lightofdaye (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lightofdaye) wrote2012-07-12 07:47 pm
lightofdaye) wrote2012-07-12 07:47 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Family, Duty, Honour (Jon/Sansa)
Title: Family, Duty, Honour.
Rating: PG-13 or R maybe? Not good using at American ratings.
Pairing: Jon/Sansa
Word Count: ~5,800
Beta:-![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
luna_plath
Warnings: Violence, hints of incestuous feelings.
Summary: Jon rides to the Vale to rescue Sansa Stark but is Alayne Stone willing to be rescued?
A/n: Written in response to an![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
asoiafkinkmeme prompt by juno_chan ;- “Sansa is surprised when Jon comes for her in the Vale. He is surprised that she is surprised.”
When they reached the Bloody Gate, they were still nearly three score strong; northmen and wildings and former brothers, though the guardians of the gate would not have been able to tell one group from the others. They were dressed in furs and leathers and oddments of black armour but their cloaks were all different and colourful.
Their leader was a tall northern man with a long solemn face and a sheepskin cloak. To one side of him rode a large man with shaggy hair and beard carrying a standard from which flew a pair of banners, on the other walked a huge white wolf. The banners were quite strange, one might have been mistaken for that of House Stark if the colours had not been all wrong: it depicted a white direwolf with red eyes running across a slate grey field. But above that flew an even more extraordinary banner; one that had not been seen in The Vale for decades, it was black and scarlet and showed a three head dragon on a field of pure darkness; it was the royal sigil of House Targaryen.
Still, Knights Of The Gate were not appointed based on how easily they could be impressed. Ser Donnel Waynwood starred down impassively from his battlements at the party as it approached and waited till the man with the wolf pulled up a couple of yards from the closed gate before he shouted down;
“Halt There. What business do you have in the Vale? And whose banner are you flying down there?”
“Mine Own,” The Northman shouted up, “I am Jon Snow, Protector of Winterfell and Warden Of The North in the name of Queen Daenerys Targaryen.”
“I have heard your name, Jon Snow. I heard you were dead.”
“You heard wrong. May my party pass?”
“Obviously. I am afraid The Vale does not recognise the authority of Queen Danaerys, Snow.”
“And one day that will change, or be changed for you,” Jon Snow paused before continuing and moderated his tone to become slightly friendlier, “But that day is not today, Ser Donnnel. I am not here on matters of state but only a personal errand. I pledge my word of honour that I shall keep the peace of the Vale so long as its keeps it’s peace with me.”
Ser Donnel did not make his reply quickly. Lord Protector Petyr Baelish had given him strict instructions about allowing armed strangers into The Vale but the decision was still his to make. Jon Snow was the bastard of Winterfell and son of Eddard Stark, a name well remembered in The Vale; better remembered by the Waynwoods than the name of Paetyr Baelish, for all the man’s new found rank and privilege.
“Then you may pass, Jon Snow. If you but answer one final question; what errand do you have in the Vale?”
“I’m looking for my Sister.” Jon Snow replied.
- - -
When the strange northman entered the great hall of the Gates Of The Moon, Alayne Stone almost forgot herself in surprise, she rose to her feet, her hand clutching at her chest and the word ‘father?’ came to her lips. A second later a sense of wrongness came to her, the tall man striding into the hall with a bastard sword strapped to his hip was far too young to be her father, though he looked much like him. Then the sense of wrongness doubled and the recognition passed. Her father Petyr Baelish, looked nothing like this new comer.
She glanced at her father, his grey-green eyes were as guarded as ever but her daughter’s eye could detect the surprise in his body language though no one else did.
The new comer, amazingly enough, did not address her father at all, nor Ser Harrold Hardyng, the guest of honour at this feast. Instead he said,
“Lord Royce, I have travelled long and hard to reach here. I beg your hospitality, and some refreshments, salt and bread and water for my men and me. I should not like to burden your winter supplies for more than that.”
Nestor Royce, never a particularly quick man, stumbled at this and glanced rapidly between the newcomer and Lord Petyr. While Alyane’s father had granted this castle to Nestor Royce and his family in perpetuity, the castle was also the Winter seat of House Arryn, and Petyr represented the little Lord Robert Arryn who was far too ill to attend this feast.
“I would ask Lord Petyr, of course, if I thought he might actually honour the guest right as well as a Frey would. But all know you for a man of honour, Lord Royce, so I place myself in your keeping.”
Her father did not lift his voice or his finger or react at all to the strange man’s unprovoked slurs. Alayne knew it was never his way to confront attackers head on, nor to resort to arguments; instead he would let them have their say and condemn themselves without any help from him.
Harrold Hardyning was not so restrained; her intended had been drinking heavily until his cheeks were almost as red as the diamonds that made up his heraldry, which was proudly displayed on his doublet, a riot of red and white diamonds across his chest in satin and silk. The only acknowledgement of his status as the next Lord of the Vale was the clasp of his cloak; an Arryn eagle wrought in silver.
Harry the Heir pounded his fist on the high table in anger, half rising out of his seat to shout down at the man.
“And who are you, Ser, to stride into my feast, bold as you like, and insult my lord?!”
“I am Jon Snow and I am here for my sister.”
Alayne felt a sudden rush at Jon Snow’s words, a fluttering of her heart that she was quite at a loss to explain. She had never heard that name before, of course, why did it create such a response in her?
“A bastard? A baseborn churl?” Harry enraged with the indigence only one born to nobility and privilege, “And you barge in here demanding hospitality, when by rights you should begging at the servant’s port with cap in hand?”
“I have no quarrel with you, boy.”-In truth this Jon Snow did not look to be any older than Harry but he spoke with such authority and weight that it rang true nonetheless.- “And bastard born I may be, but I travel under the banner and authority of the Targaryens. I promised to abide by your peace. I come with only fifty men and a wolf, but cast me out and I may just return with five thousand men and a dragon.”
The whole halls seemed to hiss in a sharp breath at the mention of the dragons.
“But all this can be avoided if you will let me have just one woman, who I know will want to come with me.”
Harry gritted his teeth and sank back into his seat, brooding in silence.
“ So what are we waiting for? Are you coming home with me?”
And he looked Alayne straight in the eye as he spoke, extending a hand towards her.
Alayne panicked, shying away from the stranger. Jon Snow’s face was suddenly awash with confusion.
“My Lord? I fear you have me confused with someone else. I am Alayne Stone, my lord.”
“No you’re not,” Jon Snow said, his catching at her arm, “Don’t worry, you’re safe. I won’t let anyone hurt you. We’re going home to Winterfell”
She threw him off her and backed away.
“I’m not! I’m not her! I’m not Sansa I’m not.” She cried. “Let go, you’re hurting me!”
Uproar filled the hall. Ayrrn men at arms advanced on Jon but found their way blocked by the gigantic white wolf. Harry leapt to his feet again and came to Alayne’s side.
“Leave her!” Harry boomed.
