Chapter 1: Introduction
Chapter Text
The streets of Myr breathed color and smoke. Dyed silks hung from balconies, their crimsons and indigos fluttering in the sea breeze. Spices burned in braziers outside taverns, the scent of pepper and saffron tangling in the air until it clung to her hair. Arya walked through it all as if drifting, her shadow swallowed by a hundred others.
Her quarry lived near the lace district, a woman whose name she had spoken once and then forgotten, as the Kindly Man had taught her. Names were only lanterns; what mattered was the flame. Still, she studied him: how he favored his left leg when he walked, how his guards flanked too close when they thought no one watched, how he dipped bread in wine before every bite. All these little things belonged to him, and therefore would belong to her when the Many-Faced God willed it.
But the God had not yet given her a sign. Not yet.
So she roamed, waiting.
Sometimes, waiting was harder than the killing. Waiting left her thoughts unguarded. Waiting let a child’s memory creep in — the crackle of a hearth in Winterfell’s hall, the snow squeaking under boots, Jon’s hand ruffling her hair after she’d struck a true blow with Needle. She had not thought of Needle in years. Or tried not to.
She forced her breath to steady.
“Valar morghulis,” she whispered in the language of Braavos, as if the words could wash Winterfell’s stones from her mind. All men must die. It was truth, pure and cold, sharper than any wolf’s fang.
Yet here in Myr, beneath the painted glass towers and the reek of dye-vats, she felt the weight of years. Had it been four? Five? Her home was a ghost, and ghosts were not meant to be chased. She was no wolf anymore. She was only a servant of Death.
And still… when she saw the pale hounds that the Myrish cloth-merchants kept for guarding their warehouses, her heart had stuttered. Wolves, her mind had whispered, before she crushed the thought.
The bells of Myr tolled as the lady’s carriage rattled into the narrow street, gilt wheels flashing with sunlight. Arya was already there, a face borrowed from the crowd: a flax-haired girl with freckled cheeks, one of a hundred shop-runners who carried baskets through the dye-stained alleys. No one looked twice.
The noblewoman descended from the carriage with the slow dignity of someone convinced the city itself bent around her steps. Late fifties, rings heavy on her fingers, hair pinned in coils of silver and jet. Her handmaids clustered close, their voices sharp as sparrows. Arya watched her lips shape commands — clipped, imperious. It reminded her of another woman, one who had once stood on high steps in King’s Landing with a golden cup in hand.
She thinks herself a queen, Arya thought. They all do, until the Many-Faced God remembers their name.
The woman swept into the dressmaker’s hall, silks trailing like banners. The shop was famed for its lace — thin as breath, worth more than a craftsman’s year’s wage. The lady’s nameday feast was to be the talk of Myr; even the alley-gossips whispered of the peacock-feast she had ordered, of the fireworks she had purchased from Lys.
Arya leaned against a wall opposite, letting the noise of the street fold over her. She had shadowed this woman for weeks: at her gardens, her baths, her temple prayers. The story was clear — a cousin had whispered gold into the right ears of Braavos, and now Arya carried the debt. Inheritance was a sharp blade; blood always oiled it.
She thought of slaves. There were none here, not since Daenerys Stormborn had made her wrath known. The chains of Astapor, the fires of Meereen — word of it had reached even to Myr, and the Free Cities trembled beneath that memory. Here, handmaids were paid, if poorly, and every master whispered fearfully of dragons.
Arya had seen the queen once, years ago, in Braavos. She had been on another mission then, cloaked in a face that wasn’t hers, and had caught only a glimpse outside the Iron Bank: silver hair, a presence that drew every gaze, a kind of power Arya had never seen in flesh before. Power wrapped in grace, yet dangerous as Needle’s point.
The last she’d heard, Daenerys had crossed the Narrow Sea. Conquering Westeros. Her home.
Arya pressed her nails into her palm until the thought bled away. The wolf in her still stirred at that name, clawing at the mask she wore, but the wolf had no place in Myr. She was no one here, and no one could afford to remember the taste of Winterfell’s snow.
The dressmaker’s hall was small compared to the noble villas, its shutters painted a dull green, its doorway unmarked save for a swatch of lace hanging above like a quiet boast. Yet the air within sang with skill. Bolts of fabric gleamed in soft light: velvet deep as midnight seas, silk that shimmered like oil on water. Every stitch, every cut was exact, and Arya saw the truth of the whispers — nobles fought, bled, even killed to wear this woman’s work.
She lingered by the threshold, her borrowed face unreadable, her eyes tracing a gown half-finished on a wooden frame. The thread was silver, so fine it caught even the smallest sunbeam and made it dance. For a heartbeat, Arya saw not lace but Winterfell’s hearth-light, and a girl with auburn hair bent over her needle.
Sansa. Always perfect with her stitches, always dreaming up dresses with tiny flourishes no septa had taught her. Her sister had made beauty out of thread the way Arya had made blunt defiance out of swordplay. For the first time in years, Arya felt her lips curve in a small smile.
“I know you are able to make wonders with you fingers, Ashara!” She almost missed the lady leaving, her laughter fading with the carriage wheels. It hardly mattered — Arya knew the way her target walked, the weight of her rings, the sound of her voice. She could find her again at will.
It was the voice behind her that caught her off guard.
“Can I help you with something, dear?”
Arya turned, slow and steady, all her years of training coiling around her heart like armor. She did not gape, did not gasp, though her body wanted to.
The woman standing there might have been a ghost.
The woman was in her twenties, brown hair pinned with a ribbon, her dress a simple blue with no jewels to catch the eye. And yet the eye caught on her. For a heartbeat she saw her mother, whole and alive — Her lips parted before she forced them shut. No. Catelyn and Sansa Stark were gone. Scattered with Winterfell’s ashes. This woman was only a stranger with a face that played tricks.
“Can I help you with something, dear?” the dressmaker asked kindly again, noticing her gaze.
Arya remembered her mask. Today she was a flax-haired girl with freckled cheeks, a shop-runner with no story to tell. She smoothed her voice flat. “No. I need nothing.”
The woman tilted her head, studying her as one might study a lost child, Arya sighed, “I need a wedding gown.”
The woman studied her a heartbeat longer, as if she might ask again, then only nodded and slipped back among her bolts of lace and silk
“You said a wedding gown?” the woman — Ashara — asked, her voice smooth, practiced. She swept a bolt of cloth from the rack, unrolling pale ivory lace that shimmered like frost. “This pattern has been coveted by half the daughters in Myr. Perhaps your bride would like it?”
Arya’s mask slipped easily into place. “She would,” she lied, voice steady, eyes never leaving the woman’s face. “The wedding will be small. A private hall. A few kin only.”
Ashara’s smile lingered, but something flickered in her eyes — something Arya could not read, as if she caught her web of lies. “Small weddings are the best kind. The vows carry more weight when spoken before the few who matter.” She tilted her head, as if weighing the words against her own past.
Arya nodded, spinning her web without thought. “The groom is a merchant’s son. Nothing grand.”
“Grandness spoils many unions,” Ashara said gently. She smoothed the lace with careful fingers. “Better to have something true, don’t you think?”
The words struck Arya sharper than they should have. True. A word that belonged to wolves, to a house long gone. For a breath, she saw Sansa again — the girl who once bent over her stitching with all the seriousness of a knight polishing his sword.
She pressed the memory down until it drowned. “Yes,” Arya said simply.
Ashara studied her, not prying, only thoughtful. “I will prepare samples. Come again in three days, and we shall make your bride the envy of Myr.”
Arya forced herself to nod, though her eyes still clung to the woman’s face. Not Catelyn Stark, not Sansa Stark, not anyone she knew — yet something about the tilt of her smile, the calm in her voice, made Arya’s chest ache like a half-forgotten wound.
She turned quickly, murmuring thanks in the borrowed tongue of her disguise, and stepped back into the clamor of the street. The sunlight hit her hard, loud, alive.
Her feet carried her away, but her thoughts stayed behind, circling the dressmaker with the ghost’s smile.
Ashara, she called herself. Arya repeated the name under her breath, testing its weight. It felt wrong, a story half-told. But Arya had learned not to question names. Not hers, not anyone’s.
And yet, as she slipped back into the faceless crowd, her fingers itched for Needle. For home. For something true.
The bell above the door chimed soft as Arya slipped inside the shop again, her face borrowed, her step light. She told herself she had come to judge the noblewoman’s gown in progress, to better time her strike. Yet her eyes went first to the woman at the counter.
“Ashara” bent over a length of deep green silk, needle flashing quick as a cat’s claw. Her hands moved with a grace Arya remembered — small, pale, sure. Fingers that knew thread and cloth the way Arya’s knew steel. For a breath she was back in Winterfell’s solar, watching Sansa stitch flowers while she herself snarled at the task.
The dressmaker hummed as she worked, some foreign tune laced with lilting notes. Arya frowned. Not the same, but the rhythm reminded her of Sansa’s soft songs, the way she used to hum when she thought no one listened.
“you back so soon, is something wrong?” The woman’s voice was light, unbothered, as though Arya had not been staring.
Arya’s lie came easily. “I was thinking of lace. For a wedding veil.”
Ashara smiled, eyes crinkling. “Then you must choose well — the veil is what lingers in memory long after the feast is done.”
The words caught Arya strangely, as if they carried more weight than they should. “It is for my lady,” She murmured but Ashara laughed lightly , “well does your lady have the same measurements as yours?”
Arya smiled, “yes…”
“Riva! Take the measurements of the young lady here!” Ashara called her employer.
A young girl barely three and ten with dyed pink hair bustled forward, a bit shy but eager, a length of twine looped round her neck for measuring. Arya stilled, every muscle taut. Riva’s eyes darted, quick as a sparrow’s, but it was clear she adored the mistress she served — she could not look at Ashara without smiling.
“Lift your arms, please,” Riva said, almost whispering.
Arya obeyed, though her mind was on the woman at the counter, still bent to her stitching.
“How long have you been in Myr?” Ashara asked again, softer now, as if coaxing a truth from her.
“Three moons,” Arya said, eyes steady.
Ashara hummed, the sound thoughtful. “Three moons is long enough to find your footing — long enough, too, to miss what you left behind.” Her tone was gentle, almost wistful.
Arya felt a spark of wariness. “I have nothing to miss.”
Ashara looked up at that, needle paused between her fingers. “No mother? No father? No…sisters?”
The word pressed like a thumb into an old bruise. Arya forced a shrug. “Family scatters. Some of us learn to live without.”
Ashara’s gaze lingered on her a moment too long. Then she smiled, though it was touched with sadness. “So we tell ourselves. But even when we leave them behind, they live in us still. Family is a root. You can cut the branch, but the root remembers.”
Riva circled Arya with her twine, muttering numbers under her breath. Arya clenched her jaw. “And if the root rots?” she asked.
Ashara laughed lightly, but there was no mockery in it. “Then you graft new roots — in friendship, in love, perhaps even in a husband’s house. Myr is good for that, they say. A city of second chances.”
Arya narrowed her eyes. “And do you believe that?”
Ashara’s smile shifted, slow and secretive. “I believe love makes a place livable, no matter how far from home. I believe a marriage can be more than a bargain if both hearts are willing. And I believe a child binds you stronger than any oath.”
