strike a match (start the flame)
When they run, there is nothing but the wind at their backs and the receding outline of Winterfell’s battlements in the distance. Jon doesn’t even have time to find Ghost, and the direwolf never finds them. Maybe that’s what breaks Sansa’s heart the most.
Sometimes she can still feel that knot of dread in the pit of her stomach, like she’s right back there watching their demise from the far edges of the battle.
The Vale never comes, her missives to Littlefinger fall on deaf ears. She sits on her horse as her hands begin to shake and their men begin to fall by the dozen.
A voice in the back of her head is screaming at her to flee, to make good on her fervent promise.
“I’m not going back alive.”
Yet when faced with it, all she can think of is Jon. She lost him some half an hour past, blending into the horde of bludgeoned men spilling crimson on the frost covered ground. He’d set three men to watch over her, commanding them to stay by her side at the fringe of the fighting. But now she turns to them.
“Go,” she orders them, “run.”
They exchange startled looks, but Sansa summons the remainder of her bravery, remembers her mother’s face when she was less her mother and more the Lady of Winterfell. The men turn tail and disappear into the treeline, and then Sansa is alone.
She turns back to the fighting, and there is no denying it now. Ramsay’s men are going to win, they are going to keep Winterfell. There will be no homecoming, only a return to hell. Tears well in Sansa’s eyes but they don’t fall down her cheeks. Her horse whinnies as she grips the reins to keep him from startling.
She doesn’t know what she’s waiting for, she needs to go now if she wants to make it out alive, if she doesn’t want to be subject to more abuse from Ramsay, if she wants to remain free. But her heart is lodged in her throat as she watches more men fall. Minutes pass and she’s frozen in her spot, incapable of decision.
Suddenly, the decision is made for her.
From the west she hears the heavy thud of feet crunching over toward her and she tenses. She turns her head and prepares to send her horse flying. But when she sees the arrival’s face, she pauses.
It’s Jon.
Horseless and bloody he staggers over to her.
“Sansa.”
His voice is a prayer and a balm all at once.
“Jon,” her breath is wet.
Her horse pads over to him, closing the distance between them. Around them the battle rages ever louder, even as the death toll mounts. Sansa spares one last look at the men who laid down their lives for them, the ones who fought for the last of the Starks—for the devotion her family inspired for thousands of years.
She can’t think of it now, or else she’ll falter.
“We have to go,” Jon pants.
He winces as he takes another step and Sansa scans his body for any pressing injury. She sees no gushing blood or obviously broken bones, but Jon’s holding his ribs. He’s covered in grime and caked blood coats every visible part of his tunic, though from what she can tell, most of it isn’t his own.
“Ghost?” she asks, terrified to know the answer.
Jon shakes his head and she knows he can’t discuss it anymore at the moment.
She swallows and reaches her hand to him.
She expects him to get on behind her, but he slides her back in the saddle and takes the front of the horse with no regard for his own injuries.
“Jon–”
“There’s no time to argue, Sansa,” he cuts her off.
She bites down on her tongue hard enough that she tastes rust. The argument from the tent is still seared in her memory.
Jon grips the reins of the horse, pulling them tight. The horse takes off at a steep gallop, carrying them away from the battle, from everyone and everything.
Cowardice.
Neither of them speak for a few hours. Not even once the din of the battle fades and they find some cover in the trees but still on a clear enough path for the horse to manage without any difficulties. The sun is falling rapidly, but neither of them can think about stopping until they’re well and away from Winterfell.
Sansa shivers as she remembers Ramsay’s hounds. How long until they realize that Jon didn’t die in the battle? How long until they realize they’re both gone and the hunt begins?
That thought unties Sansa’s tongue.
She pulls back slightly from her iron-clad grip on Jon’s chest. It’s quiet enough now that she doesn’t have to talk loud to be heard.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
She feels Jon tense slightly at the sudden sound of her voice but then he slows their horse a bit and half turns his head.
“Far away,” Jon mutters.
Sansa lets out a long breath.
“He’ll never stop hunting us, hunting me.”
Jon bristles again.
They didn’t think this through. They have nothing, just the clothes on their backs and enough provisions to last them what, two days? One horse that will only live so long carrying them both at such a speed, plus whatever is in the horse’s pack. They have a fair bit of coin, enough to carry them for a time if they’re careful.
A horrible thought seizes Sansa and she speaks without thinking.
“Leave me.”
Jon stops their horse dead in its tracks and reels on her.
“What?”
Sansa gulps.
“If his men find me they’ll stop, you’ll get away.”
Jon looks at her like she’s gone mad, maybe she has. She doesn’t say that all Ramsay’s men would find is her lifeless body, she imagines Jon’s nightmares are already horrific enough. But she can give him this final sacrifice if it means he lives, if he continues on.
“Sansa–”
“You’ll travel twice as fast, you can ride South, make a life where no one knows who you are.”
His eyes darken and they’re still astride the horse, their faces only inches apart. He has wiped some of the grime from his face as they rode, but he still looks exhausted. She expects to see his resolve falter, his noble intentions break under the weight of her insistence, but if anything they grow more fierce.
“I’m not leaving you,” he says in a tone that leaves no room for argument.
But she has to try, she moves to get off the horse but Jon seizes her wrist.
“Sansa, don’t be an idiot. What good would that do? Actually, nevermind that. How do you even think I could live with myself if I left you here and walked away? Do you think I would ever have a peaceful night again, thinking about Ramsay dragging you back to Winterfell. His fists marring your face, his hands on your–”
Jon cuts himself off as his fury mounts and Sansa can tell he is shaking now. She shudders against him.
“I can’t let you die for me,” she whispers.
Jon’s face splits in two with sorrow she didn’t know him capable of.
“And I’m not leaving you here so I can live.”
An impasse.
Jon looks away, out into the trees and beyond. When he turns back to her, he’s resolved. She wonders what he saw, if he’s thinking of all the men he left behind, left to die, so that he could be with her—save her. Or maybe he’s thinking of Ghost, wondering if he got away safely.
Perhaps, like her, he’s thinking of their family. What Robb would think of them running away? Would their father understand?
“We ride for White Harbour,” he says.
Sansa’s brow furrows.
“And go where? The only family that remains to me is under siege at Riverrun. We’ve lost Winterfell. There’s nowhere in Westeros that’s safe for us now.”
Jon’s mouth flattens.
“So we leave Westeros.”
Sansa’s breath stutters.
“We take a ship to Essos, start over.”
Sansa doesn’t know how long she stares at him for. At first, she thinks he’s mad, that the battle has addled his senses. And then she becomes aware of the stillness of the woods. If they sail to Essos, these could be her last days in the North, after years of trying to get back, to then leave again so soon—it’s unthinkable.
