Arthur/Lyanna and lil’ Jon + the Essos AU
where everybody survives & lives freely far from Westeros’ messs
She’s scared – scared of the prince finding them, of Arthur getting hurt, of bringing more dishonour to her family that they won’t be able to forgive her – but if Arthur Dayne is brave enough to lash himself to a sinking ship just so she wouldn’t drown, then surely she could be brave too.
“Take me away then, Ser Arthur,” she says.
She follows him all the way past the secret tunnels that would lead them to freedom, his hand a warm anchor on her waist. She does not look back.
The last of Lyanna’s jewelry was sold two moons ago. A single hairpin studded with small onyx stones.
Pretty but not much, by the merchant’s assessment.
Arthur had begrudgingly taken the man’s price. It was enough to pay their debt to the midwife. To fill their bellies a few times over. But it was not enough for passage away from this place. For that, Arthur must find his own way.
All around him men shout and hiss. His Valyrian is clumsy, but he understands them well enough, when an apple core is tossed at his head. He dodges it, letting it fall on the red-stained dirt below.
Once, he lived by vows. Served his prince. Now, his blade provides entertainment for foul men with too much coin. Arthur does not care, so long as some of that coin makes it into his purse.
Wine and wagers are passed around, as men curse him and praise him.
He does not heed them. He only watches patiently as his opponent, a rather brutish looking Ghiscari, closes in.
The Ghiscari swings wide, his flail as ineffective as an apple core tossed from the crowd.
Arthur grins, the split skin at his lip pulling too tight.
There is a horrible part of him, deep down, that knows it is not just coin that brings him here.
He is often so wrong-footed in this new life he must lead across the Narrow Sea, but here, with a blade in his hand, he is himself. (Or at least some glimmer of himself)
There is a thrill in victory. It happens more often than not. Even without Dawn in his hand, Arthur is formidable.
The Ghiscari does not miss his mark a second time, the flail striking Arthur painfully on the shoulder.
Arthur bears against it and with an elegant arc of his blade, he cuts the Ghiscari at the back of the legs.
The man roars as he falls to his knees, quieting only when the pommel of Arthur’s sword meets the back of his head.
Arthur cannot tell if din surrounding him is made up of boos or cheers. It matters not. He shall have his winnings either way.
It is late when he make his way home.
His shoulder is bloodied and aches and there will be new bruises on his face by morning, but he is too drunk with his victory to mind. It sets his blood buzzing, restless and wound tight.
He needs another fight. A fight or…
He turns onto their street and catches a glimpse of lilac eyes peering out from the doorway of the neighboring pillow house.
Arthur can already smell the perfume that spills out from the establishment. He draws closer and a bedslave with silver hair smiles for him.
The pillow house shares a wall with the tiny room they rent, two coppers every sennight. When he lies beside Lyanna at night, he can hear whores at their trade through the thin plaster that separates them. It makes his skin feel too tight. His blood too hot.
Sometimes, it sends him back out into the night. Back to the fighting pits where his blood is put to better service.
He could turn back now. It’s not too late.
Instead he enters their lodgings, barring the door behind him.
The babe is asleep on the single bed they share. It is too much to hope that his mother might be there too.
“It’s late.”
Lyanna is by the dying fire, standing over a dented kettle.
“Sit,” she orders, kicking out their only chair from the rough-hewn table.
Arthur obeys, watching as she dishes out his supper with a clumsy hand that borders on petulant.
He sets the coin he’s earned on the table. A conciliatory offering.
“Did you win?” She asks as he toes off his boots.
“Some.”
He does not know if that answer pleases Lyanna, but there is a touch less tartness to her when she sets a dish in front of him.
Just as his birth has ill prepared him for this life, so has Lyanna’s. She is a lady. A princess. Not a kitchen maid.
Most days, the best her stew has to recommend for itself is that it is warm. Tonight, it is so late not even that is true. There is a film of grease over top, and onions and broth have grown tepid.
Arthur makes no comment, heartily soaking hard brown bread into it and ripping off chunks in greedy bites.
He reaches for the winecup she sets at his place, and cries out when it pulls at his injured shoulder.
“You’re hurt,” she is looking at him properly for the first time since he walked in through the door.
“It’s nothing.”
Lyanna scowls.
“Off,” she commands, pulling at the hem of his jerkin.
Once, he might have balked at such a thing, to sit stripped to the waist in front of a lady, but there is no place for shyness between them. Not anymore.
He removes his jerkin and then tugs his shirt free of his breeches and pulls it up overhead. He winces when the cloth peels away from where it’s become sticky from the pulpy mess of his shoulder.
He hears Lyanna hisses through her teeth when she sees the wound, fingers gingerly touching where the bruising already feels bone deep.
She makes quick work of it. Fetching the bucket of water they use for washing and an old cloth.
Her touch stings. Arthur welcomes it. It distracts him from feel of Lyanna’s breath on his skin, her skirts brushing too close against his legs.
“I’m sorry,” he says as she finishes, knotting a bandage around him tight. “For making you worry.”
