
Her grip held Jayne Poole's left hand almost like a steel trap with her right as Jon ignited the twin tourney swords he had managed to steal off defeated opponents. Seeing his silent ferocity in action and comparing it to the relatively quick and humiliating defeat he had dealt to her golden prince, the back of Sansa's mind that wasn't occupied with the spectacle before her was startled to realize just how little effort Jon had needed to expend in order to put down the crown prince.
She could barely stand to watch, her left hand almost fully covering her eyes as Jon's swords unexpectedly shattered under a strike from the Red Priest. As the sword drove into her half-brother's shoulder, Sansa and Jayne had both gasped.
The eldest Stark girl could barely comprehend how Arya was able to be only shout encouragement at Jon to fight back instead of losing her mind to worry. Her younger sister had practically cheered herself hoarse at the excitement of the fight, but she had never been one to take Jon being injured lightly.
Then her half-brother's defiant shout startled her hand away from her eyes and she watched with a disbelieving gaze as the burning blade shattered in his hands before his left hand manipulated the priest's right hand holding the still smoldering handle and his own right hand had ripped the blade point from his shoulder before holding it like a dagger even as it looked to be visibly smoking and red hot to the touch.
As the red priest at last yielded to Jon, Sansa felt the atmosphere lift into one of intense jubilation even as she felt a bit light-headed at finally being able to breathe properly. Instead of collapsing in her seat however, her worry for her brother did not permit her to relax. As he left the field she could clearly see his left arm was being held still at his side, the hole that had been punctured in his armor continuing to lightly smoke and the edges of it blackened. It surely couldn't have been good for his body to have taken an injury from such a fierce weapon and in such a vital area for a warrior. She'd hurriedly excused herself from Jayne and the Septa, slightly hitching her skirts as she made her way through the stands down the field as she was startled to realize that Arya was hot on her heels.
Perhaps she had been more worried than Sansa had realized after all.
As they entered the treatment pavilion, they passed by the other groaning competitors and zeroed in on the red robes they had just seen on the field.
"So, when you say you don't drink, what you mean is-" The red priest was asking before Jon interrupted him.
"That I see no special appeal in being tippled for the sake of it, yes."
Arya charged forward with a grin on her face, calling Jon's name as Sansa followed behind her: trying to maintain at least some sense of proper decorum.
"You won, you won!" Arya called as she briefly gave their half-brother a hug, apparently not caring about the dust and sweat and grime of the melee still clinging to him.
"Was there ever any doubt little sister?" He asked rhetorically, hugging her briefly as a brief smile came to his lips.
"Jon, how is your arm?" Sansa asked when she was nearly behind Arya.
Jon's gaze landed on Sansa along with Arya and Sansa was upset to see that his expression, while not losing its small smile, became visibly guarded at her presence. She studiously ignored Arya glaring daggers at her for interrupting them, not wanting to lose her nerve to patch up things with her brother: figuratively and literally speaking.
"As well as can be expected I suppose." He answered, his grey eyes still locked on Sansa's own blue.
"Heh. That's one way of putting it, seeing as those silent girls in grey haven't gotten to you yet." The bald red-robed man chuckled, taking a swig from a flask at his hip.
Sansa didn't try to hide the look of dismay that came to her expression at the red garbed man's observation.
"Would you mind giving us some privacy Thoros?" Jon asked politely.
"I think my half-sister would like us to talk without other ears present."
Jon's tone was as polite as ever, no sharp inflection or sarcastic lilt to his words. But Sansa couldn't help the sting she felt when he referred to her as his half-sister after just having referred to Arya as his little sister with such affection. Had this been what it was like when she'd started to insist that he stop calling her little sister when he and Robb were young boys and she a growing girl who wasn't yet a young lady? When she'd taken her mother's instructions on referring to him as her half-brother with such quickness?
Thoros nodded before his hand rested on Arya's shoulder.
"Come along little lady. Let us see if we can't find something for you to do while they talk."
"I'm not going anywhere." Her younger sister answered coldly, planting her feet and continuing to glare at Sansa.
"Who knows what she'll accuse my brother of if I leave her alone with him?" She implied nastily.
"Arya!" Jon admonished even as Sansa flinched at the sheer vitriol in Arya's accusation and tone. Now it became clear why her sister hadn't spoken to her more than a word or two over the occasional dinner with their lord father: her simmering temper was as strong as ever and this time Sansa had well and truly aroused its ire. Much as she wanted to argue, she knew it would serve no one to do so. She tried instead to draw deep breaths and focus on Jon.
"Go with Thoros Arya. I'll be out in a bit." Jon said.
"But-" Arya tried to argue.
"I'd like to think after what you just saw in the melee that you know I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself." Jon butted in.
"Besides," His tone softened. "There's no prince or queen here. It'll be fine."
Sansa had to look away at that, Jon's understandable but no less hurtful reassurance to Arya confirming the doubts she'd been having about what she'd allowed the Queen and Joffrey to do to him.
Arya growled with frustration but turned to leave with Thoros. But not before looking over her shoulder and tossing one last barb at Sansa.
"Try not to have your golden prince rip my brother's tongue out for using it to speak to you milady." She said, giving a mockingly proper emphasis to the milady address at the end.
As the strange red man and her younger sister left, Sansa was at last alone with Jon. Desperate to think of some way to keep them talking so she could properly apologize, the copper haired Stark daughter latched onto the first thing that came to her mind.
