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“I have to be the one to go,” Jon says, voice heavy like the falling snow in the Winterfell courtyard. Sansa’s eyes are all worry and pleading as she asks him to send a raven, send a knight, send a barmaid for all she cares. Just don't leave her alone.
She is still not used to being home and being safe, he knows, because her quarters are next to his and he hears her in the middle of the night when she wakes, shaking with muffled sobs she doesn’t tell anyone about, not even him.
They have had so much time together, to bond and laugh and grow. Bran came to give them the news of Jon's parentage and it destroyed everything because he was no longer her brother and those lingering looks started to mean something more… but even now, Jon does not want to address that for fear that it will tear sunder the fresh wounds that have already mended twice over. There is so little in him that trusts anyone, but he has Tormund and Davos and Sansa, always Sansa, by his side. They will support the North while he is gone, and at least one part of his heart is safe. Jon looks Sansa over and wonders, will the rest of my heart be?
“I can’t be alone, not again.” Her blue eyes lower to the ground, cheeks reddened by the cold. And by the sadness. Jon clenches his fists because all he wants is to pull her in his arms and tell her he'll be safe, promise to return. But those are promises that he isn't sure he can keep.
Not twenty paces from where he bloodied Ramsay Bolton’s face, his horse is saddled and ready for the journey ahead. From the place where he clasped Petyr Baelish in irons for touching his sister, now his cousin. Ghost sits besides the mount, ready to be on their way. He hates that he does this to her, that he's the one to hurt her now. But Jon must go south to face the truth and his aunt.
Sansa’s voice is soft and sad, not the same as when she holds court so confidently, a true Queen in the North. But all of her grandeur disappears when she lets her fear seep through and whispers, “What if you don’t make it back?”
“You know it has to be me. I’m my father’s son, and the Night’s Watch’s Lord Commander besides. Daenerys won’t believe what anyone else tells her.” Jon puts his finger under her chin, lifts her eyes up to meet his own. “And you won’t be alone, not with your cousin here and Lord Royce and Tormund and Brienne.”
“It’s not the same.” She steps back from his touch. “They aren’t family. And with Bran gone again, I can’t bear to lose you.”
“We’re all lost without her men, and without her dragons. Ravens would do for the dragonglass and dragonsteel. But not for something so important as their fire.” He breaths out a heavy sigh, air frozen the moment it leaves his lungs. The nights are shorter now, the world a colder place. Winter has truly come. “Take care of the castle and winter town. The people of the North look to you for guidance, Sansa. I’ll return soon as I may.”
He thinks to take her head in his hands and give her a parting kiss upon her brow, but she shies away from his touch. Tears freeze against her eyelids and she quickly dabs them away with her gloved hand. “Be safe, Jon, please.”
“Are you ready, my lord?” The captain of his traveling troupe inquires. Jon gives a stiff nod and lifts himself into the seat of the saddle.
“Farewell, my lady.”
He sees his family in every corner of Winterfell and winter town, ghosts haunting the courtyard and the village well. Theon and Robb, waiting for him to join them at the tavern; Rickon and Bran, wrestling with their wolves; Arya, gazing on wistfully as the boys crossed blades and joining in when her parents weren't looking; Lady Stark watching over his father when Eddard left to carry out justice to a Watch brother who abandoned his vows.
He waits on the edge of winter town, gazing on the castle that is home and always has been home. With a pang, he realizes the red-haired image he thought he imagined on the battlements is not Lady Stark, or at least not Catelyn. Curled up under her dark furs but still identifiable but her flame of hair, Sansa watches over him.
His heart pounds inside his chest, pushing him back to where it belongs. Jon turns his horse around, and kicks it into a gallop towards the gate.
“My Lord!” A traveling companion calls after him, but Jon doesn’t turn to see which man shouted after.
In the Winterfell courtyard, he dismounts gracelessly and hands the reigns of the horse to a frightened stable boy. Jon pushes past a pair of soldiers and tramples up the wooden stairs, breathing heavy from his sprint.
Sansa turns, her blue eyes wide and her red hair crowned by glistening snowflakes. “Jon?”
She is bewildered as he takes her into his arms and pulls her close to his chest. Her hair is scented with juniper and it drives him more in his search for his warmth. He embraces her and smiles as her arms wind their way around his body. She pulls against him tight, clutching at the fur of the cloak she made him. Her body fits there perfectly, because they are two halves of one soul. Jon Snow was reborn from the Lord of Light's Fire, but he only came alive from Sansa's fire. From her warmth and her love. She burrows her face against him and he nestles against the small exposed skin of her neck.
“I’ll miss this, Sansa, more than you can know.” He pulls back and grips her face between his hands. He rubs his gloved thumb across her cheek and Sansa shivers. Her eyes meet his, her gaze careful and steady.
“Of course. Winterfell is home.”
“Only if you’re here.” He admits, and angles his head to hers.
Her lips meet his, a burst of warmth amongst the cold of the winds and snow. Jon tilts her head and runs his other hand through the loose strands that hang beneath her complicated braid. Sansa’s lips are almost as sweet as she is. He loses himself in her, this dream the one he’s dreamt for so long. She is soft and delicate against him, but that is all a facade hiding the rage and fire beneath her armor.
There is a hunger to Sansa's kisses, urgent and demanding. Jon is happy to acquiesce to her and bend to her will. His hands move from her shoulders to her lower back, holding her up as he presses her against the wall of the battlements. Here, they are hidden from their people and they let themselves relax in each other's arms. Jon presses his lips hard against Sansa's and she kisses right back. The warmth fills Jon so much that he thinks he could walk naked from the wall to the Neck and not need any clothing to keep him from death by frostbite. She pulls at his hair, gentle and just enough, and Jon surprises them both with his near-moan. Sansa nearly laughs through their connected lips. Jon kisses her greedily to keep her delicious sound away from the rest of the world.
Finally, Sansa pulls away, breathless and smiling like a child with sweets for the first time.
Jon realizes this may be the first kiss she's had and wanted, between Joffrey and Ramsey and Tyrion and Littlefinger. That makes him sad and leans in to kiss her quick and gentle one more time.
Sansa’s cheeks are apple red, a warmer, happier color than before, and her tousled hair falls across her back. Her fingers reach out and entangle around his own. With her other hand, she tugs the thick ribbon out of her hair, releasing the two braids on the side of her head. She looks like a maiden in a song, warm from kisses and free from worry. At least for now, they have this.
“I love you, Sansa Stark. I could not leave without letting you know, for fear I’d never get to say it.”
"I love you, Jon Snow." She clasps his face between her hands. "And you must come back to me so you can say it and hear it again."
Sansa holds out a grey square of cloth, but then draws back as her cheeks darken more in a blush. “Will you wear my favor, Jon?.”
He almost laughs but bites it back at the serious look upon her face.
"I know its silly, but…" She smiles, small and timid. :I'll do better, knowing it is safe with you."
“Of course.” He accepts the favor. His thumb traces the carefully embroidered direwolves- six of them, their whole family together again. The way things should be. “I’ll be home soon. I’ll find you, wherever you may be, Sansa.”
“Leave now then, for the sooner you’ll be with me again.” She steps up and places another kiss on his lips, gentle and delicate. “My prayers are with you. Godspeed.”
She escorts him back to his horse, and lets him hold her once more. Jon leaves her, the ribboned cloth tucked against his chest. Even if he didn’t look back, which he does, he knows that Lady Stark would be watching over the man she loves and awaiting his return.