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Arya was the first to speak, the words coming out of her defiant and honest, her voice calm at first only gathering in speed and volume.
“It doesn’t matter. None of it matters! Jon is still my brother!” Crossing the room in quick strides to reach him where he sat, she added, “It matters not who sired you, you’re our brother.”
“Arya–”
“You are! I won’t let anyone say otherwise, not even you.”
Jon finally raised his head at that. A mournful howl was heard from deep in the wolfswood and just like that Jon was gone from the room.
Sansa had been frozen in place by the news. Her limbs felt impossibly heavy and irremediably so, like an anchor thrown at sea. Above her were the waves crashing against the ship of reality, making it sway from all sides, and the scene that had just occurred seemed hard to grasp at with the anchor keeping her underwater.
“My father is Rhaegar Targaryen and my mother Lyanna Stark.”
Beyond that point and excluding his single-word plea to Arya, Jon had fallen silent. Bran had told them the rest of it: about the tourney at Harrenhal and the mystery knight, the prince and their aunt’s escape. About her fright and later horror upon discovering she was with child and learning of her father and brother’s fates in King’s Landing. About the tower of joy and Lady Lyanna’s last words to their father, the promise he swore.
There was shame on Jon’s face as Bran patiently recounted the events to their sisters, Jon unable to meet any three of their gazes.
“How long has he known?” Sansa heard herself ask.
“Close to a week,” Bran’s voice answered from her left.
Arya seemed to find her voice again too, tearing her sad eyes away from the door Jon had left through. “Are you really sure about it? About his parents?”
“It’s like I said: I saw it. Howland Reed’s account is faithful.”
So Jon is the lost son of the last Prince of Dragonstone. Joffrey had been a bastard masquerading as royalty while a potential Targaryen heir had been hidden here at Winterfell all along.
Because of Father. Father had claimed Jon as his own and kept him alive in the process.
She understood why that revelation would not be comforting to him, however. Jon had no use for crowns, no matter how well he might wear them, and much less for royal blood. And if Rhaegar Targaryen had sired him, that meant Ned Stark had not, and there was the source of his pain. His posture mere moments ago had been one of defeat, head bent, trying to hide behind the curls falling over his grey eyes. The eyes of a Stark, the eyes of Lyanna. In that brief instant where he had dared look up, they’d betrayed both the ache and the longing he felt upon hearing Arya’s earnest declaration.
Ghost’s cry of anguish had been piercing enough to make him flee from their presence altogether.
Ghost who never made a sound.
Ghost who was Jon.
Why hadn’t she said anything?
“Jon is our cousin by blood,” Bran spoke again.
“Who cares about blood and bloody Targaryens! He’s our brother,” corrected Arya immediately. “Right?” she added in a small voice.
Bran was one step ahead of them, presenting himself like a lighthouse to Sansa’s thoughts. “Yes, that too. When he is ready to accept it as the truth.”
The truth. Lyanna Stark bore a son fathered by Rhaegar Targaryen. Father cloaked the babe in a lie, bringing him home as his bastard, a stigma Jon had to bear the brunt of all his life. And what of her lady mother? Father lied and she never knew. Catelyn Stark had resented Jon’s presence in Winterfell, only participating in making him feel excluded. Had any of it softened the hurt? Sansa doubted it. Even a marriage as loving as her parents’ was not without its challenges. Mother must have resented Father too, and now she would never know the truth, that Father had never dishonored her, that Jon was his nephew, her children’s cousin. They might have never known either.
Father lied.
“No one else can know for now,” she decided, rising from her chair. “It’s not safe to tell.”
Another conversation soon followed.
“What about Robb’s will?”
“I wanted to join him. I tried to desert the Watch, but my friends stopped me,” Jon had recalled when they’d first learned of the will’s existence. In those early days, they only had each other.
“I’m glad they did. You wouldn’t be here today otherwise. I wouldn’t have found you.”
It was only Arya, Bran and her now. Rickon still struggled to remember their past together; there was no need to confuse him further, so unaware of how their family had been reshaped he remained for now.
