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Chapter Text

Jon sat, staring at the scroll that had arrived this morning.

It was ridiculous, really. He’d stared down monsters like Ramsay Bolton. The Night King. Drogon.

And yet each time he received a raven from Sansa, he held his breath a little longer and his heart beat a bit quicker, because one of these days, he knew what it would say, that it wouldn’t always be merely invitations to feasts and balls and celebrations, that someday instead it would announce that she had granted someone her hand, someone who was certainly unworthy of her, and that she had accepted her duty even if it cost her own freedom or happiness.

He didn’t stop at Castle Black all that often—only when he needed supplies, really, or he brought word from the free folk. He’d spend a few days allowing his horse to rest and Ghost to hunt this side of the Wall, and then he would go back about his ranging, preferring the solitude there instead of reminders of daggers in the dark and his own flaws and failures. He never tired of how his mind would quiet on the open plains and in the dense forests, how there no one looked at him strangely, not the falcons in the sky or the weeping red eyes of the weirwoods.

Nearly every time he was drawn back, there would be a letter waiting from Sansa. Sometimes he would scrawl a response, and other times he would leave no words for her at all—what was there to say in reply to her latest on the day-to-day matters of Winterfell, of the comings and goings of bannermen he did not know and tidings from the rest of the realm that lay leagues away? Or how many more descriptions of free folk villages and frozen waterfalls and mountain ranges did she wish to hear? They were fortunate to live now in a time of peace, free of winter’s clutches, and he believed no news was good news.

Jon had turned down all her invitations so far. There had been missives for feasts to welcome lords and ladies to Winterfell with many traveling through the Seven Kingdoms now that war was done and dangers had been banished, celebrations of namedays and holidays, and all manner of other special occasions. He did not see what he had to contribute, why he should be in attendance for any of them, or how he could even think he had the audacity to receive that kind of honor.

None of them required his presence. No one would otherwise miss him filling a seat at the table on the dais or even if he took a bench in the back corner of the Great Hall. So he simply set the scrolls aside, allowing them to accumulate dust until his return visit, when he’d inevitably acquire another to add to the pile.

But this one… this one was different.

He skimmed over Sansa’s words all through a blind rage, not even sure how his brain made sense of them, blurring together each loop and line of Sansa’s neat, proper handwriting. He was not certain he did, truly, his eyes catching only on phrases, and in his fury he attempted to read it again and again, but his comprehension continued to fail him, his ire only growing. He breathed deep, as he had once when he had pulled himself from an icy lake, clinging to life, and as he had before that, sucking air back into his lungs after they’d gone still and cold, and forced himself to read line by line.

Daario Naharis.

The Prince of Meereen.

Embarking on a tour of the Seven Kingdoms…

Beginning with the North…

Visiting Winterfell to pay his respects to the Queen in the North and to serve witness to her beauty and grace…

A chance if you wish to put in a word for the free folk and the Night’s Watch…

Sansa always included that last bit in there, as though that duty might sway him, and it nearly did many a time. Sometimes he felt that old guilt, a vestige from long ago, when he saw those who still sought refuge at Castle Black and its other posts, not wishing to leave the Wall whether for lack of alternative or habit, and how they might benefit from the offer of lands further south or at least new blood of others who also were in search of their place in the world to swell their ranks.

He had sworn himself away from all that, though. He possessed nothing, belonged to no one now. He was not even a true Stark, not the lord commander or a king, not even a man of the Watch or of the North, not anymore. He only possessed a bastard name that was still better than if he’d adopted the one that could have been his by law. Those were the things he told himself, anyway, each time as he wrote his regrets or did not bother to decline at all.

This, though… this… this he could not abide.

He rose and readied to ride for Winterfell at once.

Chapter Text

Winterfell had remained the same.

Jon didn’t know what he had expected—something different, maybe, for the ramparts to be rebuilt in the style of the south after the destruction of the Long Night, for its intricacies and details worn by time to have been smoothed over, leaving it indistinct and austere, for the melted snow to have revealed things that were better left buried.

Yet it all looked as he had hoped, familiar in a way he could feel in his bones, and he guarded himself against slipping into nostalgia with the reminder of why he was here. This belongs to the Starks. No one else. It always has. It always should.

The winter town too had looked fuller as he passed through it on his ride in, more prosperous than when he’d left even as winter had released the North from its grip, with merchants filling its streets and a growing expanse of small houses made of log and stone, evident proof Sansa could do well on her own, as he had always known. She didn’t need this and the entanglement it would bring with it.

The lively courtyard within the gates was further confirmation of Winterfell thriving. Wagonloads of grain cut across his path, along with carts laden with ironworks of every sort. Swords sang in the training yard as boys and girls alike crossed them, groups of sentinels swapped guard on the walls, and barrels of wine and ale bobbed in the crowds, carried up from the cellars.

All the bustle continued on around him without notice or so much as any interruption at all, Winterfell’s inhabitants busy going about their days until a hush dulled the conversations. Gradually it built back into a murmur, one repeated over and over again as they took part in a moment of deference to their queen, bowing and uttering whispers of “Your Grace,” as Sansa descended the staircase and came to stand in front of Jon.

It would have been easier if they had hated him, if they’d accused him of betrayal, called him names, spat at his feet as some of them had dared to direct at Daenerys herself. But their smiles, their joy, as recognition dawned once they saw he and Sansa stand opposite one another spread even more rapidly than their genuflections had, and the elation that followed almost made up for the emptiness of Bran and Arya’s absences Jon had felt with an acute pang when he did not see theirs among the faces gathered.

But there would be time to ask after that late. For now, Sansa commanded his entire attention, her red hair bright as ever against the dark stone and grey sky, clad in a dress of flowing layers of sky blue that marked a departure from the usual leather and wool to which he’d become accustomed.

Seeing her and Winterfell again after the time away seemed to have knocked his breath from his lungs, his voice gravelly from that and disuse when he spoke. “Sansa. Your Grace.”

He hesitated, confused about the proper etiquette—as a man of the Night’s Watch, he would have sunk to the ground to honor the Queen in the North, yet the free folk did not kneel. And then again this was Sansa, a Stark, his kin, the person with whom he’d taken back their home—in that case, with such shared familiarity, he should at least offer her a handshake of some sort. Once he would have greeted her with an embrace, but he was not certain that would be welcomed after all this time, so instead he settled on a strange contorted movement that combined all three of his options before he straightened again.

Sansa smoothed it over with a hug, and he needn’t to have worried at all with the way she fit in his arms and against his chest. “Jon. It’s good to see you.”

“You look… well.” Clearly his way with words was not much better than his knowledge of conventions.

She smiled at that, though, and said, “As do you.”

Sansa had always been ever polite—there was no way he looked anything more than utterly disheveled after he’d made haste from the Wall.

His ragged appearance didn’t seem to deter her either as she took his arm. “Come, I’ve arranged for tea and scones.”

He wanted to decline, to insist that he should unsaddle his horse, find his chambers after that, and perhaps bathe to be presentable first, but after all, this was why he had come, and every moment he delayed might be one too late. It would not do well to speak openly of such matters anyway, so he trailed behind her as they climbed the stairs.

Sansa made conversation as they went, pointing out the surrounding greenery starting to bloom, the shimmering panels atop the glass gardens they could see in the distance, the repaired moat and outer walls.

Now that Jon looked from this vantage point, and now that he was no longer stricken by the appearance of Winterfell, he saw bright colors mixed in among the blacks and greys in the courtyard. His heart sank when he realized they bore no sigils either, or not any that he recognized, anyway. He had wanted to beat their retinue there—apparently the winds crossing the Narrow Sea had been kind and the currents up the White Knife even kinder still—and his tarrying beyond the Wall had cost him. Clearly the contingent from Essos had already arrived a few days past, mingling with the rest of the crowds and reclining with the air of comfortable, entrenched guests rather than newcomers finding their way, and this Tyroshi, wherever he lurked, was probably already swaggering around like he owned all the North.

“And what of you?”

He paused a beat too long, hoping Sansa hadn’t noticed his murderous expression or asked after the thoughts that had accompanied it. “Hm?”

She smiled at him again, not deterred by his lapse. “The Wall. The free folk. I had hoped you might bring news. We consider them part of the North now, too.”

It was easier than he thought it’d be once he started, and soon Jon found himself telling her all about the Milkwater and the sprawling village that had sprung up in the shadow of the Fist of the First Men, the forging treaties between the Nightrunners and the Hornfoots, how the castle at Long Barrow had been rebuilt and garrisoned now by all women as they settled in her solar outside her chambers.

“I don’t often have reason to use this space,” she admitted, sitting down in a chair across from him and pouring the tea that had been left on the table, still steaming.

He didn’t know what that meant—perhaps he’d been wrong, that she had taken no Daario, no lovers into her rooms. Though maybe that meant little at all, since in that case it wasn’t likely she would entertain them here in that kind of way anyway, suggested a traitorous part in the back of his mind. The table did not look particularly inviting for such amorous activities, nor the sewing chair by the hearth especially comfortable.

Jon cleared his throat, but his voice still seemed deeper than he intended when he said, “It seems the North thrives. How can you lack for visitors?”

“It does,” she said. “And I don’t. But I usually receive any visitors in the Great Hall.”

“I always did enjoy it there, if you’d prefer.” He tried to force a grin, but he was certain it came across as more of a grimace. “I’m as familiar with the other side of the hall as I am up on the dais there, even more so, in fact.”

“No. No, I like this just fine.” She glanced down and took a sip of her tea. “I meant… it’s a place I wouldn’t think to permit most. Only those like… family. And you’re the first I’ve seen since we left that dock.”

He understood, then. “Have you spoken to them?”

“Sometimes I go out to the heart tree and talk. Bran listens, I know he does. I don’t know how. But I can feel him there, sometimes. Or maybe it’s just me being silly.” She laughed at herself, and his heart swelled. It had never faded, the way it made him feel to see her happiness in any way it existed, whatever the reason, however fleeting, not after the way she’d come to him at the Wall, or trembled beside him the night before they reclaimed Winterfell, or when he’d come back from Dragonstone, and he’d questioned each time if he’d ever see her look like that again.

“And Arya?”

She shook her head. “Not more than a few letters here and there. They don’t say much in the way of whereabouts, and I’m never sure how long it’s taken them to reach us.”

“I’m sure she’s all right. Probably simply too busy enjoying her adventures to spare a moment.”

“She always was that way,” Sansa said, wistful.

He wished there was another way he could ease her worry, but it was good, that was good, to remind her of their family, their pack, and how they could not risk to lose one another again, whether in the dangers of distance separating them or of threats encroaching from beyond their borders.

“He’s late,” Sansa said, her lips flitting into a grin.

Jon looked to the door and back to himself. He was the only he here, with Lady Brienne outside the door, who he’d passed with a nod and a handshake far more successful than the one he had attempted with Sansa as they entered the room. “Sorry?”

“Daario. He’s probably out exploring the wolfswood,” she said with a wave. Sansa prided herself on punctuality and expected the same of others; there were few greater sins in her eyes than to waste the valuable time of another, when after all they had so little of it.

Jon narrowed his eyes in suspicion at her casual dismissal of his tardiness. “Do you… have need of him?”

“I thought he might help with the planning,” she said, biting into her scone.

“The planning? For what?”

The filling must have been tart with the way Sansa’s lips puckered. “The feast.”

His felt his heart sink for the second time that day, and his empty stomach curdled, finding the prospect of consuming his own scone entirely unappetizing despite the hunger he incurred on his long ride fueled only by hard bread and harder cheese. Had he truly been too late? Had arrangements already been made? It was soon to set a betrothal, but not entirely unheard of, and it would make sense why he had been summoned here when he had never before returned home in the past—

“Your welcome home feast.”

His heart sped for reasons altogether different now. The North gathered, staring at him. Those who’d once responded to his calls for banners demanding answers. Or maybe even worse, them toasting him, chanting his name the way they had when they named him king, applauding him when he deserved their disdain instead. “Oh—I, uh, there’s no need. I don’t…”

“Of course you do. It’s an occasion for celebration. We still have so few of those,” she said airily.

He cleared his throat. It would mean his own suffering, certainly, but in that case, he wouldn’t want to be even more of a disappointment to the North. “All right. But I don’t know what kind of details planning for a feast entails.”

“That was what I hoped Daario might be of help with,” she smirked. “He has a brilliant mind for debauchery.”

“You speak of him as though you know him,” Jon said. It was a shrewd point, after all. Even if they had exchanged words by raven prior, they could not have had more than a sennight already to become acquainted with one another.

“He’s not a difficult man to get to know,” Sansa shrugged. “He wears his emotion on his sleeve. There is no question of who he is or what he wants. I find it quite refreshing, truly.”

“So what is it he wants?”

A blush colored her cheeks. “I wrote you of it. To forge ties with Westeros. To learn all he can of the North. To speak with you, too, if you are willing.”

“You know that’s not all that brings him here,” Jon said harshly. He didn’t care if he sounded desperate or deranged; he needed her to understand with the utmost urgency.

“And you know that because…?”

Jon stuttered. “Because—well—what things do all men want?”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Well, thank you for your concern. But I have spent many a moon here entertaining such demands, so I have found I am quite capable of discerning someone’s intentions. Do you think I’ve learned nothing?”

“Sansa. I’m sure he is… handsome.” He didn’t really know if that was true. Daenerys had never spoken of his looks, only that she had entrusted Meereen to Daario, not that she seemed to have much more than a thought to spare for that. And then there had been some other things, things that she spoke of that he hadn’t quite known existed, things she had evidently learned of from him that she suggested they might do to one another that sounded… wanton at best. “But I implore you to use caution.”

“Do you… know of him?” Jon didn’t miss the way Sansa avoided mentioning Daenerys, the way she always had, with pursed lips, a terse tone, and eyes icy.

He and Daenerys had not spoken of much in truth, not beyond the need for politics and matters of imminent concern anyway, but he had not missed the way she reminisced on the triumphs she won in Essos, Daario included. He should have known then, when her mention of Daario made no flit of jealousy twinge in his gut, yet he’d convinced himself he needed her help, and in order to have her she evidently had needed more than promises of fealty, more of him, to convince herself they shared some measure of fate, destiny intertwined.

“Not a lot.” Jon also took care to choose his words judiciously. “Only that she granted him control when she left for Westeros.”

“Well, perhaps to start with. After, the people chose him,” Sansa said, the awe evident in her words making him clench his teeth.

“Did they? What other option did they have?” he said, though he knew too what it felt like to be chosen, to be baseborn and lifted up when you thought it never possible, to earn something on merit and not because of a name or wealth or the infliction of subjugation.

“They did,” she said. “After Daenerys left, Daario and his Second Sons helped keep the peace. They made sure there was food and clean water when they were stricken with the pale mare. When Yunkai and Astapor rose again and came to raid Meereen, they pushed them back and defeated them in the field.”

Jon lifted an eyebrow. “And you believe all that?”

“What reason would I have not to?” She swept her hand across the table in an open gesture. “It’s not so different from what we endured here, fighting a war to protect our people, and it’s certainly more credible than waging one against ice monsters.”

