Chapter Text
The Stark siblings do not take kindly to the betrothal of their brother to their sister.
Arya throws her plate across Sansa’s solar where they broke their fast together, scattering scrambled eggs and shattered porcelain fragments against the far wall. She storms out in a brilliant flurry of curses that Sansa would normally have reprimanded her for. But this morning Sansa has no energy for chiding. She only stares at her clasped hands in her lap.
Bran nods in that placid way of his, as if he already knew. He refuses to tell them what the future holds ever. Jon wouldn’t be surprised if he had seen their summons South in his trees.
Rickon does not understand Jon and Sansa they must leave. He has grown into a spirited boy, wilder than Arya ever was. As Arya leaves and Bran sits still, Rickon tilts his head and asks, his voice cracking, “Why?”
“Because Jon is Daenerys’s only living relative. He’s her heir.” Sansa tries to explain. Jon watches from where he leans against the wall besides the hearth, sullen in his silence with arms crossed over his chest.
She tries to take Rickon’s hand but he shakes her off. “No, he can’t be, the queen’s a Targaryen and he’s not!”
“Sweet one, yes he is.” Sansa looks ready to brush Rickon’s unkempt auburn curls back from his face, a nervous tic she’s developed over the years, but she resists. “"You know how Minisa and Brynden are our cousins, even though they're not Starks?"
Rickon nods, but he’s frowning. If the situation wasn’t so abysmal, Jon himself would laugh. “It’s like that. Jon’s a Targaryen, but he’s still our cousin.”
“No it’s not!” Rickon leaps from his chair and runs over to Jon. He tugs at Jon’s arm and pulls him away from the wall. “You’re not a Targaryen. You’re a Stark, my brother!”
Jon bends down in front of him. “I’m really your cousin by blood. But I’ll always be your brother in your heart.” He sets a hand on Rickon’s chest. The boy looks ready to cry, chin wobbling and eyes wide. “You’ll have to be extra strong now, and take care of Bran and Arya since I’ll be gone. Can you do that?”
Steadily, Rickon nods. “I’ll try.”
Jon musses Rickon’s hair, trying to relieve the tension. “I’m sure you’ll do well in watching over the North.”
Fortunately, Rickon trusts Lord Manderly and would listen to his new Lord Regent's advise. He will not be the kind of lord Joffrey was, demanding and impetuous.
Bran forsaked his role as Lord of Winterfell, claiming he had a destiny that did not align with ruling a keep and watching over his people. When Rickon comes of age, he will take up Ned Stark's mantle. Upon their arrival in King's Landing, Jon will petition his aunt to make Lord Manderly the Warden in the North until such time as Rickon reaches his majority, since that is no longer a responsibility he can fulfill in her name.
Somewhat less upset, Rickon goes quietly to the breakfast table and begins buttering his toast in silence. Jon and Sansa exchange a look over his head, as if to agree the hard part is over.
The days that follow bring hectic commotion to Winterfell as the guard prepares for their journey and their retinue packs. The South is not a happy place for the blood of the North, but still a few of Sansa’s ladies have chosen to accompany her.
Jeyne Poole bravely volunteers first, even though her last excursion to King's Landing brought her so much suffering. Wylla Manderly follows her example with her fathers blessing, and Allara Blackmyre excitedly announces her plans to find the best wrestler in all of Westeros to be her husband. And of course Lady Brienne of Tarth, Sansa's sworn shield, will join. Brienne would gladly follow Sansa to the Summer Islands if her lady asks, glad to do her duty and fulfill her vows to Lady Catelyn.
Sansa sews at all times, with her brow furrowed and her lips pursed. In council meetings, at meals, in her solar, as she instructs Wylla Manderly on the finer points of running Winterfell- there is always an embroidery hoop in her hands.
They had not spoken alone since they received the letter, both too busy preparing to leave their home. Yet Jon notices that articles of his clothing that disappear from his packed trunk and reappear on his bed, with new embellishments of wolves and snowflakes and winter roses. Sansa was ready to rebel in a way only she could, and their clothing screamed her message: they might be dragons in the South, but their hearts still belonged to the North and the snow and the Starks.
He is startled from his ledgers late the night before their departure by a knock on his door. When he opens the door, Jon is surprised to find Sansa standing before him.
She wears a light grey dress, embroidered with a direwolf springing across her chest. Her shining red hair is pinned back in a simple Northern braid, with silver two combs as trimming.
“I have a strange request.” Sansa says, her eyes fixed upon his. “Would you marry me tonight, in the godswood? I - I’d like to have it here, with our family, before we become players once again.”
His heartbeat speeds rapidly in his chest. “Of course.”
She hands him a grey cloak, decorated with the inverted sigil of her house. He never chose to use his birth father's colors, only ever following what he’s known for a lifetime. Across Sansa’s shoulders hangs a simple white cloak with the outline of a direwolf embroidered in grey. Jon notes the embroidery was done hastily, a few stitches skipped and not quite straight. But even then, the design is exquisite. Sansa's pieces normally used more detail than this, but she’s put together a match for them both in a short few weeks.
Sansa escorts him to the godswood, his heart hammering in his chest. This is what I’ve wanted, but not like this. A wife awaits him beneath the hearttree, he realizes. This was not a future Jon ever thought to see. But now he has a bride for himself, a future with children and joy he didn’t think he would know.