Lyanna hums, her hands drifting lower on his chest, pressing over where a bruise from his last fight has yet to heal.
She bends down and kisses his shoulder. It’s the same motherly way he’s seen her soothe Jon’s tears with a kiss, and yet…
“Come to bed,” she bids, with a second kiss to a scar on his cheek.
That night, it is not the lingering edge from fighting in the pits nor the sound of the whores through the wall that keeps Arthur from sleep.
Jon was a quiet and observant babe, but every now and then he would babble for attention.
"Papa… papa… papa" he repeated excitedly as he spotted Arthur entering their little cottage, raising his chubby arms to be lifted in the air.
"It seems Jon missed you very much today" Lyanna remarked with a smile as she continued to set their table for dinner.
Even after a long day out on the water, earning coin as a fisherman, Arthur never seemed too tired to care for Jon. He smiled as he reached the young boy, lifting him up in the air and placing a kiss on his forehead.
Arthur was so good with the babe… a natural… Lyanna could see the pride on his face whenever Jon called him "Papa". He was Jon's father in every way that mattered, yet she wished to see Arthur with children of his own blood - his and hers.
WHEWWW. this chapter is a doozy. well over 6k words.
i swore when i wrote chapter one that it wasn’t going to be more than that, MAYBE a part 2 someday (which meant never, lets be real haha). i cant say what happened but it did and now i’m planning 5 chapters out because... well, because i love drowning myself in wips & fics. ANYWAYS. thanks for the support and excitement over this au, it really keeps me going!!
read on ao3
read chapter 1 on tumblr
thanks again & i hope you guys enjoy this really really long chapter.
The night before they leave Lys, a storm rages.
It keeps Robb awake most of the night, his pitiful wails cracking like thunder between the flashes of lightning. For most of the night, she holds her restless infant son close to her chest, whispering soft soothing words against his downy dark head of hair. When he does sleep, she sits in the rocking chair Jon had built for her during her pregnancy, one of the only things she's sad to leave behind when they leave in the morning.
"Sansa?"
She turns from where she stands at the window, the rain lashing out against the glass making it hard to see; but over the wind and the rain, she can hear the rage of the sea. "Afraid, is he?" Jon speaks softly, approaching her where she stands with their son, dressed in only a pair of old, wrinkled breeches. "Let me take him, you need sleep." She opens her mouth to protest, but Jon shakes his head, reaching for Robb without hesitation. "I have slept enough, let me care for him now." Robb fits perfectly into the crook of his arm, his weight warm and comforting. "It's going to be a long few days." Their days of travel would take them back across the Narrow Sea, back to the North, back to a place neither of them had thought they would ever see again. "Get some rest, sweetheart." His other hand reaches out to finds its place at the back of her head, drawing her forehead close enough for a kiss.
Only after she's placed a kiss to her son's feather soft hair, she nods, stepping back from where they stand. "This... Is the right thing to do, isn't it?" She asks softly, raising her gaze to meet his just one last time. He can see the fear that reflects in her eyes- not for herself, but for their child. Despite how beloved the Stark's might be, despite how beloved she was to the Northern people, a child born from the coupling of two half siblings would not be welcome. Not anywhere. But... She thinks of Rickon, she thinks of Arya, of Bran... of all the North... She knows the right answer long before Jon gives his solemn nod.
"I'll protect him." Jon says softly, his tone one she's only heard once before; i'll protect you, I promise. "I'll protect you both, Sansa." She smiles, inclining her head as she gazes at the man she loves, the man she knows would give his life in an instant if it meant protecting her. If it meant protecting their son. Without saying it, he understands her true fears, the only thing that could ever keep her from returning North to save her brother and their home. "Go. Rest." Softer still and she nods, leaning in so he might kiss her mouth, soft and slow.
As she drifts off to a dreamless sleep, the storm outside calms, a sign perhaps that their journey might still yet end in peace.
[ x x x ]
"Did you get it?"
Brienne nods, extending out her hand to drop into Sansa's palm a small vial. Something else that Lys was known for were their potent potions and poisons. Sansa had heard Cersei speak of them, had heard the rumors of those poisoned by the queen. "Thank you," she goes on, making her way across the room to where the single trunk of their belongings sits. Kneeling down, she slips the vial into a pocket on the side, a place where it will be safe on their long journey home.
"What will you use it for?"
Sansa rises up from the floor, turning back to face her new loyal knight; once, she had wished with all of her might to have gone with Brienne, to be saved before she could be sold to Ramsay Bolton. But now... She casts her gaze out the doorway, where Jon stands outside with Robb, giving him one last view of the only home he's only known. Now, she can't imagine her life any differently, despite the pain of the past. "To protect my family." She turns back to Brienne with a slight smile. "I hope I won't have any use of it." Brienne nods again, understanding. "It's time to go, I think." Sansa offers her sworn shield a smile and inclines her head, reaching out to gently touch Brienne's hand. She watches as her face softens, the smile transforming her features, filling them with warmth. "Take me home, Brienne."
Together, they step out into the sunshine.
[ x x x ]
When she steps out onto the deck, the air is cold.