It just might be their only choice.
She nods her head even though she’s not sure it’s the right choice.
“Essos,” she echoes him, “a new life.”
Jon nods his chin once, close enough to her that their cheeks almost brush. She shivers without knowing why.
There’s no one else alive that she can put her faith in. Theon returned to his sister. She sent Brienne to Riverrun, and this she will carry with her now, her one regret. The lack of closure for the woman she owes everything.
But looking in Jon’s eyes, eyes so like her father’s, she finds her resolve—her strength.
Suddenly, Jon’s hand moves from where it seized her wrist and his fingers entwine with hers, squeezing it once.
“Trust me.”
Sansa’s mouth feels dry and she wets her lips with a flick of her tongue.
“I do.”
Jon’s hand squeezes hers once more and his eyes are as sharp as steel. He lets her hand drop and regrips the reins, setting them on their course once more.
“We’ll ride for a few more hours, then find a place to rest. We’ve put a fair distance between us and the castle.”
He doesn’t mention the hounds, and Sansa is glad for it. As the horse begins its gallop again Sansa leans forward and clutches her arms around Jon’s chest, feeling for all the world that Jon is her last remaining tether to this life.
He doesn’t let go of Sansa until they’re safely in their cabin for the night, sometimes it feels like he’s been holding her since they left the battle. She’s scarcely been more than an arm’s length away in so long.
Thus when he drops her arm, Sansa flinches.
Jon doesn’t acknowledge it and instead lets some of the tension drop from his shoulders as he fastens the lock behind them.
“Can hounds swim?” Sansa asks, breathless.
Jon glances at her and there’s a ghost of a smile on her lips, somehow she’s able to joke. He lets himself join in the jest.
“If those beasts track us across the Narrow Sea they’ll drown before making it back to Ramsay.”
Sansa’s eyes are wet, he can tell, but she seems genuinely relieved to be here, tired but happy. They’ve travelled at a breakneck pace for eight days to make it to White Harbour. They changed horses once, luckily finding an amicable Inn that could accommodate their needs. And they never heard so much as a singular howl from any hound.
(Jon tries to forget that they never heard any wolf’s howl either. In his dreams Ghost is still there, lost on the battlefield).
Neither of them know what to make of it. The hopeful part of Jon thinks it means Ramsay might be dead, somehow, even though he never saw the horde of battle up close. The realistic part knows they might simply be undermanned, or that in the chaos it took them too long to realize that Jon and Sansa weren’t amongst the dead, that they fled.
Mostly, he tries not to think about it. They’re on a ship bound for Lys, their one way passage paid with enough remaining coin to get them settled once they’re on land again.
Sansa unpacks their meager belongings they’ve scrounged up in the last week, placing their changes of clothes in the wardrobe. Jon unhooks Longclaw from his waist and lays it in the corner of the room.
It’s the only true possession he has now, the only object that means anything—not that he had much before. But the sword serves as a reminder to the vow he’s fulfilling now, protecting Sansa, getting her somewhere safe—as safe as anywhere can be in their new reality.
He watches her, her face turned from him, and there is a moment of awe for her and all she’s been through. For himself too, to stand here with her, turning their backs on all they’ve ever known.
She pulls her hair over her left shoulder and looks back at him.
Subconsciously Jon straightens his spine.
“Do you think they believed us?”
Jon’s brow furrows.
“About what?”
“That we’re…” Sansa’s eyes fall to the floor, “married.”
Jon’s face warms. It was a necessary deception, the safest choice, all things considered. A wed woman would garner at least a bit more respect from those who might be interested in disrespecting her—especially with Jon’s ever-looming presence.
“They better,” Jon manages.
Sansa worries at her lip but her eyes meet his again. The sky has darkened outside and their cabin is only dimly lit by two oil lamps. There is something reminiscent about it, all those moons on the road in dingy tents.
“Jon?” Sansa asks.
He can tell by looking at her that whatever she’s about to say, she’s been building to for a while and he doesn’t have time to say anything before she continues on.
“Thank you,” she says, “for coming back for me.”
There’s something raw in her voice, unwound. They’ve set aside much of the harder aspects of their conversations in favour of logistical planning. Their preoccupation has been getting clear of Ramsay’s hounds, of making sure no one had any idea where they were headed.
“I promised.”
Sansa’s hands worry themselves together.
“And I was wrong.”
In this light she looks startlingly like her Lady mother, Jon realizes with a start. He blurts out the next words even though he knows what she means.
“About what?”
“I said no one can protect me,” she says softly, “but you did.”
There’s a tug in his chest that urges him to go to her, to pull her into his arms and hold her close, to breathe her in and remind himself that she is safe, that she is on this ship with him and nobody is going to take her away. But he stops the impulse.
“It was nothing,” he shakes his head.
Sansa is insistent though, and won’t let it drop.
“At Castle Black…you said you were tired of fighting, and I dragged you back into it, dragged half the North into it and now they’re dead, with no one to fight for, families without anyone to protect and it’s my fault and–”
Jon’s across the room in three strides, and this time he does pull her into his arms, silencing her with a hand in her hair and a soft murmur against her ear. There’s a closeness to it that he couldn’t have imagined a year ago.
Sansa lets out a startled gasp, but melts into him all the same.
“It’s not your fault Sansa,” Jon rubs her back, “it’s not your fault.”
He wishes he could say more. But she knows as well as he does that they convinced those people to fight, convinced them that they were someone worth fighting for—and they have to live with it. If she is to blame, he is right there with her. They both played their part. Still, they didn’t force anyone to do anything.
They tried.
It wasn’t enough.
Jon wishes it was.
History will remember it as nothing more than a failed reckoning, if they remember it at all. But he and Sansa will know, will probably always dream of what it could have been—in another life.
Sansa doesn’t cry, but she’s shaking slightly.
“All those people,” she murmurs.
“Shh.”
They stand there for a few more minutes, Jon rubbing her back as she burrows her face in his shoulder and he only lets her go once the vibrations cease.
“We should get ready for bed, it’s been too long since either of us had a proper rest.”
Sansa’s eyes widen slightly but she nods, though not before Jon notices her glance surreptitiously at the bed. The singular bed that is housed in their cabin, a cabin presumably being used by a married couple.
Right.
Jon hadn’t fully thought this through.
“I’ll take the floor.”
If the choice was between sleeping on the floor but sharing a room with Sansa and sleeping on a bed but having walls and doors between them, Jon knows there’s no choice at all.
“Jon–”
“It’s fine, Sansa. Really.”
She gives him an unimpressed look but he can tell she’s too weary to fight with him tonight—though he suspects he may hear objections again tomorrow.
