Jonsa - “From Instep to Heel”, Part 15
Some of you will hate me. Some of you will - well - love me just a little less than before, I guess. But this has always been where this story was headed. I can tell you, at least, that our heroes will have their justice in the end, if that softens the blow at all.
TRIGGER WARNING for blood and minor gore.
“From Instep to Heel”
Chapter Fifteen: Tooth and Nail
"It is not, perhaps, the kind of love she once wanted. But it is the only kind of love she'll ever want again." - Jon and Sansa. Like the curve of the horizon, when the moon breaks from beneath its bow.
Read it on Ao3 here.
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They find Rhaegar Targaryen dead on a nondescript morning half an hour past dawn.
Jon and Sansa are roused from their bed and called down to Aegon's solar. Just before they reach the door, Jon slips his arm from her hold to instead reach down and link their hands together. She looks up at him as they stop just outside the threshold.
He sees the nervous flex of her throat and brings their joined hands up to brush a kiss along her knuckles.
"Jon, your father..." she says brokenly, the threat of tears lining her words. All for him. Always for him.
He lets out a shaky breath along her knuckles, keeps his mouth pressed to her skin. And then he pulls back, swallowing tightly. "I'll be alright." A short, tight nod. "We'll be alright."
Later, he tells himself. Grieve later. Rest later. There is too much at stake now to lose himself to it.
She keeps his gaze, says nothing in return. But something of understanding passes between them then, and the graze of her thumb over the heel of his palm is answer enough.
Jon opens the door.
The first gaze he meets belongs to Daenerys. She's standing at the edge of Aegon's desk, arms crossed over her chest with a glance over her shoulder at them when the door creeps open. Her face is a tight mask, the barest of shadows beneath her eyes. It strikes him suddenly, that she has lost her brother. And he cannot rightly tell what it stirs in her, so fiercely stoic is her mask. But the harsh clench of her fingers over her arms, digging white imprints into her flesh – that is enough to tell him something is stirred in her.
Jon looks away from her, to just behind her, where Rhaenys sits in an armchair along the wall, legs crossed gracefully, a nervous finger tapping along her armrest. She's wearing the same dress she wore the night before, and he wonders, briefly, if she's even slept at all. Her eyes flick to Jon and Sansa's joined hands for a moment, lips thinning into a tight line, and Jon is sure he feels Sansa's attempt to pull away, but he holds tight. Doesn't let her go. Rhaenys glances away as they step into the room.
"Welcome, brother." The silky voice calls his attention away and toward Aegon.
He's standing behind the desk, leaning over it with his fingertips perched elegantly along the wood top. The purple bruise from the previous night is harsher now, branching over his sharp cheekbone, the fall of salt-white hair over his shoulder casting it in shadow. "You're just in time," he says.
There is a measure of challenge to his voice, and Jon is perfectly aware as to why. He clears his throat. "Your Grace," he greets, head bowed.
(It is not the sort of challenge Jon ever intends to meet, after all.)
The slip of a smile curls at the edges of Aegon's mouth, like a spill of fine wine.
Sansa curtseys beside Jon as she releases his hand, offering her own greeting.
Aegon stands fully then, hands slipping behind his back. "Yes, well, I suppose even the servants must know by now," he says.
"They know a Baratheon traitor killed their king," Daenerys says, voice even. She cocks her head at her husband. "And they know we're vulnerable to siege. Dangerously so."
"We beat them back," Rhaenys contends, standing and walking toward them, stopping just at Daenerys' side. There's a subtle desperation to the words, a need Jon understands too well, for he cannot imagine her fate had they not beaten them back.
"Yes, but at what cost?" Aegon hisses, a glance to their sister. He shakes his head. "If they can kill a king in his own keep..." A refined sort of snarl mars his mouth.
"'They'," Jon repeats, stepping cautiously forward. "What 'they' are you speaking of?"
Daenerys nearly scoffs. "No one in this room is simple enough to miss the obvious."
Rhaenys folds her arms over her chest, shrinking in on herself.
Daenerys looks back to Aegon. "Stannis had help. He had help from the inside. Or else those gates would never have been opened. Those soldiers would never have made it so deep inside the castle so quickly."
"Agreed," Aegon says, brows furrowing. "And if we mean to show the kingdoms that House Targaryen has not been weakened by this assault then we need to act quickly."
Not been weakened? Jon wants to scream.
Their father is lying dead in his chambers this very moment, staining the air foul, rotting up the room.
Not been weakened?
Jon's hands clench into fists at his sides. "You speak as though you already know who's betrayed us."
Rhaenys glances up at the words, mouth parted anxiously.
Aegon sighs, chin lifting. "Father was near raving in the end there, I admit, but he had one thing right."
Jon swallows thickly.
Aegon tips his head slightly, eyes on Jon. "Viserys' fleet was too conveniently absent."
"Forgive me, Your Grace," Sansa begins, stepping up beside Jon, "But are you saying you believe your uncle orchestrated this with Stannis Baratheon?"
Aegon releases a short, sharp laugh – almost a bark. "Hardly, my lady. He hasn't the mind for such a clever coup."
"Then...?"
Daenerys frowns. "Either Stannis is a greater strategist than any of us have given him credit for, or Viserys has been getting some very treasonous ideas from his Lannister wife."
Rhaenys shakes her head, lip between her teeth, chest heaving. "Stannis would have done whatever it took to break Father after the rebellion. Even if that meant allying with the Lannisters."
"But the Lannisters have no reason to break faith with the crown. Not now," Sansa argues.
"They would if they thought they had a chance to supplant Father with Viserys and Cersei," Aegon says, a rueful chuckle leaving him. "Granted we were killed in the process," he finishes, nodding to Jon.
But Jon's mind is reeling, spinning. There's something in the back of his head like a steady scratching, a hum of discontent. It settles in his gut like shifting shards of glass. "Your Grace," he begins, licking his lips. "Do you really think Tywin would chance such a ploy with Ser Jaime in the Kingsguard? A possible victim of the siege? Do you really think he would risk his line, even if he would risk anything else?"
Aegon's mouth dips into a frown at the comment.
"If Cersei wasn't playing to her father's tune and whispering in Viserys' ear," Daenerys snaps, eyes fire-lit, "Then she was, at the least, privy to his treason and chose not to inform us. I cannot believe that conniving woman would not know what was going on under her own nose, in her own home, and thus, that Tywin Lannister would not know. The Lannisters are complicit in this attack, at best. And they are openly traitorous, at worst." Her eyes snap to Aegon. "There can be no mercy for either."
Aegon clenches his jaw, the motion seeming to pain his bruised cheek, or to pain something else, Jon cannot be sure. But there's a hesitance in his features, an uncertainty. It throws Jon just the slightest.
"Your Grace,' he tries, voice low and even.
Aegon's gaze flicks warily up to his.
"We're vulnerable, and we've taken too many losses." He licks his lips, swallows thickly. "But we are not alone."
Aegon quirks a brow his way.
"Call upon the North."
Daenerys releases a disbelieving laugh. "Summon Ned Stark? When we've not even discerned the traitor yet?"
"My father is not a traitor," Sansa says vehemently, chin raised. "He tried to warn us. He sent Theon Greyjoy with his missive, didn't he?"
"How do you know that?" Aegon asks quietly, voice thin, eyes sharpened like cuts of glass.
"I told her," Jon says instinctively, never missing the soft intake of breath Sansa breathes beside him.
Aegon's gaze slips to Jon once more, steady and unnerving.
Jon clenches his jaw at the look, hardly daring to say more.
"And what will the North give us, dear nephew?" Daenerys sneers.
He does not blink when he swings his dark gaze her way. "Time, at the very least."
She bristles at his remark.
He looks back to his brother. "You want to test Tywin Lannister's loyalty? You want the kingdoms to see our strength? Show them that the North still answers to the crown. Show them that fealty and solidarity are rewarded. Make Ned Stark your Hand."
Sansa swings wide eyes to Jon, stepping into him, a hand at his sleeve. "Jon," she whispers.
He presses his palm reassuringly over her hand.
It is too much to expect to be named heir, even if such a thing promises the sort of safety he wishes for Sansa, for their babe. To voice it would cast too much suspicion, especially now. And he never wanted a crown in the first place. Never wanted a hand in it. Let them squabble over heirs. Jon wants peace. Just peace.
But he's not stupid enough to think they can survive King's Landing alone anymore.
Daenerys' mouth opens, but no words follow.
Aegon's hands slip from behind his back, leveling on the table edge before him. His eyes narrow on Jon instantly. "What did you say?"
Sansa's hand curls tight in Jon's sleeve, but he ignores it. "Make Ned Stark your Hand," he repeats, voice steady.
A moment of keen disquiet passes through the room, and then Rhaenys steps up beside Aegon, a hand at his elbow, head bowed to him. "You would slight Dorne with such a choice for Hand," she says evenly. She glances to Jon out of the corner of her eye. "They will not have it. Not with Stark blood next in line for the throne."
Aegon works his jaw, never looking at her.
A sound escapes Daenerys, strangled and low. She clears her throat. "Rhaenys," she seethes, wetness dotting her eyes.
Rhaenys frowns, hand slipping from her brother, face softening as she turns to Daenerys. "You know it as well as I. If you cannot conceive..." she says almost sadly, voice trailing off.
Sansa's hand falls from Jon's sleeve, and he does not miss the motion.
Aegon sucks a quiet breath through his teeth. "Rhaenys," he admonishes.
