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theshipsfirstmate · 5 years

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Game of Thrones Fic: Please Speak Well of Me (part 2/2)

Post-finale jonsa angst/feelings, with some gendrya in the background. (Honestly, I just want them all to be happy.)

“I've heard the speech,” Sansa tells him. “But you and I both know it’s different when there’s a crown on your head.”

“I never wore a crown,” Jon answers, needlessly.

“I know,” she nods, wringing her hands nervously, but unable to look away -- or stop herself from admitting, “That’s why there are two wolves on mine.”

A/N: I know this follow-up is like, a year late, but I’m trying to clear out my WIPs and this one was mostly done and I’m pretty pleased with it. Anybody still around?

Please Speak Well of Me (PART 1)

Part 2: You Recognize Love After the Fact (AO3 - wc: 10121)

Jon says her name, standing in front of her in his old chambers, and she thinks it might be the first thing she’s really heard in over a year.

“Sansa.” It’s like seeing in color after months of nothing but white and grey.

Part of her thought the world would be louder, ruling in the ashen aftermath of the Mad Queen. She thought the crown on her head would bring with it a diplomatic din, a ceaseless chorus of concerns calling to her to be handled.

And it's true, there are voices that reach out from all sides throughout her day, and a few from the past that come to her in her empty chambers at night. There are survivors whose lives she has been tasked with rebuilding, and lost generations to whom she is desperate to construct proper monuments. But the noise so far has been muted, and manageable, as if the veil she dropped over her countenance the moment she took her seat on the North’s wooden throne was also designed to muffle the sounds of the outside world.

It’s lonely, too. The silence has been her penance, she thinks, for growing spoiled once again by having her siblings close by. Their time at Winterfell before the war was fleeting and fraught with paranoia and planning, but it was enough to remind her what it was like to have a family once again. It was enough to know what she was missing when she returned home from King's Landing alone -- without Arya, without Bran, without Brienne or Podrick or Sandor. Without Jon.

Her people have accepted her, are grateful for her role in freeing the North and establishing independence, but it's never left her mind for a moment that she was the ruler they were left with, not the one they chose -- the last remaining Stark at Winterfell.

Perhaps fittingly, she has become something of a lone wolf. She keeps to herself as much as possible, taking her meals alone -- or, since their return, with Arya and Gendry -- and politely shunning any advisors who attempt to cross the line into something friendly or more familiar. And the quieter she becomes, the more she hears how they speak of her. Granite, they say. Stone and ice and steel. But at least those things are strong.

She is the only one now who can know the truth of how weak she is, Sansa knows that much for certain. A queen isn’t supposed to mourn her family, scattered across the map -- not when her kingdom has so recently been winnowed by the army of the dead. A queen isn’t supposed to pass through empty chambers in her keep, hoping to catch the scent of someone who used to sleep there.

A queen isn’t supposed to cry. So she’s learned to turn her tears to frost before they ever reach her cheeks.

“Sansa,” Jon says to her, and the ice within shifts, weakens. Brackish water begins to leak through the cracks.

She can barely remember how to speak, and it doesn’t come as much of a comfort that he seems to be fumbling as well.

Over the foolish moons, Sansa had imagined that, if the time came that Jon ever returned, the mere sight of him would unwind the tangles of conflict inside of her. There would be something in his eyes, something she had forgotten about his face, something that would remind her what was real and what was not between the two of them.

She understands now that this was all wishful thinking. The knot in her chest only twisted tighter when he stepped before her in the Great Hall, wrapping more inextricably around what's left of her heart, and she’s not sure it’s something she’ll ever be able to untangle.

“It’s just very good to see you,” he says finally, on a breath, and there’s a flash of something in his gaze that makes her wonder if he’s just as conflicted as she. His face is thinner now, and the shadows under his eyes are darker still than after his stay in the Red Keep. But there's something else about seeing him before her, something that tugs at the corners of her lips. It takes her far too long to recognize it as joy.

He keeps himself so still, hands balled into fists at his sides, waiting for her to reach for him. Mercifully, the second she moves, Jon does too, arms banding around her as she sucks in a breath that leaves her lightheaded.

“I'm so glad you're home,” Sansa whispers when she trusts her voice not to break, speaking the words into the worn furs at his collarbone.

When she pulls back, reluctant to even let him slip a few inches away, his eyes are sad but sparkling still, and he brings a careful hand up to cup her face.

“Sansa.” Again, just her name. But it sounds like something more.

It’s why she had fumbled over their introduction in the Great Hall, why she recoiled when he addressed her as queen. This is the only thing she ever wants him to call her.

She spends so much time replaying it in her head, it takes her a long moment to notice that he doesn’t say anything more. He’s just looking at her. All of her at once, it seems. His eyes dart from her face to her cloak, around the room and back again. But his mouth seems to stick on anything but syllables of her name.

“What is it?”

“It’s just…” The sentence comes in fits and starts, and part of her wants to plead with him to simply say what he means. And then he does. “I’ve spent so much time wondering if I’d ever see anything good come of all that’s happened. But that crown on your head…”

She ducks her eyes to his boots, unwilling to let him see the tears or anything else that might spring to her eyes. Jon pulls his hand back to his side and she misses it instantly.

“Gendry made it for me,” she tells him. “I wanted something for Robb. And Father. And the rest...”

“It’s perfect,” he answers with a nod and a near-whisper. His eyes go soft and she imagines he must be thinking of their fallen family. “It’s beautiful. You’re-- You make a beautiful queen.”

His breath catches in the space between them, and Sansa goes a bit light-headed herself. It's so much, to have him here. It's been so long since she made a wish that had even the smallest chance of coming true.

“I should-- They'll be looking for me.” She nods to the door, and Jon responds with a tiny, terse flash of a smile. It’s just his lips, pressed together in a line, but she tries to memorize it. “I’ll send for you at supper?”

He doesn’t answer right away, so she assures, “Nothing formal. Arya and Gendry usually eat with me in my solar.”

Jon looks so relieved she can't help but smile at him again. Her cheeks, out of practice, are starting to ache.

