Chapter Text
Wylla Manderly was seventeen, six years older than Sansa herself had been when she’d first come to King’s Landing. Moreover, she had led her smallfolk through three wars, the last of which decimated her house and razed much of the North, including the great city of White Harbour, to the ground.
Still, Sansa thought, how young she looks in her wedding finery.
The bride and groom sat at the high table overlooking Winterfell's Great Hall, where they had been given the place of honour beside the Queen. Banners of green and gold festooned the hall, newly rebuilt after the great fire that had stripped away all but the ancient stone seatings of the castle. The savoury aromas of cooking meat and spices filled the air, and laughter and cheerful words formed a din that rang throughout the hall.
There was a time when she would have given anything to sit in Wylla Manderly’s place, to be the Lady of Highgarden and married to the only good man in King’s Landing.
But Sansa had been younger when she first married, and her wedding far finer. Cersei had gripped her arm tightly during the reception and whispered that her gown had cost a fortune, having been made by a team of twelve seamstresses. Indeed, Sansa had lit up the sept with that dress, brocaded with a pure woven gold that so perfectly set off the regal red of her cloak. At the feast, though, her new husband had splashed wine upon her sleeve, with copious amounts going into his own lap. Later he'd watched her peel off her gown, his mismatched eyes clinging to her bare skin.
Her own gaze must have wandered along with her thoughts. She caught Tyrion’s eye from where he sat at the side of the Dragon Queen. If he’d been close enough, he would have no doubt produced some witticism regarding the event itself, or perhaps their mutual history. Now he only raised his cup in silence, as if to toast her, a sardonic smile on his face. When Daenerys had come to Winterfell, men had trembled on the spot to see her diminutive figure atop a black dragon the size of a castle tower. But Sansa had not been able to look away from the small, stunted shape who sat so proudly atop the smallest dragon. He had called her Lady Stark when they greeted one another, to her puzzlement. It was only later that she understood.
To her right, Jon’s seat was empty. She had last spotted him making his way toward the Mormonts, but he was not at their table now. Lyanna Mormont was deep in conversation with her mother Maege, both of them as tall and large as the rest of their family. They had been the first house to write back when she and Jon had sent off ravens to all the Northern houses for aid. House Mormont will always stand with the Starks. She would always be thankful for the five hundred men they had brought with them.
‘This is boring,’ said Rickon, picking at his greens beside her.
‘Don’t worry, there’s plenty of Dothraki here. You know what they say about Dothraki weddings.’ Arya gave him a wicked smile, her grey eyes as restless as the rest of her was still.
Rickon perked up. ‘What do they say?’
‘Arya,’ warned Sansa.
Her sister ignored her, as she had done for the past moon. Sansa fought the urge to roll her eyes, to regress to childhood when the two of them had fought over every little thing. Her elation at finding her sister safe had been as short-lived as the peace between them. Arya was still stubborn and wild, still prone to fits of mood and temper. She’d worn trousers to a wedding, for goodness’ sake, and after Sansa had laid out a perfectly lovely dress for her. Jon had refused to intercede on the matter, saying only that Arya was not speaking to him, either, and that no one would likely take offense. Except me, she thought, which was exactly why Arya had done it.
‘A dull wedding isn’t always a bad sign,’ she told Rickon, as Arya opened her mouth. ‘It usually means that everything is going well.’
Her sister stood up and stalked away in that silent manner with which Sansa had yet to get used to. The Arya she knew had stomped everywhere with the ferocity and noise of a small bear. She’d been quick to anger, yes, but quick to laughter, too. This other, dangerous girl smiled rarely and laughed even less.
‘I never want to marry,’ Rickon declared.
‘It’s your duty to marry,’ Sansa reminded him, ‘but it won’t be for a long while. When you do, you’ll have a wife, someone you can love and trust, who’ll be a mother to your children like our lady mother was to you. Do you think that perhaps you’ll change your mind by then?’
‘I won’t,’ he said, but he sounded uncertain.
Sansa’s second wedding had taken place in the peace of the godswood. The only thing she remembered clearly from that day was the white face of the weirwood before which she’d knelt, reminding her of her father, who’d followed the faith of the Old Gods and not the Seven. If Ned Stark had been alive Ramsay Bolton would still have been nobody at all, regulated forever to his small corner of the world, and Sansa would never have known how it felt to have her maidenhood and any remaining innocence ripped away –
She stopped her own thoughts from treading onward, for that was a dark road that she knew all too well. A sudden chill settled over her shoulders, though it was warm inside the hall.
