Work Text:
It'd been two days now, and Sansa still hadn't managed to reconcile herself with what she knew was the best option for securing the North. Her brother, Bran, the Lord of Winterfell had looked so upset when he told her that she didn't have to that nobody could force the Queen of the North into marriage.
Sansa supposed her actual marriage to Tyrion, though unconsummated and annulled, hadn't been so bad. It was being a political prisoner in King's Landing, surrounded by vipers like Cersei and Joffrey (and his Kingsguard), that had made it all so horrid. Being bartered off to the likes of Ramsay Bolton, on the other hand, had been a different kind of hell. To be within the walls of her childhood home and abused like that...
No, Sansa had no desire to find herself shackled to yet another man- one whose character and intentions she could not be sure of.
Bran wouldn't insist, and even if the other Lords of the northern Houses found the idea appalling, Sansa knew better than them the political necessity of such an alliance. Her brother would be expected to someday marry a highborn lady from one of the Houses. Since many Free Folk had been forced to venture south of the Wall with the advent of the White-Walkers, the demographics of the North were shifting and there was no way they would be allowed to remain there without becoming, in some ways, part of the Seven Kingdoms. They had to be united in the face of this threat.
Given their low opinion of 'Kneelers', Sansa knew that would be a challenge.
Stalking through the Keep, Sansa made way towards the small room, intending to take control of her fate. She didn't bother to knock as she marched inside. Podrick Payne yelped, startled, when he realized who stood in his humble lodgings.
“My la-”
“Good, you're clothed. We must speak to Lady Brienne,” she announced without preamble. Sansa had always clung to her courtesies, they'd been her armor in King's Landing and the Vale. Decidedly less so in Winterfell. But for once, Sansa felt like dispensing with them; after all, there was no formality in what she planned to do.
Podrick scrabled behind her, tugging on his jerkin to make himself more presentable as they headed to the second landing where Lady Brienne's room was located. This time, Sansa did her the courtesy of knocking.
“Enter!”
“Queen Sansa?” Brienne's eyebrows knitted together as she saw Sansa sweep in, Pod at her heels. Crowding the already small room were the now curious Shaggydog and Ghost, neither of them Sansa's own direwolf, but she was caring for them all the same.
“I have a matter of great importance to discuss with you two.”
Brienne gestured for Sansa to sit at the table. Pod chose to stand near the wall, arms crossed and waiting to find out what was so important.
“As you know, my brother and I have been treating with the Free Folk who are settling in the North. It has become evident,” she paused as if it would give her one last chance to reconsider. “It has become evident that the best manner of solidifying an alliance would be a marriage.”
Immediately, Brienne was pacing back and forth, agitated. “Again? Is there no end to the number of people able and willing to barter you off?” Sansa held up a placating hand. “And not even to a highborn lord, at that. A Wildling!” The disgust and anger was evident in the way Sansa's sworn sword spat out every word.
“I know, Brienne. I know. I've been struggling with this decision for two days now. However, I feel I have come up with the best possible option. I'm sure by now you have heard about the Wildling practice of stealing a paramour?”
“Hmm-mm.” She caught Pod's nod. “Actually saw it happen the other day. Almost went to fight the man but Tormund explained those two have been eyeing each other for two moons now. 'Tis strange, but not remiss.”
Brienne glared at her squire as if disappointed in his acceptance. “I've heard enough to know it's a barbarian practice and you'll forgive me if I'm loathe to risk your security by allowing you to be kidnapped by some random hairy lout,” Brienne told her. Truly, Sansa was grateful she had Brienne as her sworn shield. But here, she smiled at the taller woman.
“You misunderstand me. I mean I intend to steal myself a husband.” Her companions fell so silent after that declaration Sansa suspected she could have heard Ghost's heartbeat. Brienne frowned, but didn't look entirely opposed to this alternative method.