“Just family,” she adds, and then the look is more than relief. Joy, she remembers again. That's what it's called.

__________________________________

“I've decided to take Gendry’s name after all.”

Sansa knows Arya will be annoyed at her sigh, but she can’t help the consolation she feels at checking one minor battle off of her ever-growing list. “Oh?”

Wedding planning with her sister has been about as easy as she expected, which is to say, very near agony. Arya is a specific mix of practical and desperate to buck tradition that has called into question nearly every detail of a traditional Northern wedding celebration. And besides that, she’s marrying a Southern lord.

“The tradition is demeaning, but times are slow to change,” Arya tells them of her latest decision. “I'll take his name to protect our family, but I will always be a Stark.”

Sansa grins at the flash of her sister’s Tully blood, still running cool beneath a face that undeniably belongs to their father. Gendry smiles as well.

“No one who looks upon you would doubt that,” he assures his bride-to-be, even though it earns him a swat to the arm. “And if they did, you would be quick to set them straight, my lady.”

“I'm not your lady yet,” Arya warns.

“Aye, but soon enough,” her betrothed fires back. “You'll be my lady and my family.”

Sansa expects another blow to Gendry’s side, but instead her sister goes soft, eyes widening with the most sentimental look she's ever seen shape the practical angles of her face.

It's some happy moment, something from their past, she understands. Arya’s told her some of their stories and more than anything, Sansa finds herself grateful that they had each other for a time, grateful that her sister can hold her life's memories up to the light and catch the gleam of happiness off of some of them.

She knows something of the depths of Arya's affection for Gendry, but this may be the first time she’s ever truly seen her sister as a woman in love. It pulls at Sansa’s heartstrings and something in a darker part of her as well, something that feels too much like jealousy to dwell on for very long.

She looks away, aiming to afford the couple a semi-private moment, but this leaves her eyes to find Jon’s, which soften at the corners, like they're sharing a secret too. She can’t linger there either, so she racks her brain for a distraction -- and settles on a weak one.

“You're sure about the godswood?” she asks, focusing on what's left of her stew.

“Seven hells, Sansa, yes.” Arya manages to project her annoyance while keeping her eyes fixed on Gendry for a moment. When she turns back, her whole face narrows suspiciously in her sister’s direction. “Why do you keep asking?”

“It's just--” Sansa chooses her words carefully. “It's very traditional.”

“I think it'll make it feel like father's there,” her sister explains, casually, like it doesn't rip the breath from her chest. “Mother, as well. It's what they would have wanted.”

Sansa can feel herself freezing over, despite the fire that roars in the hearth of her solar. And when did you decide to care what they wanted for Winterfell? She doesn't let the ugly voice in the back of her mind ask its question aloud, but she can't find anything else to say.

“Aye, it is,” Jon finally fills in, and Arya smiles gratefully at him.

“Besides,” she continues, either oblivious to Sansa’s reaction or pretending to be, “Bran will be more comfortable there.”

“Bran’s coming?” Jon's worry is what finally thaws Sansa enough to find her voice.

“Not to worry,” she says, clearing her throat. “I'll speak to him -- as a queen to a king, and as a sister to a brother. ”

“I don't want to cause any trouble.” A quick flash of panic passes between them, and Sansa imagines an empty chair at the dining table tomorrow, like he was never here at all.

“You won't,” she says resolutely, and thankfully, Arya echoes the same. It seems to be enough to pacify Jon for the moment.

They finish their meal in peaceful silence, but all three of Sansa’s guests take note when she does her best to stifle a yawn.

“Would you two mind giving us the room?” Four eyes turn towards her with the same question. “I'd like a word with my sister.”

Gendry’s already standing to take his leave, ever courteous. “Goodnight, Your Grace,” he says with a smile. Arya rolls her eyes, but Sansa gives him her warmest blessing.

“Goodnight, my lord.” She’ll insist on first names after the wedding, she’s already decided. “I must thank you again for bringing more of my family back to me.”

He's a good man, her sister’s betrothed, solid and sure. He balances Arya in a way that Sansa counts as a blessing, even as she doesn’t fully understand it. And best of all, he’s kind.

“We two were never meant to head our houses, but we’ll do our best, won’t we?” It’s their private joke, however morbid, forged over the last year as they found themselves in similar chaos. Sansa does her best not to watch Jon from the corner of her eye as she nods.

“Our families have been friends and allies for generations,” she tells him. “It’s an honor to have you join us, officially.”

Gendry departs with a sheepish grin, and then she’s forced to turn her attention back to her remaining guests. Perhaps foolishly, she chooses Jon, who's watching her like he’s seeing something different as the embers in the hearth begin to dwindle.

Sansa’s stomach twists, not with discomfort, she realizes, but worry. She fears letting him out of her sight for the evening will give him permission to disappear, to prove himself the hopeful apparition part of her still believes him to be.

He must sense her concern, or see it on her face, because he doesn't move to follow Gendry out the door. “All right, Sansa?”

Perhaps, she thinks. If you’re still here when the sun rises tomorrow, I might be. “Yes, thank you,” she forces out instead, with a smile she hopes is stronger than it feels. “Goodnight, Jon.”

He doesn't say anything more, just nods and takes his leave. When Sansa turns back from the closing door, Arya’s already opening her mouth, ready to spar. She assumes it'll be more wedding details, but then her sister’s face changes and her eyes narrow slightly.

“You're already different.”

“Different?”

“Now that he's back,” Arya says, like it’s simple. Like it’s an answer.

“I'm not.”

“You are.”

Sansa sighs, for what feels like the hundredth time today. Fine. “Perhaps I am,” she allows, though the forced innocence in her tone is heavy with a thousand possible implications. “Is it so wrong, that I should be happy to see my family returned to me?”

“Of course not.” Her sister gives her a knowing smile that makes her feel small, and seen, and she nearly dismisses her outright, but in a moment of weakness -- or strength, it’s hard to be certain -- remembers her initial intention.

“I don’t want to quarrel,” Sansa says softly, eyes drifting back to the door Jon walked though just moments ago. “I just wanted to thank you. I know he’s here for you -- for your wedding -- but once again, you did what I could not.”

