Chapter Text
Jon Snow was dead. With each step he took toward the altar, he’d buried another piece of himself until he stood, waiting, for his bride as not much more than a hollow husk. Truthfully, he’d already been dead for a while. Since his conversation with Arya.
He’d been dressing when she’d entered his rooms, fastening his vest with leaden, sombre hands and when she’d walked through the doorway, he’d turned to grin at her somewhat morosely.
"Let me guess,” he said. “You're here to tell me what a fool I am for agreeing to this wedding. It's a little late. I’ve already asked Tormund to say the first words."
Arya shook her head. "I'm not here to tell you anything." She’d smiled, her eyes softening a bit. "No one can tell you anything, Jon."
"I don't know about that,” he said. “Sounds more like Sansa."
Jon briefly closed his eyes -- how quickly his thoughts turned to her, how eagerly his tongue spoke her name. It was a problem he needed rectified and an instinct he never wanted quelled and a threat he relished to a peace he longed for. It was a multitude of conflicting emotions. It was Sansa.
"That's why I'm here."
Jon turned around to face her completely, raising his eyebrows.
Arya paused. "She'll never forgive you for this, you know."
Oh, did he. "So, you came as her ambassador."
"I came for you, to see if you're prepared for that loss."
He wasn’t. He couldn’t think of anything worse except for what would happen to his home, his countrymen if he went back on his word. And the fact that Sansa refused to see that, that she would severance herself from him, leave him, made him angry.
"Sansa thinks she knows better than everybody else,” he said gruffly. “But I am doing this because--"
"Jon, your Queen?” Arya walked up to him, her tone getting firmer.
“Our Queen, Arya.”
“I know a killer when I see one. And if somewhere she knows about..." She looked at him pointedly and his lips parted. She knew. He knew she knew. But she wouldn’t say it out loud.
"Then Sansa is a threat to her in more ways than one and that's something I will have to deal with."
"Don't speak so dangerously," said Jon.
"I’ve never been afraid of danger.” She kept her gaze steady. "Sansa will never abandon you but tonight you will lose her, do you think you can survive that? Do you think we can survive that?"
He rubbed his eyes. Why was everyone being impossible? "I have to choose what's best for everyone, regardless of how I feel or what I want. We don’t have the luxury of following our … we have a duty … we … I gave my word before I even knew that I’d---”
Jon couldn’t even finish the sentence. It physically pained him
Arya continued to look at him. "I know you think you've made your choice. But don't be surprised if there comes a time where you might have to choose again."
*
Sansa couldn’t recall the last time a wedding had been a joyous occasion. Tyrion had been kind in their marriage but she hadn’t known what to expect beforehand and the trepidation and unease of that ignorance had made her nervous and fearful the entire ceremony. The night she’d married Ramsay, she’d thought she was going to be sick, walking through the godswood she’d walked through many times as a young girl but with Bolton banners everywhere and toward a family who had slaughtered hers. Upon seeing Ramsay’s face her own became a mask of impassivity while rage and disgust and fear roiled within her. Before either wedding, her mother and brother had been slaughtered at one, ripping out a large piece of her that she would never, even if she’d attempted to, get back. The only glimmer of joy had been when Joffrey, her tormentor, had died an agonizing death at his wedding but that demise had not been the liberation she’d prayed for.
And now, this wedding, between this man and that woman. This wedding that’d had the entire castle in a frenzy of preparation for days. This wedding was plaguing her with a keen, aching sorrow that made it impossible to speak, near-impossible to breathe. In the midst of dressing for the occasion, she would sometimes stare at her own hands, wondering who they belonged to So much had been taken from her over the years, but this loss was something she couldn’t have imagined because she couldn’t have imagined Jon in the first place, of what the two of them together awakened in her. She couldn’t imagine passion. She couldn’t imagine…
Sansa closed her eyes. Stop it. Stop.
It was done. They were done. Before they even started. She had to let it go. There was no other way. Her heart had been broken a thousand times before this, and loving Jon Snow would be yet something else she’d survive. She knew how to endure, she knew how to rebuild, she ---
Suddenly, she heard a creak and felt something inside of her ignite. That spark, it was only triggered by one person’s presence. She turned toward the door, looking at it with such concentration as if that was all it took for her tear-brimmed eyes to see through to the other side, to see through to who she knew, in her gut, was standing in the corridor. She willed him to come in, to knock, to whisper her name, to yell in anger, to do anything to let her know he was there, he was hers.
Jon stood outside Sansa’s door, poised to walk in. He wanted to hold her and yell at her all at once and his hand trembled with the urge to push open this barrier between them and take her in his arms. Soon, his entire body thrummed with the desire to see her, to go to her. His mouth moved wordlessly, and he furrowed his brow, conflicted. It felt physically impossible to stay on this side of the door, everything in him strained to see her, yearned to touch her. The desire was overpowering, transforming into an uncontainable force that made him agitated, made his breathing ragged, he was going to come undone --
And then it was gone. He’d buried it all at once, removing himself from how he felt, shrouding himself in a numbness so complete, it was as if he belonged to himself. He was gone.
He murmured, “Goodbye” and we walked down the corridor, making his way out to the godswood.
Sansa sank onto a chair, her hand suddenly splayed on her chest as the spark died as quickly as it had flared within her and something in her body shifted. Something that told her, it was all over.