Sansa pondered her sister’s question. The northern lords and ladies wouldn’t like this new development. They already knew about the will, of course, but to tell them now that Jon had never been Ned Stark’s son, natural or otherwise? Robb had legitimized him on this very ground, although Jon had refused to call himself a Stark regardless. At least there was that, she thought, no less worried. What about the crown? Arya should be asking, just as Sansa had been weighing for days now. Everyone had urged Jon to accept it, including herself. It had been the King in the North’s last wish, the mark of Robb’s love and trust in his bastard brother. It had been a wise decision on Robb’s part too at the time, Sansa could recognize it even through the hurt that bloomed inside her chest every time she dwelled on the reason behind the decree.
“Jon will keep his crown.”
“What are you thinking?” Arya asked, itching to swap their idleness for action. Sansa had no plan to share, however, only wishes and hopes, desperately held together by the fear that they couldn’t make them real no matter how hard they tried. She almost felt inclined to turn to prayer again.
“He’s our…” Brother? Cousin? She knew what term Arya preferred. “Family,” Sansa settled on, “and he’s a good leader. If we say anything now, it’ll only cause chaos, and we can’t afford discord between our men.” And who could assure them of Jon’s safety? They couldn’t risk it. “More importantly, no one on Queen Daenerys’ retinue can know. If she finds out, there’s no saying what will happen. We can’t trust her not to hurt him or move against the North.”
“I’ve been keeping my eyes on the Spider,” Arya revealed.
Good. “Tyrion too.” She thanked the gods Lord Baelish was no longer an issue. Turning to Bran at last, Sansa asked, “Can we trust the Reeds?”
“They won’t tell anyone.”
Bran had tried explaining to them what it meant to be the Three-Eyed Raven. He knew things and, most of the time, he couldn’t share them. This was one such occasion, she could tell. He had his reasons, she was sure, but so did she when she made to press for more information. He cut her off before she could, however.
“His parentage won’t stay hidden indefinitely. We have a part to play and you’re playing yours.”
His words struck her like a well-aimed snowball, stealing the breath from her momentarily.
There was no saying whether they would fail at guarding the truth of Jon’s birth or reveal it on their own time. Jon’s time, she corrected herself, though she couldn’t help the knowledge that what they held was more than dangerous — it was powerful. Powerful enough to claim the Seven Kingdoms, and cast aside queens who wanted the North to bend to them. Was that what Bran meant? Would she be willing to betray Jon if he asked them not to reveal anything, ever? Sansa knew the answer to only one of those questions.
I’ll protect you, I promise.
Arya’s voice pulled her away from her thoughts, the frustration palpable when she addressed their little brother. “We can prevent it, though, if you would tell us anything.”
“I’m playing my part. Jon needs to play his now.”
Sansa had noticed Tyrion’s eyes linger a little too long on Jon lately, his odd behavior hard to miss, though she’d tried to distract anyone from the source of it, pulling Tyrion into conversations and keeping him away from the king. Jon hadn’t asked for space because he never asked for anything, but his siblings — his cousins — had complied regardless. While he had hardly given them any choice in the matter, of course, it had been hardest for Arya to let him be, but they all understood he wouldn’t listen to anything they’d tell him right now. Sansa suspected they all needed time to process the news too. It was unfair to expect Jon to face it gracefully, but Bran was right, something had to give.
“He’s hurting.”
Sansa looked back at her little brother as his words filled the room. His eyebrows were knit together, and the usual air of detachment he wore broke away. Bran was only saying what they already knew, but to hear it from his mouth somehow made it worse. Made it unavoidable.
Those words followed her around all day and accompanied her to bed that night. Then greeted her on the morn and pierced her when she spotted Jon, his back to her, walking away.
A part of her wanted to turn in the other direction with every step closer she took. She was used to running away, in her mind if not with her body, and as much as she longed for things to return to what they were, the sight of Jon left her feeling anxious.
She’d barely seen him since that fated day. He was avoiding them, taking his meals in his rooms, leaving meetings as soon as they wrapped. But he was here now, sitting among the roots of the heart tree where Ned Stark once sat, his dark figure a sharp contrast against the white bark, the red leaves swinging with the breeze above him. She thought of the Stark lords of the past, of the Kings of Winter before them, of her own father not so long ago, and imagined they offered once the same sight that greeted her now.
How could there be any doubt Jon belonged here with them?
It was the opposite thought — of looking down from her favored spot along the battlements and not seeing Jon walking about the yard, of sitting alone in the Great Hall instead of by his side, or no longer sharing evenings together enveloped in the warmth of a nearby fire — that felt foreign and cruel.