Jon let go of her, though Alayne did not think it was owing to Harry’s shout. He looked as if he been hit on the head, dazed and vacant of thought.
There was a sudden silence into which Petyr finally decided to speak.
“My lords, I did not wish to speak ill of a guest in my hall, even so much of an unmannered one but I do know a little of this Jon Snow, he is thought to be the son of Eddard Stark, a traitor to the crown. He was ill liked even by the northerners and sent to the wall. He broke his oaths to the Night Watch several times and clearly has now deserted them entirely. I can only look on his entire story as suspect but I ask for you mercy in this matter. We should expel him from our realm immediately.”
He delivered this calmly, in the air of the detached impartial delivery but Alayne had her doubts, her father may have made a rare misstep. At the mention of Eddard Stark;s betray, there were scowls and grumbles and shaking of heads among the elder lord and knights in attendance and no-one leapt to his aid or to oppose the northman.
Harry, too drunk and incensed with anger at Jon Snow did not take his Lord’s advice at all. And instead addressed Snow directly;
“You come into this company uninvited, insult my host and dear friend and try to force yourself on his daughter in plain view of the whole hall. Yet you say you are a gentleman of rank. In that case I can and must demand satisfaction of you.”
Jon’s swordhand clenched and flexed in its black glove and twitched towards the white pommeled sword at his hip.
“A knight’s duel I think; with Lances on horseback.” He added.
“Ser, I am no knight.” Jon said calmly.
“Too bad for you then.” Harry said with a self-satisfied smirk.
Her father’s eyes twinkled as he clapped his hand.
“Then it is done. I am not accustomed to duels myself, but I rather think I must ask you to accompany me to a tower room, Jon Snow, to await your duel in privacy and comfort.”
- - -
Grenn had hated Jon Snow he’d first met him largely because he’d been so damn scary. He’d been lethal with a tourney sword in the training yard and had seemed so stern and emotionless, you thought he meant to kill you.
He knew better now of course and proudly carried the man’s banner wherever they went. He had also learnt to detect his friend’s moods. Right now he could tell Jon was anxious about the way things had turned out by the very subtle signs of Jon’s dark frown and restless pacing about the tower room.
“Five Minutes,” Satin, who was less sensitive to Jon’s moods, complained. “Five minutes we’re here and he picks a fight.”
He and Samwell Tarly and Grenn had all been allowed into Jon’s room where he was theoretically confined. Satin was there to serve as Jon’s Squire in the duel, Sam because he was half a maester and Grenn was there because he was a head taller than either of the guards that were at the door.
“It makes no matter,” Jon replies, “As long I find her.”
“That’s what you said at Deepwood Motte,” Satin said.
Jon glared.
“And after that fracas at the neck.”
Jon glared more.
“And The Twins”
“Enough. The difference this time is that we’re in the right place at the right time. I know that’s Sansa.” Jon growled.
“Are you sure Jon? I mean really sure? She seemed awfully insistent in denying it.”
The tiniest shadow of a smile brushed across his lips.
“She did. She said she wasn’t Sansa. Only I never mentioned that was her name.”
“Lots of people know who you are and who the Starks are. That’s a slender thread to put all your hopes on Jon.”
To Grenn it looked like Jon knew that. He just didn’t care.
- - -
The duel was to take place in the nearest tourney ground, with the barrier that was usually between the jouster removed. Jon and Harrold had the use of pavilions at the opposite ends of the field where they would meet at that noon.
Acting as his squire, Satin had got out Jon’s armour. It had been a gift from Daenerys Targeryen herself. It was strong well made stuff, but aside from the silvered mail, it was plain fair. That was to Jon’s liking though and it was solid well made steel and Satin knew enough to polish it a near mirror sheen.
The bottom layer was the quilted jerkin to soften blows and help him bear the weight of the steel more than the keep warm. The chainmail was already sown to it, thickets along his arms and shoulders and sides, every where the plate would have difficulty protecting him. His breeches likewise had mail across the outside of his thighs.
He seated in the chair strapping his greaves to his legs, when they heard a rustling at the entrance to their pavilion. Satin heard it as well, immediately drawing his dirk and turning towards the sheets. Jon leant towards the table Longclaw was resting on to do the same.
Sansa slipped into the tent, her skin pale and her eyes blue. Jon and Satin froze in surprise. Satin with his dirk raised; Jon having pulled the first foot of Longclaw out its scabbard. Sansa stared wordless of the tableau of them.
Jon broke first letting go of his weapon and bounding to his feet exuberantly.
“Sansa…” he said reaching for her face, thinking she’d come to her senses.
She shied away from his touch.
“I’m not,” she said as before, “I’m not her. You should go home Lord Snow.”
“Why are you pretending? Is Baelish holding something over you?” Jon demanded.
“He’s not holding anything over me, he’s my father.”
“Eddard Stark was your father! You are my blood,” Jon half shouted.
“Why do even you care?” She suddenly replied with equal heat.
Jon gaped. The reply was completely unexpected. Not just that Sansa had half admitted who she was, but the words themselves. A girl who he’d been raised with, who he’d known since the day she was born, who was part of his family. How could she think he wouldn’t care?
He sighed, running his hand through his lustreless brown hair.
“Gods Sansa, how could I not?”
“I…” She started before catching herself, one finger was toying nervously with a dark lock. Dyed as it was, it almost looked like his, Jon noted to himself. “If I was Sansa Stark. I’d have been a highborn maiden. I’d have been very aware of my position in society. Correct? I’m a Stone, Jon Snow, I know how lords and ladies treat the baseborn. Your sister can not have been kind to you when you grew up, can’t have been close to you.”
In a way, she was right. Of all the Stark children, Sansa had probably been the one he’d been least close to. She was the first daughter of the house and her interests and teachings had diverged wildly from his, giving them little in common and it hadn’t helped she was naturally very close to her mother and Catelyn Stark had hated him with a passion. He could see Sansa’s point, he just didn’t understand why should would place such importance on it. He tried to marshal his thoughts to put them in words. Leading men had been easy compared to this.
“What is the sigil of House Stark?” –Sansa frowned but made no response- “Come now, your father must have had you educated. Writing, religion, Heraldry?”
“A Direwolf.” Sansa grudgingly admitted.
“A Direwolf,” Jon agreed. “A fearsome animal, a dangerous hunter but these are not the chief virtues of the wolf. Loyalty is. Loyalty to their family, their pack. In winter, a lone wolf would die. The pack endures. And I’m not about to let my pack die out.”
He met Sansa’s eyes, wide and blue. He felt a draw to them, a depth; as if they were pools of water and at the bottom he could see her confusion, doubt and turmoil. He might have made an impact, he might not. Sansa did not reply. Jon sighed, at this rate he was going to be late for his duel and that would be the very height of bad manners.
“Satin put away that dirk and get the breastplate.” He said and as they were putting it on, he continued to Sansa; “If you’re not here as my sister. Why did you come?”
Sansa was staring at the armour.