“Have you thought he might wish to sow discontent here in Westeros?” He had been acquainted with enough soldiers—had been one himself—to know that for some that thirst for death, that drive to slaughter on one hand and survive on the other and the desire for the macabre thrill that came with it never went away, even if they were given a fancy crown and a throne.

“Let him, if he wishes,” Sansa swept her hand across the table. “He will find himself sorely outnumbered, not to mention lacking in loyalty.”

He could not disagree with that. He hadn’t thought much on it at the time, but Daenerys had told him once Daario had reminded her of what it was to be a woman, not just a queen, what it meant to be loved, that he had awoken something in her. Jon wondered if it was the same for Sansa now, if this sellsword stole her breath and made her heart quicken and returned her to the fairytales she’d loved as a child. And, if so, did she not deserve that? Didn’t she deserve her heart to be full? Then why did he seem to hate that idea so much?

“I’m sorry. I… I’ll understand if you find my presence unwelcome.”

“You’re family,” Sansa said, her voice softer than he deserved. “You’re always welcome.”

“Well, in any case, we shouldn’t squabble like siblings, when we aren’t,” he said firmly.

“Still cousins, though,” Sansa said, delicately gathering together all the crumbs on her plate, gaze averted.

“Men of the Night’s Watch have no family,” he said. It might have been more habit than truth these days, but that still died hard.

“Then what does that leave us?”

“We can be… friends,” Jon settled on at last. “Friends are all right.”

“Well, friends, then.” She smiled, and he wondered how winter’s snows and icy clutches had managed to endure in the face of that warmth. “And friends are honored with feasts, too.”

“I’ll stay for the feast,” he decided. “I’ll even stay to placate the northern lords, to greet Lord Naharis myself, if I have to.”

“And then?”

“And then I’ll return to my duty.”

Sansa cast her eyes toward the window, even though there was nothing to see there but clouds and sky and the tops of the trees in the godswood. “Yes. So must we all.”

Chapter Text

Jon had not come to Winterfell for feasts, but he could not argue against discussion of diplomacy, so when Sansa issued a call to hold court in the Great Hall the following afternoon, he forced himself to dress and go, knowing very well what—or whom, rather—he might see there.

And see Daario Naharis he did, though he thought it impossible for anyone to have missed him among the rest of the crowd dressed primarily in the leathers and furs of the North. Even Maester Aemon would notice him in that, Jon thought with a wicked spike of spite.

The rest of the hall was not blind to the self-proclaimed Prince of Meereen either, heads turning as he strode towards the front. His brightly colored clothes—hues of blue and yellow and green today—were ironically almost blinding themselves set against the contrast of the mahogany wood and dark stone that dominated the hall’s interior. Jon looked down at his own faded blacks and tugged the cloak Sansa had made him more fiercely around himself. Jon might have been drably dressed, but at least he was practical and didn’t feel the need to strut about like a peacock. This man wouldn’t last a day if winter returned, though his garments would certainly serve to help search parties locate him if he did indeed end up lost or buried in the snows.

Regardless of how Sansa had vouched for his courage, capability, and sense of humor, Jon suspected vanity would be Daario’s downfall. Jon thought the buttons on his doublet alone could have fetched an amount to purchase enough grain to see them through the next winter, and he wore jewelry on top of all that, as if he could possibly need more to accent the rest: a gold chain around his neck, thick bands of bracelets embedded with stones running up his arms, several studs shining on each ear. And, even more distastefully, Jon noted the vulgar daggers he wore on either side of his hips, fashioned with hilts of gleaming wanton women.

Jon shouldn’t have been surprised to see him draw so much interes, if he was honest with himself. This might have been the first time Jon himself laid eyes on Daario Naharis, but he’d already heard plenty.

Jon had spent his morning revisiting Winterfell, wandering through the Great Keep to the courtyard to the kitchens. Everywhere he went it seemed as though they could not stop talking about the Tyroshi, northerners and visitors alike.

First, there were the sentinels he had passed up on the ramparts. They teased each other about how once they had wished for boredom, and now that that wish had come true, the lack of wildlings, white walkers, or other dangers to look out for made time pass even slowly than ever. The other replied that watches in Meereen must have seemed twice as long if Daario Naharis and his men told it true, now that violence had been vanquished from its streets and any divisions in status having been erased, at least for the time being.

A couple of minor lords Jon followed over the bridge connecting the Bell Tower to the rookery repeated much of the same, speculating of how the success of the North and Meereen showed how the same hopes could be held for areas in the south that had been ravaged by years of war and instability of rule. Apparently Meereen had experienced unprecedented prosperity in the void Daenerys left behind with servitude no longer needed to bolster its economy, replaced by a flourishing of artists, craftspeople, and those who were finally provided opportunities to practice their training in healing, accounting, and teaching.

Daario’s own men spoke well of him as well, even in his absence as they trained in the courtyard, discussing their captain with the kind of jesting, ease, and respect Jon had learned came with competent leadership at the Wall. While Jon could not verify any of what he had eavesdropped on as the truth, he knew full well that word of failure and cruelty spread quicker than that of success and kindness, so he had to accept it seemed that Daario Naharis had proven himself a capable enough commander after all, probably one far more natural at it than Jon had ever been.

Being a good leader wasn’t all it took to make a good man though, so Jon sat poised on the edge of his seat to catch every word he uttered in this hall or keep track of every person with whom he spoke.

Daario was tall, so tall that he was of a height where Jon could see him over all those standing who filled the hall from where he lingered in the back, but the grace and swiftness with which he folded his frame to kneel before Sansa made him look anything but foolish.

“You may rise.”

All across the North on their travels and even back in Winterfell once they returned, Jon had watched Sansa turn down interest, spurning suitors, and had seen the way she kept herself guarded, how she did not trust openly for good reason. He saw none of that perfunctory coolness with this man now, and he wondered if she truly was taken with his bravado and brashness, if she was curious to know what it would be like to kiss a man like that, someone so far from the polished princes of her youth and the lords long in the tooth who’d turned an eye toward her afterward, and he shoved the images out of mind.

When he spoke, Daario’s booming voice filled the hall, the sound of it rich and smooth. “I pray you have not tired of me, Your Magnificence.”

“Of course not. It’s always a pleasure to see you,” Sansa said. Jon wondered if he imagined the pink tinging her cheeks or if it was the result of the brisk air let in the open door from outside or something more.

“That is the gift I most enjoy giving,” Daario winked, and while Jon had little in the way expectations for the man, he could scarcely believe his ears. “Though you must forgive me, since I have brought other, more material things instead today, I must confess.”

Sansa seemed to pay his brazen comment no heed, laughing instead of condemning this breach of decorum. “There’s no need for apologies. Your presents never disappoint.”

Jon had heard of this, too. The sewing circle of ladies taking up an alcove of the keep that he had crept by gossiped of how Daario brought along all sorts of extravagant gifts from Essos, scarves of silk and bolts of lace, sweet perfumes and exotic oils meant to scent and slicken the skin and to serve what other purposes, Jon didn’t know or want to know.

And in the kitchens, he gathered that there was even more to please not only the sense of smell but also the tastes: spices and seeds of unique fruits and vegetables from across Essos, wine in hues of red, green, and amber and pastries baked with rich honey, and bananas and whole, fresh oranges and lemons. Sansa had been beyond thrilled with that last bit—lemons had been in precious short supply with winter and Jon knew she wasn’t the type to waste valuable coin on luxuries for herself while in the rest of the North people went hungry.

It seemed to be the jewelry that had set about the most tittering in Winterfell, though. He had caught mentions of the treasure trove from the high-born ladies and the serving girls and even some of the landed knights and men hauling sacks of grain and barrels of ale out of the storerooms for that evening’s meal. There appeared to be no end to the gold bracelets, strands of pearls and moonstones, copper rings and charms fashioned out of beaten bronze, all adorned with gemstones of ruby, emerald, and more, names Jon had never even heard of for precious stones, variations of what he would have simply called pink and purple and yellow.

Daario slipped another such frippery from his pocket now, laying it so it spread across his large hand, the chain and pendant spanning the width of it. The diamonds lining its silver length glittered in the dim light of the hall, but even their brilliance was dwarfed by the sapphire attached to the end.

“To match your eyes,” he said, looking up at her from beneath long lashes. Jon could have rolled his eyes at such folly had he not been here to represent the interests of the Night’s Watch and the free folk and felt that as such he ought to maintain some semblance of dignity. “Their beauty is renown even across the Narrow Sea.”

Sansa gathered her hair, draping it over one shoulder, and beckoned Daario up to the dais. “If you would be so kind?”

Jon could better see Daario like this as he moved around the throne to put the necklace on her. He had long hair, longer than Jon’s own even, and he wore it in a style that involved the kinds of intricacies Jon had never been capable of weaving into his own, not that he ever would have spent time on such things, nor was there any point when there was no one to lay eyes on him in the lands beyond the Wall other than Ghost or hawks in the sky and the rare unfortunate rabbit he hunted. The muscles of his forearms stood out, and there was also the notch of a scar visible where the fabric dipped low on his chest. Arrow, Jon guessed, an old wound healed many times over. Of course that, along with a jagged line that appeared to be from the tip of a blade beside his brow, somehow only served to make the man more handsome.

Daario clasped it behind her neck and stepped back around to admire—his gift or Sansa, Jon didn’t know.

“Thank you.” Sansa’s responding smile was dazzling, even brighter than the jewels now adorning her neck.

Unfortunately Jon wasn’t the only one who noticed that either. “You look radiant, Your Grace,” Daario said. If his voice had been deep before, it was utterly velvet now.

“I fear you are spending all your good graces on me so soon,” she said, reaching up to glide her fingertips over the surface of the oval sapphire. “What will be left for the rest of Westeros?”

“I suspect your uncle Lord Tully in the Riverlands and whichever distant Lannister cousin now rules in Casterly Rock will have no need for silk dresses or lacy underthings,” Daario shrugged.

Sansa giggled, the sound sweet and light but almost jarring to Jon’s ears. “No, I suppose not. But I don’t wish to steal from what might be theirs if they do, and perhaps their ladies might think differently.”

“There will be fineries aplenty for them to enjoy as well,” Daario said, and while Jon could not see his expression, he could hear the hunger there. “There’s only one queen, though.”

Jon understood then, what this was all about. Daario loved a queen, he knew, but as far as he cared, that queen could probably be anyone, so long as she wore a crown, ruled lands in her name, and sat a throne. Any woman would suffice, a pretty one only an added benefit on top. She did not have to be Sansa, necessarily—how could he love Sansa, after knowing her for the entirety of a week?

Well, of course Jon knew how; he couldn’t begrudge the sellsword that, and that was certainly how many of the songs and tales would have it, love at first sight and all. But that didn’t change the fact that he didn’t know Sansa herself, that Daario didn’t know how fiercely Sansa fought for her people or to reclaim their home. There was no way that Daario could know how she slowly started to share more of herself with someone over time, how she warmed once she became accustomed to them. He could not possibly have discovered how Sansa enjoyed the challenge of figuring out all someone’s little likes and quirks, or how she would then use that knowledge to her advantage, surprises appearing in the form of favorite foods at breakfast or dinner or gifts she’d fashioned with her own hands.

Daario only wanted what he saw now—a strong, beautiful woman, a pretty face to represent the North, someone who looked as though she had prospered in the toughest of circumstances without so much as jarring a hair out of place.

Maybe worst of all, Jon saw himself in him. He understood the allure of the life of a soldier, of worrying over nothing but fighting, responsible for solely yourself and staying alive. There was joy in not shouldering the responsibility of ruling, in not concerning one’s self with politics, in letting someone else bother with that trouble. That was not what Sansa wanted, though, and not the kind of man she deserved.

How would you know what she wants? Jon chastised himself. Whoever it was, it certainly was not him.

Sansa blushed even more thoroughly at his invocation of her title, Jon certain of it this time. “Thank you once more, Lord—”

“Daario. As I've told you before, I prefer simply Daario. You do me enough honor with that alone.”

“Thank you then, Daario,” Sansa said, and Jon hated the way the lofty syllables of his name forced her tone to caress each part of it with a familiarity that was entirely undeserved.

Daario Naharis moved aside with another bow, one that swept so low he nearly touched the floor. It would have nearly been comical, except it was met with swoons from the ladies surrounding Jon and a strange sense of admiration and acceptance from the other representatives from houses all across the North up at the front of the hall.

The new Lord Cerwyn moved forward to present his matters to his liege lady, and yet Daario Naharis did not leave though his business with the queen had concluded. Instead he took a seat at the front as well amongst the rest who sought to see Sansa that day and still awaited their turn. He tilted his head with the guise of watching the proceedings, but it was more than evident that he had other intentions with the way he settled back against the table, legs spread, arm outstretched. Even from the back of the hall, Jon could tell his eyes never left Sansa.

Jon stood. Surely there were other things that required his attention. And if there weren’t, Longclaw could always use the whetting.

Chapter Text

Despite his status as the guest of honor, or perhaps because of it, Jon saw no need to rush down to the feast. Part of him lingered as a way to put off the inevitable of facing those who might have still rued his homecoming instead of celebrating it, their disdain cloaked behind smiles, while the other part simply struggled with the fastenings and lacings on the intricate outfit Sansa had crafted for him.

She had given it to him the day before last, explaining that she made it while he was in the south in preparation for when he would return to Winterfell and retake his position as King in the North. Of course he had never had the chance, and even Jon knew it was rude to refuse a gift, especially one that had so obviously taken a great deal of her time and energy, so he accepted it and agreed to wear it tonight, not that he’d brought anything else appropriate for the occasion.

It was all black—Sansa knew him well enough, that could not be doubted—and made of a rich fabric embellished with embroidery of the same shade. Two direwolves met at the neckline, serving as the only bit of color, white with red eyes like Ghost.

“Some of the men who fought for him in the south told me Robb had worn one similar,” she murmured.

Jon didn’t know how he looked compared to Robb in it, but it would have to do. He smoothed his hair down, trying to tame the curls, and then on second thought, abandoned the attempt and tied them up. Sansa had seemed to like it when he wore it that way, and at least then it would seem as though he’d put in the most minute bit of effort.

As a result of his tardiness, he should not have been surprised then when he arrived to see the revelry in full swing and Daario already sat in Jon’s seat beside her. He wouldn’t bow to this man, no matter what title he gave himself or where he presumed to place himself. Sansa, though… the sight of her was so arresting that Jon did not even hardly spare a glance at Daario in his long robe of cloth of gold and the extravagant heap of necklaces gleaming across his chest.

The dress Sansa wore—Jon wouldn’t say it was indecent, necessarily, but it certainly deviated from the wool and high necks and thick cloaks she usually wore throughout the course of winter. It slightly covered her shoulders, leaving her collarbones exposed, and it was nearly sheer from the waist up except for tendrils of icy branches and shimmering flowers spanning from side to the other across her chest. They covered all the important bits, he supposed—he wasn’t going to look too hard to verify—and instead drew his eye lower, following the delicate pattern that continued all the way down her flowing skirts, where the fabric brightened from a stark white to a pale blue.

On top of her hair, which had been arranged in a particularly elegant twist of braids and curls, sat her crown, gleaming silver wrought in the shape of overlapping direwolves that very nearly matched the ones sewn snarling on his chest.

Jon was grateful for the excuse to bend his knee and draw his gaze away. “Your Grace.”