She makes her way to the railing and wraps her hands around it, the sea stinging cold as it splashes her face, her hands, her skirts. But she does not try to pull herself from the spray, but rather closes her eyes and shivers- she's not felt this feeling in so very long. She opens her eyes and there in the distance, she can see the docks of White Harbor. It has been a long few days but she knows soon they will step foot upon Northern soil and from that moment on, everything would change.
"Sansa?"
Turning at the sound of his voice, she smiles; they'd been here before, over a year before, but sailing away from the North and the danger. Now they're sailing right back in. She wonders if he's thinking of the same thing. He's found his old furs and hers as well, for she sees it there in his hands. "We'll land soon," he says as he steps up beside her, draping her old cloak over her shoulders. "Are you afraid?" She holds fast to his gaze for a moment before shaking her head. "I didn't tell you, but... I wrote to someone of our arrival." Her gaze, which had turned back towards the sea, snaps back, a brow arching in silent surprise. "We can't land without anywhere to go, Sansa." He says softly, reaching out to tenderly touch her hand that still yet grips the railing. Her skin is icy cold. "It's Samwell Tarly." She relaxes, but only a little. That is a name she can trust, only because Jon trusts him. "I can only hope that my raven reached him in time." There had been no time at all for Jon to wait for a response from his old friend and so they would land in White Harbor and head to the spot that he had established in his letter and hope that Sam would be there waiting. From there, he could only hope that the rest of his plan would fall into place.
Though she doesn't speak, she nods, knowing just as well as him that this was their only option, their only plan.
It had to work.
[ x x x ]
"Put your hood up."
It's Brienne's soft command to her lady and when Sansa turns her blue eyes to her knight, she's smiling gratefully as she does as she's been bid. Her red hair would be known anywhere, even now, and she knows how quickly the rumor of a Stark looking man and redhead woman arriving in White Harbor would spread if her locks were seen by anyone.
With Jon leading the way, they make their way down the center dock and towards the spot known as the Seal Gate. From there they head along a path that is not without traffic- White Harbor is a port city and there are always ships arriving and departing, thus making it a lively enough place despite the cold, snowy climate. It is where the trade for the entire North happens, it is how the rest of the kingdom survives. They step off the main path after so long and they're heading down an alley- Sansa almost opens her mouth to ask Jon if he's lost his mind, but to her surprise he merely gestures ahead to where sure enough, she sees a building come into focus.
"Talk to absolutely no one." Jon says softly as they approach the door, knowing it was quite against his better judgment to bring Sansa to a place such as this. But with Longclaw strapped to his hip once again, he feels powerful, he feels confident. As if this was where he was always meant to be. The North was his home, it gave him strength, it gave him courage. "And stay close to me." He can see she looks worried but she nods before she clutches Robb closer to her chest, hidden beneath her cloak so well it is as if she only carries a bundle. Brienne behind her, they slip single file into the door and out of the cold, Northern air.
Sansa has never seen a place such as this.
It's as if every glance she gives the room, she's met with women in various stages of undress. There's a man fondling one woman's bare breasts for all to see in a corner and there's a rowdy table cheering in another as one man drunkenly kisses the girl trying to pour him another drink. It's a brothel, she realizes, a place she's certainly heard of, but certainly never experienced before. She can't help but to wonder how Jon knows of this place.
Pausing, Jon scans the room; for a single moment, he thinks all is lost, that Sam did not receive his letter in time. But then, as if by some miracle, he spots the round faced man across the room in the darkest, furthest corner. Sam sees him as well and is on his feet as they approach. "Jon!" He greets, clapping his old friend on the back; once, he had thought he would never see Jon Snow again, but there he was, alive and well. He gestures towards Sansa to take a seat and Jon guides her into a chair, leaning in close to whisper something into her ear; she nods and makes no movement to remove her cloak's hood, despite being inside and out of the elements. Jon and Sam sit as well, leaving Brienne to stand just off to the side, her gaze daring any one of those within the room to cross her. "I was surprised to hear from you. Everyone thinks you to be dead."
"Aye, I'm glad to know that. They won't be expecting us." Jon replies, sparing a quick glance to Sansa beside him, who's closed her eyes; she looks as tired as he feels. But their night is not yet over. "Tell me what you know of the North. What is happening?"
Sam opens his mouth as if he means to speak, but then promptly closes it, as if he's uncertain as to what to say. "There is something..." He begins, glancing towards the hooded girl beside Jon, as well, jumping when he finds himself peering into her intense blue stare. "Something I found while at the Citadel." He clarifies, turning back to face Jon, knowing these next few words he had to say would change everything for him. "About you."
"About me?" Jon asks, blinking, clearly surprised.
"It was a diary entry for the High Septon Maynard, he wrote about the annulment of Prince Rhaegar's first marriage and his secret wedding with a girl of Northern blood." Sam speaks slowly, carefully, watching as Jon's face begins to change. He doesn't know, and yet, something tells Sam that somehow he does. "Her name was Lyanna Stark." The cloaked woman beside Jon gives a soft little gasp and Sam casts another glance her way and see she looks as shocked as Jon, though she too holds a strange look of understanding. "According to Maynard, Lyanna gave birth to Rhaegar's son and heir in Dorne and died from childbirth. The child was never found, but they assumed him to be dead. Perhaps buried by a kind soul who witnessed the birth."
