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Once Upon a Time, in the kingdom of the North, the King and Queen of Winter had a Princess.

She was named Sansa in the light of the Seven, as was the custom of her mother’s family, though such a thing was unusual in the North, where the old gods of the trees still held sway. The news of her birth was spread throughout all seven kingdoms. She was the second child of the family, which already held a beloved son and heir. And her parents were eager to show the beautiful new princess off to everyone in Westeros and beyond.

A feast was thrown after her naming in the little sept at Winterfell, and then all the guests filled her father’s Great Hall. Lords and Ladies from throughout the North and South and foreign kings and queens from near and far.

Old Nan had often told her the story, because it was Sansa’s favorite to request, and she said when the party began the mood had been joyous and everyone had been so pleased with her. War had long plagued Westeros, but it was a new age of peace and unity, and Sansa’s birth proved the perfect opportunity for people to come together.

Once, of course, when Arya had whined loudly that she did not want to hear another story of how everyone was so happy about how perfect Sansa was, Sansa had heard Jon whisper that Old Nan was making the story nicer than it was. That Queen Lysa of the Vale, her own Aunt, and Princess Cersei of the Westerlands were both terribly angry about the North. That only a few visitors from Dorne had come and none had been particularly gracious guests. That tensions were high and feelings easily frayed. But Jon had only been three when it had happened, and had had to leave early besides because Robert Baratheon had gotten too drunk too fast and more or less demanded his little half Targaryen head, in his uncle’s own hall. So Sansa always figured Jon did not know what he was talking about, and was just lying to make Arya feel better. It was a kind though, of course, but Sansa did not appreciate it.

Instead she listened to Old Nan’s stories of the beautiful gifts and compliments she’d been given at merely days old. Gold jewelry and silken dresses. Strange books and exotic toys. Crates of lemons from Dorne. All the fine things a Princess could ever want.

The Warlock was set to give his gift in the middle of the group. He had once been the dear friend of the Queen despite being only a small lord, so he was welcomed into her new home with all the honors that would suggest, greeted by her as Petyr though most had long taken to calling him Littlefinger. He was known for being able to rub two coins together to make a third, and to have great trade connections all over the East, and with the exception of the other Westerosi Kings and Queens, it was his gift that was perhaps most anticipated.

It had been the middle of the day, Old Nan always said, and sunlight had poured into the hall, but everything had gone dark suddenly.

And cold.

It made Sansa, sitting at her feet, shiver at the thought. She was of the North, and no stranger to cold, but the Walls within Winterfell were kept warm by the hotsprings.

She knew Littlefinger's words by heart, too: “I give the Princess the gift of death. On her sixteenth birthday, she will prick her finger on a sewing needle, and die.”

But they never worried her. Littlefinger said he would break the curse if they betrothed her to him, but Mother and Father, Robb and Jon, Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin, Old Nan and Septa Mordane, they all promised that every avenue of solution was being sought, and she would be fine.

Uncle Benjen and Uncle Brynden visited with news of the rest of Westeros. The joy of her birth had evaporated in the face of the danger. And so the cooling tensions were heating back up again. Sometimes serious looking men would disappear with her father into his study. Robb and Jon got to join them sometimes, and came out whispering news of battles and armies, distrust and intrigue, beyond the Walls of Winterfell.

But inside, she was the most pressing concern. Magicans were summoned from Bravos and Quath and even Aasshai. They offered no answers.

Wildlings from the far North, in the land almost out of Stark control came to examine the princess. Their mystics said that though the curse was beyond what they could fix, Sansa had a magic all her own. Like many Starks before her, she was a skinchanger, and such magic might have its own roll to play.

She was not sure she liked that. Skinchangers of legend turned into great monsters. She only ever wanted to be a Lady. To be a Princess.

Finally the Lord of the Crannogmen came. Sansa was nearly 11 by then, joined by three more siblings, and kept inside the gates of Winterfell by parents terrified of what could become of them all. To that cloistered Winterfell Lord Reed came with a prophet in the form of his son, who spoke of a wizard of the weirwood trees who might be able to solve the curse.

And so before the weirwood tree in the godswoods the Royal family sat with Lord Reed and his children, and waited for the old and ancient three-eyed crow to come out.

He was a withered wisp of a thing, more tree then man, and more wizard then tree. That which remained human of him was as white as the tree he had merged with, save of the leaf colored birthmark on his face. He stared at each of them in turn, pausing even longer on little brother Bran, and frowning at the bastard that shared his dragon’s blood, before his red eyes found her blue ones.

“I can help you,” The Three Eyed Crow whispered. And for a moment his eyes went white. Their was rustling to be heard, as what seemed like every bird in the godswood descended on their spot, swirling around them in some sort of strange pattern. “Princess Sansa will not die, only sleep for a hundred years.”

“Only a hundred years?” Was Mother’s angry response. “You condemn her to a slow death instead of a quick one.”

Robb’s arm around Sansa’s shoulder pulled her tighter to him. But she just stared up at the strange man, as the birds circled more and more, wondering what exactly he was promising.

“The magic of this castle is arcane and ancient, but still strong” He said, “She will not die in her sleep, she will not fall sick, her body will not age. As long as she stays with these Walls, she will remain in sleep as she is awake.”

That was not an unpleasant notion, though Mother and Father seemed less than pleased. But what could be wrong with staying young and beautiful for a hundred years?

Lord Reed had a quiet presence, but unlike her father, it could be forgotten until he had something to say, when he suddenly took up all the attention. “So you trade her life now, for a life in a hundred years?”

That sounded less pleasing. She leaned into Robb’s side more, the thought of the loss of her family bleeding into the back of her mind.

“Yes,” The Crow said, simple as that, “Once she is awoken.”

Something about that seems off.

“Awoken?” Jon spoke, he did that sometimes, stayed silent and watched, then bursted out when he noticed something not quite right, “She won’t just wake up after a hundred years.”

The Wizard’s eyes did not leave Sansa when he answered, “She will sleep for a hundred years, and she will only be awoken, when a foreign King’s son gives her true love’s kiss.” All the birds released a call at once, the eerie sound filling the godswood.

But Sansa did not even notice. True love’s kiss. A foreign prince would give her true love’s kiss.

Mother and Father were both talking now, fast and angry, but Sansa could not pay them any mind.

Her head was a hundred years in the future.

They had had no foreign visitors in Winterfell since her naming. Her father trusted only his own vessels within his gates. Even Riverlanders, her mother’s people, were restricted to men like Uncle Brynden, family or those trusted absolutely.

The Northmen were a rough, savage sort. And they did not hold with things like grand balls or tourneys beyond the ones Jon and Robb play acted in the yard. Their feasting was as like to end in a brawl as a great dance. But her mother spoke often of the delights a princess growing up in the South might expect.

Delights that no amount of begging, cajoling, or whining could get her father to indulge in.

But out there somewhere was a kingdom waiting to make her a queen. She had a lovely voice, everyone said, she was better than her mother at embroidery, had a second sense for flower arranging, no one else was as graceful as she on a dance floor. And she was the prettiest girl in the North, sure to be the most beautiful woman one of these days. They would love her, the kingdom she would one day call home, she was sure of that.

Some handsome southern Prince, blonde and green-eyed, draped in gold and wielding bejeweled dragon steel. He would not step on her toes when dancing like Jon, or dismiss her for other pursuits like Robb. His sisters would not get dirt on her dresses like Arya.

Or perhaps he would be some Prince from Essos, tall and dark, speaking exotic tongues and introducing her to delights she had never even had the chance to imagine.

She could not understand why her family still seemed so upset.

“I can only do so much, Your Grace,” said the Wizard. “Many forces come into play here, many magics, some I know and some I don’t. But what I speak is so. Your princess will prick her finger on her sixteenth name day. Thereafter she will sleep for a hundred years, before she is be awoken by the kiss of a foreign King’s son, as alive as can be.” Sansa felt Robb shiver at his words. They sounded binding. They felt binding. She thought she liked it.

