Chapter Text
…
The instant Sansa stood from the table, Jon knew. He could feel her presence leaving and even in the Hall, crowded with people in every available space, he could still smell her past the food and spilt drinks and the odor of too many bodies in too warm a room and once she walked away, that scent got fainter immediately.
And sure enough, when he turned from Daenerys back to where Sansa was just sitting, he saw the back of her, walking away. He told himself to not follow her with his eyes as she moved through the crowd – watching her would be far too obvious to anyone watching him, and he knew exactly who was watching him – and yet, he wanted to know where she was going and why she had left the chair next to him.
It seemed like she could hardly take more than a step before someone was stopping her, wanting to speak with the Lady of Winterfell, and Sansa had a smile and kind word for everyone. Jon noticed the way everyone stood a little taller when she was around; as if they wanted to appear their very best whenever they were around her.
They all loved her.
Jon couldn’t blame them.
But he wasn’t the only one to notice.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Daenerys sitting, ramrod in her seat, staring after Sansa with sharp eyes and a thin line across her lips. Jorah stood behind her and as if he could read his Queen’s mind, he leaned down and whispered something in her ear. Jon felt his stomach tighten, only imagining the words being said.
“To the Lady of Winterfell!” Tormund’s booming voice suddenly carried over the noise in the Hall, raising his horn above his head, some of the drink spilling out over the edges. “She keeps our bellies full and the fires burning and we’d all be dead long before now if it wasn’t for her!”
Jon nearly closed his eyes at the speech and dared another glance towards Daenerys as roars and cheers of agreement rose from the Hall from everyone in attendance, fists banging on tables and feet stomping on the floor, causing such a noise, Jon could feel it vibrating in his chest. And in the middle of it all, Sansa stood, her cheeks pink – whether from the praise and attention or from the heat of the room, Jon didn’t know – and a glowing smile across her face, almost laughing.
She looked beautiful and Jon knew he wasn’t the only one in the Hall that night that saw what he did. His stomach tightened now for an entirely different reason when he tried to tell exactly which men were looking to Sansa with a gleam in their eye; to his cousin.
She wasn’t his sister. She was his cousin. She had always been his cousin. All the way back at Castle Black when Jon felt the first signs of knotting in the pit of his stomach whenever she was near, she had been his cousin then, too. Of course, Jon hadn’t known that then and had felt shamed at his deep level of perversion.
A brother did not look at his sister and feel stirrings in his belly. He wasn’t a Lannister.
But Sansa wasn’t his sister. She was his cousin. He had as much right as any other man in the Hall to look at her that night as she moved through them all, thanking them all with smiles as warm as the fires in the hearths. Maybe he had even more right than any of them to look at her.
As if she could sense his thoughts and his eyes, Sansa turned then to look at him. Jon wished he could smile at her and raise his cup in a toast to her as well, but he couldn’t. He was being watched, too. After a moment of keeping his blank face and empty eyes on her, Sansa’s own smile began to fade and she turned away once again. Something in Jon sank and he looked down to his cup, trying to ignore it.
Things had been tense between them – to put it lightly – since he had returned to Winterfell with her in tow, but Jon couldn’t do anything about it. Not yet. He would though. He would speak with Sansa and he would put things to right between them and between himself and the North again. Just not yet. It still wasn’t the time.
Unfortunately.
He didn’t know how much longer he could do this, but he knew that this was what must be done. He saw her eyes in the crypts when he told her about the truth of his blood; the way she had tensed and her purple eyes had flashed as if she wanted to ignite him in flames that very moment whether she actually knew it to be true or not. No matter how much he insisted that he didn’t wish for the throne – for any throne – Daenerys looked to him as a threat and Jon had to keep her affections towards him favorable for as long as needed to.
He saw the way Daenerys looked at Sansa. It was the same way she had looked at him in the crypts.