Rickon was watching the bride and groom dance. Wylla’s dress shimmered in the light, heavy white brocade woven through with gold and blue thread. Winter had come, and even the southerners in the hall had learned to dress in wool and furs.
‘Can I watch the bedding?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Sansa firmly. ‘There may not even be one.’ Neither Willas nor Wylla seemed the type to enjoy the particular brand of boisterousness that accompanied a traditional bedding.
Her brother pouted. He’d been a baby for so long in her mind that when she’d first seen him she hadn’t recognized him, but for his Tully look. He was the Lord of Winterfell, but he was only eight, and the hour was late. Sansa suspected that tiredness had more to do with his crabbiness than anything else. Perhaps it was time to turn in for the night.
That would have to wait, though, for Tyrion Lannister was approaching their table.
The Lord of Casterly Rock greeted the Lord of Winterfell, and bowed to her after. ‘Lady Stark, this is a most beautiful wedding. You yourself look radiant.’
‘And you look very fine as well, my lord.’ He donned a doublet of red and gold, and his green and black eyes shone as if he was laughing at what she had said. Daenerys had given him Casterly Rock when she’d taken King’s Landing, after stripping his brother the Kingslayer of all titles and placing a bounty on his head. Jaime Lannister had been up north, knee deep in wights, and Sansa had seen him shake with laughter when he heard the news.
‘I would ask you for a dance, but as you know very well – my knees preclude me from such an activity. A shame, I know. Perhaps you would honour instead with a walk about the grounds?’
‘It would be my pleasure,’ she told him, rising. They made their way past the tables where Northerners and Southerners and Dothraki and Free Folk sat peaceably enough, though each in their own little groups. It had been a year since Daenerys had come to Winterfell, and only two months since the war against the Others was won, but old divisions remained as true as the ancient loyalties that had united them all in the first place.
‘Have you given more thought to what we discussed earlier?’ he asked quietly.
He was no longer her husband, but a familiarity lingered between the two of them after all this time. She spoke with less flowery courtesies than she would have otherwise. ‘I would have thought our marriage would be enough. Winterfell will take years to rebuild, and my brother is yet young – I am loathe to leave it in the meanwhile.’
‘I understand,’ he said, sounding as sincere as she had ever heard him, ‘but the Queen wonders whether years apart for a newlywed pair might unduly strain the relationship. You would be a great source of strength for your husband at court.’
‘Her concern for us is as touching as it is prudent,’ she replied. ‘But he and I are agreed on this.’
And none of it would be necessary were she not so adamant that he remain by her side. For all her dragons, she is afraid of what will happen if Rhaegar Targaryen’s only living son is left to his own devices.
She could not help but raise her eyes in search of Jon, who had returned to the table and was listening intently to something Rickon was saying. He cut an arresting figure in a surcoat of black and blood red – that was her doing, he would have been happy in his grimy old Night’s Watch fatigues – but there was no other hint of his father in him. Perhaps there was truth in what Tyrion implied. Jon was undoubtedly a proven leader, a commander that men followed willingly to their deaths, but he had little guile when it came to political games. He would remain as honourable and dutiful as ever, and the court would swallow him alive. The thought gave her a sharp pang in her chest.
‘I suppose the Small Council is concerned about an heir?’ she prompted.
He gave her an appraising look. ‘I am the Small Council.’ There was a hint of Jaime Lannister in the sharpness of his smile. ‘Even a year together, the first year, might be helpful.’
It was no secret that Daenerys was barren. After all, a kingdom without an heir was an unsteady sovereignty, for upon the Queen’s death, the great lords would once again throw themselves into war, and the smallfolk would suffer again. There would be little hope for peace in a glorious new era. Sansa thought it likely that she had decreed her nephew legitimate for that reason alone; if the Queen had borne her own children, Jon would likely have found himself in danger, rather than crowned Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Seven Kingdoms.