But her eyes are clear when they look back at him. "Jon is your heir, until you've a child of your own. Or would you rather name our uncle?"
Aegon's face screws into an ugly visage, lip curling at the insinuation. "Viserys will never - "
"No, he will never," Daenerys promises coldly, chin lifting.
"You don't have to name an heir, Your Grace, not just yet," Jon says. "You've just come into your reign. This isn't the time." He swings his imploring gaze around the room. "But we need allies. The North is still our ally."
"They are our subject, if you recall correctly," Aegon nearly snarls. "There is a difference."
Jon drops his gaze in deference, his skin itching with his frustration, knuckles white where he clenches his fists at his side.
Aegon's face slips back into a mask of practiced grace, the curl of his lip evening out. "No. What we need is to reestablish faith in the true Targaryen line." He looks to Daenerys then, a flicker of concern crossing his features. "And I will not let the Lannisters play our uncle like a puppet. Until I've a son to call my own, it must be Jon."
Daenerys's chest heaves, her eyes narrowing sharply. "He is a bastard."
Somehow, Jon thinks it should hurt less by now. And yet, it never does.
At his peripheral, Sansa presses toward him, a measure of silent comfort.
Aegon pinches the bridge of his nose. "He's legitimized, Daenerys."
"A hollow gesture," she cries, voice shrill now, desperate. "He's hardly a dragon."
Aegon ignores her, turning to Jon. "I'll consider your recommendation for Hand, but I promise nothing."
"Aegon," Daenerys bites out, jaw working.
Jon blinks at his brother, mouth parting. "That's not what I..."
Rhaenys shakes her head, a soft curse at the edge of her lips. "Don't insult Mother like this," she pleads, eyes imploring on Aegon.
"Your Grace," Daenerys tries again, voice dangerously low, a stillness overtaking her that chills the air in the room.
Jon swallows tightly when he glances to her, Sansa's words from earlier that morning taking root instantly.
Daenerys knows about the babe.
The air leaves him, the words stalled on his tongue, but Sansa must be thinking the same thing because –
"Your Grace, there's something you should kn – " Her words are cut off sharply.
"Sansa's with child," Daenerys interrupts with a snap of her teeth.
The room goes still. Jon's gut clenches painfully at Daenerys' exhale, his hand going for Sansa's at his side on instinct. He tastes her stark regret in the air, the confession stolen clean from her own lips. It rattles something of rage inside him, quieted only by a branding, instant fear.
Aegon slips his hands behind his back smoothly, eyes riveted to his wife. His pristine features, marred only by the blooming bruise at his cheek, sharpen almost indiscernibly. "What did you say?" His voice is like the snap of scaled wings.
Jon keeps his gaze resolutely from his sister's, even as he feels her sudden, wide-eyed stare on them. He only grips tighter at Sansa's hand in his.
"Brother..."
Aegon's gaze whips to Jon. "It is 'Your Grace'," he seethes darkly.
Jon lets out a stifled breath, blinking back the wetness. "Your Grace," he chokes out.
"How... how long have you known?" Rhaenys whispers out.
It takes all of him to tear his gaze to hers, only to find her eyes fixed to Sansa's stomach, tear-laced and unblinking. She clears her throat, wipes a hand over her face, looks back up at him.
Like the tears had never been.
But he catches the minute flex of her throat when she voices her question once more. "How long have you known?"
"Yes," Aegon breathes lowly. "How long?"
"Please forgive him, Your Grace," Sansa says suddenly, voice wavering just the slightest. "I only just shared the news with Jon this morning. It's what we'd meant to bring to you after we broke our fast but then..." Her voice breaks off with a pained sigh, gaze falling to the side.
"Then our father conveniently died," Aegon finishes for her.
She glances up at his comment, horrified. "No, Your Grace, that's not – "
"Your Grace," Jon pleads, throat tight.
"And how fitting," he interrupts, "That we should be speaking of heirs this morn." The king's smile is thin and wicked.
Daenerys stews in her disquiet at the edge of the desk, watching. Her fingers press white imprints into the pale flesh of her arms where they cross over her chest, like a shield. Or perhaps like a cage.
Jon thinks the distinction is rather lost on him these days.
He clears his throat, runs a reassuring thumb over Sansa's knuckles, though he cannot tell which of them he is trying to comfort more. "Please, Your Gace, there is still the traitor to consider. This... this changes nothing on that accord."
Rhaenys stumbles back a step, eyes drifting to the floor, clearly shaken. "This changes everything," she whispers brokenly.
It only makes him angrier. The vexation stains his throat, brings a growl to air. "Our babe is not the threat here."
"Enough," Aegon says tightly, jaw clenching. He's looking down at the desk before him, breathing deep. "Viserys will be summoned to King's Landing to account for his...dereliction." He looks back up, meets each of their eyes in turn. "I will hear no more talk of my heir. And that is final."
Daenerys' lips part, an aborted breath on her tongue.
"That is final," he presses, locking eyes with her. The flex of his jaw softens just the slightest when she glances away, eyes wet, nails digging half-moons into her arms.
Rhaenys draws an unsteady breath in, clearing her throat. "And Stannis?"
Jon glances to her at the mention, feels something stir in his chest. Remorse, perhaps. Or helplessness.
Always his sister, he finds.
Neither of them done right by, in the end.
She does not look at him.
Aegon sighs, shoulders loosening, and the look he gives their sister is startingly fond, tinged at the edges with a sadness like memory.
Not the sort he wants to keep.
"If he wants to keep his life, he'll talk."
Rhaenys' face screws into something ugly. Daenerys scoffs beside her.
"He should die for what he's done," Rhaenys grits out, trembling. "He must."
Aegon turns to her then, hand reaching for her cheek, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "And he will. After he's spilled his secrets."
Rhaenys shakes her head, face bunching as though sick, stumbling back from Aegon's tender touch. "No, his life is mine. You cannot take that from me."
Aegon straightens slightly, hand falling back to his side. "You forget yourself, sister. I am king now, and my word is law."
"Aegon," she seethes, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes – wild and desperate.
"I'll not hear more," he says, turning away.
She lets out a disbelieving breath, head shaking again. "No, I can't - I can't sleep beneath this roof, I can't - not when he's alive. When he's here, alive, and – Aegon, please, no. I can't! Do not make me, please, brother. Kill him." Her voice cracks at the end, the rupture traveling all the way through her, sending her to violent shaking.
Aegon's eyes slip shut. "Leave me. All of you."
Rhaenys goes toward him, hands outreaching, but Daenerys grabs her back, hands at her cheeks, shushing her, pulling her gaze toward hers. "No, no," Rhaenys mutters brokenly, crumbling in Daenerys' arms, stumbling against her as Daenerys pulls them toward the door, a final, searing glance her husband's way, and Jon feels Sansa drifting toward the two women, face pained, words cracked and teetering at the edge of her lips, and he tugs her back by the hand, keeps her fist clenched in his larger one, swallows thickly as he shakes his head at her, even when his own pity for Rhaenys leaves him rattled.
"You will stay, Jon."
Jon glances up at Aegon's words, startled somewhat. Sansa stills beside him.
Aegon's eyes flit toward Sansa briefly, violet and sharp-hewn. "You may leave, Lady Sansa."
She offers a fumbling farewell, curtseying dutifully, hand slipping from Jon's as she backs away. "I'll wait outside, my lord," she says to him, a nod his way, lip caught between her teeth, and he sees the way her hand slips toward her stomach unconsciously. The door closes behind her before he can do more than croak in answer.
He is alone with his brother now. Or rather, he is alone with the king. It makes a fair difference now, he finds.
He looks up at him, meets his gaze.
Silence brews in the space between them. And then Aegon slips a hand toward the desk, tapping a finely-shorn nail along the table top. He cocks his head at him, a wan smile breaking over his lips. "What am I to do with you?"
The question lights something of unease in him. Jon shifts his weight from one leg to the other, mouth still clamped tight. Words fester and die in his throat, unheard. He swallows them back like bile.
In the end, he has no answer for him.
Aegon stops the delicate tapping of his nail, fingers curling into a fist, slow and measured. He braces his knuckles along the edge of the desk as he leans over it. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You did exactly what Father asked of you. Got a babe on your pretty little Northern wife."
Jon keeps is jaw clenched tight, standing stock-still on the other side of the desk.
Vaguely, he remembers the stone their father kept as a paperweight atop his desk – a stolen favor. He doesn't know why the thought should come to him now – only that it does. He swallows thickly, shaking the memory away.
Perhaps he does have an answer for his brother.
"You ask what to do with me?" he asks, chest heaving, just the once – a single, labored breath. "Send me away."
A finely arched brow is his only response.
Jon licks his lips, continuing. "Send us to Winterfell, away from the capital, away from any courtly influence. I know I will never truly be your heir. I've always known that, and I've never resented it. Naming me is just a means to punish Viserys, to remind him of his place, and I understand that, I do. So, have your justice. Call Viserys to King's Landing and hold him accountable. Drag whatever names you need to from Stannis. And then let us go," he pleads, voice cracking at the end, and he swallows it back, tries to rein in his breath, this thundering need in his chest, this rattle of desperation coiling tight in his lungs.
Just let us go.
Aegon stares at him quietly, a tick in his jaw, head cocked. He takes a moment, lets him stew in his unease. And then he blinks, face slipping into seemingly boredom. "No," he says.
