Chapter Text
The ground had thawed slightly, so Sansa’s slippers crunched on the lingering frost instead of sinking into drifts of snow as she crossed the courtyard. She reveled in having foregone her boots for the first time in a long while, and though she relished the freedom and comfort these offered and the absence of ice underfoot, she still tread carefully in reaching the godswood.
It easily might have been another false spring, like when they had married the first time at the Gates of the Moon, another calm before the storm, and she would not have been surprised if winter were to come again with a vengeance more fierce than ever, wroth to let go of its hold so easily. But there was no use in entertaining those worries now, and Sansa pushed that far away from her mind, instead choosing to think of how the ground was already softer than it had been moons ago, of how she could almost feel that there was life lurking beneath it, coiled and waiting to spring free again.
Winterfell was beautiful like this, its crenelations crusted over with remaining snow and icicles dripping down its sides, glittering in the sunshine. She couldn’t help but think this was how it was meant to look; she had been too young at the very end of the previous winter to truly remember. Sansa took her time to admire it—she had never once taken it for granted ever since she returned, and she would never again.
Even the frost further melted away the closer she got to the godswood, and the air lost its chill, replaced by the hope of spring, teasing its arrival. Sansa let herself hope, that if nothing else it was an omen, that perhaps far to the north of them the Wall was working its magic, that maybe Winterfell’s walls held the same protections.
The cold seemed to make no difference to those gathered there today, though. Hardy northerners and those who had joined their company from other lands alike embraced it, donning their finest furs and cloaks adorned with all manner of sigils, accented by scarves and mittens in an array of colors that stood stark against the evergreens, dark stone, and pale blue sky. Some braved even less than that—Gilly wore little more than a shawl over her long velvet dress as she emerged from the Great Keep with a bouquet of flowers.
“Nervous?”
“Not a bit,” Sansa said. The smile she wore was no mask. Gilly had been the fairest of friends to Alayne Stone, but she found her to be an even finer one to Sansa Stark once she had recovered from the initial shock of the revelations shared just over a fortnight ago in the Great Hall. Gilly had batted away her profuse apologies as they sat sharing tea the next evening, murmuring, “We all do what we must for those we love,” and Sansa thought she had never heard truer words spoken.
Gilly peered into the godswood, her eyes flitting over the crowd. “I would be, if I were you.”
There were some parts of Alayne that Sansa was more than eager to leave behind—her darkened hair, her falsities she sang, her secretive nature—but her glib sense of humor was not one of them. “I believe this is my least-attended wedding yet.”
Gilly shuddered. “I cannot imagine.”
“Is that why you and Sam never wanted to…?”
She shook her head. “No. There was no sense in saying the words in a sept in the south that neither of us held any faith in, and Sam never would have been allowed in Oldtown. Sam says one day we’ll go back beyond the Wall, to the grove where he said his vows. Just us, and the boys.”
Sansa’s grin broadened at the idea. “That sounds simply lovely. Though I hope you’ll allow at least us to attend, of course. You know, to help manage the boys and all.”
“I think we can make some exceptions.” Gilly squeezed her hand and handed over the bouquet so she could return to her seat in time.
There had been few flowers left after winter’s freeze, and Sansa hadn’t seen any sense in wasting valuable space in the glass gardens when they so desperately needed all the fruits and vegetables they could grow. A few fortunate winter roses had been found in the wolfswood, though, peeking up out of the snow, and their blue stood out among the sprigs of pine and sentinel.
To fill out the rest, Sansa had added in an assortment of other items, one to represent each of their family, both those that were present and those whose spirit could only be felt in the presence of the godswood: a couple of thin branches from the weirwood for Bran, a strand of pearls Arya had brought back from Braavos, some bunches of bright red winter berries Rickon had collected for her when loping out in the wolfswood with Shaggy. A small circlet of bronze in the shape of Robb’s crown held the stems together, while below that she had looped around the chain of a necklace featuring a charm of the Tully fish that had belonged to her mother and a white ribbon on which she had once embroidered the direwolf of House Stark for her father, a relic from her girlhood, wrapped the rest of the way down.
It was not at all in line with tradition, but she did not care. Nor was any of this, not when it was happening all backwards, maybe, or all convoluted at best. Septa Mordane might not have approved, for it was not at a bit what she had preached for proper behavior, but Sansa could not help but feel as though they still must have been blessed by the gods, in whatever form they existed and if they deigned to care about the matters of mere mortals. How else could they have managed to be so lucky, to have found each other again, to have returned home, to have reunited as family once more, otherwise?