Arya flinched before she could stop herself.
Riva, oblivious, piped up: “Mistress says it often! That family is a thread, and once it’s woven, you can’t pull free without tearing the cloth.” She giggled, then ducked her head at Arya’s sharp look.
“Go tidy the ribbons, Riva,” Ashara said gently. The girl scampered off, leaving them alone once more.
Ashara set her needle down and leaned on the counter, studying Arya as if she could see past her borrowed face. “So tell me, girl with nothing to miss — if you had the choice, would you cut the root, or let it grow?”
Arya swallowed. “Sometimes the root strangles.”
Ashara tilted her head, expression unreadable. “And sometimes, it saves you.”
For a heartbeat Arya felt the pull — a tether she hadn’t expected, a warmth under her ribs, as if this stranger’s words touched something she had buried long ago. But warmth was dangerous. She could not afford it. She pressed her lips into a thin line and stepped back.
“I’ve places to be,” she said flatly, breaking the thread between them.
She was almost to the door when Ashara’s voice called her back.
“Girl.”
Arya turned, wary.
Ashara’s mouth curved into a small, knowing smile. “This shop is not just for nobles. If ever you want your wedding dress, you’ll not need to lie again about your mistress being the bride.”
The words stung, sharper than a blade. Arya said nothing, only pulled her hood lower, and slipped into the street.
Arya had no idea what impact or magic the woman had casted, for she had chosen not to appear in that shop again, this was no way that it could be her sister, even though the woman was around same age as her once long lost sister could possible be if she was alive; but here she was lingering at the corner, half-hidden by the awning of a spice vendor. She told herself she was studying the shop again, that her target’s shadow might pass by. But her eyes had fixed themselves on the dressmaker before she could stop them.
Ashara stood in the sun, simple blue gown brushing her ankles, her hair tied back with a ribbon the color of wine. She wasn’t adorned like the noblewomen who came to her, no jewels, no bright silks — yet she carried herself with a poise Arya could not ignore. She was waiting. For whom, Arya could not guess, until the call split the crowd.
“Mama!”
The small boy darted through the bustle, near toppling into her skirts. Dark-haired, his cheeks flushed pink from running. Ashara bent at once, scooping him up, laughing. The sound carried over the din of the street, pure and easy.
“Robbie, did you have fun with your father?”
The child’s words were lost in laughter as he pressed his little face against her neck, but Ashara’s smile was enough. She rocked him on her hip, cooing something soft. Her whole body softened around the boy, every line of her frame bending toward him as if he were the very center of the world.
Arya’s throat ached. The word Mama rang in her skull like a hammer. Sansa would have smiled like that, she thought before she could stop herself. She clenched her jaw. No. This was Ashara, only Ashara.
And then the shadow fell across them.
Tall, broad, filling the doorway as if he had been made for it. The boy squealed and reached out, but Ashara only laughed. “Did Robbie tire you out?” she teased.
"Aye," The man answered with a low sound, something rough and fond, and she leaned up to kiss him. Not quick, not coy, but lingering. A wife’s kiss. A lover’s kiss.
The child wrinkled his nose. “Eugh!” he groaned, burying his face in Ashara’s shoulder. She only laughed harder, one hand on the boy, the other brushing against the man’s chest before sliding down to his hand. Fingers twined, as if the gesture were as natural as breathing.
Arya pressed herself back against the wall, heart hammering. This was no chance pair. Whoever they were, they belonged to each other, in a way that was naked even to strangers. She should have turned away then. Should have. But her feet rooted her in place.
The man shifted, bending down to muss the boy’s dark hair. Robbie swatted at him with a little fist, laughing in that way only children could, shrill and full. And Ashara watched them both as though she held the sun itself in her gaze.
I’m mad. Mad to think… Arya swallowed, her palms slick. Ghosts. She had chased ghosts before, in alleys and in mirrors. Faces from Winterfell rose in the living all too often.
Then the man turned.
Arya’s breath stilled.
Grey. The same storm-grey that had watched over her from the practice yard, that had knelt in the snow to hold her when she was small, that had met hers across so many dark nights. Grey like her father’s, yet softer, scarred by things she did not know.
Her stomach dropped into nothing.
Jon.
It could not be, yet it was. Every line of his face, every scar — his and his alone.
She pressed her nails into her palms until it hurt, desperate to feel something other than the quake in her chest. If this was Jon, then who was Ashara? Who was Robbie? Why did they smile like a family?
Her brother. Her sister. A child.
Arya’s throat closed. She wanted to run to him, to call out. She wanted to vanish into the crowd, unseen. She wanted to strike him down for daring to live a life apart, or to fall into his arms and never let go.
Instead she stood in the shadows, teeth set hard, watching the three of them move together as if they had always belonged. And for the first time in years, Arya Stark — no one, assassin, daughter of death — felt the hollow ache of home.
Chapter Text
“Riva! I’m going home. Mind the shutters.” Ashara told her little helper.
A muffled “yes, Mistress” floated down from the attic stair, and a moment later the quick patter of bare feet on boards followed. Ashara smiled faintly at the sound — the girl always hurried, though no one had ever rushed her.
By the time Ashara turned, Jorrel was there, framed in the doorway’s light. His hand was rough from work, the skin faintly reddened by furnace heat, yet it closed around hers with a gentleness that still startled her. She shifted their son against her hip, and together they stepped out into the hum of the street.
The air smelled of oranges and dust. A fruit-seller lifting baskets onto his stall caught sight of them, broad grin splitting his face.
“Jorrel! At last! We miss seeing you about the market. Have you buried yourself in that fire-pit of yours?”
Ashara’s lips curved, though her eyes stayed cool. “Even I hardly see him these days. Perhaps he has found something — or someone — else to keep him busy.”
The merchant barked a laugh, but Jorrel only shook his head, amusement warming his grey eyes. “If anyone could distract me,” he said, “it is the seamstress of Myr’s hands.”
The man roared at that, delighted, and Ashara allowed herself a smile — sharper than her husband’s, protective as the way she drew her son’s small head close against her shoulder. Jorrel’s laughter rang easier, freer, and for a moment the whole street seemed to ease with it.
From the shadow of a spice stall, Arya watched, her borrowed face unreadable. The child’s dark curls, the way Jorrel’s hand lingered on Ashara’s arm, the laughter that sounded like her brother’s and not — all of it lodged like thorns beneath her skin. She told herself it was nothing, just another mask, another life. Yet her feet did not move.
The streets thinned as they left the bustle of the market behind, the chatter of hawkers fading into the hum of cicadas and the cry of gulls riding the sea-breeze. Stone gave way to dusty track, shaded here and there by olive trees that bent crooked beneath the sun. Robbie tugged at his father’s hand, restless with the boundless energy of a child, and Jorrel let him go with a nod.
The boy darted ahead, little legs carrying him quick and sure, curls bouncing as he flung his arms out like wings. Ashara laughed softly under her breath, the sound more felt against Jorrel’s shoulder than heard, and slipped her arm around him as they walked.
His shirt still smelled faintly of the furnace, fire and smoke clinging to the cloth, but beneath it was the warmth that was only him. She leaned into it, eyes following their son’s darting figure. For that moment the world shrank to the three of them alone, no wars, no crowns, no shadows from the past — only the sunlit road, the sound of laughter, the press of her family close at hand. She could wish for nothing else but to see her little pup grow in such freedom, his steps always light, his smile untroubled.
Jorrel’s voice broke the silence, quiet, almost teasing. “You’ve gone away in your thoughts again. What is it this time?”
Ashara lifted one shoulder, her smile curving at the edge, half a secret and half a jest. “Only dinner. Thinking of what to make when we’re home.”
He chuckled at that, the sound low and easy, the kind of laugh she never heard in the cold halls of Winterfell. He squeezed her hand as they walked, and she thought again how rare it was — this calm, this ordinary joy. A gift so simple it felt like stolen treasure.
The road bent, and there at last their house came into view, built from pale stone that caught the evening light in warm hues. It was modest compared to the tall merchant villas that dotted Myr, yet to Ashara it was palace enough.. Robbie saw it first, crowing with delight as he turned and sprinted back toward them, his cheeks flushed from the run.
“Home!” he shouted, as if the word itself were the finest treasure.
He barreled straight into Jorrel, who caught him in a swift, playful motion, sweeping the boy up and tossing him over his shoulder as though he weighed no more than a sack of grain. Robbie squealed, kicking his little legs in protest and laughter, and Jorrel’s answering grin was wide and unguarded. Ashara slowed her step just to watch them, father and son tangled together in the light, and pressed the moment into her memory like a jewel — fragile, shining, hers.
The door groaned shut behind them, Jorrel drawing each of the three iron bolts in place with care. Outskirts or no, he never took chances. A heartbeat later, a blur of white leapt at him — Ghost, silent as snow and yet full of joy, muzzle pressing into his cheek, tongue rough and eager. Jorrel laughed, catching the direwolf’s head between his hands.
“You’ve grown impatient with me, haven’t you?” he murmured against the beast’s ear, scratching behind it. “I know, I know. I’ll take you out tonight. I promise.” Ghost’s red eyes gleamed, not accusing but steady, as if he understood too well.
They stepped from the narrow entry into the heart of the house — a stone courtyard open to the sky, its flagstones cool underfoot. At its center stood a shallow fountain, the water catching the last of the day’s light in ripples of gold. Vines crept along the walls, climbing toward latticed balconies above, and the scent of jasmine mingled with the sharper green of herbs. This was no hall of Winterfell, no fortress of the North, but the house was alive in a way stone castles never were: filled with light, with air, with the sound of water always running.
Robbie darted from his father’s grasp and ran ahead, his small footsteps echoing off the stones as he circled the fountain, arms stretched like wings, Ghost trailing after him. Ashara watched him, her arm still looped through Jorrel’s, and leaned her head against his shoulder with a tired but contented sigh. The boy’s laughter rang against the walls, and for a moment, all felt exactly as it should — safe, whole, theirs.
Jorrel set his satchel on the low wooden table by the entry arch and followed Ashara toward the kitchen corner. It was no separate room, only a broad alcove that opened onto the courtyard, its shelves lined with jars of olives, grains, and clay pots of spice. Ashara was already there, pulling her hair into a low bun as she laid out tomatoes and cucumbers on a carved board. She turned when she felt his presence, smiling as though she had known he’d linger.
“Go and bathe,” she told him gently, her eyes flicking to the soot and heat still clinging to his skin.
Jorrel bent to kiss her neck before she could turn away. Slow, deliberate. She gave a soft laugh, swatting him with the handle of her knife.
“Not now. Robbie will see.”
But he only smiled, brushing his lips against her cheek. “I’ve missed you. Two days at the forge feels too long.”
Her eyes softened, and she turned to give him a quick, chaste kiss before pushing him toward the courtyard. “Then go. The water waits.”
Obedient, he stepped through the arch into the back garden, where a cistern collected fresh water for the household. The space was small but green, lined with potted figs and narrow rows of herbs Ashara had coaxed to life in the Myrish sun. Robbie’s laughter floated from the courtyard, mingled now with Ghost’s low, playful huffs as boy and wolf tumbled together on the stone. Jorrel paused to watch them, the sight pulling a smile from him that was both fierce and tender.