“Steal? Pod and I would assist you in the kidnapping process, of course-”
“Actually, I thought it would be more meaningful and respectful to the Wildling ways if I used Ghost and Shaggydog's assistance in the kidnapping itself.” Nymeria was too heavy with her litter of pups to help Sansa here, but two nearly fully grown direwolves were more than up to the task. Pod's face scrunched up as he considered the prospect before nodding sharply and shrugging.
"It's doable."
That relieved her. “The only question left to me is, who? Who shall I choose?”
Pod cleared his throat, lifting his eyes shyly to hers. “If you would, Your Grace, I might have a good candidate in mind. He's one of Mance Rayder's lieutenants: Jon Snow.”
“Do I know him?”
“Perhaps...dark hair that's very...” Here, Pod waved his hands over his hair to imply how riotous the man's hair was. “Old enough to have a beard, of course, and a scar over his right eyebrow, like so.”
Sansa watched Pod trace a line over his own forehead and temple and startled. “Oh, yes! I know the man you describe. He's certainly very...intense.” She shivered. She remembered him because the way he studied her during each meeting had her straightening her spine and squaring her shoulders, prickling under the attention. Pod continued to speak:
“The men that came from the Night's Watch- they seem to hold him in great esteem. It seems before he came to be with the Wildlings, he grew up in the Last Hearth and was educated there until he reached ten years of age and was sent north of the Wall.”
“Sent?” Sansa breathed, horrified. “What on earth for?”
Pod shrugged.
“Well, what else do you know of this Jon Snow?”
Brienne sat back down across from Sansa at the table. “I believe I know the man you mean and have observed him be proved wrong by one of the spearwives, and admit his error thusly, before adjusting his course of action based on the woman's opinion. That did draw my attention.”
That was every encouraging to hear.
“So he has some ability to read and write, and probably lacks that certain male arrogance. This is good.”
What Sansa did not share with Pod, or even Brienne, was that she had seen Jon Snow. He'd been one of the men that Rayder most trusted to speak for the Free Folk whenever there was need for them to treat with House Stark or the Queen of the North. Sansa had been most impressed by his ability to accept the existence of certain Northron traditions while maintaining the independence of his people.
That, and she had observed him sparring with several of the knights and Night's Watch out in the yard. He certainly was warm-blooded enough to remove his jerkin and his tunic and fight bare-chested even with the chill of winter upon them. (Sansa had become warm-blooded herself and left before anyone could catch her gawking so wantonly.)
“Very well. If I am to make an alliance through marriage with the Free Folk, this Jon Snow will have to do.”
Jon had been caught unawares, having just emerged from bathing in a cave holding a hot spring, and before he was even a part of the way back to Winterfell, he had been set upon by two direwolves. With a undignified yelp from him, they'd dug their teeth into the thickness of his pelt and dragged him over the snow towards some destination he knew not. It was embarrassing, yes, but at least none of his clansmen had witnessed it. At any time he could have pulled his dagger or Longclaw and forced them to release him, but these were direwolves. Jon had an immense amount of respect for the animals- their intelligence and the magic he believed they were capable of. If they truly meant to kill him, or eat him first, he'd defend himself.
One bumpy ride later (he was going to have purple bruises on his arse for weeks, he just knew it) Jon was panting hard as he was deposited ungainly onto the hard, dirt floor of what looked to be an outpost. A small fire roared in the hearth and large, wooden beams cut across the ceiling, supporting the roof. Jon watched the two direwolves warily as they sat rather serenely in one corner, watching him with steady eyes. He recognized them, alright. He'd seen them around Winterfell. The white one with the red eyes was called Ghost and he usually stuck close to-
“Hello.”
Jon spun around and saw none other than Queen Sansa herself, standing between him and the door. She closed it, allowing the warmth from the fire to trap itself inside. Jon frowned as he took her in- the burning flame of her hair braided over one shoulder, the well crafted fur-lined cloak over a dark blue dress he wished he didn't know she had made herself. This probably wouldn't be the first time he wished he seemed more lordly, especially not in front of her, and it likely would not be the last. He drew himself up to his full height and nodded, not seeing any of her men hiding in the eaves.
