Chapter Text
It is snowing when they arrive.
Winter kisses the castle and all those who reside within its walls. As a persistent flurry of snow falls upon them, Sansa and her family stand at the head of the lords representing the North and the Vale. Even now she can feel their discontentment as easily as she can feel the blood flowing through her veins. Her cheeks and ears burn with the cold but she does not avert her gaze from the main gate. She knows what is to come is far more important than her own discomfort.
The obtuse blare of a horn signals the arrival of the royal party. The gates are thrown open and two columns of spearmen march through in perfect unity. There is an aura of cold precision as they arrange themselves into rows facing one another, creating a path that ten horses could ride through abreast. Sansa looks at their spiked caps and long sharp steel and can't help but feel a sense of foreboding that reaches all the way to her bones.
Once the soldiers are arranged, then come the riders. They trot through the gates like conquering heroes. Above them flies the royal banner with the queen's sigil. As a child Sansa had loved to memorize and name the sigils of houses to impress her Septa and parents. Her favorite ones had been the bright, pretty banners that depicted beautiful animals.
The three-headed dragon roaring upon a midnight field had never been one of her favorites.
She recognizes a few of the newcomers right away. Tyrion Lannister is a hard man to miss despite his size. He is wrapped in thick furs that nearly swallow him whole. Sansa notes that his mismatched eyes take in their assembly and narrow the slightest bit. He looks to Varys the Spider at his shoulder and the two share a look. They know this will not be an easy affair.
Good, Sansa thinks, but she has no time for further thoughts as a voice rings out.
"Let it be known! You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn, of the House Targaryen. Rightful Queen of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. The Breaker of Chains and the Mother of Dragons.
There are no applauds given. No triumphant cheers or calls for the queen's blessing. There is nothing but a chilly silence as the Dragon Queen and the King Who Knelt ride into the courtyard together and bring their horses to a stop. Sansa sees Jon dismount and wait for the queen to do the same. There is a rustle to her right and she fights the urge to groan. Two shadows dart towards the collection of riders at a scandalous pace. Jon barely turns in time to catch Arya as she leaps into his arms. Ghost comes up right after her and bumps Jon with his shoulder. The hugging pair almost tip over but Jon rights himself at the last minute. Both are laughing loudly and with the distinct inflection that tells her they are close to tears.
Sansa can see Jon and Arya speaking animatedly when a hand falls on his shoulder. He dips back slightly to allow Arya and the Dragon Queen to come face to face. She can't hear what they are saying and the queen's face is a mask that gives nothing away. After a moment, the group turns and begins making its way to her.
Sansa straightens her back and raises her chin defiantly. She refuses to show weakness. When the group reaches her, it is Jon who speaks first. "It is good to see you in fair health, Sansa."
Sansa gives a stiff bow. "And you as well, Your Grace."
A shadow flits across his face and Sansa knows. Knows that his letter and the rumors from White Harbor had been truthful. Knows that Jon-good, brave, honorable Jon had done exactly what he had said he'd done. Bent the knee and given their home away to another.
A fiery anger grips her at that moment. Jon is oblivious though, as he turns and raises a hand towards his chosen sovereign. "I present Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen."
The Dragon Queen swaggers forward with clasped hands. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Sansa. And allow me to say your home is quite impressive. It is all Lord Snow promised it would be."
The way 'Lord Snow' rolls of her tongue rankles Sansa, though not half as much as the amused look Jon shoots Daenerys. The queen raises an eyebrow as if daring him to take her bait.
Sansa's voice is cold and brittle when she speaks. "Thank you, my lady. Winterfell is indeed an ancient and impressive sight."
Daenerys frowns. Sansa wonders if she will be petty enough to correct her immediately or let the slight go in the name of cooperation. Before the queen can respond, a cheerful voice cuts through the group. "Ah, my eyes did not deceive me. You are looking quite radiant, wife."
Tyrion has a wide grin on his face as he waddles up to her. Just as clever as ever. Sansa favors him with a nod. "A pleasure to see you again, Lord Tyrion."
Daenerys cuts in before her Hand can respond. "Perhaps we can continue this inside? It is the middle of winter after all."
You know nothing of winter.
Instead of saying that, Sansa swallows her tongue in her own home and says, "Of course. Please follow me to the Great Hall. I have prepared a hot meal for everyone."
