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Weirwood and Steel
By: Wynn
Just a few weeks as King, yet Jon already wanted to throw himself, despairing, onto his sword. The show of unity among the lords at his coronation had corroded in the time since, beset by petty squabbling and plays to curry his favor. And Baelish… Jon shook his head as he strode down the hall. Never had he heard a man speak so fine, yet for all of Baelish’s pretty words, he had failed to hide the sly look in his eye, the look that spoke of schemes and usurpations.
Jon sighed as he rounded the corner to the final hall. The irritations of that afternoon’s meeting, and of the ones that had come before, nearly made him wish he was north of the Wall. Say what you would about the Free Folk, they were honest and direct. If a man hated you, he told you so and just as likely showed you with a knife to your gut or a fist to your eye. But the Free Folk were not beyond the Wall; they were here in Winterfell, as was Jon, all of them driven south by the King of the dead. That was what he needed to focus on, this war with the Night King, but he could not, not with what had occurred that afternoon, the last look from Baelish before he sauntered, smirking, from the Great Hall.
He could not, not if Jon wished to stay alive.
The door to the Lord’s chamber loomed before him. Jon slowed as he approached. He had never dared enter in his youth, too afraid of displeasing Lady Catelyn. Yet Sansa resided there now. At one time, the same fear of displeasing her would have spurred his avoidance too, Sansa as like as her mother to see the bastard before the boy in their youth. But no longer. She had declared him a Stark, if not in name than in sentiment. No, another fear held him in check, one from the possible consequences of this upcoming conversation, of Jon trading her life for his.
But winter was here. And Father always said that the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.
Breathing in, Jon lifted a hand and knocked on the door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Jon.”
Silence followed, the door too thick for him to hear Sansa’s quiet step. Seconds later, though, the scrape of an iron bar sounded as she opened her door.
“Is everything all right?” she asked as she stepped into the threshold. She still wore her day dress but her hair coursed about her shoulders, free from her customary braids.
“Yes. Well, no,” Jon amended. “It’s just- I wanted- if you were free, that is, I’d hoped to-” Jon stopped his ramblings as Sansa started to smile. He saw no malice in its depths, just amusement, which prompted his own half a second later. “Can we talk?”
“I don’t know,” Sansa said as she eased aside. “I can. You, on the other hand…”
Jon cocked a brow at her teasing. Sansa’s smile widened, just a fraction, more when he shook his head and let loose a soft sigh. He stepped past her, into her chambers. A fire burned in the hearth, the only source of light in the room. He had expected giggling and songs to greet him, the Sansa of his youth never without a companion in her leisure, but silence reigned here, Sansa alone. He discerned a chair by the hearth beside a basket of sewing, ink and parchment atop the desk beside the window.
Behind him, he heard Sansa close the door. “Would you like some wine?”
Jon shook his head. He followed Sansa to a seating area in the middle of the room. She settled on a gray settee and directed him to the other end. Jon sat, stiffly at first, the furniture surely Lady Catelyn’s and not for a bastard like him, but the warmth of the fire and the blessed quiet leeched some of the tension from his bones. He knew Sansa waited for him to speak, but he’d spent all his words in the Great Hall. Her jest at the door fluttered back through his brain, bringing a worn smile to his face.
“What?”
Jon glanced at her. “You were right.”
“How so?”
“Talking. I can’t do it.” He shrugged as he looked away, over to the fire. “I’m no good at it. I’ve never been. I try, but I just- I don’t-” He felt his throat seize then, proving him correct. Jon closed his eyes and lifted a hand, scrubbing it hard over his face.
“Jon-”
“I can’t do this, Sansa.”
She made no response to his outburst. Jon opened his eyes and found her frowning at him again. “Do what?” she asked after a pause.
Jon lowered his hand. “Lead. Rule.” The afternoon reared itself before him again, the ceaseless quarrels over trifles that had nothing to do with the dead. Jon clenched his jaw, but he resisted the urge to fist his hands, turning instead back to Sansa. “I can’t be King.”
Sansa blinked at him. She parted her lips, but said nothing, she just stared at him, silent.
“I’ll do it,” he continued a moment later. “Because the lords chose me, and we need all the North united against the Others. But…” He trailed off again, the words lodging in his throat. Jon turned back to the fire, but no help greeted him there. He was no Red Woman. He saw only the flames.
“But?”
Sansa’s quiet prompt pulled the confession from his chest. “But I died. I tried before, to lead. At the Wall, I tried, and I died. They murdered me and I-” He bit back the rest, his mouth going as tight as the scars on his chest. He felt them each time he moved, the flesh having healed in thick, ugly slabs. He bore new ones now, from the battle for Winterfell, from the crush. Jon closed his eyes as he remembered. Hundreds of men all clawing and scraping for breath, all fighting to stay alive, and Jon sinking, suffocating beneath the press.