Father tried to speak again, but the old Wizard silenced him with a hand, as though he was not a king. “I have done what can be done. I have but one more piece to offer. Your Princess will be preserved from the passage of times within these Walls, but Brandon the Builder’s magic is millennials old. Littlefinger's curse is something strange and perhaps more clever than powerful, but an unknown. And you are Starks, the blood of the first men runs in your veins, and has magic that can never be discounted.” He finally looked at Father when he said this, “Now these magics are dormant, but when they spring to life, she might not be the only one who is caught in the spell.”

He was gone quicker then he had come, the swirl of birds dispersing without a sound, and then they were alone, her family and the Reeds.

She spent the rest of the day as if in a dream.

But before she went to sleep, her parents took her into Father’s solar.

“He has given us more time,” Father promised, while Mother ran a hand through her hair, like she was still a little girl. “We will not stop searching for a way to break your curse.”

“You do not need to break it Father, Mother,” she smiled at them, “It does not sound bad at all.”

They seemed to share a look over her head. It was the look that normally Arya got when she was behaving in a way unbefitting of a princess. Sansa did not like it directed at her.

“It really is,” she repeated, eager, “I can just sleep, and then wake up and have a prince.”

“Sweetling,” Her mother said, soothingly, like she sometimes tried on Rickon when he was having a tantrum, “That is very dangerous. It leaves you for years without protection. It leaves you without anyone to protect you when you wake up.”

“The Three Eyed Crow said true love’s kiss will wake me up, the Prince will protect me.”

Her mother just sighed.

She argued her point for what felt like hours, but eventually she was sent to bed, and her parents insisted on still trying to break the curse as she was sent off to bed.

No amount of discussion could change their minds in the days and weeks to come, either.

In general, the King and Queen in the North never lacked with regard to security or their family’s safety, carryovers from the tragic deaths of Sansa’s Grandfather and Uncle, and the terrible business with the war, and Sansa’s aunt and the dragons. Sansa’s curse had done nothing to help this. But the new terms had made things worse.

She and Arya were not allowed outside the gates of Winterfell anymore. Not with the Septa or a Guard, not with Mother or Father. Arya was the one who was actually chafing under the restriction, but Sansa felt trapped too, though her dreams were far beyond the Wintertown she could no longer visit. She had never felt like this before, but it made her longing for her prince all the stronger.

The day Bran was allowed to go with Father, Robb, Jon, and a party of men for an execution might have been her sister’s breaking point if they had not returned with gifts.

She and Arya were part of the receiving line with Mother, but the way Arya was twitching, it seemed like she was waiting for the gate to be fully open so that she might make a break for it.

And as all the men were being helped with the horses, Arya saw her chance, darting away much too fast for Sansa or anyone to stop her.

Except Jon Snow. He had hopped off his horse early and was busy with something in his arms, but managed to cut Arya off with the full force of his body. He’d grown taller recently, and he loomed over Arya with a wry expression, saying something before handing her something from beneath his cloak.

Arya’s squeal of delight at whatever it was rippled through the courtyard. And all thoughts of escape seemed to have been forgotten as she raced back to Sansa and Mother, Jon at her heels.

She was holding a puppy, Sansa realized. A little grey thing, already nuzzling into her arms. Though it did not look like any kind of dog Sansa had ever seen in the kennels.

“Mother,” Arya screeched, “Jon brought me a direwolf.”

Sansa’s eyes went to the banners hanging on the walls, the running direwolf of her house. They were meant to be fearsome beasts, that’s why her ancestors had chosen them. But Arya’s just seemed cute.

“We found them in the snow, Your Grace.” Jon was explaining to Mother after he bowed, over Arya’s excitable squeaks. “Their mother was dead, but Nunc...the King,” He corrected himself “allowed us to bring them back.” He turned to Sansa “Robb has yours, Princess.”

He had been doing that lately. He still without fail referred to Robb and Arya by their names in all but the most formal situations, and Bran and Rickon too, because they were so young as to be often excluded from such things. But for Mother and Sansa, he had taken to calling them ‘Your Grace’ or ‘Queen Catelyn’ or ‘Princess.’ Even Father, who Sansa knew Jon loved as dearly as she did, was more often than not King Eddard these days.

It hurt something she could not quite name, this distance Jon was putting between them all. And judging by the often sad look that crossed his face these days, it hurt him too. But he did it, because he was only the bastard son of an ousted foreign royal King and her unfortunate aunt. He use to play at tourneys with Robb in the yard, and whoever won would hand her a rose, crowning her their Queen of Love and Beauty. But such things were lost to them now. And she had greater heroes to imagine then the ones Jon and Robb play acted as.

Still, by the time her brothers appeared before her, she was more than eager to meet her own pup.

She, too, was a tiny thing, though not as small as the white one still curled in Jon’s arms. She did not squirm like Arya’s or nip like Rickon’s or whine Robb’s, she just looked up at Sansa with eyes that clearly said “I know how to behave, unlike them.”

Sansa loved her. And named her Lady, as was fitting the only respectable one of the bunch.

All the wolves took to following their masters and mistresses around the keep.

A nice distraction from the turmoil in the seven kingdoms that occupied so much of Father’s time as he tried to protect and rule the North. A nice distraction from Mother’s chief concern of breaking her curse.

She stopped fighting her mother on that point too. It was having no effect, and it just seemed to cause Mother stress, to make her own restrictions tighter.

She had tried for years to explain.

It was all so romantic.

A magical destiny and a handsome prince.

Most girls did not get that. They got arranged marriages and political balancing acts. In Westeros today, that was always the most she could have hoped for.

But now she was getting true love, and some beautiful far off kingdom. In a hundred years, when things had calmed down and tensions had been soothed and they were not on the brink of war and winter.

Instead she threw herself into her studies. She would make her handsome prince a great wife when she woke up. She would keep his castle and care for his household and birth his heirs. And so she learned all she needed for that task.

But still her parents fretted over what was to become of her.

As her sixteenth year crept near, they worried about her safety more and more. Nothing new about the curse had been discovered since the Three Eyed Crow had made his changes.

“If you should fall into sleep, we shall not cease searching,” Father promised one evening over supper, his hand disappearing beneath the table to feed Lady a bit of sausage. Father was as in love with the wolves as anyone and he had a special fondness for Lady and Ghost particularly.

“But what about the magic spreading through the castle?” asked Bran. He had taken to doing that lately, asking about the magics of Winterfell, of the curse, of anyone brought in to take a look.

“We have other holds we may need to take residence in temporarily.” Father said with a frown, and he exchanged a look with Robb that made Sansa think they had discussed it before, but apparently he never told Mother any such thing.

“But Sansa,” she cried, “We can’t just leave her here alone for who knows how long.”

The thought of that did make Sansa frown. She would be asleep, yes, far away from anyone, but to be completely alone…

“We would leave a guard,” Father said, speaking to Sansa as much as Mother, “I would not leave her unprotected.”

It felt cold to Sansa, but she did not know what else to say. Mother did not have that problem.

“You will not leave your Princess in the hand of some household guard, Ned.” she said, and you would not know she spoke to a King.

“I will have Jory suggest the very best,” Father offered. But that did not assuage Mother one bit.

“Uncle Brynden could do it,” piped up Rickon, “He’s the Blackfish.” The exact meaning of famous relatives was just beginning to become understood by the six year old.

“He’s too old,” Arya cut him off. Which, Sansa could admit, was true, but not a kind thing to say about their great uncle. The look Mother shot her agreed.

“He also has a great many things to do in the Riverlands.” she said, but she looked considerate when she looked back at Father, “but I expect you to find someone similarly suitable. Someone who is truly suitable and trustworthy. Not whichever guard Jory or Ser Rodrik wants to get rid of.”

“Cat…” Father started, but he was cut off.

“I could do it.” Jon said, voice soft from his place at the end of the table next to Arya.

That got the entire family’s attention, and they all turned and looked at Jon.

“I mean,” he blushed, cheeks bright red under his grey eyes. “If you feel I’m suitable, Your Grace.”

“Of course you’re suitable, Jon,” Mother said, looking intrigued.

“No one could doubt your love for your cousin and our family, nor your martial skills,” Father said, lacking Mother’s enthusiasm.

“I understand if you do not wish to entrust me with the task, Your Grace.” Jon said, and went back to his venison.

That was the last Sansa heard of it for several weeks, until she was called into her father’s solar, where Jon Snow waited, and told that he would serve as her guard in such an event as her sleep.