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The room is thick with tension. Sansa can feel it every time she takes in a breath. Her people are angry and upset that they have been disregarded so easily. Sansa can see it in their blazing eyes and hunched shoulders. She had done what she could to calm them after Jon's folly had been revealed and for the moment there is peace. But she is afraid to think what comes next.
Sansa's table is not so dour. Jon, Arya, and Daenerys all talk easily and rapidly to one another. They share tales and stories of places they have been. Past victories are embellished and future ones are boasted of. It is entirely inappropriate for the mood of the room, so Sansa cannot bring herself to join in.
A finger taps the bowl in front of her and she turns to look at the person beside her. Tyrion nods towards the bowl. "Not hungry, my lady?"
"I'm afraid I've lost my appetite."
"A shame. I myself have missed Northern cuisine quite a bit. Though I missed the whores more."
Sansa can't help herself. She lets out a giggle. Some of the anger inside her ebbs away. "That kind of talk is scandalous, my lord. What will people say when they discover the noble Hand of the Dragon Queen is a womanizing lecher?"
Tyrion lets out a huff. "You wound me. I have been nothing but honest with my Queen and her subjects."
She narrows her eyes and shoots him a dead stare. " Is it really 'her subjects' already? To my knowledge Cersei Lannister still sits the Iron Throne."
"And is it to my sweet sister that you give your allegiance?"
Sansa nearly chokes with outrage. "My allegiance is to the North, my lord. To my home and to my people."
"And to your family, no doubt," when she doesn't reply he grins and looks conspicuously over the table to where Jon and Daenerys are explaining to Arya what it is like beyond the Wall. " Your sister seems quite taken with my queen."
"My sister would swallow any manner of foul meal for Jon's sake."
"A fortunate occurrence for us then that the queen managed to win your brother's loyalty."
That is not the word I would use to describe it.
The anger wells within her once more. There is a sour taste on her tongue as she gazes across the table at Jon. It takes Sansa a moment to recognize it as the bitter taste of betrayal.
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After supper, she fades away to her solar and summons her sworn shield and the Onion Knight. Brienne of Tarth stands tall and proud in her armor and furs. Oathkeeper gleams brightly from her hip and there is a tranquility to her face. She is glad to once again be protecting her charge. Ser Davos is not so receptive to the summons. He is hunched over and weary. He does not quite meet her eyes. That warns Sansa of bad news to come.
"Tell me it all," she says to the pair. "What happened at King's Landing? What happened at Dragonstone?"
Brienne's voice is clear and concise when she tells the tale of the Dragonpit parley. She speaks of violent tension that hung about as the major players of Westeros attempted to put aside their differences to save all that they know. When she gets to the part explaining Cersei's promise to stand down, Sansa cannot help but shake her head at Jon and the Daenerys' stupidity. Surely they did not believe her? And Tyrion.....what game is he playing?
Sansa turns to Davos when it is his turn to speak. He proves not as forthcoming as Brienne. "Beggin your pardon my lady, but you would be better served asking His Grace's account of our time on Dragonstone."
Would I? "You title my brother with a king's honor, Ser Davos. Yet he named himself Warden in the North in the last letter he penned me. So what am I to believe? What is the truth?"
Ser Davos shifts uncomfortably. "Far be it for me to contradict my lord's own words."
"I will ask you one final time, Ser. Will you speak to what exactly happened on Dragonstone to make Jon give away the North?"
The Onion Knight gave a long sigh at that. "I must ask for your forgiveness, my lady. You have been nothing but kind and generous to me. But I do not serve you. I serve Jon Snow, and it is he who has the answers you seek."
Sansa stares at him for a long time. As much as she wishes to rebuke him for those words, she cannot. She knows that the only path that would lead to the truth was the one that took her to Jon Snow.
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He finds her atop the ramparts of the Northernmost wall of Winterfell. His steps are strong and unhurried as he comes to stand beside her and join in looking out into the frigid fields of winter. Times passes slowly for a long while. Sansa does not know if it is one hour or a thousand before he speaks, "Ser Davos says you wished to speak to me". It is not a question.
Sansa closes her eyes and takes in a calming breath. The moment she has been dreading has come. "Yes. Do you remember what you once said to me when we stood at this spot after we'd retaken Winterfell?"
Jon shakes his head, grey eyes twinkling with curiosity.
"You said," she continued, "That we had to trust one another. That we couldn't fight a war amongst ourselves. We had too many enemies already."