Jon lets out a disbelieving breath, a hand wiped over his mouth, shaking with it. "Your Grace."
"You would have me send you North, and take Ned Stark as my Hand?"
"Ned Stark is – "
"Do not tell me what Ned Stark is," he seethes suddenly, face darkening. "I know very well what Ned Stark is." Aegon's lip curls, something angry and bitter branching out over his features. "He's a safety net for you. A way to placate my need for allegiance without costing you your freedom."
"What freedom, Your Grace?" Jon demands derisively, reckless in his urgency.
Aegon shakes his head. "I will not have it."
Jon leans over the other side of the desk, hands placed along the wood top, staring his brother down. "What are you so afraid of?"
A flicker of resentment lights Aegon's features, and it almost startles Jon with its sincerity, brief as it is.
There, and then gone.
Aegon's lip curls familiarly. "You can ask me that, after everything? After what has happened?"
Jon shakes his head, throat bobbing. "Aegon, talk to me."
"I will not be the king that let House Targaryen splinter to pieces," he snarls.
Jon presses closer, eyes imploring on him. "And I will not be the usurper Daenerys paints me as."
"She has reason to be wary, especially now."
"So send me away!" he snaps, acutely anxious, desperate now, teeth clenching at the words.
"With a babe on the way? With the only viable Targaryen bloodline in your wife's belly?" Aegon scoffs. "Come now, Jon, you can't be that simple."
It hurts. It hurts more than he ever thought it would. Jon rears back slightly, face pinched tight. "Is that what I am then? Am I a hostage now? In my own home?"
"You are a member of this House," Aegon says lowly, frown harshening. "And you belong in King's Landing."
Jon's sees red. Instant. Blaring. It overtakes him – rancid and biting. His lungs are full of it. He pushes from his lean over the desk, scoffing, stalking away to the far wall. "Oh, how convenient," he snarls. "To be part of the family – only now. Only now when it suits your purpose. When it is palatable."
"I am your king," Aegon bites out.
"And I am your brother!" Jon yells, stalking back to the desk, shaking with his fury. "Your brother, gods dammit, Aegon, I am your brother!"
"Aye, my brother!" he bellows, fist coming down hard on the desk, a snap of air chasing the motion, like a screech bent in half, a split-open wound. His eyes are wild. Violet-cut. "And I'm supposed to trust you, am I?" he shouts, teeth gnashing. "I'm supposed to take your loyalty at its word when it's already proven so fickle? When you abandoned your king – our father – once before already? Am I to expect the same? Tell me, Jon, is that what your loyalty is worth? Just a passing whim?" he demands, his booming voice filling the room, clattering into every corner, rattling the dust from the eaves.
Jon stares at him, chest heaving. He smacks his lips, the words tart along his tongue, aching for air. "I have never wished harm upon this family," he grinds out, voice catching. "Even when it wished harm upon me." His eyes prick at the corners, salt-tinged and hot. A smarting wetness. His jaw quakes with the effort to keep it at bay.
A stolen stone. Just a stupid, fucking stone. Not even worth the memory it takes to weigh him down.
As passing as a bruise.
(Except bones always remember, even when blood does not.)
A stolen stone, yes. And a loose horse in the night. A crushed petal beneath a boot. Years upon years upon years of it. Over and over. Until his skin is branded with it. Until it slips beneath his tongue like habit.
A shadow he can never shake.
You are not the kind of bastard they've always told you you were.
Jon holds tight to the memory of her words, even when everything else is fleeting.
(Because bruises are just shadows, in the end, and still, they pass.)
He holds tight.
Aegon straightens from his lean over the desk, fist slipping from the wood. An eerie quiet overtakes him then, an unearthly stillness. "Do you know what Father called you in the end there? When he was spluttering blood and breathing his last?"
Jon's rage quiets instantly, the breath raking from him. He cannot take his gaze from him.
Aegon works his jaw, brow furrowed. "Not 'son', not 'Jon', not even 'bastard'."
Jon's mouth parts, a coil of unease tightening in his gut.
"He called you 'traitor'," Aegon tells him.
Jon looks away, a hand wiping over his mouth. He tamps down the quake in him needfully. He looks back to his brother. "What are you trying to say?" he asks stiffly, never minding the rattle in his chest – the ache.
He wonders if he will ever stop looking for love in places it has never grown. His own foolishness, perhaps.
"'He's betrayed me', he said. As he was lying there bleeding, hand at the hole in his chest, the guards in chaos around him, and even when I screamed for him, when I dropped to my knees to hold him, to hold him, it was all he could say. All he could mutter between clenched teeth, his eyes never seeing me. 'He's betrayed me'. And even when enraged he was – he was crying, Jon, did you know that?" Aegon lets out a worn breath, eyes slipping shut for a brief moment. When they open, they are wet, just the slightest. Just enough to catch a flicker of light from the far window, the sun seeping into the room like a reminder – irreverent.
Jon shakes his head, chest heaving. A croak leaves him, the words stalled along his tongue.
Aegon's hands wind behind his back, shoulders pulling taut. "And yet you want me to send you away, when I have every reason to try you for treason. When that's exactly what Father would have done, what he would have demanded, had he lived."
"Don't pretend you're doing any of this for me, to protect me," Jon grinds out, bitter suddenly. Bitter and shaken and holding himself together with the sharpness of resentment, with the vehemence of indignation. "Don't pretend I've ever been anything more than a tool to this family."
Aegon swallows thickly, voice hollow when he tells him, "We all have our roles to play." And it sounds so anguished, so unexpectedly regretful, that for a moment, Jon wonders if Aegon believes it – if he will always be this scared and this reluctant to break the mold.
Because he is, Jon realizes. His brother is terrified, he finds suddenly, startlingly.
Of kinghood. Of mortality. Of loneliness. Maybe of all of it.
Jon's throat goes dry, fists clenching at his sides.
And perhaps he would feel sorrow for his brother, for the unbearable pressure he must feel, for this great responsibility leveled on him before his time – perhaps he would ache for him, if he wasn't already so utterly resentful of him, if he wasn't so sick and tired of hiding his own agony behind clenched teeth.
Because Jon has learned well enough by now that understanding is not the same as condoning – that he can still be wronged by that which he pities.
And that he deserves better.
Jon sighs, the exhaustion rushing over him. He pinches the bridge of his nose, his voice impossibly tender. "Aegon - "
A sudden banging on the door interrupts him. "Your Grace, Your Grace!" a voice calls.
Both men look to the door instantly, Aegon's command to enter sounding loudly through the room, and a guard bursts in without another second, panting, eyes wide. "Your Grace, it's Stannis Baratheon!"
Jon turns fully to the man, shoulders bunching in alarm. Distantly, he registers Sansa glancing into the room from her place in the hall outside, concern etched across her face.
Aegon narrows his eyes at the guard. "What is it?"
The man gulps. "He's... he's dead, Your Grace."
Jon blinks at the news, lips parting. "What?" It's a searing whisper that leaves him.
Aegon steps from around the desk, hands slipping from behind him and a dangerous glint to his eye. "What in the seven hells happened?" he seethes out, teeth nearly bared.
The poor guard blanches at the tone, mouth trembling. "Your sister, Your Grace, she...the Princess Rhaenys, she..."
Aegon rushes from the room without further word, a curse beneath his breath, and Jon follows instantly, reaching for Sansa's hand as he strides away, and she grasps it instinctively, eyes wide, questions at the tip of her tongue. They make their way through the halls quickly, down to the dungeons. Jon's heart is hammering, his lungs tight. He thinks of Rhaenys' desperate pleas just earlier. He thinks of her fallen face when Aegon hadn't granted Stannis' death that very moment. He thinks of his sister's shuddering form as Daenerys dragged her from the room.
But no, she wouldn't... To kill him would be...
Jon and Aegon stop short at the entrance to Stannis's cell, Sansa's gasp echoing about the stone walls when she pulls her hands to her mouth and stumbles to a halt just behind them.
Stannis is exactly where they left him, arms chained to the wall, back slumped against the stone, head fallen to his collar bone, only now his chest is cut to ribbons, his soiled cotton tunic drenched in blood, so that Jon cannot be sure where flesh ends and fabric begins, a tangled, bloody mess spilling out of his chest cavity, and the entire chamber is filled with a pungency, a sharp, copper-tang that lights the tongue – lessened only somewhat by the acrid scent of wet stone.
Jon rears back, a hand at his mouth. Distantly, he recognizes the light-footed steps of Daenerys coming down the stairwell toward them, racing, frantic.
"What happened? What happened? What – " Daenerys stills at his elbow, nearly jerking back when her eyes land upon the scene, chest heaving with her exertion.
Jon shakes his head, glancing to the side wall where the shadows fall heavy over Rhaenys' form. She sits on the dungeon floor with her back at the wall, bloodied up to the wrists, dagger held tightly and unflinchingly in the palm of one hand, the other curled into a loose fist in her lap, the purple silk of her skirts splattered with intermittent crimson – crumpled and stained. She stares vacantly at the opposite wall, mouth parted as though on a sigh, fingers flexing over the dagger hilt in her palm.
Jon's chest constricts at the sight.
He's only ever seen such a look on her face once before – when they pulled her near-comatose form from her half-dead horse all those years ago, Ser Arthur toppling to the ground behind her in a crumple of flesh and arrows.
"Rhaenys," he whispers brokenly, face pained as he looks upon her.
Her brow flickers at the name, but nothing more.