“Well turn around then, so I can change.”
Jon flushes again at that but quickly turns his back and starts reaching for his own clothes, a few minutes pass in which Jon is overly aware of every rustle of fabric and sound of breath coming from Sansa’s side of the room.
When they’re both decent they turn around and Jon sees that Sansa has also pulled a pillow off the bed and the heavier of the two blankets.
“Don’t even try and argue with me,” she pierces him with a gaze as she crawls into bed.
Jon gives her a bemused expression before making his camp at the foot of the bed. Truthfully he’s so tired he thinks he could fall asleep anywhere, plus the pillow is soft and the blanket is warm so he’s dreaming within minutes. The last thing he’s aware of is Sansa’s soft sigh of a goodnight.
Jon steadfastly refuses to sleep in the bed for the remainder of their voyage, much to Sansa’s chagrin. He won’t even alternate nights with her—he’s too noble for his own good. She tries simply moving to the floor one night and Jon sighs.
“You’re really going to make me pick you up and put you back in the bed?”
Sansa had flushed and stomped back to the bed, stubbornly refusing to say so much as a goodnight to him.
It isn’t until the last night of their voyage when they hit a bad storm that something changes. Mid-afternoon the clouds had rolled in, and even though the weather had grown steadily warmer the further south they sailed, the air chilled quickly. The sky opened and the rain began to pour. Everyone who wasn’t a part of the crew returned to the hull for their evening meal and an early night.
Sansa and Jon had eaten in relative silence, both of them thinking of what the morrow would bring, docking in a foreign place, the city of Lys—somewhere neither of them could fully imagine even in their wildest fantasies.
When they return to the room they’re both already shivering slightly, the boat up until now hadn’t had any issues with temperature, and they’re both fairly resilient from growing up in the North, but it almost feels like the wind is sailing right through their cabin. Sansa’s teeth begin to chatter as she disrobes and readies for bed.
She can tell from Jon’s hunched shoulders and his surly grimace that he’s feeling the cold as well, and when they say their goodnights Sansa can’t wait to slip beneath the covers.
It only takes her some ten minutes to realize she is not going to sleep at all at this rate. One thin blanket, even in her warmest clothes, is doing nothing to raise her body temperature, and her teeth are chattering ceaselessly now. She hears Jon tossing and turning on the floor too and she suspects he is feeling much the same.
It’s ridiculous, and with a huff she sits up in bed.
“Jon?”
She hears him rustle.
“Yes?”
His voice is a breathy whisper and she’s fairly certain he’s suppressing his own shivers.
“Get in the bed.”
“Sansa–”
“Jon, I’m serious. I’m freezing, you’re freezing. Two blankets will serve us better than one each, and sharing our body heat will warm us up faster.”
She says the words in a rush, not allowing herself to feel self-conscious and waits for Jon to respond. It takes him a minute, she can’t see his face from where she’s perched on the bed but then she hears the telltale creak of the floor board as Jon gets to his feet, blanket and pillow in tow.
He’s still grimacing, but he doesn’t argue further. Sansa can see him shaking. She pulls back the blanket and scoots to the far edge of the bed so Jon can crawl in. He pauses a moment longer before getting in beside her and throwing the second blanket on top of them.
The change is near instantaneous. Her shivering doesn’t abate immediately but just Jon’s presence and the second blanket spreads a warmth deep through her center.
“Thank you,” she murmurs.
Jon hums something that sounds like agreement before rolling over, his back to her.
Sansa does the same, and she drifts off to sleep in mere minutes.
Later, she’s not sure how long, the water must grow choppy because a sudden lurch wakes her and she clutches at the blankets, only to realize all is fine. In her half-awake state of the darkened room her thoughts are muddled.
As if on instinct she rolls over, and then remembers Jon is with her tonight.
Sleepily she smiles to herself, reaching her arm around him and pulling his back flush against her front, nuzzling into his neck. In his sleep Jon moans something but Sansa is already dozing off again and pays it no mind, holding him close to her body.
Her last conscious thought is one of peace, of safety.
Of love.
Several weeks later, Sansa allows herself to breathe. She goes a full day without looking over her shoulder, expecting to see Ramsay’s face hidden amongst the mass of strangers roaming the market.
Lys is beautiful. The city is grander than anything she’s ever seen, the architecture puts King’s Landing to shame. You’re rarely out of sight of the sea, and the sun seems endless. She wasn’t prepared for the warmth, or the fashions that came with it. But she and Jon have managed alright.
To their luck, they found an older couple with an available room. The man, Qo’jo, comes from Tyrosh and regales them with many tales of his youth as a sellsword. Jon had been put on guard by that admission, but Sansa could tell from Qo’jo’s eyes that there is no cruelty in him. His wife, Aleina, was born and raised in Lys—her blonde hair is more streaked with grey now, but she tells them all the ongoings of the city, where it is safe and which streets to stay well clear of, she’s been walking them her whole life.
They had three children of their own, one who died before their twentieth name day in a sailing accident, a daughter married to a merchant in Myr, and a son who sails his own ship, trading between Essos and Westeros. They usually see him only once a year. But they are happy, that much is clear. Happy and kind and generous. Meeting them at the port by sheer happenstance was a stroke of luck for them. The first in many a moon.
Everytime Jon and Sansa speak of payment, of earning their keep, their hosts both protest.
“Once you’re more settled, worry about getting yourselves established first,” Qo’jo waves his hand.
Or, “You brighten our house enough with your laughter and company, you clean and you help cook, what more do we need?” Aleina scoffs.
Their generosity irks Jon more than it does Sansa, and she knows that more than once that he has slipped some coin into Aleina’s purse when she’s not watching. For Sansa, what bothers her more is the deception.
She hates the lying, now more than she did at first. Now she likes them, trusts them, knows them. And it hurts her to conceal their identities, to stick to their story about the wars of Westeros taking everything they had, their farm and their families. It’s close enough to the truth, yet lacks everything that is actually important.
And the deception of the nature of their relationship is harder to swallow with each passing day.
They’d stuck to the story of being a married couple of course, and while on the ship it had been easy enough to pass off amongst people they scarcely interacted with, but Qo’jo and Aleina live with them, they see them everyday. Sansa can’t help feeling that sometimes Aleina’s eyes are a little too shrewd or Qo’jo’s questions a little too astute.
Maybe she’s overreacting. Maybe she’s still thinking about that night on the ship and the morning that followed—the feeling of waking up curled around Jon’s body, their hearts beating in sync, wrapped in warmth after the storm had finally abated.
(She’s thankful that while Qo’jo and Aleina believe them husband and wife, the room they had to spare was equipped with two single beds. She could not allow Jon to take the floor for such an extended period of time, yet she worries about what would happen if they shared a bed again. Surely Jon would think her sick for entertaining such thoughts.)