“This could be considered a declaration of war, Lady Stark.”
She beamed, making the intense blue of her eyes twinkle in the firelight. Jon was wary enough to not take his eyes off her, but he was nervous about having his back to the direwolves.
“This isn't a declaration of war! It's a proposal of marriage.”
Jon gaped at her. “Huh?” he said, stupidly.
“I stole you,” she told him, as if that made everything clear.
“...what!?”
Queen Sansa seemed to be losing her patience, not that you would notice unless you had been observing her carefully when you sat in on meetings between the Free Folk and the Kneeler Queen. She took a slow breath, lips pressed tightly together.
“Mance Rayder and I have been in discussion about the possibility of an alliance through marriage of our peoples. Winterfell can serve as a buffer between your peoples' independence and the Queen in King's Landing. If I am to marry again, I wish it to be my choice. And I chose you.” She said the last with a simple, but shy kind of finality.
Jon let out an incredulous huff. He would thank every single deity in existence that at least Tormund and Ygritte hadn't been here to witness this. “Do I get a say in this?” he exclaimed.
She looked at him as if he were particularly dimwitted. “Of course, though I hardly pose the same kind of risk a man would to a woman he's kidnapped.”
That took the wind out of his sails. “You're right, Queen Sansa. I'm sorry.”
“Sansa. If we're talking about marriage, you should at least call me simply by my name.”
Jon had always known he was different. Even in his early life south of the Wall, and he'd certainly been kept aware of it his entire life north of it. His compatriots wouldn't look at someone like Sansa Stark and feel aware of the difference in their birth, but Jon did. Sort of.
“Very well. You may call me Jon.” One elegant eyebrow arched at the lack of deference in his tone.
Truth be told, he was impressed. Women south of the wall often lived their lives at the whims of their value to the men in their lives. And from what he had overheard around Winterfell, Que- Sansa had suffered for that. But the strength he saw in her eyes, in her bearing, told Jon that even though she wasn't like the women he knew, she was a she-wolf nonetheless.
Sansa waved to the table, where a small, covered platter sat. “Won't you sit and let us discuss what such a partnership between us might entail?”
Hair unbound, nothing beneath that fur-lined cloak of yours...
“How do you know I'm not currently with a...” he racked his brains for the right word in the Common Tongue. “I'm not sure what word you would understand-”
“A paramour?” she supplied.
“Yes. For all you know, I already have a woman to warm my furs.” A bit of a crude way to put it before her, he knew. But Sansa, as always, surprised him. Not the tiniest hint of a blush on those pale cheeks.
“No you don't. I had my squire ask around since my sworn sword looked rather green at the thought of gossiping about a man, and I have it on good authority from a spearwife named Ygritte that you ah, haven't had anyone 'warming your furs' for many moons now.”
Jon could have groaned and cursed the woman. He pushed to his feet and started to stalk around the room, needing to work off this residual energy that refused to let his limbs rest. Sansa must have thought he meant to leave, because her voice was steady, with an undercurrent of steel, as she spoke to his back.
“I have been married twice. The first to Tyrion Lannister, who never sought to consummate the marriage. He shielded me from the wrath of his family for a short while and for that, I confess I am grateful. My second husband was Ramsay Bolton. I believe you have heard of him.”
“Yes. Nothing good.” If Jon could return the man to the land of the living just for the pleasure of ripping him apart with his bare hands, he would.
“I fed him to his dogs.” Sansa seemed neither ashamed nor regretful, simply stating a matter of fact.
Jon blinked. “Is that meant as a threat to me?” He glanced over at the direwolves.
“Yes, I suppose it is. I've lost most of my family, I've been forced to humiliate myself over and over because it was the only thing that meant my survival. I don't have many illusions or dreams about marriage and what I do have, I don't dare speak lest they fade into ether. So, would you please get over your stupid pride and speak honestly with me?”