Sansa is at his side instantly, a hand at his wrist, touch trembling, her heavy, saddened 'oh gods' sounding at his shoulder.
Jon takes a steadying breath in, tries to block out the red. He takes a step closer. "Rhaenys," he tries again, voice wavering, hands trembling.
Stannis's body slides just a fraction, corpse dragging down the stone wall, and then his weight is caught abruptly by his chained arms, his elbows snapping taut at a sickening angle.
Rhaenys barely registers it, breath evening out, eyes unmoving on the far wall.
"What... happened?" Aegon demands, jaw clenching tight over the words.
The guard at the base of the stairs behind them shifts uncomfortably. "She asked to speak to the prisoner privately, Your Grace, and we... we stepped outside for only a moment – only a moment! And then he was screaming, and we rushed back inside, and she was crouched over his form, stabbing and stabbing and silent as the grave as she did so, Your Grace. Not a word uttered since, just..." He blows a breath from his lips. "Just sat there along the wall and waited for you all to come. Wouldn't let us take the dagger – not that we were too keen on trying, Your Grace, if you understand." He seems to shudder at the words. "Stabbed him seventeen times, you see. Couldn't get her off him 'til she stopped suddenly on her own, mouth clamped up tight, not a word, and he wouldn't have lasted 'til a Maester, see, barely got another breath in before he was gulping like a fish, moaning something or other, and then he was gone, Your Grace. Wasn't no helping it. And the Princess Rhaenys, she..." He stops suddenly, a weighted sigh leaving him. "She sat herself right on down along the floor like she was waiting for you."
Jon sucks a sharp breath through his teeth in sudden realization.
Seventeen.
Seventeen arrows sunk into Ser Arthur Dayne's body.
He looks back to Rhaenys, to the dagger held needfully in her bloody hand, the wet glint of it eerie in the torchlight.
She's so utterly still and quiet, and he wants to shake her suddenly – bring back that biting, righteous anger of hers. Even her cruel digs. Even that. Something. Anything but this silence – this ruination.
He can't watch her break a second time.
Daenerys sighs beside him. "There's no questioning him now. We'll get no answers from a corpse."
Jon glances to her out of the corner of his eye, watches the tight flex of her jaw, the tip of her thumb pressed anxiously between her pursed lips. "Is that truly your concern right now? Rhaenys just killed a man."
"She's killed a traitor. A threat to our reign," Daenerys corrects, eyes slanting his way, and they're startlingly akin to his father's eyes in that moment, in the flicker of torchlight that illuminates her face – just briefly, just the span of a breath – like a memory you can't seem to shake. "I'd say she's done us a favor, except, perhaps, a little too hastily."
Jon huffs, brow furrowing. "She's clearly distraught by the experience. We need to get her to the maester," he growls out.
It's ridiculous, all of them standing around talking about it, talking about her. And she's just sitting there, there on the floor, without anyone even bothering to comfort her, and gods, he doesn't think she can survive another break, and he wants to hold her, he does. Wants to pull her into his arms and tell her it's going to be okay (even if it's not). Wants to pull the blade from her grip and clean the blood from her hands. Wants to look her in the eye and hold her face and let her cry and gods, even after everything, he just wants – he just wants to be a brother.
He just wants 'brother' to mean something again.
But he's too afraid to touch her. Too afraid to open that door again.
And he won't. He won't ever open that door again.
But she just looks so lost, and so sad, and so alone. And he doesn't know how to fix that anymore. Doesn't think he ever knew. Doesn't think even she ever knew. Just grasping at a shroud, really, just careening around each other – him and her and Aegon and Daenerys and even Rhaegar. All of them. Just blindly groping in the dark, missing each other by miles, flailing – falling.
Never learning how to fix what they never knew had been broken.
It breaks his heart, watching his sister. Breaks it beyond any repair he thinks could be possible.
He looks down to her bloodied hands.
(There is no going back from that. He knows this intimately.)
And throughout all of this, he is acutely aware of Sansa's presence at his side – the woman he wronged. The woman most justified to demand distance from his sister. She says nothing. Takes it all in. Breathes quietly at his shoulder.
And yes, the other – equally imperative – part of him is unable to reach out to Rhaenys for her sake. Because he will not submit his wife to any further disgrace, any disregard, any hurt. He will not betray his promise to her.
You, only.
And he means it. All the way down to his bones – he means it.
But he doesn't know how to reconcile these two halves of his heart. A yearning to protect. And a yearning to honor. To do right by those he loves. Always. To keep his promises.
Jon flicks his gaze from his sister, unable to look upon her any longer, his throat flexing with his unease.
Aegon looks at his wife, a softness flickering over his features minutely, even as his eyes narrow. "I thought you took her to her rooms," he says, not unkindly.
Daenerys glances up at him, gaze tearing away from Rhaenys. "I did. But she said she wanted to be alone. I thought some rest would do her good. I thought..." She shakes her head, frown deepening. "I guess I never thought she would... " She swallows back the words, voice thick.
Aegon sighs, a hand wiping over his mouth. He crouches down in front of their sister, watches her for an indefinable amount of time, brows pinching together, eyes wetting briefly, before he blinks it away. He clears his throat, takes a breath. "I don't want them to see her this way," he says softly, voice cracking at the end. His eyes flutter shut.
Sansa's hand curls around Jon's wrist, aching and tender. He can hear the shudder in her breath from this close.
Aegon shakes his head, eyes opening once more. He moves to stand. "I want any guards who were present at the attack brought to my solar immediately. And get me a cloak, something to cover her with."
The guard behind them voices his acknowledgement of the command, scurrying out of the dungeons quickly.
Jon watches the man go with knowing eyes.
Sansa shifts beside him. "What are you going to do, Your Grace?" she asks softly.
Jon turns to her, voice caught in his throat, but she's staring at his brother, a tremble lighting her as she holds tight to his wrist.
Aegon slips his gaze to her. "I will do whatever is needed to protect my sister's honor," he says decidedly. He glances to Jon, the two of them meeting eyes, and all at once, it is seven years ago again – when their father had called Rhaenys' rescuers to his solar and had his Kingsguard strike them all down, ensuring their silence.
Jon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes. His chest feels tight, the words lodged there.
It's not a memory he likes to hold onto.
Aegon looks down upon Rhaenys. "You're a Targaryen now, Lady Sansa. I'm sure you can infer my meaning."
Sansa quiets beside him, watching the scene with keen eyes.
"And Rhaenys?" Jon croaks out.
Aegon sighs, frowning, eyes still on Rhaenys.
Daenerys takes a tentative step toward him, a hand at his elbow. "Your Grace..."
He glances to Daenerys at her closeness, jaw tightening as he nods. "I know. She disobeyed a royal command."
"Your Grace," Jon urges, voice tight.
"But she is my sister, Daenerys," Aegon says, and Jon stops at that, blinking dumbly at him.
Aegon pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes closing, and he is infinite years older suddenly. Wizened. Worn. Even the bruise beneath his eye seems ancient suddenly. Years upon years upon years settled into the lines of his skin.
Daenerys drops her hand from his elbow.
"She is my sister," he whispers brokenly, hand branching over his face, holding it there, releasing a tremulous breath into his palm. He shakes his head, teeth grinding. "You foolish, foolish girl," he croaks out.
All at once, Jon remembers the way Aegon had looked when they pulled Rhaenys from her horse seven years ago. The way his hands (bloodied and calloused – even as a lad, even as a boy too young to have taken life for the first time) gentled over her form when they dragged her down between them. The way he'd settled her to lean against him, nestling her weight into his side. The way he hushed her, a hand smoothing down her hair, the other at her shoulder, holding her to him. How he shook when he breathed her name.
And he remembers how they linked hands, steady and dry-eyed, at Queen Elia's funeral. He remembers how Aegon gifted her a rose after his first tourney, still armored and sweat-lined – silver and gallant. He remembers how Rhaenys sat with him when Daenerys lost their first child, how he came upon them in the gardens to find Aegon's head in the crook of her neck, arms wound tight around her waist, crying into her shoulder as she hummed a lullaby their mother used to sing to them at night.
She is my sister, Aegon had said.
Jon forgets this sometimes. Forgets it too easily, really. But perhaps that is to be expected as a bastard – only ever half-welcomed. Half-needed. Half-loved.
And he doesn't mean to grow this resentment, he really doesn't. But he realizes now that he will never be the sort of brother he'd always hoped they'd see him as.
Even when he wishes to be.
"Oh Rhaenys," Aegon breathes, voice caught in his throat, his hand sliding down his face to watch his sister once more.
She seems to recognize the name, mouth parting at the address. She brings the dagger into her lap, her other hand winding around it delicately – cradling it. Her jaw quakes, and she closes her mouth. Opens it again. Tries for words. Tears bead at the corners of her eyes suddenly as she stares at the far wall. "Father wouldn't give me justice," she whispers, licking her lips. She glances up, eyes drifting just over their shoulders, never really focusing on them. And then her face crumples, the tears gathering quickly. "So, I took my own," she says, shaking with it.
Jon closes his eyes, breathes deep. He tries to wash this ache from him. Never succeeds.
"My brother," she mumbles, shifting in her seat, glancing around suddenly. "Where is my brother? I want my brother."
Jon's eyes snap open, his chest constricting, and he is half a second away from stepping back, disengaging entirely from the scene, even as his hands bunch into fists at his side, his own tears dotting the corners of his eyes, when Sansa's hand slips down his wrist to wind around his hand.