Sansa swallows and makes her way back through the streets to where Jon’s day will just be ending.
She focuses on carrying her bag of wares, some shawls and dresses she has worked on getting ready to sell. She enjoys the work, the movement of a needle, and though the fashions are different in Lys, the practice remains the same. She works a stall with a few other women and she finds herself settling into this strange new life with more ease than she ever could have anticipated.
She worries it’s more difficult for Jon, his moods grow sour sometimes and he’s quieter than he was when they were in the North. He’s found work at an informal swordsman academy, it’s not for the nobility by any means, mostly merchant class boys wanting to learn to defend themselves. And the swordwork is quite a bit different than what Jon was used to at home. But he scarcely talks about it, never has many words to share when the day’s over.
She sees his distinct silhouette through the crowd and waves. Seeing Jon in anything but his Northern garb still startles her, and he still doesn’t look entirely comfortable, but she joins him and they set off together towards home.
“A good day?” he asks as their steps sync up.
Sansa nods absently, “Four dresses today, but now I only have two to bring back tomorrow. None of the others are finished.”
Jon hums.
“You?” she asks.
“Uneventful.”
She hates this wall that has come between them, how it seems to have grown since they left Winterfell and how it has only solidified since the ship. If she could, she would take a sledge and knock it down.
In her worst moments she fears that Jon regrets coming here, regrets rescuing her.
They continue home in silence but when they arrive, Qo’jo and Aleina are beaming.
“We’ve been waiting for you!” Aleina nearly bursts.
Qo’jo grabs at his wife’s waist, tugging her back over the threshold.
“Let them come inside dear.”
Sansa shares a confused look with Jon, but within moments Aleina has explained it all. There is going to be a festival of sorts—Sansa doesn’t understand it all, something to do with the moon and the harvest. There’s to be a night of music in one of the larger squares, along with food and dance of course.
Aleina, moving with the agility of a young girl and not an aging woman, brushes off an old dress of hers, deep green, and shoves it into Sansa’s arms.
“You must wear it! It will go so lovely with your hair.”
Sansa tries to object but Aleina pulls her down the hall and she only hears Qo’jo laughing to Jon.
“We’d better leave them to it.”
*
Hours later and many goblets of wine with too little food, Sansa’s feet are throbbing. She’s been on her feet the entire night and her face is starting to hurt from all the smiling and laughing. She’s learned a dozen new dances and her head feels a bit light from the alcohol.
The square is emptier than it was as people start to return home. Half an hour past Qo’jo found her to tell her that he and Aleina were headed home, but she and Jon were welcome to stay as late as they wanted.
Sansa looks for Jon now and she spies him through the crowd, on the fringes, just as someone taps her on her shoulder. She sees Jon straighten up a bit as she turns around.
She’s met by one of the most handsome men she’s ever seen. Even in the dark she can see his tanned skin is perfectly smooth, complimenting his dark brown curls and deep green eyes. He’s a head taller than her and smiling.
“Care to dance, ñuha dōna?”
Sansa blushes. She doesn’t know much Valyrian, but she’s picked up on a few things, and she’s heard Qo’jo call Aleina the same thing.
My sweet.
For a split second Sansa glances over her shoulder. Jon is still watching them. His expression is unreadable, but alert. Sansa turns back to the stranger and holds out her hand.
In a moment Sansa is swept back into the crowd and her throbbing feet suddenly seem far away as she begins to dance anew. The handsome stranger, who between steps she learns his name is Matteno, leads them with a confidence that Sansa finds thrilling. She feels as if her feet scarcely touch the ground the way they fly across the cobblestones.
Several dances later the music stops for a moment and Matteno stops, his hands still in hers.
“Sansa, correct?” he asks.
She nods.
“I hope we will meet again, but alas, the night calls.”
He steps forward and brushes his lips against hers for just a fraction of a second before dropping her hands and disappearing back into the night just as quickly as he came. Sansa stands there bereft for a few moments, her head spinning.
And then she hears a harsh voice in her ear.
“Let’s go.”
She knows before his hand touches her arm that it’s Jon, and he sounds unreasonably angry. He guides her away from the crowds but the second they reach a quiet street she reels on him.
“What was that?” she demands.
Jon’s eyes harden.
“You’re drunk, it’s time to go home.”
Sansa can feel her lip jutting out in a pout.
“And if I wanted to stay?”
“Well you were certainly enjoying yourself.”
She crosses her arms.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She suddenly feels clear-headed, any lingering effects from the alcohol evaporating in the cool night air.
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“It was a dance, Jon.”
He stares at her for several moments.
“He kissed you.”
It’s there again, the feeling in her chest from the night on the ship. She forces it down and makes herself gaze coldly. Jon doesn’t move, and she takes a moment to notice how he’s changed in the past months since their escape.
His hair is longer, tied back in a ponytail at the nape of his neck with several pieces falling out around his face. His clothes are lighter than she’d ever seen him wear before their arrival in Lys. But his eyes—in his eyes, there’s something she can’t place, lurking in their depths.
“A peck. Nothing more.”
Jon raises a brow at her but his expression doesn’t soften.
“It’s dangerous, someone might have seen.”
“And if they did?”
She feels like she’s daring him to say something—do something, but she just doesn't know what.
Jon scoffs. Sansa continues.
“Aleina and Qo’jo are at home. Nobody else knows us here, it doesn’t matter what they think.”
Jon takes half a step forwards, and for one absurd moment Sansa thinks he’s going to kiss her. His eyes dart towards her lips and back up to her eyes. The moment passes and Sansa’s heart pounds in her chest.
Still, he doesn’t say anything and Sansa can’t seem to control the words that continue to pour from her.
“They’re not going to believe us forever Jon, they’ll realize we’re not married one day. And what then? You’re going to play at being my husband until we die?”
Jon looks at her, bewildered. And there’s that unfamiliar glint she doesn’t recognize, something he’s keeping from her flashing in the storm grey of his irises.
“You’re being petulant.”
Sansa hardens, “I’m being realistic Jon. What does it matter if I dance with one man at one festival it can hardly–”
He cuts across her.
“Sansa! We left everything, we sailed across the world and I can’t just–you’re being reckless. I’m trying to protect you and if you’re going to throw yourself at any pretty boy who offers you his hand and a smile then—then I don’t know what you need me for.”
Sansa gapes.
There’s something in his words that sting. Something that makes her eyes prick with tears as he tugs as her deepest insecurity, her worst regrets. Is that still how he sees her? Someone who would fall for ploys like she once fell for Joffrey’s.
Suddenly her blood boils as the first tears spill out.