*
The knock was unexpected. It wasn’t Jon. Sansa already knew that. But it surprised her when she opened the door to find Daenerys in full wedding dress.
Sansa blinked. “Your Grace. I… I was making my way to your rooms---”
“That’s alright,” said Daenerys. “I move at my own pace.”
“Evidently.”
Daenerys walked into the room and glanced around. “I wanted to give this to you before the ceremony.”
She handed Sansa a scroll that she unfurled and began reading.
“It will say that as my prince consort, Jon will have another title as King in the North, which is what Tyrion had explained when discussing the political aspects of this union.”
Sansa remained looking at the piece of paper, sensing Daenerys was waiting for some sort of expression of gratitude but she did not give one.
Daenerys prompted her. “It is exactly what we discussed.”
“Well, what you and Jon discussed,” said Sansa, putting the paper on her desk.
Daenerys’ face became steadily less congenial. “I have compromised a lot, Sansa. I even conceded to the Northern customs for this wedding.”
“Which was smart as you’re in the North and want to the favour of our people,” said Sansa simply with a shrug. Every move Daenerys did was calculated and she was rather bored with the assumption that she didn’t know when her strategies were simply common sense. “A Northern wedding and a title with no power.”
Daenerys scoffed. “It holds considerable power.”
“Just not sovereignty,” said Sansa. “He bends the knee to you, we bend the knee to him, nothing changes. He’s just the Warden of North except he’s not in the North and has a fancier title and you’re counting on our loyalty to Jon to quell any idea of a rebellion as he would be by your side.”
Whatever congeniality Daenerys was putting on had now evaporated. “The Seven Kingdoms are my birthright, the North is my birthright and I love this land like---”
Sansa clasped her hands together. “What is it that you love about the North in the short time you’ve been here?”
Daenerys blinked, taken aback by the question. She tried to recover. “I discover something new about this place everyday. Each discovery more beautiful than the last.”
“Mm.” Sansa nodded. “But do you love the conviction we have in our beliefs? Do you understand our beliefs? Our wilfulness and loyalty. The passion with which we uphold our ideals, which may be very different from your own? Our might, our---”
As Sansa continued to speak with more and more feeling, Daenerys got the distinct impression that she was not only describing her country and countrymen. And when she finished, she took a deep, shuddering breath as if her own words moved her to breathlessness.
Daenerys cleared her throat and patted down her dress. “I am marrying him when I am in no need of a husband,” he said. “That is proof enough,” she said, opening the door. “It’s time.”
“Your Grace,” said Sansa.
“How do I look?”
Sansa gave her a once over. “It’s a dress fit for a Queen.”
Jon couldn’t feel the chill on his bare face, he couldn’t feel himself within his body, couldn’t even feel worn or tired, or detached, he felt … gone. Tormund, who stood next to him, was more nervous than he was. He could see Arya looking at him curiously but couldn’t even bring himself to pretend. He just … was. He’d snuffed it out -- the spark that had enlivened him since the Red Woman brought him back and now he was nothing more than an animated corpse and that was all he would be. That was the choice, the sacrifice he’d made.
He saw them approach but his vision was unfocused, saving him from seeing her, from noticing her, keeping his heart dead.
Sansa, once again, found herself in the godswood. Her feet, once again, propelling her toward her heartbreak. They passed by soldiers, passed by faces she knew until they stopped in front of Jon and she felt as though she’d shatter on the spot.
Tormund glanced awkwardly at Jon who gave an encouraging nod and then he spoke, his voice raspy. “Who comes before the gods?”
Sansa didn’t answer right away. She couldn’t. If she did, her voice would break and betray the depth of her pain and she’d already bled in front of Jon enough for a lifetime. She willed herself to swallow her sadness and relax her throat and once she did, she answered.
“Daenerys of the House Targaryen.” Sansa paused before saying the words that had shackled her to a man she’d despised. “A woman trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who … who comes to claim her?”
Jon hesitated and then stepped forward. Even in such a state, he was drawn to her. His eyes shifted to Sansa’s and when, after a few seconds, they locked, the furious pain that made hers shine with unshed tears lanced through his chest and catapulted him into an internal free fall. He didn’t feel rooted to the ground he was standing on. Nothing about the wood seemed real or possible, it wasn’t possible that he was where was, watching himself stare at the woman, at the two women in front of him. This body wasn’t his, this life wasn’t his. He was aware everyone was waiting for him to recite the expected answer.
He opened his mouth. He paused for a second, an eternity and then ---
Commotion in the near distance. Clanging. Shouting. Everyone turned to look toward the distraction. Voices could be heard.
“Assassin! Assassin!”
Everyone started moving. Jon and Brienne rushed toward Sansa, Brienne standing in front of her, Jon crushing her to him, cloaking her. Greyworm rushed to protect Daenerys, joining her with Missandei. Arya, readied, had her blade drawn, covering Bran. A few soldiers ran toward the commotion. Everything was happening so fast.
In a manner of seconds, men entered the clearing with the severed heads of the apparent would-be assassins.
“What has happened?”
“They opposed the union.”
Daenerys’ head snapped toward Sansa and then her eyes widened near-imperceptibly at seeing the way Jon held onto her.
His stomach plummeted. “No,” he whispered. “Daenerys---”
She addressed Sansa. “Did you know about this?”
Sansa remained silent, her eyes narrowed in fury.
“Speak,” said Daenerys. “Speak!”