He snaps his gaze to her, but she's looking down at Rhaenys, tear tracks already lining her cheeks, mouth trembling. She gulps thickly, lashes fluttering with her tears. She gives his hand one final squeeze, before her touch retreats entirely. "Help her," she gets out unevenly, chest heaving with it, eyes never leaving the scene before her.
Jon barely manages not to stagger back. Because he doesn't think he'll ever be able to rightly fathom what it takes for her to say such words, to encourage him, to urge him in comforting the woman who caused so much heartache, who sought to strike a rift sharply between them.
"Sansa," he says, voice rough, eyes flicking over her face.
She only nods. Quickly. Short and static – sniffing back her tears. "Help her," she says again, more a plea than anything now, and he can barely manage to tear his gaze from her face when Rhaenys's frantic muttering cuts him off.
"Aegon," she calls out, the dagger slipping from her grip instantly, clattering to the stone floor. She reaches up, unseeing. "My brother. Where are you? Where's my brother?"
Jon stills, halting himself mid-step. He blinks at his pleading sister.
Her eyes darken as she blinks, focusing, eyes flitting about the room until they land on Aegon beside her. She reaches toward him, crying anew. "Aegon, help me." She tries getting to her feet but she's unsteady, falling into him. Aegon is already reaching for her though, hands winding around her back, hefting her up as she grips at him, face buried in his chest, and then he's dipping down, hooking an arm beneath her knees to lift her up.
"I'm here," he breathes into the crown of her head, her dark hair matted with sweat to her temples.
She winds her arms more surely around his neck, eyes slipping closed on a ragged sigh. "Please help me, brother. I just... I want to sleep."
Aegon adjusts her weight in his arms, grunting with the effort, jaw flexing. "I know," he says. "I know, Rhaenys."
Jon barely manages to step back in time when Aegon starts for the door, brushing past him with barely a glance his way, eyes fixed ahead instead. He makes it to the entrance of the hall of cells when the returning guard comes bounding down with a cloak, and Aegon directs him to spread the cloak over her, adjusting his grip to gather her bundled form more firmly in his arms, and then he's winding back up the stairs without a backward glance to any of them.
* * *
"How are you?"
Sansa laughs. But it's a teary laugh, catching in her throat at the end, a hand to her mouth to smother the break. She shakes her head at Theon's question, and he looks contrite at the motion.
"Suppose that was a stupid question," he mumbles, glancing away.
She laughs again, only this time – genuine.
He flits his gaze back to hers, hopeful, a hint of that mischievous smirk at the corners of his lips.
Sansa sighs, wipes at her eyes, takes a deep breath and lets it to air. "It's not a stupid question. I just... don't really know how to answer it right now." She goes for honesty, because her head is too full of everything else and she only wants to breathe. Her hands drop back down to her lap as they sit beside each other on one of the innumerable benches lining the many sunlit hallways of the keep. Just down the corridor is the door to Maester Gregoir's, where Bran still lays bandaged and drowsy from doses of milk of the poppy. Sansa glances toward the far door where her brother sleeps, her chest tightening.
Theon sighs beside her, leaning back on his hands along the stone bench. "Has the maester said anything? About..." He lets the words teeter off, closing his mouth around an aborted question.
She shakes her head. "He's made it through the night. He'll live, that we know. But whether Bran will ever regain the use of his leg..." She glances back to Theon, a sorrowful look to her eye. "I... I don't know."
He only nods, mouth a tight frown.
"Gods, he doesn't deserve this," she bites out, angry suddenly, hands curling into fists in her lap, her eyes drifting down to the motion. "He doesn't deserve this."
"Neither of you do."
She glances up at him then. "What do you mean?"
He meets her eye, a sigh leaving him. "You know, you may not tell me everything, and I get that." He scoffs, but it isn't harsh, only resigned. "I'm not your brother, after all. Never will be. And I'm certainly not your husband." He swallows thickly, meets her eye. "But I think I've known you long enough to know when you're scared."
Sansa stiffens, her knuckles going white in her lap.
He glances down to her hands, face softening. "You're scared, Sansa. Have been ever since I told you about the missive from Lord Stark. And now with the king – " He stops, scrubs a hand down his face. "Sansa, what's going on?"
She bites her lip, tries to keep from shaking. Her eyes are dry and unblinking when she tells him, "I'm with child."
He straightens from his lean instantly, glancing to her stomach, and then back to her face. "With child?"
She nods, a hand smoothing over her stomach.
Theon cocks his head, brows going high. "And Prince Jon, he knows? The Targaryens?"
She nods again, chest constricting at the memory of their earlier conversation. "Just this morning."
Theon lets out a breath between his teeth, head shaking. "Sansa, it isn't safe for you here."
"Don't you think I know that?" she hisses, fingers curling over the fabric at her belly. "But you're not stupid, Theon, as much as you sometimes pretend to be," she says.
He throws her a look at the familiar insult but she bowls over it with a waved hand as she continues. "You know Stannis could never have gotten this far into the keep without an accomplice, and you know that Aegon – who, may I remind you, is king now – would never let us leave King's Landing until the traitor is brought to light."
Theon scoffs, head thrown back, "Sansa, you can't stay here, you – "
"And you know," she grinds out, ignoring him, "that to hide this babe would only give our enemies more evidence to frame us as usurpers, especially if we attempt to leave the capital following such an attack."
Theon curls his lip at the remark, unable to deny its truth. "'Our enemies'," he repeats roughly. "And who is that, hmm? The Lannisters? The Targaryens? Someone else entirely? Who, Sansa?"
"I don't know!"
"Then you have to get out!"
"Don't you see?" she hisses, eyes flitting between his desperately, her hands moving to grip at her skirts, an anchor, something to steady the quake of fear rattling through her. "There is no 'out'," she scoffs. "Not of this family. Not of this life." She quiets, fierce and still. "There never was."
Theon stares at her hard, jaw grinding. He shifts to face her more fully, taking a deep breath. "Sansa, you just have to get Stannis to talk. You just have to – "
"Stannis is dead." It's a cold, even whisper that leaves her.
Theon's head rears back, eyes narrowing. "But... but he was captured, I know he was. I was there."
She keeps his gaze, fingers tightening over her skirts.
"The traitor, did they kill him? To silence him?"
Her mouth parts, closes, parts again.
The walls – splashed in blood. Rhaenys' haunted eyes. The grotesque way Stannis' body hung by his chained arms, innards spilling to the floor.
Her stomach turns at the memory, her skin tingling, a tremor going through her.
(To know it was Rhaenys who could carve such ugliness.)
Sansa turns her head. "I don't... I don't think that it's."
Theon looks out across the hall, brows furrowed in confusion. "But then how..."
"Please don't ask me how," she whispers tightly.
It is not her sin to bear, nor hers to speak. And she thinks of all the things Rhaenys deserves from her, after what she'd done to her and Jon. She thinks of all these things, and yet, can only settle on silence.
So silence she keeps.
Theon glances back to her, notes the determined look in her eyes, the tight clasp of her hands in her skirts. He says nothing, and she is grateful for it.
She swallows back her trepidation, takes a deep breath. "Stannis is dead," she says, voice cracking. She clears her throat, tries again. "And with the king dead now also, no one is above suspicion."
Theon growls beside her, eyes shifting as he thinks, shoulders curling.
Sansa softens at the sight, her hands easing their fisting in her lap. "Theon, this information is dangerous to whoever has it, you understand? You cannot repeat what I've told you. Your life would be at risk."
"I know," he says, voice rough.
Sansa sighs, eyes closing momentarily. "And I'm afraid for Bran." She opens her eyes once more.
Theon cocks his head toward her. "I'm not leaving the capital any time soon, you know."
"Promise you'll protect him?"
"It's what I'm good at, didn't you know?" he says on the edge of a chuckle, reassurance seeping into his words.
She nods, swallowing tightly. The breath eases in her chest somewhat at the consolation.
Theon eyes her quietly a moment, before asking, "And you?"
She blinks up at him, words halted along her tongue. He's staring at her so determinedly, and she realizes, just then, exactly what her answer is. She softens at his look. "I'm not alone here anymore, you know," she says. And there's a measure of surety that hadn't ever been there before.
"I'd make the same choice, every time."
He'd come for her. Every time.
No, she's not alone. And she would never be alone again.
Theon flits his gaze between hers, still hard, still uncertain. She can see the clench of his teeth from the tick in his jaw.
She finds it in herself to smile – small and sure. "Jon will protect me."
She's never said it aloud, and maybe that's because she hadn't fully trusted it until now. But she remembers the way he'd put forth her father for Hand, and how he curled his palm reassuringly around her own, and how he'd held her earlier that morning, trembling and sweat-lined and bare before her – bare in ways they've never been with each other.
How he held her more precious than anyone ever has.
She notices, belatedly, the tears beading at the corners of her eyes. She doesn't bother to blink them back.
Theon's face softens at the sight of her, mouth parting slightly. He looks at her, and looks at her, and then finally looks away. His throat bobs, his hands curling over his knees when he sighs out, "You trust him, then?"
She nods. "I do."
"And you love him, then?" He looks back to her with the question.
"I do." Her answer is instant. Hardly a thought, rather – instinct.
Theon nods, never looking away. "Have you always?"
At this, she quiets. Because no, she hadn't always.
It's a hard-won love. A tooth-and-nail love. It has never been an easy love.