Jon can barely hear Sam over the sound of his beating heart. Beneath the table, he feels Sansa touch his leg- a warm touch, a comforting touch. He slips a hand over hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. Somehow, before Sam finishes, Jon already knows what he's going to say.
"You're that son, Jon." Sam speaks clearly, but quietly, so they are not overheard. They are lucky for the loud, rowdy crew in the room; no one pays much mind to their table in the darkest corner. "Rhaegar was your father, Jon, your real father." Jon blinks and for a moment, gives no other reaction, making Sam wonder if he's heard him at all. "Jon... You know what that means, don't you?" He asks and Jon blinks again, not yet speaking, though he does meet Sam's gaze.
"It means he's the true heir to the Iron Throne."
The woman beside Jon speaks for the first time, the sound of her voice causing Sam to nearly leap from his skin. He turns back to her and though she's not lowered her hood, she's sitting up straighter, a new confidence to her body language. He opens his mouth to speak but he's cut off by the sudden wailing of an infant. And it's coming from the woman. Sam watches in absolute shock as she fumbles with the cloak she wears, revealing for the first time that she carries a swaddled baby in her arms, a babe nearly as small as little Sam had been when he first met Gilly. She hushes the baby softly and he quiets after several moments, content enough to suckle his mother's finger in place of her breast. At least for now.
A quick glance around tells Sam that lucky for them, the baby's cries were not heard. Now that he looks closer at the babe she holds, he can see that the child looks quite like Jon- from the dark curls to the shape of his features; it was a Stark child, that much was certain. Now it's Sam's turn to understand what's right there in front of him. This was Jon's son and most certainly the woman beside him, whoever she was, was the infant's mother. "My father was... was Ned Stark." It's Jon speaking for the first time and he's shaking his head as if he doesn't believe the words that have been spoken to him.
Before Sam can speak, it's Sansa that's turning to him, her hand warm upon his shoulder now. Her touch guides his gaze to her face, swiveled in his chair entirely, just so he might face her. "Don't you see...?" She speaks softly, her words so quiet in the loud room that Sam cannot make out everything that she says to him. "This will change everything, Jon, for the better." They were not half siblings, they were cousins. Together, he the heir to the Iron Throne and she the heir to the North, they were a powerful alliance that would gain them more support than simply being Sansa Stark and the bastard of Winterfell. Her words must be the ones he needs to hear for after several long moments, he nods, swallowing down whatever fear and anxiety surely is rising up within him. Then he turns back to face Sam across the table and gives one more, stronger than before, nod.
"Tell me everything you know, Sam."
And he does.
[ x x x ]
The snow falls swiftly, blanketing the world around her in a fresh cover of white.
She shivers; not from cold, but from fear.
Ahead of her, Rickon stands with his back to her, his Tully touched curls gleaming in the pale moonlight. He's grown tall as a man, but she still recalls the day he was born. She opens her mouth to call his name, tears in her eyes, but her voice does not come. Running and running and running, but she cannot seem to reach him, she cannot seem to touch him. And then suddenly, she's there, just an arm's length from where Rickon stands. His name is a whisper on her trembling lips and slowly, painfully slow, he revolves on the spot.
Her mouth opens in a silent scream.
It is not Rickon, but rather a rotting corpse that most certainly is Robb; he holds Greywind's severed head in his hands, blood splattered all down his front. She closes her eyes and when she opens them, the face is her father and it's Lady's head that tumbles from his hands to land at her feet, golden eyes blinking up at her. Somewhere, in the distance, comes the howl of a lonely wolf.
Closer the howl comes, closer, closer...
She wakes with a gasp, breathing hard, fear still yet clinging to her skin.
"Sansa?"
It's Jon; he stands across the room, Robb cradled in his arms, though the baby sleeps peacefully. "A nightmare, sweetheart?" He whispers as he comes closer, sinking down onto her side of the bed, one hand reaching out to take hers. She trembles, her skin frightfully pale; it's been a long time since she's hard a nightmare that's left her in a state such as this. "Tell me." To his surprise, she shakes her head; it was truly a fearful dream, if she doesn't even wish to speak on it. That was how it always used to be, back in the beginning, back when she first came to him from Ramsay Bolton. He still recalls the nights where she would pace the floor til dawn, too frightened to sleep. He still recalls the nights where she would cry herself back to sleep with her head in his lap, her body simply too tired to fight the need to sleep.
"Why are you awake?" She asks instead, reaching out to tenderly stroke their son's forehead, the only thing that could bring a smile to her face right then was him. "I didn't hear him cry."
"He didn't," Jon admits softly, turning away from her then as if shamed by something. "I couldn't sleep." He goes on, softer still, closing his Stark colored eyes against the emotion welling within him.
Now she understands.