‘Sansa. I have great affection for your husband, believe it or not. He has saved my skin on numerous occasions in the past year. We are kindred spirits in many ways. But he’s no politician, and he was never taught the rules of statecraft. You on the other hand, my lady, learned the rules of the game by trial and blood. You will truly thrive at court.’ Tyrion spoke gently now, without hint of artifice, like he had done on many occasions during their marriage when the two of them were alone. He had ever been kind to her, even though he must have resented her for the distance between them. There had been more than one good man in King’s Landing after all. ‘A year with him would make little difference in rebuilding your home. You know he would never ask you himself. He loves you too much.’
Once upon a time, such a speech might have moved her girlish heart. But now Sansa only smiled, and took the arm he offered her, saying, ‘I have much to think upon. I’ll give you my answer before the end of the week.’
Tyrion knew her too well. ‘Good, good,’ he rumbled, sighing.
When she returned to her table, she was met with Jon’s questioning gaze. ‘Later,’ she murmured to him. Rickon was looking sleepy. ‘Bedtime, my little lord.’
‘I want to stay,’ he protested. ‘I’m eight now, nearly a man grown.’
‘Nearly, but not quite. Come along. We’ll bid the queen good night.’
‘No one else is going to bed!’
Jon stood up as well. ‘I’ll tell you a story about the Night’s Watch.’
Rickon was not too old for bedtime stories, it seemed. ‘And the Others?’ he said.
‘Of course.’
Daenerys sat at the centre of the highest table, her long silver-blonde hair braided with tiny bells that tinkled merrily with each movement. Up close she always seemed younger than Sansa expected, less like the figure from legend who had descended upon the Others on the back of a dragon, and more like any other girl, young in everything but those unearthly purple eyes.
The Queen bid them good night sweetly, extracting a promise from Sansa that they should breakfast together. I would like for us to be friends, Daenerys had said, when they first met all those months ago. Wights were still battering ceaselessly upon Winterfell’s walls, and the foreign conqueror Queen aroused little loyalty from the Northerners. Sansa had felt sympathy for her, to find herself so far removed from the tropical East and the absolute control by which she had so far governed. And Sansa knew well how it felt to yearn for a true friend.
And for the year that the war had raged, Sansa had come to respect her, even like her. If circumstances had been different perhaps they could have been true friends. But she was not naïve to think that it would ever be so easy. After all, she’d had the same hope once, with Margaery Tyrell.
By the time Rickon had fallen asleep, Sansa felt fatigue pulling at her own eyelids as well. It was dark inside his chambers, her father’s bedchamber. As Jon leaned in to kiss him goodnight, she had a sudden image of Ned Stark doing the same thing countless times for her and baby Arya, when he would put them to bed. The resemblance was still striking, at times. When she had seen Jon at the Wall for the first time after all those years of separation it was as though her father had come alive again, for a single shining moment. It was perhaps yet another reason why Arya had branded their union ‘disgusting’.
‘He’s getting too old to be tucked into bed and told stories,’ she said, keeping her voice low. They lingered in the half dark, unwilling to rejoin the revel outside.
‘Somehow I doubt you’ll spoil him,’ said Jon, smiling at her.
The tale he’d chosen had been unsettling. It almost made her shiver, to picture Craster’s sons handed off to the Others, little warm babes leached of all that made them human. ‘There’s so much you haven’t told me about your time in the Watch. I imagine there are things no one in the Seven Kingdoms knew but the brothers in black.’
Jon’s smile had turned sad. The Night’s Watch was long gone, fallen along with the Wall. ‘Sam is already putting it all down. Every time I get a letter from him he’s determined he’ll need to add another volume.’ His affection for his friend shone through. ‘Perhaps he’ll call it, A Brief History of the Wall.’
‘There’ll be endless stories for the children then,’ she said. ‘The singers have already started composing.’
‘I can’t wait to hear them,’ he said, voice dry. They both knew that stories necessitated a hero and a villain, that the endings were neat and clean. It made people happy to hear about the bastard turned prince; the damsel in distress rescued by her champion. In a hundred years, no one would ever remember that it had ever been any different.
‘What did Tyrion want?’ he asked.
‘The same.’
Jon’s face was unreadable. ‘Daenerys has been hinting that a position on the small council is open.’
It was a tantalizing lure. A part of her was deeply flattered. She would command power and respect, and she would be close to Jon. They could raise their babe together, give it everything they themselves had yearned for. The thought of that golden future was so sweet, like the kindest dream.
‘It would be a masterful plan,’ she said instead, ‘to have the both of us beneath their roof. If the North ever moved against her, she could easily have my head and yours.’
