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Sansa knew what her people said about her among themselves.
Gods help Her Grace. It’s like she’s a ghost, wandering the land of the living, searching for passage to what comes after.
Aye, it mustn’t be easy being queen. She works too hard.
But she’s always worked hard! I’m telling you, something happened down south…the horrors of the sacked capital, maybe. It’s not since the Boltons held the north that she’s looked so wretched.
Sansa’s penchant of staring out at the northern horizon from Winterfell’s battlements in the little free time afforded her only added fuel to fires of their concern.
She paid it no heed. If ever a grievance about ill treatment, or a shortage of food, or an absence of justice came to her notice, then she would worry. For now, her subjects were on the path to recovery. The food stores would last the winter, the wounded were recuperating, and repairs to homes, shops and offices destroyed during the Long Night were due to finish soon.
She would ensure her bannermen and the smallfolk returned to a life of peace without any southern meddling. They would live to see another spring. What they thought of her beyond of her capabilities as their trusted governor, she did not care.
Long ago, she had sworn an oath to herself: If I am ever queen, I will make them love me. This was her life’s purpose. She was good it, and there was no doubt in her mind she would uphold her oath and take care of the north until the end of her days.
And yet she did not share the hope she cultivated in her people. No matter how deep she immersed herself in her duties everything felt hollow. It numbed her to the present, and cast an unending shadow on the future.
What about happy? What do you want that you do not have?
While hostage in King’s Landing, she had wanted to come home. Then when she did as Ramsay Bolton’s wife, she wanted to be free. When they reclaimed Winterfell, the only thing she wanted was…
Her eyes burned with tears every time her mind articulated it.
A family.
Her siblings with her in the castle as they’d been before.
And a husband. Someone who was brave, gentle and strong. A man who would fill her womb with a whole litter of Starklings. A man with a singular face—the same solemn, yet endearing face whose memory lanced her heart at every turn.
She missed Jon. She missed him when he’d gone to Dragonstone with a promise to return. And now, with him banished to the Wall, when there was no telling if she would ever see him again, if he would ever want to see her again, she did not know if ‘missing’ was an apt word for how she felt. When she watched him sail away from King’s Landing, a part of her had collapsed into a heap of unsalvageable rubble
She kept sifting through the tangled web of events leading up to the negotiations at the Dragon Pit, searching for something, anything, that she could have done differently. That would have secured Jon’s return home. How could Bran and Tyrion pass Jon’s sentence knowing what would have happened if he hadn’t killed her? And Jon…did he blame her? Gods, what if the mere thought of her filled him with hatred?
Perhaps she deserved it.
Guilt and anger. At the world. At herself. It was all she knew when she was alone. That and the pitiful dream of a spring she could never have. It drained her till there was nothing left. They were right—she was a ghost of her past self. Of the woman she was when Jon was by her side, when the promise of him still lingered in Winterfell’s corridors.
***
Winter drew out for another year and a half. News of civil unrest in the south arrived on the heels of spring and its first harvest. With it came a summons from King’s Landing for Jon.
…King Bran requires a military leader capable of inspiring unity among the six kingdoms and, if necessary, convincing the Crownland armies to take up arms against the rebels. Jon Snow will be granted pardon if he lends his aid to maintain peace in the realm.
Tyrion Lannister,
Hand of the King
Sansa had to set the scroll down several times before finishing. To have the gall! Her first instincts had been right. Jon would have been the right person to rule over the six kingdoms. Tapping the rolled scroll on her desk, she considered her course of action. This was Jon’s choice. There was a royal pardon on offer. But the notion of sending him south again to serve the interest of men like Tyrion…she could not do that.
Picking up a quill, she scratched a reply to Tyrion:
The North will remain impartial to upheavals south of its borders lest its protection is requested to defend its allies in the Vale to the Riverlands. As Jon Snow is currently in exile in the North, it is forbidden by the northern mandate to acquiesce to your request.