Sansa tore her attention from Daario, and she looked even more resplendent when her face brightened with a smile. “Jon! Splendid! We can truly begin now that our guest of honor is here.”

He swallowed, suppressing the urge to spurn this hospitality by going to sit in his old seat deep below the salt on the benches at the back of the hall. “Erm, where should I… where would you like me to…”

“Oh, right—you don’t mind, do you?” Sansa asked, placing a hand on Daario’s forearm as though she had forgotten he sat there. “It’d be kind to make him feel welcome here, so far from home…”

Jon could have pointed out that Daario seemed quite well ingratiated already with how he pranced about Winterfell or how he seemed to have no qualms about finding any seat he wished in the hall any other day, but he had promised himself that he would not make conflict this evening, so he offered a terse smile instead. “Of course. That’s what a true friend would do, right?”

He rose and walked the long way around to climb up on the dais, taking his time in settling on Sansa’s other side. He had no more than a moment to collect himself and take a sip of the water in his goblet before Daario’s glib voice made him sputter again.

“Ah, before I forget. This feast is a blessing, but even more so is your beauty, Your Radiance.” Daario inclined his head towards Sansa and plucked a long stem from his sleeve, a blue winter rose attached to the end of it, its petals as vibrant as the summer sky. “I found it riding in the wolfswood and thought only of you.”

“Those are exceedingly rare,” Jon snapped. “You’d have done better to replant it in the glass gardens and allow it to flourish than to pluck it and permit its beauty to wilt.”

“I never knew you cared so much for botany, Jon,” Sansa said, and waved over one of her handmaidens to plait it into her hair.

“I care for all the North,” he said, immediately flustered with himself for getting so agitated over a stupid flower.

“Thank you, Daario,” Sansa said graciously, smoothing over his outburst, and Jon could hear no more of the words exchanged between them as the music struck up at that moment to announce to arrival of the food from the kitchens and encourage those milling about to take their seats.

The doors to the hall flooded with platters of food from the kitchens, overflowing baskets of bread, and flagons of ale and wine. Northern staples made up the bulk of the feast—bright beets soaked in pools of butter, shank of wild boar crusted with herbs, small onions soaked in a rich gravy, pies stuffed with venison, oatcakes filled with fresh berries and nuts. Some of the delicacies Daario brought over from Essos filled the tables too: grilled figs picked from the plentiful trees in Meereen, plump, ripe cherries and strawberries, and an assortment of colorful vegetables stewed in a sauce of saffron, garlic, and ginger.

Jon listened as Daario explained the unfamiliar ones to Sansa and showed her how to taste them. He did not think it was traditional for one to serve another from their fingertips anywhere, but then again what did he know? He could not deny that more often than not at the Wall and beyond they scarcely even ever used utensils to aid in their meals.

“Oysters from Braavos,” Daario presented, scooping one into his palm. Jon did not know how he could make such simple words, such a simple gesture, seem instantly obscene. “Some say consuming them inflames our passions.”

Sansa slurped it from the shell he extended out to her. “And what do you say?”

“I’d say my desires are never far from mind.” Daario ate his own with far more elaborate use of his tongue.

Jon watched a blush creep up her cheeks in response, although that might have been attributable to the spicy slices of dragon pepper Daario fed her next, this time from the tines of his fork.

The first few low notes of a northern ballad filled the hall again as the musicians finished feasting themselves. The quicker melodies would come later, well-loved favorites and those which just about everyone knew every step to, but for now the slower songs served to stir the crowd into an even merrier mood.

The distraction gave Jon the opportunity to study Daario up close in between sips of ale and bites of the strictly northern fare he selected for himself, though he could not deny that many of the richly-spiced dishes smelled a great deal more appealing than the plainer options to which he was accustomed.

Unfortunately, even from this angle he could not manage to find much fault with the man. Besides his hair and beard his skin was otherwise smooth, not only on his arms beneath the sleeves he’d rolled up to keep from dipping into the slop on his plate, but also all across his chest, exposed by the low cut of his robe, a deep vee that extended almost to his waist. Jon wondered if he’d been born like that or if he did it to himself; he’d heard of some using hot wax to achieve such a look, but to him it still seemed as strange of a practice as it must have been painful.

Though that was all he could see, he had heard of other oddities about Daario, too. In his traverses through Winterfell, Jon had accidentally interrupted some of the washing women giggling over how Daario wore no small clothes beneath his breeches, and he wanted to know little and less of how they themselves had come by that knowledge. While that was believable enough—Jon would not admit it unless absolutely pressed but he had done so himself on several occasions when the circumstances necessitated it—he’d also heard some whispers about Daario possessing a particular kind of piercing somewhere that Jon could not fathom without feeling the need to retch.

Jon soon found himself resisting such an urge at the moment as well when Daario bit into a poached pear and the juice made of spiced red wine ran down into his beard. Sansa giggled, her finger trailing after it and managing to catch it before it could soak into Daario’s beard. Sufficiently disgusted, he pushed his plate away.

“You’ve had enough already? The feast is merely just beginning,” Daario said, this time having enough civility to wipe away the lingering dribbles of errant wine with a linen napkin.

“With such bounty I figured I ought to save space for the sweets to come,” Jon said, making his own effort to be courteous.

Sansa’s lips puckered as she sipped her drink, northern ale mixed with a muddling made from the lemons brought over from Essos. “Jon, would you like to try some?”

“I prefer it like this,” he said, raising his glass to meet her toast. “Plain. Strong. The true northern way.”

“As you like, Lord Snow,” Daario added his goblet to where theirs already touched. “I always say though that it makes no sense to deny ourselves the pleasures in life, even the smallest ones.”

Jon had no such wish to ask after what those were, but as it turned out, he did not have the chance to even do so. A minstrel had accompanied the Essosi group as well, and he took up his lute as the previous song concluded.

“Let this be a gift to the Queen in the North from the people of Essos, the graciousness of Meereen, and its prince, Daario Naharis,” he announced, and set off with the incredibly creative lyrics of Sansa, Sansa, Sansa.

“Would you care to share a dance with a friend?” Sansa asked.

Jon supposed it would be customary for the guest of honor to lead off the dancing anyway, so he agreed and offered her his hand. He was both at once thankful and not that there were no steps to this dance yet, though he expected it would not take long for some to be developed as the song spread through the North, its success inevitable given its subject of celebration. Without any guidelines to follow, Sansa drew him closer as was the proper etiquette for such a dance that required no certain choreography, just swaying.

The flower Daario had given Sansa tickled his jaw where it stuck out from her plaited hair as the singer at last moved on from bleating her name to prattling on about how she was the one who brought winter’s end, of how she brightened the trees’ leaves, of how the rest of the world seemed faded in comparison to her beauty. “This song doesn’t do you justice.”

“Maybe not, but it’s a nice gesture, isn’t it?” She smiled. “Are there many feasts like this beyond the Wall?”

“None that I’ve attended.” It was easier when he could focus his mind on words instead. They didn’t usually come readily to him, but that was more natural than the dancing, at least.

“I’d like to attend one someday, if there are,” she said. “There’s no better way to learn about another’s customs than with food, drink, and dancing. And no better way to forge friendships, too.”

“Sansa, you know I didn’t come for feasts,” he sighed. “And, to tell the truth of it, not really for friendship either.”

“What did you come for, then?”

“You.”

She stared at him, eyes wide. He was not sure if he had missed a step or if she took pause for a moment.

Maybe words were not so simple either. “I mean—to protect you. As I promised.”

“Oh. I thought perhaps…” Sansa shook her head, a few curls loosening to frame her face. “Never mind.”

The song beat a steady rhythm as it reached some kind of instrumental interlude, not fast necessarily but consistent, and Jon lost track of the lyrics when they picked up once more, focused on keeping up when the beat quickened a bit before it returned to the repeated refrain of Sansa, Sansa, Sansa again. Jon turned her, finally finding the right rhythm as Sansa moved with him, and he could see the appeal of this, of how they could move in unison together, the way that they fit one another, matched each other—until he steered wrong, or until someone ensured he did, rather.

Sansa smacked into Daario’s chest, and his hands already circled her waist, lower than Jon’s own. “May I?”

There was no denying his request, especially when the song concluded and a faster one took up its place, carrying Sansa away from him as they fell in time with the steps.

“Oy, Jon!” Tormund held out horn that smelled revoltingly sour to him as he came off the dance floor, Jon certain his glowering expression necessitated the offer. “Have a bit ’o goat’s milk—”

“No,” Jon barked. He would need to keep his wits about him if this was how the evening was to proceed. “I won’t be partaking in any more tonight.”

The ale didn’t even taste good anymore, and yet Jon still drank and drank it as though it were a balm for all his ills. Indeed it was for some of them—with each sip it became easier to forget some of the people in this very hall likely hated his guts, that there were those who had hoped he’d meet his end in a fiery inferno down south, or those who rather wished he’d traverse so far north he’d end up frozen somewhere along the way.

At least it appeared not all felt that way. He had received more than a couple of inquiries to dance after his turn with Sansa, though he waved them away. Jon knew it was rude, and that he might as well attempt to enjoy himself, but he couldn’t manage to muster any semblance of cheer, much less find it in himself to make conversation with Lord Manderly’s daughter or attempt to avoid tripping over his own feet with his arms around the pretty Pentoshi girl who’d accompanied Daario’s retinue.

Instead Jon sat alone on the dais, his hand clenching and unclenching reflexively on his thigh beneath the table. Somehow he felt lonelier here surrounded by people than he ever did on his own beyond the Wall. A pang of longing for Bran and Arya twisted in his heart again, and he missed the others who’d filled this place the last time he’d come here nearly as much, true friends like Sam and Gilly.

The music had grown bawdier, moving past slow northern ballads and attempts to win Sansa’s favor with fawning verses into the likes of “Her Little Flower” and songs laden with other innuendo that Jon would have blushed to discuss out loud as much as Daario Naharis would have likely reveled in such an activity.

The dancing continued as well, also devolving into further indecency by the hour, everyone seemingly having a merry time except for him. Sansa danced with the Tyroshi, then a few others in between, but Daario always returned for more, taking her hand again or now, as decorum began to wane as the ale and wine flowed freely, slipping his own around her waist.

The notes of “Let Me Drink Your Beauty” filled the air as they came back together in one such meeting again. The way they danced… Could it even be called dancing? Jon wondered. He was no expert, but there were no set steps, no routine to it, barely even any rhythm and though he had scarcely an ear for it himself, he suspected they did not move in time with the music either. It seemed nothing more than an excuse for the sellsword to hold Sansa close and whisper in her ear.

Jon hated every smile Sansa gave him, every laugh that he pulled from her throat, every stroke of his hand across the layers of her skirts.

Surely this man had many women waiting for him back in Essos, or if he sought to marry for political or economic reasons instead, Daario could certainly take his pick of those in Westeros if he desired to forge an alliance here. What did he want with Sansa in particular, when he could have had anyone on an entire continent? Nothing good, that much Jon was certain of.

Would Daario even enjoy being her consort? He seemed like he would be happier off with someone who would feed his ego, not challenge it, someone who would give up her crown to him, not merely allow him to accompany her, someone who would demure and stand aside like a delicate adornment, not like Sansa, who stood on her own even in the face of fierce winter winds.

Something else far more disturbing niggled at Jon, something from the memories he sought to repress when he was clear-headed. Those were the kinds of devotions Daenerys had expected—no, demanded—too, and as long as he lived Jon would not see the North be given away for such folly again.

Jon stewed as he thought of what Daenerys had told him about this man, his inebriated mind continuing to dare to broach what his clear-headed one would not. Daario had betrayed his own allies for her, gifted her their heads as tribute. He’d overstepped his boundaries, daring to touch her, someone to which he’d pledged his allegiances and not his hand. And that had still not been enough for him, though Jon had to admit he had turned a deaf ear to most of the things Daenerys had shared that they engaged in together.

Then there were the tales Daario himself had told of his exploits across the Narrow Sea, the things he’d boasted of seeing, participating in, in the pleasure houses of Lys and Volantis, admiring women baring one breast in Qarth, ogling at the sight of Dothraki coupling in open view on the plains. Jon had nothing to contribute there or nothing to compare; he didn’t think Sansa or anyone else wanted to hear much about him taking himself in hand at night or bathing nude in the Milkwater.

What was he thinking now as he turned Sansa about the dance floor? Was Daario thinking of Sansa how he had clearly thought of Daenerys? Was he attempting to work out the best method of seducing her? Was he already imagining having her every which way?

Disgusting, Jon shuddered, until he realized he himself on occasion had gone down that line of thought, on dark nights alone beyond the Wall, when he permitted his imagination to grow wild in the absence of anyone or anything else, knowing whatever he thought of, no matter how detailed of an image he conjured, it could never be real.

But that’s different, he tried to tell himself. He wouldn’t want to have Sansa every which way. He would want her any way she would desire him, if she even did. And he would pleasure her—he would make every attempt to please her, he would put that as priority above his own…

Jon hastily shoved away those ridiculous dreams lest they become ones of the nightmare variety as Sansa and Daario joined him up on the dais, evidently famished and parched from their dancing.

Daario collapsed into his chair, sprawling out as usual, and pulled Sansa along with him, who fixed her skirts and sat as primly as possible considering she was spread across his lap. It would have been a scandalous action, something shameful for anyone else to commit, but Sansa was queen. There was no one to tell her no, no one to stop this, except perhaps for Jon himself. He supposed he could ask Sansa for another dance, but he feared what else he might permit to slip at this point, or far worse, how his body might decide to betray him. He’d be risking tripping and tearing that beautiful dress, having none of the suaveness Daario evidently possessed in this state, not that Jon did in any others either.

Daario, Jon had to admit, looked nearly every bit Sansa’s equal up here, beneath her with his gaudy outfit shimmering subtly in the candlelight. They made an attractive sight together, with how his large hand spanned her waist and his thumb stroked over her side, how the way she sat exposed a long slit in her dress, bare skin between layers of thin fabric.

“…but never a wolf,” Daario’s voice dipped into what Jon could only describe as a purr. Sansa giggled again, the rest of Daario’s words lost in her neck.

Jon pointedly glanced away with a roll of his eyes, sipping ale again to hide his sour expression.

“The Bear and the Maiden Fair” struck up, and Tormund appeared to ask Sansa for a dance, probably thinking he was remedying the situation Jon was clearly incapable of taking care of himself and inadvertently creating a whole new one in its absence.

Daario leaned towards him, but his gaze never left Sansa. “She is beautiful, your queen.”

Jon grunted, torn between telling Daario to go get lost beyond the Wall and currently wishing he was there himself.

Daario seemed to take no offense to that though, instead his infuriating smirk reappearing. “Or do you still see her as a sister? But surely you can still recognize the beauty either way.”

Two sides warred within Jon again, the one as honorable as Ned Stark had raised him to be and the one who just had the realization he was possibly just as depraved as the man who sat beside him. Maybe more.

“No,” he said finally. “She isn’t my sister.”

“I’ve never had a sister,” Daario mused. “But if I had one who looked like that…” He did not have to complete the sentence for Jon to grasp his intentions, despite his inebriated haze. “And even if I did, my sister wouldn’t be any sort of queen.”