This may have been her third wedding, but this time around, at last, Sansa had chosen—her flowers, her dress, the audience gathered, the godswood, to be standing at the start of this aisle, the man waiting at the end of it.
No Lord Baelish waited here beside her, with his gaze lingering too long on her dress, or his hand on her back, or his minty breath against her cheek. The lords of the North sat in attendance instead, awaiting her arrival, as many as had already been assembled in Winterfell or could manage to arrive in the just over a fortnight it had taken to make these arrangements. While few of the faces may not have been the same ones familiar from her childhood any longer, this time they were faces she recognized, she trusted.
All their eyes turned to her now as she emerged out of the shadows of the gate and into their view, but when she reached the front, she knew it would be just her and Jon, and that was reason enough to take one step forward and then the next.
Surrounded by tall chestnuts and elms, ironwoods and oaks, and the steam rising from the hot pools instead of an austere sept, this time she walked the long aisle alone. That had been a choice, too. Both Bran and Rickon had offered to accompany her, and even Arya, but Sansa wanted to go by herself this time, to make it clear she could stand on her own.
She moved ever more slowly, careful to avoid the roots pushing up through the dense earth or snagging her dress on the fallen leaves and pine needles. She had kept her hands warm and busy sewing it with every spare moment she found over the past few weeks, and she was happy for her work to be admired.
A ribbon wrapped around high above her waist, and from that the fabric flowed, draping over her belly, though there was no hiding it anymore nor any reason to. On a background of white, she had embroidered the red leaves of the weirwood, blue winter roses, green stems for spring, and between that and her red hair sweeping over her shoulders, she felt as though color infused the godswood with her every step, illuminating its world of barren branches and still black water, humus and stone.
Over the dress she wore her cloak that matched, one of the correct colors rather than black and gold, and she took solace in knowing it would not be replaced with the crimson of House Lannister or any shade of red at all, for that matter.
As Sansa neared him, she saw Jon wore grey too, his tunic and trousers fashioned of a fine material for the occasion. His black scabbard and the glint of rubies in the handle of his sword were the only hints that betrayed the other half of his ancestry, and those paled beneath the cloak he wore, one in a design the reverse of hers and bearing a white direwolf.
Jon stood waiting, looking striking with his hair free and his smile more than just turned up at the corners of his mouth. He appeared nothing like the scene that had greeted her in the sept at the Gates of the Moon, the stern king awaiting his arranged bride—no, he wore nothing but joy and unabashed pride this time.
It thrilled Sansa that she could freely admire him, and he had only grown more handsome in her eyes now that she knew him truly, maybe better than herself. She knew the stories of the scar slashed across his eye and the burn on his hand and the ones of those she couldn’t see, the pucker on his shoulder that remained as evidence of an arrow that had wedged there and those that had cut deeper across his chest and abdomen, ones no maester or otherwise could explain how he’d survived. She knew the things he’d seen beyond the Wall and those he’d faced on this side of it, the way he’d gone from traitor to the Night’s Watch to King in the North, and how with that had come the home and family he’d never thought possible. And beyond that, she knew of the tenderness that laid behind his steeled exterior, and she cherished the times he shared that with her most of all.
The walk might have been longer than those she’d made previously in the septs, but it seemed to take only half the time for her to reach the front. Sansa remembered little of her previous weddings, but this one she ensured she ingrained in her mind—the echo of birdsong, the smell of the moss and pine, the light lift of the wind, the slightest warmth of the sun breaking through the clouds, bathing the godswood in light. The desire for merely her name or her claim had no place here, those ill intentions banished like morning mist evaporating in the light of day.
The long, pale limbs of the heart tree arched over where Jon waited, its leaves ever vibrant no matter the sun or snow, heat or hoarfrost. Arya, Bran, and Rickon flanked him, reminders she was far from alone this time, far from out of place, and rather right where she belonged.
There was no septon waiting this time either, no one expecting them to repeat words that rang false, no rituals to follow or trappings of ceremony. They were not flanked by statues of gods who had never listened to her prayers looking on, nor forced to listen to songs speaking of a great love shared between two when in truth most of those marriages had been artfully arranged unions brought about with careful words and exchanges, names and lands holding more importance than any sentiments or affections.
Instead, the titter of snow shrikes in the trees above filled the air, and they shared a love that was true, that had been built stone by stone as her mother always spoken of. They had survived the trials and tests of finding one another again and journeying home, facing their enemies and overcoming stretches of separation, reuniting their family once more and adding to it, too. That was evidence enough, reason aplenty, and anyone who required more need only open their eyes to see the way they looked at one another.