He smiles suddenly. The skin around his eyes crinkles with mirth and his voice is warm. "I remember."
Sansa forges on. "That....meant so much to me. You were honest and forthcoming. You wanted us to work together to protect our home. When you said you were leaving the North in my hands for all our bannermen to hear, it was like a dream come true."
Jon's smile turns to a frown. His brow furrows as he says, "I don't understand, Sansa. What are you trying to say?"
That dark anger inside her bubbles up to the surface again. "I am trying to ask why you have betrayed me despite all your past promises of trust!"
Jon jerks back as if she'd slapped him. His eyes go wide as if she'd spat on him. She supposes she just did. "Betrayal? Where did you get that notion?"
"What else would you call bending the knee and surrendering our home to a foreign queen who has no place in Westeros?"
Jon shakes his head at her words. "No, that was no betrayal. I have secured the only chance the North has of surviving the Long Night. Queen Daenerys is our last, best chance of survival."
"What of the wishes of your people? They do not want her as their queen, Jon. They want to be ruled by one of their own. How could you disregard them so?"
She can see the anger in his eyes as he counters, "I never asked for this crown, but they made me King none the less. Chose me to lead them and make their decisions for them. They can be unhappy with my choice until the Wall melts. It will not change the facts. What's done is done."
Sansa can scarcely hear him for the blood rushing in her ears. "So that's it? You have made us subjects of Daenerys Targaryen without even waiting for a proper discussion on the matter?"
Jon turns to face her fully. "I don't need to discuss anything. I was the North's King and now I am its Warden. We shall fight with Daenerys' armies against the Night King and should we prevail, Cersei Lannister is next. I know it may be hard for you to understand, but this is the best path for the North. Daenerys is a worthy queen. We need only give her time and she shall prove that a thousand times over. Trust me."
Sansa stares at him, a twisting feeling in her belly. He dares speak of trust, she thinks. Jon turns away and begins walking to the stairs. She does not know what possesses her to speak then, but calls out, "Why did the Dragon Queen not fly to the North?"
Jon stills. He half turns to look her in the eye. There is uncertainty in his gaze, "What?"
The words seem to come from out of nowhere. "It strikes me as odd, is all. Daenerys Stormborn is a dragonrider, is she not? Why did she come by ship instead of by dragon? Especially when she knew it could be dangerous."
Jon's eyes are an open book to her when they widen. "Well.....it was....you must see that....I thought it would send a better message to the North....if we sailed together."
Sansa laughs. It is a cold, cutting laugh that resembles the scraping of a rusty knife. Gods, he really was determined to ignore her advice to the bitter end. "Oh, trust me Jon. I see perfectly well why you made that decision."
Jon opens his mouth to speak but Sansa doesn't let him. "I'm sure I don't have to remind you what Robb's choice cost not only him, but our entire family as well. I hope you at least found what you were looking for. Good day to you, my lord."
With that she spins away and marches down the castle's wall, skirts whirling all around her. She hears Jon's call but doesn't stop.
She is done trusting his words.
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A fortnight passes after their meeting in the snow. The organization of the armies takes longer than expected, the logistics more complicated than previously thought. The delays prove dangerous as the tension within WInterfell begins to boil.
Jon can do nothing but watch.
The North he returned to is almost unrecognizable from the one he left. Littlefinger is dead, slain by Sansa's command and Arya's steel. The Northern lords (his own bannermen) scorn and spit upon him. The Vale lords look down their noses at him and sniff as if they had smelled fresh horse dung. His family is not much better save for Arya. Bran is much changed from the boy he knew. Grown into a man he has, but older and wiser than his years. Far older. At times his eyes appear to hold a fathomless knowledge that no young man should bear. There was more to it than that though. There was something in Bran's gaze that unsettled Jon. Like there was a secret he should know but was not told. It was maddening.
And Sansa......
Jon tries to stifle his frustration. He had expected, even hoped, that Sansa would back his decision once he had explained it to her. But it was not to be. She had not spoken to him since their last quarrel. She did her best to avoid him and when he did manage to catch her she would turn her head and raise her chin to his attempts at talking. He was always reminded of Lady Catelyn in those moments.
Making his way to the Great Hall, Jon does his best to not let his dark mood show. It would do him no favors to let his subjects see his frustration. Crossing the threshold, Jon makes his way towards the west wing of the castle where Daenerys is waiting for him.