The way Daario looked at Sansa, with heat simmering there, made it seem as though he attempted to undress her with his eyes. Jon wished he could admonish him for his audacity, but he found he just as ensnared when he permitted himself to follow his line of sight. Sansa was radiant in her crown, her dress swirling around her, laughing as Tormund locked arms with her and spun her around until she was dizzy, insisting that was truly how they danced beyond the Wall.

“Wouldn’t be the first time we had shared a taste in women, would it not?” Daario gave him a lazy smile.

The glare Jon sent his way would been scalding, had Daario been looking, but he was understandably transfixed by Sansa again. It wouldn’t be the first time I killed a man for something he’s said, either. “Excuse me.”

He rose from the table and stumbled outside, not bothering to look up at anyone who shouted after him.

It was also not the first time Jon had found himself out here alone during a feast, disappearing into the darkness of night and wishing he could vanish altogether. He could still hear the feast as he crossed the courtyard and see the way Daario had lusted for Sansa, that look seared into his memory.

Then as now, Ghost waited for him, silent as a shadow, his fur looking almost silver reflected in the moonlight. Daario had shown no fear of Ghost when they crossed paths earlier in the day, not even when he turned wary red eyes on him. Jon understood, to an extent. He’d also faced down dragons, stood before charging battle lines with nary but a sword, played the game of thrones surrounded by a thousand enemies, both seen and unseen.

There wasn’t much that frightened Jon anymore either, except for perhaps this—being left alone with his traitorous thoughts.

Chapter Text

There wasn’t any reason for Jon to remain in Winterfell, not truly, now that he had shown his face again in the North, paid his respects to the people he was honored to once call his, and made what amends he could. There wasn’t any sense in imposing his presence anymore, seeing as how he was determined to avoid Daario Naharis at all costs, much less ask for his support of the Night’s Watch and the wildlings.

But it seemed as though fate, as convoluted and twisted as it had ever when it came to him, was determined for him to stay on, each day bringing with it something new.

First, he had accepted Tormund’s invitation to ride out to see the free folk who’d stayed to establish homesteads on the lands surrounding Winterfell. That day had gone so well Jon had then stepped in the next day to take wagons laden with food to be distributed in wintertown while Sansa caught up on the pile of missives they’d received while she had been otherwise engaged planning the feast. Then, at Sansa’s request, he had made a visit on her behalf to Torrhen’s Square to bring gifts and good tidings to their new heir who had been born a moon before.

And slowly one day turned into another, and Jon found himself overstaying his welcome for another week. It was a dangerous pattern, the steps to his chamber becoming well-worn once again, the sight of Ghost stretching his legs in the godswood a routine start to his morning, and a kind of comfort he hadn’t felt since the last time he’d lived within Winterfell’s walls settling into his bones.

Unfortunately, despite the fact he was preoccupied with his distaste for the man far more often than he liked, Jon could not force himself to become accustomed to Daario Naharis and how he too seemed to be taking advantage of every reason to lengthen his visit to Winterfell. While Jon made every effort to avert seeing him at all, it was impossible to steer clear of him completely, and on one such lamentable occasion he emerged from the crypts one morning right into the middle of the Essosi retinue’s sword training exercises.

Daario wore no shirt at all this time, evidently having acclimated already to the slight chill that always lingered in the northern air. Either that, or he was at least willing to suffer it a pathetic bid for the attentions of the handmaidens and washing women who had gathered along the walls and up on the ramparts, pausing in their chores to watch. Even the men at arms looked on as Daario fought his way through his own company, the alacrity with which they yielded to him almost laughable.

Jon’s hopes of slipping through the courtyard unnoticed quickly vanished. Perhaps he could go the long way around, out the north gate and back in through the east, or maybe if that was blocked he would just spend another hour or so down in the crypts if he must. After all, he hadn’t been down to see the Kings of Winter in quite awhile to see whatever was left of their tombs after the Long Night, and reading the endless litany of Brandons over and over again or feeling the pangs every time he came across a Jon Stark seemed preferable to this.

Unfortunately, he was not so quick to evade notice this time.

Daario whirled around right into his path. “Lord Snow! Might you wish to join us? Lady Sansa has mentioned you’re quite the swordsman.”

Jon hesitated. The last time he’d lifted a blade for reasons other than hunting had been… he shoved the memory out of mind. “Does she?”

“Aye. The way she tells it you must belong in one of the stories I’ve read, right along Symeon Star-Eyes and Serwyn with his mirror shield.”

One thing that carried over from his time as Lord Commander and king was that Jon had become immune to such flatteries. “I’m not sure I’m dressed for such an occasion.”

To be fair, neither was Daario in Jon’s eyes. He wore those stupid swords at his hip yet again, their hilts even more glaringly obscene glittering in the sunlight, seemingly solely for show as he held a wooden sword in hand. Even for training he was decorated, wearing rings and jewelry, his hair loose and flowing, breeches embellished with embroidery.

Daario chuckled. “Scarcely are we adequately prepared for danger when it finds us.”

Jon reached for an excuse, and when none came readily enough to mind, he prayed simply walking away would be enough of an answer. “No, I should be…”

“Surely a sellsword is nothing compared to an army of flayed men? Or the undead?” Daario called after him. “Or a dragon?”

Jon turned at that. Not even the cool air of the crypts from which he’d come could temper his blood in light of such a provocation. He would not be cowed, and certainly not in his own home. “Three rounds?”

Daario raised his wooden sword again and gestured for one of his men to hand his over to his opponent, but Jon moved quicker, pulling Longclaw from its scabbard.

The Tyroshi’s eyes widened to Jon’s satisfaction, even if it was for just the briefest of moments, and then he fell back into his easy smirk. “Valyrian steel? My ladies have seen the likes before.”

Daario tossed the wooden sword aside and reached out for his armor instead, fitting the chain mail right over his bare skin, but before Jon could question if he needed all that to fight a man who wielded more axes to chop firewood than taken up swords against his enemies over the past years, Sansa appeared, peering over the ramparts.

“What’s all this?”

“A bit of friendly sparring,” Daario replied, sweeping into his customary bow. “Your Grace, might I ask your favor?”

Jon bristled. He ought to have thought of that first, but perhaps once he was victorious, he could crown her queen of love and beauty instead like in the fairytales she loved—surely there were some flowers, ones that would grow back if he pulled them, around here somewhere.

Sansa leaned over the railing to peer down at them. The outfit she wore must have been one of those gifted to her by Daario, something in the Essosi style of light, billowing layers, and made of a fabric Jon would have guessed was some sort of light blue silk. “I’ve heard it’s ill luck to return a gift.”

Daario clutched his chest. “It would be worse luck for me to enter battle without your protection, I fear, my lady.”

Jon would have liked to see him grovel, truly, but Sansa was not so vindictive as him, apparently. She kindly acquiesced with a playful roll of her eyes.

Sansa had wrapped a scarf of darker blue over her shoulders, criss-crossing it and tying it around her waist to contrast with the lighter color, and it was this which she began to unravel in response to Daario’s request.

Jon couldn’t help the incomprehensible sound that escaped his throat, something between a squeak and a gasp, as Sansa finished unwinding the scarf and let it float down to Daario.

He wasn’t sure if the style beneath was popular in Essos—he scarcely knew what the common fashions were here in the North much less the rest of Westeros and beyond—but it dipped low and revealed her bare collarbones, for starters. The dress did not cover her shoulders either, which he had come to expect, but the material also cut away at her sides and over a large expanse of her waist, exposing stretches of pale skin from what he could see. He could not imagine what it looked like lower than that—well, he could, but he chose not to linger on it.

“You have a good heart, my queen,” Daario said, bowing again as he caught the scarf easily in his hand.

Jon was certain he was thinking about her heart all right, turning away to take his turn to roll his eyes and so he did not have to watch as Daario wrapped the scarf, probably imbued with her warmth and the light citrusy scent he’d come to associate with Sansa, around his arm and knotted it.

Sansa returned Daario’s smile. Those smiles used to be saved for him, shared with him alone, secret and special… or so he’d thought. You know nothing, Jon Snow. He certainly knew not what Sansa saw in this man.

Jon heard the sound of steel behind him and focused his mind back on the present. Daario Naharis had reached for the hilts of his vulgar blades, one short and sharp, half the length of a standard sword but he suspected no less deadly if one was on the receiving end of it, and one curved arakh, which Jon had learned training with Dany’s warriors could be difficult to defend if it caught one out in an awkward stance.

It would not do to dwell on the past, not when it was the future that mattered now—of Winterfell, of the North, of Sansa.

Daario took up his stupid swagger, circling the courtyard. Jon was not so foolish as to let that delude him into thinking that he was careless or incompetent. He knew this man had not survived this long as a sellsword, had not risen to such a rank and earned the respect of his peers and his people without great skill and a sense of shrewdness.

It was a great tactic in itself, in truth. The uneven gait made it hard to guess where and when Naharis would strike, and all of a sudden Jon felt as though he were a boy again, standing in the yard of Castle Black, Ser Alliser watching on, ready to pounce on any mistake he made. The stakes had been high there, too, and he’d felt similarly galvanized then by the taunts, the names, the disrespect sent his way.

But this wasn’t Castle Black. This was Winterfell, where he had trained with Robb and Theon day in and day out, where he still knew every dip and groove of the courtyard even after years passed.

And when Jon went to make his move, he didn’t feel like that green boy away from home for the first time at all. He didn’t question his footwork or the blade in his hand or didn’t allow the murmur that ran through the audience gathered to distract him.

Longclaw slammed down against Daario’s outstretched stiletto with the full force of a man, the resulting clang ringing out across the courtyard. The well-worn memory of crossing swords surged through his muscles, and Jon advanced forward and parried left with scarcely more than a thought beyond his driving force and his opponent at hand.

Daario kept up with him, not deterred by the impact of Jon’s lunges. Jon didn’t know how much time he spent at practice during peace time while he ruled over Meereen, but it was clear any break he’d taken away from the battlefield had not dulled his senses or abilities.

They whirled round and round, trading blows, steel on steel echoing, the strokes coming quicker as Jon tried to go low, then high, then low once more. Daario artfully danced around, spinning out of the way, ducking, swerving, to avoid the full brunt of Jon’s swings and making it seem almost like his version of the finely choreographed steps from the feast—on and on, until he at last guessed wrong.

Jon jerked his arm to halt its motion, the point of his sword landing just below Daario’s jaw, against the juncture of where it met his throat.

“I appreciate the offer of a close shave, Lord Snow, but I’ll respectfully decline,” Daario said. He didn’t flinch against the blade, but Jon could hear his voice was not so flippant anymore. “I’ll give you that one.”

Jon lowered his arm and stepped back to reset. He was ready, this time, breath on edge and blood pumping through his veins, as he raised his sword and Daario rushed to meet it. He absorbed the impact with a grunt as he lifted his sword over his head; the other man might have been taller, but he’d be damned if he allowed him to be stronger.

He tried a different approach, luring Daario in close. Jon thought it might work to shift him off balance if he did the opposite of what the sellsword expected now that he’d had a chance to take measure of him, edging backward instead of pushing forward. Sometimes it did well to keep enemies closer, he had learned.

Jon refused to look him in the eye, never taking his own off of where their blades crossed, but this close he could still feel the heat from his body, how every muscle he possessed grew taut with the effort of holding Jon back. The idea of how Sansa had danced with him even nearer than that, how Daario had seen fit to put the hands currently straining around the hilt of his sword on her, how his furtive looks and whispered words conveyed his desires to take liberties even beyond that, strayed into his mind against his will, and that made Jon reel away in disgust.

Daario followed, and before Jon could dodge his advance and find his footing again, he stumbled and fell to the ground. His opponent wasted no time in drawing the tip of the blade down his jerkin, leaving the faintest of lines in its worn leather.

Jon responded with another grunt, unable to yield even in the face of certain loss, and he was grateful Daario lifted his blade of his own accord after a moment. He jumped to his feet, the taste of defeat sour in his mouth.

Daario blew on the blade as though the residue from Jon’s jerkin had dirtied it. “A draw?”

“No. Again.”

Jon had to win here. He could not tolerate the endless boasting that would come with an opposing victory and the shame of being bested by this braggart who’d honed his craft in the most immoral of ways and who fought for a prize that was not something to be won.

This round contained none of the artistry, none of the finesse, none of the strategy of before. It devolved into only a show of brute strength, sinew against brawn, each draw of the sword equally swift and bold.

Jon wrapped both hands around Longclaw’s hilt, taking no chances with it slipping now. He didn’t care if he had taken a friendly sparring session past that into something far more fierce. He didn’t care if he had offended their guests and horrified the rest of Winterfell. He didn’t care if he was sent on his way right after this concluded as he brought the sword down again, crashing, clanging, screeching against the steel Daario held.

He knocked the stiletto free, the short blade skittering across the ground out of reach. But that alone was not enough—Daario drew his arakh from his other side before Jon could react, and the curved blade sliced through the sleeve of his shirt in the brief second it took him to decide how to change his approach against the weapon that was more difficult to dodge this close.

In a flash, he slid Longclaw up to defend against the curved blade, prepared to continue on until—

“Enough,” Sansa called. Jon glanced up and saw her skin had been reddened by the short time she had spent in the sun. “I won’t have blood sullying this courtyard.”

Daario held up his hands in surrender. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

Jon grunted. True warriors did not give up so easily, not when what they fought for meant everything, even at their own risk—

“Jon. Enough.” Sansa’s voice was no longer merry or teasing.

It took everything in him to concede, but he could not disobey a direct order from his queen.

“All right there, Lord Snow?” Daario reached down, offering to help him up.

Jon turned before he could take his outstretched hand to share in the good faith of a truce, pretending he never saw it at all.

Jon cast his eyes around Sansa’s solar, eager for them to catch on anything besides Sansa herself. She had yet to change out of the dress she’d worn while watching them in the courtyard, and she had not replaced the scarf she’d given Daario to cover her shoulders either, and he could now see that the bottom was nearly as revealing as the top, with slits that parted the skirts to reveal a sheer, glittery material he had no name for beneath.

It was difficult enough to try to keep his gaze from naturally catching on that each time she moved, but between the sight of that, and the feel of her fingertips brushing over his skin each time she drew the needle through the fabric of his shirt as she mended the damage done by Daario’s arakh, Jon found it nearly impossible to distract himself by the otherwise mundane surroundings of her solar.

“What happened to friendly sparring?” Sansa asked. She kept her voice casual, but he knew the question was serious. “That didn’t look very friendly.”

“Friendly enough for a sellsword, wasn’t it?” he retorted. “Or as much as possible, considering I can’t imagine they have many friends, so I suppose they might not know the meaning of it.”

“Daario has plenty of friends,” Sansa said. “Did you not see all those who accompanied him here?”

“Subjects are not friends,” he said. “Soldiers are not friends. Subordinates are not friends.”

“Says the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and the King in the North, both of whom I saw surrounded by friends,” Sansa smiled.

“That’s not—they were—there were a scarce few.” And most are gone now. Grenn and Pyp, Edd and Maester Aemon, even Qhorin Halfhand and the Old Bear. And even those who had survived were scattered now, having moved on with their own lives as they rightfully should, not wasting time worrying over him and the losses he’d suffered through his own myriad mistakes.