"No," she says, but it isn't with any sort of surrender. It isn't a confession of weakness or wrongness. It's just the truth.
And here's another truth:
It is not, perhaps, the kind of love she once wanted. But it is the only kind of love she'll ever want again.
"I've never seen a man so scared in my life," Theon says suddenly, voice tight with remembrance.
Sansa furrows her brows at him, licking her lips. "What?"
"Jon. In the courtyard, with the attack. When he was screaming for you." He turns his stare to the wall, gripping his knees. "I've never seen a man so scared."
Sansa blinks back the memory, the scrape of air along her lungs when she'd laid eyes on him, watched him scramble toward her, her limbs heavy as they moved, as they carried her across the courtyard and into his arms, as she crumpled into him, shaking and beaten and wailing.
And she remembers, distantly, the image of Theon at her peripheral, bow still in hand.
Sansa winds her hands together in her lap. "Theon..."
Theon's gaze shifts back to hers, mouth a tight line. And then his lip quirks, just the slightest, just a hint. He rakes a hand through his hair, leans back along the stone bench. "I think maybe you're right."
She arches a brow in question, throat still too raw for words.
He throws a knowing look her way. "You know, the kind of man that can look like that – he's got something to protect alright." A roguish grin breaks across his face.
Sansa feels the lightness in her chest, the ease. She smiles back at him. "Thank you."
He nods, a gruff sort of acknowledgment sounding in his throat.
Her smile flickers, her hand going over his wrist then. "For everything, Theon. Thank you for everything."
His grin falters, eyes peering into hers.
She licks her lips, blinks back the wetness dotting her lids. "I know I wouldn't have made it without you – that Bran wouldn't have made it without you."
Theon sombers instantly, watching her.
Sansa pulls her hand back from his wrist, back straightening as she curls her hands into her lap once more. "I won't ever forget it," she promises fiercely, never looking away.
Theon purses his lips, a hoarse sort of laugh leaving him. "Yeah, well..." He stops, clears his throat, smiles once more – curled at the edges, wolfish – of a sort.
The image warms Sansa, her eyes wetting further.
He tuts at her, shoulders pulling back when he clears his throat once more. "Well, you'd better not. Because I plan on calling in a royal favor or two in the future, you know."
Sansa nods conspiratorially, a teary smile etching across her lips. "Of course."
Theon sighs then, eyes going to the ceiling, a hand wiping over his mouth. "Gods, this fucking place. Never thought I'd miss the asscrack of fucking nowhere that is the North."
Sansa braces a hand to her mouth as she barks a laugh, attempting to stifle it, and failing miserably. "Not enough snow for you, Greyjoy?" she taunts. "You've turned into a right Northerner, have you?"
He preens at the tease. "Near enough."
Before she can say more, Maester Gregoir opens the door down the hall, catching sight of the two of them along the bench.
Sansa stands instantly and makes her way toward him to greet him.
The greying man nods deferentially, a wan smile gracing his face. "Your brother's asking for you, my lady."
Sansa takes a breath, steadies herself. "Thank you, Maester." She turns to Theon but he's already bowing his farewell.
"I'll leave you two alone," he says. "Pretty sure Ser Rodrick is already crying for my return anyway," he laughs, head nodded toward the guest quarters.
Sansa offers an appreciative smile, curtseying delicately before striding through the door and making her way over to Bran's cot. She takes his hand, settling in a seat at his side, heart keening at the slight moan that leaves him.
Distantly, she takes note of Rhaenys' curled form along the other cot across the room, the princess' back to her, slumbering softly. Sansa swallows thickly, turning her attention back to her brother. She wipes a hand along his brow, relieved when she notices he's since sweated out his fever. "Bran," she greets gently.
His eyes flutter open to meet hers, a heavy breath raking through his lungs. "Sansa."
She nearly crumples at the sound of his voice, her words catching in her throat, her lip trembling. "I'm here," she says.
He blinks up at her, eyes focusing and re-focusing. "You're here?"
"I'm here. I'm okay, Bran," she assures him.
"I thought..." He smacks his chapped lips, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. "I thought you'd left."
She catches the break in her voice before it can make it to air. "Never."
Bran nods, the tension easing from his features. "That's right," he mumbles. "You would not leave me." He licks his lips, tries to form the words. A half-laugh breaks from him. "Stubborn as Arya, you were."
Sansa chuckles in response, watery and exhausted. She squeezes his hand in hers. "Though perhaps not half as skilled."
Bran groans something unintelligible, shifting along the cot. Sansa reaches for his shoulders, trying to ease him as he settles. "Why did you come for me?" he asks, voice rough with sleep.
Sansa blinks at him, a disbelieving breath leaving her. "Why did I come for you?"
His eyes search for hers, try to focus in his drowsiness, this state of half-wakefulness, half-dream. She wonders if he will remember this conversation, if he even knows what it is he's saying.
Bran nods, head turning to look at her more fully.
Her throat goes dry, her words sticking along her tongue. She glances down, moving to tuck his hand back beneath the blankets. "You're tired. And you haven't all your wits about you with that medicine in you. Rest."
But Bran doesn't let her pull her hand away, gripping it fiercely.
She stills at his bedside. He's staring at her, those familiar Tully eyes harsh in the candlelight – familiar in a way she doesn't particularly want to admit to.
In the way a mirror is familiar.
"Why did you come?" he asks again, his voice gravelly from sleep. "When you could have died?"
It's not something she thinks she'll ever forget – the stark, branding fear that had lanced through her when that man had gripped her by the hair and hauled her back, torn her from her clawing brother, sent her spinning with a ruthless slap along her cheek. She doesn't think she'll ever forget the wails, or the smoke, or the tightness of her own lungs in her chest as she ran and ran and ran and screamed. The fear. The godsdamned fear. The way it stained her to the root.
The way it stains her still.
(She only finds sleep in Jon's arms.)
No. She can never forget that. Not that.
Sansa opens her mouth but only a croak leaves her. She clamps her jaw shut, tries to smother that tremor that lights beneath her skin.
Why did she? When death had almost certainly awaited her?
Bran turns his head, a pain-touched moan easing from his lips, eyes slipping shut on a delirious sigh. "So stupid," he mumbles out.
Sansa stills at his words, brows furrowed sharply. "Bran, you're my pack, my – "
"Pack, pack, always 'pack'," he sneers in his drug haze, his free hand reaching up to his head. "So stupid, Sansa," he moans.
She rears back, a sharp pain in her chest, hand still gripping at his. She shakes her head, unable to find the words. "Bran, I don't..."
"Always the 'pack'," he grinds out, head turning back to face her, eyes alarmingly clear, even as he shakes from the effort, beneath both the pain and the drug. "Always the pack with you, like – like you aren't part of it yourself." His head falls back to the pillow, drowsy once more. "Like you aren't part of it yourself," he mutters groggily.
Like you aren't part of it.
Sansa sits back in her seat, hand slipping from her brother's.
"Jon will protect me."
Maybe she hadn't ever fully trusted it before because it wasn't something she thought she could ask for, or have, or demand. Maybe she'd gotten too used to living for others, even when those others were ones she loved dearly. Maybe she'd always seen the pack as something outside of herself.
And has it always been this way? Has she always been so dismissive of herself? Her own needs, her own wants?
Did she lose herself when she went looking for something more?
"Tell me what you need."
She'd never heard those words before until Jon spoke them – never even knew she needed them.
Sansa's mouth opens, a shallow breath breaking over her parted lips. She slumps with the revelation, a watery laugh caught in her throat.
(To be important to someone. To be important to herself.)
She sucks a shaky breath in, eyes tearing.
(To know that 'pack' does not mean others before self, but the whole before self. A whole that she is a part of. That she deserves to be a part of.)
Sansa curls both hands around Bran's now as he turns in his drugged state, trying to find a comfortable position to return to sleep.
"So stupid," he mutters again, eyes already drifting shut, and Sansa laughs at the words, blinking at the hot tears lining her lids. She squeezes his hand beneath her own, wants to remember this warmth always. She leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead, tugging the blanket up his chest with one hand. "Rest, Bran," she manages roughly, the weight of tears behind her words.
But it's a comforting weight. A freeing weight. Because it bespeaks a grief that is hers, and a fear that is hers, and a joy that is hers. It bespeaks a hard-won love. A tooth-and-nail love.
(Because loving yourself is sometimes the hardest thing in this world.)
"Everything's so heavy," Bran says on a sigh, gripping at the sheet pulled up to his chest.
Sansa smooths his hair down, smiling at his sleep-touched face. "Rest," she says again, a gentle hum following the words, the faint start of a song.
She warms instantly at the smile that tugs at his lips when he hears the note.
And so, she settles further in her seat. And so, she sings her brother to sleep. And so, it begins – her watch to keep.
* * *
Sansa wakes some hours later, sitting up from where she had fallen asleep with her head over her arms, braced along the edge of Bran's bed. He's sleeping sounding before her, and she brushes the hair from his forehead, blinking in the late afternoon light. She glances up and finds Rhaenys sitting along the edge of her cot, watching them.
Sansa straightens, her hand retreating.
It's not a conscious stare, she thinks, the woman's eyes slightly unfocused, just a touch off kilter, as though her gaze had caught along her shoulder and not her face. As though she wasn't really seeing them.
Pulling her lip between her teeth, Sansa brushes a strand of hair behind her ear and blinks away the sleep, standing slowly. She watches as Rhaenys seems to register the motion, her gaze shifting up to meet Sansa's. Like seeing her for the first time.