She’s not sure what reaction she expected from her sister, but it’s not the one she delivers.

“Mine was the easy task, compared to yours,” Arya answers low, looking almost nervous.

“And what is it that I must do?”

“Convince him to stay.”

Sansa imagines the look she gives her sister could be called skeptical at best. Incredulous is probably closer. “He will if you ask,” Arya insists.

“I have.” Sansa ducks her head from her sister’s gaze as she answers too quickly, remembering the hastily scribbled missive at the bottom of one of his pardons, a few moons back. “I have asked.”

Please come home.

She regretted it as soon as the raven took off. Were she a better archer, she would have tried to down the bird as it flew over the battlements. It was desperate, and unbecoming of a queen, but she found that she couldn’t help herself as she signed that month’s decree. Something deep in her gut had flushed her cheeks and moved her hand and still, it wasn’t enough.

But her sister is the stubborn sort, always has been. “Ask him again.”

“I sent him a dozen pardons, Arya.” And then, childishly, because this particular spat feels like pressing a thumb down on an already-purpled bruise. “I’ve asked him a dozen times, more than. You ask him.”

“No, it can’t be me.” She remains cryptic as always, and Sansa is weary of so much of it. “It has to be you.”

Her regal composure has held for so long today, but the last of it snaps as she considers what feels like an impossible task. It’s not as if she hadn’t thought of it. It had been her first dreadful question amid the joy of realizing Jon had really returned: When will he leave again?

“What do you imagine I can do, Arya? The weakest of the wolves — what powers do you expect I have here?”

Her sister doesn’t answer right away, hanging on something Sansa hadn’t intended to say. “You don't really believe that.”

She does. Not only that, she knows it to be true. The weakest of the wolves. She’s heard it in murmurs, most of them in her own head. Every day, there are moments when she wishes she were her brother, with the ability to see through to the meaning of things, or her sister, with the power to glean motives as easily as faces. Or Jon, with his strong shoulders to carry the weight of the world, and a head made for a crown.

He returned to Winterfell all those years ago with a bastard’s name, a broken oath and blood that had already once run cold, and still, they raised their swords to him. Sansa’s been queen for longer than he was king, yet there is not one day she hasn’t felt like an imposter.

“I'm just one person, Arya, with one life and one face and wits that I’m learning far too often are not enough.” Her voice sounds small to her own ears, muffled by thoughts of ledgers and lords and all the tedious things that seem to undermine the grand title she's had bestowed upon her.

“I couldn’t even make him come home,” she whispers, as an unspoken refrain echoes in her mind. It’s something she’s told her sister once before, as they stood atop the snowy battlements of their home. You did that. I couldn’t. You did.

“You're not just a person,” Arya says, in a tone Sansa is growing more resentful of by the second. “You're a queen.”

“And I have pardoned him, and I have asked him, and I have-” Sansa cuts herself off and takes a deep breath before going so far as to admit that she’s spent most of her nights bargaining with the old gods and the new, and restless hours dreaming of Jon's safe return. “Why is it that you suddenly think I'll be able to change his mind now?”

“Faces don't lie.”

Usually, Sansa feels out of her depth when Arya mentions her mysterious game. But tonight, she just scoffs at a truth she’s more certain of than anything.

“Faces lie all the time. You know that better than anyone.”

“Not yours,” her sister says knowingly, and Sansa can hear her own heart thud in her chest over the scrape of Arya’s chair as she stands to take her leave. “And not his.”

__________________________________

She’s left so unsettled that it takes her a moment to notice Arya has left the door ajar. When Sansa sighs, and moves to close it, however, a flash of red catches her eyes in the corridor.

“Ghost.” And behind him, to her immediate relief, “Jon.”

She wishes, in that moment, that she could read faces like her sister. There’s always been something in the way that Jon looked at her, ever since their time at Castle Black, but it feels different now. More, a voice in her head whispers, and she tries to stifle it.

Ultimately, though, it’s his words that stop her breath.

“The godswood,” he says, almost at a whisper. She steps back to let him reenter the room without another word.

They haven't laid eyes on each other in more than a year and still he can see right through her. She stays quiet long enough that it serves as an answer.

“Hells, Sansa, why not just tell her?” She nearly laughs, but the thought is too bitter.

“Arya wants what she wants. She has so many good memories of this place, I won't give her any of my bad ones.” Her sister knows too much already about her years as a victim, and besides, it wouldn’t become a queen to talk of such horrors.

“She would understand,” he insists. “You know she would.”

But Sansa’s tired of this fight. She’s waged it silently within herself too many times. Seeing Jon’s pitying eyes doesn’t do anything to make it better.

“I will be fine, Jon. I have grown accustomed to ignoring unhappy thoughts. I will not stand in front of my lord father’s people and their gods and think of my own miserable wedding day, or Theon’s death, or a promise that I couldn’t keep.”

His eyes go wide at that -- she knows he had only been thinking of Ramsey. “Sansa...”

“I won't apologize for it. But I know you haven't forgiven me.” She had sworn to him, in front of what was left of her family, on their most sacred ground. And even as she said the words, she was preparing the plan in her head to betray them. It haunts her still, but it’s a ghost she can manage. It saved them all, as best it could.

“I--”

Nothing becomes of the sentence, and Jon’s silence confirms her suspicions. He might never forgive her, and that’s something else to live with. It only feels sharper now because he’s here. That’s what she tells herself.

“I'm grateful that you came for Arya, but I won't--”

“I didn’t come for her,” he interrupts, finding his words and seeming startled by their force. Now it’s Sansa’s turn to be speechless.

“Not only for her,” he fumbles over the correction as she takes in a sharp breath. “Though she does seem fairly determined these days about a person’s right to get what they want.”

And what do you want? Sansa doesn't ask it, but she almost does -- and that's dangerous enough.

“I've heard the speech,” she says instead. “But you and I both know it’s different when there’s a crown on your head.”

“I never wore a crown.”

“I know,” she nods, wringing her hands nervously, but unable to look away -- or stop herself from admitting, “That’s why there are two wolves on mine.”