He was seven and ten, good with his sword, and quick on his feet. He looked like a younger, handsomer version of Father, all long northern face and stormy grey eyes. Jon was no knight, of course. But men in the North so rarely were. Robb was not one either, and he even knew the Seven, while Jon had always followed after only Father in matters of religion. She knew her cousin to be as brave and gentle and strong as any hero from any song she’d ever heard.

And Mother was very pleased with the decisions. Even as they promised a breaking of the curse.

Sansa had long since given up fighting that battle.

Jon did not become her shadow. But when they had unexpected guests, or something felt off to one of her parents, she suddenly found him by her side. He was not unpleasant company. He was clever and intelligent and he was always the image of gentlemanly courtesies, of course. Jon’s bloodline was impeccable, a Southern King for a father and a Northern Princess for a mother. Though Dragon Stone and its surroundings were small, the Valyrian ancestry made up for quite a bit. It was only the legitimacy that caused concerns, but he was no baseborn bastard, half noble and half common. He spoke with maester educated words and walked with a princeling’s grace.

And if the guests were giving her attention she did not like, he was always there to request a dance, or offer his arm to take a turn in the garden. All while being the picture of politeness for his aunt and uncle’s guests.

She liked that too. All their guests were Northmen, the sons and heirs of Lords. She was meant for a King’s son.

She brought her destiny up to Jon once, but that alone seemed to raise his anger with regard to her, and so she did not bring it up again.

It was just so frustrating.

That sleeping was the right choice was obvious. All she had to do was prick her finger on her needle. And she had done that a thousand times when she was still learning.

Prick her finger, draw a bit of blood, and then sleep. When she woke up she wouldn’t be just a northern Princess locked inside Winterfell, she’d be the heroine of a song, ready to go off with her prince.

She could feel in her soul that it was the best choice as she approached sixteen years.

Jon hovered throughout her sixteenth name day, but he was eventually called away by her father for something, and so Sansa took the opportunity to sneak off to Mother’s empty solar. Her own sewing material had been confiscated months before when she’d first spoken to Jon about her desire to sleep, but she knew where Queen Catelyn kept her odds and ends, and it was no great challenge to pull out a needle.

She could have just plunged it into a finger right then, but she didn’t like that picture. Instead she got out cloth and thread to go with her needle, and went about embroidering. She would make a direwolf. She wished she could be sewing her maiden cloak, that would be beautiful, but it would have to wait for when she woke up.

Lady curled up at her feet, and she set about her task, being a bit more haphazard with her needle than usual, more then happy to let it prick her.

Though she liked the work, the minutes suddenly seemed to drag on.

It was probably nearly an hour later when there was a rush of the door, and she heard Mother and Jon’s voices, both a little frantic, wondering where she’d gotten away to.

The sudden opening of the door startled her into looking up from her work as Mother and Jon came in and both stopped short.

The sting of the needle on her thumb was small. Just a little bite to her skin, like she’d felt plenty before.

But the exhaustion took her by surprise. It was so strong. She raised her finger into her eye line. It really was a small thing, a single drop of blood that dripped down onto her white and grey wolf.

There was a scream that certainly was not hers, and the last thing she saw as she fell and her eyes grew unbearably heavy was Jon running towards her, fear in his grey eyes.

She wanted to smile, to comfort him, to tell him that this was a good thing, what she wanted. But she could not do anything but go to sleep.

She had been told the trade for her life was a hundred years and true love’s kiss.

That plus a finger prick was something she had gladly paid for her happily ever after.

She had not known just how long a hundred years was.

***

A hundred years was a long time. He knew that when he was set on his task.

He had been young then. Strong and brave and just barely battle bloody.

“Guard your cousin.” His uncle had instructed, when he had been barely more than a boy and so eager to prove his worth. His uncle had given him a group of guards and several servants before they had had to leave Winterfell.

And the responsibility of not merely guard duty, but of leading his own men had filled his bastard heart with pride.

He had thought that his guard duty would be a few years at best. When a few years stretched on, Arya, so eager for adventure, had set out to find the would be Prince of legend. Bran, enraptured by the metaphysical, journeyed to find a magical solution to the problem, instead of waiting for magic to come to them. Sansa would be awoken long before the end of King Robb’s reign. She would see her nieces and nephews.

Her brothers and sister would see her wed her prince and have royal babes of her own.

How easy it all seemed then. Before his uncle rode to war and called half his guards away. Before he had died and Robb had left him with a squire and a single companion out of desperation. Before good King Robb and the Queen Mother were killed by treachery. Before Bran vanished searching for one cure and Arya disappeared searching for another. Before King Rickon was the only one left, and even more a boy then Jon, had fled the fighting factions as well.

He had heard, from the merchant from the little village a day away, who brought him bread and flint and the occasional fur, that the whispers of the Stark, of the last Princess, kept safe, was a prayer many of the North still held in their hearts, even as the petty lords squabble over who might be the next king.

Sometimes a Mormont or a Manderly even stopped by for a visit. They did not see his Stark features under his age, but they wanted to hear from the man outside Winterfell. If he knew where the Prince Bran or Rickon or even Princess Arya might have gone. He did not, of course. Arya and Bran had stopped by on the way to their quests, but Rickon might have vanished with the wildlings for all Jon know.

Sometimes they asked if they could peak inside the castle, just to look around. And on that point, Jon was always firm. He remembered the fear the had coursed through the castle when the first few people had fallen, and absolute horror when Mikken and Sir Rodrik had been in the much larger second batch.

By then the entire Castle was tired constantly, and many feared sleeping at night for free of never waking. The day everyone was set to leave, Jeyne Poole did not wake up, along with a maid. And both were left behind as the household poured out of the gate.

He would not let anyone walk back into that. He remembered.

A hundred years was a long time. He knew that when he swarn his sword to this last of causes.

But he did not know how long it would be.

He had cut the tree down sometime in his late 40s, when his knees had not ached, and his arms had still been strong. He’d carved it into a chair before the arthritis set into his joints. And in his advanced age, he rested on it. From that spot he watched the world

The Walls of Winterfell were made to last, and he had sat outside them for decades on decades trying to be as immovable as the weirwood he could see poking out from the godswood.

The old days were hazy sometimes, but other times they were bright and sure. He remembers training with Robb, learning from his uncle, playing with Arya and Bran. He remembers when Winterfell was busy and bustling and full of life.

He remembered when he had watched Sansa fall asleep. And the chaos that followed.

The entire family had been at a bit of a loss then.

He had spent most of his 60s mad at her, when the boy who had been assigned as his assistant in the early days had brought his infant grandson, he had thought of what had been stolen from him. Youth and glory and his family, a wife and children of his own. But even then he did not leave. He would die how he lived, without distinction or legacy, just outside the walls of Winterfell, protecting his cousin.

He had spent his 70s getting over it. She had been a child. His old squire tasked his grandson as his new one. The boy was 12 when he started and it had been nice, that reminder of the innocence of youth. He had liked Jon’s stories, the same as Sansa had liked Old Nan’s. She had not known better than he did. She was as caught up in fantasies as he. The boy was dead now, but Jon had even met his grandsons.

He was nearly 120 years old, and the time to regret his lost youth was well past. He mourned still for his family, of course, and hated Littlefinger with a passion that belied his age, but for Sansa he felt only love born of memories of sweet child and lovely young woman, and a century of duty.

Ghost was off hunting in the Wolf’s Wood now. Jon had joined him from the inside earlier in the day. His wolf was nearly as old has he was, but his eyes were clear, his senses sharp, his joints did not ache, he could run and hunt and exist in ways that were simply lost to Jon now.

It would be nice when he came back, though. Jon was so often alone. Ghost was far more friend than pet. And Jon did not have either of those beyond his wolf.

It was getting colder as well, and it would be nice to curl up with the beast for the warmth of it all.

The sun was high in the sky when he heard the horses. A Knight so young by the look of him. He did not have a banner, but his shield, resting on his house, clearly held a sigil.. Jon’s eyes were not a sharp as they once were, but the sigil confused him. It was quartered, with red and white diamonds on the upper left, and a broken wheel in black on green in the lower corner. He recognized neither of them, though he’d been taught heraldry along with his cousin as a Child. Whether age stole the information or it was just an obscure house was not something he knew.