She saw Sansa as a threat and Jon knew that right now, he was the thing standing between them, keeping Daenerys from Sansa and in turn, keeping Sansa safe. As always, he vowed to himself to do absolutely anything he had to do to keep Sansa safe.
He was tired though. So, so tired.
He lifted his eyes again and saw as Sansa sat at a table, placing herself across from Sandor Clegane. Jon had seen the way that man had been growling at people – women especially – to leave him alone all night, but Sansa sat and Sandor didn’t seem to be chasing her away.
Jon tipped his head back and drained his cup empty.
…
Sansa felt as if things were just a little bit off-kilter. She could feel a pleasant warmth buzzing in her body and as she walked – slowly and using the wall to aid her – things just seemed a little off, but not enough for her to fall onto her knees and crawl to her bed; like she saw Tormund and a few other men having to do.
Things were quieting down after many hours of celebrating. Either couples have gone off, grateful for still being alive and able to have a private moment together once again, or falling asleep right on the floor in the Hall, not able to make it further than that.
Sansa wanted her bed. She was looking forward to it. She wished to change from her dress, brush out her hair and collapse into her bed where she could just sleep for the next few glorious hours without worrying about bells ringing out in alarm of something else attacking. For the first time in a very long time, she felt she could sleep, uninterrupted. Tomorrow, there would be cleaning and surveying the damage and making plans for what was to come next, but tonight, she would sleep.
She knew what she wanted to do next, but Sansa knew that no one else was ready for that. Everyone was still so tired and recovering from injuries and despite the jovialness of tonight, they were all still grieving. No one was ready to march South for yet another battle.
Hopefully, the Dragon Queen had advisors who would tell her the same thing.
Sansa doubted it though. She saw the way Tyrion and Jorah both looked at her; blinded by the love they had for her. Perhaps Sansa would be able to talk with Varys. She knew she couldn’t be too sure of him either though judging him by past company, but he did seem to be the only one to have a head on his shoulders if she was reading him correctly. She didn’t even consider speaking with Jon.
Who had left Winterfell all of that time ago and who had returned were not the same person. She didn’t know who this was who had come back, having bent the knee and worshipped the white-haired Queen, but it wasn’t Jon. Sansa knew it wasn’t. At least… this man wasn’t her Jon.
This Jon seemed to hate her mere presence. His eyes were cold and his jaw was always clenched and when he did speak to her, it was as if it was always the last thing he wanted to do. It was almost as if he hated her.
Just this evening, with everyone toasting her – after his Queen and Arya had gotten their own toasts – she had looked to Jon; almost a natural reaction, to find him in the crowd. And as always, he was staring at her as if he wished her gone. She did her best to always hide just how it shattered her.
She missed him. Her Jon. Not… not this doppelganger who had returned from Dragonstone.
She remembered their time after they had won back their home from the Bolton’s and were putting things right again; each side, working side-by-side, and then at night, sitting in her solar, side-by-side, talking.
He told her things about his time in the Night’s Watch and she told him things she had never told another human being; things she never thought she would ever be able to speak of out loud. Sometimes, after her confessions, Jon would turn in his chair and without a word, he would take her hand. They would sit there for, she didn’t know how long, just holding hands.
Sometimes, Sansa’s hand still tingled from the memory of his thumb running gently back and forth across her knuckles; not saying anything, but just knowing that holding her hand and sitting with her, that was all Sansa needed right then.
She knew it was sick. Jon was her brother. Her hand or any other part of her body tingling from contact with him was wrong no matter how or how often she tried to justify it. He was her brother. Ned Stark was their father. Anything ever happening between them was impossible; not that she ever though anything would happen. Even hoping – to only herself in the deepest parts of her brain – was both wrong and impossible.
So why, this evening when other men wanted her attention, was Jon the only man she wanted to be around? And why, when she saw him smiling at Daenerys, did she get up immediately and leave so she wouldn’t have to witness the two? Did she learn that from Cersei as well? Loving one’s brother in that manner?