"Oh, Jon..." She murmurs, reaching out for him as he had done for her only moments ago. Her touch brings him back to her and she brushes her fingertips along his jawline, his stubble rough against her skin. Sansa cannot imagine the feelings he must be feeling right then- they had not spoken of it since they found themselves the small room to rent, thanks to Sam's help. All his life, Jon had wanted nothing more than to be a true born Stark, the son of Ned Stark. But he had accepted the hand dealt to him in the form of his bastard status for at least in that he still had a family, brothers and sisters and a father that never once made him feel less than any of the other children. And now... Now...
It's not until he feels her brushing away his tears that Jon knows he's begun to cry. Sansa gently removes Robb from his grasp, tucking the baby carefully against Jon's pillow before she turns back to him and takes him into her arms. She holds him for what might be a moment or a lifetime, he loses track of the time that passes as she whispers soft, comforting words against the shell of his ear, her delicate fingers stroking his dark curls.
"Ned Stark will always be your father," she says when Jon's tears have all been spent. " He knew the truth all along Jon and yet, to keep you safe, he pretended you were his. That is what a real father would do for his child." Sansa smiles, gesturing towards their son that sleeps so soundly in the bed beside them. "It's what you would do for him, isn't it?" Jon takes in the sight of Robb and slowly his lips curve with a small smile.
"Aye," he agrees, turning back to her. "I'd do anything to keep him safe."
"I know," she puts her hand against his once again, giving it a tight squeeze. "And that's how father felt about me, about you, about all of us. It is because of him that you're here with me right now, Jon. You owe it to him to be as good of a father as he was, if not better." He nods; he knows, he knows. He just needed to hear it from someone else. His hand still in hers, he draws her down to the bed and they slide into place on either side, warm beneath the thick furs.
And with their baby tucked safely between them, they drifted back to sleep.
[ x x x ]
When Jon wakes, he knows what he must do.
Sliding out from beneath the covers, he dresses in the dark and slips from the room, leaving Sansa asleep in the bed with the baby. He heads down the hall three rooms and stops at a single door, raises his hand and knocks.
He knocks until finally, the door swings open.
Though Sam grumbles a curse when he sees Jon standing there, he steps back so he may step into the hazy darkness of his room. "There's something I need you to do for me." Jon says the moment the door has closed behind him. Perhaps it's the tone of voice in which he speaks, but almost at once, Sam is alert. "The mother of my son... The woman I'm with... I need you to marry us." Before, marriage was not an option if they came back North, it never would have been accepted. They knew what they were returning to, they knew what would happen, but they came anyways. They came because their baby brother was in shackles in a cell and the monster who held him held their home hostage, too. But now... The best thing that could ever come from the truth of his parentage... They could love each other openly. They could proclaim their child the heir to Winterfell as well as the Iron Throne. Though a crown of his own was not something Jon wanted, he knows what will happen if he does not seek out his birthright. He swore he would do anything to protect the family he had made with Sansa and so he would. "Marry us. Today. And then we will claim what's ours."
Sam nods.
[ x x x ]
"But where are we going?"
Jon glances over his shoulder to where she follows behind him, her red hair threatening to free itself from the confines of her cloak's hood with every icy gust of wind. "You will see, we're almost there. Watch your step," he guides her over a fresh heaping of snow and she sees this new path leads downward, towards a gathering of trees that she almost at once recognizes. "Ah, you've spotted them." He chuckles, gesturing towards the vibrant red leaves that guide them along the rest of the way. "It turns out every town in the North has a godswood of its own." They're beneath the canopy of trees now and Sansa pauses for only a moment, taking in the sight of the frozen godswood. Once, she had thought she would never return North, let alone stand in a quiet godswood. "I know it isn't Winterfell's godswood... But..." He trails off for now she's noticed Sam just ahead, standing beneath the heart tree, a knowing sort of smile on his lips.
"Jon... What... What is this?" She's gazing back and forth, from Jon to Sam and then back again, as if she expects one of the men to vanish entirely.
"I told you I would do anything to protect you, so let me." Jon says softly, his hand coming up to catch her cheek, gently, lovingly. "Marry me, Sansa. Right here, right now." He watches as her face changes, her surprise melting into pure joy, the smile on her face lighting her up in a way he's not seen since the day Robb was born. "And then we will go and take back Rickon and Winterfell. We will find Arya and Bran and we'll be a family again." She nods, a strong solemn nod, her chest swelling with pride and love for the man that is offering himself to her entirely, in a way she had once thought never to be possible. "When the North is ours again, we will head south and I will take the Iron Throne from the Lannister's." He vows and her surprise returns. "In a world where Cersei Lannister rules as queen, you will never be safe. And she will never let the North go. If we wish it to be ours and only ours, we must take her down, too." He would fight any man, any army, and any monster if it meant he would keep her safe.
Tears flood her eyes despite the smile on her lips and she nods again, allowing Jon to take her by the hand and lead her towards the heart tree where Sam stands, still waiting for them. And then...
Then they get married.
[ x x x ]
The first place that they go is just east of Castle Black.
And just as Jon said that they would, they find the camp of wildlings that Jon had once allied himself with. Tormund at their command, he holds the power of two thousand fighting men and Jon knows that if there's no one else in all of the North that he can count on, he will always have Tormund.