Even when he sat in a crowded hall taking his meals at Castle Black or at the front of the Great Hall awaiting an audience, he still had never been able to rid himself of a constant sense of loneliness then, wearing a crown never meant for him, both a bastard and royalty somehow all at once. The feeling plagued him persistently except for when with Sansa, who understood without words what serving the North meant to him, meant to their family.

“Jon!” Sansa hissed, though he scarcely felt as though he had moved at all. The way she ran her hand down the inside of his arm certainly didn’t help that matter, either.

She tugged at the material of his shirt, pulling him closer again, and he snapped his attention back to her. If the rest wasn’t already overwhelming, it also took every bit of his concentration to stay right there without so much as a flinch as her fingertips ghosted over him, the battle-ready rush the sparring had invoked in him still coursing through him, the momentary panic of nearly getting skewered, the humiliation of losing his temper and storming off not yet dulled.

“It’d be a lot easier if you just took it off, you know,” she said, making the suggestion for at least the third time.

“No, I…” There weren’t words for his stubbornness, his stupidity, or none he could share with Sansa at least, as he reached for a reason.

She frowned in concern. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

It would be ridiculous but true to say nothing had been wounded in their exchange except for his pride, but he would never give the Tyroshi that satisfaction, even if he’d never know what words he shared with Sansa in this moment.

“It’s the scars,” he said finally, coming up with the weakest explanation in existence. If anyone knew the extent of them and did not care or think any less of him, it was Sansa, but he could think of nothing else to excuse his childish behavior. Well, her and Tormund, he supposed, but that was different.

Sansa didn’t press, though, her hands merely working faster as she found a rhythm. “Daario asked if I’d sew him something,” she said, the amusement evident in her voice. “Something by which to remember the Queen in the North as he goes along on his travels.”

How could he not remember you? Jon wanted to ask, but he had entertained the worry himself. Daario seemed to care little now for Daenerys despite her affections or the predilections she’d harbored for him, and what was to say he would not do the same to Sansa once he turned his back on Winterfell and rode further down the kingsroad?

Daario had probably played this game before as many times as Jon had found himself deceived by other forms of treachery. He would likely as not forget about Sansa once she was out of sight, his mind headed onto the next conquest. And while Jon would have been happy to see the last of him and felt as though that moment could not come soon enough, Sansa had suffered enough heartbreak in her life that she did not deserve to have her affections abused once again.

Rather than voicing his thoughts, he asked, “And when will he be getting on with those?”

Sansa shrugged, but her hands remained steady as she pulled the needle and thread through the cloth again. “I’m not certain. He seems in no rush after it took so long for his retinue to journey here in the first place.”

“What did he want you to make him?” The sellsword hardly seemed to wear clothes, much less those of the kind favored by most in the North and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, and Jon could think of no reason Daario would need something like the furs and cloaks Sansa had sewn for him.

“Something Westerosi,” she said. “I don’t know. He’s been greatly entertained by trying to come up with a sigil for himself.”

“Perhaps his sigil should be one of a snake,” Jon grumbled. Now that the arousal from the fight had started to drain out of him, anger settled red hot in its place. “It would certainly suit him.”

“I believe a snake is already the sign of House Lynderly,” Sansa said calmly, ignoring his jab.

“Well, maybe those lewd blades of his would suffice instead, in that case.” He could feel some of his curls slipped free from where he’d tied them up earlier, creeping down his neck and tickling his skin, making him feel tetchy, and he wondered if it was worth incurring Sansa’s wrath to tuck them back in place.

Sansa didn’t seem to entertain that as a serious suggestion—either that, or it was indeed a symbol free for the taking. “Did it ever occur to you that he might be here to see you just as much to see me? Or even more?”

“Me?” Just because Daario had spoken glibly of Daenerys to him at the feast meant nothing. It would be better to know an enemy, to understand them first, to lay in waiting, just like the serpent he’d spoken of, waiting to strike until the moment was right. Jon had done the same thing himself before, with the wildlings, with the opposition he encountered in the Watch, with Daenerys herself. “What do you mean?”

“Is it so impossible to think that he may have heard stories of you, just as we catch wind of whispers from there? By the time those tales reached the other side of the Narrow Sea, they probably made you sound like some of the heroes out of that book of tall tales he read,” she said with a snort that she somehow made sound elegant. “This Jon Snow who came back from the dead and rode dragons, the secret prince with a claim to the throne he walked away from. Maybe he wanted to see the truth for himself.”

Jon would have denied til his last breath that he possessed any characteristics in common with the rest of the Targaryens, but in that moment he felt the flicker of a flame rise inside and wondered if that was what it meant to wake the dragon, or if it was some longer, more convoluted unraveling process that started with this kind of mere spark. Either way, he fought it down, hating himself for allowing the mere phrase to come to mind. “Yeah. Well. I’m not any of those things now.”

“It doesn’t matter, especially not when you too began with a name no one knew and fought to make it mean something,” she shrugged. “You’re not all that dissimilar from him. I’d certainly be curious if I were in the same position.”

This time he couldn’t help the tinge of venom that slipped into his voice at the insinuation that he and Daario Naharis were alike in any way. “I don’t think so. And he thought wrong if he intended to broker some kind of goodwill or earn some kind of… blessing based on that.”

“A blessing?” Sansa frowned. “I don’t think he honors any gods.”

“Except himself, you mean,” Jon snapped. “Sansa, I don’t think—”

A knock rattled the door, and it opened a moment later without a wait for a response, belying a sense of audacity that was entirely untoward even for anyone of familiar company, but particularly insulting for someone who maintained the status of Queen in the North.

“Oh.” Daario himself appeared from behind the door, and he glanced back and forth from one of them to the other, seemingly caught between saying something regarding the evidently sensitive situation he’d barged into and closing the door again with nothing at all. “I thought—anyhow.”

The lapse was fleeting, unfortunately. It only took a moment for him to puff out his chest again, and despite wearing nary a feather, Daario somehow managed to look as though he’d devoured a canary, his expression far too satisfied to divulge any shame, not that Jon thought him capable of the emotion.

“Perhaps you would wish to accompany me on a walk in the godswood, Your Grace?” He leaned easily against the doorframe and stretched his arm up to drape his hand lazily over the edge of the top. “I hoped I might take advantage of the hot pools after to assuage any aching muscles.”

“That sounds lovely,” Sansa said, displaying no displeasure over their interruption or Daario’s indecent proposition. “Jon? Would you wish to join?”

Daario couldn’t have looked less delighted about her extending the invitation, but he offered a simple shrug in Jon’s direction.

Jon could not tone down his response in such a way. He could not fathom being that nonchalant. Instead, he stood so forcefully his chair lifted and wobbled on its back legs before it clattered back to the stone floor.

“No, thank you,” he said with a laugh that could hold no less humor and no more contempt. “I’m not in any need of hot water to quell my swollen head or soothe my throbbing hubris.”

He didn’t need to ask for Sansa’s permission as queen to give him leave—her expression said it all.

Chapter Text

Three nights passed before Jon worked up the courage to request a private dinner in Sansa’s solar.

She had not been avoiding him, exactly, so Jon could not blame her for the lack of opportunity to reconcile. Rather, he had continued utilizing all of the same evasive techniques he had used to ensure he never crossed paths with Daario Naharis. It was cowardly, juvenile, and overdramatic, he knew, and he would not be proud to admit how he realized it was the same way he might have left one of the rows they had shared as children, sulking off in silence.

Jon thought his attempt to open a channel of communication might be spurned, returned with a message to leave Winterfell, or even worse, that he might receive no reply at all.

But Sansa responded, evidently taking the high road where he had not. Instead of offering an audience in the Great Hall or a more formal meeting in her solar, her summons issued him an invitation to the antechamber outside her rooms, and he hoped this change in location would at least be safeguarded from a Daario-induced—or anyone else, for that matter—interruption this time.

The quiet seclusion was a nice respite from all the feasts of the previous nights, or more recently, the dinners he had taken alone in his chambers. Even if those meals had not approached the abundance of the formal one held in his honor, Sansa was still determined to provide proof of the North’s prosperity and hospitality, the multiple rounds followed by desserts, more drinks, and spontaneous dancing often lasted late.

Jon was glad to see none of the dishes brought over from Essos gracing the table tonight either. Instead a hearty stew of northern vegetables, generous portions of sliced ham, and barley bread filled their plates, and he helped himself as they settled down across the table from one another.

The dress Sansa wore tonight was more muted than some of the other outfits she had worn lately but no less beautiful. A dove grey woven with something that made the fabric shimmer, it gleamed dimly in the firelight, giving it almost an otherworldly appearance that reminded him strangely enough of Valyrian steel. Jon admired the stitching he suspected was completed by her own hand that lined the neck and the wrists of her sleeves, weirwood leaves in every vivid hue from a faded rust to blood red. Though it too dipped low in front to showcase her necklace of two direwolves entwined, this dress featured none of the intricately twisted straps or omitted sections he had come to associate with her Essosi-gifted garments.

It didn’t matter, though, that there were no direct reminders of Daario Naharis present. The shadow of him still shaped their conversation as they shared how they had spent their days in trivial chatter, the lulls and omissions hints enough in themselves.

Sansa told Jon of how she’d held court while taking care to avoid mentioning who had been present, and Jon averted any talk of the lengths he’d gone to in order to structure his day or how he was certain most of Winterfell did indeed believe he had developed a deep interest in botany based on the amount of time as of late he spent wandering through the wolfswood.

Even that discussion grew leaden after a while, none of the easy words they’d shared when he returned to Winterfell even after so long apart flowing, stifled by the tension that sat thick in the air.

“I think perhaps we should… talk,” Sansa said, laying her utensils down on her plate even though she was not even nearly halfway finished with her meal.

Jon swallowed the hunk of ham he had been chewing, the lump suddenly growing leaden in his mouth. “I thought we were talking.”

“I meant we should discuss why you wished to meet tonight,” she said, filling her cup to the brim with the jug of wine that had sat untouched until now. “I doubt it was to discuss how many types of thistle are growing in the wolfswood.”

“Aye,” he said, his response more of a grunt despite his agreement and being the one to ask for her time in the first place. “It was not.”

“Go on then. I’ll take no offense. I’ll issue you no banishment from Winterfell or the North.” A smirk played around her lips. “Or I’ll let you be straight on your way after without any objections, if that’s what you prefer.”

Jon could not return the teasing smile she offered him. He knew it was not his place to protest. He knew that if Sansa wished to take a paramour, or simply enjoy the flatteries of a handsome man, she was well within her rights to do so. But he also knew that if he gave up now then all of this truly would have been in vain, and he’d have to slink back to the Wall knowing he’d been a coward once again.

“Sansa, in regards to the Prince of Meereen, or whatever he is calling himself these days—”

“I did not accept his offer to walk about the hot pools, if that is what plagues you.”

He could not admit to the extent to which it had troubled him. “Is that all he’s offered?”

“No. I believe you’re well aware of how he has been gracious enough to share his goods and how he has extended proposals to establish trade with the North.”

“Well, I am certainly glad of all that,” Jon snorted, though he had never found anything less amusing in his life. “And what does he want in exchange for it? You would truly consider that man fit to share your crown?”

“How am I meant to determine that? What men are left who haven’t killed? Who haven’t committed treachery in one form or another? Who haven’t wronged someone in some way?” Sansa swirled the wine around and around and took a sip. “Am I do disqualify every last one of them? We all did what we must to survive.”

“There must be some,” he ventured. “They need not be lords or have titles or be landed…”

Sansa gave a hollow laugh. “Jon, what do you think I’ve been doing the entire time in your absence? There is no shortage of suitors for the Queen in the North.”

That made Jon’s blood boil again, to think of Sansa fending off and defending herself from men who thought themselves worthy of her hand when they cared naught for anything besides her beauty, her title, or her lands, all while he’d sat, idle and brooding, beyond the Wall.

“So that’s all Lord Naharis means to you?” Jon soothed the sting of being forced to utter his foe’s true name with the satisfaction of at least not using his proper title.

Sansa sighed. “In regards to him, I fear I may have played that role too well.”

“So you don’t…?”

“I don’t think I could truly love a man after a year, and he’s been here not even a moon.”

Jon should have been relieved by that, he knew, but instead his mind cast about for whom Sansa could have been acquainted with for that length of time given she’d made no mention of any other potential matches and Jon had yet to see this man at all here in Winterfell.

“I must admit his attentions are… flattering,” she said, a crimson flush spreading down her chest that accentuated the weirwood leaves there. “And Daario is a viable option that must be considered like all the rest.”

“All right, in that case, what can a man like that give you that someone else could not?” he shot back. “He’s a sellsword, scarcely better than a common pirate.”

“He was indeed, so he has knowledge and experience in military matters that I sorely lack,” Sansa said. “I believe you yourself mentioned that shortcoming more than once.”

Jon furrowed his brow at his own past stupidity. That man made his share of other mistakes, too. “Has Bran written of war to come again?”

“No,” she said. “But peace is as fragile as spring. And I’m wroth to ignore the fact that a dragon still lives somewhere out there and that sometimes the end of winter does not spell the end of all the challenges that come with it, either.”

“Not all of the companies in Essos could stop Drogon if he returns with a vengeance,” Jon said. “I don’t think two little blades, no matter how wanton their hilts, is going to take care of it.”

“You could though,” Sansa said. “He trusted you, I saw it.”

“Yeah, well, that was before I…” But even then, when he had waited to incur Drogon’s wrath in the ruins of the throne room, he hadn’t; Jon had been ready for it, expected death, merely hoped the pain would be fleeting in the dragon’s ire and despair, convincing himself it couldn’t be worse than a dagger to the heart or drowning in a frozen lake or facing the disappointment of the North. “I don’t think my luck would hold out a second time.”

“Then we’ll build our walls higher and brick over our straw roofs.” Sansa smiled tentatively again, and he could not fathom how she seemed to be able to always drawn on a never-ending font of kindness.

Jon knew he should leave it at that, that he should extend his apologies for his behavior if this was truly what she wished for, and in the face of that being rejected, maybe beg forgiveness. And yet when he instead pictured Daario Naharis standing beside Sansa in a war council where he himself had once stood, or making plans for the protection of the Queen in the North, he couldn’t help that feeling of fury flicker within him again. “Then why pursue this still? Please, I seek to understand it, truly.”

“When it comes to it, I know I’ll have to pick and choose. There are those who have the right names and titles, and there are those who can protect Winterfell and those who have political expertise, and then there are those who are kind at heart and those who are worldly and have thrilling tales to tell, and none possess all three. There’s no man who will please the North and me alike.”

Jon couldn’t deny he could think of no one in particular who could fulfill that role either. It seemed like it would truly take a prince from one of the stories Sansa loved to live up to an expectation like that.

“Daario is willing to stay here in Winterfell with me,” she said, returning to her meal and prompting Jon to do the same. “There is no castle of his own he’d want me to leave for, no home his own where he would find more comfort, and he has no qualms with taking the Stark name.”

Jon recognized that those were good things, things he’d do himself, things Sansa deserved, so he was not sure why the mere mention of them took his irrational indignation to even greater heights. He stabbed into his next piece of meat with his fork and drew his knife heavily through the seared cut, the metal scraping against his plate with an ungodly screech. He didn’t care if it made him look and sound as though he were a savage. Soon he’d be on his way back to Castle Black and back beyond the Wall where eating with any form of utensils would be considered the height of extravagance in the first place.