His eyes flash at the admission, something hot and mournful and dangerous.

She wonders if it’s wrong, to stand here with him like this. It feels like it might be, even more so than it did earlier. The keep is quieting around them, leaving a stillness she rarely gets to enjoy. And when Jon’s eyes reflect the fiery glints from the flickering hearth, it feels very much like something that could sweep her away, if she gave it permission. Perhaps even if she didn't.

It's not a question of whether or not she loves him, Sansa realizes then. It's a question of whether or not she always has -- and what it means.

Ice and stone, they say. Suddenly she doesn’t feel so solid.

__________________________________

Perhaps Sansa should be surprised at how easily Jon fits back into life at Winterfell, given everything that’s happened. But deep down, she knows that she's not.

She sees him sparring with Arya in the yard, as dozens of green boys and hopeful squires look on in awe. She notices the bond he forms with Gendry, the way the two men jest with each other -- lighthearted familiarity that can only come in peacetime. She watches him as he walks the battlements and dines in the Great Hall and sits in with her small council meeting, and sometimes she nearly cries with the relief of it all.

This is where he belongs. The longer he stays, the more the rightness sinks into her bones. It’s a dangerous feeling, but she loses the will to fight it when he catches her looking and flashes a crooked grin. It’s almost as if he always knows just where she’ll be.

Then one day, as they enjoy a quiet lunch together in her solar -- her head spinning with unspoken thoughts, but somehow also comfortable in the peace -- Jon asks to see the crypts.

Sansa swallows an empty bite, takes a deep breath and nods.

She cancels her afternoon and they descend the steps together, torches in hand. Despite her layers of fur, she still has to fight back the shiver.

The work is admirable, it’s impossible to say otherwise. She owes a great debt to the masons and laborers who put in countless hours of tiring work to erase the evidence of that horrific night and rebuild her family's historic monuments.

“I avoided it for a few moons, because I couldn't stop having nightmares,” she tells Jon, nearly at a whisper, when they reach the bottom of the staircase. “But the more it was rebuilt, the more I was able to sleep.”

He doesn’t speak until they reach her father’s statue, the starting point of a new family bloc. “They'd be so proud of you, Sansa. All of them.”

Are you? The list of questions she won’t let herself ask him only continues to grow.

They pass by her mother -- whom Sansa still has trouble looking at directly -- and come to a stop in front of two of the new busts, likenesses Jon hasn’t seen in years. The eldest Stark son and the youngest, resting too early under stone.

She hears a choked kind of sound next to her, and wonders if he's picturing a wolf pup next to Robb, as she often does.

But when she turns to look, his focus is on Rickon, and his eyes are filled with tears that spill over when he speaks. “I nearly had him, Sansa. I nearly--”

It’s hard for her to pick that awful day out from the rest, but she knows it must be so vivid for him, who came so close. She grasps his hand in her own free one, and brings it down between them. He turns to her with a question in his eyes -- she wonders if he even realizes he was reaching out.

“There was a moment I thought I might have them build him older,” Sansa recalls. “But there were no sculptors who had seen him since he was so small, and I couldn't...It’s not--”

She loses the word “fair” in her tears and Jon squeezes her hand as they fall. She doesn’t let go to wipe them away.

It’s quiet for a long moment, and then he asks, “Do you think he would have looked like Robb?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I dream of him sometimes, but I can’t picture him as a man.” There’s something so much more profound in that loss.

“Nor Robb,” Jon adds. “I once thought of him as a man grown, when we all left, but he was younger than I am now.”

“Me as well,” she answers.

There are four spaces left in the plot. Sansa wonders if Jon counts them off as they walk deeper into the tomb, setting their torches to rest in the wall sconces. The last of the Starks. This is where they too will lie one day.

She knows it’s foolish to have a plan. Arya’s likely to die on some remote corner of the map, her body consecrating a life lived on the point of a needle.

Bran may never return either. Is a king permitted to come home when he reigns no longer? Is a Three-Eyed Raven ever laid to rest?

Jon, as it turns out, is ready to answer for himself. He drops her hand when they reach the final marker and she closes it to a fist, digging her fingernails into her palm when his voice comes low and mournful.

“I don't belong down here, Sansa. Just like I never belonged up there.” He says it as if it's a fact. “I may deserve the grave, again, but I don’t deserve to rest among the Starks. Not as I am.”

“As you are?” She wills her voice to strengthen as she speaks. “You are a Stark. You are our family, just as much as any of the rest. You belong at Winterfell.”

“But I’m not.” Sansa feels her cheeks redden as his stubbornness draws from her more anger than sorrow. “I’m not a Stark, and I never was.”

Behind him, the statue of her father shows her the falsehood in Jon’s claim, in the slope of his nose, the set of his chin. But he can't see what she sees.

“I'm a Targaryen, and a kinslayer at that.” He sounds as if the words are sour on his tongue. “There is madness in my bones and blood on my hands, and I don't deserve--”

“I know you loved her,” Sansa tells him with a jaw she wills not to clench, “but you didn't have a choice, Jon.”

“Loved her?” he scoffs. She takes a breath to steady herself. This is not how she had imagined this particular conversation, or where.

“I know you feel you should suffer for what you've done-”

“Look what becomes of the people that love me,” he interrupts, waving an outstretched hand, voice darker than the tomb around them. Sansa thinks it sounds like an accusation. “She trusted me with her heart and I put a dagger through it.”

“And my only regret -- as should be yours -- is that you didn't do it sooner.” She can’t find it in her to care if the words come out spiteful. She doesn't want to speak of Daenerys. Not ever, but certainly not here.

Jon’s eyes narrow in the dim firelight. For the first time since his return, he looks at her with something close to anger. “You’re so sure that it was right?” he asks, voice grating against the questions she knows he’s repeated in every quiet moment for the better part of the last year. “That there wasn’t something else that could have been done? That it wasn’t-”

“Yes.” It’s her turn to interrupt. “And I always have been.”

He shakes his head, looking anywhere but at her, and admitting, “I don’t know if I ever will.”