Sansa smoothed over her skirts as she came to stand in front of the heart tree, which stood as solemn and unadorned as it was any other day. The layers of her dress were light and flowing, and in the gentle breeze they settled around her like the softest of the clouds above. She did not miss the stiff, taut fabrics nor the golden thread that had gilded her in both the colors of House Lannister and House Baelish, trappings aimed to embellish and deceive, to make her appear as someone she was not.
And of course she had looked a bit different then, as well. Something else besides the nip of the cold brought a blush to her cheeks, hand lingering on her belly. Sansa had been startled that day in the sept at the Gates of the Moon, stricken by how like her father, like Arya Jon looked, and she smiled now, thinking of how she hoped their babe would share those same grey eyes and dark hair, would have the Stark look so as to leave no doubt to whom they belonged.
She wasn’t proud of it, and nor would she ever admit it to Jon, but Sansa hadn’t been able to help but question Bran a few nights ago when they sat together before the fire as she completed the final few finishing touches on her dress.
“You can see…” She’d swept her hand in a vague gesture, but Bran seemed to understand.
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
He’d nodded. “If I choose to look.”
“Even…?” She’d brought a hand to her belly.
“Yes.”
“And? What are they like?”
A smile had tugged at the corner of his mouth then. “Happy.”
She should have been pleased enough with that, but she pressed him for more, and despite his reticence, Bran had shared.
“A daughter of winter. Hair as dark as a raven’s wings. Brave, gentle, and strong like you. Both of you.”
That part had made her eyes prick, and she’d been unable to force her words past the lump in her throat to ask if he knew their father had used those same words once when he’d promised to find someone for her, if Bran had seen all else that had happened in their time apart. And who was to know if he had told her the right of the rest, least of all Sansa, but she supposed by the time they found out, weeks or moons after the babe had been born. She knew full well hair could lighten or darken, eyes the same, and by then, Bran would have long gone south.
Bran had declined her invitations to remain in Winterfell or even delay his journey, intending still to help Arya carry out her ruse in the Vale so they could both be rid of Littlefinger forever and convince the Lords Declarant to support the North in one fell swoop, and then they would continue on to the Isle of Faces for Bran to complete what work he had there. Sansa suspected they also planned to pay a visit to Greywater Watch on their way, and while some had cautioned against it and the perils of the Neck, if anyone could find it, she knew it would be Bran and Arya.
There were certainly worse dangers they would face, in any case. Word from the south suggested that Cersei’s hold on the crown grew ever more tenuous in King’s Landing, and that dragons and elephants washed up on its shores along with men from faraway lands. Dorne had never been quiet for this long either, and there were always the ghosts of Harrenhaal or whoever claimed it at the [moment] to contend with. It would not surprise her one bit if Arya’s curiosity got the best of her, and Sansa already looked forward to the tales she would tell upon her return.
At least Rickon decided to stay, though she could not say for how long. She knew he was restless, that he was eager to explore the North, and that as the future king, she could not deny him the opportunity to learn all of his kingdoms and bannermen. Sansa suspected Ser Davos would be more loathe to leave the warmth of Winterfell and the comforts of its halls, but he too said he grew restive if he spent too much time this far from the sea.
Sansa knew many eyes must have followed her every movement, but hers were for Jon alone as she turned to face him. There was no one to ask who gave her this time, no one standing beside her to act on her behalf and pass her off to another—only she and him, and the only thing that made her feel a fool this time was the grin she wore on her face, one that could not be suppressed by the chill in the air or constricted by false pretenses, her joy no charade.
The wind lifted a bit, sending leaves dancing around them. She wore no veil for it to catch in nor any lace to hide her face, her red hair artfully arranged beneath her crown and cascading down her back from there. Jon reached out to touch the strands the way he had more and more often as of late as the auburn started to brighten into burnished copper, and Sansa slipped the gloves from her hands, sliding them into Jon’s warm ones instead.
Jon gestured towards the godswood surrounding them. “Do you find these conditions suitable, my lady?”
“It’s… enchanting,” she said, breathless even though she had yet to speak more than a few words.
And it was indeed—even more than that. Ephemeral, she would have called it, perfection bottled up in a single moment, fleeting, like the drifting snowflakes melting in Jon’s hair, rustled free by the wind from the leaves above. Sansa knew they would catch in hers too, probably ruining the curls Gilly had worked so hard to create, but she didn’t care, and she thought anyone who did ought to set their priorities in order.