“But what does he know of the Starks? Of the North?” He knew he should have offered Sansa a chance to respond, but once he started, he found he could not stop. “And he might have read all the children’s tales and nursery rhymes he wants, but what of the last eight thousand years? What does he know of the hardships and harshness of winter? Of houses that share thousands of years of enmity? Of what happens when it turns out the creatures from those tall tales are true after all?”

“Would you still be here if he left already?” Sansa asked.

He had not prepared a response for such a question, and nor could he offer a repudiation that she had read him wrong. “I don’t…”

This time, Sansa sat back and crossed her arms. Apparently her patience did inevitably give out where her kindnesses did not. “Why are you really still here, Jon?”

“Because I know what that man wants from you, Sansa,” he said, his silverware clattering to the table as he threw up his hands. “And no matter what he says, it’s not anything to do with making accords or anything that should be met with a diplomatic response.”

“And you expect killing him is proper route in that regard?”

He huffed. “Of course not. But I—Father’s ghost would murder me if I didn’t—and I promised to protect you—and despite what I said before, I’m your brother—”

“You’re not acting like my brother, you’re acting like a madman,” she said.

“Well, I’m sorry for that,” he said. “I never exactly had a shining exemplar to follow for this, what with Robb gone and all…”

“Do you think he would have been much better?”

He thought of Robb’s tendency towards impetuousness, his impulsivity, and laughed. Thankfully, Sansa did, too.

“No. He would have…” Sansa’s voice trailed off as they both reflected on what Robb might have done and what he did not do, and Jon knew by the look on her face that she was thinking of Joffrey, of how Robb had turned his armies towards the west instead of charging south for her, and that felt as though it were seven lifetimes ago—for him, he supposed, it essentially was at least one.

“He would have wanted the best for you,” Jon said to alleviate some of the anguish that played across her expression.

“You don’t have to try so hard,” she said, composing herself again. “You haven’t been my brother for years now, not truly. Not ever since you left for Castle Black. And even before then, it wasn’t as if we were in practice or otherwise.”

Jon supposed that much was true. Things had never the same as with Sansa as they were with Arya or Bran and even Rickon. And still, when he had pledged his life to the Night’s Watch, he had sworn to sever his family ties before the heart tree and fully intended to keep his promise, and he did even when Robb called the banners, when the news came of Ned Stark’s death, when it became clear the North was to wage war.

But once Sansa had shown up at Castle Black, he had shown no such restraint. He knew he would have left to defend her and help her win back Winterfell and the crown of the North whether he’d been released from his oath by the virtue of death or not. “Isn’t that what you want?”

“I think we should all want whatever makes us happy,” she said.

“And does he make you happy?”

Her expression steeled as he brought the conversation back to its focal point. “He… Daario makes me feel… It doesn’t matter how I feel. Only the North matters.”

“Of course it does,” Jon said, his tone gentling even as he couldn’t manage to make the tension in his chest loosen. “Why should your happiness be the sacrifice? Why should there be any need to sacrifice at all?”

“Robb married for love at least,” she murmured.

“Surely you do not love this… Tyroshi?” he said, since he did not think Sansa would appreciate him using the term “fucking prick.”

“No, but perhaps I do not need love,” Sansa said. “My father and mother did not love, at first. My mother always told me how true love is built stone by stone.”

If that’s true, then I might be able to rebuild all of Winterfell, Jon thought, with all the emotion he had locked away in his chest these past years.

But he could not say that, he could never say that. Maybe it had once been familial, the brotherly protectiveness he felt spike through him the moment he saw Sansa run towards him at Castle Black. Maybe even the rush of rage he felt when he heard of what had happened to her had been driven by some elements of that as well, and how it had only whipped into a blaze of fury when he faced Ramsay Bolton in the courtyard of Winterfell.

That was perhaps when it shifted, if he were honest with himself, that second he stopped his quest for revenge and turned to see Sansa, realized what mattered to him more than exacting retribution from a man already dead, more than his own life itself. And since then that feeling had simmered, festering until it became twisted with nostalgia and affection and something he suspected was tinged with lust and so much more. He’d denied it, defended it, tried to disavow himself of it, until he’d come here and been forced to face it by this pretender prince with his trinkets and iridescent trousers. Sansa was right—it was a kind of madness now, gripping him in its clutches, and he didn’t know how to break free.

“Perhaps there are more important things than that anyway,” she said.

He snapped back from his own reverie, more to sift through there than he might ever be capable of even if he were to be resurrected five more times like poor Thoros. “Like what?”

“Says the man who swore his life to the Watch and vowed to have none of those things,” she said, a smile playing across her lips again.

“That’s different,” he said hastily. “And anyway, that was… before.”

“Is it? Did you not want a place to call home, brothers in arms, to feel as though you were doing something honorable?” she said. “I want the same. A family, someone to share all this with, some semblance of happiness.”

“And he’ll give you all that and more?” His stew had gone cold while they had bickered, but he picked up his spoon and shoveled some into his mouth anyway for something to occupy his hands with while Sansa hesitated.

Sansa shrugged at last. “He’s…”

“You shouldn’t have to think about it,” Jon snapped the same time a log in the grate did, and he rose to right it and to clear away the ash it’d produced.

Sansa stood too, sweeping around the table to stand beside him so he could not escape once he used the poker to return the logs to their rightful places, her pose and her question a challenge. “And what do you know of it?”

He thought of the way Ygritte had looked at him, her tears of anger and her desire for revenge as she drew back her bow arm. He remembered Daenerys’s blank expression as he first shared with her his agony over the secret Sam had told him, and then of how it had devolved into one of desperation as she pleaded with him to conceal the truth from anyone else, to place her claim above even his own honor and family. He could not let Sansa suffer the same ruin. “I know what a mistake looks like. I’ve made enough of them.”

“Then you know I can’t afford to do the same. Not when it’s the future of the North at stake. Bran’s gone south. Arya west or east by now or wherever, but not here.” She glanced towards the doorway as though she harbored hopes they might appear there and contradict her words, but when no one did, she lowered her voice as she continued on. “If I cannot have all the rest… I must focus on that. A kingdom that can protect itself, the strength to survive no matter the season, a solid line of succession. The promise of an heir at least would bring a stability that we’ve sorely lacked ever since Father went south all those years ago.”

Jon’s stomach swooped as though he were about to be sick, the thick slurry of potatoes and carrots and onions he’d just consumed threatening to reappear as quickly as he’d devoured them, and he reached out for the edge of the mantle to steady himself. Despite all she had mentioned, his mind seemed to snag on only a single thing. “An heir?”

“Not Daario himself. Don’t be ridiculous.” She rolled her eyes. “That would be the utmost betrayal of the confidences the North entrusted in me. I mean a Stark. One that shares our own blood.”

The images that suddenly confronted him at that idea were so foul—Sansa sinking to her knees for the Tyroshi, his greedy hands curling around her hips as he took her from behind, him using her to take his pleasure—that the aftertaste of the few sips of delicious Dornish red that he had taken turned sour in his mouth.

“You recognize what that would entail, right?” he said, and the next words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. “Coupling and all?”

Sansa raised her eyes to the ceiling again, a blush appearing on her cheeks as well. It was certainly warmer closer to the fire, but he suspected her proximity had little to do with it. She was so pretty that way he was even able to push out of mind what she must have been thinking about that made her look like that along with his own vile thoughts. “Yes, of course. I don’t worry about that part of it. He seems like he would be good at it, actually. That it would maybe be pleasant with him, even.”

Jon snorted derisively. “And how would you know that?”

Sansa shrugged. “I suspect I can tell from dancing with him. The way he moves his hips.”

Jon gave a hollow laugh. “There’s a lot more to it than that.”

“Oh?” Sansa asked. There was no hint of a tease there, nothing to which he could offer a retort, her expression earnest, open. “Like what?”

Her wine sat nearly full, and Jon now suddenly wished he’d had a few more sips of his if he’d know it would come to this. For all they had spoken of, sharing hopes and fears in front of fires late at night, words whispered before a battle when she informed him of how she had no desire to return if they fell in the attempt, how he had told her of the nothingness of death, admitted to the inhuman rage he’d felt beating Ramsay, how if it hadn’t been for her he didn’t know if he could have stopped, and yet through all that they had never broached this.

“It’s all right if you don’t wish to tell me.”

“No, that’s not—Well.” He had walled himself into this corner, and now he had to stagger his way out of it. After all, Sansa had been honest this evening with him, and he knew she deserved the same in return.

He stared into the fire as though the answer might lie somewhere in there. He didn’t know if even Melisandre could materialize those kinds of visions, though. He remembered what Sam had asked him once atop the Wall, when he’d tried and failed to find words for it and when he’d tried to romanticize what had ended in heartbreak, and he knew couldn’t go that route again. He thought about conversations with Tormund, how he had babbled on about knowing where to put it and being as slick as a baby seal, and he knew enough to recognize that that was even worse. “It’s… it’s… about more than yourself. Or it should be, at least.”

Sansa seemed to share none of his qualms regarding their topic of conversation, though, or his broaching of it, raising her eyebrows in interest.

“And everyone’s different.” Apparently he just couldn’t help himself, going on like he was bloody fucking Theon, like he was some kind of authority on the matter, someone who had experiences with more than two people, as though his first time with either of them he hadn’t been far too wrapped up in his own anxieties to truly enjoy the experience, not that he would have thought to ask either of them to evaluate his performance anyway. Maybe he was much more of an idiot than he even thought. “But that’s the fun of it, I suppose. Sharing that together.”

“And once you… if it’s done right… it can be the best feeling. It feels like a lot of things, all at once,” he tacked on hastily.

They had moved closer as they talked, and he could feel the flicker of flame emanating from the grate. He hoped Sansa thought the red that certainly colored his cheeks was merely the reflection of the firelight or that it was lost in the shadows altogether.

“Anyway. It can be really—nice.” He stumbled over his words, which somehow kept coming even as he seemed to be at a loss. “And other things. I don’t know. I’m not a bard.”

“I guess you’re right, then. I wouldn’t know about all that anyway,” she said in a voice that made him instantly wish to take it all back.

He didn’t know it all—only what he observed, the way she flinched away from certain men, how she grew curt and cold when they sometimes took on certain tones with her, and he didn’t need to hear the precise details of all the rest. He only cared to focus on how she deserved someone who would never make her feel that way again. “It will happen someday, if that’s what you want.”

“Jon, if you wished to know how I truly feel… sometimes I fear that’s not meant for me either,” she confessed.

That vulnerability shook something in his core. How could Sansa—kind, beautiful, intelligent Sansa—even think a thought like that? “That’s not true.”

“How can you be so certain?”

Jon should have told her any number of platitudes, anything to make her see herself the way he did.

He could have apologized for his utter stupidity before or asked if there was any way he could make amends for his prying.

Or at the very least, he would have perhaps saved some face and excused himself if she wished to be alone.

He did none of those things.

Instead, like a brave but brainless knight charging into battle without armor and solely a sword, like a loon straying into a dragon’s lair with the only two destinies of discovering a trove of treasure or receiving the worst kind of death, like the most foolish of fools, he blurted, “Because I—I could show you. What it’s like… if you want. If you’d let me.”

Sansa turned to look at him, her expression unreadable. He supposed at worst he might have earned himself that lifetime ban from Winterfell after all, maybe the entire North if she wanted to be safe, but as a moment of silence passed, and then another, he wondered if her jurisdiction extended even beyond the Wall now.

Maybe it would be better if he took things upon himself and just tossed himself into the fire, but despite the smooth skin of his burned hand telling different, maybe, somehow, now that he knew the truth of his ancestry, he wouldn’t even burn and he’d somehow manage to make even more of an idiot of himself and a mess on top of that.

“I’d let you,” she whispered. “I want you to.”

Chapter Text

Jon didn’t dare believe what he heard, an odd echo ringing in his head that must have been the blood rushing in his ears. “What?”

“I’d let you,” Sansa said again, breathless but louder, more definitive this time. “I want you to.”

That was all he needed to hear. Jon reached for her, and Sansa stepped willingly into his arms.

But from there, he wasn’t sure. Did she mean all of it? Did she mean now? Sansa made it easy though, as always, looking up at him with eyes dark and wide, and when her gaze drew down to his lips, he allowed himself to move boldly again.

And for the first time that night, Jon was absolutely certain about this. He didn’t take another moment’s hesitation, didn’t stutter and falter, didn’t permit himself to question or think as he leaned forward and slanted his mouth against hers.

It was nice—no, not nice, nice was for pretty flowers and sweet arbor reds. This was fucking brilliant, spectacular, perfect. He moved incrementally slowly, waiting for her response, a confirmation that Sansa had truly meant what she said, and then when she pressed back against him, opening her mouth with the slightest breathy sigh, he moved all at once.

Jon realized slowly but suddenly, stupidly, as he kissed her, that he had thought about this before. Or perhaps he had dreamt of it, his body taking over what his mind could not process, his hands moving of their own volition to draw her even closer, tilting her to deepen the angle, and the kiss turned anything but slow, replaced by something more intense, more meaningful, more intentional.

The world seemed to brighten as Sansa kissed him back, her hair like molten copper flowing through his fingers, the flush that started on her cheeks earlier that night having crept down her neck and lower still, beyond the neckline of her dress. This felt right in a way Jon couldn’t name or place, something seeming to settle into his bones that this was exactly where he should be, what he should be doing, not dissimilar from the first time he held Ghost or closed his hand around Longclaw’s hilt.

Sansa pulled away and Jon couldn’t help a most undignified whine escape from his throat, chasing her lips. She rubbed a thumb across the bottom one, wiping away the way it glistened from how he’d run his own tongue over it, and the sight of it rubbed red from his kisses sent blood rushing straight to his cock.

He needn’t worry he had scared her off, though.

“Can I?” she asked, sounding eager and skimming her palms down his chest.

He didn’t ask for her to clarify; he would have agreed to anything and everything she wished. “Yeah. Yes,” he nodded too in case she didn’t understand him given how his brain seemed to have shuttered into a mode of incoherent thought, solely relying on automatic reaction.

Jon was absolutely fine, however, with how Sansa reached up to tug free the knotted string of his jerkin. He’d clearly worn far too many clothes for this, wanting to portray a veneer of strength and impenetrability for their discussion, but Sansa’s fingers were undeterred, deftly running down his laces, loosening and untying as she went, first his leather jerkin meeting the stone floor with a slap and then his shirt joining it there silently.

Her hands slid over his muscle that lined his arms, his chest, still there from all his regular training and riding, hunting, felling, and building at Castle Black and beyond the Wall. Sansa appraised him with such clear appreciation that maybe it should have been awkward, but Jon could not deny it felt nice to be admired like this after he’d spent years covering up his scars, making sure no shirt dipped too low where he might expose one and cause concern or disgust, or lift the hem too high and prompt unwanted questions, or even worse, provoke pity.

