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They both go south.
Jon tries to keep her in the North, safe and comforted behind Winterfell's strong walls, but Sansa Stark will not hide any longer. She spent too long behind false names and secret identities, hair dies and marriages to bastards legitimized by kings on shaky thrones. When Jon says that he must treat with Queen Daenerys Targaryen, the aunt he's never met who doesn't know that they are related by blood, if not by name, and Queen Cersei Lannister, the enemy she knows better than any other, her reply comes simple and quick, "I will come with you."
Jon protests Sansa's statements, fights her moves even as she packs her things and instructs Lady Brienne to ready their horses and supplies for the long journey. He corners her in a back hallway, dim light flickering from the sconce and bouncing off his jaw. Jon sets an arm against the stone wall next to her and stares across the space to meet her eyes. "This isn't meant for you, Sansa. What will they do to you again, in the south?"
Sansa sighs and holds his steady gaze. He only wants to protect me. But I need protect him, she worries, rubbing her hands in that constant tick of hers. "They will bow and call me 'my lady Stark.'" She pauses. "Perhaps, if they'd like to be snide, they'll call me 'my lady Lannister' or 'my lady Bolton.' I will not pay their jibes any mind for there are bigger things in this world that we must conquer."
"I need you here, to watch after Winterfell." Jon pleads. His mouth hangs open just a little and Sansa is struck by the little distance there is between them. "Father always said, there must always be a Stark in Winterfell."
"And Bran is here." Sansa reminds him, words careful and hushed.
Her brother arrived not too many days before, dragged on a cart pulled by Meera Reed, daughter of their father's good friend and companion during Robert's Rebellion. They made an odd pair, and told an even odder tale of their travels together to the Wall and beyond it. But the most strange of all their stories was that Jon was not a bastard half-brother to Sansa and Bran, but their maybe bastard cousin. "There will be a Stark in Winterfell, and there will be a Stark at the summit."
"I can still represent this family for I am still your man - "
Sansa sets a gentle hand against his chest. "Jon, I do not doubt your faithfulness to us, in fact it is one of a few things that I am ever confidant in anymore."
She could swear he leans into her touch, but Sansa does not want to guess at things that are untrue and best kept at rest beneath the burdens of her station. Jon's voice is hushed when he replies. "Then why do you insist on this foolishness?"
"You do not know the south as I do. You do not know King's Landing as I do." Sansa emphasizes each point with a pat of her hand against him. "And you could never know Cersei Lannister as I do. I spent two years, a prisoner in Joffrey's court and a student at her knee. She taught me all she knew, gave me all the advice she could impart, because she thought it would be me that took her place. While that did not come to pass, I am still equipped with a keen understanding of how she acts both as queen and as ruler."
“Sansa - ” Her name comes from his lips is a plea for agreement and peace between them, but she will not be walked over by any man again, not even him.
“Jon.” She interrupts whatever he would say next with a much clearer statement. This is one battle he cannot win. “You know I’m right.”
“I - ” Jon stumbles again, leans against her like he would say something, then falls back away from her touch. He runs a hand through his long curls, out of their leather thong in a rare moment for him. Finally, the answer that she wants, “We leave at dawn in two days.”
He walks away with sullen, dejected silence and despite her triumph Sansa cannot help but feel like she has lost something.
They make their way through snow and sleet, ice and hail, trudging across the length of the North, across the narrow pass of the Neck, and finally into the rolling hills of the Riverlands. There, the realm is less studded with snowy treetops but still it falls endlessly from the skies like ash after a fire. Their journey is slow but steady and they face less troubles than they anticipated but it is still much and the entire party spends most of every night shivering on the edges of their hearths praying for morning and sunlight.
The fastest way to cross the Green Fork of the Trident is at the Twins. Sansa and Jon spend plenty of hours late into the darkness arguing besides their shared fire, trying to decide if they should approach the place where Robb died and trust the Freys with their own lives when they try to cross. But all the fraught tensions come to nothing when word comes that the Brotherhood without Banners has taken over the two castles across the frigid river.
Within days of hearing the startling news, they approach the castle with trepidation. A messenger approaches through the snow and up a hill, but they must wait to greet him.
“We don’t know who they swear allegiance to. I don’t trust these men.” Brienne of Tarth says from besides Sansa’s mount. Sansa can’t help but think, But you don’t trust any man.
“I think that’s the point of their name,” Tormund Giantsbane says from the other side of Jon. “They’re rebelling against all kneelers and their kings.”
There is much satisfaction in the wilding’s smile. Sansa cannot decide if it is glee that there are southerners who do not kneel, or joy that he made Brienne blush.