Still running her hand along the wall, she turned the corner and stopped so suddenly, it was as if someone had grabbed the back of her dress, halting her and nearly sending her spilling forward. Ahead, Jon’s chamber door was opening and Daenerys was sweeping out and from the low flames of the sconces on the walls, Sansa could tell that she was angry over something. Thankfully, the woman didn’t see Sansa as she stormed away.
Sansa waited another moment, just so she would continue to be unseen, and not for the first time since the Dragon Queen and Jon had come into her home, she could feel another part of her heart rip away. For as often as it had happened already, she was almost surprised that there was any part of her heart that remained to be ripped away, but she felt the familiar stab in her chest and she swallowed.
She didn’t know why she allowed herself to be hurt. She knew. Everyone knew. It wasn’t as if it was meant to be a secret. Jon and Daenerys were lovers so it shouldn’t be a surprise that Daenerys would be leaving Jon’s chamber this night. But she had looked so angry. Something had obviously happened.
Knowing that Jon would never confide in her or even speak to her, Sansa continued to her own chamber, just down from his own. If he was to talk about it, it wouldn’t be to her. He had stopped talking or listening to her long ago and Sansa tried not to think of how he was still the person she always thought of first when she had something on her mind she wanted to get out.
Perhaps, she would think on it later, but tonight, she was just going to allow herself to sleep without dreams.
…
Everyone was watching them. She could feel the eyes on them, but Sansa could only stare at Jon. Her heart was drumming rapidly in her chest and she could feel something in the bottom of her stomach that made her feel sick though she knew none of that showed on the outside.
The way he was staring at her – his cold eyes, his clenched jaw and the hands hanging at his sides, curling into fists – he hated her. There was no hiding it; he wasn’t trying to hide anything from anyone in the room. She had spoken about their armies needing rest and recuperation time and Jon had turned to look at her and the way he looked at her, it almost was a force that pushed her back a step.
She wanted to ask him what she had done. Everything she had done since he left Winterfell – and subsequently gave up his crown and title and bent the knee to this… this woman – had been for him. Preparing everyone for battle, making sure the stores had plenty of grains and foods for the winter, keeping the Lords as patient as she possibly could, it had all been for him and because he had left her in charge in his absence.
And now, the hate he was staring at her with, with all of the abuses rained down upon her over these past few years, somehow, this was the worst of it. Jon hated her and was making sure she didn’t doubt that and what was left of her heart shattered right then into nothing.
Arya was looking at her – Sansa could feel her sister’s eyes looking at her from her side – but Sansa couldn’t even move. She couldn’t even breathe.
Jon turned back to Daenerys. “Whatever our Queen commands, we will do,” he vowed to her.
Sansa felt as if she could very well throw up all over the map of Westeros spread on the table in front of her.
“My Queen,” Jorah spoke then. “Perhaps Lady Sansa is not that wrong in her assessment.”
Sansa almost felt like laughing. The Queen’s most loyal subject was in agreement with Sansa while Jon looked as if he was ready to throttle her for speaking her mind. What was happening? Nothing was right anymore.
Daenerys looked at Jorah for a moment, one of her eyebrows lifting. “Speak,” she then permitted.
“The North will be no good to us, decimated. Lady Sansa is correct. Their armies are exhausted and more of them have injuries than those who don’t. If we force them to march to King’s Landing, they will be ill-prepared for any kind of battle and if we lose the North, we are losing one of our strongest Kingdoms. Those who remain will forever hate you for forcing their men to go South. The North might not be thickly populated, but they are the most loyal sort. If we have the North’s support, it will be easier in getting the other remaining Kingdoms on our side, thus making it even harder for Cersei to keep her control,” Jorah said while staring down at the map, thinking things out as he spoke them.
“So, I was to fight in their battle, and now, they won’t fight in mine?” Daenerys demanded, looking at Jon.
Jon opened his mouth to respond and Sansa peered at him, wondering what he would say. It seemed as if this council meeting was just going in circles. Daenerys demanded their complete obedience no matter what anyone else was telling her.