Together they stepped up to the heart tree, its face vacant, staring. She wondered if those weeping red eyes still saw, if they’d remember this scene along with all the rest they had paid witness to, the others Bran had seen before—that just as bannermen had knelt and sworn oaths to their lords and mothers and maidens alike said prayers for all manner of peace and prosperity beneath its branches, that even as towers within Winterfell rose and fell and as the surrounding trees did the same, that they would never be forgotten, not truly.
“Do you accept this man?” Jon murmured, and she could hear the mirth in his voice, his amusement buoying her in the face of such solemnity.
She grinned. “Yes. I, Sansa Stark, take this man.”
It was the easiest thing in the world to say the words now, not that there were many more that they needed to share. They did not need anyone to prompt them, to tell them how Jon should place his hands upon her or what platitudes to recite. Who would know if they made up the words, if they shared prayers or sweet nothings or bawdry jests? Words were wind anyhow, and they changed nothing of her and Jon. As far as Sansa would acknowledge, they had already been tied together from the moment he recognized her in the Vale, and that knot had grown ever tighter, looped and tangled and twisted, with each difficulty they traversed, each threat they vanquished, each part of their family they rediscovered.
Someone had left rushes there spread before the heart tree so they knelt in front of its gaping mouth, white bark stained by sap, but Jon barely seemed to see it at all. Sansa could feel his gaze on her nearly every other word, the way her blood ever seemed to thrum beneath her skin in his presence not at all dulled by the cold or the formality of the occasion.
Silence drifted over them, a pause for reflection. She supposed this was usually when a couple wished for happiness or protection of the gods, but instead she took it to offer her thanks, more intended for Jon’s ears than those of any gods, for their health and happiness, for those they were grateful enough to still have and the time they had with those they had lost, for all they had shared and that which they had to look forward to.
She did not know if a minute passed or five or ten, but Jon must have found something to say in close, though, since Sansa found herself humming in agreement as he helped her back to her feet. She scarcely had enough time to steady herself before a din rose in the distance, the sound eerie before she placed it as the howling of wolves beyond the walls of Winterfell, the usual faraway snarls and cries they had become accustomed to blending together in chorus. She smiled as Ghost, Summer, and Shaggydog pricked their ears before replying with a harmony of their own, and she suspected Arya might find more than merely a change of scenery on her way south. Perhaps an old friend or two awaited, too.
Cheers rose much closer as well as the godswood filled with applause and a few tearful bellows that were probably garbled for the best that seemed to stem from Tormund’s direction.
In place of switching her cloak, Jon drew her towards him and met her with a kiss—a real kiss this time, one as decidedly unchaste as they could get away with in the godswood and in front of an audience.
Afterwards, once Jon swept her up in his arms and carried her out beyond the Hunter’s Gate to the courtyard, she did not have to question why Jon had agreed to this arrangement, what ruse they would maintain, if they might come to love each other for true. That thought warmed her as they stood outside the godswood, accepting the well wishes of each guest who passed on their way to the Great Hall, making for a very long line of congratulations indeed.
She imagined there would still be plenty to come, though, continuing on as part of the revelry at the feast after, as the celebration lasted until the hour of the wolf. Jon would keep her close whether they sat on the dais or danced out on the floor, glaring every time another man so much as laid a hand on Sansa in greeting or dared to look her way. At the end of the night they would go to their chambers alone, without the debauchery of a bedding ceremony, although she knew they would be eager to undress each other and climb beneath the furs, sleep to wait no matter how tired the night spent on their feet would leave them.
And in the morning, she would rise in what no one could deny was her home, with a name still all her own while being one she shared with Jon, and break her fast in a hall where she belongs, whether she wears a crown or not, whether she sits beside Jon or Gilly or those visiting from wintertown anyone else.
They would await the return of winter, if it had yet more in store for them after this second tease of spring or if it had been staved for the time being by Jon’s efforts beyond the Wall. If the snows cleared and the roads became passable again, they could welcome visits from among the scarce few Sansa had counted as friends these years, those that seemed as though they were from another lifetime, Myranda Royce or Willas Tyrell, or others from the rest of the realm. Maybe someday they would write a letter to Daenerys Targaryen in the south. When the snows came again, battering the North, they might very well need her help, and perhaps she wished for a family, too.
And of course, before all that, it was never far from her mind how there were only a couple moons come to pass until their own would expand by one more. There was no telling what would happen then, of how their family would grow and change, but of one thing, Sansa was certain.
The North would endure.