Ghost raised his head where he lay at Jon’s feet, alerted to her presence before his master. By the time Sansa sat down beside him, Jon still gave no distinguishable sign of acknowledgement, but the direwolf moved to settle at her side, resting his big head on her lap. Her fingers found the fur behind one ear and started brushing it out. Jon observed the display wordlessly.
“I wanted to talk with you,” she started after a moment, “but I’m not sure what to say now I’ve found you.”
“We could sit in silence.”
“We could, but what would that achieve that is worthwhile?”
What she had glimpsed on his face as the truth unfolded from Bran’s lips would never leave her memory. There were lines creasing his forehead at present, his shoulders were hunched forward, bringing the furs he wore high over his cheeks. A posture to better ward off the cold, or walls to lock her out.
Jon hadn’t been the most gregarious or lively boy in their youth, but it struck her now how miserable he’d grown. Sansa wondered if sorrow and fatigue had ever left his side since he’d been brought back to life by the red woman all those moons ago. It seemed to have settled in his bones, this melancholy. By his own admission, Jon had been brought low. When she had asked him to fight for her, for their brother, for their home, he had done so in the end. Likewise now, everything he did was to ensure everyone’s survival through the upcoming wars. But he was past fighting for himself, she understood, and the thought was so loathsome to her.
They were all changed she knew, perhaps she’d unconsciously accepted this as Jon’s transformation, but it shouldn’t be so. Not for any of them.
When he met her gaze, she said, “I’m sorry this has hurt you so, Jon.”
“I always wanted to know who my mother was,” he answered flatly, eyes downcast again. “Now I do.”
“Father once told Arya she looks like her, like Lyanna, did you know? It’s said she was a skilled rider too. I imagine Bran could share more stories of her with you, if you wish.” She let him consider that before continuing. “But you wouldn’t need to ask him about Father or about Robb or us, Jon. We love you. Father loved you and he loved your mother. He raised you here, as one of us, and that’s what you are. A lie kept you safe, but none of the rest was false. Not Father’s love for you.”
He said nothing.
“Jon,” she tried again. “You know that."
The same impression of walls keeping her out grew inside her again. She could picture them, and Jon on the other side of them. But it was safe and warm where she stood, even if none of it fully reached her bones; Jon was the one left out in the cold. Sansa was all too familiar with putting up walls. How odd to face someone else’s.
“Ned Stark is the father who raised you, Jon, that remains the truth. You are our family and we are yours.”
Come inside. We’re a pack, are we not?
“Please, don’t turn away from us now,” she added, touching his arm.
Jon shifted his gaze to where she held on to him, and all the way up to her shoulder, finally landing on her face. He tried for a reassuring smile. “I could never.”
“Then won’t you speak to us?”
“I don’t want you fretting over me.” Lips pursed, he quickly looked away as a hint of annoyance seeped into his voice.
Her chest rose and fell with some relief. “Is that what we’re doing?” she asked gently. “Can we not offer you support? There’s no right or wrong way to adjust to news such as you’ve had to, but who says you have to do it alone?”
His attention didn’t waver from the frozen pool at their feet it had settled on as she spoke. Some part of him has to believe I make sense, otherwise he might have stopped me already or left. Here they sat just the two of them, yet the chance to say anything that didn’t spring from inferences and her own fears persisted out of reach so long as he remained economical with his words.
But perhaps that line of thought was also impractical in its optimism: that Jon should unburden himself to her right now so they might leave any turmoil behind. Of course that was unrealistic. Whatever he chose to share will be for the best, but not all of it need reach her ears — and wasn’t that a good thing too? You’re a forgetful man, Jon. Don’t you know how many love you? Swapping one gesture for another lest he feel crowded, she withdrew her hand and offered him a smile, busying herself with petting Ghost again instead.
“Bran, I suppose, has lived with the truth the longest,” she said lightly. “It’ll be confusing for Rickon, but he’s young and he’s not losing anyone in the end. You’re still family, Jon.” She briefly sought his eyes again before continuing. “And Arya — she said, ‘he thinks everything is his fault, and this, Father lying, will be too.’ Her anger is only pretend. She’s sad that you’re hurting and there’s nothing she can do to alleviate your pain because you won’t let us. You’re keeping to your own, but you can’t do that indefinitely. We’re here for you, Jon.”
“Keeping this lie caused a rift between your parents.”
Yes, no point in denying that.