He filled a bucket and carried it inside to warm by the hearth. Soon he would climb the stair to their chamber above, where the latticed window looked down on the fountain and the courtyard below. And there he would stand, watching the boy and the wolf, feeling again that tight, wordless swell in his chest. Not duty, not destiny — only life, fragile and unyielding, precious as glass.
By the time the lanterns were lit, the courtyard had taken on the soft glow of evening. The fountain murmured beside them, scattering moonlight over the rippling water. They had spread a low table near its edge, dishes set out in small bowls: bread still warm from the oven, a stew rich with lentils and spiced meat, and a plate of roasted figs brushed with honey. The air carried the scent of smoke and jasmine, mingling with the faint hiss of the brazier still glowing in the corner.
Robbie sat cross-legged between his parents, a wooden spoon clutched like a weapon, his cheeks already smeared with stew. Ashara smiled, leaning to wipe his chin with a folded cloth before guiding his small hands. “No, love, like this — gently, see? You’ll never keep your tunic clean if you keep attacking your food.”
The boy giggled, trying again, and this time managed not to spill half the spoon’s worth.
Across from them, Jorrel tore a piece of bread and handed it absentmindedly down to Ghost, who lay stretched out beside the table like a silent guardian. The direwolf took it with a low huff, tail twitching once in approval.
“I’ve had better luck shaping glass than men lately,” Jorrel said with a small grin. “A merchant from Lys wanted ten goblets, each with a different color in the rim. It’s near impossible when the heat pulls uneven. The bastard thinks glass obeys command.”
Ashara hummed, smoothing Robbie’s curls with one hand. “Then perhaps he’s never worked with fire,” she said lightly. “It’s much like people. The more you try to force it, the more it breaks.”
Jorrel chuckled at that, reaching across the table to pour her wine. “You speak as though you know that lesson too well.”
“I might,” she said, her eyes glinting with something wry. Then, after a moment, “Magistra Varthis is hosting her nameday celebration next week — invited us both.”
Jorrel groaned softly, leaning back against the wall. “You know I’ve no taste for gatherings.”
Ashara’s lips curved. “Ah, but this one is a masquerade,” she teased. “Everyone hidden, everyone someone else for a night. Even you might enjoy it. No one will know who you are.”
He arched a brow, corner of his mouth lifting in defeat. “So there’s no way to say no?”
“None,” she said simply, her smile wicked and bright in the lamplight.
“Dancing!” Robbie stood up and showing up some of his moves, Joreel laughed immediately followed by ashara.
Their laughter lingered into, easy and warm, echoing softly off the courtyard walls.
None of them noticed the shadow crouched high upon the roof, her face pale beneath the moon. Arya knelt there, motionless, her borrowed features half in light, half in shadow. From her vantage, she could see everything — the warmth, the laughter, the life that should not have been. Ghost’s red eyes flicked upward, meeting hers through the dark. He did not growl, only watched.
Jorrel’s head turned a moment later, following the wolf’s gaze. His brow furrowed faintly, eyes narrowing toward the roofline. But when Ghost made no move to rise, no sign of warning, he let out a slow breath and turned back to his wife and child.
The night settled once more, calm as the surface of the fountain — yet above, the watcher did not move.
Later, Jorrel lay on the bed, bare-chested, the sheets tangled around his hips.
Across the room, Ashara sat before the old mirror, her hair spilling like molten copper under the candlelight. She drew the comb through it in long, patient strokes, each motion measured. The room was quiet save for the soft rasp of bristles through hair and the lazy hum of the city outside.
“You stare as if I’d grown a second head,” she said at last, catching his eyes in the mirror. There was mischief in her voice, but a faint edge too — one that made his mouth tighten.
“I wasn’t staring,” he muttered, turning his gaze away toward the open window. “Just thinking.”
She smiled faintly, the kind of smile meant to tease him out of silence. “Thinking always makes you frown. You should stop doing it before bed.”
That earned a quiet grunt, and she chuckled to herself, setting the comb aside. The nightshift she wore brushed the floor as she crossed to him, white as moonlight. “Turn over,” she said softly.
He looked back at her, one brow raised. “Why?”
“So I can make you stop frowning.”
She had already poured oil into her palms, the faint scent of orange and spice filling the room. He sighed, resigned, and rolled onto his stomach. The bed dipped as she climbed up, settling lightly on his back.
Her hands were warm against his skin — slow circles across his shoulders, the tension easing beneath her touch. “You work too much,” she murmured, kneading a knot near his neck. “You’re always sore.”
“I work so you can keep buying that perfume you never wear, and stop working yoursel,” he said into the pillow, his tone dry.
She laughed softly, the sound brushing against his ear. “And here I thought you liked how I smelled of glass dust and dye.”
He didn’t answer, but his shoulders eased. For a while there was only the sound of her hands gliding over him, the creak of the bed, and the faint murmur of waves beyond the walls.
Ashara looked down at him — at the man he had become since Myr, quiet and strong, yet carrying a restlessness she could never name. She wanted to ask what haunted him in the silence, what pulled his gaze to the horizon so often. But instead she let her fingers trace the small scars along his back, the ones he never spoke of.
When she leaned down, her breath brushed his ear — a whisper meant to tease, soft and daring.
Something in her tone — the warmth, the memory beneath it — struck through the calm like lightning.
Before she could draw back, he caught her wrist, turning in one swift motion. The candle flame flickered as he rolled, and suddenly she was beneath him, the linen sheets pale against her hair.
Her breath caught — half laughter, half surprise — as he looked down at her. In the candlelight, her hair burned almost auburn-red, spilling like fire over the pillows. His eyes lingered on her face, tracing every line he knew by heart and every one he’d missed in the daylight.
“Jor—” she began, but the name broke between them as he bent to kiss her.
It wasn’t gentle —Her hands rose to his face, to his shoulders, pulling him closer.
There was only the sound of their breath and the pulse between them, the steady, desperate rhythm of two lives that had been stolen and remade. He kissed her again, slower this time, like memorizing her, as if he could anchor himself to the truth of her skin.
When they finally parted, her fingers stayed tangled in his hair, her lips curved in that small, knowing smile she saved only for him.
he whispered, “Stay,” his voice trembled on the word — a plea more than command.
Ashara lifted herself onto her elbows, her eyes searching his before she reached up and cupped his face. Gently, she drew him down until his head rested against her chest. His hair, loose now, spilled across her skin as she held him there, her fingers combing through the dark waves.
“You are fine,” she murmured, her voice steady and low, “you are happy… you are free.”
She kept whispering it — again and again — until his breathing slowed, his eyes closed, and the weight of the years seemed to melt away against her heart.
****
The dawn had not yet come, though the sky was beginning to pale over the rooftops of Myr. Jon sat by the open window, naked. the faint breeze clinging warm against his skin. The city murmured faintly below — the call of a gull, the creak of a cart somewhere in the alleys — but he was not really hearing it.
Jorrel was cheerful by day, the glassblower with steady hands and easy laughter. But when the night quieted and the laughter died, it was Jon who remained — Jon, who watched the stars and saw nothing but ghosts.
Behind him, Sansa slept, her dark hair a tangle across the pillow, the sheet slipping low over one shoulder. She looked younger in sleep, softer. Sometimes he thought the masks they wore were lighter for her. Perhaps because she had chosen hers — had learned how to weave lies until they fit like silk against her skin. He admired her for it, even as it tore him apart.
He heard a soft cry, muffled and small. Robbie.
Sansa stirred, rolling toward the sound, her voice drowsy. “Go see him, love,” she murmured, half-asleep.
Jon smiled faintly, leaned over, and brushed a kiss across her forehead. “Sleep,” he whispered taking a robe and went.
He padded barefoot down the hall, the old floor cool beneath his feet. Robbie’s door was ajar; the boy sat upright on his bed, clutching his blanket, wide-eyed in the dim candlelight.
“What’s wrong, little wolf?” Jon asked gently, sitting beside him.
Robbie’s eyes darted toward the floor. “ shadows,” he whispered. “Under bed. move when I close m’ eyes.”
Jon followed his gaze, his heart twisting in that quiet, irrational way it sometimes did. He lowered himself, peered beneath the bed — only to find dust and a forgotten wooden horse. He exhaled softly.
“No shadows,” he said. “See? Nothing there but your toys.”
Robbie’s small hand caught his sleeve. “But t’y whisper,” he said, voice trembling.
Jon’s smile faded. For a heartbeat, the room seemed colder.
He reached out and tousled the boy’s hair. “They can’t hurt you,” he said quietly. “Not while I’m here.”
He sat with his son until the boy’s eyes fluttered shut again, whispering an old northern lullaby under his breath — words he hadn’t spoken in years. When Robbie finally slept, Jon stayed a while longer, staring at the faint play of moonlight on the floorboards.
There were shadows in every corner of this city, he thought. And not all of them stayed beneath the bed.
The morning sun was soft and low, spilling over the pale roofs of Myr as Ashara stepped out with Robbie’s small hand in hers. Jorrel had already gone — the men had come early, calling out from their cart, their voices carrying the smell of dust and sweat and horses.
He’d cursed them under his breath when they’d whistled at the sight of her kiss — long and unhurried, a parting meant to last two nights. She could still feel the warmth of it as she walked, his laughter echoing faintly down the lane before the cart turned the corner and vanished into the rising light.
Myr was a city that never stopped moving, never slept long enough for dreams to settle — and perhaps that was why she loved it. Here, no one asked questions, and no one cared who she had been.
Ashara walked slowly, her son tugging at her hand, pointing at every caged bird and painted mask displayed in the stalls. His curls glowed like copper in the sun, and when he laughed, it was the kind of sound that made her chest tighten with something fierce and fragile.
Her life had never been so free. Not as Alayne Stone, the watchful ward; not as Sansa Stark, the trembling daughter of the North. Freedom here came in small, quiet pieces — a name that wasn’t hunted, a house without guards, a child’s laughter that no lord could claim.
Robbie was their freedom. Their gift.
He was funny, endlessly curious, full of questions she sometimes had no heart to answer. There were moments when she caught glimpses of the brothers she had lost — Bran’s thoughtful tilt of the head, Robb’s charm in the way he talked to strangers, Arya’s stubborn chin. And when his moods shifted, as sudden and wild as a storm, she saw Rickon too — the boy she had never said goodbye to.
Names she never spoke aloud. Not here. Not even to Jorrel. Some memories were too sharp to touch, and she feared that naming them would draw blood again.
Robbie pulled on her sleeve, breaking her reverie. “Mama, can we get honeycake today?”
She smiled, brushing a curl from his face. “If you help me at the shop, little one.”
The bell above the door chimed softly, a sound like glass struck by wind. Ashara turned from the counter, silk pinned between her fingers, a smile already on her lips.
“Ah — there you are,” she said warmly, her voice carrying that calm cheer that came so easily to her now. “Ready to see how the wedding gown would look on you?”
The young woman in the doorway blinked, her borrowed face schooled into polite composure. Arya had not expected her to remember. Or perhaps she had hoped she wouldn’t. Still, she stepped inside, feeling the faintest tremor in her chest.