“If that’s what you really think, then maybe I don’t need you.”
She storms away, running down the street. She hears Jon calling after her but she doesn’t stop, she knows he must be following after her but she runs as fast as she can. Runs all the way home until she stumbles through the threshold and rushes through the house to their bedroom. She collapses onto the bed in a puddle of tears.
She never hears Jon come inside and she doesn’t remember the last time she felt so cold—so alone.
Two days pass and Sansa doesn’t say a word to him, doesn’t so much as meet his eye. She doesn’t wait for him at the end of the day anymore and instead walks home alone, stopping a street down from home so that they can arrive together and Aleina and Qo’jo don’t question them.
Jon spends his hours wondering if he overreacted, if Sansa was right.
But everytime he thinks about it he remembers that man’s hands caressing across her waist, his fingers entwining with hers and his blood begins to boil again.
He’s been trying to be honourable, trying to be the man he should be ever since that accursed night on the ship where he allowed himself to slip into her bed, waking with her breasts pressed against him and his co*ck half-hard.
He’s supposed to be her protector, but somewhere along the way the lines have started to blur. He holds himself at a distance from her and he fears that she is beginning to see the truth, and when she does—surely she will send him away.
He’s out in the garden mulling it over for the hundredth time when someone approaches.
“Jon?” Qo’jo asks.
Jon turns to find the man watching him a few paces away and to his surprise he looks quite concerned.
“I wanted to tell you that Aleina and I will be travelling to the countryside for a few weeks, we’ll be back before the next moon but…”
He trails off.
“Yes?” Jon asks.
Qo’jo looks uncomfortable, his face screwing up as if he’s trying to find the right words.
“Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but is all well between you and Sansa?”
Jon’s certain his face must give him away but he tries to smother his expression nonetheless. Qo’jo nods with understanding.
“Aleina figured, you’ve been so distant with each other since the celebrations the other night. Did you quarrel?”
Jon swallows thickly, “Aye.”
Qo’jo’s eyes soften.
“Aleina and I had countless rows when we were your age,” he says, “but we always worked through it, when you truly love someone there is little that will stand in the way of reconciliation. Perhaps our trip comes at the right time, it will give you two the privacy to talk it over.”
He steps forward and pats Jon on the shoulder and for the first time in years Jon recalls what it was to have a father give him advice, to comfort him with a kind word.
Qo’jo is gone in another moment but Jon is still thinking of Ned, his blood running cold as he remembers the truth. Sansa is not his wife, for a few seconds Qo’jo’s words had erased that fact. She is his sister and if Ned were to hear his thoughts now—Jon shivers.
He must fix this, and he must do it quickly.
And then he must control himself.
*
Several more days pass and the house has never been quieter with both Aleina and Qo’jo gone. He and Sansa scarcely speak, only the most mundane of necessities. And despite sharing a room they have never been more distant.
Jon lets Sansa go to bed early in the evening and stays up later than he normally would to ensure she’s asleep when he enters. When he wakes she’s already eating her morning meal.
The week draws to a close and as neither of them will go to their work tomorrow, so Jon goes to their room after his dinner to withdraw a book he had been perusing a while back on the history of Lyseni swordplay.
He’s crouched down to the shelf to grab it when he hears the door open behind him. He stands up with the book in hand and turns around to see Sansa in the doorway. He can tell at once that she has been crying. He thought she was enjoying an evening in the garden but clearly not.
He places the book on his bedside table and tries for a gentle voice.
“Sansa–”
“I’m leaving,” she interrupts.
At first he assumes she means she’s leaving the room, but then she storms to her armoire and starts ripping her few clothes from the drawers, shoving them hastily into the travelling chest at the foot of her bed.
“Sansa?” he asks, his voice edging ever further away from calm.
“What?” she demands sharply.
Her head turns on a swivel toward him and her eyes are ablaze, less weepy and more scathing.
“What are you doing?”
She glares at him, “I told you, I’m leaving.”
“And where do you intend to go?”
She rises from her position in front of the chest, drawing herself to her full height. She squares her shoulders and for a half second Jon is reminded of her late mother, when she was about to scold him.
“Anywhere but here,” she says, “somewhere I am wanted.”
“Sansa you are wanted, I’m sorry if–”
“Am I Jon? Am I?”
He blinks, watching as she comes undone before him. He has no clue what to do, what to say or how it’s all gone so poorly in such a short span of time.
“It’s clear to me that you regret coming here, and that you resent being burdened with protecting me. So allow me to release you from any duty you feel—I thought, oh but I am a fool. I thought you cared for me, I thought—”
She breaks off and a few tears leak out her eyes, falling down her cheeks.
He steps forward, intending to embrace her, to hold her, to do anything to stop the hurt that he has obviously caused. But she flinches away from him.
“I don’t desire to be anyone’s burden Jon. I will find my own way, there are some women who sell their wares that I’ve been speaking to–it doesn’t matter. I will go. I will leave a letter for Aleina and Qo’jo. You can do as you wish, stay, or return to Westeros. It matters not. I am not yours to protect any longer.”
Jon’s lips part and for a few seconds he is stunned into silence by her declaration. Sansa’s eyes are blazing again, but there is a deep hurt behind them. She doesn’t mean these slights, she thinks that it is what he wishes to hear, that he regrets leaving with her.
It’s that thought that allows him to find his voice once more.
“Sansa,” he tries not to tremble with anger, “there is no regret, not for a second have I wished anything were different. I would rather be here safe with you than dead in the North.”
He watches her resolve flutter. But then her eyes harden again.
“If it weren’t for me, you could have died a warrior’s death on that battlefield. Do not tell me you haven’t thought it would be the easier choice.”
“If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have been on that battlefield in the first place.”
He sees her face fall but he steps forward, clasping her hands in his before she can retreat once more.
“When you came to Castle Black Sansa, I was a man returned from the dead with no reason to live. I was without a purpose. But you gave me something to fight for again, you gave me a reason to live. And it is not just duty that binds me to you, it is–”
He catches himself before he misspeaks, squeezing her hand and trying to convey the truth of his words.
“Truly?” she asks, her voice a hoarse whisper.
Jon nods.
And Sansa collapses into him, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him into a hug. She lets out a few sobs that quickly abate as he pulls her close, locking his arms around her waist and resting his head on her shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, “I only thought, I thought you wished yourself rid of me. But if it is only my own insecurity, well–in truth, I would be lost without you Jon.”
His heart thuds in his chest as his throat constricts with emotion. He hugs her tighter and for a few moments the room slips away. They are simply Jon and Sansa, two ships adrift at sea finding safe harbour in each other’s arms, and nothing else matters.