Sansa Stark,
Queen of the North
Something occurred to her as she set out to send her raven. On the way to the rookery, she arranged for a ranger to head out to the Wall.
***
Climbing up a rise, Jon beheld the new settlement the free folk had erected in the New Gift. It was warmer now. Most of the cooking was done outside to keep the hearths cool and free of smoke. A small smile tugged at his lips as he watched a girl kissed by fire and a dark-haired boy snake past the flickering cookfires scattered through the settlement to join a group of their friends where they played.
It still amazed him that the living could live beyond the Wall once more. That he had lived to see it happen. There was so much to be proud of—perhaps the resilience of the freefolk, most of all—yet his smiles never bloom fully. The moment always slipped past before it could stir anything akin to warmth in him.
In spite of being free of the south’s rigid titles and customs, its violence and intrigue; and being surrounded by people who treated him as an equal, something always felt amiss. He was at peace but not happy, and the fissure between the two widened with every passing day.
For the first time in his life he was free to choose whatever he wanted to be, yet he trudged through life, from one day to the next, a man without purpose.
His mind wandered to the man he’d believed was his father his entire life—the man he wanted to be when he grew up. When he was young, Jon thought that it entailed being a lord. As he grew older, he realized it was much simpler than that: He just longed to be a husband, and wanted a gaggle of children who would play by the fire as he watched them from nearby, his lady wife’s hand in his.
Tormund never missed an opportunity to remind him he could have a version of that if he pulled his head out of his arse. He was not bound by the vows of the Night’s Watch. He could steal one of the free women. Gods knew there were enough who were eager to oblige. Perhaps they wouldn’t object to naming their son Robb.
But Jon couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not when his every step was haunted by a radiant face crowned with hair that burned like liquid fire when it winter snow kissed it. His heart lurched painfully every time he thought of her. He was surprised it had not wrung itself dry and killed him yet.
He wondered what could have been if he’d learned the truth about his parents sooner, when the seas were calmer. He wondered what he would have done if things had gone differently in the south, and he could have gone home. Not only were his days without purpose. They were spent drowning in endless possibilities that would never be.
His heart gave another painful lurch as he remembered Sansa’s tear-streaked face at the harbor in King’s Landing. She may not have wanted him the way he wanted her, but she loved him. She believed in him. And she didn’t want him to leave her.
He could’ve begged Bran to pardon him. The Unsullied would leave eventually, and Robert Baratheon had pardoned Jaime Lannister, had he not? But, after spending months in a southron prison, he couldn’t take it anymore. He didn’t want to be a kinslaying Targaryen who couldn’t fuck his aunt to stop the massacre of a million people. He couldn’t face Sansa after what he’d been complicit to.
And now? Had he made a mistake?
Yes and no. But what was done was done. There was no going back.
***
When a ranger from Winterfell arrived at the Gift out of the blue, Jon broke into a cold sweat.
“Sansa…is she all right?” His throat was parched.
“Yes, Your Grace…I mean my lord…I mean, Jon…ser.” The ranger composed himself. “Her Grace is in good health and the northern country fares well too. I’ve been sent to summon you to Winterfell.”
Jon’s heart leapt to his throat. “What for?”
“Her Grace did not say, ser. Only that you are needed in Winterfell immediately.”
Clenching his fists, Jon drew a sharp breath. “Is she getting married?”
Eyes widening, the ranger jerked his head back. “N-no. At least, I don’t think so.”
Jon nodded and turned to Tormund for his opinion. The latter registered the look of relief that washed over Jon’s features and shrugged. It was up to Jon.
Though his decision was set in stone, he still took a moment. “All right,” he finally said, “we ride out in the morning.”
***
Excited chatter followed Jon from the outskirts of Wintertown to Winterfell’s East Gate.
“It’s good to see you, Lord Snow.”
“The North remembers, Lord Snow.”
If they knew who he really was, what he had done, why he had been missing so long, they did not show it. They seemed…happy to see him.
Did they still see him for the man he’d been before he went south?