“Either way, our only hope to enter the Crossing is to ask them.” Jon sighs heavily from next to Sansa. He glances over at her. “They were sent into the Riverlands by Lord Stark. Perhaps if his daughter is the one to treat with this Brotherhood, they will smile upon our party and let us through.”
Sansa nods. His logic is sound. “Will you come with me?”
“It may be best just for you,” Tormund suggests. “So we do not give them both of our leaders.”
“I will stand by your side, Lady Sansa,” Brienne assures her. Sansa gains some comfort from it, but not the same she would get if it were Jon offering her his advice within the Twins.
Jon hesitates as he weighs their counsel, but does not have time to respond as the Brotherhood’s messenger approaches them. He does not dismount or even try to bow from his saddle.
“King Jon, Lady Stark, we welcome you to the Twins.” Sansa startles that this man knows exactly which Starks travel in this party. They fly only Jon’s colors, for discretion, and have avoided interaction with most of the peasants they have passed for speed and discretion.
She comes out of her stupor and answers the man, “We would like to cross, Ser.”
“As we had presumed.” The man nods his head. “If the two of you would come with me, you can treat with our commander. Our commander wishes to meet with both of you.”
Sansa turns to Jon. He nods and nudges his mount forward. “Of course. That would do well.”
“Jon - ” Tormund starts, his beard puffing out as he clutches his jaw.
Jon holds up his hand. “We will show this Brotherhood some faith, Tormund, and do as their commander asks of us.”
Sansa trots forward to follow Jon towards the castle. So does Brienne, but she is stopped by the messenger. “Just these two, my lady.”
Brienne grumbles until Sansa turns around to meet her eyes. “I’ll be safe. I’m with Jon. Wait for me here, please.”
Even so, she brings her mount closer to Jon so that she can nearly touch him. She won’t take chances in this strange place and will stay by his side so long as she can.
They are made to wait in a dark, damp side room for a long while before anyone comes to bring them before the commander of the Brotherhood. Jon sits on the offered bench, but Sansa paces and rubs her hands together in worry. They are the only ones in the waiting room for the audience chamber and she is concerned of whoever this commander might be, if it is a Lannister man or a Stark one or someone else entirely.
Finally, someone comes for them. It is a small runt of a child, who guides them down a darkened hall. Sansa walks close to Jon’s side, comforted by his presence alone. Something in her wants to reach out and grab Jon's hand but Sansa buries her strange desires again. There is nothing wrong here, there can't be, this is all some false overreaction on her part. She swallows, trying to believe that the darkness inside this building is only in her head.
The leader of the Brotherhood sits on a dark chair, a hooded cloak obscuring their features. She sits in skirts that are frayed and rotting, something curious for someone who rules a troupe of men - even criminal bandits. Strangest of all, she holds a bronze crown in her hands, rolling it along the edge of her throne. A man stands besides the woman's side, whispering something in her ear.
"Lord Snow and Lady Stark, as requested." The child announces and instantly scampers off.
Jon glances at Sansa and follows her lead when she ducks into a small curtsy. He rises from his bow and steps forward again as if to speak. The man raises his hand to stop Jon.
There are obscure gurgles from the woman's direction, and then the man speaks. "Lady Stoneheart wonders why you have stolen King Robb's kingdom, Lord Snow."
Sansa watches Jon's reaction to the accusation. He mulls for a moment, then speaks carefully weighed words. "I was raised to the post by the lords of the North, my lady. They chose me to lead them once we rid the North of the Bolton scourge."
The questions come hard and fast, accusation after accusation directed at Jon. It is as if Sansa is invisible. No words are spoken to her, only ones that call out every one of Jon’s weakness and insecurities. She notices the way he reacts, his face paling at every new question that calls him a traitor to his family and his father.
More dark noises, and then the man speaks, as if translating, "Yet why are you ruler and not your half-sister, King Robb's rightful heir?"
Sansa rocks on her feet and answers before Jon can - she can bear this attack against his character no longer. "I am not his rightful heir, not so long as my brother Bran still lives in Winterfell. But it was Jon who roused the northern forces to fight for us, and led the charge himself." She sighs, giving them a moment to process her words. "Furthermore, I do not desire any crown and am more than happy to relinquish my claim to my cousin Jon, for he is the son of Lyanna Stark, not my father."
Lady Stoneheart stops twiddling with the crown in her hands. The next sound of hers is more a shriek than a gurgle, angry and harsh on Sansa's ears. She nearly steps back, the sound frightens her so. Lady Stoneheart rises from her chair on unsteady legs. With the motion, her hood falls back to reveal her face. Sansa does step back and nearly fall at this revelation.