“If you hadn’t helped us, there wouldn’t be a Westeros to rule,” Arya spoke up before Jon could speak. “It was as much your battle as it was ours.”
Daenerys now looked to Arya with those sharp eyes of hers, but Arya stood firm, her own eyes glaring back. And after a moment, realizing that Arya would not back down – and why would she think Arya would, Sansa wondered to herself – Daenerys broke into that smile. It wasn’t a smile of warmth or friendliness. It was a smile that made Sansa’s spine straighten even more, having no idea what the woman was about to say, but knowing that it most definitely wouldn’t be good.
“Jon will come with me. He represents the North. I will need him in King’s Landing with me. Your other Northerners may stay. Jorah is right. I have the Unsullied and my two dragons. That will be enough. Cersei will have no feet to stand on when she sees that I have the forces as well as the support of others.”
“I need Jon here,” Sansa spoke before she could stop.
Again, all eyes went to her and Jon turned slowly to look to her for the second time since the meeting start. Sansa would not look at him though. She looked across the table at Daenerys as Daenerys stared at her.
“For what purpose?” Daenerys asked her in what she thought was a light tone, but Sansa knew that tone for what it was. Daenerys was daring her.
Sansa tilted her chin up the slightest bit, her hands clasped behind her back. She was not afraid of this woman and she would not act as if she was.
“Cersei doesn’t know Jon. She barely met him once years earlier. She has no idea what he looks like. You could take anyone to see her and tell her that he’s Jon Snow of the North. Winterfell needs to be rebuilt and I, and those in the North, need the Warden of the North here, with us, to help us,” Sansa answered. “A rebuilt, strong North will reflect upon the kind of Westeros you wish to lead.”
She still won’t even glance in Jon’s direction. Let him seethe with his hate for her. She would much rather he be here, at home, hating her in safety. She would not allow him to go South.
“Are you suggesting that your construction needs are more important than my getting the throne?” Daenerys asked and she was daring Sansa was again; daring Sansa to answer that question with the wrong answer.
“I will go,” Bran spoke up and all eyes whipped to him.
“Bran,” Arya was the one to begin to protest. “Cersei isn’t going to sit down and negotiate.”
“Who says there will be a negotiation?” Daenerys asked with that raised eyebrow again.
“If someone from the North should go to see Cersei with you, it should be me,” Bran looked his near-vacant eyes to Daenerys.
“Ned Stark’s true son is certainly better than Ned Stark’s bastard,” Tyrion told Daenerys.
At that, Daenerys looked to Jon and Jon lowered his eyes so he was not looking at her. Sansa noticed it and wondered what that look was that Daenerys was giving him. Sansa was so deep in thought that she hardly heard the council meeting end until everyone was leaving and her mind came in focus again.
“We need to talk,” Arya said to Jon, stepping right in his path and preventing him from leaving as well.
Jon looked to her and Bran and then finally, he turned and looked to Sansa. No longer was he looking at her as if his greatest wish was for her to disappear. Looking at her now, he almost looked like her Jon. Sansa said nothing though, staring at him and wondering what he saw when her eyes were focused on him. Jon looked back to Arya and without a word, he gave a single nod in agreement.
…
“How can I vow to keep a secret if I don’t even know what it is?” Sansa questioned.
“Because we’re family,” Jon answered, his voice hoarse and it almost sounded as if he was pleading with her.
Sansa stared at him and his eyes were soft and yet, there was something else in his look that kept her on edge. He was scared. Of whatever this secret was that he had to tell them, it terrified him. Sansa almost went to him, wanting to put her arms around him, protecting him as he had protected her times before, but she didn’t. She held herself back, her chest still admittedly raw from the council meeting and the look he had given her then. This was a man who hated her. Even with soft eyes now, he had showed her his feelings towards her and she wouldn’t survive his rebuff of her hug and comfort if she was to offer.