The courtyard was in confused disarray when he trotted his mount through the gate. A shocked stillness spread around him. Upon dismounting, he flashed everyone a close-lipped smile.
Sansa came bounding out of the castle, the skirt of her pale blue dress rucked up to her ankles, and her fiery hair cascading down her back. She skidded to a halt, her mouth slack with disbelief and eyes glistening in the hope they weren’t deceiving her. Jon’s breath caught as he took her in. She was even more beautiful than he remembered, like a faerie from a song. Everything he had suffered when he went south—every indignity and every trauma—all of it seemed worth it to see her thriving like this.
Words evading him, Jon gulped. “You summoned me, Your Grace.”
Lips quivering with the beginnings of a smile, Sansa ran into his arms and wound her own around him. “I didn’t think you’d come.”
“I wouldn’t think of disrespecting my queen like that.” He drew away and drank her in. “It suits you…being queen.”
Her fingers came up to play with his loose curls. Remembering herself quickly, she redirected them to tuck her hair behind her ears. “Come. You’ll want to wash and rest.”
Pulling away, she straightened to her full height and folded her hands behind her back as was her queenly manner, and led him inside.
***
Dinner that evening in the Great Hall was a jovial affair. The Hall was emptier than when Jon had seen it last after the Long Night, but the general atmosphere, the way he was treated remained the same. The north may have been suspicious of the last living Targaryen, but it remembered. Jon still commanded its respect.
As the hour grew late, Jon and Sansa left their guests to their revelry and withdrew to Sansa’s study to discuss the reason behind Jon’s summons.
“They sentenced me to the Night’s Watch, Bran and Tyrion,” he nearly growled after reading the scroll from Tyrion. His voice grew hoarser and louder with every word. “On the word of a foreign army’s commander. After I did what I had to protect the realm. After they left me with no other choice.”
Sansa’s face was unreadable. “They’re offering you a pardon.”
“I’m done fighting. It’s what I’ve done all my life. I did my part. I protected the realm from the Night King. No more.”
“Good,” Sansa said softly. She considered her next words. “Because…because I’ve already sent a raven telling Tyrion you won’t be going.”
Jon’s jaw tightened. He looked at Sansa through narrowed eyes. His time in the south had made him suspicious of everyone. Even Sansa, it seemed.
“I told them you’re under the North’s protection,” she elaborated. “And that the North will not entangle itself in their infighting.”
Slumping against his seat in relief, Jon stared at her. “But then…you summoned me anyway?”
“I—” Her gentle blue eyes implored him to see something. Lowering them to look at her hands, she said, “I missed you, Jon. Not a day goes by that I don’t wish you were here.”
Speechless, Jon licked his lips. His heart had swelled so much, he could feel it pressing against his throat.
The prolonged silence spurred Sansa to say more. “It’s such a large castle and I suppose…I suppose I miss having someone to quarrel with, and be silly with, drinking ale. There’s not many people a queen can be herself with. Even the likes of Alys Karstark are distant now, even though we’d been free enough around one other as children.”
Jon drew a deep breath. The freefolk had taken him in as one of their own. Yes, they japed about his southron roots and still called him ‘little crow’ and ‘turncloak’ but he certainly never felt isolated. He could not imagine how miserable the past two years were for Sansa.
“I don’t know if I’d have been much help, brooding as I do in the corner,” he joked.
Sansa chuckled. “Still…it’s good to have you back.”
But he couldn’t stay long. She needed another solution. Steeling himself and masking his jealousy, Jon said, “Perhaps it’s time to consider a husband. A good lord without a title who’ll be glad to take the Stark name.”
Sansa did not blush. Nor did his suggestion incense her as it would have done Arya. She looked crestfallen. And it hurt him to see her so.
“It won’t be as it was before,” he tried assuring her. “We can find you a good lad. Someone who’ll give you the love and respect you deserve. Someone who’ll be a good father to your children.” The words were thousand knives to his heart.