“You shouldn’t fight him. You shouldn’t duel Harry. What you’re looking for is not here, Jon Snow, this will not help you. Ser Harrold is reckoned to be the finest young knight in the Vale.”
“As I am not a knight, his record will be untarnished when I beat him then.” Jon said wryly.
“Or if he beats you. What then? How will you find your sister then?”
“It doesn’t matter. I have given my word. If you don’t remember your father’s words, then remember your mother’s. Your mother never liked me but I still remember the Tully’s words. Family, Duty, Honour. They used to mean something to the Starks and me as well.”
“Don’t do it. Don’t fight him.” Sansa pleaded one last time before she fled.
- - -
They finished up with the armour quickly after that. Strapping on the breastplate and then adding the gorget for his neck and pauldrons over his shoulders. He donned a surcoat with his personal reversal of the Stark arms on it. Satin offered him his cloak but Jon waved him away. Instead he slung Longclaw over his shoulder. Having at his side looked impressive but over the shoulder felt more natural after many years of fighting with it there. Finally he donned his gauntlets and a visorless greathelm.
Harrold Hardyng was waiting for them already when they arrived. He was wearing much heavier armour than Jon was, almost entirely plate and heavily enamelled in red and white with a great plume of red sprouting from his helm. Even the war lance borne by his squire was striped in the same colours.
Jon paid no attention as Lord Petyr explained to the crowd why they were all here, everyone already knew. Likewise, he paid no attention the Septon asking for the Father’s justice and the Warrior’s strength. He’d never known any god to take an interest in any fight he’d had. Instead he paid good attention to his foe. Harrold had been half a hand shorter than Jon but a full hand’s breadth wider in the shoulders and thickly muscled. In his armour he looked near as wide as he was tall.
As the Septon’s voice finally died away, they mounted up and Satin handed him his war lance; eight feet of plain unpainted ash and iron. It felt clumsy and unwieldy in his grip. Jon wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, but he was beginning to feel nervous about this whole affair. He was a passable jouster but Robb had bested him more often or not back in their boyhood tilts in the training yard of Winterfell and he’d barely used a lance in the many years since then. His fights had always been with his sword or a bow and arrows.
Still he thought, as he took his shield; a heavy triangular section of wood, studded with iron, it couldn’t be that hard. You pointed the lance and the horse did the rest. And here it was even easier than the joust. No barriers to get in the way; you just went straight at your foe.
“Ready?” asked the master-at-arms and Jon signalled his readiness with barely a thought.
As nominally the focus of their quarrel, Sansa had to start the duel and whatever her misgivings, dropping a hankerchief still seemed to be within her ability.
No time for worries now. Jon kicked his horse and it started to speed towards the white and red figure. No longer Harry Harrdyng, just an armoured foe. Even having a destrier underneath him and not a garron felt strange but the horse had been well trained and knew its business as it leapt into a gallop as smooth as silk.
With their horses at full speed, it took the merest moments for them to cover the length of the field between them and yet anticipation and the adrenaline rush made it feel like a much longer time for Jon. He tried to keep the lance levelled at his foe but he could hear the pounding of his breath through his helm. He had to keep his shield high as well he knew and angled to deflect blows.
Oak and iron guard me well, else I’m dead and doomed to hell. The rhyme popped into Jon’s head fully formed but he had no idea who had told it to him or when.
They charged at each other head on. Jon wondered if by some miracle neither their spear made contact, what would happen? Would the horse just have enough discipline to run into each other? Would they veer off? Combat trained horses might kick or bite at men, what about each other?
It turned out to be a moot point as, at the very last instance, Harry twitched his rein and his horse suddenly shifted to the side somehow. So they were just going past each other. Jon’s lance found only air where Ser Harrold’s crashed into his shield at an angle. A tourney lance would have shattered at the glancing impact and Jon would have kept his seat but it wasn’t a tourney lance, it was thick, banded against breaking and tipped with a steel point that simply crashed through Jon’s shield and into his side.
He felt the pain more than any impact but suddenly he was off the horse and down in the mud. He heard some cheering from the stands but that was a distant background to a sound that cut through everything for him, the sound of Sansa’s scream of horror.
“Jon, No!”
He could have smiled if he wasn’t hurt but even that sound was quickly swallowed up by the thundering of hooves as Ser Harrold returned. Lance still aimed for Jon.
It was the horse that saved him that time. He dodged clumsily towards it and its bulk got in the way of Harry’s charge so he veered off and turned quickly coming for another run.
Jon drew Longclaw, an action that was second nature to him by now, an instinct that could not be hindered by injury or confusion. The feel of his weapon in his hand focused him and this time at least he could see Harrold coming.
He leapt to the right as Harry approached, to the man’s shield side and slashed at him in passing. He wished he could say was aiming for Harrold but that was beyond him at this point. Instead at best he’d laid open the chainmail covering the horse’s flank.
There was booing from the stadium now and shouts of disparagement surprisingly towards Ser Harry. Jon could see why; it was eminently sensible to try and killed a wounded opponent from horseback but still dishonourable, it was much more sporting to dismount and do it with a sword.
Whether it was the disapproval of the crowd, or the distress of his own horse, Harry pulled up and dismounted, still bearing his undamaged lance and shield. The former he cast aside and pulled out a longsword to replace it.
Jon waited for him to approach. There was no sense running after him. He tried to ignore the damp feeling at his side, the bright scarlet on the steel of his armour, the darkening of the surcoat from grey to a murky brown. There was time to die later and if seeing it caused Sansa to remember herself, all the better.
Injured or not, Jon felt steadier on the ground, with Longclaw in hand. Robb may have won at jousting more often than not but he’d always had his measure with a blade in hand.
As he approached Jon took a couple of steps towards him, winced and stopped, leaning to one side and clutching his arm to his side as if he was in more pain than he was. Harry’s approach sped up, bloodlust for his wounded foe overcoming his caution.
When he was just to reach the range when Harry’s longsword could touch Jon, Jon staggered back a couple more steps, then suddenly reserved direction, springing forward and slashing down with Longclaw in a series of quick strikes. Harry flinched back just in time, Longclaw’s tip just glanced off his helm as he did so, scratching a line across it; just above the visor. He managed to get his shield in the way of the second strike, a heavy sidestoke, and parried the last blow a falling blow. Jon had to retreat and take Harry’s quick counter strike on his pauldron.
Jon felt no shame about continuing to retreat a couple more steps, back and to his right. Harry was well well-armoured and carried a large shield. Longclaw’s greater reach was his main advantage in this fight as well as much agility as he could muster. Even so he matched Harry stroke for stroke, hammering and hacking at each other with all their strength.
He dodged to the side and aimed a low blow at Harrold’s greave, forcing him to lower the heavy shield to take the blow and then he stabbed out with the point of his sword at Harry’s head, surprised; he jerked away and the point was deflected off his gorget. His longsword lashed out and caught Jon in the shoulder, evening out the dents in his pauldrons if nothing else.