It could be minutes or hours when Sansa loosens her grip and pulls away. Jon moves to step back but Sansa’s arms still hold him tight and they get caught in the inbetween, only a few inches separating them.
Their eyes meet and Jon’s breath hitches. Sansa’s tears are gone but her eyes are still wet, her cheeks pink, her lips turned up in a smile that somehow looks sad.
Time stops for a second beat.
The voice in the back of Jon’s head, the steady drumbeat of a refrain, she’s your sister, grows fainter and fainter.
She’s Sansa. Sansa Stark.
And she is breathtaking—beautiful and beguiling and her eyes seem to beckon him nearer.
In another life, they could be different people. Untethered from the constraints of their history, but would they be here without it? Could this string tying them together, inextricably closer with each breath, have been wound without the weight of all they once were?
Jon’s fingers ghost over her waistline, and her hands are still around his neck when she leans forward to press her lips against his.
Jon’s vision goes white as the feel of her skin against him sends a jolt through his system. But he doesn’t pull away, not at first. His body responds on instinct, pulling her hips to him as he returns the kiss, softly parting her lips with his own and breathing in the taste of her, getting drunk on it.
Sansa whimpers into his mouth and he feels her lock her arms around him, kissing him with a renewed sense of urgency, their teeth clashing once and their noses smooshing against each other. They continue like that for another minute or two, their breaths syncing with one another until Jon realizes what exactly they’re doing and he pulls his lips from hers.
But Sansa clings to him, pressing their foreheads together as she catches her breath.
“Jon,” she sighs.
“Sansa we can’t–”
“Jon, please.”
He opens his eyes to find her ice blue ones gazing back at him.
“You’re all I have left.”
“It’s wrong,” he protests, but even his words sound weak to his ears.
“I don’t care.”
“Sansa, if we–you’ll regret this later, believe me.”
She leans back from him, but doesn’t let him go. Her brows furrow.
“I could never regret you.”
Her words echo his own from minutes before. The dam inside of him gives way, unleashing a torrent of feeling he has fought to suppress for many a moon—too many, if he’s being honest. Maybe since she appeared in the courtyard at Castle Black.
This time, he kisses her and he doesn’t hold back.
His hands are in her hair, grazing across her neck, finding the contours of her face. They’re everywhere. He feels her tongue dart across his lips and his mouth parts to welcome it.
There’s an unidentifiable need thrumming through his entire body, like a spring being let loose and he doesn’t try to tame it. There have been too many sleepless nights, too many guilt ridden thoughts for him to overthink it now. Sansa is warm and soft and pliant in his hands and most of all she wants to be.
She wants him—Sansa wants him.
The thought sends a jolt straight to his co*ck as the two of them stumble backwards.
Without meaning to, they fall backwards towards Sansa’s bed and Jon has to stop kissing her to catch them both, cradling Sansa’s head as his knee lands between her parted legs. He leans over her, looking down into her blue eyes, her pupils blown wide and her lips swollen from his kiss.
She’s never looked more beautiful, more tempting.
She reaches forward for his shirt and pulls him toward her, but Jon stops before their lips meet again, his last tether to sanity stopping him.
He needs to be sure, she needs to be sure. One last time.
“Sansa?” his voice is hoarse, “Do you really want this?”
It’s a question too loaded for either of them. There’s no turning back, even if they stop now they’ve crossed a line that can’t be uncrossed. He’s taken liberties with his sister that neither of them will be likely to forget.
Half-sister, a small voice in his head says.
She looks up at him and somehow all of his doubts and fears are erased. Her lips turn up in a half smile.
“Were you jealous? At the dance?”
Jon’s cheeks flush and his eyes dart downward.
How he had shamed himself that night.
“Aye.”
Sansa’s still smiling when he meets her eye again.
“I want this Jon, I want you. And I want to not care about what that means or who it would offend. I want something for myself—for us.”
Jon’s certain of it, his heart skips a beat this time.
“I love you,” he blurts out.
The words are true, and if the meaning behind them was murky before tonight, there is no denying it now. He is in love with her, every piece of her has become a piece of him and he fears his heart would simply cease if they were separated.
“I love you too,” she all but beams.
That’s all it takes, a few simple words, for Jon’s entire world to change. And he decides at that moment that he doesn’t care about what the implications are, or what it says about them—if they’re wicked or unholy, if the gods will cast a curse on them.
All he cares about is Sansa.
Their lips meet in the middle, and Jon knows in an instant how the feeling has changed, the urgency with which they move. Sansa, to Jon’s shock, reaches for the strings on his shirt and has it over his shoulders before he can fully comprehend what she’s doing. She leans back on the pillows, pulling Jon with her and drawing a hand down his chest. He kisses her neck and she whispers into his ear.
“Your scars…”
He expects her to sound frightened, but mostly she sounds sad. She touches him so delicately it makes him ache.
“That’s all they are,” he murmurs, as he works at her dress.
Sansa nods into his neck but when her dress slips off her shoulders she turns away from him. At first Jon thinks she is self-conscious, but half a second later he understands.
Her back…is a tapestry of faded red lacerations that somehow mirror Jon’s own deep gouges. Jon’s vision blurs with momentary anger.
“Ramsay,” he mutters.
Sansa turns back to him, reaches a hand for his face.
“He’s not going to find us,” she promises.
Jon nods, still simmering with rage for what that man did to her. But then Sansa kisses him and the anger washes away. She’s safe now, he will protect her until his dying day. She presses her chest to his and curls herself into his lap. As she rests her hips there Jon feels his co*ck hardening, and knows she must as well, but she doesn’t pull away. If Jon didn’t know better he’d think she was actually rubbing herself off on him.
Whatever the reason, her movements pull a moan from his throat and Sansa laughs a beautifully bright and airy sound that drowns out all other thoughts.
He pulls her closer, running his hands down her spine, feeling the ridges of the scars she endured so bravely, remembering all that unfolded to bring them to this moment.
A miracle, in truth.
His kisses stray from her mouth, down her neck and across her collar bones until he finds the soft flesh of her breasts. He sucks the sensitive skin to the left of her nipple, eliciting the most delightful of gasps from her mouth and causing her to arch her back, forcing them even closer together.
When he’s finished, he grins up at her.
“You liked that?” he teases her, “you like your breast in my mouth?”
She flushes a deeper scarlet than her hair but her eyes tell him the truth.
“Yes,” she says, breathless.
Jon smirks. He leans her back against the bed frame, at what he hopes is a comfortable angle as he kisses down her body. He stops once more between her breasts, and places the softest of pressures against the bone there, revelling when he feels Sansa shiver against him. He peppers several more kisses down her stomach, stopping at her hip bone and sucking until the skin pinkens.