Sansa met his eye with a hum of apparent satisfaction, and then knelt down. He couldn’t imagine it was well-practiced, but even that motion was as prim and proper as the dance steps she’d demonstrated at the celebratory feast. While Jon was fairly certain she was aiming for his boots, still—

“I can,” he interrupted, like an utter imbecile determined to screw himself over at every turn, but just the sight of Sansa before him like this was already pushing him dangerously close to a precipitous edge.

Jon bent over, far less gracefully than Sansa had, but thankfully he managed without falling. It took a different kind of measured strength to keep his hands steady to unlace them just enough to be able to step free, leaving them and his socks alongside his other discarded clothing.

“What do you want?” he murmured, Sansa raking her eyes down him again with a heat that warmed his skin along with it, making his blood thrum. Her gaze settled where his only remaining clothes, his breeches, sat on his hips.

“Everything,” Sansa breathed, and pulled him down to kiss her again. Everything meant quite a lot to Jon, but he supposed this was as good a start as any.

He gathered her back into his arms, running a hand down her side until it connected with the fabric of her skirts. Even through the layers of material he could feel how warm, how soft she was against his chest, and that occupied his attention until something else bumping against him interrupted it. He tore his eyes away from her and glanced over his shoulder to see the offender the table at which they had dined moments ago. He eyed its contents, wondering if Sansa would be appalled or enthralled if he swept the remnants of their unfinished meal aside in his haste.

Jon needn’t to have worried about that, either. Sansa dragged him backwards without so much as breaking their kiss, her hands only leaving him to throw open the door to her chambers before she took one of his in hers, taking him along with her into the darkness.

Moonlight streamed through the open window, and only coals lingered in the grate, the fire itself having burnt out hours ago.

The room was still plenty warm though, and enough wood waited beside the hearth for the flames to be rekindled before Sansa turned in for bed. It would not be hard to stoke it to life again, and Jon could see to that himself tonight, if Sansa tolerated his presence for that length of time, rather than summoning the maids who usually might have come to complete the job. If it was left up to him, he planned neither to leave nor for anyone else to broach these chambers til the morning, or even past then if Sansa so desired.

But those plans could wait. Sansa was removing her own boots now, and once she finished with that, she stretched to undo the ties knotted at the nape of her neck.

“Let me,” Jon said, and she turned her back to him so he faced the crisscrossed lacing of her dress. It might have been faster to permit her to do it, even with how she contorted to reach around behind herself, but he could not let the opportunity flit past.

He tried to focus to prevent his hands from trembling, but that seemed to only serve to bring his attention to the fact that it was Sansa who stood before him, Sansa who allowed him to touch her, Sansa who incomprehensibly, impossibly, apparently wanted him.

Instead he smoothed them down her sides first to settle himself before he gathered her hair and placed it over one shoulder, and then Jon began to unravel the tangle of laces holding her dress together, feeling his sanity go along with it as he made himself go slow and savor each brush of his fingertips, taking care not to tear the delicate material. He chased the fabric with kisses as it slipped away from her skin, hoping to replace the warmth that was lost as he let it slide down her body bit by bit.

By the time Sansa’s skirts fell to the floor, his mouth made it to the juncture of her neck, his hands on her waist keeping her upright while she writhed against him. She wore a thin shift beneath, and when she prompted him to remove that too, Jon drew each of the thin straps off her shoulders and watched her step free of it, clad in only her stockings and smallclothes.

The same feeling of exhilaration he’d felt the first time he’d stood atop the Wall rushed through him when she twisted around to kiss him again. Backlit by the moonlight, even in the dim light she seemed to shine.

Jon had questioned if that feeling of awe, of wonder, of the joy of being alive had gone for good after he’d been resurrected. The world sometimes seemed muted and colorless compared to the way he remembered it before, devoid of visceral emotion, whether it be anger or fear or elation, or the appreciation of the simplest things, a sunrise viewed from the top of the Wall or a bowl of Hobb’s soup or a laugh shared with his friends. But Sansa had brought that back little by little ever since she jumped into his arms at Castle Black, and now he felt overwhelmed by it as she led him to her bed and pulled him down on top of her.

Sansa seemed to melt beneath him, skin burning everywhere he touched—his hands sliding down to cup her breasts, his chest pressed against hers, her legs wrapping around his waist. Jon wanted to laugh at how some had called her the ice queen, accused her of being frozen and cold, when she was anything but as he dropped kisses along the line of her collarbone. He so distracted by her and the feeling of her nipples hardening beneath his fingertips that he hardly noticed she had somehow managed to remove her smallclothes and stockings until his thigh connected with the hot, wet space between her legs.

Jon couldn’t help the pathetic whine that escaped his throat, nor how he dropped his forehead to her shoulder in an attempt to muffle it. Fuck.

He must have let the curse slip out though, because he felt Sansa laugh rather than heard her, and he chased the vibration by scratching his beard across her chest. “Do you want…?”

She nodded and took his hand from her breast, let it trail down her stomach, and nudged it lower still. He took her lead, and this time he didn’t even attempt to repress the strangled sound that slipped free when his fingers glided easily through the slickness gathered there.

Jon wished he’d had the presence of mind to at least loosen the laces of his breeches before this had all begun, because as much as he could distract himself with the feeling of Sansa beneath his hands, they were growing rather uncomfortable with the current situation at the moment. He didn’t let himself think about that or anything else though as he slid from the edge of the bed to the floor, and Sansa sat up to grab for him, catching his free hand in hers.

“I’m not leaving,” he grinned. “Not unless you kick me out.”

“No, no, of course not,” she said, but she still looked unsure about why exactly he was kneeling on the flagstones, so he gently ran his hands up and down her thighs until she ceased trying to close them.

“I’d thought I might…” Jon didn’t know what it was truly called, which belied first and foremost what a fool he was for thinking he knew things earlier when she had asked, and secondly, even if he knew a name for it, it was probably some kind of vulgar one that wasn’t fit for her ears in any case. “Kiss you somewhere else. But only if you want.”

Sansa didn’t look scandalized by that suggestion, at least. “You don’t have to…”

“I like to,” he said, still tracing patterns on her skin, feeling how sensitive she was already, just here.

“You like it?” Her uncertainty had been replaced by a teasing tone, and Jon would let her make fun of him all she wanted if it meant she trusted him like this.

“I do.” They could discuss this part of it more later when he was in a state of mind to adequately defend himself, sometime when he felt like his brain could function at a higher capacity. At the risk of sounding unbearably cocky, he added, “I hope you like it as much as I do.”

“Well, that’s… well, now I have to see what it’s all about,” she said, seemingly making up her mind and settling back on her elbows so she could still watch. He wouldn’t begrudge her that, but fuck— the thought of doing this while Sansa watched directly made his cock throb in his breeches.

He resumed touching her, slowly drawing his fingers through her folds, before he leaned in, flattened his tongue, and licked a broad, hot stripe up her center.

“That’s… that’s, oh… oh,” Sansa sighed, losing track of the rest of her thought, and her lack of words said enough about her response for him to continue.

He repeated the motion with his tongue, adding pressure with each pass he made, and when she tilted her hips for more, he slid a finger into her, followed by another, and groaned when he felt her clench around them. Sansa settled her hand in his hair, evidently having given up on holding herself up as she started to turn breathless and boneless around him. Jon could relate—he felt as though he was burning the same way he was when he had been trumped up on anger and fighting out in the yard with swords, and while now it was no less intense, it was entirely pleasant, an inferno in which he was willing to allow himself to be consumed.

Still, he forced himself to pull away for a brief moment, replacing the rhythm established by his tongue with his thumb skimming across her clit. “Is this all right?”

“Feels,” Sansa panted, “Good.”

“Just good?” Jon asked.

“Mhm,” she gave a hum and sigh blurred together, and while that was validating, he was determined.

He could do better than good.

He curled his fingers, pressing more firmly against her, and felt her grow slicker, tighter. Jon fought through his own desire, the haze of it threatening to cloud his mind and tempting him to find any sort of relief by rutting against the bed, hoping to avoid making an embarrassing mess before this was even over. Instead he distracted himself by hitching her legs higher over his shoulders and concentrated with his entire being on keeping a steady pace.

Sansa clapped a hand over her mouth, and Jon wouldn’t have that. He reached up to draw it away, encouraging her to thread her fingers through his hair again. He didn’t care if the rest of them heard her—he wanted them to, in fact, and the thought of that spurred him on until Sansa gasped, hot and breathy, squeezing around him, and Jon thought if things ended here then he would be able to happily live the rest of his life just on the memory of that sound alone.

He tried not to let his pride show as he sat back on his heels and looked up at her, knowing he had to look absolutely disheveled and obscene and nowhere near as beautifully tousled as she did.

“That’s… that’s not all, right?” Disappointment briefly flashed in her blue eyes before she corrected herself. “I—I mean, I didn’t intend to reply it was bad, quite the opposite of that…”

Jon huffed a laugh against her knee and fit himself between her legs, crossing his arms over her thighs. “It’s all right. Did you… did you wish for more?”

She reached down and hauled him up to join her on the bed, pulling him in to resume kissing now that they were on equal footing once again. There was nothing tentative about her kisses, and Jon drank them in, repaying her confidence in kind. Her hands slid to his breeches, and this time he allowed her to unlace them, to continue what she had nearly attempted to start out in her antechamber, where the rest of his clothes laid no more than a few mere paces away but might have been miles for how much the journey they had made from there to here had completely uprooted his world as he knew it.

He was glad this position meant Sansa likely couldn’t pay witness to the awkward maneuver he engaged in to fully remove his breeches and smallclothes—he had decided to wear some after all, even if he had briefly considered the appeal of perhaps going without—and he tossed the clothing away without regard for where it might land.

Sansa pushed him back until he laid against her pillows. There were many of them, too many for his personal taste and too plush compared to the sacks of grain or rolled furs he was more accustomed to sleeping on, but he could not deny they felt luxurious against his back, and even more importantly, they propped him up in a way that allowed him an even better view of Sansa.

His cock twitched, evidently feeling neglected, and he finally took mercy on himself and wrapped a hand around it, thumb gliding wetly over the tip. Sansa’s eyes followed the motion, which made heat coil itself even tighter in his belly, and then she stretched out to cover her hand with his, the rest of her body soon following as she shifted to hover over him. “Is this too…?”

Jon cleared his throat, the words catching at first when she drew his length through her folds. “No. It’s perfect.”

He was wrong, though. He had no idea how he thought he even knew the definition of that word before she began to sink down on him, and then when she sheathed him completely, he didn’t know any words at all.

Jon wished he could say he gave a dignified grunt, or a groan even, but it was truly more of a whimper that escaped his throat as Sansa rolled her hips, testing how he felt inside of her.

It seemed to encourage her on though since she rose up and sank back down on his cock again, making a lovely sound to join his own incoherent ones. Jon was certain Sansa had never looked more regal than this, closing her eyes in bliss, arching her back to fit against him just right, hair flowing over her shoulders like fire.

“Fuck,” he said, fully aware of cursing the curse this time, but far from being offended Sansa only laughed at his profanity and quickened her pace, grinding against him each time she sank down. If the world had gone black for him once before, it turned shades of vibrant color now, from her flushed pale skin and lips kiss-reddened to her blue eyes blown dark and wide.

He fit a hand between her legs and Sansa moved to meet his touch, going to brace her hands on his chest but then thinking better of it as her fingertips grazed his scars.

“No, they don’t hurt, not anymore,” Jon said in a rush, wanting her hands anywhere, everywhere. But even if they had still pained him, he would have taken it gladly if it meant he could see Sansa like this, feel her surrounding him, her legs beginning to tremble on either side of him, how she gripped him tighter as she chased her pleasure, how she looked when she fluttered around him as she peaked.

Sansa curled forward to kiss him again, kisses that were sweet but no less passionate than the previous ones. “Jon, I… did you?”

“I—” Mind muddled, he didn’t even have a chance to explain how he had resisted giving in to his own release with every fiber of his being before his cock throbbed, very clearly signaling he in fact had not finished.

She signed at the feeling and squeezed herself along his length in response before she tutted and flattened her hands against his chest and rolled to her back, taking him along with her, until Jon found himself bracketed between her knees in what was quickly becoming his very favorite place to be.

“I still want you,” she said, and between the way he could feel how true that was and how she gazed up at him he almost ended things right there.

He tilted his hips, pushing fully back into her once more, and her eyes fluttered shut with a gasp. He breathed to steady himself, fighting the urge to move, but he didn’t have to wait long for Sansa to rock her hips, prompting him to continue on, and he met hers with his own.

Jon would have been embarrassed he knew he would last no more than a few thrusts if he was not already in a state of disbelief that he had made it this far. He pulled out and spilled across her belly, worried how Sansa would feel about him making a mess of her until he glanced up and caught her grin.

She started to giggle, peals of laughter that were just as good as or even better than the moans and sighs she made before, and he couldn’t help but join in.

Chapter Text

In the morning, Jon could have sworn the sun shone brighter, the air of Winterfell felt lighter, and the grass in the godswood and beyond the stone walls gleamed more vibrant than ever. Then again, maybe he was simply losing his mind—it was entirely possible after the night he had just experienced.

One thing he was absolutely certain of, though, was the warmth of Sansa pressed against his chest, her breasts soft and her heart fluttering, his hand skimming down her back as they both tried to catch their breath.

After they had broken their fast on the unfinished rolls and fruit left behind from the previous night’s dinner, somehow their touching and teasing when Sansa had attempted to dress had led from one thing to another. Instead of wearing one of the pretty silk scarves Daario had gifted around her neck as fashion dictated, Jon had ended up with it wrapped around his wrists instead while Sansa had her way with him, using her mouth.

“I thought about this, you know,” she whispered, so quiet he was scarcely certain he heard her.

“What, tying me up with your scarves?”

“No,” she said.

He glanced down to see her cheeks grow crimson even after all they had done and raised an eyebrow.

“Well, other things, maybe.”

“Like?” He didn’t wish to pry or cause her discomfort, but his curiosity couldn’t be helped—that and he was willing to make all those things come true if it was what she wanted.

“I don’t know what they’re all called,” she said. How pretty she looked with a blush spreading across her skin didn’t serve to deter him much from encouraging her on either. “Things some of the women who traveled from Essos mentioned… I don’t think I could do their descriptions or pronunciations justice.”

That only served to inflame his interest. “Oh?”

“Some of them sound more like sewing techniques than positions for coupling, knots and twists and whatnot.”

“Well, you know I’m rather hopeless would a needle and a thread, but I’m more than willing to try all the rest.”

“They are not things you are familiar with already? I would have thought that she would have preferred…” she said, and it was perhaps the closest Sansa had ever come to acknowledging that what went on with Daenerys went beyond a mere political arrangement or familial tiff. “You know, for all her talk of taming men and riding dragons and all.”

“I didn’t… It wasn’t like that.” He couldn’t very well tell Sansa he had spent most of that time pretending Daenerys was her instead and treating her as such with what soft touches and sweet words he could muster to maintain the farce. “Well, it was, but I never would have trusted her like that.”

“Oh.” She seemed to find his answer strangely satisfying, nuzzling against him, pressing right up against the scar atop his heart. “Me neither.”

“I think you made that very clear.” A laugh rumbled up from his chest, jostling her hair spread across it. It still shone the loveliest red, even in the dim morning light and even after being between entwined between his fingers more times than he could count.