Jon knew his advantage now; Harry had not expected such ferocity from him. He didn’t know Jon after all, he just saw a wounded man with a bastard sword. He didn’t know the difference between a bastard sword and a greatsword after all, much less a bastard sword made of valyrian steel. Longclaw had the reach of a bastard sword but was much lighter and was nearly as agile as a long sword, not nearly as slow and clumsy as Harry had expected.
He stopped putting so much strength into his blow, he could not overpower Harrold, instead he concentrated in speed and piling as many blows down on him as possible from as many difficult directions as possible.
Longclaw’s reach began to show, Harry could not get close enough to attack Jon without taking at least a couple of blows. The Valyrian steel left long shiny lines across his shield and armour. Wood and steel started to show through paint and enamel.
But Harry was not so overwhelmed he couldn’t fight back. For those couple of blows, he got to take a swing at Jon. More blood was oozing out a puncture wound in his leg now, and a swipe at Jon’s face left a dent on the temple of his helm.
Jon staggered; his head ringing like a bell, the world had shrunk now, there was no one in the stadium now, no grass on the floor, he was back in the yard of winterfell, with a wooden sword in hand. His father was watching the training today. He had to look good, had to do his duty. For father.
Harry moved in for the kill, longsword blurring as he made to open Jon from shoulder to hip. Longclaw moved the meet the blade in a last titanic effort to block the blow.
Jon missed.
Harry screamed. His sword went flying out his grip. A couple of fingers went with it. Jon had not managed hit the oncoming sword’s blade but instead had found it hilt. As he gaped at the blood spurting from his sword hand, Jon kicked him in the side of the knee, propelling him to the ground and the point of his sword found the gap between gorget and helm to press against Harry’s throat.
“Yield.” Jon growled, “Or I lean.”
It was not the most resounding of threats but Harry got the message.
“Yield, I yield!” He said, loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Oh… good.” Jon said withdrawing Longclaw and stepping back or at least that was what he meant to do. Instead it turned into a stagger. The strength of battle was leaving him now the deed was done, his injuries pulsed at him as though insistent that he acknowledge they exist and were painful.
Longclaw landed in the mud with a wet slapping sound, Jon followed it.
- - -
Even before Harry Harrdyng had formally surrendered, people had leapt onto the field. To get out to them; Jon’s men, wild northerners with shaggy hair and thick leathers foremost but Sansa was right there with them.
Then Jon collapsed and she doubled her pace to get to him.
“Jon? Jon?! Gods, Jon, I told you not to fight him.”
Jon’s men ignored her presence. Instead the biggest of them, an aurochs sized man, whipped off his cloak; a heavy dark green garment of heavy wool that he threw to the ground next to Jon, meaning to support him with it. A smaller blonde man and stouter one were right behind him.
“C’mn Satin, Let’s get him back to the tent, so Sam can take a good look at him.”
But men in sky blue cloaks were heading onto the pitch as well, in ring mail and bearing spears. Littlefinger followed them; the slightest of frowns creasing his brow.
“Guards, seize him. These men are deserters from the Watch and criminals, we cannot in good conscience allow them to escape.”
The men in blue did not seem eager to step forward. The big man unlimbered an axe from somewhere, while the other two men in black, pulled daggers. Although the portly man looked as scared of his own knife as he did of the men with the spears.
“Leave him!” Came a voice that while not strong at the moment nevertheless carried the edge of true command, Harrold Harrdyng had found his feet. One hand clamped solidly around his other wrist. “We fought. He won. I lost. Honour is satisfied. We will not besmirch it by arrested an injured man.”
All the men in Arryn colours all took that as their cue to back off at that point. But Littlefinger remained, insistent.
“These men threaten my daughter, come here Alayne.” He offered his arm to Sansa.
Sansa stared at him and then at Jon still lying in the mud unconscious. It felt as if a great pressure was squeezing her head and chest as she tried to decide. Littlefinger had saved her from King’s Landing, whisked her to safety in the Vale. But Jon had bullied his way here just to see her. It was Jon who wanted her to go home. Littlefinger… heavens knew what Littlefinger wanted but in the end he’d been going to marry her off for her claim. Just like everyone else.
“No.” She said at last, forcing the words from herself. “No, they don’t.”
“Alayne! Listen to your father,” Petyr said and made to grab her arm.
Ghost didn’t growl. He never had. He was suddenly just there: as tall and white and implacable as the wall between her and Petryr. Littlefinger recoiled as Ghost snarled silently. Wit and words and secrets were no defence at all against a beast’s teeth and claws.
“Sansa…” Jon’s voice, weak and weedy, named her from the floor.
She didn’t deny it.
Jon’s men accepted her silently into their ranks, trying to pay her no attention as they went about their business but she still saw the odd looks they shot at her and each other.
They stripped Jon of his armour quickly and efficient as the portly worried looking one, Sam, Sansa had heard him called, opened a small chest filled with healing tools and bandages. Sansa noticed the silver link among most of a maester’s chain that was strung around his neck on a leather cord, meaning he had the same knowledge of healing a fully fledged maester would have.
They peeled the damaged armour from his chest, wincing as the pulled at they pulled on links that been embedded in flesh or accidently gashed Jon’s forehead as the dented greathelm was pulled from his brow. Dazed as he was, Jon barely called out even when they drowned his wounds in boiling wine.
He settled into an exhausted sleep even before they were done bandaging him and no one objected when Sansa pulled up the only chair in the tent to watch over him as he slept.
- - -
When Jon awoke the first thing he noticed was the brilliant pair of blue eyes, watching him. In another life that would have been a cause for great alarm but now he could only feel the sincerest of reliefs.
“Sansa,” he said softly.
“Jon,” she replied, as if they had not spent years apart. “Lie still. You’re very weak.”
“Yeah, I know, it’s not like this is the first time I’ve been stabbed in the chest, you know.”
Sansa looked mortified.
“I jest, I jest.” Jon lied.
“You never used to jest.”
“You never used to call yourself Alayne.”
“I…” Sansa looked away. “I just never thought you would come for me.”
“Then you’re an idiot.” Jon replied. “But I forgive you.”
She really did laugh then, a wonderful musical sound that swept through the tent and lifted Jon’s spirits immensely. He shivered at the sensation. Sansa tilted her head in curiosity.
“Are you cold, Jon?” she moved closer, sitting on his fur covered cot.
“I thought it was supposed to be warm in the south…” he said but trailed off, as Sansa leaned closer.
“We can’t have that, Jon. You saved me. My hero should at least be warm.”
She lay by his uninjured side, one hand trailing across his brow and through his hairline, Jon gasped at the gentle touch of skin on skin.
Then she kissed him. On the cheek and then again on the forehead and finally on the lips, it was soft delicate kiss, as chaste as a kiss on the lips could be but she was soft and warm and sweet and an amazing sense of contentment swept through Jon. He felt light headed again.