Sansa was breathing more heavily by the end of her speech and, as if realizing what a scene she had just made, she waved in the direction of the covered platter on the table. “I made spiced apple cakes. I saw that you liked them.” So you've been watching me, now?
Jon had dreams, too. He wanted a partner, a home and a hearth, a family. And the Kneeler ways weren't so utterly foreign to him even if he couldn't see himself adhering to all their rules. And this beautiful woman, who made his fingers itch to hold her, to comb through her hair, was offering him just that. Solemnly, he sat back down across from her and tore a piece off the spiced apple cake she proffered. “Then I must apologize again, Sansa, and swear I will give this serious consideration.”
The sweet smile she gave him then almost felt like it could melt the winter around them.
Jon listened carefully as Sansa outlined having the Free Folk settle in the Gift, to live off the land and help the Night's Watch by supplying them with sustenance (and fighters if that was their bent); of a self-governance relatively free of oversight by Winterfell but with a smaller agreement that a call to banners would extend to some Free Folk.
“And you wouldn't have to do much kneeling at all,” Sansa told him with a wry twist to her lips. Jon just knew if he kissed her then, she would taste of sugar and apples.
“Oh, I wouldn't mind kneeling before you if you were my lady wife,” He rather shocked himself saying that.
Now, that does cause a flush in Sansa's cheeks once she recognizes the meaning to his words. But Jon's been surrounded by people who were always very honest about what they wanted, and he wasn't about to look away, even if Sansa ducked her chin down and tried to focus on the crumbs from the cakes.
Something occurred to Jon. “Not that I would expect you to-”
“I would like to have a marriage in every sense of the word, even if some parts take time," she interrupted him.
“Of course. And where would we live?”
“We would reside here at Winterfell, part of the time at Queenscrown when we're reviewing the situation at the Gift.”
“You would be involved with my people?” That, he hadn't expected. Most people south of the Wall saw the 'wildlings' as savages without honor. Though, when the Queen of the North had swept into their camp just south of the Wall, she had shocked Mance by extending to him honest, genuine courtesies and not behaving as if his people were beneath her. That alone had made her something of a legend in multiple Wildling tongues. A Fire-Wolf come to combat the Ice.
The change that came over Sansa then was barely perceptible, but it was eerie all the same. A mask of blankness covered her face and Jon immediately hated and feared this suit of armor that she felt the need to use as protection. “I lived in the Red Keep, where the King and Queen were. There was all manner of opulence even when the smallfolk outside were starving and rioting. Not all people were horrible, but I was surrounded by those in power who could be unimaginably cruel. Savagery can dress itself up in jewels and a crown. I don't assume your people are any better or worse.”
“That's all I can ask.”
Seeking to brighten the dark turn their conversation had taken, Sansa shook her head as if to dislodge those memories. “There were six direwolf pups in their pack,” she said, pointing her chin in the direction of Ghost and Shaggydog. “But only five Stark children. We all took care of Ghost, but Ghost usually stayed with me and Lady. I wondered if the Gods meant me to keep him for someone. Perhaps you will bond with him but if not, Nymeria will deliver her pups within the next moon. I will probably take one from that litter and raise it myself.”
That did sound very appealing.
“Can you warg with them?” He'd heard the stories of old. And there were those among the various Free Folk clans that could warg with animals.
“Yes, and not just Lady. Even when my body was in a cage, my mind could race freely under the moonlight. Feel the cold Northron wind on my face.”
Feeling unexpectedly tender towards her, Jon reached out and took her bare hand into his, caressing her knuckles with his thumb. She blushed so prettily, still. Some remnant of a memory rose up in him, from when he was a boy. A book, with illustrated pages and a story. In the picture, the knight kneeled before the lady, lips pressed to her knuckles.
Longing.
He grasped her hand, turning it in his hold and pulling it closer. Jon placed a soft, careful kiss on Sansa's hand, not missing the sharp sound of indrawn breath. Looking up into those blue eyes, Jon knew he could no longer deny the truth than he could bring himself to leave her presence.
“I accept.”