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Sansa shifts uncomfortably beneath her thick layers of wool and fur, wringing her hands under her heavy cloak. The snow sits thick and heavy on the ground and more falls with each passing moment. The servants of Winterfell offer to fetch their Lady a mug of tea or heated rocks to heat her hands, perhaps have a brazier taken from her chambers to be set in the courtyard, but the only warmth Sansa desires has yet to ride into the castle's courtyard. She waits, still uneasy about the pomp and pageantry that Jon’s welcome home will bring. His send-off was sparse, her standing in the courtyard to say goodbye with a few of his comrades’ wives, and Ser Giantsbane and Ser Davos besides. But Sansa needs Jon to see that she has done well by him, that Winterfell is prepared for the long nights ahead, that he was not wrong to trust her with charge of the castle that is their home.
And so all the spare servants, guards, and their respective families were invited to join the rest of the household, the visiting lords and all the knights, as they wait in the courtyard for their King. The entire, cold scene is reminiscent of the last time a King came to Winterfell, although this time the apprehension is over what news he will bring of their southern allies and not what he may take away.
Arya stands to Sansa's right, surprisingly straight-backed and attentive for the arrival of their King. When she arrived at Winterfell’s door in a thin cotton overcoat and man's riding breeches, Sansa was glad enough at her sister’s return to only insist that she change into finer clothes more befitting of her station, instead of more feminine ones. Her outfit today is the same, but her coat is made of warm, dyed wool in Stark grey and her breeches are the softest lamb leather Sansa could find. A thin, shining sword is strapped to Arya's hip, and color blooms in her cheeks as she rubs her hands and blows air into them for warmth. Sansa smiles, for this is more family than Sansa ever could have thought to have again.
A guardsman calls from the gatehouse tower, "It's the King! The King in the North!" The great wooden gates creak open, finally, as a dark, hulking shadow passes overhead. Before anyone can so much as glance skyward at the thing, Jon enters the courtyard atop his dark steed. Sansa sweeps into a curtsy, and the household follows suit in their deepest courtesies even as they tremble beneath the shadow that beats like heavy, snapping sheets on laundry day.
Sansa hears the distinct sound of him as Jon dismounts and lands in a crinkling layer of snow. Each step towards her is a new crunch of his boots against the elements, through the courtyard they cannot seem to keep from being coated in snowfall. Jon passes the rows of knights and servants and stops before her, the lady of the castle, and motions for her to rise. Her people follow as she does, dusting off the snow that's already padded their attire.
Sansa’s eyes hesitantly meet his, a gaze so warm despite its steely-ice color. “Welcome home, Your Grace.”
Something flashes in those beautiful eyes as she speaks- confusion at her formal bearing, when she has only ever been close to Jon, even in public. He leans towards her, as if ready to pull her into a full embrace, the one she so wishes she could have right now. But Sansa backs away and tugs on Arya’s arm, pulling her sister to greet their King. The little hidden truth might be a grave folly, only to be uprooted and thrown in their faces later, but Sansa cannot bring herself to tell her sister that she is in love with the man Arya still insists on calling my brother.
Their quirks in gaze and greeting are soon forgotten by any onlookers as Arya leaps into Jon's arms. She is still small and light, deftly landing in his embrace. The joy that spreads across his body as he spins his little sister around would make anyone think that summer has come early.
“Greetings, all my people!” Jon sets Arya down in a gale of laughter. She has grown to his shoulders now, although the last time he saw her he could tussle her hair without bending his arm. Jon’s awe has captured his features as he studies this near-grown woman that is his little sister-cousin. He looks at Sansa with a question in his eyes, and she answers with a demure smile.
“I trust your trip was successful, Your Grace?” She asks, refusing to drop the curtain of courtesy with Arya so closely watching everything that passes between them. “Will your guest above require any services from our men?”
“No, my lady, Viserion will hunt when he is hungry, and find some place to sleep. But if you could find accommodations for our new fighters, I would be grateful.” The others in his party, arrived while he was greeting the lady and his sister, have begun dismounting. There are twenty score more soldiers and knights in this company than the small party he left with, all carrying shiny black weapons or swords of seemingly Valyrian steel. “And my meeting with my aunt proved more successful than I ever could have imagined. Queen Daenerys will join us soon with the rest of her forces, once Euron Greyjoy is putdown in full.”