“Then I will be sure for the both of us.” She’s so certain she understands what he’s telling her, so ready to refute his best efforts at self-immolation. “Jon, you saved so many…”

“And what if I did it to save one?” he spits out, and then she’s not certain of anything anymore.

Jon takes a step back like the revelation comes with a physical blow. He’s not wrong, the way she feels it in her chest.

“It was the last arrow Tyrion had in his quiver -- and he knew it would hit its mark,” he recalls. “Arya too, she warned me where Daenerys would go next. All they had to do was tell me--”

“Am I to feel guilty for that?” Sansa breathes through her shock. “I don't think that I will.”

“Gods, Sansa.” He’s practically hissing now, sucking cold air through his teeth in frustration. It draws her eyes to his mouth and she realizes he's stepping closer again.

“Why are you so stubborn? What is it that you hope to see in the truth of this? What is it that you hope to prove?”

“I don't--” Just moments ago, she had known her footing in this conversation, but it's shifting beneath her now and leaving her stumbling.

“Why won’t you see me for what I am? Why did you want me to come home?”

It won’t be until much later that she realizes he had called Winterfell “home.” At present, it’s the anger in his demands -- the way it assures the darkest parts of her mind that he’d rather be anywhere but here -- that finally pushes the tears onto her cheeks.

“I know who you are,” she reminds him, with a watery waver. “I have shielded you from the Lords of the North and the King in the South. I have rallied troops in your name.”

They have killed for each other, several times over, and the aftermath has turned her to ice and left him full of fiery resentment. The horrifying possibility dawns on her that there may be nothing here left to salvage. Despite her best efforts, despite the deepest truths of her heart -- and whatever lies within his own -- this could all end in ruin. But still, she’s determined to try.

“I have sent a flock of humiliating ravens, and gods, Jon, if you don't know by now?” Sansa starts to tremble, and that’s when his countenance shifts. His eyes flash wide and then soften, and he reaches out for her hands, as if to steady her. It only throws her further off balance.

“I have defended you to any and all that raise their concerns, and I will continue to do so, but I do not have the strength to defend you to yourself. Please, I just--”

“Sansa,” Jon whispers, taking a step closer and letting their foreheads fall together when her voice catches on a swallowed sob. “I'm sorry.”

They stand there for a long moment, until her frantic heartbeat slows to sync up with his. She can feel his breath when he exhales, it brushes against her lips, and she wonders if it feels anything like it would to kiss him.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and this time she's entirely not sure what he's apologizing for.

And she knows it’s impossible, but she tells him anyway. “I don’t want you to be sorry. I want you to stay.”

With that, she gives his hands one final squeeze and gathers her torch to leave quickly, before she can hear him say he won’t.

__________________________________

Bran arrives a few days later, with a smaller contingent than she expected. She’s almost relieved to see he still wears the strange, distant countenance of the Three-Eyed Raven. In a way, it suits him even better as king.

Sansa asks to meet with him the very first night, after their welcoming feast, eager to clear the air as quickly as possible.

“I suppose you know of our visitor.” Jon has kept himself scarce since their conversation in the crypts. It’s been easy enough to tell herself that it was because of the king’s impending arrival.

Bran nods solemnly, betraying nothing of his feelings about his exiled cousin’s return from beyond the Wall.

“I am the Queen in the North,” Sansa recites, though it sounds as if she’s reminding herself, “and I've issued a pardon in his name.”

“His name,” Bran echoes, with that far-away voice she’s still not entirely used to. “A name he longed to be rid of all his life. And now, under the weight of so many others, he longs for it back.”

Sansa realizes she had never considered writing any other on the desperate scraps of paper she sent north every moon.

“I don’t pretend to have any idea of what he longs for,” she fires back, almost without meaning to. She might imagine it, but she swears Bran’s eyes sharpen in her direction for just a second. Steeling herself again, she speaks before he has a chance.

“I don't want to fight to keep him here, but you should know that I will, if it comes to that.”

Her brother’s eyebrows knit together at the promise -- which, she realizes, wouldn’t take much to read as a threat -- and then the corners of his mouth quirk up slightly, like she's made a joke. She meets his eyes, not sure what to expect. A challenge? A reprimand? The milky white pupils that mean he’s seeing something else altogether?

But instead they just seem clear, in the strangest way. After a breath, Sansa realizes it’s the closest she’s seen to the little brother she remembers, the bold and brave Brandon Stark who dreamed of glory and titles and castles big enough for climbing.

“Sansa,” he says, “you have marched an army towards your nightmares and stood as the lone defender of our home. You married a monster in the godswood, exposed our family's most dangerous traitor, and faced Winterfell’s risen dead in the crypts -- and you laid them all to rest. There isn't a soul alive, sister, who would question the fierceness of the red wolf.”

Sansa presses her lips together at the moniker, but a cowardly part of her worries her brother is not yet finished.

“But?” she asks. Bran just looks at her placidly. “Father always said--”

But her brother just shakes his head. There will be no more. “The pack survives.”

Could it possibly be that easy? She almost believes it, coming from the mouth of a man who can see through time.

“Thank you, Bran.” She reaches out to clasp his hand, and when he squeezes back, she loses her carefully held control over the tears in the corners of her eyes.

“It's been a long and terrible journey, Sansa. But you’ve made it back home.”

When she first left Winterfell -- a naive girl of just three and ten who still believed in fairy tales -- she had four brothers. Today, there is just Bran. And even he will leave her again soon. “Alone,” she adds absently.

Four spaces left.

“Not alone,” her brother counters. “Not forever.”

As usual, she’s left scrambling to piece together his meaning, but before she can ask anything more, he’s waving to the door.

“I’m going to retire for the evening,” he says as Podrick wheels him away. “If you have another moment, I believe Brienne would like a word.”

Sansa just nods. “Of course. Goodnight, Bran.”

__________________________________

Brienne bows as she enters, but Sansa is already on her feet, ready to wrap her old friend and protector in a warm embrace. How little it’s taken to warm her spirits over this last week. Or rather, how much.

“Your Grace.”