He knew they were not Northern. He remembered those.

The other half he did recognize though, a white moon and a soaring falcon, set on blue. That was the Sigil of House Arryn, the Royal house of the Vale.

When he got to Jon’s seat in front of the gate, the knight dismounted. He wore shiny plate, but no helmet, and so Jon could clearly see his blond hair and blue eyes, the face of a handsome southern lordling.

“Old Man,” He said, too close and too loud, with Maester educated syllables, but not a Northern Accent. “Can you tell me what castle this is?”

“Winterfell, Ser,” Jon replied. There was very little use denying that, anyone in the North would know.

The knight smiled, dimples forming in his young face, “Winterfell,” He repeated, “The legendary seat of House Stark.”

“Once,” Jon agreed, “It is abandoned now, save for me.”

“And who are you?” He asked, with a sneer of condescension that Jon did not like.

“Jon,” He answered, regardless, “I stay here, and tell any would be travelers that they would be better served elsewhere.”

The Knight laughed. “And why is that?”

“That castle is cursed,” Jon explained, though that was not strictly true. “Those inside fall victim to a sleeping spell.”

They had never really understood it. Only that Sansa’s curse and Winterfell’s magic mixed in dangerous ways. When all those members of the household had fallen, and the rest of them felt like they were barely awake, Uncle Ned had chosen to move his court to Moat Cailin.

“Is that so?” Asked the knight, “That’s not what I heard.”

“I know not what stories they tell far from here,” Jon said, “But I have guarded this castle since they left, and that is the truth of it.” If it was safe, Jon would sleep in the castle walls, in the heated chambers near the ones Sansa was lain to rest in.

“And how long is that?”

“I was a man of your age or so.” Jon said.

The knight laughed again, “Then it has indeed been a very long time. So I will tell you what I have heard, Old Man.” He looked up to the castle walls, and the towers that stood beyond that, frozen and immovable. “I heard there was a princess in there.”

“It was abandoned nearly a hundred years ago when the place was abandoned.” Jon said again. “But many a princess rests in the crypts.” Jon had not seen his mother’s statue in nearly a hundred years, had not been able to lay flowers on her grave.

“I have heard that one remains above ground. That a maiden has awaited for one hundred years for a prince to come and wake her.”

That was true. And a sort of sinking feeling went through Jon, at perhaps the realization that this was something like it. “And so why do you come?”

“I am Ser Harry Hardyng, and I come to wake the Princess, and to claim her as my bride.”

“What are you the prince of,” Jon asked.

“The Vale, Old Man.” And Jon squinted beyond him, at the squire and the banner. The Arryn sigil...but still, he had never heard of Hardying.

“When did the Hardyngs take the Vale from the Arryns?” He asked. Had so much really happened since he last saw a human visitor?

“Oh, no, that has not happened, silly Old Man.” Harry said, “I am the heir to my cousin, King Robert. He is old and nearing death, and he has no children. I will come after him, a true Arryn king.”

“You are no King’s son then?” Asked Jon. That had been explicit. The Prince who awakened Sansa was to be a king’s son, no cadet lines or branch houses.

“I am...well, I am a Princess’s grandson.” He said, suddenly sounded embarrassed. “But it matters not, I have the best claim. Lord Baelish has told me, I will be King of the Vale.”

The ground almost started to spin. That name. That name. That name and that blasted man. Petyr Baelish. The Warlock Littlefinger. The man who had put this curse on poor, dear, Sansa in the first place. And this knight, this child, came in his name.

“I’m afraid you’ll find yourself disappointed.” Jon said, “No man who allies himself with the monstrous Littlefinger shall have her.” But even as he said it, he knew there was little he could do. This man was young and strong. Vibrant and fighting fit. And Jon was nothing but a weathered old creature who should have been dead decades ago.

Ghost, he though, reaching out to the wolf, I could stop him with Ghost. He saw through the wolf’s eyes for a moment, felt him turn to return to the gates of the castle. But he was a long way off in the wolf’s wood.

“The castle is abandoned, you said it yourself,” Ser Harry said, “Who is to stop me?”

Jon leaned heavily on his cane, but he pushed himself up, stood on old legs that were not built for such things anymore.

“Surely you are not serious,” Ser Harry laughed, he was a jovial fellow, but the glint in his blue eyes was dangerous, “I have no quarrel with you old man, I’m more than happy to let you die in your bed, surrounded by your family. You need not fall on my sword.”

Jon could have laughed at that. His bed and his only family were both inside Winterfell’s walls. The only way for him to go was to be killed by some would be prince come to take Sansa. He had known that a long time.

But he just stood as straight as he could, though his back had been bad for many years now. He reached beneath his cloak. It was no use of course, but he would not go without trying.

Once he had been the best swordsmen in Winterfell, once his movements had been sure and fluid. Once he could have stood to any foe.

But those days were fifty years past, at least. And now he just eased the blade from his hip, leveling it at Hardyng as best he could.

It at least seemed to surprise the Knight. His eyes lingered on the blade, “How did some old peasant come in possession of Valyrian Steel?”

Jon did not think some want-to-be Vale king deserved the rather impressive story of the time he saved Jeor Moment’s life during a trip to the Wall with Uncle Ned and Robb. Instead he gripped the white wolf hilt and waited.

Ser Harry’s sword, when he drew it, was clearly shiny and castle forged, and the jewels in the hilt glistened in the midday sun. His first strike was not nearly as quick as Jon expected, and he easily raised Longclaw to block the blow.

But Ser Harry’s arms were strong, and so he swung around again, this time connecting with Jon’s side. The bite of the blade was lost in his layers of leather and wool, but he felt the force of it against his aging ribs. He heard the snap. His hunch only grew as he doubled over at the pain. He kept his sword hand out, and his eyes on the knight, but there was nothing for it.

Ser Harry did not even swing again; he twirled his sword in his hands, just because he could. Just to show off, though there was no one around for miles but an old man.

Finally he flipped the sword, and brought it down, not blade but hilt connecting with his skull.

It was, Jon though mournfully as the black took him, a disappointing way to die, and he had not even managed to keep Sansa safe.

***

A hundred years was a long time. And in that time Sansa slept, but she did not rest.

She had thought it would be all quick, pleasant dreams, the way she had often gone to bed early before there was a feast or a festival, making the exciting event seem sooner.

But the dreams had not been pleasant from the first.

Walking storms, inhumanly beautiful ice fairies, great monsters from the sea, and walking corpses. They wandered through her mind, without a heroic prince or beautiful kingdom in sight.

And when the dreams ceased, it was not for blank black of deep rest, but long expanse of time with her thoughts. She spend months and years alone in her own head. Remembering and thinking of every choice she made that led her to this point.

When her dreams of a handsome prince had been a distraction from the cold, drab life at Winterfell, they had shined through everything, but now she had nothing but her dreams. And she could see the truth.

They were nothing but dreams. Who was to say the prince who woke her would be handsome or heroic or brave. Perhaps her parents, desperate to wake her, would send for every king’s son that could be found, and offer her hand as a reward. Then their might simply be a line, and whoever happened to wake her first would get her.

He was only supposed to be a king’s son. But King’s could have all sorts of sons. Father’s three were all so different, but even still, they were all kind and handsome. But her history books were full of cruel kings who tormented young ladies, and surely they had been princes once, handsome or otherwise.

And a prince need not be an heir. He could just be a younger son, trying to stake a claim to something via his wife.

She could not know of him, make guesses of his character and see if he was pleased with her’s.

And true love. How on earth was anyone suppose to find true love with a sleeping girl.

Sansa had trained how to run a household. She knew how to plan a feast and entertain guests. Mother said she was clever and well spoken. Maester Luwin always complimented her on her lessons, save math. She had mastered her letters before Robb and Jon had, three years older. Her sewing was impeccable. She could sing, play the bells and the high harp. She could dance with a less graceful partner, and not once complain about her feet being stepped on. She could make a man a great wife.

But who could know that when he came to kiss her. Oh, if he came quickly perhaps her family or one of the staff who knew her at Winterfell could share the stories of her. But that would always end with how she pricked her finger on purpose like a selfish child. And in a hundred years all that made her her would be lost.