“Jon, is it true the Dragon Queen can breath fire?” Arya asks, nearly springing in the air, her words falling from her mouth faster than a raven’s flight. “I hear her eyes are red as blood.”
“Her eyes are Targaryen violet, and only her dragons breath any kind of fire, although it is at her command.” He laughs, but his face falls solemn. “I heard from Bran, in the godswood. Apparently my mother named me Jacaerys, although I will always be Jon, I think, even if Daenerys insists on legitimizing me.”
“Jacaerys.” Sansa lets the unfamiliar word roll over her tongue, a hiss like a dying flame. “No, Jon.”
“Now,” he says, flinging an arm around Arya’s shoulders and squeezing them tightly. “I want you to tell me all that I have missed these last years.”
It is after their small feast that he manages to find time alone with Sansa. All night Arya has captured his ear and attention, sharing stories of her adventures and misadventures in the Riverlands and Braavos and beyond. Sansa has heard most of Arya's stories by now and left the two to each other, taking time to meet their new guests and dance across the floor as they asked. Jon did not get to dance a single round with Sansa, and though he is clumsy his grip on her had always been sure and she is sad to lose the opportunity of his touch. Her only interactions with her sister have been at moments when Jon has been whisked away to some corner by Lord Royce or another ally, and even then Arya is careful to keep her far from the high table.
Late into the night, the three Starks-that-were fi find themselves together as a handful dancers still make merry well after most of their guests have gone to bed.
As Sansa, Arya, and Jon sit besides the dying embers of the Great Hall's great fireplace, a tenseness permeates their gathering that was not there before Ser Davos left their sides. She stares at the orange flames that remain in the hearth, waiting for someone else to speak. She wonders what Arya has told Jon about their time together without him, of the distrust and reunion that waited until they realized they had no other allies but each other. When neither of the others makes to speak, Sansa rises from her chair .
“I am tired, family. I think I will retire now.” Sansa says, half as a diversion from the silence and half because, as the wide yawn hidden behind her gloved hand proves, she is truly tired.
Arya narrows her eyes in uncertain suspicion when Jon immediately offers to escort Sansa to her rooms. “But, Jon, won’t you stay for a round of cyvasse? You promised you would try it.”
“I am too tired to attempt a new type of strategy, little sister. You will have to teach me this Essosi game come the morn.” Jon ruffles Arya’s hair with a gentle hand before offering Sansa his arm.
Arya’s pout does not go noticed by either of the pair, and Sansa can’t help but place a light kiss against her sister’s brow. “you should retire soon, Arya, or Brienne may never be able to wake you on the morrow for your training.”
Jon fails to hide his laugh as Arya crosses her arms over her chest and glares at Sansa. Arya's creased brow only goes deeper at his reaction as Sansa pulls away and gently sets her hand on Jon's proffered arm. Jon and Sansa exit the Great Hall quietly, escaping the notice of any remaining lords. The silence follows down the halls of Winterfell and up into the tower that houses the families room, them until they are between their doors, the flames flickering in the wall sconces the only light illuminating their dark hall.
Only then, away from the din of merriment and the watchful eyes of the sister they still share, does Jon cup her face and run his thumb along the smooth, soft line of Sansa’s jaw.
“You haven’t told her, have you, my lady?” Jon asks, a sadness tainting his gently spoken words.
Sansa leans into his touch, appreciating the spot of warmth on her cheek where his bare hand meets her skin. Her fingers intertwining with his free ones. She closes her eyes before meeting his gaze and solemn frown. “How could I tell her? Arya doesn’t know, can’t know this part of us. She’d think me depraved, for wanting you. Both of us, for loving so that which we should not.”
“Maybe we are depraved, but I don’t care so long as the depravity is with you.” Jon drags his hand to the small of her back and pulls her flush against his body. She can feel the solid warmth of him, the heat from his beating heart and the strength of sinew and firmness of muscle beneath his leather jerkin. Oh, how she has missed the feel of him, the scent of him, the taste -
He surprises her when he nuzzles his face against her neck and kisses her deeply at the juncture of her shoulder.
“Jon!”