That is when the whispers begin once more.
They have dogged him since his return home. His bannermen have no qualms about reminding him of their opinions concerning his decision to bend the knee. Dissent to his face is something he can handle. It is the whispers when his back is turned that gnaw at him. Whispers like those always precede daggers in the dark.
These whispers come from a group of guardsmen manning their post. They carry steel and bear the sigil of House Glover. They eye Jon as he passes and when his back is to them they begin to talk in quiet voices. Jon does his best to ignore them, instead picturing Dany's smiling face and what awaits him.
"Think the traitorous bastard is off to fuck the dragon whore again?"
Jon is marching towards the man who spoke before he even realizes what his happening. "Repeat that."
The man and his compatriots turn at his approach. There are four of them in total. The man who spoke is tall and broad-shouldered. He is a head taller than Jon himself and clearly relishes that most people must crane their necks to look him in the eye. He smiles to reveal yellow teeth. "Repeat what, m'lord?"
His closest comrade jerks his head. "Donnel don't-"
Jon silences him with a hand. "Let the man speak."
The man, Donnel, squares his shoulders and looks Jon straight in the eye. "I didn't say nothing that weren't true. You're a bastard and a traitor. You bring nothing but dishonor to the name Ned Stark. The Gods were kind to allow the Lannisters to butcher him. Spared him the shame of having to see his bastard betray all that he cared for. And I bet you were on your way to fuck that foreign whore o' yours. Tell us, how is she?"
Jon's vision goes black. The next thing he knows his hands have wrapped around Donnel's throat and he has smashed the guard into the nearest wall. Jon can feel someone grab his elbow but he throws him off and drives his fist into Donnel's face. Once, twice, thrice, the sound of crunching bone is disturbingly loud in the silence of the hallway.
The sound of screeching steel breaks him from his trance. He lets go and Donnel slumps to the ground, sobbing through his ruined mouth. Turning, Jon comes face to face with the naked blades of the three remaining guards.
He stares hard at them, not even bothering to reach for Longclaw. "It is death to bear steel against your liege lord. "
The guards stiffen. They are afraid. He can smell it on them. It is the same smell Ghost has shared with him on his nightly hunts through the Wolfswood. It was the natural state for the weak to fear the strong. For the prey to bow before the hunter.
His voice is soft when he speaks. "I will forgive you this one time. Sheath those blades, take your man to the Maester, and I will forget about this farce. If not....."
A moment the length of eternity passes. Then the guard closest to him jams his sword in his sheath. He bows his head three times and mumbles a "Thank you, Lord Snow" before hurrying over to Donnel. The two remaining guards do the same and the whole group scurries out of the hall as fast as they can.
Jon's hands quiver as he continues his way down the hall.
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His confrontation with the guards is not the only violent encounter to grace Winterfell's walls. Knights, Men-at-arms, Unsullied, and Dothraki clash frequently at even the slightest provocation. Nobody says it out loud but it is clear as day that the Northmen and Valemen are inches away from open rebellion. Jon has a strong suspicion whose head they'd come for first. It is with this in mind that he joins the Queen and her counsel to discuss options.
"At the rate we are stabbing one another in the back, the Night King will find Winterfell devoid of life by the time he makes it south of the Wall." Tyrion finishes that cheery thought with a healthy pull from his goblet.
Daenerys glares at him as he drinks. "We have to figure out a way to bring these Northmen to heel. How are we supposed to concentrate on the Long Night if we are expecting treachery from our backs?"
Varys speaks up. "We can't fight a war on two fronts, especially not from within our own army. Perhaps we can entice the dissidents with some kind of offer? Something to tickle them into submission until we can deal with the more pressing threat."
Jon shakes his head. "They won't listen to anything we have to say. Myself included."
"Unless we say it in such a way that they respect."
All eyes land on Tyrion as he refills his wine. There is a look of deathly seriousness on his face.
"What way do you mean?" asks Daenerys.
"Northerners value their traditions. Valemen value their honor. Let us use this to our advantage and to their disadvantage." His eyes land on Jon and suddenly he knows exactly what Tyrion speaks of.
He nods at Tyrion. "We do this the old way."
Daenerys looks ready to ask again what they mean but Tyrion speaks first. His voice is flat and grave when he says, "We wager everything on single combat. The winner rules all.....and the loser submits."