He pulls at the ruffles of fabric there from where her dress has pooled. Outside the confines of the room the sun has set below the trees and the moon has peaked out. It bathes Sansa in a pearlescent sheen, making her milky skin glow.
It takes Jon’s breath away.
He looks up at her and in her gaze he feels at home.
“You’re irresistible Sansa, I don’t think you even know just how thoroughly you’ve bewitched me.”
Her eyes shimmer in the moonlight.
“And yet I feel I’m the one living in an enchantment.”
In that instant Jon sees years into the future, sees a life with Sansa, sees the two of them grow old and happy and…he wants it more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life.
He reaches for her hand, entwining their fingers.
“Do you trust me?”
She squeezes his hand.
“You know I do.”
He buries a moan in his throat, she still has no idea the effect she has on him. Or maybe she does and she’s more divining than he realizes. He kisses her hip once more, right on the spot that still blooms in a pink flush before moving his lips to her thigh, kissing a pattern across the top of her leg, to the inner side of soft flesh.
She twitches as she lets out a gasp, bringing their joint hands to her stomach. Jon uses his free hand to part her legs, and sees at once how wet she is. His co*ck pulses with the realization that he’s caused this but he does his best to temper those thoughts for the moment, he wants this to be enjoyable for the two of them. He needs to go slow.
He leans forward into the warmth of her centre and licks a stripe up the inside of her thigh. She shudders against him.
“Jon, what are you doing?” she asks, her voice shaking.
He flicks his eyes up to her.
“Taking care of you.”
Those are the last words he speaks for several more minutes as he buries his face in her c*nt, and Sansa raises no more objections, seemingly too preoccupied to form coherent words. Just a constant refrain of whimpers mingled with his name. It sounds like heaven. Jon laps at her, tasting the salty tang of her arousal on his tongue as she begins to writhe beneath him. When he hears her breath grow laboured he pulls back a bit and takes his free hand (his other is still entwined with hers, as she squeezes it tight enough to bruise) and slips his fourth finger inside her.
Sansa freezes and then sighs.
“Seven hells,” she groans.
Indeed. His co*ck throbs openly now with desire for her now that he knows what her walls feel like around his fingers and it’s hard to not envision them tightening around his co*ck, taking him to the hilt. He forces himself to stay in the moment, Sansa first. He builds a rhythm inside her, slipping a second finger in as she moans his name.
“Jon, please.”
She barely seems to know what she’s asking for, but Jon is more than happy to provide it. He can feel her tensing around him, and he knows she’s close to her peak. With his fingers still curled within her he brings his lips back down and once more runs his tongue gently across her cl*t.
It’s enough. She lets out a sudden gasp and then goes boneless against the mattress with Jon’s fingers buried in her. Jon has to close his eyes for a moment to stop himself from being sent over the edge with her.
He adjusts himself, removing his fingers still dripping with her slick and rolling up to the side of her body, his co*ck aching as it presses itself against her thigh. He moans into her neck.
“Such a good girl, Sansa. You’re perfect.”
She’s still high on her own bliss as she throws an arm over Jon, their clasped hands remain nestled between them. They haven’t let go since Sansa first grabbed his hand.
“I didn’t know–Jon, that was…I can’t find the words.”
She smiles at him, her eyes alight but heavily lidded. She rolls her hips a bit and Jon sees her eyes widen when feels his hard co*ck against her. He watches as her expression changes once more to lust. She leans into his ear.
“Let me take care of you now,” she whispers.
If he wasn’t before, Jon knows he’s leaking now. But Sansa reaches a hand between them and as her fingers graze his co*ck Jon lets out a strangled choke.
“Sansa, I won’t last–”
“Then get inside me, Jon. Please.”
Where this sudden boldness came from Jon has no idea, but he doesn’t waste a minute as he rolls on top of her, straddling her as he aligns his co*ck with her c*nt. He leans over her for a moment, their eyes meeting, before he pushes forward slightly. There’s some resistance, but Jon moves slowly, allowing her time to adjust to the size of him.
Just like when his fingers were first inside her she lets out a breathy gasp.
“That feels good. Full. Whole. Don’t stop, Jon.”
Her words come out in sharp strangled jabs and she squeezes his hand once more in encouragement, shattering the last of Jon’s self-control.
He pushes the rest of the way inside her and the feeling is at once overwhelming, all consuming. There is only Sansa, only her and her c*nt and him. He doesn’t think he’d know his own name at the moment if someone asked it.
Sansa drags her free hand across her face with a moan as her eyes roll back in her head and Jon begins to move his hips, thrusting slowly at first—savouring the feel of her slick walls against him.
He inclines his neck down to kiss her, hot and fast with the lingering taste of her own arousal still on his lips. As he does her breasts press against him and he feels the stiffness of her nipples on him, hears the whine the friction elicits from her.
And then he moves in earnest.
He loses himself in the pulse of their hips colliding. And the whole time he can’t seem to tear his eyes from her face, her hair, her eyes, every part of her that calls to him, that makes her the most alluring woman he’s ever seen in his life.
And now she’s his.
She’s his.
The thought rattles his mind and his thrusts grow erratic, fueled by pure need for release. Sansa grips his shoulder with one hand and his hand with the other, removing any space between them. Every part of him is set to explode.
“Sansa, I’m going to–”
She grips him harder as he makes a half-hearted attempt to remove himself before he can spill inside her, the very depths of his mind still concerned with a semblance of duty while he shamelessly f*cks his sister.
“I know,” she pants, giving him permission.
Jon comes with a force that scares him, it’s nothing compared to those furtive nights where he tried to stop the visions of Sansa beneath him, her name barely hanging from his lips as he finished with a grunt and shame.
This—this is life-affirming, mind-addling, world-changing as his co*ck fills her with his seed and his vision goes white. He barely catches himself from collapsing onto her, his heart hammering as he lets out several heavy breaths.
He’s so caught in his own pleasure that he doesn’t realize at first that Sansa has reached a second peak as well, that she’s screamed his name, her voice going hoarse as she bites her lip.
She’s too desirable for her own good. And even as Jon’s climax washes over him he’s struck by a singular desire for her, for Sansa.
He adjusts himself as he slips from her so that he curves around the side of her body, sweaty and sated, his mind has trouble holding onto anyone thought for too long. The one that remains is a feeling of deep contentment.
Sansa threads her fingers through his hair as their breathing comes back to normal. Jon reaches around them to pull the blanket over their bodies and as he does he lays a kiss on Sansa’s temple. The instinct is somehow the most natural thing he’s felt in years.
For several long minutes neither of them speak. It’s Sansa who breaks the silence.
“We’re never going back.”
Jon turns his chin towards her and he sees there’s a sadness in her eyes mixed with some sort of acceptance.
