A Song of Ash and Smoke | a continuation of A Song of Ice and Fire

𝐉𝐨𝐧

"The Northmen won't stand for this," Jon Snow muttered, pouring himself a cup of wine. It was sweeter than he was used to North of the Wall, but far better than the Dornish swill they kept down south.

"There must always be a Stark in Winterfell," his sister insisted. "Bran's children are Starks."

She was pacing her chambers, arms crossed defiantly. The Queen in the North's reputation preceded her as cold, calculative, but what Jon saw now was the same he'd seen since he was a boy – a stubborn highborn girl determined to have her way. He didn't doubt Sansa's wit or cunning, nor her sense of justice or honor. But he'd known Sansa her whole life. It was hard to pry an idea from her hands once she'd had it.

"So, ward one," Jon argued. "Find one and make it so."

Sansa whirled around to face him, her expression petulant. "It's not that easy, and it's not the same."

"It'll be easier than trying to explain to that lot of Northmen why you're bringing a foreign southerner to be their ruler." Jon rolled his eyes. Sansa herself had made this argument to him once, a lifetime ago.

"The Northmen will accept it if I tell them to accept it," Sansa said flatly, and Jon knew it was the end of the discussion.

Sipping his wine, he sat back into a plush cushion. "Nervous for your wedding?"

Sansa sat next to him, her shoulders slumped, and face defeated. "A part of myself wonders why I'm really doing this."

Jon patted her back comfortingly and poured her a cup of wine. She accepted it gratefully, a dim shadow of a smile on her face, before continuing. "I love him, I know I do, but weddings aren't about love. At least none of mine ever were. And I can't have babies, thanks to Ramsay."

Ramsay Bolton. A name Jon had near forgotten. He was sure it lived forever with Sansa, seeing as she had to endure that monster in marriage.

"How do you know?" Jon asked.

Sansa slid a hand over her belly. "You don't know all that he did."

Jon nodded briefly. "Are you ever going to tell me?"

Sansa looked down at her hand and sighed. "Sometimes he slipped even a bit beyond his own control, I'm afraid. Not that he was much better when he was minding himself."

"Ramsay is gone," Jon said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Marry for love. People rarely ever do. You've done so many other extraordinary things in your life, do this too."

After he left Sansa's chambers, Jon walked idly through the halls of Winterfell. He came back here, to this castle, every so often. Sometimes at his sister's request, sometimes of his own volition. Before he knew it, he was down in the crypts, staring at the statue of the man who raised him. He wondered what Lord Eddard Stark would think of the way life was now. Even Jon did not know what to think. His whole childhood he dreamed of nothing more than being honorable and true. Then he spent years learning what honor cost, and who paid the most.

Voices scattered above him, from the yard. Riders.

A long whine came from behind Jon and he smiled, turning to pet the enormous white direwolf that padded out of the shadows. Jon rubbed the stump where the wolf's right ear used to be. Ghost, even after all these years was still a loyal old boy. Where the beast was once muscular, there were bones and sagging skin with brittle fur. Still, he was imposing with his height and startling red eyes. After one last look at Lord Eddard's statue, Jon turned away and together they walked up to the yard to see all the fuss.

A young squire was awkwardly slipping off a sleek black mare when Jon came outside, his hands trembling as he took in the Freed folk surrounding him. It seemed even over a decade since the Great War, babes were still nursed to sleep with tales of the bloodthirsty wildlings. Yet here was Sansa, marrying one, a first for any noble in Westeros, and the people were still afraid. The squire stepped forward, towards the armored guards who awaited him.