“I— yes,” Arya managed, her voice smooth from habit. “I thought I’d come early.”
Riva popped her head from behind the worktable, cheeks smudged with chalk, a grin brightening her face. “Mistress is the fastest when it comes to wedding gowns!” she chirped proudly.
Ashara shot her a gentle look. “Hush, Riva. We don’t boast before the stitch is done.”
“Yes, mistress,” the girl muttered, but her grin only widened before she disappeared again behind the curtain, humming.
Arya’s gaze drifted then, catching on the small boy crouched near the corner, busy stacking wooden spools like soldiers in a line. He looked up at her, eyes wide and curious — grey eyes, clear and open as sky over snow. For a heartbeat, her breath caught.
“Your son?” she asked quietly.
Ashara smiled — a small, unguarded smile that softened every edge of her face. She reached down to ruffle the boy’s hair, who squealed and wriggled away. “The one and only,” she said with quiet pride.
“Go on, Robbie,” she added, brushing a curl from his forehead. “Play in the back room. Don’t disturb the fabrics again, hmm?”
“Yes, Mama!” he said, already darting off through the curtain toward the back, his laughter echoing faintly through the shop.
Ashara watched him go, her smile lingering for a moment before she turned back to her guest — to Arya. “Now then,” she said lightly, returning to the silk. “Let’s see if this gown suits your taste after all.”
Her tone was easy, but beneath it there was something steady, practiced — the tone of a woman who had learned to keep her heart quiet.
Arya stood still before the mirror as Ashara moved around her, pins between her lips, hands light and sure. The silk hung pale and weightless, whispering against Arya’s skin whenever the seamstress adjusted a fold. The mirror caught them both — the bride who wasn’t, and the woman who shouldn’t have been there at all.
She was supposed to be following magistera Varthis. That was the task. Watch her, learn her routes, her guards, her house.
Not this. Not Ashara. Not Sansa Stark’s ghost, stitching dreams out of silk.
Every time Arya blinked, the name shifted — Ashara, Sansa — until she couldn’t tell which one she hated more for standing here, smiling, breathing, living.
“Hold still,” Ashara said softly, lowering her gaze to smooth the fabric over Arya’s shoulder. “You move like someone who’s ready to flee.”
Arya met her eyes in the glass. “I’ve never liked standing still.”
Ashara smiled faintly, a knowing kind of smile, one that belonged to another life. “I can tell.”
She shouldn’t have spoken, but the question slipped out before she could stop it.
“How long have you been married?”
Please don't answer, tell me you are widowed..
Ashara paused. The pin she held stilled midair. Then she set it down carefully on the table and met Arya’s eyes in the reflection.
“Three years now.”
Arya felt her throat tighten. “Three years,” she echoed, her voice low, as if testing the words for truth.
Ashara tilted her head slightly, studying the fall of the gown — or perhaps studying Arya. “Why?” she asked softly.
Arya didn’t answer. She only looked at her — at the way her hair caught the light, the faint curve of a smile that wasn’t Sansa’s and yet was.
All the while, she told herself it was a trick of the mind. But when the boy’s laughter sounded faintly from the courtyard, Arya’s breath faltered. He was a stark , a northern boy
Ashara noticed the way the young woman’s reflection shifted — how her eyes had gone distant, how her lips pressed together as if to hold back words. She’d seen that look before, in countless brides before their vows — nerves disguised as silence.
She smiled, warm and understanding. “Weddings can be dreadful, can’t they? All the eyes, the whispers, the weight of silk and expectation.” She smoothed the back of the gown, her voice softening. “But the moment you see him, you’ll forget it all. Every worry fades when it’s him standing there.”
Arya’s fingers tightened on the edge of the table. She didn’t look at her reflection this time. Her voice was low, careful — like stepping through snow that might hide a pit beneath.
“Did you marry for love?”
The question caught Ashara mid-movement. For a heartbeat she was still, her hand resting against the fabric as her eyes unfocused — as though the candlelight had drawn her back somewhere far away.
She smiled faintly, but it wasn’t the easy smile she’d worn before.
“For love,” she repeated quietly, tasting the words. “Yes.”
Her gaze dropped to her hands, a small laugh escaping her. “Though love doesn’t always look the way the songs promise. Sometimes it’s not grand or gentle. Sometimes it’s… surviving together. Choosing each other again and again, even when it’s hard.”
Arya watched her reflection — that soft glow on her face, the wistfulness that no mask could hide. Something inside her twisted sharply, painfully.
Ashara raised her eyes again, meeting Arya’s through the mirror. “He’s stubborn, my husband. Too serious for his own good. But he makes me laugh, and when he holds our son…” Her voice trailed off, a fragile warmth coloring her tone. “I think there’s nothing in this world worth more than that.”
Arya couldn’t speak. She only nodded faintly, eyes dark and unreadable.
Ashara took the silence as shyness, smiling gently. “You’ll see, sweet girl. When it’s real, you’ll know.”
But Arya’s gaze stayed fixed on the mirror — not on her own reflection, but on the shadow of the woman standing behind her, the sister she had lost a lifetime ago.
“Tell her about you wedding mistress!” Riva giggled.
Ashara frowned at the young girl before continuing in her work and Arya asked, “What happened in you wedding?”
“That's a tale for another time,” Ashara shrugged.
“ I have time,” Arya insisted.
Ashara’s eyes softened for only a heartbeat before she suddenly laughed — a bright, ringing sound that filled the little shop. Riva, who had been tidying ribbons nearby, snorted before covering her mouth, already grinning.
“Love, aye,” Ashara said between laughter, shaking her head. “I did. But the fool put a babe in me before he could even think of marriage.”
Riva burst out laughing outright. “That’s one way to make a man decide fast, mistress!”
Ashara waved her hand as if to hush her, but her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Oh, don’t look so shocked, sweet girl,” she teased Arya, who had blinked at her reflection. “He looked like a cornered deer the day I told him. Stammered, cursed, then swore he’d make it right before the sun set.”
Riva added with a smirk, “And he did — with half the city hearing the vows, if I remember right.”
Ashara sighed dramatically, though the fondness in her face betrayed her. “R’hloor help me, I married the most stubborn, impossible man in all of Myr. But he keeps his promises, that one.”
Her laughter faded into a small, contented smile. “And I’d do it all again,” she murmured, almost to herself.
Riva giggled from her stool. “She always says that.”
Arya didn’t answer. Her throat felt tight. The shop smelled of linen and lavender, and every thread in her gown felt like a ghost’s whisper.
Before she could speak, the door burst open with a bright clang of the bell.
“ hells, Ashara, I can still hear you laughing from the square!”
A woman swept in, broad-shouldered and sun-browned, a woven basket tucked against her hip. Her copper bangles chimed as she set it down on the table.
“Xarina!” Ashara exclaimed, her smile blooming wide. “You brought the fruit!”
“I did—and nearly dropped half of it on the road,” Xarina said with a grin. “You still owe me for the last basket, mind you.”
“Oh, hush,” Ashara teased. “You’ve been teasing me about debts since the day I ruined your wedding.”
Riva snorted. “Ruined? You mean gave birth in the middle of it!”
Xarina threw her head back laughing. “Aye, eight months along and she swore she’d make it through the dancing! Then her water broke right there on the tiles before the second song!”
Ashara laughed so hard she had to steady herself against the table. “You should’ve seen Jorrel’s face,” she gasped. “He looked ready to faint. Poor man didn’t know whether to fetch a midwife or a sword.”
“Half my guests ran after him,” Xarina said, wiping her eyes. “And the priest kept trying to finish the ceremony over all the screaming!”
Riva was doubled over, her pink hair falling in her face. Even Ashara was teary from laughing, pressing a hand to her side.
But Arya stood silent amid the joy, her stomach twisting. The laughter, the stories, the ease of it—it all felt wrong. Sansa had never belonged in a tale like this. Sansa had been made for Winterfell’s halls, not Myr’s crowded markets. For songs, not fruit baskets and gossip.
Yet here she was—smiling, real, alive.
“Thank you, Xarina,” Ashara said once her laughter had faded. “And tell your husband his friend made it off early. Came by this morning, took Jorrel with him to the villages for delivery.”
“Of course he did,” Xarina said, rolling her eyes. “Boys will be boys. Give them coin and they’ll spend it on wine and whores before they see home again.”
“Xarina,” Ashara scolded gently, glancing toward the back room. “Robbie’s here. Mind your tongue.”
“Oh, right,” Xarina said with a mischievous grin. “Your little Master’s probably half Jorrel already—stubborn as an ox.”
Ashara only shook her head, still smiling, before turning back to Arya. “Now, my dear,” she said softly, gesturing toward the mirror, “look at yourself again.”
Arya obeyed. The gown caught the light—blue and silver threading gleaming faintly. The stitching was perfect. Too perfect. She knew those hands, that patience. Sansa’s craft, Sansa’s heart, in every needle’s bite.
Her jaw clenched.
Ashara stepped closer, her eyes softening. “Every woman deserves to feel beautiful once in a while,” she murmured, and without thinking, she drew Arya into a light embrace.
Arya froze. She could smell the faint trace of rose oil in her hair, feel the warmth of her sister’s arms.
And for one terrible heartbeat, she wanted to stay there.
She stepped back too quickly, nearly tripping over the hem of her gown. “It’s—beautiful,” she managed to whisper, though her voice sounded like someone else’s.
Ashara smiled, pleased, and turned away to fold another piece of silk. Riva was chattering about something, Xarina humming as she sorted the fruit, their voices blurring together into a single warm hum of life.
Life that should not exist.
The edges of Arya’s vision began to dim. Her heart pounded in her ears, each beat louder than the last. Sansa and Jon. Husband and wife. A child.
Her stomach turned. The air in the shop felt too thick to breathe.
Ashara turned, concern flickering across her face. “My dear? You’ve gone pale—do you need—”
“I—” Arya choked, already backing away. “No. I just—need air.”
She pushed through the door, the bell chiming sharply behind her.
Outside, the sunlight stabbed at her eyes. She stumbled into the narrow street, her chest tight, her hands shaking. The noise of Myr—the merchants, the gulls, the carts—blurred into a single roar.
She ducked into an alley, bracing herself against the wall, gasping.
Jon. Sansa. Their child.
Her mind reeled, spinning through every story, every warning, every line she’d ever known. The Targaryens. The dragons. The bloodlines cursed by fire and madness.
It can’t be them.
But it was. She’d seen his face in that sketch, heard his laugh in that child. She’d felt her sister’s hands.
A sob tore through her before she could stop it.
This was wrong. All of it.
She pressed her palms to her eyes, but it didn’t stop the images—their smiles, the laughter, the home.
Not even her training, not all the faceless man’s cold detachment, could strip that horror from her.
She slid down the wall, curling her knees to her chest.
For the first time in years, Arya Stark wanted to be sick.
The music was already rising when Arya entered the manse of Magistera Varthis.
The air shimmered with perfume, laughter, and gold. Every corner of the hall glittered — jeweled masks, silks the color of fire and wine, and candles that burned low and slow, dripping wax over the marble like melting pearls.