He flinched at the touch of a hand on his shoulder, then the present processed: Sansa and the fire, Jon on the settee and not at the Wall, not in the war. He expected Sansa to retract her hand at his flinch, but she didn’t; it remained, soft but sure upon him. As it moved slowly across his back, Jon released a long, shuddering breath.
“I don’t want to die like that, Sansa. Not again. Not as Father did or as-”
“Robb.”
Jon nodded. Both of them murdered by fine lords from fine houses for the decisions that they’d made, for their attempts to do what was right. And now Jon led fine lords from fine houses, each demanding and maneuvering and seeking for their gain. Jon returned his gaze to Sansa. Grief pinched the corners of her mouth and cast long shadows beneath her eyes. She wanted as he did, rest from the torments of the world. She wanted safety and Winterfell, and he sought to snatch it from her, to use her as all others had.
He looked away, nearly stood and walked away, but the hand on his back held him fast.
“Jon, what is it? Just tell me.”
He hesitated a moment longer then, on a long breath, he reached into the pocket of his doublet and pulled out a small broach made of weirwood and steel.
Sansa’s hand slipped from his shoulder as she caught sight of the item. “That’s…”
“The Hand of the King.” He glanced up and found her eyes fixed on the broach. Holding it out, he said softly, “It’s yours, if you want it.”
Sansa’s gaze snapped up to his. “Mine? But I thought-”
“What?”
She hesitated a beat before lifting her chin. “Ser Davos. I thought he would be your Hand.”
Jon shook his head.
“Why not?”
“Davos didn’t survive three years in the court at King’s Landing. You did.”
Sansa arched a slim brow. “Winterfell is not King’s Landing.”
“Tell that to Lord Baelish.”
Sansa dropped her gaze at that. Jon nearly did too, Baelish and his presence here still a sore spot between them. But he reached out instead, laying his hand on Sansa’s shoulder. She looked up at him again, and his heart clenched at the surprise in her eyes.
“You know Baelish,” he said, the words a low rumble above the crackle of the fire. “You know Robyn Arryn and these lords from the Vale. And you’ve read the ravens. I know you have. You know about the madness in King’s Landing, Cersei Lannister declaring herself Queen. And the one from Theon about this Dragon Queen? Tyrion Lannister as her Hand, Lady Tyrell her ally. You know them too. I don’t. I-”
Jon stopped, awareness of what he was about to say halting his speech.
Sansa frowned at him, at his silence. “What?”
He shook his head, but the smile came, unbidden, a soft one, worn and wry. “I know nothing.”
His explanation only deepened her frown. Sansa opened her mouth to question, but Jon shook his head again. He pushed up off the settee and moved away from the couch, away from her sharp gaze and the memories he didn’t want to recall, that he didn’t think he could explain. His throat closed, swelling with grief he thought long dead. Jon pulled in a long breath. He heard it shake, and he knew Sansa did as well. He fisted his hands, tried to bring himself back under control, but he winced instead at a sharp prick of pain from his right palm. Glancing down, Jon spied the weirwood and steel Hand still clutched in his. He sighed at the sight of it, at his need for it, at the risk that he brought to Sansa by offering it to her, but rather than walk away from it and from her, he turned back around.
“I know you don’t trust me-”
“I do.”
Jon lifted his head. Sansa stared at him, her face again pinched with grief. “Sansa-”
“I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you about Littlefinger. Not telling you had nothing to do with trust.”
The word slipped out before he could stop it. “No?”
Sansa averted her gaze. Jon thought he saw her mouth tremble but she pressed her lips flat before he could determine for certain. He waited for her to stand, to turn as he had and shutter her grief, but she raised her head a second later and looked him straight in the eye, her pain and her pride both laid bare.
“I trust you, Jon. You’re the only person alive that I trust. You are true and you are honorable and you helped me when I came to the Wall, not because it would help you in any way, but because you are kind. But kindness...” She shook her head then, her jaw going tight as her gaze flickered away from him again. “There is no kindness in this game. Or honor. There’s only cruelty and lies, and I-” Sansa faltered again. Her hands shook and she dug them into the wool of her dress until her knuckles turned white. “I did what I had to do. To survive. For both of us to survive. I know it wasn’t right, but I-”
The words broke off as she shook again. Jon moved toward the settee, tossing the Hand onto the cushions as he crouched before Sansa. He laid his hands on top of hers and tried to catch her eyes again. “I don’t blame you, Sansa. And I’m not angry. I wish that you’d told me, but I wish that I’d listened, too. You told me about Ramsay, but I didn’t listen. I was too…” He searched for the right word. He was too tired. Too tired of fighting. He was too angry, Rickon slain before him. He was too arrogant, perhaps. What was Ramsay Bolton to the Night King? Jon shook his head after a pause, dismissing the attempt at introspection. “I’m sorry that I didn’t,” he said instead. “I hope you can forgive me.”
