Chapter Text
Talisa Maegyr had always been a survivor.
She had survived Volantis, a culture that had threatened to crush her. She had survived the journey across the Narrow Sea. She had survived her travels across Westeros that had led her to the Westerlands. She had survived becoming Talisa Stark.
And she had survived the worst night of her life.
They had been camped somewhere between the Oldstones and the Twins. She had kissed Robb and gone for a walk around the tents. It was luck, maybe, that she was on the north side when enemies rode in from the south.
It was a kindness that a soldier whose name she had not yet learned grabbed her by the arm, just as the sounds of battle reached her, and told her to run.
It was cowardice that made her run. Fear that made her believe Robb would come after her. Trust that made her believe he would live.
She didn’t know what it was that kept her on her feet the next four years, occupying in-between places that weren’t quite North and weren’t quite South, places far from the Kingsroad where anyone could recognize her or her Volantine features. They were the only thing that could give her away as the secret Queen in the North.
Dowager Queen now, she supposed.
But one day, exhausted and cold and hungry, she ventured into a tavern she never would have under normal circumstances, and heard from the mouth of an Iron born soldier that Winterfell had been taken back. Sansa Stark and Jon Snow, her husband’s siblings, had returned home.
It was hope, clawing deep holes in her chest, that made her walk and walk for months. Either they would let her in through the gates Robb had spoken so fondly of, or they would leave her in the Northern cold, doomed to the road for the rest of her days.
They looked at her coldly, a true son and daughter of winter, as she told them her story. Their gazes softened when she spoke of a scar on Robb’s chest Jon would know about, and a handkerchief he had carried that Sansa had embroidered.
Most of all, they could not seem to tear their eyes away from the little boy clutching her skirt, with his auburn curls and Tully blue eyes and serious face. Her Volantine genes only showed through his slightly tanned skin.
They let her work with healers during the war for the dawn. She knew no one in the North, and she despised the man called “Littlefinger,” so Sansa seemed to trust her. Maybe she was searching for the sister she was supposed to have, but that had been stolen from them the day Robb had died. Still, she stood next to her on the parapets of the great stone castle, watching men carry direwolf banners through the snow and sludge, their numbers half than when they had left.
The Dragon Queen took the Iron Throne as peacefully as one can, and the North was declared an independent kingdom as a gesture of her good will.
Robb would have been so happy.
His brother was the King in the North. His sister was Lady of Winterfell. And his son was the rightful heir to both.
She spoke with Jon and Sansa about it at length, but the decision was an easy one for them all. The Northern lords had chosen Jon, and Sansa deserved her position in her own home. Talisa did not want her son to face the risks of a King, to be in danger of meeting his father’s fate.
Still, by birthright, he was a prince. Little Ned Myger, as he’d been known to anyone that had ever asked, was now to be called by his real name: Prince Eddard Stark II. He was officially the heir to the Northern throne, but Jon and Talisa agreed that was only until Jon had children of his own.
She knew it was a big change for him, her brother-in-law. He had been raised as a bastard. He had been doomed to a life of service at the Wall, vowed to never marry, have children, or hold lands. Now, unbeknownst to the kingdom he ruled over and the lands he held, he was the trueborn son of a secret union between Lyanna Stark and Ser Arthur Dayne. After taking care of his people, his most important duty was choosing the right woman to wed and providing the North with heirs.
Now, the existence of an heir in little Ned relieved his obligation to sire his own. Talisa understood completely that it was difficult— to shed his old life and way of thinking for this new responsibility. But their arrangement served no purpose to her if Ned was still Jon’s heir when he passed.
And more still, she longed for nieces and nephews. She longed for siblings for her boy. She and Robb had planned for a large family, and now she had to rely on the Starks to give them that. Talisa had no plans of remarrying; Robb had been her one great love, and she was content to raise their son in his memory. But she knew that in this world, he would need to have someone, the way she had had her brother and Robb had had Jon. The way Jon and Sansa had each other, both alone in the world until she rode through the gates of Castle Black and suddenly, there was someone.
