Chapter Text
The only thing Jon Snow feels is weary. It’s in his bones, seeping through to the marrow, making a home for itself. He doesn’t want to suffer the slew of problems that this giant of a woman most likely intends to throw at his feet.
He has to tilt his head upwards to meet her eyes, a crystal clear blue against the dull grey haze of the horizon. Brienne Tarth, daughter of Selwyn Tarth, the Lord of Evenfall—or so she tells him. The next admission is the one that catches his attention: sworn sword of the late Lady Stark, honour bound to track down her two missing daughters with the intent to return them to safety.
Jon sucks in a breath, for he sees the figure of a cloaked woman make herself known across the yard. Her back to him, she circles around the front of a horse, a slither of pale skin exposed from the sleeve of her gown slipping back as she makes slow, soothing passes up and down the horse’s neck. He hopes, dear gods does he hope, and he’s taking a step forward just as the Lady Tarth halts him with a hand to his chest.
“She claims not to be a Stark,” she reveals, all in hushed tones. “But the Bolton’s named her as Arya Stark when they wedded her to their heir.”
He’d begun to feel muddled, but at hearing that name spoken, the name of his sister; the hope refuses to leave. Instead it swells inside his tired heart, threatening to choke him, and propels his legs forward. In a few long strides, Jon finds himself at her back, a hand lightly resting upon her shoulder. He wants nothing more than to gather her in a hug, to hold her to him until his still healing body protests against the strain. He wants to tell this girl that has come to grow as tall as he, that he was coming for her, that he wouldn’t have left her in the grasp of men that sought to ruin her.
All his intentions whither when she turns to face him and he is met with eyes of vivid blue instead of ones that should mirror his own. Arya this is not, but her familiarity hits him in the chest hard enough for him to have to stifle a surprised breath. Her name is on the tip of his tongue, his hand in the midst of capturing her cheek in his palm, to feel the heat of her skin to skin, confirming that she’s real.
She curtsies, strands of brown hair fall from her hood and her body swoops low enough that parts of her skirts that were clean, now become as sullied as the hem. Her chin rests on her chest and in a voice that he believed to be dredged from his memories, greets him with a detached, “m’lord.”
It stings, and Jon finds himself glancing back at the Lady Tarth, confused and left floundering next to a woman who he knows to be Sansa Stark.
The Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch relinquishes his chambers and leaves her to her own devices. Sansa can see that he is bewildered by her sudden appearance, a shadow of the sister from his past claiming to be naught but a stranger. The guilt is there, hidden deep in her chest, for she witnessed the hint of hurt in his eyes.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. When she had taken Theon’s hand in her own and jumped she was choosing freedom, even if it came at the price of death. He had known, and understood, how hard it was to distinguish between the person you were—are—and the person you pretend to be. So when a lady knight with a sword that could have easily dispatched her head from her body appeared before them, Sansa continued to wrap herself in the veil of safety of Alayne Stone.
She claimed to be a sworn sword of her mother, but Sansa was no longer naïve enough to take someone solely at their word. She promised to take her to her half-brother at the wall, but Sansa would only believe her when they rode through the old creaking gates of Castle Black.
Theon had trusted the Lady Tarth and had taken his own path, his shame over the betrayal of Robb sitting heavy upon his shoulders, too heavy for him to face Jon Snow who would surely hand him his penance. She had forgiven him, not sure if it was even in the nature of Alayne Stone to deny empathy where it is deserved. He pressed his cold face to her hair, whispering his goodbyes as strands became stuck in the bleeding cracks of his dry lips.
The Lady Tarth had kept her word, all to Sansa’s surprise, and Castle Black had risen before them in the distance. It was at this point that she thought to tell the truth, but the closer they got the more she feared to face her half-brother. Beneath the guise of Alayne she carried her own shame and guilt, and her eyes had stung at the thought of her father. Oh, how Jon Snow had looked up to and admired their father. Would he look at her with hatred when he learned of her hand in it all? Would he sneer at the stupid girl who had unknowingly chosen a monster over the most kind and honourable man she was likely to know? She had once thought how sweet it would be to see him again, her half-brother, but now she feared his abhorrence. Better then, to be Alayne rather than Sansa, was it not?
Now she paced around his chambers. It smelt of leather, polish, smoke and—a smile, small, just enough to lift the corners of her mouth—wolf. She finds him, red eyes and a snow white coat shadowed in a dark corner of the room. Sansa inches closer, slowly, until she lowers herself to her knees and sits back on her heels. He towers over her like this and she continues to creep forward, one arm raised, her hand curled into a gentle fist and offered to the direwolf that has grown far larger than Lady ever would have.