Her own mask was simple: painted ivory, the smile faint and false. Beneath it, she wore another — thinner, made of the soft leather she’d been given in the House of Black and White. Her real face was somewhere in between.
The Faceless God had whispered her purpose that morning: “Tonight, the debt will be paid. The Magistera drinks too long from the cup of power.”
So Arya drank from her own glass, moved where the music flowed, and watched.
Everywhere, masked lords and ladies danced in circles of slow grace. The musicians struck a Valyrian melody — soft and strange, from a time when dragons ruled and fire was a language. The Myrish nobles had adopted it out of fashion, but they moved without understanding its sorrow.
Arya glided among them like a shadow. She smiled when they smiled, bowed when they bowed. None noticed her; none ever did.
She took a step closer, then another. The Magistera herself drifted past, radiant in crimson and gold, her mask a mirror of her vanity. Servants bowed, lovers whispered.
The hall spun around her, laughter swelling like mockery.
She turned away, climbed the staircase that curved around the ballroom’s edge until she reached the upper balcony. From there she could see everything — the painted floors, the dancers, the Magistera drifting through her guests like a queen on a tide of color.
Arya leaned against the rail, her mask fixed, her wine trembling in her hand.
She was supposed to wait for the moment, to strike when the Magistera reached the dais, but her eyes would not move from the couple below.
From the balcony’s shadow, Arya saw them.
At first, she thought her mind was playing tricks — that the music and the masks had blurred her vision. But no. It was her.
Sansa.
Not Ashara tonight. Her sister had shed that false name as easily as a gown. The hair beneath the jeweled mask burned red, bright as it had been in Winterfell when the sun caught it through the glass windows of the Great Hall. She wore a mask of purple and black, delicate and sharp, the colors of a woman who no longer feared to be seen.
And beside her —
Jon.
All in black, just as he had been the last day she saw him at Winterfell’s gate. His shoulders were broader now, his face half-hidden by the edge of his mask, but his eyes… his eyes hadn’t changed. They still carried that same quiet fire — steady, unyielding, dangerous.
They moved together into the light, unseen by those who danced around them.
No one here knew their names. No one saw a Stark or a Snow — only a man and woman lost in each other’s gravity.
Sansa reached for him first. Her hand slid up his chest, her lips curving under the mask, and she pulled him into the dance as the musicians began a slow, haunting Myrish melody.
He followed — without hesitation. Jon hated dancing, he was never good.
Their bodies moved as if the music had been written for them alone. The crowd parted slightly, enchanted, unaware of the sin that breathed between each step.
Arya gripped the railing until her knuckles turned white. Her chest ached with something she didn’t have a name for — horror, grief, anger, all tangled in one choking knot.
Stop it, she thought. Stop it both of you.
Her throat burned with the urge to shout, to call their names, to tear the masks from their faces and end this cursed illusion.
But her voice stayed trapped behind her teeth.
Down below, Sansa spun beneath Jon’s arm, her laughter soft and secret, his hand steady at her waist. They looked like dreamers — or ghosts — dancing in a story the world had forgotten.
Arya’s breath came shallow. The music swelled, bright and cruel.
All around her, masked faces smiled and swayed, none seeing what she saw. None knowing that the dancers they watched were brother and sister — lovers.
She pressed her mask tighter against her face, hiding the tears that threatened to break free.
It was then that she realized her hands were trembling, and she still held the dagger — the one meant for her target.
Jon paused mid-turn.
It was so brief that no one else noticed — but Arya did. His steps faltered; his gaze drifted upward, past the lanterns and the glittering masks, toward the balcony where she stood frozen.
For a heartbeat, Arya couldn’t breathe.
He looked right at her.
That same old instinct — the one that had made her hide behind pillars in Winterfell’s hall — seized her now. But this was no brother’s glance. Jon’s eyes were sharp, searching, like a wolf who senses another in the dark.
He knew.
She felt the truth of it like a spark leaping through her blood. He could feel her there. Somewhere beneath his mask, his jaw tightened. His body went still as stone.
Then Sansa — no, Ashara — turned toward him.
She must have felt his distraction because she touched his chest, tilting her head, her red hair spilling over her shoulder like molten fire. “Jon,” she whispered under the music, her lips brushing the edge of his ear.
He blinked once — and whatever shadow had clouded his face melted.
She kissed him.
A soft, sudden thing, hidden by masks and movement. Yet Arya saw it as though the whole hall had gone silent just for that moment. Sansa’s fingers curved around his neck; his hand slid to her back, drawing her close until there was no space left between them.
He forgot the balcony.
He forgot the eyes watching from above.
Arya stumbled back. Her breath caught like she’d been struck. The music swelled again, loud and dizzying, the laughter of strangers echoing around her, and all at once she couldn’t stand it — the lights, the masks, the lies.
She fled.
Through the curtained corridors, down the marble stairs, past the masked guards who didn’t spare her a glance. Her pulse hammered in her ears like a drum.
When she reached the courtyard, she tore the mask from her face and gasped the night air, moonlight spilling over her skin like ice.
Then she heard it — soft and cold, a voice not spoken but felt.
The Faceless command.
A whisper curling up from the pit of her mind.
“You were not sent for them.”
“Find the Magistera.”
“End her breath.”
Arya’s fingers tightened around her dagger.
The music still floated faintly from the open windows behind her, laughter and silk and sin. But ahead — through the arches — she saw the Magistera, her target, stepping into the garden, her jeweled veil glinting in the moonlight.
And so Arya of the Faceless Men, heart still shaking, tears drying cold on her cheeks, moved to finish the task that death demanded.
Notes:
Don't lose your temper, the cook is cooking
Chapter Text
The music from the masquerade drifted faintly through the stone arches as Jon and Sansa slipped out through the side terrace. The sea air hit them like a stolen breath. Beyond the balustrade, the cliffs fell steep into the dark, and far below, waves shattered against the rocks like distant applause.
Sansa was laughing — a soft, half-tipsy sound that didn’t quite belong to the woman who called herself Ashara. Her skirts brushed the stone as she descended the narrow stairs carved into the cliff, her hand skimming the wall for balance. Behind her, Jon followed close, smiling despite himself.
It had been so long since they could breathe like this, without whispers, without eyes watching. Only the crash of the tide, the salt spray, the faint light of the lanterns above them.
When her slipper skidded on the wet step, he reached for her. “Careful,” he murmured, catching her by the waist.
Sansa only turned, the sea breeze whipping her hair loose from its pins. “Careful?” she echoed, eyes gleaming behind her mask. “You always say that.”
He chuckled under his breath, but the sound caught in his chest when she slipped from his arms again to spin near the edge of the shore. Her laughter was swallowed by the wind, her mask glinting violet in the moonlight.
“Seven hells, love—”
But she only waved him off with a gloved hand. “Hush, Jorrel. The waves can’t hear you divine scold.”
Jon followed, boots sinking into wet sand as he came to her. The tide washed over their feet, cold enough to sting, but he didn’t care. When she finally turned toward him, he closed the space between them and wrapped his arms around her, his cloak already heavy with salt and spray.
“You’re going to catch your death,” he muttered against her ear.
Sansa turned, breathless, defiant, a spark in her eyes that made something in him falter. “You’re always careful,” she teased, her voice soft but carried by the wind. “For once, just breathe.”
When she stumbled, he was there — always there — catching her in his arms before the sea could claim her balance. She gasped, then laughed again, the sound muffled against his shoulder. His hands steadied her by instinct, one at her back, the other behind her knee. She didn’t pull away.
Her legs slid around him as naturally as breathing, and Jon lifted her higher, his heart hammering in his chest. The world seemed to still — only her eyes, the wind, the sound of the sea. She leaned forward, her forehead brushing his. The contact was light, fleeting, but it burned through him like fire meeting frost, and then she captured what was hers by law of men, he was hers. And she ravished that lips of his, hunger taking over her.
He walked with her in his arms, the tide chasing their steps, until they reached the dry sand beyond the reach of the waves. He set her down carefully, their lips still sealed together, the taste of salt and scent of sea mixing all together.
Jon and sansa felt like they were sinking beneath that sand into realm of the mighty kraken.
Sansa looked up at him, the moon reflected in her eyes. The mask still covered half her face, glimmering purple and black, but he could see the real her beneath — the curve of her mouth, the faint scar by her temple.
She reached up, undoing his mask with quiet hands. “Let me see you,” she whispered. “My husband.”
Jon’s breath hitched, and for a heartbeat, he could not speak. Then the smallest of smiles tugged at his lips — a quiet, broken thing. A sound escaped him, low and rough, half laugh, half growl — the ghost of the wolf within.
Sansa’s fingers trailed down the edge of his jaw, the line of his throat. He leaned in, pressing his lips to her skin — her shoulder first, then the hollow where her neck met her collarbone. The faint scent of myrish lavender clung to her, mixed with sea and warmth. His lips brushed the space between her collarbones, just above where her gown fell low. It was not lust, not hunger — it was worship and love.
Sansa shivered, but not from cold. She closed her eyes, a sigh slipping through her lips, She wasn’t Sansa Stark, nor Lady Ashara, nor queen beside a king.
She was simply his.
His hands lowered caressing softly her skin, beneath her dress. Cersei lied…
This was not just a game of favor. This was two souls joining together under the moonlight.
She gasped, feeling his fingers sinking into her deeply. She didn't mind do it in the open, it was not an unusual act on this side of the narrow sea.
New continent, new costumes. She was worshipped. She was loved.
“Jon…” she gasped again , he looked up at her, his grey eyes staring right at her. She smiled at him, “Robbie needs a sister I suppose, don't you think?”
Jon laughed, as if this was the funniest joke but his next move was not funny, as if he was waiting when she would say these words before taking her , fast and hard.
The hanging garden was silver with moonlight. Lanterns flickered over the marble path, casting rippling shadows on the orange trees. The Magistera walked slowly, her jeweled gown whispering against the stones, her mask glimmering with a thousand tiny mirrors.
Arya followed soundlessly.
Her heartbeat was gone — or maybe it was only that she had learned to silence it. Her breath was measured, her steps exact. The dagger was light in her hand, cool as the water of the canals she once cleaned bodies in.
The Magistera paused near a fountain, the sound of water covering all else. She lifted her goblet to her lips, sighing as if weary of her own wealth.
Arya stepped behind her.
One swift motion — clean, silent, perfect.
The blade slipped beneath the woman’s ribs.
A soft gasp, a tremor.
The Magistera’s hand reached down, confused, blood staining her silks. She turned her head slightly, but Arya was already gone — a shadow dissolving into darker shadow. The woman staggered forward, her eyes wide, and her jeweled mask tilted as she fell.
Over the railing, the fall was short but loud.
Below, in the great hall, the music stopped.
A crash — a scream — the thud of a body striking the marble floor. The crowd parted in a wave of silk and fear. The Magistera lay there, her golden gown spreading like a sunburst beneath her, blood creeping outwards in thin rivers. Her mask rolled away, cracking on the tiles.
Jon and Sansa had been hidden in the corner of the hall, half-lost behind a curtain of ivy and torchlight. Sansa froze, her fingers still looped around Jon’s sleeve. His hand tightened instinctively at her waist. They saw her fall — saw the blood — and Jon moved without thinking, stepping toward the gathering chaos.