“Back?” he asks, though he suspects he already knows what she’s talking about.
“To Westeros,” she says, “it’s just hit me—that’s our past. And this, us, is our future.”
She cups his face and leans forward to kiss him gently, softer than their fevered kisses of the last hour. And in it, Jon tastes hope. He doesn’t dare believe that it will always be easy, or without strife, but it’s like they’ve shed the skins of the past and been born anew. They let their stories drown in the crossing of the Narrow Sea and now they are ready to write something for themselves.
There’s still a piece of him that fears what they are doing is wrong, and he wonders how long that will last—how long it will take both of them to overcome that lingering guilt, but mostly he’s eager for what’s to come next.
“Maybe they’ll sing a song of us one day,” Jon muses, “of our heroic escape, of the mystery of our vanishing.”
Sansa’s eyes shine and she looks like she might cry, but this time they are happy tears. Jon kisses her cheek.
“Like a fairy tale from the songs of old,” Sansa says softly.
“And a happy ending for us both.”
Jon’s fingers trace patterns across her skin until they both begin to drift off into sleep; Sansa safe in his arms and finally, for the first time since his resurrection, he finds peace.
20 Years Later
Sansa watches the procession of people ending their day and making their way through the city, but she’s only passing the time as she waits for her husband’s head to make its appearance. But she’s mistaken today because a few minutes later she feels a sudden hand on her shoulder and puff of air in her ear that makes her give a yelp.
“Jon!”
“Sorry, sorry! But look, you have to forgive me.”
He pulls out two lemon tarts from the best bakery in Lys. She softens as she grabs hers. With a mouthful of lemony goodness they begin their walk home.
“What’s the occasion?” she asks.
Jon raises a brow at her, surprised. She wracks her brain but comes up with nothing.
“Twenty years Sansa, to the very day.”
He nods his head toward the water, and then Sansa understands. Twenty years since that fateful afternoon where their ship docked in Lys. Twenty years. It’s unfathomable. It feels simultaneously like yesterday and like another lifetime altogether.
She licks her fingers as she polishes off the last of her tart, and she stares longingly at Jon until he notices and sighs.
“Fine,” he says and passes her the final bite of his own tart. Sansa grins.
They take off hand in hand. On their way home they see several people they recognize, stopping for a few chats but Sansa is tired and her feet are aching from a long day. She wants to rest. They’re in the final stretch when she remembers something.
“It’s strange,” she says, “twenty years today, when I heard a funny rumour down by the docks earlier.”
Jon gives her an inquisitive look.
“Someone back in Westeros is claiming to be you,” she laughs, “to rally the North under the Stark name once more.”
Jon barks a laugh as Sansa considers the rumour. Over the years there have been plentiful whispers concerning their disappearance. One she will always recall is the infamous ransom of Sansa Stark from some lesser house in the Reach that ended up being proven false, causing two years of infighting. And now there is this pretender of Jon, she wonders after his true identity.
Their long absence has given way to so many people trying to claim what was rightfully theirs. But she and Jon have no regrets, no desire to stake a claim.
(She wonders sometimes about Bran and Arya, their unknown fates. If Rickon survived long enough to be taken by Ramsay then surely Bran lived for a time too. Did he die cold and alone? And Arya, was she dead before Sansa ever left King’s Landing, or is she still out there somewhere? The thought is one of few that still haunts Sansa.)
Westeros has scarcely known a day of peace over the last two decades, the war waged on. Daenerys Targaryen brought her dragons to its unsuspecting shores. And while they quelled the armies of the Night King, it wasn’t five years later that both she and her dragons met their own tragic ends.
She heard too that Littlefinger died, poisoned by one of his own in the depths of the Vale. She’d slept easily when she heard the news.
Sansa thinks there have been three kings and one other Queen besides Daenerys in the interim, and the realm factions itself more and more everyday. But they hear the North has had some prosperity after Ramsay’s demise, he too was betrayed by his own men. For men like Ramsay and Littlefinger that always seems to be the case.
From what the sailors say the Mormonts took up the mantle, led by their fearless little Lady Lyanna Mormont, who Sansa was thrilled to hear survived Jon and Ramsay’s battle all those years ago.
“Do you ever think of going back?” Jon asks suddenly.
Sansa considers the question as she gazes down the street, their home is just visible now.
“I don’t think we’d even recognize it,” she shrugs, “we’re happy here, we have a life. We protect each other.”
Jon smiles at that. Before the conversation can continue further though someone is yelling at them.
“Mama! Papa!”
Ilya is running toward them, their youngest daughter just turned ten, in quite a flurry.
She flings herself between them, her face already in a pout.
“Drav hid my toy ships and won’t give them back, and Relena won’t help.”
Sansa shares a knowing look with Jon. These three children of theirs: Ilya, the youngest girl, Drav their middle child and their only boy, and Relena, their eldest daughter. She loves them more than she ever dreamed possible, and best of all they are half of each of them, something she and Jon made together.
Sansa allows herself to be dragged back toward the house with Jon in tow too. The days like this are coming to a close as all their children grow up and one day she knows they will leave them. But when she looks at Jon, she knows that’s alright, for they’ll have each other. And they’ve raised a family away from the grief of their past, they’ll never know the burden of their heritage. In another life they might have been Kings and Queens, but now they are simply children, happy and healthy and free of nightmares.
“What of Aleina and Qo’jo?” Sansa asks her daughters.
Ilya huffs, “They’re ‘busy’ but really they’re just watering the flowers, like they’ll wither if they walk away for a few minutes.”
Sansa laughs. Qo’jo and Aleina are slower than they used to be, and once Jon and Sansa started having children they all moved into a bigger house, but now they get to take care of them the way they once took care of Jon and Sansa when they first arrived.
“Like true grandparents,” Jon smiles.
Sansa squeezes his hand as she recalls something Aleina said to her a few years ago now.
“You know, when you first arrived here, I wasn’t convinced you and Jon were actually married.”
Sansa had startled, it had been so many years, and the burden of their lie had lessened considerably. Aleina’s sudden proclamation stunned her, causing her to stutter.
“Oh well we–”
Aleina’s eyes went wide.
“You weren’t! You aren’t! Oh gods, what is the truth Sansa, running from an unwanted marriage, a torrid love affair, a scandal to be sure! You must tell me!”
Sansa had laughed at where Aleina’s mind had went and she had spun an amendment to their original story that while still not the full picture, was closer to the truth than it once was.
It wasn’t a month later that Aleina insisted on throwing them a “second” wedding to make up for their lack of a first one.
Now, with Jon’s hand in hers and three perfect children, she finds the past matters less.
She lives for only the unending present, as long as she can grasp it.