Rhaenys' mouth opens, and then closes. She blinks, curls her hands over the edge of the cot. Looks away.
There is no conversation in this world that Sansa particularly wants to have with this woman right now. And yet, something tugs at her insides, sets her feet to motion. She steps around the cot, glides through slants of dimming light from the thin windows. She can hear Maester Gregoir's scribbling at his desk in the next room over, the door between them still ajar. It's unbearably quiet otherwise, and Sansa has to steady herself, smooth her hands down her skirts, keep her face an impassive mask. She stops just before Rhaenys, a bit off to the side.
Rhaenys looks to her hands gripping the edge of the cot, seems to catch sight of the blood caked nearly to her elbows, and she releases the cot instantly, stilling a moment, before bunching her hands together in her lap, fingers curling over her knuckles with an acute awareness that belies her quiet, untethered state.
Sansa glances to the water bowl along the table at the edge of the cot, catches sight of the clean cloth hanging over the edge. She reaches for it, twists the excess water out. "Here," she says, handing it to the princess. The word is a jagged cut of air. She clamps her mouth tightly closed after its release, hardly knowing why the tremor is there at all.
Rhaenys looks at it out of the corner of her eye, jaw tightening. Her hands bunch tighter, and she looks away.
Sansa stands with her hand outstretched for only a while longer, nodding quietly to herself when she finally sets the wet cloth back to the bowl. She opens her mouth once more, finds no words to muster, lets her gaze fall to the floor.
She closes her eyes, trying to push back the memory of that morning's discovery. She doesn't know which sight was worse: Stannis or Rhaenys.
In the end, she thinks it matters little.
Rhaenys shifts along the cot, the noise catching Sansa's ears so that she opens her eyes once more, and finds Rhaenys reaching for the towel herself now, taking it to her stained hands with jerky, half-coherent motions.
Sansa only watches her a moment, before she's overcome with an inscrutable discomfort, as though she were intruding on something intimate. Her eyes flit away, a delicate sigh escaping her. "I'll leave you, my lady." And then she gathers her skirts to go.
It's the king's funeral tomorrow, after all. And it will be a long day of ceremony. Rest, she'd told Bran. But she needs rest herself.
And she needs Jon, she finds.
"You know what he took from me," Rhaenys says suddenly behind her. Sansa stops at the words, at the evenness with which she says them. She turns to glance back at her over her shoulder.
Rhaenys is watching the steady motion of her hands as she wipes the towel over her palms, scrubs slowly and surely at the blood caked there.
Sansa stares at her, suddenly breathless.
"You know what fear his presence here stirred in me," she says, almost like an accusation, her jaw tightening over the words, brows furrowing sharply.
Sansa realizes then that she's speaking of their conversation just before the attack – how Rhaenys had gripped at her, begged for her not to leave, clung to her like a lifeline.
And she imagines the woman hates that Sansa was the one to see her like that. That Sansa was the one she clung to, revealed herself to, was weak before.
But Sansa can only nod, her words kept carefully behind the cage of her teeth.
She does not blame Rhaenys for her terror. Truly, she doesn't. She blames her for a great many other things, of course. But never for that.
(She remembers what fear feels like behind the crack of white knuckles. And she can never imagine a barrage of them. She knows this, admits it.
But her pity can only take her so far.)
"I couldn't go back to that," Rhaenys whispers tightly, fingers clenching over the cloth in her hand. She stills her cleaning, finally glancing up to Sansa. Her dark gaze is steady as stone. Not a flicker of smoke. A dead thing, wrapped in soiled silks. "I won't... go back to that," she says lowly.
A quiver makes its way down Sansa's spine, sharp in its coldness. She cannot take her eyes from the woman.
Rhaenys sets the towel back into the water bowl with a grace that almost mocks the muddied state of her hands, her skirts. She rinses the cloth, wrings it out, watches the water run pink. She takes the cloth back into her lap, gliding it up her bloodied wrist. "I waited, you know. Waited for him to come to me."
Sansa blinks at her words, confusion flitting across her face, before Rhaenys looks up, meets her eyes once more.
She understands then, without knowing how.
"I waited for Jon to save me," she says. The cloth swipes gently around her narrow wrist.
Sansa's shoulders bunch, a wariness lodging tight in her chest, face hardening.
"But he was too busy saving you," she continues, fingers splayed out as she dips the cloth between them. Her eyes flick toward Sansa's stomach, settling there. "You and that babe of yours." It's almost a sneer. Almost, but not quite. There is still too much quiet beneath the words, still too much stoicism keeping her rooted and blank.
But Sansa curves her palm across her belly instinctively, a jolt of protectiveness moving within her, flaring hot – instant and irrepressible. She feels the silk bunch beneath her fingers, tries to moor her heart to the sensation, to anchor there. "Whatever his choices, Jon has no regrets," she grinds out, the pity drowned out of her tone. Only caution remains. Only the slow circling of a wolf on watch. "Can you say the same?"
Rhaenys stills her slow wiping, sighing as she settles the bloodied rag in her lap. She looks down to it, jaw working. She blinks fiercely – like trying to clear the shroud away. Trying to see through the marring of her own skin. "I will," she says. She looks back up then.
(It's a face Sansa will remember for years and years.)
Rhaenys tips her head, the shadow of a smile curling at the edges of her lips. "I will," she says again, and Sansa cannot be certain whether it is a promise or a threat that colors her words.
She wonders if there's even a difference with this family.
Taking a single step back, she grips more firmly at her belly, never releasing her stare, never turning her back on the dragon before her. Her teeth grind – a war of pity and rage and rancid, fleeting greed coiling tight in her gut. "Rhaenys...," she begins warningly, not knowing where her censure will lead her.
And then Rhaenys laughs – nothing bright or boisterous. Only surprised. Enlightened, almost. Softening out in a disbelieving breath, a shake of her head. "She was right," Rhaenys says with one last, vehement swipe along her bloodied wrist, eyes never leaving Sansa. "To kill a living thing – it's not so hard, after all."
Sansa tastes bile at the back of her tongue, that coil in her gut bunching high in her throat now, a flash of red, and then a sudden, obtrusive halt. She rears back at the words, mind whirling.
Her hand slips from her stomach. "Rhaenys, what...?"
The door pulls open behind her, and she turns abruptly, words caught in her throat. She settles somewhat at the sight of Jon. He offers her a reassuring smile as he moves toward her. Behind him, Daenerys steps through the threshold, eyes landing on Rhaenys. She carries an orange silk gown in her arms.
Jon reaches her with a hand at her elbow, his eyes flitting over to her brother's cot. "Bran?" he asks in concern.
"Sleeping," she answers, a hand going to his at her elbow. She watches as Daenerys makes her way quietly over to Rhaenys, setting the gown on the table beside the bed. Sansa clears her throat, gaze still watchful over the two women. Distantly, she notices Jon's uneasiness beside her, how he leans toward her like comfort, his own gaze hesitant upon his aunt and sister.
"I am well, too, brother," Rhaenys says a little too sharply, dropping the soiled cloth into the bowl at her side. "If you were at all concerned."
Sansa knows how the words pain Jon, without even needing to see his face. She feels his hand curl more tightly over her elbow, hears the breath raking from him.
"Rhaenys..." he begins, and not knowing how to finish, it seems.
But Rhaenys looks to Daenerys then, wiping at her eyes, dragging a rough curl back behind her ear. "I'm done resting," she says determinedly.
Daenerys watches her with discerning eyes, sighing at the ragged look of her, head dipping down when she reaches for her arm, goes to help her from the bed. "Come," she says simply, and Rhaenys follows, one last, unnerving stare sent Sansa's way. She doesn't even glance at Jon.
Sansa blows a tense breath from her lips, turning swiftly, tugging Jon out the room with her as he fumbles after her.
"Sansa, what – "
When the door slips shut behind her she turns abruptly, winding her arms around his back, burying her face in his chest.
He stills, hands held mid-air.
"Please," she gets out on a heated breath, fingers curling in his tunic. "Please, will you just hold me?" she asks, eyes squeezing shut.
She feels his worried sigh brush along her hair, but his arms are already slipping around her at the request, pulling her into his chest, one hand snaking up her neck to settle in her hair.
She holds him tighter, lets it fill her, brands the skin of his throat with the anger of her exhale, with the exhaustion of her heavy pant in the crook of his neck. "Just... hold me."
And he does. Wordlessly. And endlessly.
She thinks he would stand there and hold her for eons, if she asked it of him.
For eons and epochs and long, countless ages.
For all the time that she may need of him.
For always.
The heel of his palm is cool at the nape of her neck.
She breathes.
He holds her.
And she breathes.
* * *
"Do you need more time?" Sansa asks gently, standing from her seat at the vanity to walk toward Jon.
He's sitting on the edge of the bed, leaned over with his elbows resting along his thighs, hands linked between his knees. He glances up at her question.
She stops just before him, brushing a fine braid behind her ear. It's the morning of the former king's funeral, and after having broke their fast with the rest of the Targaryens (a stilted, quiet affair that had her near screaming in her own skin, in much the same way she imagined every one of them at that table felt), Jon and Sansa had returned to their chambers to ready for the ceremony, donning their second best leathers and silks.
Their best, of course, are for Aegon's induction ceremony.
It's not a detail that escapes Sansa.