“It must have weighed heavily on Father,” she acknowledged. “I feel sorry my lady mother will never know the truth. Things might have been easier had he told her.”
Silence was Jon’s only answer to that. They both knew that while Catelyn Stark had been hurt by her husband’s perceived betrayal, she had been afraid of the threat Jon could pose to her children too, and what bigger danger to her family was there than hiding the son Rhaegar Targaryen had with Lyanna Stark from King Robert. It was no less dangerous today, though the potential threat came from somewhere else now, Sansa remembered.
She was trying to find the courage to ask Jon whether he planned on sharing the truth with Daenerys when he turned to her with a question of his own.
“Would you rather have known all this time?”
“No.” She blinked, not expecting this. “I liked having you as my brother,” she answered sincerely.
“Am I still your brother?”
“Is that what you wish? You’re a Stark and you’re my family, Jon. That will never change for any of us. If you’d rather I call you cousin, I will do so, though I’ll ask you give us some time to come up with some sort of strategy before sharing the truth of your birth publicly.”
Her thoughts were racing ahead already, driven by the anxiety that the matter of Jon’s safety always inspired, and she would have said more were it not for him shaking his head.
“I’m aware this is a discussion we need to have too, but I’m not asking about the rest of Westeros, Sansa. I wonder what you think. You heard Arya; she’s adamant we’re siblings no matter what,” he added.
This was the longest speech he’d held since they started talking. His brows were furrowed, his features tense with expectancy. Her answer was important to him, though she wasn’t sure what else she could offer that she hadn’t already told him.
“You’ll always be our brother in a way.” How could it be otherwise? None of them could shrug off the years they’d shared as siblings overnight — none of them wanted to. “Truth or no, Father made you so, and I don’t know that it can be so easily unmade. What matters is that we’ve always loved you, all of us. Do you think that love fades away or is diminished because you’re our cousin in actuality?”
In her room, moonlight as her only companion, Sansa had allowed herself to say it, trying out the words on her tongue. Jon is not my brother. Bran had the right of it, she had recalled then just as she did now. She’d known so as soon as her eyes had landed on Jon’s devastated face.
Jon Snow may not be my true brother, she thought, but what does it matter? This is the gift she was given, the one she’s been fighting for ever since others nearly managed in ripping it apart. A family to love and to hold close. Her closeness with Jon was recent, but not its incentive. He will pause at every detail, fixated on the specifics. He couldn’t change that he was brought up as a bastard, no matter that it was revealed to be a falsehood insofar as his parentage was concerned. This was what she wanted him to know. They carried the past with them for it was inevitable, but going forward wasn’t unless one made it so. And the future was uncertain, that was the way of it, but she knew she would always love Jon. She’d have to keep telling him so, tell him he is a Stark too, and repeat it when he protests most likely.
“I thought maybe… Well, I’m a Targaryen. I thought perhaps you would take issue with it.”
“You’re the same person you’ve always been,” she corrected. “Give me more credit, Jon. And may I remind you you’re still half Stark, same as the rest of us. The lone wolf dies but the pack survives, remember?” Her voice turned teasing. “Besides, I’m sorry to tell you this, but you need all the help you can get. Don’t think you can get rid of us so easily.”
He narrowed suspicious eyes at her in feigned reprobation. “I don’t think you’re sorry at all.”
“Perhaps not.”
She matched the gleam of amusement in his grey irises until his expression changed to one of remembrance.
“Bran said I was to be named Visenya.”
“Visenya?”
“Rhaenys, Aegon…” Jon listed. “Seems I put a spoke in Rhaegar’s wheel when I was born a boy.”
She couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped her lips when understanding dawned on her. “Well, it’s settled, then. Forget our brother-cousin dilemma, this is what we shall call you from now on,” she teased, laughter in her voice.
“Please.” There was a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips now, and Sansa longed to keep it there.
The wind picked up, disturbing the snow gathered on the needles of a nearby sentinel, and she shivered under her cloak despite the huge wolf warming her legs. The sun had already started its descent in the sky, she guessed, flitting her gaze upwards to a glowing canopy, her vision full of leaves made redder by impending twilight. It would be dark soon, no matter that there was still some time before supper and so much left to do besides. Winter is here. A war was coming, losses ahead of them yet. Her family would not be one of them.
She rose up, Ghost immediately leading the way back to the castle.
“Come, Jon Snow. It’s time to go home.”