Let his Queen comfort him of whatever scared him so.
“I swear it,” Sansa finally was able to say.
Jon looked past his sisters to look to Bran. He gave a nod. “Tell them,” he all, but whispered.
Sansa didn’t realize she was on her knees in the snow until she saw Jon on one side of her and Arya on the other. She lifted her head to look at them both, but the trees past their heads were still completely on their sides. She closed her eyes, trying to get everything to the way it should be again.
But it wasn’t working because nothing would ever be the way it was just a few moments ago.
Jon wasn’t her brother. Not any of their brother. A cousin. Aunt Lyanna’s son. And a Targaryen. Half Stark, half Targaryen. Daenerys was his aunt and Jon was…
“You’re King,” she whispered, finally opening her eyes and looking to Jon.
He shook his head. “I’m not. I’m not, Sansa,” he swore to her. “I’m from the North.”
“You are,” Sansa agreed immediately and she noted his relief that she had. “You’re a Stark. I’ve told you that. But now… you’re…” she couldn’t get her words in a straight order to speak them. Everything was still too jumbled and she couldn’t make sense of them.
“You’re our brother,” Arya said firmly.
Sansa forced herself to nod along in agreement.
Brother. Brother… cousin.
“Does she know?” Sansa asked, not needing to clarify who she meant.
“Yes,” Jon nodded. “She made me swear that I wouldn’t tell you,” he was looking at her. “Any of you,” he quickly added, looking to Arya then.
“Well, you didn’t tell us. Bran did.” Arya pointed out.
“Don’t let on that you know,” Jon said, his eyes back on Sansa.
Sansa’s mind was racing once again. If Daenerys knew that Jon is her nephew and was, in fact, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, what was she going to do? She was not going to just let Jon go no matter how often he swore that he had no desire to sit on the throne himself. That wouldn’t matter to a woman like Daenerys; someone who felt it in their very bones that it was their right and they would do anything to get it. Sansa had seen so many people who craved power more than anything else. Nothing would stop them and once Daenerys had the Iron Throne from Cersei, she would continue to snuff out anyone she thought was a threat to her.
Jon was as big a threat as they came.
“We have to do something,” Sansa whispered. “To keep you safe.”
Jon looked at her for a long moment, not saying anything; just staring into her eyes. And in his eyes, Sansa didn’t see hate. He was looking at her like he used to look at her – side-by-side in front of the fire when it was just the two of them. It was the first time since returning to Winterfell from Dragonstone that he was looking at her like this; like Jon.
“You’re pretending,” Sansa said, almost in awe, and she wondered why she hadn’t realized sooner. Still on her knees, she was able to straighten, never taking her eyes from his.
There had been a moment with Daenerys… Who manipulated whom? She had thought then… maybe… but then she saw Jon smiling at Daenerys at the feast and he had just seemed too happy looking at the woman.
“You told me to play the game,” Jon reminded her.
“Pretending what?” Arya frowned, taking a moment later to catch up on Jon and Sansa’s conversation.
“I didn’t want to,” Jon continued, he and Sansa looking at one another as if it was just them and in this moment, this conversation, they were. “I thought I wouldn’t have to, but after I met her and watched her… I knew it was the only way.”
Sansa exhaled a shaky breath and she lifted a hand to her mouth, noticing that the hand was trembling. Jon noticed it, too, and taking it, he held it with both of his and Sansa stared down as he ran his thumb back and forth over her knuckles.
“I had to keep us all safe,” Jon told them all, but it felt as if he was telling Sansa specifically. “And now, you’ve managed to keep me from marching South. You’ve kept me safe.”
Sansa didn’t know what to say. There was still so much – too much – to say. Maybe too much to ever say it all. Instead, Sansa turned towards him and threw her arms around his shoulders. She couldn’t help it or stop herself. She didn’t think of Bran or Arya being there, watching. Maybe Bran already knew she would do this. All she cared was that Jon was pretending. This whole time, he was pretending.