If a man were to fall in love with her now, only one thing could entice him.

He would just think her beautiful.

And though people had told Sansa her entire life that her beauty was her best feature. That it might be her only one was disheartening.

Her far off prince was not a comfort now. And what he had once distracted her from, she found herself longing for.

She missed her mother and her father and her siblings and her cousin. She missed Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel and Old Nan and Septa Mordane and Maester Luwin, everyone who made Winterfell work.

She missed curling up in front of a fire in the nursery at Old Nan’s feet, and hearing stories of the age of Heroes, and all the heroes in the ages since. She missed sitting in Mother’s chambers, in front of her silver mirror, and getting her hair brushed, listening to stories of a Riverland Princess’s youth. She missed sewing circles and gossiping girls. She missed the little sept and its little septon. She missed the godswood. She missed the bright courtyard, the full great hall.

She missed Arya’s taunts and Bran’s teasing.

She missed being awake.

She had once claimed the Kingdom of Winter was boring. That it was cold and hollow.

But there was nothing as boring, as cold, as empty, as her sleep.

Her only comfort, only sort of companion, was Lady.

She had had wolf dreams after getting the direwolf like the rest of them. But when they had realized what was happening, the ancient northern magic of skin changing, she alone had resisted it.

Bran had gotten so good before she slept that he could find a home in any animal. Arya liked to go into the cats and horses that filled Winterfell. Rickon was intimately familiar with all of the dogs in the kennels. Jon and Robb seemed resistant to exploring other animals. But they said they found Ghost and Grey Wind’s minds the most natural thing in the world.

But Sansa was not meant for the North the way the others were. She was always slated for a southern alliance marriage. And while a well behaved direwolf was not, to her young mind, objectionable, a skinchanger was.

Her wolf dreams faded. And they did not come back until she had nothing to do but sleep. Even then they seemed to take a long time. But she could feel Lady. Another being, sharing her mind just a bit. Small, but the whole world.

And then she could see through her eyes. She the trees of the godswood, smell the birds hiding in their nests, taste the cool water she sipped from a pond.

And slowly, over years it must have been, through Sansa had no way to mark time, she felt the control shift. She was not merely the passenger in the wheelhouse, she was the horse’s driver, and she led Lady every which way, eager to explore all of the home she so dearly missed.

And though she found the walls and the rooms just like in her imagination, everything was empty.

No family, no guards, no staff, no servants. Winterfell was clear of the people who made Winterfell.

She had known it was possible. Spells were bound into the very stones of Winterfell, spells that were so lost to time as to be next to useless to investigate, but her parents had been warned that whatever was in them would preserve her in her sleep, but might have dangerous effects on the rest of the household.

Those affects had driven everyone out.

She felt like a ghost some days. Haunting the empty halls of Winterfell.

But she did not stop. She would wander the grounds in a body that was not hers but was, sniff out the strange magics that swirled around. She learned all the nooks and crannies she had not known as a girl. Some were simply rooms once below her notice, servant’s quarters and storage areas, but also the armories and the blacksmith’s forge, things she’d have always left to her brothers.

In the servants hall she found something of an answer. Laid out on rows of small, but comfortable beds, rested 20 people. She recognized all of them by sight, but to her shame the names of several escaped her. But still, she knew Quent, and Cayn, and Desmond the guardsmen, and she knew Turnip the cook’s son, and Rey the assistant laundress, a page and three maids, Harwin the horse master’s son, Mikken the blacksmith. Ser Rodrik who had schooled her brothers in arms, and her poor dear Jeyne. All of them were victims of her spreading curse. They slept as surely as she did, in warm beds, in a room kept warm by a fire that flickered and popped, but never got any lower or any higher.

An entire little household, left to gather dust here, just like her.

She discovered leftover supplies from before the castle was abandoned, and the glass gardens just weeks away from being ready for harvest all kept by the same magic that is preserving her. Much had been cleared out when they had left because of the spreading sleep. They must have had a little time, but clearly not enough to strip it bare.

And no one had touched the library. And here, for the first time in however long it had been, Sansa found interest.

It only took her a few tries and a small handful ruined books to figure out how to read through Lady. And it was a worthy price. She read everything the maester’s left behind, everything that generations of Starks had to offer, assuming the hand was legible and the writing in a language she recognized.

She read histories she knew and histories she did not. She read about everywhere from Bravos to Asshai. She read of ship building and sea wall construction. Of architecture and crafting. And read books on numbers, though without much enthusiasm. She read about battles and strategies and weapons that she never wanted to see, much less wield. And she read about politics, about governing and ruling, about diplomacy and foreign relationships. Theories and practices, what Kings had tried and how they had failed. She read about taxes and the economy, of the North, of the West and the Vale, of Dorne and the Iron Islands. Of the Free Cities and the Dothraki. Sansa had always studied how to run the household. How to keep the King’s court going. The rest of it was his job. But she read and she wondered. And she hated that all this information would be lost on a prince that came to see her.

She learned the castle as well as Bran with his climbing ever did. Bran was only a boy, but she was a wolf, and she could scrape her way into anywhere she wished.

She went to the crypts some times, and stared at the faces of the old kings and the wolves at their feet. Lady always perked up at that. Like us, like us, she seemed to say in Sansa’s mind, though minus the grasp on human language.

Sometimes she stared at the statues of Grandfather and Uncle Brandon and Aunt Lyanna and wondered what time it was, she wondered if Father should have a statue as well, but was prevented one because of her curse.

In the crypts she made another surprise discovery, beyond her fellow victims. Far down, where once Robb and Jon had scared her so much as to make her cry, she found an empty crypt. Or, empty as far as not having a body. Instead she found treasure.

Literal treasure, gold and silver, jewels of all sorts, and large, colored stones to large to be any gem she knew of. What seemed like a ton of it. She wondered who had left it here, but its return to the king in the North would perhaps help to make up for the problems when youthful fancy had caused.

She went everywhere in Lady when she could, visited the other people and the library. But she also went and watched beyond the walls.

There was one spot in the battlements where she could see out to Jon’s little camp at the gates while in Lady’s skin. She watched his brown hair streak with silver, and then go completely white. She watched his shoulders slump and his spine bend. She watched as his little squire aged and was replaced and aged again. But still he stood guard, watching over her.

Her guilt, never low, threatened to drown her when she was reminded of what she had done to Jon. He should have been Robb’s right hand until some great act of bravery gained him a fife of his own and he had gotten himself a proper wife. He should have had a pretty daughter named Lyanna who was all the boys in the North wanted to marry, but who wanted to carry a sword like Arya or her grandmother. He should have had sons named Benjen and Eddard, after his uncle's, the most loyal of Robb and his son’s men.

He could have had it. And instead he stood outside the gate in the snow and the cold, watching and waiting, and eating up his life for her.

She wished she could tell her younger self that that was the most romantic thing about the entire experience. And mostly seemed to center on her dear cousin being cold.

She had been so so so sure it was an easy thing. A peaceful sleep and then awakened to a happily ever after.

She knew better now. But there was nothing for her to do but wait, and see if the new world she would wake up in would have a use for these lessons.

***

He woke up exhausted. He had to fight to keep his eyes open and to push himself from prone to at least sitting upright.

He rubbed at his eyes all the while, trying to blink away the…what was it, he’d been hit in the head, hard, by a sword hilt. He should be concussed, at the very least. And his broken rib should hurt, but though he could feel it, it felt like a well healing bruise.

Instead he was just trying to blink away the sleep. Though it was proving harder than it ever had before.

“I had hoped you would not be affected this quickly.” Came a deep, northern accented voice.

Jon looked up, and his world narrowed to what was in front of him. A heart tree, the heart tree in the Winterfell godswood, with a red haired man coming out.

He was younger then Jon by 90 odd years, in his 30s, maybe. With a strong face and a full beard. And achingly familiar features underneath.

“Bran?” Jon whispered, his sleep hoarse voice sounded off, but the hallucination was of a bigger concern.

“I am glad to see you, Cousin.” Bran said. And he was a man now, such a far cry from the last time Jon had seen him, 18 and desperate for the secrets that would save his sister. But he was only a man, not anywhere near the ancient creature he should have been, closer to Jon then a child.