"I wonder who will be more excited to see you?" Sansa's voice breaks into his thoughts as they approach the camp, voices already carrying along the winter wind. Jon grins, tossing a glance over his shoulder at her where she walks, Brienne close behind, the baby bundled and carried in a sling she's fastened around her torso, happily snoozing despite the chill of the wind. "Tormund or Ghost." Jon chuckles and nods, having been thinking about his wolf since the moment they set forth on this journey to find Tormund and the wildlings.
They don't have long to think for suddenly comes the howl of a wolf.
All three of them come to a stop at the end of the camp, where tents and huts have been erected as shelters from the icy cold, fires built in various places to offer as much warmth as possible to the elderly and children that sit around in groups. That is when Jon spots the wolf- he's running from the center of the camp, faster than Jon thinks he's ever seen him run before. Someone screams as Ghost leaps through the air, landing on Jon and knocking him back into the snow. More yelling, more voices. Chaos follows as the wildlings gather, thinking the white wolf was attacking a stranger, not greeting a beloved friend, until finally a loud voice booms above it all: "Little crow!"
"Good boy, Ghost," Jon is laughing, trying to push Ghost's paws from his shoulders so he might at least sit up. It isn't until Sansa sinks down and puts her warm hand to the wolf's back that he turns away, instead far more interested in her and the baby. A shadow crosses over him and he tilts his head back, looking up into the grinning face of his old friend. "Tormund." He greets as the orange haired man reaches down, offering a hand, which Jon takes and allows the wildling to pull him up onto his feet again. The two men embrace but even when they pull back, Tormund can't help but to clasp the younger man on his shoulder. "Edd," he says, seeing the dark haired man now approaching as well, a stunned look on his face.
"You brought the big woman!" Tormund breaks in with a wolfish grin, his eyes seeking out Brienne that stands just behind Sansa, a hand on the hilt of her sword. "And a... Baby?" The only thing able to drive his attention away from the lady knight was the sight of the sleeping baby in Sansa's arms- a baby that he sees looks unmistakably like the man standing in front of him. "You must have a lot to say, if you've come all this way." Tormund says, offering Sansa a smile before he turns back to Jon. "Come, let's get the lady and littler crow out of the cold." He gestures for them to follow him and so they do, falling into step as if they'd never even left.
[ x x x ]
"Are you ready?"
Jon's voice in her ear makes her shiver, but she nods, a wane smile on her lips. "I am." She says, perhaps with more confidence than she truly feels. But she is a Stark, she is the blood of Winterfell, she is strong. She is brave.
The door they stand outside of suddenly opens and a steward appears in the door way, gesturing for the pair to step into the room. They have left Robb behind with Brienne and Sansa feels lost without her son near. But there is something else she must focus on; the present, so they might have a future. And now was not the time to tell anyone the truth about Jon and his birth. Once they had full Northern support, they would tell all of the Houses at once, before they take back Winterfell from the Bolton's.
Together, she and Jon walk along the length of the room, towards the single table that sits in the hall. House Reed is a modest house, but they are loyal and fiercely so, it only made sense for this to be the first noble house they seek support from. Howland Reed sits behind the table with just a single man, perhaps his maester, standing behind him. "When they told me Jon Snow was at my gate, requesting an audience with me, I thought it to be lie." The man says as they approach, a smile tugging at his lips. "But here you are, Jon Snow, alive and well it looks like." He rises up from his chair, stepping around the table so he can come and stand before them. "You are your father's son, bastard born or not, you have the Stark look." In truth, Howland is somewhat taken aback by the resemblance, it is as if he's peering into his old friend's face again, not his son. "Welcome to Greywater Watch." For the first time, he spares a look at the cloaked woman beside Jon; she is tall and thin, but with her hood pulled up there is little he can see besides her ivory features and the blue eyes that peer back at him. "To you too, my lady." Intense blue eyes, he notes. He feels as if he's seen eyes like these before, but he cannot place it.
"I thank you for your warm welcome, Lord Reed," Jon greets, clasping hands with the man for a moment, offering him a grin. "I imagine you understand I've come for a reason." To this Howland chuckles, though he shrugs as he makes his way back around to the chair he had vacated just a few minutes before.
"Aye, there must be. The whole North thinks you to be dead, it's been well over a year since you were last even rumored to be seen." He replies as a door behind him opens and two servants step in, bringing ale and chairs, all of which are offered to the guests on the other side of the table. "Many say all of House Stark is dead, you know." Jon's face darkens but he gives a solemn nod, taking the seat offered to him only after he's ensured the young woman beside him is seated, too. "None of your younger half siblings have been seen in years." Again, Jon nods, his hand clenching into a fist beneath the table. "And the poor oldest girl. Married to that bastard Bolton." Reed scowls, shaking his head. "I imagine he had her killed, he got what he wanted out of her when Winterfell became his."
"Sansa Stark isn't dead."