Guards flooded in, shouting orders in the sharp Myrish tongue. Two of the Magistera’s cousins, both masked in gold, rushed to the fallen woman, crying her name. One of them screamed, a sound that tore through the glittering stillness.
Arya watched from the shadowed edge of the upper balcony.
Her dagger was already clean. Her heart was not.
Below, she could see her sister’s face — pale, horrified, hiding behind her mask of painted purple and black. Jon’s hand reached for Sansa’s arm again, steadying her, protective even now. He didn’t look up. He didn’t see her.
Arya exhaled once, slow and even.
It was done.
The Many-Faced God was paid his due.
She turned from the railing, pulling her hood over her hair. Her boots made no sound on the marble floor as she walked away — through the colonnade, past the servants who whispered, past the echo of music that would never play again.
By the time the guards sealed the gates, Arya was already gone into the city. She moved through the streets.
Her feet knew where to go; her mind was far behind them. The city curved and twisted, white stone shining faintly under the moon, her reflection darting from one waterway to another. Once, she might have stopped to watch — the child she’d been would have marveled at the lanterns floating on the canals, or at the masked lovers whispering in the corners. That girl was gone.
The Many-Faced God had taken her long ago, traded her heart for silence. Yet tonight, silence felt heavy. She had killed before. Many times. But this one — this one had fallen in a hall where laughter still lingered. And below that hall, she had seen ghosts of Winterfell dancing like a memory she could not burn away.
A wolf and a rose, both pretending to be strangers, both pretending they were not Stark.
It had twisted something inside her.
Her breath shuddered as she reached the borrowed house of her host face..
She placed the dagger on the stone basin, washed her hands in silence.
“It is done,” she said. Her voice came out hollow, as though spoken by someone else.
The kindly man stepped from the dark, his robe whispering. “And how does the girl feel?”
Arya closed her eyes. “The girl feels nothing.”
He smiled gently — too gently. “Then the girl lies.”
Arya looked up at the wall, “I saw… I saw ghosts.”
“Ghosts?”
“My family,” she whispered. “Or what they have become.”
The kindly man only nodded. “All faces change. Some faster than others.” He turned away. “Sleep, child. Tomorrow, you will be no one again.”
But Arya did not sleep. She lay awake, hearing again the faint strains of music, the clinking of glasses, the way her sister laughed beneath a mask — a laugh too bright for a woman who once lived through hell.
The hall was still chaos — a sea of voices, silk, and screams. The magistera’s golden gown lay torn open below the balcony, blood spreading like spilled wine across the marble floor. The smell of it reached even through the perfumed air.
Jon’s eyes fixed on it — fixed too long. His breath caught, shallow and uneven, the sound of it nearly drowned by the music’s dying echo. The masks, the candles, the laughter that had once filled the air — they all fell away until there was only that red stain spreading wider.
Sansa felt it the moment his composure cracked. His hand, the same that had once held a sword steadier than any man’s, trembled against hers. He took a step back, then another, his shoulders tightening as if a dozen eyes had turned on him.
“They found us…” His voice was low, ragged, barely audible. His chest rose fast, too fast. “Gods, San— they’ve found us.”
She caught his face in both hands before he could move further, forcing him to look at her — through the masks, through the panic. “No,” she said sharply, almost like a command. “Jorrel. Look at me.”
He did. Barely.
“No one found us,” she whispered, firmer now, her thumbs brushing the corners of his mouth where his mask shifted. “Do you hear me? No one.”
He swallowed hard, breath still uneven. “They looked— I saw the guards—”
“They looked everywhere,” she said quickly, voice softer now, coaxing him back to stillness. “But not for us. We are no one here. Jorrel and Ashara, remember?” Her fingers stayed on his jaw, grounding him. “Not Jon and Sansa.”
The words worked through the fog of fear like sunlight through smoke. He blinked, his pulse slowing, though his body still trembled faintly.
Then one of the magistera’s cousins — a woman with red lacquered lips and a pale gold mask — approached, speaking in hurried Myrish. Sansa caught only fragments, but the woman’s tone was flustered, not suspicious.
“The poor lady,” she said, switching to broken Common Tongue with a shake of her head. “Too much wine. She fell… tragic, truly. Her head struck the marble.”
Sansa let out a soft, practiced gasp — the kind expected of any noblewoman at such news. “How dreadful.”
The cousin nodded, already distracted by the guards behind her. “The party is over for tonight. The Magister’s house will be closed in mourning.”
Sansa bowed her head, murmuring something polite. She felt Jon’s hand twitch in hers — not panic now, but restraint. She could feel how tightly he was holding it all inside, how close he was to unraveling again.
They slipped away before another word could be spoken, blending into the crowd of frightened guests. The corridors outside were quiet save for the sound of boots and whispers. Sansa kept her hand locked around Jon’s, her thumb tracing slow, steady circles against his skin.
“Breathe,” she murmured, just loud enough for him to hear.
He did, though every breath came like effort.
By the time they reached the courtyard, the air was cooler, scented with the salt of the distant sea. Lanterns swung gently in the wind, their flames wavering. The night seemed endless, stretching before them like a punishment.
Sansa didn’t let go of his hand. Not even when they turned the corner toward home, away from the noise and grief.
Only when the last of the lights from the Magister’s hall faded behind them did she finally whisper, “See? No one knows. No one found us.”
Jon said nothing, but his grip on her hand eased at last, his breathing steadier. She leaned closer to him, guiding him through the quiet streets.
..
When their home came into view — the small, stony house with its arched doorway and olive tree standing guard — Sansa felt her shoulders ease at last. It looked as it always did: quiet, humble, safe. And yet, as Jon’s pace slowed, she could sense the shadow still clinging to him.
Ghost was waiting at the gate, a pale sentinel under the silvered branches. His red eyes caught the light of the moon as he rose soundlessly, tail swaying once in recognition. But it was not only Ghost who guarded their door.
Little Riva sat on the threshold, a small bundle wrapped in a wool shawl, her eyes heavy with exhaustion. She stood quickly when she saw them, trying to hide the yawn that escaped her.
“Mistress Ashara,” she said softly, “Robbie fell asleep not long after you left. The familiar wouldn’t leave the door, so I thought to let it at best until you came.”
Sansa smiled gently, though her voice trembled faintly. “You did well, sweet one. Thank you.” She brushed a hand over Riva’s tangled hair, then looked to Jon, who had crouched beside Ghost, resting his forehead briefly against the direwolf’s. The beast huffed, nuzzling him — and some of the tension drained from Jon’s frame, the kind only Ghost’s presence could ease.
Sansa turned back to Riva. “You’ll stay the night here. The city will be restless — too many guards and frightened nobles, and it’s far too late for you to walk home alone.”
Riva shook her head quickly, polite but hesitant. “Mistress, I couldn’t impose—”
“You will,” Sansa said, softly but with that tone that left no room for refusal. “There’s bread and stew left from supper. You’ll eat, and I’ll make up the cot beside Robbie’s bed. You’ll have our familiar to keep watch. No harm will come to you here.”
The girl hesitated, then nodded, the faintest smile breaking through her worry. “Thank you, mistress.”
Inside, the air was warm and smelled faintly of herbs and smoke. The lamps burned low, throwing amber light over the carved wood and faded rugs. Robbie was asleep in the small alcove that served as his room, one arm curled around the old wooden horse Jon had carved for him.
Sansa paused at the doorway, watching the soft rise and fall of her son’s chest. Her heart twisted — a quiet ache of gratitude and fear. He was their world, their reason, their last piece of the North.
Jon moved past her, unfastening his cloak, his movements heavy and slow. When he turned, she saw the exhaustion in his eyes — not of the body, but of the soul. She crossed the room and took his hand again, as she had all night, her fingers finding his pulse, reminding him it still beat steady beneath her touch.
“He’s safe,” she whispered, glancing toward Robbie. “We’re all safe.”
Jon exhaled, a low sound, and nodded once — though his eyes lingered on the shuttered window as if the night outside were listening.
Sansa brushed a hand over his cheek, tracing the faint line of his jaw where the stubble had grown. “You should rest,” she murmured. “Tomorrow, this will all be nothing more than talk in the streets.”
He wanted to believe her. She could see the battle in his face — reason against fear, hope against memory. He bent his head slightly, pressing his lips to her palm, and for a heartbeat he was her Jon again.
When Riva reappeared in the doorway, she froze for a moment, uncertain whether she’d intruded. Sansa smiled faintly and gestured toward the hearth. “The blankets are in the chest. Take what you need, and sleep well.”
As the girl moved quietly about the room, Sansa led Jon upstairs. Ghost followed halfway before settling himself at the door, his great head resting on his paws, eyes glowing faintly in the dim light.
Only when they reached their chamber did Jon finally speak, his voice raw and low. “I thought I saw her, it could have been her, Sansa. Arya. For a moment, I thought—”
Sansa turned to him, placing a hand over his heart. “It wasn’t. It’s over.”
But her hand trembled where it lay, and when she looked into his eyes, she wondered if either of them truly believed the words.
The morning came pale and reluctant, spilling its light through the narrow shutters of Ashara’s shop.
Jorrel sat by that window, one elbow resting on the sill, the other hand loosely cupped around a cup of untouched tea. His eyes followed the little scene inside the shop: Riva kneeling by the corner basin, wringing out the dyed silks; Ashara with her dark hair back again, standing before the long table, trimming a new gown with her usual precision. Robbie sat cross-legged near her feet, a small scrap of fabric tied around his head like a crown, whispering to his toy soldiers as if commanding an army.
It should have been an ordinary morning — and yet everything in Jorrel’s chest felt wrong.
He’d said nothing since dawn. His clothes were plain, his hair damp from the wash, but the weariness in his eyes gave him away. Each time the bell above the door chimed, his head jerked up sharply before settling again — like a wolf that had not yet decided if it was safe to rest.
Ashara noticed, of course. She always did.
“You should have gone to work,” she said lightly as she pinned the hem of a lilac gown, her voice carefully casual. “If the guards see your forge closed for two days, they’ll start to ask questions. Better to be seen.”
Jorrel didn’t answer at first. His gaze drifted to Robbie, who was now showing Riva how to “march” the soldiers properly across the table. The sound of their laughter should have warmed him. Instead, it hollowed him.
“They could have found us,” he said finally, low, as if the words might carry to the street if he spoke any louder. “One look beneath those masks, one whisper of the North, and—”
Ashara cut in gently, not looking up from her stitching. “And they didn’t. The world went on. The magistera’s cousins are too proud to admit she drank herself to death in her own hall. They will keep their silence to save their name.”
He wanted to believe that. He wanted to believe everything she said. But the memory of the body falling — the cry, the shattering glass, the moment the music stopped — kept replaying in his mind.
Ashara set her needle down and turned to him. Her smile was soft but firm. “Jorrel, if you hide today, they will notice. If you go, you are just another craftsman with a sore head from too much wine and a night too long. Appearances are what keep us safe.”
He looked at her for a long moment — at the calm in her eyes, the steadiness she wore like a veil — and finally nodded. “In a while,” he murmured. “Let me… stay for a bit.”
“Of course.”
She let him be. It was how they worked — she pushed, then gave space, and he always came back to himself in his own time.