“Please,” she dismisses with a wave of her hand, “just Sansa is fine in private.”

“Of course,” the knight demurs, though she looks almost nervous. “It's good to see you.”

Sansa motions to one of the empty chairs, but Brienne makes no move to sit. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, very well, thank you.” Brienne looks towards the door, and then shakes her head, as if to clear her thoughts. “I just, uh… There's someone I'd very much like for you to meet.”

Sansa freezes for a moment, but when a maid enters, carrying a bundle wrapped in blankets, her heart swoops in an entirely different direction.

Brienne takes the baby with a familiarity that tells Sansa almost everything she needs to know, and moving closer to get a better look at the child answers the remaining questions, though it does little to ease the surprise.

There’s a shock of white-blond hair, so similar to his mother's, but when he opens his eyes, Sansa sees a green that, for just a moment, makes her blood run cold -- until she glances up to see Brienne gazing at the babe with a kind of maternal tenderness that the Lannister family hasn't known for generations now.

“Queen Sansa, it is my honor to present Lord Selmy of House Tarth.”

“Selmy,” Sansa echoes, unable to think of anything else to say at the moment. “For Ser Barristan?”

“A worthy namesake,” Brienne answers, “and a believable one, as well. But privately, I must confess, the name is a blending of my father’s and his own. Selwyn and...Jaime.”

The confession hangs in the air, though it's less of a revelation than little Selmy himself, who lets out a pleased coo, as if he knows he’s being talked about.

Sansa can’t help but smile. “A fitting name for a handsome young lord.”

Brienne beams. “Would you like to hold him?”

She nods and settles back into her chair to receive the babe, who grins up at her instantly as she takes him in her arms.

“How…?” she begins, before stopping herself. “Forgive me, it’s none of my--”

“The night before we went to war,” Brienne answers. Sansa doesn’t need to ask which one. She remembers that night, remembers the way it felt like time stood still at Winterfell for just a few hours. She remembers the calm before the storm, and Theon’s smile in the firelight.

“I--” She pauses again, still gazing at the little lord in wonder, even as her heart aches a little. “If you don’t mind my asking, how do you find motherhood?”

A look of confusion passed over Brienne’s face, before it settles on a wary grin, and Sansa wonders if the question has been asked of her yet. Bran’s council is made up of many wise men, but they are just that, and she doubts if Brienne has much in the way of female companionship.

“I think it is the most frightened I have ever been,” she admits. “I am uncertain of what I'm doing, almost every moment of every day.”

“I'm sure that's not uncommon,” Sansa assures. “But Brienne, you have pledged so much of your life to protecting those who could not protect themselves. Isn't that the root of parenthood, after all?”

When the knight looks back at her, she notices the glint of tears in her eyes. “Well said, Your Grace. Sansa. And not untrue. I hope to serve my son as well as any other pledge. Better, even, if I allow myself to be selfish.”

“I only hope he hasn't caused you too much trouble,” Sansa notes, frowning briefly. The nobility of Kings Landing had been deeply shaken by the Dragon Queen’s vengeance, of course, but she knows all too well that they can always find the time to cast aspersions.

“Only while fitting my armor in the last few months,” Brienne says with a smile, though they both know that's not what she meant. “Your brother did me the honor of legitimizing him the day after he was born.”

The gesture doesn’t come as a surprise, but tugs at Sansa’s heart all the same.

“Bran’s a good man. A good king,” she notes, though admittedly, it's still strange to think of her little brother in either of those terms.

“I can't help but see it as a personal indulgence, and undeserved at that, but the king rationalized that he was already with me when I took my vow,” Brienne recalls. “Ser Podrick is fond of joking that makes Selmy a Kingsguard as well.”

“Well, and technically you haven't fathered any children,” Sansa observes, making an indulgent face as Selmy reaches out to grasp her finger in his tiny hand.

“King Bran said the same.” the knight admits with a chuckle. “Westeros is lucky indeed to have two wise rulers.”

“And what does Tyrion think of him?”

“I imagine he will have more interest once he's old enough for mischief and drinking,” Brienne jokes, though Sansa knows that young Selmy will undoubtedly be raised with his mother's honor. “Neither of us seems terribly unhappy to allow Tyrion to remain as the last of his Lannister line, and one day, when he’s old enough to understand, we’ll tell my son of his father.”

A blessing, Sansa thinks, even as she sees how it’s something Brienne is still coming to terms with. Young Selmy deserves a happier chapter in the new history books.

They all do, don’t they? She thinks of Jon's return, of Arya's unconventional nuptials, of the young lord nestled in her arms and his mother, who rescued her from her darkest days and kept her safe until they could find a world where these lives might be possible.

“It seems we’re all finding ways to bend the old rules, aren't we?”

Brienne nods, with a faint smile, before narrowing to a slightly more serious look. “There's more than one way to break a wheel, Sansa.”

“Yes, I suppose there is,” Sansa answers, a bit in awe, until Selmy interrupts the moment with an insistent gurgle.

She's thought of this, she admits to herself. Of a babe in her arms. As a queen, and as a woman, there's more than one reason to have imagined it.

Mercifully, no one has dared broach the subject with her yet, save for Arya, and even her warrior sister had been as gentle as Sansa can remember when she had asked. It was perhaps more worrisome than if she’d been brusque.

“Are you sure you could?” she had asked one night, after too much wine. “Are you sure you want to?”

“It’s what’s expected.” It wasn’t an answer, and they both knew it.

“If we had-- Bran could legitimize one of ours…”

“I won't do that to Gendry,” Sansa had already thought of that, too. “He only just got his family name, and if he's to be a father, he’ll want to be a proper one.”

Arya’s eyes had gone soft and grateful, yet still she looked ready to argue. Ever prepared, Sansa had a less-sentimental point at the ready.

“And besides, I don't think the northern lords will look kindly on the appearance that the King in the South had a hand in choosing our successor.”

“Probably true.”

“It must be mine,” she said, resolute and unsurprised. “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

“Sansa—”

“I must,” she repeated, and it was enough for Arya to drop it. “So I will.”