Both men turn to the woman seated beside Jon. Hands reaching up, she pulls back the hood of her cloak, revealing for the first time since she stepped foot in the North the rich red hair that every Northern man would know. "By the gods... Sansa Stark!" Howland Reed jumps to his feet in shock, shaking the goblets of ale atop the table in his haste. Those blue eyes, that red hair... He knows her because he knew her mother, because he once knew Sansa when she was but a little girl. "You're alive," he whispers, tears filling his eyes without shame, hands trembling as they settle upon the top of the table.
"I'm alive because Jon saved me," Sansa says with a smile for Jon, though she returns her gaze to Howland, head tilting as the man looks torn between falling to his knees or jumping for joy. "The North was not safe for me, not with Ramsay Bolton in Winterfell and Cersei Lannister in the South." Reed is nodding, listening despite the whirlwind of emotions rushing through him. "We need your help." She goes on, softer, never breaking eye contact with the man in front of her. "Winterfell belongs to me, to Jon. To House Stark. Please... Please, lend us your support. Help us take back the North." Her pleading is unnecessary, Howland Reed knew he'd have done anything she asked of him.
Silently, Howland Reed drops to his knees and unsheathes the sword at his hip, offering it up in the North's gesture of fealty. "I once pledged my life and sword to your brother, Robb Stark, I will pledge it to you now. To House Stark." Sansa swallows, her heart racing as the man speaks words she never once thought to hear again.
Beside her, Jon puts a warm hand on her shoulder and she knows that they're one step closer to saving Rickon and taking back the North. It was only a matter of time.
Soon, they would truly go home.
[ x x x ]
Somehow, against all odds, they have done it.
It is not all the houses- some are loyal to the Bolton's now- but it is enough to muster an army together. The heads of all those houses, along with Tormund and Edd, sit in the war tent with Jon and Sansa, the first night all of them have come together. For hours now they've been inside, so long now that the candles Sansa had lit when darkness fell were now dripping pudles of wax on the tabletops.
"My lords, we thank you again for the support you give us." Jon speaks, glancing around the room at all of the faces. "Before we depart for the night, there is something else we must speak of." Some of the lords exchange glances, but more nod, encouraging Jon to continue speaking. Despite the little time they've spent together, these Northern lords have begun to develop a respect for Ned Stark's bastard son. In truth, some had already made the decision to follow him wherever he went, as they had followed Robb Stark and Ned Stark before him. "Sam," Jon gestures for his old friend to step up beside him, looking somewhat uncomfortable as all the eyes fall upon him instead. "Sam found out something while in the Citadel, from a journal entry of the High Septon at the time of Robert's Rebellion." Many of the men in the room know who Jon speaks of, they remember those days when Rhaegar Targaryen and Robert Baratheon fought for the throne and Robert won.
"What does this journal entry speak of?" One lord cuts in, perhaps uncertain as to what this has to do with anything at all.
Jon sighs, his heart racing; he isn't certain at all how the Northern lords will take the truth of his birth. But this was it, this was the moment. He could only hope that when the truth came out, these men would remain loyal to at least Sansa, to at least the son and heir she's given them. "It spoke of his anullment to Elia Martell and his secret marriage to Lyanna Stark." A collective gasp goes up among the tent, more looks exchanged by the lords as the information sinks into their brains. "Rhaegar and Lyanna had a single child, born in Dorne after Robert Baratheon ascended the throne."
"Marriage? He kidnapped her." Another lord speaks out.
"A child?" Another cries out, the realization of such a thing already dawning on him.
"Aye." Jon lets out the breath he's been holding, yet again glancing around the room, taking in the various degrees of emotion upon all of their faces. Beside him, Sansa is still, but she holds her head high as she listens to the conversations breaking out all around them. "I know it is a lot to take in, but as Sam as pointed out to me when I too expressed disbelief- why would the High Septon have reason to lie?"
These words sink in and the lords circle back to Jon, their side conversations and remarks tapering off. "If there was a child born, where is it now? Dead?" They all know what Robert Baratheon would have done if a child of Rhaegar's was left alive.
Jon shakes his head. "I am that child." He says the words simply and they fall from his tongue much easier than he had thought they might. For several moments, there is nothing but stunned silence and it only deepens his fears that these men will not remain loyal to him.
"Then you are heir to the Iron Throne." It's little Lyanna Mormont, named in honor of his mother, the youngest of all of them in the room. "I had thought in you we might find our new King in the North, but we've found more than that." Her dark eyes hold steady to Jon's gaze and he's surprised to see the quickest flash of a smile on her stoic features. "Are you asking us to help you reclaim the Iron Throne, once you have Winterfell?"
Jon shakes his head, rising up to his feet now, staring out at the lords. "I'm asking you to do whatever it takes to keep the North safe, to keep her safe." He gestures towards Sansa, who's blue eyes widen slightly in surprise; this was not the way she had thought him to take things. "Sansa Stark is the heir to the North and I am bound to keep her and the North safe. Just as you all are." He puts a hand onto her shoulder and his touch is warm, encouraging. Before all of the eyes in the room, she slides her hand into place over his. "None of us will ever be safe if Cersei Lannister sits upon the throne, even if we take back Winterfell." Jon goes on, stepping around the table then so he can stand closer to all of them in the tent. "I am not asking you to sacrifice your men for me or for what might be my birthright. I don't care if the Iron Throne is mine or yours or yours," he sighs, another shake of his head. "The only thing I care about is keeping the North safe."