And when she felt Jon’s arms around her, hugging her tightly to his chest, Sansa closed her eyes. She wondered what Arya and Bran were thinking right now. She found that she couldn’t bring herself to care.
“I’m sorry,” Jon whispered into the fur collar of her cloak. “I’m sorry.”
Sansa clenched her eyes shut now. Inside her chest, she felt two of the many shattered pieces find one another and pressing together, they put themselves together once more.
It was a start.
…
Even though she was leaving that morning – leaving Winterfell and finally going South – Jon felt as if he still couldn’t breathe. Not until she was gone. It was his fault that she was here in the first place, but he had had his reasons and he refused to allow himself to feel guilty in using her for those reasons.
It had to be done.
There hadn’t been another way because if there had been any other way, Jon would have done that instead.
Sansa stood next to him, stiff as well, and Jon wanted to reach over and take her hand, run his thumb over her knuckles – she seemed to like when he did that, he noticed – but now wasn’t the time. Maybe it would never be the time, but it certainly wasn’t now. Too many people would witness it and though these people have seen Jon and Sansa hug one another, somehow, taking her hand felt far more intimate than him and no one in this courtyard knew that they were no longer brother and sister.
They never were.
Daenerys approached them in the white coat she had worn when she had first arrived – Jorah on one side of her and Tyrion on the other. Jon noticed that Sansa didn’t even spare her former husband a second-long glance even though Tyrion was openly looking at her, obviously hoping for a look in return.
Though she had said he could stay in Winterfell, Jon’s stomach still clenched as she came to a stop in front of him and Sansa. He knew how she could be. She changed her mind on a whim and no one was allowed to argue with her and even if they wanted to, no one did. Those who disagreed found themselves staring in the eyes of Drogon. He glanced to Sansa from the corner of his eye. Everyone except her.
And what he had to do to keep making sure that remained true, Jon would do.
Daenerys said nothing for a moment, simply staring at Jon with hard eyes and clenched jaw. She did nothing to hide her anger from him. Maybe he would be staring at Drogon very soon.
“When I am on the throne, I will send for you,” she said in a hard tone.
Jon said nothing. He only dipped his head down in acknowledgement.
The promise of his execution went unsaid.
Only after the dragons were gone from the sky, taking their Queen with them, and the marching feet of the Unsullied were fading, did Jon finally feel as if he was breathing again. He turned to Sansa, still standing at his side, opening his mouth to speak, but no words came to him.
Sansa turned as well. It looked as if she had something to say and he waited, but her mouth never opened. They stared at one another and again, he wanted to take her hand.
He took a step back and with his hand around the hilt of Longclaw, he pulled the sword from its sheath and dropped to one knee in front of her. He heard Sansa audibly gasp and he sensed everyone in the courtyard come to a stop, watching them.
Jon looked up to Sansa. “Lady Sansa, I offer my services. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the old gods and new,” he vowed.
No vow had ever come easier.
He had made the promise to her once before that he would never let anyone touch her. After everything, he knew he had to make that promise to her again.
Sansa looked down to him for a beat and he heard her exhale this time, her breath shaking. “I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and new.” Jon couldn’t stop from giving her the smallest of smiles and Sansa exhaled another shaky breath, her shoulders relaxing. “Arise,” she said in a clear voice for all those witnessing could hear.
Jon didn’t take his eyes from her as he rose to his feet, sheathing Longclaw again.
People were chattering around them, but he didn’t hear. He looked to Sansa and she looked to him.
“We need to walk the outer bailey wall and survey the damage,” Sansa informed him. “We need to make as many plans and preparations as we can before we’re told to come South.”
“You’re going to come with me when I get the word?” Jon was unable to stop from asking as they began to walk from the courtyard, side-by-side. Sansa said she would never go South again and he didn’t doubt that she meant it with every beat of her heart.
“You will not be going South without me,” it was Sansa’s turn to vow to him.
…
my canon inspiration