It is her lady mother's face, this is certain, but there is rot and decay to it in a way that is even stronger than the destruction of her dress. The skin upon her face is grey and putrid, and her eye is swollen half shut. Cracks and lines from all kinds of harm break across that skin, and the red hair that shone so brightly in life was dark and half gone from atop her head. The darkened eyes look not upon her daughter but on Jon, full of even greater hate than she had shown the boy in life.
That was what this must be, a figure of death, for she could not truly be Catelyn. But Sansa remembers that Jon had been dead, gone from this world, and returned. Had her mother come back somehow different than he had?
She forced her legs to move forward, even as she screams inside to make this living nightmare disappear. "Mother?"
Lady Stoneheart stops her screeches, stares at Sansa with those fearsome black eyes. Jon is frozen in his place, rightfully terrified of this creature that hates him so. It is up to Sansa to save them from the woman who weaned and reared her. She walks to the small dais, past the little man who knows her mother's words.
"Look at me, Mother." She says the words, strong and hard as she can. "It is me, Mother, your eldest daughter Sansa."
Lady Stoneheart's crown drops to the ground and clatters as it bounces down the single step. Her hand comes out to touch Sansa's face. It is colder than the northern winds, but she does not flinch from this disaster.
"Jon has stolen no throne, has taken no crown that wasn't offered and given rightfully." She wants to hug her mother, hold her tight and cry for the years that have been lost. But this is not her mother. This is Lady Stoneheart, a shade of the woman Catelyn Stark had been. This is what she must forget but also remember, until they are across the river. "Robb is gone, but your other children are still here. I am before you and Bran is in Winterfell, safe and steady as its Lord. He's grown so tall, Mother, you would be shocked to see him. Rickon is dead, but we killed his murderer. And Arya - I do not know where my sister is, but she is resourceful. I am certain she still lives.
"Protect us, Mother. Help me. I must cross, with Jon and all our men, to speak with the southern queens so that the war of this winter will not end at the Wall but well after it." Sansa closes her eyes, leans into the touch on her cheek. For a moment, she can pretend, can't she?
"Mother, please."
Lady Stoneheart gurgles again, this time more pitiful than before. Sansa waits for the reply with baited breath. Her man translates without a fraction of a moment between her last word and his first. "She loves you; and you may cross."
Relief fills her as she turns away from this fight and brings her people across. But even as she holds her mother's life-filled deathbed body, horror takes its place.
The tears fall fast in the darkness, well after the northern party has crossed the Green Fork and progressed well on their way. Sansa does not think anyone can hear her ugly sobs, muffled as they are by her head shoved deeply in her pillow, but still someone stands outside her tent and knocks against the center pole.
She sits up and composes herself, wiping the water from beneath her eyes and straightening what parts of her hair and clothing she can. “You may enter.”
“Are you alright, Sansa?”
There he stands, tall and dark and caring. Sansa looks up into Jon’s eyes and bursts into tears again. “It was so horrible Jon, she was there and back and so real but something was still so strange -”
Jon is at her side in the blink of an eye. He sits down besides her, arms wrapping around her shaking body. Sansa gives into her worse self and leans against his warm and kind touch. There is something so different about the strong feel of him than the cold that was offered earlier in the arms of her not-mother.
"I know, love, I know." His hand traces patterns that she cannot describe across her back. He pulls her in, his arms a courtyard of protection and safety she has known so little since the last time she saw her mother, alive and on the gates of Winterfell. Sansa does not struggle, either within or without, because there is so much comfort in this hold. He smells of woodsy fires and clean snow, everything that reminds her of the North and home.
They stay like this for what seems forever, Jon holding Sansa while she lets the tears fall feely. Finally, though the sadness does not dissipate the crying does, but there are still so many questions that are left in the air between them. Sansa ventures one in particular that Jon is quite well equipped to provide an answer for.
"Why isn't she better? Why isn't she - " Sansa cannot say it, for she knows the words are hurtful. But Jon understands all the same.
"Why isn't she more like me?" He frowns, and she is afraid she has hurt him, that he will leave her to her own darkness. "The end claims some, takes them. There was nothing, not a thing, beyond the death I felt. I may have come back different, too, if Melisandre did not return me to my living form as quickly as she did."
Sansa nods against his chest. "I did not mean to wish you away."
"I know." His sigh is heavy, a sign of a burdened heart. "Some things we cannot change. I'm sorry she was one."
Jon's words are a quiet comfort, and Sansa keeps herself pressed against him. They fall asleep like this, cuddled together on her bed, dreaming of a better world where the dead stayed so and they were home and the war was won for good.