Jon sighs before her, rubbing a hand down his face. "No, no, I'll be...I'll be fine."
She cocks her head at him, lip caught between her teeth. She reaches a hand out toward him, palm up.
He glances to it, smiling softly, before slipping his own hand around it, tugging her toward him slightly so that she presses against his knees, staring down at him while he grazes an affectionate thumb over the back of her hand.
"Besides," he adds, "It would be improper for us to be missing, or even late."
Sansa huffs at that. "This all happened so fast. The attack, and now King Rhaegar's death. Why should you be expected to stay stoic, unaffected?" She shakes her head, ire filling her. And sorrow. "Even royals should be allowed to grieve how they need – publicly or not."
Jon chuckles at her remark, a sad smile lighting his lips as he looks down to where he holds her hand. He watches the motion of his thumb across her hand, slow and measured. He takes a breath, releases it slowly. "I'm afraid the show must go on," he says darkly, eyes never leaving their joined hands.
She reaches her other hand to his cheek, stroking down the length of his beard, heart clenching when he doesn't even look up at the motion. "Jon," she urges.
It's a worn, weathered smile that tips the corners of his mouth when he finally looks up at her. "But I thank you all the same, my lady." He pulls her hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to her knuckles, swift and clean.
She misses the warmth when it goes.
His eyes catch along her waist and he cocks his head at the laces there, motioning toward it. "Your ties," he says.
She glances down, twisting somewhat to see what he's talking about, and notices the loosening laces along her side. "Oh," she says, brows dipping down, before giving him an impish look. "Help me?"
"Here," he says, nudging her to back up as he gives her an indulgent smile. She steps from his knees and turns to the side as he rises, releasing her hand to reach for her laces instead. His fingers are deft and practiced, tugging the laces out of their holes and threading them back through evenly.
She chuckles at the concentration on his face, watching him.
It's a calm, crisp morning strangely enough, even in the midst of the chaos that descended upon the keep ever since the night of the attack. And this room, this moment, it feels like a pocket of peace tucked away from the world. She holds it tight to her chest, tries to imprint it to memory. His face, endearingly focused. The soft hue of morning light that hits his dark curls from the near window. The steady, even lull of his breathing – rooting in its constancy. The conscious delicacy in his calloused hands when he tightens her laces.
She wants to cry suddenly, and she doesn't know why.
She wonders what this image might look like with the backdrop of snow falling past their open window. With the faint hollering of Arya and Rickon down the hall. With the crisp tang of winter filling her nose. With Winterfell, all around her.
She wants to cry suddenly, and she knows exactly why.
Keeping her eyes fixed to Jon, Sansa lets out a shallow breath of hesitation, voice low when she asks him, "Why did you put my father forward for Hand?"
Jon stills his work, eyes still fixed to his hands.
She stays watching him a moment, breathing deeply. "We haven't talked about it yet."
Jon swallows, nodding. He returns to his work, tying the laces off at the end. "Aye, we haven't." He straightens fully when he's finished, hands returning to his sides.
"Jon."
He shakes his head, a sad sort of resignation tainting his exhale. "You said you were all alone." His eyes finally meet hers.
She blinks at him, turning fully to face him. "What?"
"When you learned about my past with Rhaenys. The things you said..." He clears his throat, gaze dropping. "You said you were alone, and I guess I – it was the best thing I could think of at the moment. The best way I could make sure you were never alone here again."
Something swells in her chest, near painful in its intensity. Her throat bobs, her voice cracking. "Oh," she says, and then laughs at her own inarticulate answer, a hand going to her mouth. "Jon, I..." But no words seem right, and so she stops trying, reaching her arms around him instead, bracing around his shoulders as she pulls him into her. His arms loop around her waist instinctively, his hands warm at her back.
He sighs into her hair, his head dipping to her shoulder. "I just... I just thought that if there was no way to return you home, then at least you were safer with Lord Stark in the capital. And as Hand, he'd be able to protect you in ways I might not be able to."
She curls her hand along the nape of his neck, sighs at his throat. "Thank you." It's a tremulous exhale that leaves her, and she grips him tighter at its release.
Jon presses his temple to hers, a hand smoothing up her back, and then down again. "I don't know if Aegon will accept my suggestion, but I had to try. And even if he grants us leave to go North, if Ned Stark is Hand, we can be sure that he'll also speak for Northern interests. Your interests."
"Our interests," she corrects, muttered into his collar, her eyes slipping shut.
She feels his smile against her cheek in response, and then his short nod. "Our interests."
She doesn't move to release him just yet, too reluctant to be without him. His hand gliding up and down her back in comforting sweeps settles the breathlessness in her, but she's warm, almost unsettlingly warm, and when she opens her eyes her vision blurs at the edges, just a touch. She blinks it back in surprise, vision clearing quickly.
Sansa pulls back just a touch, enough to face him, her arms still wound around his shoulders.
He sighs at her mouth. "I never want you to feel trapped like that again. Like you have no way out – especially because of me."
A fond scoff leaves her lips. "Oh, Jon."
His hand settles at the small of her back, his thumb rubbing circles there. "And now, with Aegon and his suspicions, and Rhaenys..." He trails off, mouth clamping shut before he can manage the words.
Sansa drags her nails comfortingly along the nape of his neck. "I never... never thought her capable – of that."
Jon's gaze darkens, a worried furrow to his brow. "Neither had I."
They stand in each other's embrace a while longer, each remembering what they'd rather not remember. And then Sansa sighs, meeting his gaze. "Jon, something's not right with her. The way she looked back at Maester Gregoir's... " A shudder arches up her spine. "I can't shake that look from my mind."
Jon bows his forehead to hers, a heavy breath leaving him. "I know. And I'm scared, Sansa. I really am. I don't mean to alarm you, but... " He sighs, eyes slipping shut. "I don't know anymore. I just never thought she could do such a thing."
Sansa blinks at that, something pricking at the back of her mind. Something she should remember.
"Jon," she says warily, mind whirling.
"Hmm?"
"Something she said to me yesterday," she muses, voice trailing, eyes narrowing. "'She'...?" Her words cut off at the sharp twinge in her gut.
Jon looks at her curiously, arms loosening around her back to settle back at her hips. He dips his head to better look at her. "Sansa?"
Her eyes slip shut, a tight breath leaving her. The twinge mellows out into dull ache, hanging low in her belly. She shakes her head. "Sorry, I just... I think I need to – "
Another twinge, this time sharper, tighter. She bows beneath the pain of it, breaking from his embrace. "Oh, oh, I uh... I think – I need to sit down."
Jon's eyes go wide, shifting between hers frantically, his hands moving to her elbows instantly to help her to the bed. "Sansa, what is it?" His gaze shoots down to her stomach when her hand braces there. "Is it the babe?"
The quake in his voice is worse than any lance of pain.
Sansa starts to shake. "I don't - gods!" She doubles over, tears springing hot to her lids, mouth parting on a gasp.
"Sansa! Sansa, what is it?"
Her vision goes white, a low whine escaping her as she drops to the bed, one arm going out to brace her weight, the other wound around her stomach, trying to hold back the terrible pain, like a corkscrew winding slowly into her womb.
And then she feels the wetness between her legs.
"No," she mumbles, gasping, fumbling to right herself on the bed, arm protectively around her middle. She shakes her head vehemently, the tears salt-sharp at her eyes now. "No, no, no," she moans.
"Sansa," Jon begs helplessly, trying to ease her along the bed, face screwed up in fear.
The wetness is warm and heavy between her legs now, and she cries out, a shuddering wail cracking the air in her lungs, eyes screwing shut.
"Oh gods, Sansa," Jon moans, his own distress palpable.
She grabs for his sleeve, knuckles white and trembling. "Get the maester," she grinds out between tears.
He doesn't need a second command, bounding to the door and throwing it wide. "Bring Maester Gregoir!" he bellows at the guards outside their door. A passing chambermaid startles and drops a water basin, sending it crashing along the stones. "Now!" he shouts, his booming voice echoing through the hall, and the sound of their retreating footsteps reaches Sansa where she moans and drags herself up the bed.
When Jon turns back to her he stills instantly, eyes wide, a sharp breath sucked between his teeth.
The branding horror on his face lights a sickness in her, freezing her in place half sprawled over the bed, arm still wrapped tight across her middle. She follows his gaze to the spread of sheets she'd just dragged herself up, eyes lighting on the dark stain of blood trailing up to the soaked seat of her dress.
"Oh gods," she shudders out, sobbing anew, knees curling into her stomach, vision blurring, and she's hot, so inexplicably hot, sweat already lining her brow and then she's sick, bile rising sour and instant up her throat, making her cough on it, and she opens her mouth, gags on a vile breath, spits into the sheet, feels it dripping down over her chin and it's - it's -
Red.
A croak leaves her as she shudders atop the sheets, a trembling hand rising up to her chin, smearing the wetness there, and then pulling back before her tear-filled eyes for her to see. For her to see the blood staining the tips of her fingers. She looks down with disbelieving eyes, focusing on the spit-up of blood she'd just coughed into the sheets.
"Jon," she gets out shakily, terror coloring her voice, eyes fixed to her own blood-drenched fingers, "What's happening to me?" she sobs.
Just before she blacks out, she feels Jon's hands pulling her back by the shoulders, his cry of her name distant and muffled, his fearful face a hazy shroud above her.
Just before she blacks out, she remembers:
Tooth-and-nail loves will always leave you bloody.
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