"You have House Mormon'ts support, Jon Snow. In this and whatever comes next." Lyanna says after a few beats of silence. Murmurs of assent follow, much to Jon's relief.
"The North still needs someone to lead," Jon says, speaking more words that surprise Sansa. Words that he had never once mentioned to her until this very moment. "You wish to have a King in the North, but what you need is a queen." He turns back to face her across the table that separates them. "Queen in the North," he says, before he sinks to a knee, Longclaw presented to her in his gesture of loyalty. She is his queen, no matter what his Targaryen blood might say.
"Queen in the North," Brienne echoes from where she stands at the far side of the room, dropping to her knees without hesitation. One by one, every man in the room rises and then falls, the only sound that of the steel against sheath as the Northern lords offer their fealty to the young woman that's now risen to her feet.
Queen in the North, Queen in the North.
The words are an echo, a chant; she sucks in a breath as her eyes find Jon's, his lips curving with a smile as he gives her a nod. Her fears begin to fade and she holds her head a bit higher and looks out into the sea of faces, knowing it was them that she could count on. Once, she had nothing but fear to live on. Once she had been alone. But out there she sees faces of men who were loyal to her name and her house, men who would swing their swords in her name, men that would die to protect her. In these loyal men, she has protection, she has what she needs to bring her family back together again.
My next jonsa story will be an Essos AU, where Jon was never raised in Winterfell, but was taken to Essos with Daenerys and Viserys, by Arthur Dayne. Dany's story proceeds as canon but she has Jon on her council as well.
Sansa's story proceeds as canon as well, up until the Purple Wedding, which she does not manage to escape, but is captured by Cersei's men and locked in the dungeons with Tyrion... and escapes with him when he does, to Essos!!! (because if Varys springs Tyrion out, to give Dany an advantage, you better be sure that he will also try to give he rthe key to the North). Also, better believe that Shae lives in this one too. Im not letting that one go.
Day 3 (Wednesday 19th) winterfell / essos / beyond the wall
"It's like in Breaking Dawn. Y'know, the isle of Esme."
"Of all the literary references you could make-" Sansa begins.
"Oh, why not?" Jon asks, most infuriatingly. "Always wanted to vacation in the tropics."
Or the one where Nell threatens her parents at gunpoint to take a much deserved holiday, and packs them off for a fortnight to a villa in Essos. A good boy tags along.
Based off a sequel to my fic, Belles-Lettres.
( For Jonsa: A Dream of Spring, hosted by @jonsadreamofspring )
PRIVATE ROLEPLAY: DO NOT REBLOG IF YOU ARE NOT MY PARTNER.
@breakerofoaths
╣❦╠ ƈօռզʊɛʀɨռɢ ֆȶօʀʍ ❧
Daenerys had a vague, disjointed memory of a tall, golden boy who had been kind to her, but he had left before Ser Darry had died and onward, she knew only her brother’s cruelty, never giving the kind boy another thought. But Viserys had not forgotten the Knight, his fingers bruising Dany’s tiny arm as he dragged her through the back alleys of whatever city they were in now, hiding from Robert the Usurper’s assassins, ranting on and on that their knight would be looking for them until slowly, he stopped believing that the golden boy would return. By the time they arrived in Volantis, Daenerys’ fearful amethyst gaze taking in the tattooed slaves, her brother had ceased to mention the gold knight altogether, turning his attention to finding a patron to support his claim to the Iron Throne.
Taken in by Master Illyrio, Dany always had a sense that something was wrong. She didn’t like the way the fat merchant looked at her, or the way he whispered to her brother, but Daenerys feared Visery more than anything - until a day soon after her four and tenth nameday, when she set eyes upon Khal Drogo and learned that she was to be his. During her wedding feast, a knight appears, tall, flaxen haired and strong, to pledge his service. Ser Jaime. Daenerys endures as best she can, even after Viserys gets himself killed, knowing that Drogo is her only hope of ‘safety’. Yet even that is ripped from her when the witch she spares poisons her husband with dark magic. Daenerys fevered Vision is the only path left and she adds the stone eggs to Drogo’s funeral pyre with a hardened heart.
The long castings of light upon the smoldering ashes of the pyre reveal three baby dragons curled around her naked body while Irri raced to bring back the Hrakkar skin Drogo gifted her with, laying it on Dany’s shoulders to cover her. They had but one option - the Red Waste - a cursed desert. Many of the sick and elderly dropped along the way, but an oasis emerges in the shimmering heat. A bleached ghost city with fresh water, overflowing orchards and wild pigs. With Drogon on her shoulder, Daenerys found Ser Jaime setting her bedroll in a large, cool building. “The Dothraki say this is a place of ghosts, but we cannot go on without rest. We’ll stay here until the weak are strengthened,” she told him, glancing up.