A soft knock came at the door, light and fluttery. Riva ran to open it before Ashara could answer, and the bright laugh that followed made Ashara sigh under her breath.
“Xarina,” she said, smoothing her hands over her apron and schooling her expression into that perfect balance of warmth and curiosity. “You’re early.”
The woman swept in, “Early? My dear, the whole city’s been up since dawn. You can’t imagine the talk after last night! I thought I’d come straight to the only place where the truth ever lingers.”
Ashara chuckled, graceful as ever. “Ah, the seamstress’s curse. We stitch gowns and gossip alike.”
Riva giggled from behind her hand, and Xarina winked. “And what would life be without either?”
As the two women fell into conversation — the lilting rhythm of secrets and laughter — Jorrel rose quietly from his seat. He brushed his son’s hair with a rough hand, his thumb lingering briefly on the boy’s cheek. Robbie looked up at him, smiling wide, showing the gap where his tooth had fallen.
“You’ll help Riva today,” Jorrel said softly.
Robbie nodded, serious as a soldier.
Ashara watched him go, saying nothing. She knew he would retreat to the back room, where the scent of old parchment and cedar lingered, where the light dimmed just enough for him to rest without sleep. It was what he did when the world pressed too close — the small, silent habit of a man still half at war.
Xarina leaned closer, lowering her voice. “He’s quiet this morning.”
Ashara smiled faintly, continuing to fold a sleeve. “Men always are, the morning after they’ve danced too much and thought too little.”
Xarina laughed, delighted. “Then may all men suffer the same fate.”
The laughter rose like a shimmer over the quiet hum of the shop, masking the heaviness that hung beneath.
And in the back room, Jorrel lay down on the narrow cot, eyes open to the dark beams above. He could still hear the music faintly — not from the masquerade, but from another place, another time, a faint northern tune he had forgotten he remembered. He closed his eyes and let it drown out the whispers of the night before.
Arya told herself she was only walking.
That the streets of Myr meant nothing, that the city’s smoke and song could not touch her. But each step took her farther from the harbor road and closer to the place she should have avoided.
She should have gone east. She should have boarded the ship that waited beyond the harbor and left this city behind like all the others. Her coin was paid, her duty done. There was nothing left here for a girl with no name.
And yet her steps turned toward the western gate, toward the outskirts where the houses grew quiet and the sea wind brushed the roofs.
You’re a fool, she told herself as she crossed the bridge, her reflection flickering on the dark water. A girl who lost her edge. A girl chasing ghosts.
The sun was sinking now, the color of old blood on the horizon. She passed fruit sellers closing their stalls, a boy calling for his dog, the smell of baking bread that tugged at her memory. It all felt too soft, too alive for someone who was supposed to be empty.
When she reached the outskirts, the noise of the city faded behind her. The cobblestones gave way to packed earth, the air cooler, touched by the sea. And there, at the end of the winding lane, stood the house.
Her heart thudded painfully.
Inside that light were people who laughed. A man who loved. A child who called her sister mother.
She stopped at the gate, gripping the iron post until her fingers ached. The whispers of the House of Black and White pressed close in her mind — A girl is no one. A girl serves death, not memory.
But memory was all she had left.
What would the Kindly Man say if he saw her now, standing in the dusk with her pulse roaring like she was twelve again, waiting outside Winterfell’s hall? He would say she had failed. That she was still too much Arya Stark.
She almost turned back. Almost.
Because every step closer, every shadowed corner she passed, brought back a piece of a life she’d buried. Sansa’s laughter in the snow. Jon’s promise in the dark of the stables. Her father’s hand on her shoulder. They came like ghosts, whispering through the wind off the sea.
By the time she reached the stone path to the house, her knees had gone weak. The light from inside spilled in warm gold across the ground, and she could hear a child’s laughter — high, bright, free.
Arya stopped.
With trembling fingers, she reached up and tore the false face away. The skin beneath burned with truth. It was hers again — the sharp nose, the stubborn mouth, the eyes that saw too much.
For the first time in years, she breathed her own name.
And then she knocked.
The door creaked open.
Sansa stood there — though Arya still half-expected the lie, half-expected the mask to hold. Her sister’s hair was pulled into a loose, low bun, strands falling around her flushed face. There was flour on her cheek, dusting the hem of her skirt, and the faint smell of bread and honey still clung to her hands.
For a heartbeat neither of them breathed.
Arya saw the small, ordinary details first — the soft apron tie, the threadbare sleeve, the faint warmth behind her sister’s eyes — and something inside her cracked. All the years of training, all the oaths whispered in darkness, fell away like dust.
She tried to smile, but it came out twisted and tight.
“Hey, Sansa.”
The words were thin, almost childish. But they were hers.
Sansa’s face blanched white. The cloth in her hands slipped soundlessly to the floor. She blinked once, as if to make certain she wasn’t dreaming — and then her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed where she stood.
Arya lurched forward, catching her before she hit the ground. The smell of flour rose around them like smoke.
“Sansa!” she hissed, heart hammering. “Seven hells, wake up…”
But Sansa didn’t stir.
And in the quiet doorway of the little stone house, Arya Stark of Winterfell knelt over her sister for the first time in years — the ghost of the girl she once was, holding the proof that she’d never truly been no one.
Notes:
I love when you leave your reviews, I love you guys !!
It encourages me to keep goingXOXO
Chapter Text
Arya had felt awkward before — but never like this.
This wasn’t how she had imagined their reunion. She had pictured shouting, maybe a scolding, maybe a fight — not this. Never this. She and Sansa had never been the sort to weep into each other’s arms; they were opposites even as girls. Yet here she was, standing in the small yard of her sister’s house, watching Sansa Stark — or Ashara, as the city knew her — collapse into quiet sobs, her face buried in her hands.
“Okay, enough—” Arya began, trying to sound calm, to sound like someone who knew what to do. But the words tangled in her throat. There was no right thing to say. No right way to say it.
Then, before she could think of anything else, a flash of white fur darted between them. Ghost padded out from the doorway, and behind him came a small boy, a wooden sword in hand. His curls bounced as he charged forward, planting himself in front of Sansa with fierce determination.
“Don’t make Mama cry! Evil be gone!” he shouted, waving the sword.
Sansa startled and blinked through her tears, the sound breaking whatever spell she’d fallen under. She reached out for him, laughing and crying all at once.
“Robbie,” she managed, her voice trembling, “this is—” a hiccup caught her breath “—your aunt. This is Aunt Rya.”
“Aunt Rya?” Arya echoed, frowning.
Sansa looked up at her with a small, shaky smile — the kind of smile Arya would have recognized anywhere, no matter what name her sister wore, no matter how many lives she’d lived.
“The one and only,” she said softly.
Sansa let out a short, breathless laugh — the kind that burst out only when the world tilted too suddenly to make sense. She stepped forward and threw her arms around Arya, holding her so tightly it almost hurt, before pulling back just enough to see her face. Her hands were trembling where they cupped Arya’s cheeks, brushing across her hair as if to prove she was real.
“How—how did you—?” The words stumbled over themselves. “How did you get here?”
Arya opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
Sansa blinked, once, twice — then her expression cracked wide open. A sound somewhere between a laugh and a gasp escaped her throat. “Where have you been?” she demanded, her voice rising in disbelief. “All this time, seven hells—All this time?”
Her laughter turned to tears again, confusion and joy and fury twisting together. She pressed her palms to her face, then dropped them, staring at her sister as though afraid she might vanish if she looked away.
“You were alive,” she whispered, almost accusing, almost pleading. “You were alive all this time!
Arya froze, the words striking her harder than any blade ever had. You were alive all this time.
She wanted to laugh, to say something sharp and clever — of course I was, what did you expect? — but her throat burned instead. There were too many memories between them now: smoke, blood, the echo of their father’s death, the faces she’d worn to survive.
“I…” Her voice broke. “I couldn’t—”
Sansa’s eyes were still wide, still full of the years Arya had missed. It was too much. Arya looked away, jaw tight, shoulders stiff like a soldier’s. “You think I didn’t try to come back?” she said, softer this time, barely a whisper. “You think I didn’t want to?”
For a long moment, neither moved. Then, when she finally dared to glance back, Sansa’s face had softened — the shock still there, but laced with something warmer. Understanding.
Arya let out a shaky breath, the smallest, most uncertain smile tugging at her mouth. “I didn’t mean to make you cry,” she muttered, trying to sound like the old her — the wild wolf who never broke — but her voice betrayed her anyway.
Sansa drew a long, trembling breath and forced herself to stand straight. Ghost had moved between them — silent, white, a shadow of teeth and muscle — keeping Robbie tucked safely behind his fur. The boy clung to the direwolf’s flank, wooden sword still raised like a true little Stark.
“Ghost,” Sansa murmured, her voice low but steady. The wolf’s red eyes flicked to her, then back to Arya, unwilling to move until Sansa laid a calming hand on his neck. “It’s all right. She’s family.”
The words steadied her more than she expected. Family.
But then the thought hit Sansa — cold and fast. Jon.
If Arya was here… if she had found them… then she might know. Gods, she might know. Her heart stumbled. The secret they had built their lives upon — the names, the faces, the home they had carved in exile — all could unravel with one wrong word.
She looked at Arya again, really looked this time, at her sister’s guarded stance and searching eyes.
“All right,” Sansa said, forcing a smile that felt too wide, too practiced. “Come inside. You look half-frozen, and I have tea and bread in the oven.” She turned quickly toward the door before Arya could see the panic still flickering behind her calm. “We can talk in the kitchen while I finish baking.”
As she moved, she tried to focus on the small, ordinary things — the smell of flour and yeast, the sound of Robbie’s feet as he followed Ghost, to the fountain. One breath at a time. She could feel her thoughts beginning to align again, slow and deliberate, like the way she once used to thread a needle.
You are Ashara, she reminded herself. You are safe.
Still, her hands shook faintly as she reached for the herbs.
The smell of baked bread filled the room, warm and soft, but the air between the sisters was tight enough to snap.
Sansa kept her eyes on the table, her hands moving in small, careful gestures — setting down the thin glass cups Jon had made moons ago, pouring tea as if the act itself could anchor her to calm. She dared not look up, not yet.
“Jon will be happy when he sees you, sister,” she said finally, her voice almost steady, almost. The words hung there — too casual, too practiced — as she forced a faint smile.
Arya’s gaze flicked to the cups. She recognized the craftsmanship, the way the light bent through the glass, and something uneasy stirred in her chest.
“So,” Sansa went on, turning toward the bread to hide her trembling hands, “you’ve met Robbie.”
Arya’s brow furrowed. “He’s yours?”
Sansa nodded. “Ours...”
There was no hesitation, no shame, not even an attempt to hide it. Her tone was calm, matter-of-fact — and that made it worse somehow.
Arya’s throat tightened. “It’s Jon’s,” she said, not a question, not even a whisper — just the truth falling out of her mouth like a stone.
Sansa didn’t flinch. “It is.”
Arya stared at her, eyes wide, words failing for once. “How can you two— you’re siblings.”
That finally made Sansa look at her. She gave a short, tired laugh — one that didn’t reach her eyes. “Now you make it sound awful,” she said softly. “We’re not the Lannisters, Arya. Jon and I… we’re—”
But she never finished.