“Yes,” Sansa said, refusing to meet his gaze. “I suppose it’s time to start thinking about the future of House Stark.” She took a sudden interest in the rafters above. “And what about you? Have you stolen a fierce free woman yet?”
A melancholy smile tugged at Jon’s mouth. “No.”
Sansa stiffened. Her brows pulled together as she confirmed something with herself. Then, staring sadly into the fire before them, she said, “You really did love her, didn’t you? Daenerys.”
Lips clamping together in disgust and anger, Jon reached out, grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. “Is that what you’ve been thinking all this time?”
“I don’t know,” Sansa surrendered, all emotion drained from her. “You never answered me when I asked why you bent the knee”
“We needed allies.” He tried not to jostle her despite the overwhelming urge. “Then after, there was no reasoning with her. Isn’t that what you did with Joffrey? Pretend to love him to survive? Gods, Sansa, I thought if anyone would understand, it’d be you.”
“Then why didn’t you say anything?” Her voice broke. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Why didn’t you defend yourself when they sentenced you? Why did you tell everyone what you did was wrong?” She barely got the last words out. “Why did you abandon me?”
Jon tried to wipe the tears away, but there was no stopping them. “Sansa, I…I can’t explain. I wasn’t myself in that prison. Ssh…please I can’t see you like this.”
Her sobs intensified. He knelt before her and wrapped her balled fists in his hand.
“Sansa, you have to understand. I was the last living relative to a monster who’d slaughtered a city of a million. I’d lain with my aunt. I was…I am a queenslayer and kinslayer. I remember the foul talk that followed Jaime Lannister when he came north all those years ago. I didn’t defend myself because I knew I’d suffer a fate far worse if I stayed on.”
“That’s not true. You’re a Stark. You’re Jon. You’re my Jon.”
Unable to stop his own tears, Jon bowed his head to press ardent kisses to her knuckles.
“Please don’t leave me again,” Sansa said. “Please.”
She was shaking her head when he looked up at her.
“I haven’t got a choice.”
“Of course, you do.” Freeing her hands, she cupped his face. “I’ll protect you, I promise.”
Her sincerity knocked the wind from his lungs. But he knew better than anyone: No one could really protect anyone. Still his head tilted up as hers drew closer.
“Sansa,” he warned meekly.
She slid down to join him on the floor. “Would it be so terrible, Jon…if I gave you the Stark name?”
His lips parted in disbelief, yet his hands came to rest on her hips.
“You’d make such a wonderful father and…and perhaps, you could learn to love me.” Her voice cracked. “As I’ve loved you since you left for Dragonstone.”
He said nothing.
Disappointment marring her features, Sansa let her hands fall from his face and made to move away.
Jon held her in place by the waist. “My sentence.”
“The north is independent of Bran’s rule.”
“Sansa…”
“It’s up to you.” She mustered a heartbroken smile. “If you choose to leave come morning, I won’t stop you. Just as I wouldn’t have stopped you if you’d decided to claim the Iron Throne.”
Jon pressed the small of her back, pulling her closer till her ragged breaths caressed his face. “You love me?”
Sansa nodded, bravely meeting his eyes.
His face lit up with an awestruck grin as he pressed his lips to Sansa’s. She relaxed under his touch and kissed him back. Winding her arms around his neck, she bathed him in years of yearning and unspent affection. They both groaned when Sansa pulled away.
“You accept, then?”
He laughed into her lips, drunk on euphoria. “Yes,” he ghosted his lips over hers, “if you see a way, I accept.”
***
Within a moon’s turn, all six kingdoms and the Citadel received the same missive:
By decree of the Queen of the North, Jon Snow is pardoned from his banishment within Northern borders for slaying the invader, Daenerys Targaryen. He has not taken the Night’s Watch vow a second time, and is, therefore, free to marry the eldest daughter of the late Eddard and Catelyn Stark, Sansa, whereupon he will renounce his Targaryen name for Stark and remain under his wife’s protection until the end of his days.