“I should get him back to his maid,” Brienne says, breaking her from her reverie as she stands to attention. “I don't want to take up any more of your time.”

“Nonsense.” Sansa finds she’s almost reluctant to have the babe taken from her arms. “I hope to visit with you both as much as possible during your stay.”

The knight nods happily. “It's very good to see you, Sansa,” she adds, “and to see you so well.”

“I owe my life to you, Ser Brienne.” Sansa stands as well, brushing out her skirts as she struggles to keep a rein on her sudden sentimentality. “My family, and my kingdom, owe you a great debt. And my pledge to you will stand in the North as a promise to House Tarth for generations to come.”

“We shall remain as grateful as we are loyal,” Brienne says with another small bow, minding the child on her shoulder as she turns for the door.

But something makes Sansa call out again.

“Brienne--” The knight turns back, and her son lets out a tiny sound of protest.

“Forgive me,” Sansa’s had the question just behind her teeth since seeing the reminder in young Selmy’s eyes, but still she stumbles, “but do you find it difficult… When you look at him, do you remember--”

As she asks the question, or struggles to, Sansa’s mind conjures an image, unbidden -- a boy with a mop of auburn curls and Tully blue eyes and a girl with dark braids, her grey eyes flecked with violet.

Brienne cannot see the picture, but nods solemnly, understanding all the same.

When it comes, her answer sharpens the focus on something in the back of Sansa’s mind. “It's not as if I'd forget, otherwise.”

Sansa nods at that, true enough. “And what a beautiful reminder.”

Brienne smiles again like the sun, and it leaves Sansa with a variety of hope that feels almost entirely new. Both of them possess hearts that deserved better than they got. But in this remade world, perhaps things are possible that never were before.

Not alone, Bran's words return to her. Not forever.

There is so much joy in her heart, it's almost impossible to understand why it is that she cries herself to sleep that night. Almost.

__________________________________

It snows lightly for the next few days, and then, at dusk, it is time.

Sansa busies herself as best she can in the hours leading up to the ceremony, aiding in last-minute preparations and tending to Arya -- who, unsurprisingly, needs far less help than she’s prepared to offer.

So she spends the extra time pacing her own chambers and aimlessly readying her appearance -- brushing her hair and re-polishing her crown and feeling like a cowardly child as she repeats to herself that this is to be a happy day.

Mercifully, only Jon calls on her and still, when he knocks, she nearly jumps out of her skin before remembering that it won’t be Theon, come to collect her.

“Come in.” She wonders if he can hear it in her voice, or if it’s written across her face. Or if he just knows, the way he knows to remind her of her always-forgotten gloves before they walk the battlements or knows to pass her an extra glass of mead when the cooks have over-salted the stew at supper.

“All right?” Jon asks the question carefully, and Sansa realizes that, despite her best efforts, she’s grown spoiled by his presence once again. He’s found his way back into her bones, or worse, revealed himself to have always been there, and she resents the implication that she’s weaker than she thought herself to be.

“I’ll be fine, Jon.” The ire worms into her words, and she snaps at him undeservedly. “I told you, I can hold myself together.”

“I don’t doubt that, Sansa,” he replies softly, ignoring the harsh tone. “You’re the strongest person I know. I only asked if you’ll be alright.”

She sighs, and lets the shame color her cheeks before the chilly night air can do the same. “Yes.” She is a fool, but it seems there’s nothing to be done about it. And there are more important matters at hand. “Thank you.”

He smiles, and she tries not to notice the way it crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He looks handsome, in Stark colors, with his hair freshly washed and curling around his face. She notices that, too. “I would escort you down myself, but--”

He can’t, and they both know it. She and Bran must be in position at the heart tree before the ceremony begins, and Jon will follow to present Arya, per the bride-to-be’s most ardent wishes.

“It’s fine,” Sansa assures him. “I’ll walk out with Pod and Brienne and Selmy.”

Jon grins again at the mention of the little lord, who has become a fast favorite with all of Winterfell, and the way it makes her stomach flip is enough to distract Sansa for a few good moments.

A happy day, she repeats to herself once more, willing it so.

The walk to the godswood feels like it takes ages, her feet treading heavy through the freshly fallen snow, but finally, Sansa takes her place beside her brother, setting her shoulders proudly at the crowns that top both of their heads. When her lungs start to feel like lead, and the lantern lights begin swimming in her periphery, she does her best to conjure the same icy visage she wore when she found herself alone at her own coronation.

It works well enough, until Bran -- the only person Arya had agreed to let perform the ceremony -- asks the question: “Who gives her?”

Sansa’s vision blurs, and she reaches her right hand out instinctively, mercifully finding Ghost at her side.

“Jon Snow, nephew of Ned Stark.” The conversation over Jon’s titles had been a short one. While there were no arguments about letting his Targaryen name go unmentioned, he had surprisingly balked at the notion of calling himself Arya’s brother.

“I won’t lie in front of the old gods,” he had said, not knowing how his words would send a burn of shame and something else entirely through Sansa’s veins.

It’s not jealousy she feels now, she’s sure of that. It’s more like agony. It’s the memory of hearing Ramsey declare himself the heir of her family home. The memory of having no one to stand beside her except for Theon, whom she couldn’t even look at without seeing Grey Wind’s head stitched to Robb’s lifeless body.

It’s the memory of the stupid, small hope she had that night, the flickering warmth of coming home, snuffed out so quickly by a bloodthirsty beast -- and the realization that Winterfell without Starks was no home at all.

She fists her hand in Ghost’s fur, perhaps too tight, but the wolf simply shuffles his paws in the snow beside her. He leans against her leg, giving her some of his weight to balance herself against, and she presses her eyes shut with gratitude. He is Jon in every way he can be, keeping her on her feet, loyal and true.

She doesn’t hear the beginning of the vows, doesn’t see her sister’s lovestruck face when her groom smiles down at her, doesn’t realize that Jon himself has come to stand beside her until she feels his hand cover her own on his wolf’s back, fingers tangling in the spaces where tufts of white fur poke through her grip.