“How,” was all Jon could say?

“The children’s magic is strange and complicated,” Bran told him, but he was smiling, “But I’m here, and you’re here now.”

Jon looked around. Ghost lay beside him, lazy, but eyes open, staring at him. This was Winterfell. This was his home. He could not see the castle through the trees, but it was there. He had not been inside its gates in something like a hundred years.

“I was outside the gates,” Jon said, stifling a yawn.

“Yes, Ghost found you knocked out, and brought you here.” Bran explained. “I was not sure you would wake up.”

Jon wondered if he meant because of the curse or because of his injuries. The knight had had little trouble with him.

The knight!

“Oh, No.” He said, and made to get up, Ghost seeming to glare at him at the very idea.

“What’s wrong?” Asked Bran.

“There was a knight.” Jon said, shaking his head, trying to clear the sleep that clawed at him. “Some would be heir to the Vale. He came for Sansa.” He looked at Bran. The last of her brothers, the last of the closest thing Jon ever had to the same. “I tried.” He said, plea and apology both, “I tried to stop him.” He had no defence however.

“It is not too late,” Said Bran, kindly. And it was strange, his voice reminded Jon of Robb as King, of Uncle Ned talking him through battle strategy. But something about the tone reminded him of Aunt Cat, when she’d been young, and kissed his scrapes and patted his head. Soothing

“It is,” Jon nearly cried. And he had not shed tears in so many years. But perhaps he could now. It was worth it. His failure to Sansa was worth it. “I’m old.” He said. He was old and the knight was young. He’d only left Jon alive because of that. Jon did not have the strength in his arms for any fight. He barely had the strength to keep his eyes open.

Sleep sounded lovely. Here in the godswood, where his mother and uncles had once played and prayed. Where he and his cousins had done the same.

He was old. He wanted to rest.

“Jon,” Bran called, “You can’t sleep.”

“I know,” He said, he could not sleep, he could only die. “I couldn’t save her, Bran. I thought maybe, maybe he was it. That he was the prince who was to wake her up. But he isn’t a King’s son. Sansa’s meant for a King’s son. She dreamed of it for years. She fell asleep for that. But he…”

Bran leaned a hand out, and brushed a hand, pale as the weirwood bark, but smoth as a babe’s over his face, “It is not too late, Jon.” Bran repeated, “Go, look in the pool.”

Jon looked at it, a pond of dark water that his Uncle had once used to clean his sword. He did not know what it mean.

He took a deep breath and made to stand up. It was not the struggle he had anticipated. His joins, long aching, seemed fresh. And he noticed no hunch pain in his spine as he shuffled to the pool.

He looked down into the water, smooth as a mirror, and nearly jumped back at what he saw.

For it was not him.

Or rather, it was, but a him from long past. His hair darkened back from white, his wrinkles and spots gone. His face as long as ever, but some of the harshness that had settled as he aged gave way to the gentleness of youth.

He looked young. Not just younger, but young. 19 or 20, like when Sansa had taken her curse and he had found himself on this path.

He stared at his hands, calloused from his sword and his woodwork, but free of age. He brought it up to touch his face, to feel what the lack of years their. His eyes were clear. His muscles felt strong.

He was alive and young.

When he turned back to Bran, the smug look on his face was so similar to Aunt Cat’s as to be jarring.

“You did this?” He asked, breathless with wonder, “You found magic.”

“I found magic,” Bran agreed. “The Old Gods and the Children of the Forest, a night dark, and full of terrors,” And Jon shivered just a bit at that idea, something omomas and from the past. A coming winter. “But that doesn’t matter, yet.”

Jon nodded, “But if you found magic, then that means you can save Sansa.”

“No,” Bran shook his head, “But their is no need.”

“No need?” Jon yawned, “Bran there's, there has to be something we can do to wake her up.”

“Their is,” Bran said, “It is Sansa’s 116th name day.”

Jon frowned, exact dates had stopped to mean terribly much a while ago.

“Sansa has been asleep for a hundred years, give or take a few hours.”

Something bubbled up inside Jon than, anticipation. Purpose. A future.

“She’ll wake up soon, then.”

“If she gets her kiss,” Bran said, a reminder as though Jon would ever forget.

“I can’t let it be the knight,” Jon said, he clenched his fist, but his sword was gone. The knight had admired it. Perhaps he meant to take it along with Jon’s cousin. He would find himself disappointed in both. “He’s merely a King’s cousin.” Even Jon was a King’s cousin, and a closer one then this knight, who could only claim a grandmother as a princess. “And he comes from Littlefinger.”

Bran frowned, “His power is coming to an end,” He promised, “He was never a great power, merely clever and unafraid of chaos.” He spoke with a great deal of confidence, “Once Sansa awakens, the last of those who fear him will be less afraid. And then he will find his defeat. But that is beyond us. Now, you must defeat his agent.”

“I can do that,” Jon said. Certain. “And then I will guard Sansa until her true prince will come. I shall not let anyone throw who is not what she was meant for, a King’s son, worthy of her.”

“You will not have to wait long.” Bran promised, “Her waker is here.”

That was surprisingly uncomforting, he looked back through the godswood, in the direction he knew to be the main gate. Who was out their, now, waiting to claim Sansa.

“I see.” He said. And he had been waiting for it for a hundred years, had been almost happy by the prospect mere minutes ago. But now it made him cold. And perhaps a little angry. “Well, then I will defeat our Ser Harry, and see him for myself.”

“I believe you already have,” Bran said, “Did you find him lacking.”

Jon, before today, had not seen anyone in days and days. “I’ve not seen a Prince of any kind in years.” Jon said, “You’re the closest.”

“And what of a King’s son?”

“Also you, this time, and the last.” Rickon had not come to Winterfell before he’d run off.

“You should look in the pool again,” Bran advised, and so Jon did, staring down at nothing but his own reflection.

“Is there some sort of divination I’m missing?” Asked Jon, he could see nothing, “There isn't anything here but me.” Young face, but dirty clothes and patched cloak. “What am I looking for.”

“The son of a King. The King of Rhaegar Targaryen and Princess Lyanna Stark to be exact.”

Jon nearly fell into the water, he whipped around and stared at Bran. “That’s completely different.”

“You are a king’s son, it's been a hundred years.” Bran said, “You need only kiss her to wake her up.”

Jon shook his head, “She’s suppose to be the Queen of some far off, Foreign Kingdom.”

Bran’s eyes went hard at that, “She is the last heir of our father,” He said, “it does not matter what she wished for as a child. What matters is what happens now. Now she must be the Queen of Winter. Winter is coming, I see things...the north needs a Stark to Rule it. And that duty falls to Sansa now. You must kiss her.”

“Its meant to be true love’s kiss,” He said, though it felt like treatory just speaking those words.

Bran smiled, “Jon, can you honestly say you think their is anyone in the entire world, who has ever loved Sansa more than you. You have stood outside her walls for a hundred years. You have given up everything for her. No one can doubt you or your love.”

Something light flooded his chest. It was something so freeing to hear. He loved Sansa.

“Go wake my sister, Prince Jon” Bran said, “And help her claim the North. I’ll see you again. Soon.”

It was a dismissal. But Jon believed him.

He was a king’s son, he loved Sansa, and he would wake her. What she would want after that was less clear, regardless of Bran’s thoughts. But she would be awake to make those choices.

But first he had to get rid of Littlefinger’s wood be king.

He took off in a run, as much to keep himself awake and to test the limits of his returned youth as to get to Ser Harry quickly.

Ghost was at his side.

He had not been far from Winterfell, and yet the halls had filled his dreams as though he were off at the Wall in the far north or something.

It looked the same as he remember in a general sort of way, but he had never seen the courtyard so deserted. Even when sneaking out late at night with Robb, there had been guards staffing the walls.

When he entered the great keep, he had to pause.

The hot springs that heated the walls were still working, and he knew in a moment that he had not been this warm in a century.

He felt calm, back home, and warm. Every rug he passed looked like just the place to curl up with Ghost for the rest of time.

He carried on.

The Keep was big, but Jon knew his way around, and knew exactly where Sansa was.