"Did that man Thoros speak the truth before? When he said that none of the Silent Sisters had been to see you yet?" She asked.
"Aye." Jon nodded, seemingly unconcerned.
"That's not right." Sansa said softly, looking for one of the sisters for the idea that came to her head.
"Let me stich you Jon. You don't deserve to hurt more than you already have been." She asked softly, finally seeing one.
Jon looked at her, his grey eyes soft like the early morning mists as he favored her with a small smile before looking away and saying only: "Do as you will."
Sansa quickly talked at the Silent Sister she'd found, explaining all she needed to do was a quick closing of a wound. The Silent Sister had only gestured for which part of her supplies was the thread and needle, brown eyes seeming to express gratefulness that someone was willing to help.
As Sansa returned to her half-brother with the needle and thread she asked that Jon remove his tunic and upper armor so she could close the wound.
As Jon complied as silently as his albino direwolf might've, Sansa couldn't help the dismayed gasp that escaped her when she took in Jon's nude upper body. It was much more defined than Sansa remembered it being the few times she'd glimpsed him without his tunic when they were all much younger. But his left arm looked as though it had been extensively scarred and injured to the point of uselessness if the bright white jagged lines decorating it all the way up to his shoulder were any indication. Not to mention that whatever it was had lingered even in the face of what she knew he was capable of healing.
Sansa took a deep breath, trying instead to concentrate on the ragged hole in his shoulder that was at least already cauterized from the heat of the blade that had penetrated it.
'No different from sewing two halves of a pattern together.' She told herself inside the confines of her own mind as she went to work: letting the hours of practice in the sewing room inform her movements as Jon didn't so much as twitch under her fingers.
Before she knew it, the wound was closed and the cross stitching appeared to be holding steady. She placed the needle and the remains of the thread she hadn't used on the bed beside Jon as she hunted beside him for something that could serve as a sling, unwilling to let him move the shoulder overmuch and reopen the wound.
As she at last found it behind the cot as Jon sat patiently, only the rise and fall of his chest as he quietly breathed separating him from a statue. As she brought the cloth up she happened to glance at Jon again, this time fully seeing his back for the first time since her betrothed had him whipped.
For someone like Sansa, who had never seen violence before and had never been exposed to the harsher elements of their way of life, it was jarring to look upon. The rough and puckered scars that stripped the entirety of his flesh, the way they made his back look like the remains of some battleground or haphazard farmland where the furrow had carved everywhere rather than in any kind of pattern. It was painful to look at.
But when her mind recalled how much it had bled and how weak Jon had been after taking it without a sound. Sansa closed her eyes, unable to bear the memory as she came around to Jon's front again.
"I'm so sorry Jon." She whispered in the bustle and muted noise of that hot tent.
"What are you sorry for Sansa?" He asked in a tone of confusion, which only made it harder to hold her upset at bay.
"I'm sorry for lying to the queen and hurting you!" She confessed in a rush, holding her arms at her sides as her hands trembled with repressed emotion even as it started to leak out of her.
"I didn't mean for you to get hurt, I just didn't want the queen disappointed in me but you didn't do anything wrong and I shouldn't have…shouldn't have…" She hiccuped.
Comforting arms around her shoulders as he brought her face to his chest. Like being in front of a burning hearth even as her cold tears dripped onto his hot skin. Had Jon always been this warm? Sansa realized she honestly didn't know since she couldn't remember the last time she'd hugged him. Or if she ever had before she'd started to distance herself from her half-brother.
Her tears came faster even as her crying remained quiet. Her arms came around Jon's lower back and tightened, wanting to embrace the warmth before her as she never had before.
"You didn't seek to hurt me Sansa." He said quietly, right hand stroking her hair in much the same way he might've Arya. Some of her copper strands were getting tangled in his rough fingers but she couldn't bring herself to admonish him when it felt so nice.
"You made a judgement call. Much as I may not have liked it, you are still my sister. And I will still love you as such." He said, causing Sansa's arms to tighten around him again.
As she felt his arms start to lift, she reluctantly let go as well. It wouldn't be at all appropriate to keep standing there hugging him when she still had to sling his arm.
"Thank you Jon." She said as she gingerly placed his arm in the sling and rubbed her eyes clear of any lingering tears.
He nodded in response, his face back to being in its somewhat guarded position.
Sansa didn't like it but she felt better knowing Jon didn't hold what she'd done against her. That he'd forgiven her being a rash young girl instead of a composed young lady. As they made their way back out of the tent, Sansa grabbed the crook of his arm and insisted that he escort her back to their section in the stands.
Jon looked surprised but certainly didn't seem ready to object. As they settled in their seats, Arya sitting to Jon's right as Sansa was seated to his left, she reflected that perhaps this was a turning point for them. That maybe things would be alright after all.
She would certainly pray so tonight.
A/N: Sansa reenters the picture. Not much to say on this one, only that it was a good deal of help from author Will o'the Wisp that I managed to finish this up and be sure of what it was I wanted to put in here. If you haven't checked them out on here, I highly recommend you go to the favorite author section of my profile and take a look at them now. They've got only a few stories on here, but they're easily some of the highest quality on here in my personal opinion. The characterization, the plots, the twists given to common fandom ideas, it's all great stuff. -Mx4