Jon and Sansa both needed someone else. They hardly ever found the time to relax, and Talisa thought that maybe if they had… someone special, it would be easier. It had certainly been easier for her to relax when Robb was near. They would find some peace, and hopefully, give the kingdom more heirs. At the moment, they were each other’s closest friend and confidant, but Jon was often away tending to the realm, and Sansa was always in her study even when he was home. They argued often about the realm, and their conversations became more shallow. They seemed to be drifting away.
Maybe she could help them find anchors.
She was looking for Ned and his Septa in the library, thinking maybe his lessons had taken them that way, when she saw a flash of red hair down the aisle. She thought it was her boy at first, his hair growing more auburn than his father’s had ever been, but then she heard a man’s gruff voice and stopped.
“— might be drawing to a close, but it’s difficult to tell. It may drag on yet, or so Sam says.”
“It almost seems like a trick. A short winter, after all this?”
It was Sansa’s red hair, and Jon’s gruff voice. Talisa slowly leaned back against the shelves so she didn’t alert them of her presence. Their conversation seemed to be dull enough. She had never been good enough not to eavesdrop, anyway.
“It hasn’t been an easy one. Maybe the Gods see no reason to prolong it.”
“The Gods have nothing to do with any of this, Jon.”
Jon sighed, and leather squeaked as he shifted, turned around. He knew she was angry. They both often were, under the stresses of returning refugees home, reorganising resources, and restoring the North. It caused frequent squabbles among them. Talisa could picture Sansa’s jaw clench at being dismissed.
“I thought winning our independence would be enough,” she said tersely. “That we would face struggles, but we would have the North. Now, it’s like the North is falling out from under my feet.”
She paused, seemingly waiting for his response. Jon said nothing.
“And you’re never here.” She was losing her patience with him now, not just the situation. “You’re always away handling the Free Folk, or negotiating with the Dragon Queen, or leaving for a day to visit some clan somewhere only the Gods know.”
“I thought the Gods had nothing to do with this.”
Sansa scoffed, unphased by his petulance. “You’re not here .”
“I’m here right now , Sansa! I’m standing in this library with you, right now.”
“For how long?” Sansa yelled. “How long until you leave again? Bran is in King’s Landing, Arya is in some port city, Brienne is in the Westerlands— you are supposed to be here!"
“I am supposed to be where my people need me—”
“You are needed on the throne, and in council meetings. That is where a king makes a difference.”
“The kings of old, yes, but I do not wish to be like the kings of old.”
“You will not be a king at all if you keep running.”
“Running? You think I am, what, running from my duties?”
“I think you are running from Winterfell.”
“From Winterfell?” he repeated incredulously.
Sansa ignored his annoyance. “I know these halls are full of memories, painful ones. Trust me, I know.” She paused for a moment, and her voice grew softer. “I also know that we can’t face them alone.”
He sighed. “Sansa…”
“You need to come home, Jon. Your room is made up. Please, these halls are too quiet.” She would not let him argue back, would not let him give her pitiful excuse after pitiful excuse as to why he didn’t have to face what was haunting him.
There was a long silence. Talisa feared for a moment that she had made a noise and they had heard. Maybe Jon would not respond at all, as he sometimes did. But then, he spoke quietly, low and rough.
“You could fill these halls with anyone you wanted.”
“You are who I want here. With me. With little Ned, and Talisa,” she added.
Jon let out a long, tired sigh. He had been putting off feeling the pain this place brought since returning home. Sansa knew that; she had wanted to avoid it as well. But it was unsustainable. She knew what it was to ache for their old life, but she was surviving still.
Talisa always got the odd feeling, though, that she was missing something. About what exactly haunted Jon.
She had no time to dwell on it as they continued.
“I was never meant to stay here,” Sansa whispered.
“It’s your home, Sansa.”