As if caught in some strange, foggy dream, he leaves Sansaat the godswood's edge and joins Arya and Bran beneath the tree’s limbs.
Only their family stands there, but those are the only people he needs. Rickon appears at Sansa’s side, a nervous look on his face as he walks her towards where Jon waits. No decorations hang around the godswood for this ceremony, only the red of the weirwood leaves and the rustling of the wind. Ghost stands besides Jon’s feet, quiet as his namesake. The words are said, his voice shaking as he calls himself Jon of House Targaryen. “I claim her. Who gives her?”
Rickon stumbles through the words, finishing traditionally, “Lady Sansa will you take this man?”
A unexpected thrill rushes through Jon as Sansa looks at him and smiles. He swears a blush spreads across her cheeks. “I take this man.”
The bride is given over and then he is fumbling with the knot of her cloak and setting his own over her shoulders. With that, Sansa is his and Jon is hers, bride and groom, wife and husband.
Sansa's cheeks redden for true as a summer snow crowns her brow. She looks every inch the princess the world will make her. Jon stares into her shining bright blue eyes, and places a chaste kiss upon her lips. He would nearly swear she leans into his touch, but surely Jon imagines it. It took severe restraint to not attempt anything further with his wife, but he would never go anywhere that she would not invite him.
He escorts her back to her chambers once their-her siblings disperse. She smiles prettily as she presses a hand against the door and looks over her shoulder at him. “Would you- would you like to come in?”
“We have an early start tomorrow.”
“Oh. Yes, we do.”
“Thank you, Sansa.” He says after an awkward silence.
“For what?”
“For thinking of the godswood. It felt truer than any sept wedding good. To seal our fate before our own family and our own gods. In the South, the sept is for them.” He embraces Sansa, holding her close for an extra moment. My wife. He hopes she understands his deep appreciation of the woman she has become is. His lips brush a kiss against her forehead, but then he pulls back.
She opens her door fully, and steps back as Ghost pushed his way into her chambers. Sansa giggles nervously.
“He'll protect you.” Jon suggests, and runs a hand over his hair. Sansa laughs again, more naturally this time.
Her lips part as if she is about to speak. She bit her lip. “Good night, my lord husband.”
“Good night, my lady wife.” The door swings shut behind her, but Jon continues to stare after Sansa. Her name is beautiful, just as the woman herself. A few moments later and Jon leaves, back to his own quarters for the remainder of the night.
~~~
There are tears and embraces aplenty the next morn before they leave Winterfell. Sam and Gilly, clutching young Faya to her breast, come to say goodbye, and all the household. The Stark siblings do not say the truth of their hearts, although they fell the pain of their separation, but none know when they will next see the leaving couple. Rickon is the most distraught, holding on tightly to Sansa's arm.
"Don't go, please." He begs, his large blue eyes focused entirely on her. “Don't leave me again.”
Jon’s heart goes out to Rickon, who has already lost so much and now has to lose so much more. It goes out to all of them, thrust apart as they never wanted to be, all because of the blood in Jon's veins that he would rather not have.
Sansa kneels before the little lord, her face serious as she cups his own in her hands. "Promise you'll be good for Lord Manderly, and I'll write to you every week, I swear it."
“No, you have to stay. I’m the lord, I command it!” Rickon stomps his foot and Sansa pulls him into his arms.
“My little lord, let this be a lesson in the duty you owe your people and your family. Everything we do is for them.” Sansa presses a kiss to her brother’s brow. “What are our mother’s words?”
Rickon answers through muffled sobs. “Family, duty, honor.”
“Exactly, my little wolf.” She squeezes his hand. “Do you understand? Will you listen to Lord Manderly?”
“Yes.”
As Sansa rises, Rickon lunges for another hug. Arya surprises them all by throwing her arms round Sansa next and pressing her face into her sister's neck. “You better write to me, too.”
Their relationship has never truly reached the closeness Jon knows Sansa wishes for, but they are sisters and friends all the same. Sansa wraps up Arya in her embrace. “I’ll miss you, sweet one. Don't let the squires best you, but mind that you keep the dirt from your hair when you have to make an appearance at formal events.”
Arya nods, tears peeking in the corner of her eyes. She wipes them out with the back of her hand before crushing Jon tightly into her body. “Don't you dare let anyone hurt her, Snow. Prince or not, I'll hurt you twice as bad myself.”
“I won't, little sister.” He ruffles her short hair one last time before they separated.
Bran nods at both of them, squeezes their hands, and whisperes his partings. “Fair fortune, family. Gods be good to you.”
Shaggy, Summer, and Nymeria nuzzle against Ghost, letting their whines ring out. Jon did not want to part the litter, but Ghost would not go with anyone else but him. With a start, he realizes he will soon see his dragon once again. The fond bonds between them are not as strong as the bonds Viserion share with his siblings and so the dragon stays with Daenerys in King's Landing's dragonpit.
Jon helps Sansa mount her horse, hands tight on her waist until she settles in the saddle. Sansa graces him with a small smile of thanks before he mounts his own.
They ride through the gate like a downtrodden and defeated army, Ghost plodding along after them. Sansa leads the way, the first Stark to return to Winterfell now becoming the first to leave it again. He trots ahead to ride aside her. Jon reachs out and grasps Sansa's hand tightly, ready to face a future with her.