He nodded. ‘Then stay. You said it yourself, you are needed far more here than down in King’s Landing. Rickon needs you.’
She smiled. ‘I don’t think Arya feels quite the same.’
‘Arya will come around,’ he sighed. ‘Eventually.’
‘And you?’ she asked quietly.
He hesitated for only a second, his dark eyes fixed upon her. ‘Winterfell and Rickon first. All else will wait.’
Family, duty, honour: these were ideals that Sansa had learnt at her mother’s knee. Her mother had been steadfast in her duties to the very bitter end. Her father, too, had held on to his honour until the moment he’d broken – because of her and her sister. It would always come down to family. She felt a sudden lurch of emotion, painful in its tenderness, as she looked at Jon. She was her mother’s daughter but he was nothing if not Ned Stark’s son, despite the dragon’s blood that ran through him.
‘Then I’ll stay,’ she said, with little joy. At last she drew close. He took hold of her, arm curving around her waist, and it was mulled wine she tasted when they kissed, soft and sweet on her tongue. When they parted she could see the unmistakeable spark of desire in his gaze.
We shouldn’t, he’d said the first time they kissed, even though his eyes had told her how much he wanted her. That day he’d brought her the Bastard of Bolton’s head, and they had retaken Winterfell for the Starks. It had been a long, cold night of hard fighting, but she remembered the look on his face as he threw down the bloody prize at her feet, heated with bloodlust and some other unnamed passion. Ramsey’s death had been his last gift to her as her brother.
That night as they walked through the old crypts of Winterfell he’d told her everything, the truth about the Tourney of Harrenhal and all that had followed after, what Ned Stark had done at the Tower of Joy. And she’d wept for him, for Lyanna and for Robb and her own mother and father, all these lives lost to the selfishness of these great kings and princes. It had been years since she’d let her tears fall. Perhaps he’d meant to comfort her as any brother might, but the feeling of his arms around her had made her take his head in her hands and pull him down for a kiss.
Jon had balked then, but now he skimmed his hand over the material covering her breast, stroking softly, the touch a question. Heat pooled in her belly, a familiar ache, and her world narrowed to a pair of grey eyes.
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
They returned to their chambers, weariness forgotten.
She pushed him down onto the great four poster bed where she and her brothers and sister had been born, and clambered over him. It always felt better to be on top, to have the control, and he seemed to enjoy it as well. On the eve of her third and final wedding, he’d carried her over the threshold of the room that once been Lady Catelyn’s room. She had been so nervous that she had tasted bile at the back of her throat. Most other men wouldn’t have wanted to wait until the third night to claim their rights as he had done, but it was so very like him, and she had loved him all the more for it.
She planted kisses on his mouth, his jaw, his neck, marveling at the warmth of his skin. Jon burned hot, warmer than any normal person should, though he bore no fever or illness. The Red Woman had proclaimed it a sign of her red god’s divine presence within him. Whatever it was, it was akin to sleeping beside a furnace.
He caught her hand in his own suddenly and pressed his lips against her wrist. The tenderness of it surprised her.
‘We’ve been husband and wife for a month,’ he said quietly, watching her face. He seemed to struggle to find his next words. ‘But before that, you were my partner and my friend and my family.’ A hint of guilt flashed across his features. ‘I know when I asked you for your hand that marriage was the furthest thing from your mind. Still, you have been all a man could ask for in a wife. Even if we’re separated by years and all the kingdoms and seas in the world, we’ll find our way back to each other.’
‘Oh, Jon.’ It wasn’t exactly the courtly declaration of love that might have made a maiden swoon, but he was no storybook knight and she was no longer a naïve little bird. They were a man and a woman, and they had lived through the fall of their House and two great wars. His grey eyes were warm in a face as familiar as her own. She kissed him, long and deep.
‘We stand together,’ she told him, ‘always.’ They had pledged it when they retook the North, and they had pledged it before the Old Gods in the godswood of their childhood as he fastened a cloak of red and black around her neck. They would keep the oath even with seven kingdoms between the two of them.
‘Though it would ease the passing of time if I had a babe in my arms,’ she added, running a hand down his belly to where he was already hard.
‘We’d best do our duty then,’ he replied, solemn in everything but his smiling eyes, and for a long while there was no more talking.