Come home he did. But not without cost. The night was long, cold, and even dragon’s fire failed to bring light or warmth to the living. Jon remembered everything in pieces, his body pushed to the limit. He slashed away at the dead but they kept coming. As one of the living fell, a pair of icy blue eyes replaced them within minutes. Jon barely got control over Rhaegal and when the creature was wounded to a point of giving up, he had no choice but to leave the sky for the ground and Daenerys alone with whatever remained of her third child. It was a massacre down there. Blood and dirt smeared on men like war paints, yet they got nowhere. No amount of fire could burn the dead fast enough and no amount of dragonglass could pierce through enough dead flesh to keep them at bay.
Yet by some miracle, they exploded into ice speckles around the living. One by one they dropped to the ground as just dawn peaked its way pass the horizon. Jon had been fighting his way to the weirwood tree where the Night King was searching for Bran when Viserion caught of whiff of him. He could not remember how long he had been slashing at the fire-breathing and how many times he had to duck before its fire burn him, but he did know that when it dropped to the heaps of stone and dead bodies before him, he could finally breathe again. The rush of air made him come back to his bodily presence. And that was when he felt the jabbing pain on his left side. The pain was blinding and made him almost afraid to look down at the wounds. He found three open claw marks on his side: all angry looking with red blood oozing out. Dropping Longclaw, he placed both hands on the gaping wounds as a sloppy attempt to stop the blood. But the blood soaked through the cracks of his digits and his vision blurred. His head felt like as the world began to spin. When his head hit the ground, he could see little but flame still torching the walls of Winterfell and then he heard his name.
Jon. He almost recognized the voice and it made him smile a little. But her voice sounded so urgent… as if something was wrong. Nothing was wrong because he could feel his body growing lighter and the pain fading away. She ran through the rubbles toward him, but he could not meet her halfway. Her red hair had flown out of her braided bun and she had dirts and blood on her face. But she looked alive. She was alive, because her hands felt warm on his cheeks. She was screaming at him but he could not hear her. Sansa, he tried to sound out her name whenever she become blurrier to the sight. But darkness took him despite his protest.
Sansa. He found himself calling for her every time blackness was replaced by burst of lights. But it was not always her he woke up to. Sometimes it was Arya, other times it was Maester… Maester Someone. But it was her sometimes. And then it was Daenerys with her white hair. The Dragon Queen looked concerned the first time she saw his eyes cracking. But then her brows jumped and her eyes blazed with shock. He did not know what he was doing to make her so mad as her lilac eyes turned dark. But he never saw her again. His whole body felt weak and sometimes the pain on the side returned in full force. He had remember screaming but it was always remedied with some white liquid being poured down his mouth, likely the numbing milk of the poppy. Jon did not know how many days he was bedridden but he felt as if death had taken him and now he faced its cold, brutal claws raking through his body. Sometimes they were as hot as iron though, burning him inside out. He did not know how he survived but after day three, he found himself opening his eyes and that he could finally ask for water.
The Maester was quick to meet his demands and then ordered a boy to fetch Sansa. When she came, Jon had managed to roll up onto his uninjured side and pushed himself into a sitting position. He found it odd that Sansa was the one who was specifically requested, but the pain clouded him from further speculation.
“My Lady?” Sansa turned her head, disoriented by the sudden voice. Sansa sat beneath the Weirwood as she had all morning, silently praying for Jon. She thought she’d been done with all that, until now. Until they something she wanted more than her pride. Something worth begging for, even if the arrogant tree’s would not listen. “He’s awake.”
They sat in uncomfortable silence until they didn’t. The tombs began to stir and the steely screech of stone on stone reverberated through the crypts as the dead began to wake. She had turned to Tyrion, lips parted and afraid to so much as breathe. He looked back, closing his eyes hesitantly in a brief acceptance. The children began to warble petrified little cries as their mothers hushed them urgently. The snarls of the wights boomed from the level below, the bones of their feet clattering on the cobble. “Hide! You must hide,” Sansa commanded in a whisper, eyes glinting with tears of terror. They began to scramble, some even crawling to lessen the sound as the footsteps drew nearer. The dwarf took her by the hand, tugging her in tow as he moved to find shelter behind her father. They had been locked down here to protect them, to keep them safe from harm if only minutes longer should the rest fall. But no one had considered the dead they had been buried with, rising to join the others and claiming anyone between them and their King. He pulled her down beside him, still gripping her hand with enough force to bring Sansa back to her body.
“We’re trapped in here,” She whispered. Thousands of dead Kings of the past lay buried beneath them, each of them. The iron swords meant to keep their vengeful spirits locked inside rusted to nothing but a discoloured stain centuries ago for some.
“Up there, we’ll die,” He reminded her.
“Down here, we’ll die,” She insisted, hand still in hand though she paid the gesture no mind. Sansa plucked the obsidian dagger from her hip, clutching it tightly in her mittened hand as she watched Tyrion do the same. These were her people, this is where she was supposed to be. Where Bran told her to be. It was her duty to protect them, even if she scarcely knew how to protect herself. Tyrion pulled her hand closer, pressing his lips against it for a long moment that she did not begrudge him. Nothing mattered, none of this mattered. Not unless she made it back to Jon. She offered only a watery smile, as she held up three fingers. Then two. Then one.