Ser Harry was clearly having more trouble.

Jon found him just inside the family wing, searching a room that had once been Uncle Benjen’s.

Ghost was silent beside him as they stalked behind the knight.

And when Ser Harry returned out of the room, he jumped a foot in the air when he saw Jon.

“No one else is suppose to be here.” He said, startled and clearly not recognizing Jon, though he clothing had not changed. Minus a shed cloak. Whatever he was thinking, however, the Knight quickly fell into a fighting stance, drawing his sword, though longclaw remained at his side. . “I do not know where you are from, but I got here first, and the Princess shall be mine.”

“Princess Sansa is meant for a King’s Son,” Jon announced, feeling bolder then he ever had before, “Not some Vale upstart.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed, and he looked at Jon’s empty belt, noticing the missing sword. He swept over Jon’s clothing more, trying to find a sigil or any other kind identification.

It meant that he did not notice the giant white direwolf until it had lept on him, forcing Ser Harry to crash ungracefully into the wall and dislodging the stolen sword in the process. Ghost darted away when a prone Ser Harry began slashing wildly. But Jon thought it was enough.

Jon raced into the space Ghost vacated. Ser Harry did not stop slashing, but his movements were not a sharp as Jon expected. Perhaps the spreading sleeping curse was affecting him as well.

Jon could feel exhaustion getting heavier, but still he raced forward, Sansa at the forefront of his mind.

And when his hands closed around longclaw, he was sure.

He retreated from Ser Harry’s reach as the knight righted himself, seeing no way to actually get him while he was down with his movements so erratic.

But a one on one duel, that Jon could do.

The knight lodged, but Jon met him blow for blow each time. The lighter dragon steel not weighing Jon’s tired arms down as much.

But he felt sleepier than Ser Harry looked, through the knight did yawn several times.

“The magic of the curse mixes with the magic of the castle,” Jon tried, “I don’t know if they have magic in the Vale beyond Littlefinger’s evil machinations, but here, it makes everyone inside the castle walls sleep.”

Ser Harry grunted to hide a yawn, but he seemed more furious with his sword aiming higher and harder.. Leaving it nearly to late for Jon to block.

Jon had been tracking Ghost out of the corner of his eye, as the wolf tried to find a place to strike, but Jon lost sight of him. When he pushed Harry back further down the hall, he was able to try a sidelong glance down the way they’d come, and found ghost curled in a corner, under a direwolf tapestry.

Sound asleep.

And Jon could feel the wolf’s rest in his very bones.

It sounded nice. Sleep did not come easily in his old age, but perhaps for a young man once again...

He tried to concentrate on the clashing of the metal, on the swing of both blades, on the twists and turns of the knight’s body.

But Ghost was so comfortable, now, and it flooded the back of Jon’s mind.

“I am not the one falling for the curse,” Ser Harry crowded, as Jon stumbled on his feet, taking several steps back, and barely having the wherewithal to protect himself when Harry lashed out.

“Lady?” Jon said, sleep thick in his voice, arms shaking as he took his sword in two hands, trying desperately to keep it up.

“I know there is no Lady behind me.” Ser Harry sneared, “And such tricks should be beneath any man who…”

He did not get to finish, because the wolf lunged for the throat.

Jon had known she was here, of course, but had figured she was a sleep as Sansa by now, but the way she tore into Ser Harry Hardyng’s shiny plate, and the velvet underneath said otherwise.

Sansa was not in her, Jon did not think. It had been decades and decades since he’d seen a direwolf with a human warg inside, but they all use to be able to tell, and Sansa was not participating in the savagery of her animal.

The blood covering the screaming man was a good thing to focus on, even as he sank to his knees. Even as Ghost’s sleep settled into all of his limbs.

Lady had been the good one, the calm, well behaved direwolf of the pack, but even seeing her take down a man was not enough to keep Jon’s eyes open. Not until he felt her growl in his eyes as he was preparing to lay down on the floor.

He forced them open again. And stared into her yellow eyes. No Sansa to be seen, but they were familiar all the same, and then she reached down, grasped his wrist in her teeth, and pulled hard, drawing Jon up, and pulling him back along the hallway, leaving Ghost and the knight’s corpse.

Jon was so tired, he did not realize where they were going until they turned a corner and were most of the way down the perpendicular hall.

But only one door was open, and that was the room that had been Sansa’s since she’d left the nursery.

He was here.

And Lady did not let up until she had dragged him all the way to Sansa’s bedside.

He had thought, after all these years, that the imagine in his mind was a lie.

No girl could be so beautiful as the Sansa who he remembered in his dreams.

He was wrong.

Her hair was the exact copper he remembered, her skin pale cream. Her features fine.

He he suddenly felt a mess.

He was in old rags and leathers, not washed and not maintained for anything beyond warmth. His hair, though returned to its youthful color, was too long and unkempt in the mirror hanging on Sansa’s wall. He was covered in sweat, and Ser Harry’s blood via Lady’s muzzle.

He was a bastard, meant to guard the princess, not worthy of her as a bride or a partner.

Sansa was the hope of the North, the last Stark in Winterfell. And Jon would do anything for her, but he could not make her the proper consort.

Lady jumped up on the bed, and despite her giant frame, she did not wake her mistress.

Sansa slept on peacefully, quietly, and still.

Jon wanted to sleep.

But Bran had given him a task.

And if he could wake her up, it would not matter if she did not want him. He was her’s however she wished him.

It took the last of his waking strength to bend down and rest his lips on hers. His were chapped and rough, but her’s where as soft as could be imagined. He wanted to explore them properly. To really taste her.

But the call of sleep was too great. He was on his knees again, his forehead resting on Sansa’s silk sheets. It was the most comfortable he could remember being in a while. And certainly the most warm. It would be the perfect place for a nap. The rush of sleep as his eyes closed as nearly as sweet as Sansa’s lips.

“Jon?”

All exhaustion feld from him in a moment. The voice too, was exactly has he remembered it.

He straightened up, and found himself level, for the first time in a hundred years, with a wide awake Sansa Stark. Her blue eyes, the ones she had shared with her mother and brothers, was staring at him with a kind of wonder he knew would soon be crushed.

But it was hard not to smile at her, even as he knew a more somber mood was needed for him to break the unfortunate news.

He stood and backed away from her bed as she sat up straight. As the furs fell back to reveal Sansa’s sleeping gown, he quickly glanced around the room for her dressing gown.

He saw it over her chair, and only paused for a moment when he went to retrieve it. His hands were dirty, not fit for her silk. But they needed to speak, and she needed to be properly dressed for it.

He handed over her robe silently, and she tried it up with her eyes firmly planted on his face.

“You’re so young.” She sounded more confused than unhappy, standing up and walking around, just around and around the room, while Jon stood stock straight, near the door.

He had not even considered that, but it was true. Jon looked like he had when Sansa had entered her sleep, minus a good scrub, decent clothing, and a much needed haircut. The family had made no secret of their desire to break the curse early. Though Sansa would know that if only Jon arrived at her waking, something was wrong.

“It has been a hundred years,” He said, “No one ever found a way to break the curse, you did not wake up early.”

“I know,” Sansa said, coming up to him, close, so very very close, and just staring at his face. “It's been a hundred years. How are you so young? And how did I wake?”

He took a deep breath, “I kissed you just now, and you woke up,” He said, there was nothing to do to lessen the blow.

“You?” Sansa whispered. And tears began to well up in her eyes

“Their is a lot I have to tell you,” He warned, “You should sit down.”

“I have rested enough.” Sansa said, “What do you have to tell me.”

“It has not been a good hundred years for the north, Sansa,” He said, “Uncle Ned, Aunt Cat, and Robb were killed in the Wars after you fell into sleep. Rickon disappeared in the political struggle that followed. Arya went off to find a prince who might break your curse.” And Jon had been outside the gate the whole time.”

“Bran?” Sansa asked. Eyes wide, the water in her eyes beginning to drip out.

He hated to crush her hope, and hoped that he would at least soften the blow, “Do you remember the wizard who altered your curse, who came from the heart tree?” Sansa nodded, “Bran went out to find a magical solution just as Arya went to find a prince. I do not know what he found, but he’s like that now. In the magic of the weirwoods. He did this to me.” He gestured at his face.