“It’s our home. And I mean, I was meant to marry some Southern prince and have his babies, not to stay here. Not to be Lady of Winterfell. If I ever was to return, I was meant to be greeted by Starks. My parents, Robb, maybe Bran and Rickon.”
“Ned and Talisa are Starks.”
“ Yes, I know. But they were not here before. Ned will never know what it is to be a child of the Long Summer. They did not know Father, or Old Nan, or Theon before Ramsay broke him.” Her voice wavered on his name, but she persisted. “They did not know me before. You did, Jon. I need you.”
There was a long pause, and Talisa wanted to scream at him to speak.
Say something, you idiot! This is not the moment to fall silent!
But Jon was not a man of many words, and when he did speak, he spoke softly. “Come here.” There was a ruffling sound as the soft fabric of her dress met the leather of his armour. Talisa risked a peek around the corner.
They were both facing away from her, to the side, but she could see well enough. Jon held Sansa, and she held onto him. They were both relaxed into the embrace, but in a desperate way. Their hands held tension like they wanted to claw each other closer, but their bodies had melted into one another. Their eyes were screwed shut, and Sansa’s face was turned outwards while he seemed to breathe in the scent of her floral perfume, light and citrusy, dotted onto her neck. One of Sansa’s hands moved and it looked as though she curled it into Jon’s dark locks. In turn, one of his hands came up to cradle the back of her head, below the braided bun she had put up herself that morning. It resembled a crown.
Talisa slowly turned back around and quietly padded out of the library, making sure to close the door gingerly. Right outside the door, there in the courtyard, she clasped her hands in front of her and thought.
Jon was coming home, to stay. That was good. It would be good for Ned, and Sansa, of course.
It would be really good for Sansa, actually. And for Jon. She had only just been thinking that their drifting apart was detrimental, but her plan to remedy it hadn’t exactly been as simple as bringing them back to each other. Well, now they had done it on their own. They would still squabble, surely. They were very different people, with very different, very strong opinions on how to do things. They would have to make space for each other again, but they would.
They cared so deeply for each other. Talisa knew that, but something about the fact was itching at the back of her mind. Yes, they cared deeply for each other, but in a peculiar way. Not in the way she had once cared for her little brother. And she had just recently compared their relationship to one of siblings, but she wasn’t sure they had ever really been that. Not as children, certainly. At Castle Black, they had found familiarity, safety, comfort in one another, but they had been entirely different people than the ones that had left Winterfell all those years ago. Not quite a sister and a brother reunited.
They were cousins, actually, and somehow that felt realer, closer to the raw truth. Yes, Talisa mused, there was a connection, there was love, but not sisterly; not brotherly.
Maybe it was cousinly, either.
They were as close as two people could be, nearly. Despite the physical distance between them, they were always each other’s first counsel when a difficult decision had to be made. They shared a solar, with Jon in Ned’s rooms and Sansa in Catelyn’s; he had settled into his old bedroom, but Sansa had insisted he take the Lord’s Chambers. They took meals together privately when he was home, when they could spare a moment from their work and when they were too busy to leave their desks. They walked side by side through the castle and the Godswood, and rode side by side through the Wolfswood and Wintertown. When they talked, they talked about everything, and yet nothing that hurt. Nothing that struck too deep. They ached to be in each other’s presence, anyone could tell, and yet they held each other at arm's length.
Talisa felt as though she realised something, then.
Jon and Sansa didn’t just need someone, anyone. They just needed each other. More of each other, in fact. This quiet camaraderie wasn’t enough. They were dancing around the fact, refusing to acknowledge it. They were hurting themselves.
She knew what had to be done, then. It was kind of ridiculous, how certain she was. Her instincts had always been good. But then, even if she was right, there was so much standing in their way. Rules some men were desperate to uphold, despite the fact that the world had changed completely.
And still, even when no one else cared, those two were so very stubborn about right and wrong, whatever that meant anymore. In fact, there was no one more stubborn in the North than a Stark, and Jon and Sansa were no exception.
Fortunately, neither was Talisa.