His name on her lips is sin and desire, her wants and her needs all rolled into one. She meets his hungry lips as they capture her own, the wanting coming to crescendo as she finally meets all that she has yearned for since he went away, and wraps her hands into his thick brown hair to pull him as close as he can be without being inside her like she has dreamed. He smells like the sweat of travel and the pine of the godswood, and more importantly, he smells like home.
Jon’s hands wander her body as hers wander his, checking every inch to find something wrong, to make sure all is right and well and healthy. Jon kisses her thoroughly, as if trying to make up for all the time he spent gone, for all the worries he has given her as she's waited for him to return. His hand brushes against her breast and she breaths in sharply, pressing her body harder against his chest, wanting to know what more there is to this touch of his. His hand caresses her hip then rises, grasping at her breast again and Sansa mewls like a wanton camp follower, wanting more, needing more of him, but then -
“My eyes!”
They both freeze when they hear that voice, turning in synchrony and falling apart as fear flashes across both their faces. Jon keeps his hand against her hip, anchoring her to this world, so it Sansa who must pull away when he does not. And it is Sansa who steps towards Arya and tries to grab her sister's hand, to keep Arya from bolting though she looks like it is the only thing she wants in this whole world. “Arya, I, we can explain, it’s not - ”
“It’s exactly what it looks like!” Arya groans, words tumbling out of her mouth and voice rising with every unasked question and unfinished accusation. “You two - Mother - he’s your brother, she’s your sister - how could - what would Father say - how did it even -”
She cannot form a coherent thought about the pair, and while Arya laughs between words, a darkness glows inside her sister’s eyes as she stares them down. Arya shakes her head and widens her eyes as she steps back, and before either can defend themselves again, she disappears into the shadows.
Three days before Jon is set to meet his aunt on the Kingsroad and head for Castle Black once more, well after she disappeared, Arya finally emerges from wherever she was lurking. They have been too scared to touch each other, too worried about what her final reaction will be. Jon and Sansa love each other, would see their world fulfilled in each other's arms, but if Arya were to say that she cannot bear to know them like that, to see them like that, they would swear to never look at the other's way again.
It is with much nervousness that Sansa greets Arya when she joins them both for breakfast in Jon’s solar, uninvited and sour if her knitted-together eyebrows and frown are any impression. After a quick, cold embrace, Sansa takes her seat besides Jon in a sweep of woolen skirts. She offers Arya fruit and bread in silence, unsure how to act for the first time in a sennight. After contemplating the skin of a winter apple and slathering a slice of dark brown bread with butter, Arya sets down the knife with a firm grip and stares at them with a look Sansa is sure is colder than the Others own blue eyes.
"I don’t want to see anything like what I saw the other night. Not ever again." She states, setting Sansa's heart to hammering in her chest.
"What are you saying, Arya?" Jon straightens in his place and meets that steady gaze. He covers Sansa's hand with his own.
"Was this the first time?" Her eyebrows knit together and she carefully watches the look Sansa and Jon exchange. The blood roars in Sansa's ears, trying to find the words to explain what Arya is asking. When Sansa opens her mouth to respond, Arya holds up her hand, and Sansa yanks hers from the heat and security of Jon's, not wanting to set off her sister in anyway that could be upsetting. "Nevermind. I don’t want to know the details."
She looks down at her plate and spends a tantalizing moment taking a bite of her apple. "I just want to know that the people I love are happy. And if that means you love each other, well . . ." Arya sighs heavily. "Who am I to stop love, when all we've had is so much pain and hatred for so long?"
"You speak for true?" Sansa asks, too scared to hope, to love without permission.
Arya rolls her eyes then nods. "All I ask is that you keep yourselves to darker corners than the main halls so I can keep my eyesight. I've already been blind once, you know, and that was quite enough for a lifetime."
"What?" Sansa starts. She hasn't heard this story yet.
"I'll tell you in a minute. I have one more thing to say." There's a wicked glint in Arya's eye. She lifts up her bread, bites and chews, before smiling widely. "If, old gods forbid, you marry, your first daughter ought to be named after me.”
Jon is first to laugh at Arya's dramatics and agree to her proposal, then Sansa joins with a slow nod of her own, and suddenly they are a family again, begging Arya to share this story of temporary blindness. Sansa's hand finds Jon's again beneath the table, and smiles fill both their faces as an invisible concern is lifted off their chests.