“You’ve seen him?” Sansa asked.

“Just once, just now, in the godswood. He told me to come wake you up.” She just nodded again, and so he had to continued, “The North’s fallen a bit apart since then,” He admitted, “I’m so sorry. I know all you wanted was to be woken up a handsome prince and go to his great, far off kingdom. But the North, we need your here. Sansa, you can’t go off and be some foreign queen, because you have to be the Queen of Winter now.” Such a burden. Robb as a boy had often felt nearly crushed beneath it, he hated to put it on Sansa now, but there was nothing to be done.

Her tears had been growing steadily, but as his proclamation, she let out a sob and nearly collapsed in his arms. He grasped her tightly to him, trying to whisper apologize into her hair.

“I knew they’d be dead” She said into his chest “a hundred years, of course they would be.But If I hadn’t...I, I so was wrong, I know I should not have, I should not have dreamed up, whatever my stupid fantasy was. I am sorry I wanted it.”

“No,” he said sharply, “You were a child, promised magic and love, of course you wanted it.” Jon would have wanted it too. “I’m sorry you do not get your dreams come true.”

And he was. Sansa had walked into this, had given up her youth for this, and she did not even get it.

She pulled back then, her cheeks tearstained but her eyes more clear. “Children of six and ten rarely know what they want, let alone what reality is and what’s best for them. I just got myself in a situation I could not get out of.”

“Nothing about that was your fault,” Jon said, he had not carried much of a handkerchief in a long time, but he reached into a pocket and removed the scrap of fabric their. Sansa took it, and then nearly dropped it when she realized what it was. The 2/3rds is a running gray direwolf on a white field, a drop of red blood turned brown doting it. “Littlefinger and The Three Eyed Crow, they set you on a path that was not fair.” He shook his head, “Nothing about this is fair, Sansa. I am sorry for that. But you have to be the Queen in the North, no one else can do it.”

Sansa smiled, and looked out at the window, “I do not think there is anywhere in the world I would rather be than Winterfell.” When her eyes returned to him, they had the tenderst look to them. And Jon breathed a sigh of relief. She was alright here, in their home.

“You kissed me.”

“Bran said it would work,” Jon said, she was not in his arms anymore, but he was so aware of where she was.

She gave him a long look. “It was supposed to be true love’s kiss delivered by a king’s son that woke me.” Perhaps she had forgotten his particular lineage, reminding her would not be fun. “Do you love me, Jon?”

It was not at all what he expected her to say. And he could not find his voice to explain. But Sansa had no such trouble, “Because I love you.”

He gaped at that.

“Please do not look so surprised.” She said, she walked right up to him again, and brought a delicate hand down his face. He had not felt such a tender touch in a long while. “There is a spot in one of the towers, a window low enough that Lady could see out of it, and the Tower tall enough to give a good look at just in front of the gate. I use to slip into her skin and watch you for hours, sometimes. First with all your men, and then those poor servingboys, and then just you. I watched your hair turn white and your shoulders stoop.” She threaded her fingers through his renewed brown locks, tugging just lightly, teasing and lovely. “Day in and day out, through everything, waiting and watching and guarding me. The promise of everything I had ever knew about you. How could I not love you?” And she had tears again, but perhaps they were the kind Aunt Cat use to term happy tears, “Do you love me, Jon?”

“My sweet lady,” He said, overcome with the thought of it all, “How could i have any feelings towards you that were not utter adoration.”

He caught the look of joy on her face before she threw herself at him.

Her arms wrapped themselves around his shoulders and she brought his mouth to her’s this time. But this time, he returned it. He opened his mouth to her, and as his tongue met her’s, he knew the taste was far better then sleeping might have been.

He pulled her tighter to him. Her nightgown and robe were so thin, he could feel her soft body through the material, and he began rubbing his hands up and down her sides, enjoying the shiver it produced.

She pulled her head back then, though not removing that arms grasped around his neck. He made to move towards her neck, but she shook her head.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” She said, and her blue eyes were blown black with desire.

It was a heady image.

He released her and her hands dived into the ties at his belt.

Lady let out a cry. And they turned to the open door to see Ghost had woken up and joined them.

Lady leapt off the bed and went to her brother. And the sight of two of the wolves back together warmed Jon’s long frozen heart.

Still, the wolves did nothing to deter the desire coursing through his veins. And he turned back to Sansa to continue.

The scream did, and he had his sword drawn when the running footsteps in the call stopped outside the door.

Jeyne Poole stood in the doorway, look at them both with wide brown eyes.

“You’re awake,” She and Sansa cried at the same time.

“Is everyone?” Jon asked. Jeyne seemed to start at the sight of him.

“Yes,” She nodded, “At least I think so.” She bit her lip, staring at Jon. “Unless anyone feel asleep after me.”

Sansa and Jon shared a look. Jeyne could not know the particulars about what happened after she fell asleep.

“There's a lot to discuss,” Sansa said, with an air of authority that sat around her shoulders naturally. “Can you make sure everyone is in,” she paused, thinking about something, “The Lord’s solar, I think, in about half an hour. A great deal has happened and we all need to speak.”

Jeyne nodded with a bemused kind of aquesance, turning to go before wiping back around. “Their’s a body in the hall,” She said.

“A would be prince, sent by Littlefinger for the nefarious purpose of gaining our Princess.” Jon explained, and both Sansa and Jeyne looked gaped at him for an uncomfortable second.

“Don’t look at me,” He countered, “Lady’s the one that killed him.” He nodded to where she was still playing with Ghost like they were puppies, the blood was clear on her muzzle, “We’ll take care of the body after everyone knows what’s happened.” He promised.

“But wasn’t a Prince suppose to…” She looked at Jon with a sort of renewed interest.

“Please Jeyne,” Sansa cut in, “We have a lot to do today.”

It was getting to be late afternoon already. And the inhabitants of the Winterfell might be all caught up on sleep, but he had not had a decent rest in ages. He wondered what Sansa had in store.

Jeyne seemed convinced by Sansa’s address, and left with a confused sort of courtesy.

“Would be Princes savaged by my wolf?” Sansa asked with a raised eyebrow, “I suppose you have quite a story to tell.”

“I have something,” Jon conceded, “but apparently we have a lot to do today.”

“Yes,” Sansa said, and shucked off her robe on the way to her dresser, pulling it open and quickly pulling out a grey day dress. She removed her nightgown too, revealing her thin shift to Jon, before rooting around for other things she needed. “I have to get changed.” She told him. Looked him up and down, “And so do you, you need a bath as well, but I don’t think we can manage that before we meet with everyone.” She waved a dismissive hand.

“I could find myself a bath while you speak to everyone,” He offered.

“No, no,” She shook her head as she began arranging her outfit on her bed. “I need you their. We’re going to speak to our new household Jon, you know how important that is.”

“Our what?”

“Our household,” Sansa said, “You remember that. You mean to have me be Queen, and I mean for us to rule the North. No matter how good you might be with your sword, nor how many books I might have read on the proper governing of a kingdom, we cannot do it alone. We will start with the people already in our castle.” She said our so freely. Like they were already type of unit.

“Of course,” Jon said, because he understood the theory, even though he was still a big unclear on her actual plan. “I can take a bath afterwards.” And then, perhaps, Sansa could join him.

“No,” Sansa shook her head, “After we speak to everyone, we’ll take Ser Rodrik, Jeyne, maybe a few others with us to the heart tree. We can’t get married without witnesses.”

“What?”

“Then we’ll have to consider the food, and see what we can eat over the next few days.” She walked back over to him, taking his hands in her’s and staring up into his eyes. “Then we’ll see if we can’t get someone to take some sympathy on the poor newly weds, and get us a bath.” She reached up and kissed him again. Before shoving him in the direction of the door. “Now go make yourself presentable.”

“Yes, Princess,” At her unhappy growl, sounding like came from Lady instead of her mistress, he corrected himself, “Yes, Sansa.”

“Good,” She shewed him away. “We have a lot to do today. It’s been years. That’s a long time. But I know somethings ever change. And Winter is still coming.”

Jon wondered if they might get Bran to come out of the tree again, “It's a good thing their is a Stark in Winterfell, again, then.”