@zoklaanogar sent : #7 for an angsty starter.
there had been a time where sansa had dreamed of this. had longed for nothing more than the comfort of familiarity – of family, even those she had not treated with kindness in her childhood. jon might not have been her preferred brother, but he had still been family nonetheless – had still reminded her of better days in winterfell, where a pack was not fractured and split amongst the continent. some in life, and others in death. but the years hadn't been kind to her, had not eased in the stress nor the sense of guilt she so often felt in stride with her longing to go home. going home felt like taking responsibility, felt like reminding herself that each death that had befallen a member of her family had started at her own hands. for the longest time she had considered not going home at all.
it would be easier for all parties involved if sansa stark ceased to exist. if the story ended as easily as that. no lady lannister, no lady stark, no queen in the north. she'd not wanted the titles anyways, had grown ill of them. it is only the sense of duty she feels that brings her back to wavering, to knowing she should – if anything, did she not owe it to both father and robb to see it through? even if robb had abandoned her, too.
her arrival at castle black is not grand, nor does she intend for it to be. her hair still dyed a dark, dusky color – she wears the colors of house arryn, styles herself still as alayne stone, betrothed to harrold hardyng, bastard daughter of petyr baelish. it is easier this way, to make herself small, to hide beneath darkened hood and not be sought out so quickly. littlefinger had deigned to make an arrangement with stannis baratheon, and it would not suit either of them for her identity to be made known until all was perfectly aligned. she had not realized how hard it would be to be so close and yet so far from home. how much of an ache would still reside within her chest the moment she hears the padding of paws upon snow, and sees tufts of white fur dirtied amongst the banks.
it is dark before sansa decides it is safe for her to stretch her limbs, an idea that sours the moment she is met flush around a corner by her half-brother, her cheek brushed to his shoulder momentarily before she carefully draws backwards and re-adjusts her hood. but it is much too late for hiding, wide blue-grey hues settled onto jon's face, older, hardened, and yet still the same boy she'd avoided so often years ago. “forgive me, lord commander.” she says softly, gaze flickered away just as quickly as it had landed upon him. hands that move to smooth over her cloak, before her lips settle into a thin line – waiting to see if he remembered, or if perhaps the memories were too far gone for him.
