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Sansa loved the North; it was in her bones, her very being but the North and its people could be bleak and sometimes bitterly cold. It was a simple place; full of people that were happy with the simple things in life and it was a part of her. Though once she was old enough to understand that her mother was not originally from the North, Sansa had begged her mother for stories of the women’s life in the South. They were fine stories indeed, full of warm days and brightly coloured landscapes, and Sansa longed for it desperately. Her siblings did not understand her yearning for the South, they were Starks of Winterfell and in the North they were home. But Sansa was the perfect blend of both their parents and was not content to remain in the North all her life. She had considered asking her father if she could tour the Seven Kingdoms to further her education but knew that it was a weak excuse at best.
No, Sansa knew that the only way she would be able to spend her days frolicking in the warmth of the South would be to marry someone of the South. It was well known that ladies of the South were to be proper and respectable ladies in order to attract advantageous matches. So young Sansa vowed to become just that, a proper and respectable lady. Now at the age of two and ten Sansa had spent years carefully modelling herself on her lady mother, the greatest lady she knew. All over the North Lady Stark was spoken of as a great lady, she had spent years proving herself to be a good wife to the Warden of the North and a good mother to their litter of wolf pups, and had earned the respect of all the Northern Houses, great and small.
So Sansa would follow after mother, mimicking every word, action and mannerism. This, unfortunately, had unforseen consequences. Where she had spent her childhood playing carefree games of knights and ladies with her siblings, getting muddy and sweaty, she now spent her time studiously learning to manage a great house and caring greatly for her appearance. It was hard at first, but she learnt to live with her choice, though what hurt her most was mimicking the way her mother would treat Jon, ignoring him completely or reminding him of his place. Jon had always been her favourite playmate when they were young, particularly when Arya was too small to play with them. Unlike Robb, Jon was quieter and much more patient, happy to spend hours reading stories to Sansa when she begged. She could remember the first time she had called him half-brother, the anguished look on his face nearly breaking her in half. It had taken all of her will not to run after him and beg his forgiveness. It was the first step in becoming a great lady but it was also the first step to making herself an outsider in her own family.
While most people saw bastards as sinful beings made from sinful acts, her father and siblings treated Jon as if he were a trueborn member of the family.
Even now Sansa could hear their carousing in the yard while she sat practicing her needlework. Without arousing the suspicion of Septa Mordane, Sansa slowly puts aside her pillow and moves towards the window. Looking outside, the sight brings a sad smile to her face. She could see Robb and Jon instructing Bran and Arya on the finer aspects of footwork while wielding a blade. Bran was looking at the older boys in absolute awe, drinking in every one of Jon’s instructions, while Arya jittered impatiently, always ready for action and frustrating Robb to no end. Never did Sansa feel so out of place with her family when she sees them together like this. Yes, she was working towards her goal (and getting closer if the letters from Highgarden were any indication) but at the cost of losing her family.
I feel that, sometimes, it is not worth this heartache.
From the corner of her eye, Sansa saw her mother stride across the courtyard to where Jon was instructing Arya on the correct fighting stance, his hands on her shoulders, moving them into place. She could see her mother’s eyes narrow in anger at the scene before her as she rushed the last few steps and pulled Arya away from Jon. When they saw the formidable Lady Stark, her siblings’ laughter abruptly stopped. It was as if winter had come and frozen them all solid. Arya protested loudly as Catelyn pulled her away, “Mother it’s Jon’s nameday, we cannot leave him by himself! We are celebrating by doing all of his favourite things – just like we do on our namedays!”
Lady Stark pursed her lips at her youngest daughter’s words, “Jon has had his time with you all, now you must attend your lessons so you can become proper lords and ladies.” Even from her window, Sansa could see Jon wince at the last part and felt her heart break a little. Jon was a good boy – almost a man really at five and ten – he did not deserve to be constantly reminded of the stigma of his birth. Her mother never wasted an opportunity to remind Jon of his place and every time it almost broke her resolve but seeing the look on his face – on his nameday of all days – Sansa’s steel resolve broke. She vowed that should would remedy that look and make him smile again. It was Jon’s nameday and by the Old Gods and the New she would break every rule she had set for herself so that Jon Snow would have reason to smile on his nameday.
Later that night Sansa snuck into the kitchen and rustled together the ingredients to make Jon’s favourite sweet treat, Lemon Cakes. Even after all of the rule she had put in place and separation it had spawned between she and her siblings, it still made her smile that she and Jon at least still had this in common. She was about to start cracking the eggs when she heard a small commotion, it sounded like someone – a few someones really – making their way towards the kitchen. Sansa’s heart quickened, what would happen if she were caught? Surely Septa Mordane had a punishment prepared for this particular type of un-ladylike behaviour, she had a punishment for every type of un-ladylike behaviour.
The shuffling grew louder, “Ouch Robb! That was my foot!”
“Yes, well you try carrying Rickon while walking down these stairs in the dark and see how many feet you step on then!”
“We’re going on an adventure!”
“Yes we are Rickon but remember it’s a quiet adventure.”
“Ow! Jon why’d you stop?”
Sansa looked up into the doorway to see all of her siblings staring curiously at her, Bran rubbing his nose where he had run into Jon's back.
“Sansa what are you doing down here?” As always, Arya was the most suspicious of her sister’s motives.
“I could ask you the same thing but I won’t,” she sniffed, “if you must know I was making some lemon cakes for Jon’s nameday.”
Sansa thought the answering smile and blush that crept onto Jon’s face was well worth breaking her rules.