She pulled the furs up around them and cuddled close to him almost as if they were children again but they weren’t and could never be. But still they were together again; as they were meant to be.
They were a pack.
Rating: PG-13 or R maybe? Not good using at American ratings.
Pairing: Jon/Sansa
Word Count: ~5,800
Beta:-
luna_plathWarnings: Violence, hints of incestuous feelings.
Summary: Jon rides to the Vale to rescue Sansa Stark but is Alayne Stone willing to be rescued?
A/n: Written in response to an
asoiafkinkmeme prompt by juno_chan ;- “Sansa is surprised when Jon comes for her in the Vale. He is surprised that she is surprised.” When they reached the Bloody Gate, they were still nearly three score strong; northmen and wildings and former brothers, though the guardians of the gate would not have been able to tell one group from the others. They were dressed in furs and leathers and oddments of black armour but their cloaks were all different and colourful.
Their leader was a tall northern man with a long solemn face and a sheepskin cloak. To one side of him rode a large man with shaggy hair and beard carrying a standard from which flew a pair of banners, on the other walked a huge white wolf. The banners were quite strange, one might have been mistaken for that of House Stark if the colours had not been all wrong: it depicted a white direwolf with red eyes running across a slate grey field. But above that flew an even more extraordinary banner; one that had not been seen in The Vale for decades, it was black and scarlet and showed a three head dragon on a field of pure darkness; it was the royal sigil of House Targaryen.
Still, Knights Of The Gate were not appointed based on how easily they could be impressed. Ser Donnel Waynwood starred down impassively from his battlements at the party as it approached and waited till the man with the wolf pulled up a couple of yards from the closed gate before he shouted down;
“Halt There. What business do you have in the Vale? And whose banner are you flying down there?”
“Mine Own,” The Northman shouted up, “I am Jon Snow, Protector of Winterfell and Warden Of The North in the name of Queen Daenerys Targaryen.”
“I have heard your name, Jon Snow. I heard you were dead.”
“You heard wrong. May my party pass?”
“Obviously. I am afraid The Vale does not recognise the authority of Queen Danaerys, Snow.”
“And one day that will change, or be changed for you,” Jon Snow paused before continuing and moderated his tone to become slightly friendlier, “But that day is not today, Ser Donnnel. I am not here on matters of state but only a personal errand. I pledge my word of honour that I shall keep the peace of the Vale so long as its keeps it’s peace with me.”
Ser Donnel did not make his reply quickly. Lord Protector Petyr Baelish had given him strict instructions about allowing armed strangers into The Vale but the decision was still his to make. Jon Snow was the bastard of Winterfell and son of Eddard Stark, a name well remembered in The Vale; better remembered by the Waynwoods than the name of Paetyr Baelish, for all the man’s new found rank and privilege.
“Then you may pass, Jon Snow. If you but answer one final question; what errand do you have in the Vale?”
“I’m looking for my Sister.” Jon Snow replied.
- - -
When the strange northman entered the great hall of the Gates Of The Moon, Alayne Stone almost forgot herself in surprise, she rose to her feet, her hand clutching at her chest and the word ‘father?’ came to her lips. A second later a sense of wrongness came to her, the tall man striding into the hall with a bastard sword strapped to his hip was far too young to be her father, though he looked much like him. Then the sense of wrongness doubled and the recognition passed. Her father Petyr Baelish, looked nothing like this new comer.
She glanced at her father, his grey-green eyes were as guarded as ever but her daughter’s eye could detect the surprise in his body language though no one else did.
The new comer, amazingly enough, did not address her father at all, nor Ser Harrold Hardyng, the guest of honour at this feast. Instead he said,
“Lord Royce, I have travelled long and hard to reach here. I beg your hospitality, and some refreshments, salt and bread and water for my men and me. I should not like to burden your winter supplies for more than that.”
Nestor Royce, never a particularly quick man, stumbled at this and glanced rapidly between the newcomer and Lord Petyr. While Alyane’s father had granted this castle to Nestor Royce and his family in perpetuity, the castle was also the Winter seat of House Arryn, and Petyr represented the little Lord Robert Arryn who was far too ill to attend this feast.
“I would ask Lord Petyr, of course, if I thought he might actually honour the guest right as well as a Frey would. But all know you for a man of honour, Lord Royce, so I place myself in your keeping.”
Her father did not lift his voice or his finger or react at all to the strange man’s unprovoked slurs. Alayne knew it was never his way to confront attackers head on, nor to resort to arguments; instead he would let them have their say and condemn themselves without any help from him.
Harrold Hardyning was not so restrained; her intended had been drinking heavily until his cheeks were almost as red as the diamonds that made up his heraldry, which was proudly displayed on his doublet, a riot of red and white diamonds across his chest in satin and silk. The only acknowledgement of his status as the next Lord of the Vale was the clasp of his cloak; an Arryn eagle wrought in silver.
Harry the Heir pounded his fist on the high table in anger, half rising out of his seat to shout down at the man.
“And who are you, Ser, to stride into my feast, bold as you like, and insult my lord?!”
“I am Jon Snow and I am here for my sister.”
Alayne felt a sudden rush at Jon Snow’s words, a fluttering of her heart that she was quite at a loss to explain. She had never heard that name before, of course, why did it create such a response in her?
“A bastard? A baseborn churl?” Harry enraged with the indigence only one born to nobility and privilege, “And you barge in here demanding hospitality, when by rights you should begging at the servant’s port with cap in hand?”
“I have no quarrel with you, boy.”-In truth this Jon Snow did not look to be any older than Harry but he spoke with such authority and weight that it rang true nonetheless.- “And bastard born I may be, but I travel under the banner and authority of the Targaryens. I promised to abide by your peace. I come with only fifty men and a wolf, but cast me out and I may just return with five thousand men and a dragon.”
The whole halls seemed to hiss in a sharp breath at the mention of the dragons.
“But all this can be avoided if you will let me have just one woman, who I know will want to come with me.”
Harry gritted his teeth and sank back into his seat, brooding in silence.
“ So what are we waiting for? Are you coming home with me?”
And he looked Alayne straight in the eye as he spoke, extending a hand towards her.
Alayne panicked, shying away from the stranger. Jon Snow’s face was suddenly awash with confusion.
“My Lord? I fear you have me confused with someone else. I am Alayne Stone, my lord.”
“No you’re not,” Jon Snow said, his catching at her arm, “Don’t worry, you’re safe. I won’t let anyone hurt you. We’re going home to Winterfell”
She threw him off her and backed away.
“I’m not! I’m not her! I’m not Sansa I’m not.” She cried. “Let go, you’re hurting me!”
Uproar filled the hall. Ayrrn men at arms advanced on Jon but found their way blocked by the gigantic white wolf. Harry leapt to his feet again and came to Alayne’s side.
“Leave her!” Harry boomed.
Jon let go of her, though Alayne did not think it was owing to Harry’s shout. He looked as if he been hit on the head, dazed and vacant of thought.