“I don’t mean with Daenerys.” Sansa lifted her head and tilted it toward the window, where outside surely people were beginning their morning activities. His world had been so shifted by the previous night that they and their mundane activities might as well be taking place on an entirely different continent.

Jon thought he knew to whom she referred, but his interpretations had evidently been lacking logic as of late so he figured he’d best well clarify. “You mean… Daario?”

Sansa nodded. Jon felt so loose-limbed and dazed by his own stroke of fortune that the mention of the man whose mere appearance had been the source of so much of his ire over the past weeks couldn’t even manage to spark anger in his blood now. “And here I was, thinking I was the one who had spent weeks acting like a fool.”

Jon frowned. “I—wait, what? What do you mean, you?”

“Did you truly think I harbored those feelings for Daario?”

“I didn’t—of course not.” Jon was glad she could not see his brow furrow further in confusion. “Although he is a titled prince, and he is rather tall, and no one could deny his strength or his skill with a sword…”

“He is all that, I will grant him that,” she agreed, shifting so she could fold both her hands across his chest and rest her chin upon them to look him in the eye. “But all the gold? The extravagant hair? The—” She made a flippant gesture with her hand that Jon could only presume to refer to Daario’s physique, his entire body, or his attitude of strutting around, or some combination of all those attributes. “It’s all a bit much, to be honest.”

“In that case, if we’re being honest, I think he’s a right git.”

She laughed, her breath huffing warm and pleasant against his skin. “That’s an apt summary of what I was getting at.”

“So you never… desired him?” He wondered if he was some kind of glutton for suffering, leaving the door open for her to lust over other men while she laid abed with him.

She shrugged. “He’s a very handsome and intriguing man, I can’t deny it. You seemed a little taken with him yourself.”

Jon thought back over his behavior and realized how it could have been interpreted that way and groaned. “Can we please speak of something else besides my utter and unfathomable stupidity?”

“I don’t know, I found it all quite amusing,” she said with a wicked grin.

“Why not… merely just say?” he suggested, but Jon knew the moment the words tumbled from his mouth that they were just as daft as the rest of his recent behaviors.

“Would you have returned to Winterfell if I told you of the truth, of how I felt?”

What would he have done, if Sansa had simply put her emotions down with quill and scroll? Then would there have been no need for games or for dancing around, avoiding admissions? Would he have returned if there had been no mention of Daario to light a fire in his blood?

He wished he could say of course he would have, but he knew that was not the reality of it. He knew how he would have reacted to a declaration like that. He would have mounted his horse, whistled to Ghost and ridden farther from Castle Black and Winterfell, further into the Frostfangs than he had ever ventured before, convincing himself that he couldn’t do that to Sansa again, that she deserved better than him. It would have all been a trick of his own mind, perhaps, but it was what he would have done nonetheless.

He thought of how she sent him letter after letter, how some he didn’t even bother to grace with a response. He recalled how he’d missed harvest feasts and her namedays and anniversaries of taking back Winterfell and ridding Westeros of the Night King. He remembered how he had taken any brief mentions of Bran and Arya she shared and tucked them away in his heart, not thinking of why she shared such sentiments with the only other person who might understand that longing.

He thought back over the last few weeks since he had returned. He gave consideration to the way Sansa had arranged for them to be alone often, how she had dressed, how she reacted each time he seemed to spurn her. No, it wouldn’t have mattered what else she said. He forced himself to admit just how right she was to himself now, that he could imagine exactly how he would have responded if she had written the truth, and that none of the options ended up with him laying here as he did now.

He drew his hands down his face and groaned again. “I’m such a damn fool.”

“I didn’t know what else to do. I thought I might try one last time, and if that didn’t take, then I had my answer.”

“Would you have entertained the idea of him if I’d continued to be ignorant?”

“Again, I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it,” she said with a sigh. “His attentions were not unwanted. It’s silly, after all these years… I guess in some ways I’m still the little girl that wanted the knight to fight for her. Who wanted the prince, even if he’s not all he seems to be.”

“I’m not any of those things,” he said. “Not anymore, anyway.”

“You’re right,” she said. “You’re much better.”

It was stupid how that of all things made his cheeks flush now. “What was it that convinced you?”

“Well, I did find your little speech quite endearing,” she said.

He strained to think back to the previous night. Dinner seemed a long, long time ago, the world before they surged together in a kiss seeming vague and distant, like another lifetime, even—and he would certainly know. That was probably with good reason since he couldn’t help but cringe when he finally dredged up the memory of how he’d gone on and on about how it felt to love another, and even worse, how it felt to act on that passion. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Forgive me for that.”

“No, really!” she giggled, reaching up to pull his hands away from where he threatened to cover his face again. “I thought after all else perhaps I might be too staid for your liking. Or that maybe we sought different things. But it showed your kindness, that you care about more than yourself and your own pleasures.”

“Wonderful, I never knew the prospect of my own incompetency could be so persuasive,” he grumbled.

“I wouldn’t say that at all. I thought it was… quite enjoyable,” she said, and now it was her turn to flush. He was certain she looked far prettier doing it than him though as she leaned down to catch his lips with her own.

“I did warn you I’m not really one for words,” he murmured.

“I do think I much prefer your tongue doing other things,” she said, rolling to her back and bringing him along with her, and well, he wasn’t going to miss taking a hint like that after all the others he had fumbled.

When they had finished, Sansa laid sprawled out beside him again, running her fingernails over his skin that still seemed too sensitive beneath her touch in the best possible way, his scars soothed and his mind calmed.

“Will you stay?”

“I’m not sure I’m capable of leaving these chambers any time soon,” he said, certain his legs would feel rather unsteady if he were to test them at the moment.

“I don’t mean today,” she said, still beautiful even with a roll of her eyes.

“If you’ll have me,” he said softly. “I’d like that.”

“Of course, I understand if you have some wildling woman you’d wish to return to beyond the Wall, or if you found some dragons there you feel more comfortable amongst.” She laughed at her own ribbing of him, and he skimmed his hand down her side until he found the ticklish spot he discovered last night and she squealed.

“Unhand me,” she panted in between peals. “That’s an order from your queen.”

“That’s right,” he said. “Speaking of the things we might have desired…” He reached over to her nightstand, picking up her crown of intertwined direwolves and placing it atop his own curls. “I never had a crown like this,” he pouted.

“You always did love a queen,” she teased.

“Aye. I have.” I do. And he knew he always would. “Only you.”

Somehow at breakfast the next morning in the Great Hall, Daario knew.

Jon didn’t know how he knew, but he did, and Jon knew he did. He wondered if Daario could read the flush that crept up Sansa’s chest when they arrived later than usual and bid him a good morning. He wondered if Daario suspected based on the way that nearly every word Sansa shared was accompanied by a sly little grin sent Jon’s way when she thought no one else was looking. He wondered if Daario could see the scrub Jon’s beard left on her long pretty neck or where he’d left an imprint of his teeth on her collarbone.

Ignoring how the Tyroshi’s eyes flickered between the two of them with interest, Jon dug into his plate heaped high with sausages and boiled eggs and spiced oatmeal and apple tarts with relish, hoping Daario could see all of that and imagine even more. The idea of it made him feel both a stupid streak of pride and heat spread across his skin once more, although he did not think he could perform again without some actual food in his belly after spending a whole day sustaining on leftover biscuits and fruit, although he had seemed to scarcely notice any pangs of hunger while distracted by other so much else.

He had had half a mind to come to breakfast looking the way he had when he’d woken this morning—his hair tousled by Sansa’s fingers, from how she had tugged on it while he pleasured her in every kind of way, his shirt open and loose to show the marks her nails had certainly left across his chest shoulders, his clothes untied because he knew the moment he put them on they would be pulled off again. He couldn’t do that to Sansa, though, who somehow managed to look more resplendent than ever in a high-necked, northern-styled dress of grey lace accentuated by a cascade of weirwood leaves that seemed to glimmer the same shade as her coppery hair.

Well, perhaps less resplendent than she had looked stretched out beneath him, but her radiance could not be denied nonetheless. With the memory of that image etched in his mind, he thought he would even look forward to the next time she made use of the fashions Daario had gifted her, the flowing dresses with exotic fabrics that were cut low and high somehow both at once. He could see them for what they were now—pretty indulgences, a chance for Sansa to enjoy her beauty and exercise the freedom to wear what she pleased when that had been so often constrained by winter and the judgments of others.

The flush Sansa still wore on her cheeks as she picked at her food could have been from any number of things—the morning chill in the air, the refraction of the sunlight through the windows, or the warm lemony tea she drank along with consuming her breakfast. But Jon liked to think it still lingered from the kiss they shared outside, when he had tried to convince her to return to her chambers, insisting this would be their last chance to turn back, that none inside would be the wiser if she made no appearance at all, that they would all simply assume she was occupied with her duties of being queen. There had been some talk of those that they strayed into the previous night as well, and everything they might entail beyond the simple titles, visits to the houses of the North both near and far, and the future of Winterfell and House Stark.

“You seem to be in good spirits, my lord,” Daario said after Sansa excused herself to make her rounds around the hall. It seemed he had finished his meal and already moved onto sipping ale at this early hour.

Jon glanced up at him. He had known, after all, that he would have to encounter the man at some point and that Daario was not one to suffer sitting in silence. He could have left back for the Wall, could have gone for a hunting holiday in the wolfswood, could have simply avoided Daario for another day as he’d sought to do over the past fortnight they had shared Winterfell, but those actions had all been taken with cowardice. Perhaps it would have been helpful, though, to have taken some time to prepare some words for this possibility.

“Aye.” His brain was evidently still addled by the events of the past day and a half. “I am. Lovely day. Nice weather.”

The wicked smile Daario flashed him did not bother Jon this time, nor did the way he had dressed for a simple meal in the Great Hall in an all-yellow ensemble Jon thought he still would have been able to spot had he stood atop the Wall and looked out over the North to view Winterfell in the very far, very vague distance. How could he bother to care about such things when now he knew how it felt to wake with Sansa in his arms, or the way her tongue felt swirled against the underside of his cock? What did it matter to him what this man thought when Sansa had whispered every sort of sweet nothing in his ear or when he had been the one asked to stay in Winterfell, to remain by her side?

“And she looks happy as well,” Daario observed, and Jon traced his eyes across the room to where they settled on Sansa. He could not blame the man for that either, not when his own also seemed to always find her so easily, and it appeared so did that of others, who watched her with admiration as she shook their hands and took the time to smile at their children and listen to the stories they shared.

Jon answered with a simple grunt this time, instead taking the opportunity to stuff his mouth full of eggs and sausages again before they grew cold.

Daario finally tore his gaze away from Sansa and leaned across the table so Jon could still hear him when he spoke in a voice far more reserved than his usual one imbued with hubris and innuendo. “I’m happy for you too, you know.”

“Why’s that?” Jon snapped. He might have no longer despised Daario down to what he was certain were his very foul, very odious guts anymore, but old habits still died hard.

Daario shrugged. “Because we’ve all spent far too much time in misery, and the world could always use a little more joy.” He paused to scratch at his beard, and Jon couldn’t help but notice for the first time that he bested the man there too—it might have been longer and neatly styled, but he suspected he couldn’t grow it out without it becoming patchy nor grow it out to the extent Jon could. “And because you love her.”

Jon turned to face him squarely so he could level the full intensity of his glare. “What do you know about that?”

“I know you broke your stubborn pride streak to come to her rescue.” He nibbled at some of the fruit placed in the center of the table as he spoke. “I know you were willing to make yourself look like a fool if it meant protecting her and defending her honor. And I know that you’re sitting here right this moment and talking to me, your once sworn enemy, if it means respecting her wishes.”

Jon said nothing since he could not deny any of those things.

Daario glanced over to where Sansa was now laughing with one of the ladies from wintertown and sighed. “I never lied either, you know. Your sister is a beautiful woman, and an even better queen. I would know, of course.”

He followed it up with a winked, and not even that brash display could cause Jon’s temper to rise anymore. Daario could rake his eyes over Sansa all he wanted, but Jon knew her heart. How could he mind something so insignificant as that, when he knew now how other things felt? He knew what it felt like to have her heart beat against his, to hold her hand entwined with his, to have Sansa look at him with the kind of fondness that could not be replicated, that could only be built over time, stone by stone, memory layered upon memory, that could not possibly be felt for anyone but him.

“Try one.” Daario shoved the plate laden with fruits brought over from Essos towards Jon.

He looked them over—berries of all shades, dried figs and dates, round fruits of red and orange—and took one. What could it hurt? He bit into the peach, juice running down his chin, the flesh softer than he had anticipated, sweetness overwhelming his tongue.

“It’s nice to see you finally appreciating the finer things life has to offer,” Daario said, not unkindly. “They are meant to be enjoyed and cherished.”

“It is not bad,” Jon forced himself to admit. He finished it and reached for another. “Not what I thought, but not bad.”

“I figured you’d come around eventually,” Daario said. “I just didn’t think it would take so much prompting.”

Jon appraised him as they sat across from one another. At second glance (all right, more than that, third or fourth or even fifth, but who’s counting), it seemed silly that he could have ever thought Daario Naharis to be Sansa’s type. He was certainly handsome, but he was also too muscular, his eyes too light, his hair woven into a frivolous style that would never survive the true northern winds that came with winter.

“I’ll be on my way soon,” Daario said, evidently still as undeterred as ever by Jon’s staring. “Should I spread word of the good news?”

Jon opened his mouth to reply, unsure of what he intended to come out—to tell Daario to get lost, to offer an apology that would probably be well deserved, or to growl at him just to fuck off, now that he was assured he was forever in Sansa’s good graces and he could probably get away with such rudeness. But instead strangely, oddly, what tumbled out was, “Thank you.”

The words seemed to take Daario aback too, the expression not one Jon had witnessed before, his look of surprise disconcerting. It was short lived at least, only taking a moment for his features to settle back into his usual smug smirk. “You don’t have to thank me. I wouldn’t have minded had she chosen me, but in truth, I am glad it is you.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s what she wanted,” he said simply. “And there are worse swordsmen out there. Far worse.”

Jon laughed and instantly felt lighter. In another lifetime maybe he could have fought alongside this man, allied their forces with each other, treated across the Narrow Sea, been comrades of some kind, if not friends. “Safe travels, then.”

“I suspect I’ll be seeing you again before very long,” Daario said, and when he caught onto Jon’s confusion, he added on, “I’ll eagerly be awaiting my invitation by raven.”

Despite all the awkwardness earlier and Daario’s clear recognition of what had gone on between him and Sansa behind closed doors, it was that mere insinuation that made Jon’s cheeks tinge the slightest bit of pink.

“You’ll be sure to see her before you leave?” Jon could not believe what he was suggesting, but it was what seemed right, and he felt that knot he’d carried around for so long in his chest loosen further.

Daario poured himself another glass of ale, clearly in no rush at all to leave Winterfell’s hospitality. “Of course. I wouldn’t dream of displeasing the queen.”

“Good.” Jon had not yet reached a point where he wished to touch the man, and he was not sure if he ever would, but he offered a short nod and bow his way instead. “Nor would I, so if you’ll excuse me.”

He stood without sparing Daario another glance. He thought it was about time he found Sansa, and that perhaps they might go for that walk in the godswood now.

There was something he had to ask her.