At that, Sansa huffed out a soft laugh. “That sounds familiar.”
Comprehension eluded him a few seconds. Then, their reunion at the Wall: her demand for his forgiveness for the folly of her youth. Lips curving into a smile, Jon leaned forward and issued to her the same demand. “Forgive me.”
Sansa stared at him a moment before nodding. She twisted her hands to clasp his, and for the first time since he lurched back to life, cold and alone, Jon took an easy breath. He watched Sansa do the same then her gaze shifted from him to the weirwood Hand still beside them.
“I’ve never heard of a woman as Hand of the King before,” she said after a beat.
Jon shrugged. “How many have heard of a King named Snow before?”
“True.” She peered at the Hand another second before she returned her gaze to Jon. “Littlefinger will either love this or hate it.”
Jon gave her hands a soft squeeze before he rose to his feet. “I don’t care how he feels.”
“You should. Because you’re standing between him and what he wants. That’s a dangerous place to be.”
“I imagine it is.” He paused then, lifting his brows, his pulse quickening, the time now, “So what do you think I should do?”
Sansa eyed him as she had the Hand moments before. In their youth, she’d direct the same cold judgment on him as her mother had, but Jon spied no coldness in her gaze now. Just a forthright assessment, her look as sharply hone as the blade of his sword. Jon tilted his head back, held her gaze, and waited. Seconds passed and then Sansa stood, the movement smooth and regal.
“First,” she said as she arched a brow, “you should give me that.”
She directed her hand toward the weirwood broach. A hint of a smile played about her mouth. At the sight of it, the tension that had tightened his jaw and the span of his back the past few weeks eased. With a dip of his head, Jon stepped past Sansa. He retrieved the broach from the settee and turned back toward her, holding out the Hand as she faced him.
Rather than reach for it, though, Sansa lifted her chin, mischief in her eyes. “You have to say the words, Jon. Make it proper. ‘Sansa Stark, I name you Hand of the King.’”
Jon shook his head, but a reciprocant smile also nudged his lips. They came easier now, smiles, at least with Sansa. Dropping his gaze, Jon focused on the blank expanse beneath her collarbone. He shifted his grip on the broach, reached out with his free hand to smooth down the fabric of her dress. Behind him the fire crackled; bits of ice tinkled against the windowpanes. Breathing in, he lifted his hand and secured the steel fastening to the soft grey wool. His fingers lingered on the weirwood, harvested that morning in the godswood. From the heart tree. It was near in size to the one beyond the Wall before which he and Sam made their vows to the Watch. And now Jon had new words, new vows, and a new tree by which to swear them.
Glancing up, he found Sansa watching him. The mischief had faded from her eyes. She looked at him as she had after the battle, high on the ramparts of Winterfell, her brow creased as he made his plea for her trust him. For them to trust in each other. Swallowing against the thickness in his throat, Jon lowered his hand and said, his voice gruff, “Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, I name you Hand of the King. I vow to seek your counsel in all matters and to listen to your words and your wisdom when given. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”
A fine tremor of emotion rippled across her face, yet no tears came. Rather, Sansa nodded, once, slowly, the move as graceful as the curtsies she’d practiced in her youth. No blushing maid stood before him now though. She was a woman grown, as sleek and as strong as the broach she now wore upon her chest.
Swallowing again, Jon eased back. “I should go. Let us both get some sleep.”
The faint smile returned to Sansa’s face. “Yes. I imagine tomorrow will be rather… eventful. At least once people know.”
He understood her meaning. Once Littlefinger knew. The prospect of his future schemes against him, possibly against Sansa too, exhausted Jon, and he couldn’t help the sigh. “Aye. I suspect it will.” He tried to return Sansa’s smile, but it came out stiff and hollow. Dismissing it, he dipped his head in farewell. “Goodnight, Sansa.”
“Wait.”
He did. Sansa moved closer to him, her head held high and her hands clasped at her waist. “As your new Hand, I feel it is my duty to tell you, before tomorrow, that you’re wrong.”
Jon froze. He felt his breath still in his chest. “Am I?”
Sansa stopped before him. “Yes. You said you cannot do this. Rule as King. But you’re wrong. I know that you can. I believe in you. I haven’t…” She paused then. Her composure flickered, revealing the same tremulous emotion as before. Sansa took a second to compose herself before she continued, her voice softer but no less resolute. “I haven’t believed in anyone for a very long time. But I do in you, and I will help you in any way that I can.”
Jon stared, struck dumb by her declaration of faith. He tried to gather some of his wits, enough to say something meaningful in return, but speech failed him as it so often did so he settled upon simplicity and hoped it would be enough. “Thank you.”
The smile he received in response meant even more than her words. In it, the formal bearing of the Lady faded, as did the guile of the player in this game that he loathed, and he saw just Sansa, his sister, open and bright. “You’re welcome.”
*