There was a sudden silence into which Petyr finally decided to speak.
“My lords, I did not wish to speak ill of a guest in my hall, even so much of an unmannered one but I do know a little of this Jon Snow, he is thought to be the son of Eddard Stark, a traitor to the crown. He was ill liked even by the northerners and sent to the wall. He broke his oaths to the Night Watch several times and clearly has now deserted them entirely. I can only look on his entire story as suspect but I ask for you mercy in this matter. We should expel him from our realm immediately.”
He delivered this calmly, in the air of the detached impartial delivery but Alayne had her doubts, her father may have made a rare misstep. At the mention of Eddard Stark;s betray, there were scowls and grumbles and shaking of heads among the elder lord and knights in attendance and no-one leapt to his aid or to oppose the northman.
Harry, too drunk and incensed with anger at Jon Snow did not take his Lord’s advice at all. And instead addressed Snow directly;
“You come into this company uninvited, insult my host and dear friend and try to force yourself on his daughter in plain view of the whole hall. Yet you say you are a gentleman of rank. In that case I can and must demand satisfaction of you.”
Jon’s swordhand clenched and flexed in its black glove and twitched towards the white pommeled sword at his hip.
“A knight’s duel I think; with Lances on horseback.” He added.
“Ser, I am no knight.” Jon said calmly.
“Too bad for you then.” Harry said with a self-satisfied smirk.
Her father’s eyes twinkled as he clapped his hand.
“Then it is done. I am not accustomed to duels myself, but I rather think I must ask you to accompany me to a tower room, Jon Snow, to await your duel in privacy and comfort.”
- - -
Grenn had hated Jon Snow he’d first met him largely because he’d been so damn scary. He’d been lethal with a tourney sword in the training yard and had seemed so stern and emotionless, you thought he meant to kill you.
He knew better now of course and proudly carried the man’s banner wherever they went. He had also learnt to detect his friend’s moods. Right now he could tell Jon was anxious about the way things had turned out by the very subtle signs of Jon’s dark frown and restless pacing about the tower room.
“Five Minutes,” Satin, who was less sensitive to Jon’s moods, complained. “Five minutes we’re here and he picks a fight.”
He and Samwell Tarly and Grenn had all been allowed into Jon’s room where he was theoretically confined. Satin was there to serve as Jon’s Squire in the duel, Sam because he was half a maester and Grenn was there because he was a head taller than either of the guards that were at the door.
“It makes no matter,” Jon replies, “As long I find her.”
“That’s what you said at Deepwood Motte,” Satin said.
Jon glared.
“And after that fracas at the neck.”
Jon glared more.
“And The Twins”
“Enough. The difference this time is that we’re in the right place at the right time. I know that’s Sansa.” Jon growled.
“Are you sure Jon? I mean really sure? She seemed awfully insistent in denying it.”
The tiniest shadow of a smile brushed across his lips.
“She did. She said she wasn’t Sansa. Only I never mentioned that was her name.”
“Lots of people know who you are and who the Starks are. That’s a slender thread to put all your hopes on Jon.”
To Grenn it looked like Jon knew that. He just didn’t care.
- - -
The duel was to take place in the nearest tourney ground, with the barrier that was usually between the jouster removed. Jon and Harrold had the use of pavilions at the opposite ends of the field where they would meet at that noon.
Acting as his squire, Satin had got out Jon’s armour. It had been a gift from Daenerys Targeryen herself. It was strong well made stuff, but aside from the silvered mail, it was plain fair. That was to Jon’s liking though and it was solid well made steel and Satin knew enough to polish it a near mirror sheen.
The bottom layer was the quilted jerkin to soften blows and help him bear the weight of the steel more than the keep warm. The chainmail was already sown to it, thickets along his arms and shoulders and sides, every where the plate would have difficulty protecting him. His breeches likewise had mail across the outside of his thighs.
He seated in the chair strapping his greaves to his legs, when they heard a rustling at the entrance to their pavilion. Satin heard it as well, immediately drawing his dirk and turning towards the sheets. Jon leant towards the table Longclaw was resting on to do the same.
Sansa slipped into the tent, her skin pale and her eyes blue. Jon and Satin froze in surprise. Satin with his dirk raised; Jon having pulled the first foot of Longclaw out its scabbard. Sansa stared wordless of the tableau of them.
Jon broke first letting go of his weapon and bounding to his feet exuberantly.
“Sansa…” he said reaching for her face, thinking she’d come to her senses.
She shied away from his touch.
“I’m not,” she said as before, “I’m not her. You should go home Lord Snow.”
“Why are you pretending? Is Baelish holding something over you?” Jon demanded.
“He’s not holding anything over me, he’s my father.”
“Eddard Stark was your father! You are my blood,” Jon half shouted.
“Why do even you care?” She suddenly replied with equal heat.
Jon gaped. The reply was completely unexpected. Not just that Sansa had half admitted who she was, but the words themselves. A girl who he’d been raised with, who he’d known since the day she was born, who was part of his family. How could she think he wouldn’t care?
He sighed, running his hand through his lustreless brown hair.
“Gods Sansa, how could I not?”
“I…” She started before catching herself, one finger was toying nervously with a dark lock. Dyed as it was, it almost looked like his, Jon noted to himself. “If I was Sansa Stark. I’d have been a highborn maiden. I’d have been very aware of my position in society. Correct? I’m a Stone, Jon Snow, I know how lords and ladies treat the baseborn. Your sister can not have been kind to you when you grew up, can’t have been close to you.”
In a way, she was right. Of all the Stark children, Sansa had probably been the one he’d been least close to. She was the first daughter of the house and her interests and teachings had diverged wildly from his, giving them little in common and it hadn’t helped she was naturally very close to her mother and Catelyn Stark had hated him with a passion. He could see Sansa’s point, he just didn’t understand why should would place such importance on it. He tried to marshal his thoughts to put them in words. Leading men had been easy compared to this.
“What is the sigil of House Stark?” –Sansa frowned but made no response- “Come now, your father must have had you educated. Writing, religion, Heraldry?”
“A Direwolf.” Sansa grudgingly admitted.
“A Direwolf,” Jon agreed. “A fearsome animal, a dangerous hunter but these are not the chief virtues of the wolf. Loyalty is. Loyalty to their family, their pack. In winter, a lone wolf would die. The pack endures. And I’m not about to let my pack die out.”
He met Sansa’s eyes, wide and blue. He felt a draw to them, a depth; as if they were pools of water and at the bottom he could see her confusion, doubt and turmoil. He might have made an impact, he might not. Sansa did not reply. Jon sighed, at this rate he was going to be late for his duel and that would be the very height of bad manners.
“Satin put away that dirk and get the breastplate.” He said and as they were putting it on, he continued to Sansa; “If you’re not here as my sister. Why did you come?”
Sansa was staring at the armour.
“You shouldn’t fight him. You shouldn’t duel Harry. What you’re looking for is not here, Jon Snow, this will not help you. Ser Harrold is reckoned to be the finest young knight in the Vale.”