The two scrambled out as the wights began their assault, unsure of herself, Sansa slashed wildly in any direction, desperately trying to keep them at arms length. “Out of the crypts, hurry!” She commanded as women began to flee in every direction, some even running deeper into the darkness. Suddenly, her dagger struck true, burying itself in the back of a mouldy corpse, sending it to the floor unmoving with a single swing as she desperately tried yanking the blade free once more. During her struggle, another knocked her to the ground, gnashing its teeth inches from her face as its terrible hands scrambled for purchase on her. She shoved with all her might, half managing to toss the creature back until it sank its awful teeth into her leg, catching a sharp slither of dragon glass inside his throat. Another pounced, banging it’s skeletal hands against her cheek, busting the skin open with a blow. Another crawled atop, and another as Sansa sobbed and screamed beneath them, desperately trying to avoid a killing blow as they bit and struck her. Suddenly one sagged, and another and the other. Tyrion visible over their shoulders as she wept in relief, taking his hand gratefully as he attempted to help her up right. Sansa had her dagger in hand, pointing and slashing at anything that dare come too close as she made her way up the steps with the other women and their babes, desperately trying to unbolt the heavy door. As it finally wrenched free, Sansa heard nothing of the creatures. Not their growls or haunting steps, only the dying cries of the injured. She shoved the door open regardless, setting the others loose as they ran towards the keep, even Tyrion who tried to pull her along beside him until she’d turned, yanking herself free.
She had ran from the crypts despite the aching of her leg and body, watching the dead drop like leaves in autumn time, collapsing silently into the snow. She didn’t have time to understand, not truly. She kept her dagger close, eyes half blind as she stumbled over corpses rushing to the Godswood, though she struggled to understand her haste as the world staggered around her. All she knew is her little brother was supposed to be there; she had no idea where Arya was or... Her eyes flit down, scanning the dead more carefully as she waded by briskly, searching for familiarity in the cold, frostbitten faces. Jon. She needed to find him, glancing at the sky she looked for the screeching beasts overhead. The sky was sterile and quiet, full of only mist and smoke. Something wet pushed against her palm and Sansa gasped, pulling her hand to her chest as her eyes adjusted. Ghost stood at her side, bloodied and missing an ear but on his four feet proudly. She crumpled beside him, burying her hands in the lose skin of his white throat as she pulled him as close as either aching body allowed with a sob. The wolf let out a rumble, letting her curl against him pliably. The world stood a little less terrifying as his looming red eyes watched men pass by with silent warning over her shoulder, letting the Stark girl weep into his thick fur for only a moment.
The direwolf nudged at her legs until Sansa was forced to stand, guiding her through the decay of Winterfell with her hand gripping the meat of his shoulder. Suddenly, Ghost altered the pace, sprinting ahead as he almost tripped from the sudden loss of his weight against her. She stared after him blind from the tears for a moment, confusion on her brow until she saw his target. The world stopped on it’s axis as she saw him, swaying in the wind as the smoke and fire plumed around him. And in an instant, Sansa was running too, as wild as any wolf, howling his name over the commotion. “Jon!” Her leg burned beneath her, struggling to match the urgency of her pace. He staggered a second longer, before toppling into the snow. She screamed for him, every survivor in Winterfell, suddenly aware of her presence as she pushed by carelessly. She fell to her knees beside him in the snow, cupping his face as she begged him to hold on for the Maester. To just wait a little longer and everything would be fine. She wept cold tears, feeling them freeze upon her cheeks as she stammered over her breaths, calling to any who’d listen to help her get him back inside the castle walls.
For days, he remained in limbo. Barely breathing, but still hanging on. He slurred her name each time he came to, only to drift back into the darkness where he could not find her. She gripped his hand, promising him through the restlessness of his induced sleep that she was still there. Sansa scarcely removed herself from his side the first day even helping Maester Wolkan stitch his bleeding wounds shut, helping smear the ointment to prevent rot from setting in the seams. But come nightfall, there were preparations to be made, bodies piled up the battlements so high that one could climb them if they tried. Children left without parents, bellies empty of food and with more people wounded than not many went unattended. Arya came to sit with him when Sansa could not and much to her ire, as did the Dragon Queen. The next morning, the woman had dropped all pleasantries from her face entirely. For that, Sansa could not fault her. She had lost her dearest advisor and like everyone else, she was on edge and still reeling from the trauma. Rather than poke the beast, Sansa steered clear where she could. Unexpectedly, she had not returned to Jon’s quarters again, making it easier for the Stark girl to keep her distance.
Now, three days later she shot to her feet in the Godswood, brushing by the boy as she hurried towards Jon’s accomodation. Had he asked for her? Did he know she had been with him each moment she could spare? She struggled her way up the steep steps, trying not to grunt or groan when her body protested until she was in front of his door, suddenly entirely daunted. Despite her presence being requested, she still rapped her knuckles lightly against the wood, listening for her invitation before gently opening the door, closing it quietly behind herself. He was awake, that much was true. More alert than she’d seen him in days. She let out a breath she must’ve been holding since the crypts, worried she might began to bawl at the sight of him.
“Jon,” She managed, voice thick as she remained standing at the foot of his bed, unsure if she was welcome any closer. “Are you... How do you... feel?” A stupid question, but all that sprang to her tongue as she wrestled the impulse to place her hands anywhere she could, to ensure he was in fact real.