She expects him to hesitate, or to even growl in warning, but he only nuzzles her hand with his wet snout. Sansa lets out a shaky breath, doesn’t think twice before she has her arms wrapped around his neck, and her face now damp with tears, pressed into the thick warm mane at his chest. This was how she had wanted to greet Jon. Close they may have never been but he is all she has left. For all the safety Alayne provides her, Sansa knows that family she does not. Maybe, just maybe, Jon will embrace her in return.
He watches her in the early morning light. It’s bright, sunlight reflecting off the snow that had yet to be cleared from the yard. It crunches beneath her boots, mixes with the mud beneath and slowly turns murky.
Jon can see, now that her hood is down, the hints of copper that weaves it way throughout her braid where the brown is starting to fade. Dye. What has happened to her that she had to hide who she is? And then he feels stupid for asking because he can repeat, word for word, the letter Ramsey Bolton sent him and can easily form an inkling from the man’s words alone.
He stills finds himself at a loss on how to approach her. She is not the girl from his childhood anymore and has become a woman that he does not know, a woman that would rather hide away within herself than to claim her heritage. So he watches her, two gloved hands wrapped around the hilt of a wooden training sword as she tries to wiggle it free from between Ghost's jaws. She slips and an arm curls around the direwolf’s neck so as to catch her balance while a breathless laugh reaches his ears.
The tension he wasn't even aware he holds, eases, and a smile begins to form on his lips. Jon had always liked Sansa’s laugh. As it rung out through the grounds of Winterfell and caught his ear, he would find his head turning towards the direction it came from. If he was quick enough he would catch a glimpse of rosy cheeks, sparkling eyes and a wide smile.
She’s smiling now as Ghost takes pity on her and releases the sword, and Jon doesn’t think he could look away from her if he tried. She steps backwards, creating a distance between herself and Ghost, then brings the sword into her body before flinging it across the yard with a wide sweep of her arm. Ghost bounds after it, leaps, and it is back between his jaws once more.
The breaths he exhales through his nose becomes heavy as his throat tightens, and he finally pulls his eyes away from her when a gruff voice from behind asks, “You’re sister?”
“Aye.”
“She looks nothing like you,” Tormund points out.
“Half-sister. She favours her lady mother.”
The bigger man grunts then teases, “Her lady mother must have been a fine woman to look at.”
Catelyn Stark had been beautiful, her daughter even more so, and it irks Jon that the man has taken notice of just how stunning a picture Sansa makes, even with the brown dye hiding the natural tone of her hair. Like rust, he remembers, highlighted by vibrant copper when the sun shone upon her.
“She’s not to be touched,” Jon warns and Tormund lets out a bark of laughter loud enough for Sansa to take notice, for her to still in her play with Ghost to silently observe their exchange.
“Untwist your smalls, it’s the big one that has caused me to stir. Think about mounting that."
Jon holds back a laugh, because from what he has seen of the Lady Tarth, Tormund is more likely to get his manhood lobed off than to bed her. He pats the man on the back nonetheless. “I wish you luck,” he chuckles. “Are your men ready to leave?”
“Waiting on you, m’lord.”
This was it, then. No more putting it off. Why was it so hard for him to approach her? What was he afraid of? Looking in her eyes and seeing all the torment there, knowing that he hadn’t given much thought to how she'd faired over the years other than to support her claim on Winterfell. He had been ready to break down the walls of Winterfell for who he thought to be Arya, yet he hadn’t batted an eye when he’d learnt of Sansa’s forced marriage to the imp. Guilt, then. What must she think of him? It was his duty to protect her, and he hadn’t. But he could now. He would now.
When he approaches her, she falls into that ridiculously low curtsy again. “Lord Commander.”
“Jon,” he corrects. He will play her game for now, he decides. If it’s what she wants then that is what he will give her. It did not mean that he would not try to coax her out from where she is hiding.
“Excuse me?”
“Jon Snow. No titles, not any longer. The new Lord Commander has granted me consent in stepping down from my watch.”
A flash of worry crosses her face before she squares her shoulders. “Oh. And where will you go?” she asks as if it is no bother to her.
“Where will we go,” Jon amends and she seems so shocked, her mouth opening and closing a few times before words finally find her. “You intend to take me with you?”
“Yes, to the free folk for now. Unless you do not want to come?” he asks with a raised a brow.
“There is nowhere else for me to go, m’lord.”
“As I thought. Well, if we’re going to be travelling together then it would befit me to know a lady’s name.”
She bites her lip, hesitation perhaps, before she makes her choice. “Alayne Stone.”
“Alayne Stone.” He gives her a meaningful look. I remember, he wants to say. “A pretty name for a pretty lady.”