“As I am not a knight, his record will be untarnished when I beat him then.” Jon said wryly.
“Or if he beats you. What then? How will you find your sister then?”
“It doesn’t matter. I have given my word. If you don’t remember your father’s words, then remember your mother’s. Your mother never liked me but I still remember the Tully’s words. Family, Duty, Honour. They used to mean something to the Starks and me as well.”
“Don’t do it. Don’t fight him.” Sansa pleaded one last time before she fled.
- - -
They finished up with the armour quickly after that. Strapping on the breastplate and then adding the gorget for his neck and pauldrons over his shoulders. He donned a surcoat with his personal reversal of the Stark arms on it. Satin offered him his cloak but Jon waved him away. Instead he slung Longclaw over his shoulder. Having at his side looked impressive but over the shoulder felt more natural after many years of fighting with it there. Finally he donned his gauntlets and a visorless greathelm.
Harrold Hardyng was waiting for them already when they arrived. He was wearing much heavier armour than Jon was, almost entirely plate and heavily enamelled in red and white with a great plume of red sprouting from his helm. Even the war lance borne by his squire was striped in the same colours.
Jon paid no attention as Lord Petyr explained to the crowd why they were all here, everyone already knew. Likewise, he paid no attention the Septon asking for the Father’s justice and the Warrior’s strength. He’d never known any god to take an interest in any fight he’d had. Instead he paid good attention to his foe. Harrold had been half a hand shorter than Jon but a full hand’s breadth wider in the shoulders and thickly muscled. In his armour he looked near as wide as he was tall.
As the Septon’s voice finally died away, they mounted up and Satin handed him his war lance; eight feet of plain unpainted ash and iron. It felt clumsy and unwieldy in his grip. Jon wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, but he was beginning to feel nervous about this whole affair. He was a passable jouster but Robb had bested him more often or not back in their boyhood tilts in the training yard of Winterfell and he’d barely used a lance in the many years since then. His fights had always been with his sword or a bow and arrows.
Still he thought, as he took his shield; a heavy triangular section of wood, studded with iron, it couldn’t be that hard. You pointed the lance and the horse did the rest. And here it was even easier than the joust. No barriers to get in the way; you just went straight at your foe.
“Ready?” asked the master-at-arms and Jon signalled his readiness with barely a thought.
As nominally the focus of their quarrel, Sansa had to start the duel and whatever her misgivings, dropping a hankerchief still seemed to be within her ability.
No time for worries now. Jon kicked his horse and it started to speed towards the white and red figure. No longer Harry Harrdyng, just an armoured foe. Even having a destrier underneath him and not a garron felt strange but the horse had been well trained and knew its business as it leapt into a gallop as smooth as silk.
With their horses at full speed, it took the merest moments for them to cover the length of the field between them and yet anticipation and the adrenaline rush made it feel like a much longer time for Jon. He tried to keep the lance levelled at his foe but he could hear the pounding of his breath through his helm. He had to keep his shield high as well he knew and angled to deflect blows.
Oak and iron guard me well, else I’m dead and doomed to hell. The rhyme popped into Jon’s head fully formed but he had no idea who had told it to him or when.
They charged at each other head on. Jon wondered if by some miracle neither their spear made contact, what would happen? Would the horse just have enough discipline to run into each other? Would they veer off? Combat trained horses might kick or bite at men, what about each other?
It turned out to be a moot point as, at the very last instance, Harry twitched his rein and his horse suddenly shifted to the side somehow. So they were just going past each other. Jon’s lance found only air where Ser Harrold’s crashed into his shield at an angle. A tourney lance would have shattered at the glancing impact and Jon would have kept his seat but it wasn’t a tourney lance, it was thick, banded against breaking and tipped with a steel point that simply crashed through Jon’s shield and into his side.
He felt the pain more than any impact but suddenly he was off the horse and down in the mud. He heard some cheering from the stands but that was a distant background to a sound that cut through everything for him, the sound of Sansa’s scream of horror.
“Jon, No!”
He could have smiled if he wasn’t hurt but even that sound was quickly swallowed up by the thundering of hooves as Ser Harrold returned. Lance still aimed for Jon.
It was the horse that saved him that time. He dodged clumsily towards it and its bulk got in the way of Harry’s charge so he veered off and turned quickly coming for another run.
Jon drew Longclaw, an action that was second nature to him by now, an instinct that could not be hindered by injury or confusion. The feel of his weapon in his hand focused him and this time at least he could see Harrold coming.
He leapt to the right as Harry approached, to the man’s shield side and slashed at him in passing. He wished he could say was aiming for Harrold but that was beyond him at this point. Instead at best he’d laid open the chainmail covering the horse’s flank.
There was booing from the stadium now and shouts of disparagement surprisingly towards Ser Harry. Jon could see why; it was eminently sensible to try and killed a wounded opponent from horseback but still dishonourable, it was much more sporting to dismount and do it with a sword.
Whether it was the disapproval of the crowd, or the distress of his own horse, Harry pulled up and dismounted, still bearing his undamaged lance and shield. The former he cast aside and pulled out a longsword to replace it.
Jon waited for him to approach. There was no sense running after him. He tried to ignore the damp feeling at his side, the bright scarlet on the steel of his armour, the darkening of the surcoat from grey to a murky brown. There was time to die later and if seeing it caused Sansa to remember herself, all the better.
Injured or not, Jon felt steadier on the ground, with Longclaw in hand. Robb may have won at jousting more often than not but he’d always had his measure with a blade in hand.
As he approached Jon took a couple of steps towards him, winced and stopped, leaning to one side and clutching his arm to his side as if he was in more pain than he was. Harry’s approach sped up, bloodlust for his wounded foe overcoming his caution.
When he was just to reach the range when Harry’s longsword could touch Jon, Jon staggered back a couple more steps, then suddenly reserved direction, springing forward and slashing down with Longclaw in a series of quick strikes. Harry flinched back just in time, Longclaw’s tip just glanced off his helm as he did so, scratching a line across it; just above the visor. He managed to get his shield in the way of the second strike, a heavy sidestoke, and parried the last blow a falling blow. Jon had to retreat and take Harry’s quick counter strike on his pauldron.
Jon felt no shame about continuing to retreat a couple more steps, back and to his right. Harry was well well-armoured and carried a large shield. Longclaw’s greater reach was his main advantage in this fight as well as much agility as he could muster. Even so he matched Harry stroke for stroke, hammering and hacking at each other with all their strength.
He dodged to the side and aimed a low blow at Harrold’s greave, forcing him to lower the heavy shield to take the blow and then he stabbed out with the point of his sword at Harry’s head, surprised; he jerked away and the point was deflected off his gorget. His longsword lashed out and caught Jon in the shoulder, evening out the dents in his pauldrons if nothing else.