After a moment, she releases Ghost and turns her hand upward, letting Jon take it properly, threading their gloved fingers together. It’s snowing harder, but it’s the warmest she’s felt all day. It may not be proper, with the Northern elite looking on, but she can’t find it within herself to care.

Things come back into focus as Gendry wraps his cloak around Arya, and Sansa allows a small, private smile at the gesture. It’s another compromise between the pair -- the luxurious fur appears black to an unknowing eye, but Arya had insisted that it actually be dark grey, a shade between both of their houses. And the clasp, handmade by the groom himself, is a Stark wolf’s head that fits neatly into the decorative antlers of the Baratheon stag.

There’s more than one way to break a wheel, Sansa thinks, tightening her fingers around Jon’s almost unconsciously. He squeezes back as the happy couple kisses, and her heart thuds in her chest, so hard she knows it won’t take much to break itself.

Suddenly, the ceremony is over, and the Northerners file out towards the Great Hall with joyous whoops and raucous good cheer. It’s nothing like her wedding day after all, and Sansa allows a deep, icy breath to fill her relieved lungs.

Arya and Gendry share a few words with Bran before making their way over to Sansa and Jon. It’s hard not to mirror their blissful, beaming faces, and the rest of Sansa’s dread blows away in the frosty air.

“Congratulations,” she says with a genuine smile, not missing the way Arya’s eyes flick down to her and Jon’s still-clasped hands.

“Thank you, Sansa,” her sister answers simply, and she understands it’s for more than her well wishes.

Podrick wheels Bran out behind the newlyweds, and then it’s just the two of them and the old gods, left with a glance back from her brother the king that she can’t even begin to decipher.

“Thank you, for that,” she says to the empty godswood, to the path he walked her sister down. Still clutching at his hand, she knows Jon will be able to follow her. “For being here, for…”

For holding me together, she finishes silently.

“It looked like you were hoping maybe the snow would sweep you away,” he says just as softly. That's exactly what it was -- the rightness floods her vision as she ducks her head in a nod.

“I’ve grown familiar with the feeling,” Jon admits and only when Sansa allows herself to picture him back beyond the Wall, alone again, do her traitorous tears begin to fall.

“Sansa...”

“It’s just been so lovely having everyone here,” she sobs, feeling childish in her misery, especially on such a happy day. “And soon you’re all going to leave again.”

Winterfell without Starks is no home at all.

Jon tugs at their entwined fingers, spinning her to face him, and lifts his free hand to brush away the tear tracks on her cheeks.

“I'll stay.”

They’re the words she’s been longing to hear, but Sansa doesn’t trust them. Not now, not after everything that’s happened today. It’s sentimentality that’s shaping his offer, she worries, not true emotion.

“Don't do that,” she says, with a shake of her head that makes his hands drop away. “Don't do it just for me.”

“Why not?” he asks. “You're my queen. You're my family. What better reason could I ask for?”

“You know there’s a better one,” she says bitterly. “I won't order you. I just wish you… I wish you wanted to.”

“You think I don't…?” His brow furrows in disbelief. “Gods, Sansa, that's not any of it.”

She waits, because to guess would mean exposing the last piece of herself that’s left to break. She can’t risk it, not even for Jon. She needs to hear him say it.

“You know I’d give you anything you wanted,” he tells her, low and sincere. “But the way I feel, here with you, with our family, it’s bliss and it’s agony at the same time. Because I know I don't deserve it.”

“The world is a cruel place, Jon,” Sansa answers, crossing her arms as protection against the cold and her own insecurities. “So few actually get what they deserve. And I've seen too many smiles on the faces of evil men. I’m not sure I actually believe that the gods care if we suffer or revel in the time we've been given.”

He looks at her, for a long moment, and then he nods.

“Aye, maybe you’re right.” They’re so close. If he can let himself take one more step, perhaps they can move forward together. But still, Sansa is afraid to hope.

“I think Arya’s right about taking what we want,” she offers, channeling her brave little sister, who found the love she wanted, and fought to keep it. “We survived. We’re alive, for however long the seven allow.”

“You’re right about that, too.” Nobody knows that better than him.

Jon raises his hands to her face again, but this time he’s removed his gloves. She nearly swoons at the warmth of his palms against her cheeks, the way the pads of his fingers trace at her earlobes and her neck. Their eyes meet, and it’s almost enough to make her believe.

“So, what do you want, Jon?” Tell me, her heart whispers. Please just say it.

“I want you to be happy.” He presses his forehead to hers as the snow falls harder around them, and when her traitorous eyelids slip shut for just a blissful second, she feels him lean up to drop a kiss on each one, then her nose and cheeks in succession. “You deserve it, Sansa, all the joy the world has to offer.”

“You can give it to me, Jon,” she pleads, opening her eyes once more to show him everything she has left to offer, everything she has to lose. “Please. We can have it together.”

The moment that follows feels agonizingly slow, but finally, he nods, eyes brimming with the emotion she’d been too afraid to hope for. Sansa gasps when she sees it, and he catches the sound as he presses his lips to her own.

She’s never known a kiss like this one. It’s ice and fire together where they touch, bliss and heat and home and...

Joy. Days ago, she hadn't even been able to remember what the feeling was called, but it finds her now, wrapped in his arms. It finds them as he whispers that he loves her, before taking her lips once again.

It finds them in Great Hall, as they join the feast to celebrate her sister and her new brother-in-law. It finds them in front of the heart tree again, not many moons later. It finds them in her chambers and then in her birthing bed; it finds them as the rooms of the Great Keep are filled once again with the sounds of family.

It finds them in the glass gardens, when Queen Sansa is dragged away by her husband for a much-needed respite from the day’s duties, and in the library, as a new generation of maesters do their best to school a new generation of unruly Starks, and in the sparring yard, as Jon proudly leads young swordsmen (and women) in their first practice parries.

It finds them in smiles and sighs, in snow and storms and spring and summer. Joy finds Winterfell once again, and mercifully, it stays.

#first mate fic #jonsa #jonsa fic #game of thrones #jon x sansa #jon snow #sansa stark #sansa stark fic

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