Jon knew his advantage now; Harry had not expected such ferocity from him. He didn’t know Jon after all, he just saw a wounded man with a bastard sword. He didn’t know the difference between a bastard sword and a greatsword after all, much less a bastard sword made of valyrian steel. Longclaw had the reach of a bastard sword but was much lighter and was nearly as agile as a long sword, not nearly as slow and clumsy as Harry had expected.
He stopped putting so much strength into his blow, he could not overpower Harrold, instead he concentrated in speed and piling as many blows down on him as possible from as many difficult directions as possible.
Longclaw’s reach began to show, Harry could not get close enough to attack Jon without taking at least a couple of blows. The Valyrian steel left long shiny lines across his shield and armour. Wood and steel started to show through paint and enamel.
But Harry was not so overwhelmed he couldn’t fight back. For those couple of blows, he got to take a swing at Jon. More blood was oozing out a puncture wound in his leg now, and a swipe at Jon’s face left a dent on the temple of his helm.
Jon staggered; his head ringing like a bell, the world had shrunk now, there was no one in the stadium now, no grass on the floor, he was back in the yard of winterfell, with a wooden sword in hand. His father was watching the training today. He had to look good, had to do his duty. For father.
Harry moved in for the kill, longsword blurring as he made to open Jon from shoulder to hip. Longclaw moved the meet the blade in a last titanic effort to block the blow.
Jon missed.
Harry screamed. His sword went flying out his grip. A couple of fingers went with it. Jon had not managed hit the oncoming sword’s blade but instead had found it hilt. As he gaped at the blood spurting from his sword hand, Jon kicked him in the side of the knee, propelling him to the ground and the point of his sword found the gap between gorget and helm to press against Harry’s throat.
“Yield.” Jon growled, “Or I lean.”
It was not the most resounding of threats but Harry got the message.
“Yield, I yield!” He said, loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Oh… good.” Jon said withdrawing Longclaw and stepping back or at least that was what he meant to do. Instead it turned into a stagger. The strength of battle was leaving him now the deed was done, his injuries pulsed at him as though insistent that he acknowledge they exist and were painful.
Longclaw landed in the mud with a wet slapping sound, Jon followed it.
- - -
Even before Harry Harrdyng had formally surrendered, people had leapt onto the field. To get out to them; Jon’s men, wild northerners with shaggy hair and thick leathers foremost but Sansa was right there with them.
Then Jon collapsed and she doubled her pace to get to him.
“Jon? Jon?! Gods, Jon, I told you not to fight him.”
Jon’s men ignored her presence. Instead the biggest of them, an aurochs sized man, whipped off his cloak; a heavy dark green garment of heavy wool that he threw to the ground next to Jon, meaning to support him with it. A smaller blonde man and stouter one were right behind him.
“C’mn Satin, Let’s get him back to the tent, so Sam can take a good look at him.”
But men in sky blue cloaks were heading onto the pitch as well, in ring mail and bearing spears. Littlefinger followed them; the slightest of frowns creasing his brow.
“Guards, seize him. These men are deserters from the Watch and criminals, we cannot in good conscience allow them to escape.”
The men in blue did not seem eager to step forward. The big man unlimbered an axe from somewhere, while the other two men in black, pulled daggers. Although the portly man looked as scared of his own knife as he did of the men with the spears.
“Leave him!” Came a voice that while not strong at the moment nevertheless carried the edge of true command, Harrold Harrdyng had found his feet. One hand clamped solidly around his other wrist. “We fought. He won. I lost. Honour is satisfied. We will not besmirch it by arrested an injured man.”
All the men in Arryn colours all took that as their cue to back off at that point. But Littlefinger remained, insistent.
“These men threaten my daughter, come here Alayne.” He offered his arm to Sansa.
Sansa stared at him and then at Jon still lying in the mud unconscious. It felt as if a great pressure was squeezing her head and chest as she tried to decide. Littlefinger had saved her from King’s Landing, whisked her to safety in the Vale. But Jon had bullied his way here just to see her. It was Jon who wanted her to go home. Littlefinger… heavens knew what Littlefinger wanted but in the end he’d been going to marry her off for her claim. Just like everyone else.
“No.” She said at last, forcing the words from herself. “No, they don’t.”
“Alayne! Listen to your father,” Petyr said and made to grab her arm.
Ghost didn’t growl. He never had. He was suddenly just there: as tall and white and implacable as the wall between her and Petryr. Littlefinger recoiled as Ghost snarled silently. Wit and words and secrets were no defence at all against a beast’s teeth and claws.
“Sansa…” Jon’s voice, weak and weedy, named her from the floor.
She didn’t deny it.
Jon’s men accepted her silently into their ranks, trying to pay her no attention as they went about their business but she still saw the odd looks they shot at her and each other.
They stripped Jon of his armour quickly and efficient as the portly worried looking one, Sam, Sansa had heard him called, opened a small chest filled with healing tools and bandages. Sansa noticed the silver link among most of a maester’s chain that was strung around his neck on a leather cord, meaning he had the same knowledge of healing a fully fledged maester would have.
They peeled the damaged armour from his chest, wincing as the pulled at they pulled on links that been embedded in flesh or accidently gashed Jon’s forehead as the dented greathelm was pulled from his brow. Dazed as he was, Jon barely called out even when they drowned his wounds in boiling wine.
He settled into an exhausted sleep even before they were done bandaging him and no one objected when Sansa pulled up the only chair in the tent to watch over him as he slept.
- - -
When Jon awoke the first thing he noticed was the brilliant pair of blue eyes, watching him. In another life that would have been a cause for great alarm but now he could only feel the sincerest of reliefs.
“Sansa,” he said softly.
“Jon,” she replied, as if they had not spent years apart. “Lie still. You’re very weak.”
“Yeah, I know, it’s not like this is the first time I’ve been stabbed in the chest, you know.”
Sansa looked mortified.
“I jest, I jest.” Jon lied.
“You never used to jest.”
“You never used to call yourself Alayne.”
“I…” Sansa looked away. “I just never thought you would come for me.”
“Then you’re an idiot.” Jon replied. “But I forgive you.”
She really did laugh then, a wonderful musical sound that swept through the tent and lifted Jon’s spirits immensely. He shivered at the sensation. Sansa tilted her head in curiosity.
“Are you cold, Jon?” she moved closer, sitting on his fur covered cot.
“I thought it was supposed to be warm in the south…” he said but trailed off, as Sansa leaned closer.
“We can’t have that, Jon. You saved me. My hero should at least be warm.”
She lay by his uninjured side, one hand trailing across his brow and through his hairline, Jon gasped at the gentle touch of skin on skin.
Then she kissed him. On the cheek and then again on the forehead and finally on the lips, it was soft delicate kiss, as chaste as a kiss on the lips could be but she was soft and warm and sweet and an amazing sense of contentment swept through Jon. He felt light headed again.
She pulled the furs up around them and cuddled close to him almost as if they were children again but they weren’t and could never be. But still they were together again; as they were meant to be.
They were a pack.