Robbie’s voice came from outside, sharp and bright — “Dad!” — followed by the thud of quick footsteps.
Before either woman could move, Jon burst in, wild-eyed, axe still in his hand, his shirt marked with sawdust and sweat. His chest heaved, his face red — part exhaustion, part fury. His gaze swept over Sansa first, then caught on the stranger in his home.
“Who are you?” he barked, voice low and dangerous, raising the axe slightly.
“Jorrel—” Sansa rushed to him, grabbing his wrist before he could take another step, her eyes on her son, who found something interesting outside the kitchen.
Arya took one back instead, instinctively — the stance of someone trained to defend, not to flee.
Sansa’s hands found his face, pulling his eyes to hers. “Jon, stop— look at me, please—”
He was trembling under her touch, confusion and anger mixing with the old fear that never quite left him.
“I saw her,” he muttered, still staring past Sansa’s shoulder. “I saw her—”
“Jon,” Sansa whispered, firm now, guiding his gaze. “It’s Arya. This is Arya. Remember?”
For a heartbeat, he didn’t. His eyes narrowed, searching the woman in front of him — until the light caught her face just right, and he froze.
“Arya?” he breathed, voice breaking around the name like it hurt to say it.
Jon froze, the axe still heavy in his hand. His breath came rough, shallow — as if he feared she’d vanish if he blinked. Then, step by slow step, he moved toward her. The rage bled out of him, replaced by disbelief so fragile it hurt to look at.
“Is that you?” he asked, his voice breaking somewhere between wonder and fear.
Arya opened her mouth, but no words came. All the sharp edges she had built over the years — the steel, the masks, the calm — they cracked in a heartbeat. What came out instead was the child she once was, the girl who used to chase cats through Winterfell’s halls. She nodded, small and uncertain, tears clinging to her lashes.
Jon reached her then. He didn’t hesitate again — he caught her up in his arms and crushed her to him, lifting her off her feet. His scent was of woodsmoke and pine and sweat, so achingly familiar that Arya’s breath hitched. She buried her face in his shoulder, inhaling it like air after drowning.
Jon’s voice cracked as he whispered against her hair, “My sweet little sister… you’re alive.”
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then her cheek, then the crown of her head, as if he couldn’t stop — as if he had to touch her to believe she was real. His tears were hot on her skin.
When he finally set her down, his voice came thick with his Northern drawl, that sound she hadn’t realized she missed until now. “Gods, Arya… I thought I’d lost you forever.”
She wanted to laugh, to speak, to curse him for making her cry — but she couldn’t. The words got lost in the ache in her throat.
Jon hugged her again, shorter this time, before his eyes flicked past her — and the world returned all at once.
Sansa stood a few steps away, Robbie run to Jon.
The guilt hit Jon like a wave. He drew back, blinking hard, trying to find his footing again. “Arya…” he said, glancing toward his son, “this is Robbie.”
Sansa stepped closer at his side, gently resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Robbie’s small, defiant voice broke the quiet: “She hurt Mama, so I used my sword.”
Jon’s lips curved into a soft, sad smile as he knelt, brushing the boy’s hair. “A brave defender,” he murmured, though his eyes flicked with quiet apology toward Arya.
Sansa stepped in smoothly, her tone brisk, composed — the lady of the house once more. “Alright, all of you,” she said, already moving toward the table. “We’ll have time to talk later. I need to prepare dinner, and we’re running late.”
She turned to Arya,“You must be tired. Jon can draw you a bath. There are some clothes upstairs — they were Riva’s, but they should fit. Jon will show you.”
“San—” Arya tried to protest, her voice sharp with everything unsaid.
But Sansa only waved her off, her tone rising slightly — not unkind, but firm. “Later, We’ll talk later. For now— we eat.”
The scent of bread and pine hung in the air. The quiet between them was thick, not angry, just full — full of years lost, of questions not yet dared, of ghosts sitting quietly at the table waiting to be named.
When Jon walked beside her, Arya almost expected the old Jon to return — the one who used to tease her about her sword grip or ruffle her hair when she pouted.
But that Jon was gone.
He didn’t say much. He just led her upstairs, steady and silent, his boots heavy against the wood. The air between them was thick with things unsaid.
He showed her where she could find Riva’s clothes — neatly folded in a small chest by the window — and then moved toward the basin, pouring the last of the warm water into the tub.
“It was already prepared,” he murmured, his voice quiet, almost apologetic.
Arya only nodded. She didn’t know what to say. He gave her a small, sad smile — the kind that carried too many years and not enough words — before turning and leaving her to herself.
When the door shut behind him, she exhaled, feeling the silence fill the room like fog. The water steamed faintly. She stared at her reflection in it, rippling and unfamiliar, and for the first time since arriving, she wondered what they saw when they looked at her.
Downstairs, Jon paused at the foot of the steps. The smell of fresh bread and herbs filled the small house, and Sansa was everywhere — moving fast, focused, her skirts swaying as she set pots on the hearth, fetched jars from the shelves, stirred, and wiped, and stirred again.
She was humming softly under her breath — some half-remembered tune from their childhood — and Jon felt something in his chest twist.
Sansa was glowing in a way she hadn’t in months. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair messy from the day, her hands dusted with flour. There was no flower crown on her head, no fear in her eyes — only relief, light, and motion.
Jon stood there, arms crossed at the kitchen door, watching.
Sansa caught the look almost at once. She stopped what she was doing, turned, and met his eyes. For a heartbeat neither spoke. Then she sighed — as though she could already hear the storm of thoughts moving behind his silence.
She wiped her hands on her apron and crossed the room toward him.
Without a word, she wrapped her arms around his middle, pressing her cheek to his chest. His arms came around her slowly, almost uncertain at first, then fully — a quiet surrender. She felt the weight he carried before he even spoke.
He buried his face in her neck. His breath was uneven, hot against her skin.
“It’s alright,” she whispered, stroking his back the way she did when Robbie woke from bad dreams. “It’s alright, my love.”
His voice cracked against her shoulder. “I can’t—”
Sansa hushed him softly, her lips near his ear. “I remember for the two of us,” she said. “That’s what matters.”
When he lifted his head, she met his eyes — eyes that still looked younger when he let himself be vulnerable. She smiled faintly, reaching up to brush her fingers along the scar that cut across his right eye. Her touch was soft as a feather, reverent in its familiarity.
Jon leaned into it without meaning to, closing his eyes for a breath.
For a moment, it was only the two of them — the fire’s crackle, the smell of bread, the sound of their breathing.
Then he exhaled, steadying himself, the ache still there but dulled now, softened by her presence.
“I’ll prepare the table,” he said quietly.
Sansa nodded, letting her hands linger a heartbeat longer before pulling away.
As Jon turned toward the cupboards, she watched him — his shoulders broad, his steps slow, still carrying too many ghosts. Her eyes softened. She didn’t call out to him, didn’t say what pressed against her tongue.
Instead, she went back to the bread.
The knife pressed into the crust with a steady hand, and outside, the wind from the sea brushed against the window — soft and cold and full of the sound of Winterfell’s ghosts.
When Arya came down the stairs, the smell of roasted meat, herbs, and warm bread met her like a memory. For a heartbeat, she was ten again — running through Winterfell’s halls, following the sound of her mother’s voice calling for the servants, the clatter of platters, the heat of the kitchen.
But this wasn’t Winterfell. The walls were closer here, the air thicker with the scent of smoke and the sea. And Sansa — her sister who used to tremble at every raised voice — now moved with the quiet authority of a woman who had learned to keep a house alive by sheer will.
The small room glowed in the hearth’s light. Sansa’s hair was pinned loosely at her nape, strands escaping to brush her cheeks. She was everywhere at once — stirring a pot, checking the bread, setting out small bowls of dried berries, salt, and honey. She laid a piece of embroidered cloth — clearly one of her own works — in the center of the table. The stitches were fine, careful. Jon’s rough hands had probably mended the corners.
Every motion was deliberate, graceful, but tinged with fatigue. She worked like a woman afraid to stop, as though stillness would undo her. Arya watched her for a long moment, half-hidden by the stair’s shadow.
It reminded her of Mother. The way Catelyn Stark used to move before a feast — hands directing servants, eyes everywhere, that calm smile she wore for guests she didn’t trust but still wanted to honor. Arya could almost hear her mother’s voice again:
“A warm meal softens every heart, Arya. Even in Winterfell.”
Sansa’s voice cut through the haze:
“Jorrel, the bread’s nearly done. Robbie, not too close to the fire, sweetling.”
Jon was kneeling near the hearth, helping Robbie tie a small leather strap around one of his toy soldiers — some little gift his friends must’ve made for him. Robbie looked up every now and then, his blue eyes darting toward Arya with uncertain curiosity. There was no fear, just confusion — that silent child’s question: Who are you?
Arya caught his gaze and smiled, small and unsure. Robbie frowned a little, his lips pressing together the way Sansa’s did when she was thinking.
Jon noticed the exchange and gave a faint, almost apologetic smile. “He’s still a babe,” he said softly, standing. “He’ll warm to you soon enough.”
Arya nodded, her eyes softening. “I know.”
But the words came out quieter than she meant them to.
Jon reached out, briefly placing a hand on Robbie’s shoulder before moving to the table. There was something in the way he moved — measured, careful, as though every gesture cost him a thought. He was gentler now than Arya remembered. There had always been a softness in him, but now it was deeper, tempered by all the battles and losses behind those eyes.
She wondered how long he’d carried this quiet grief, and how much Sansa had shared in it.
Sansa turned then, her arms full of plates. “Arya, sit, please,” she said, her tone still brisk but her smile genuine. “You’ve had a long road. You must be starved.”
Arya hesitated. “Can I help?”
Sansa shook her head quickly, her voice taking on that precise cadence their mother used to have. “Guests don’t help, they rest. And you’re our guest tonight.”
For a moment, Arya almost laughed — our guest. Gods, how strange those words sounded between sisters.
Before she could reply, a sound at the doorway made her turn.
Ghost padded in, silent as the wind, his white fur gleaming faintly gold in the firelight. The massive wolf moved toward her slowly, his eyes glowing red and gentle.
Arya froze — not from fear, but from the sudden, aching memory that swept through her.
Nymeria.
The scent of pine and rain, the flash of grey fur vanishing into the woods, her own trembling hands shoving her wolf away to save her life. The years between them collapsed in an instant.
Ghost came closer and pressed his nose softly against her arm, sniffing her — curious, cautious. Arya’s throat tightened as she reached out, her fingers sinking into his thick fur.
“You remember me now, don’t you?” she whispered.
The wolf gave a low rumble, almost like a purr, and Arya laughed under her breath — the sound half-choked, half-relieved. She leaned forward, wrapping both arms around the great beast’s neck. For a heartbeat, she could almost feel Nymeria again — the warmth, the pulse, the familiar wildness.
Jon watched from where he stood at the table. His mouth curved faintly, though his eyes softened with something older than joy — that quiet sorrow that comes when ghosts of the past walk too close to the living.
Sansa saw it too. She paused by the table, her hand resting on a jug of ale, and for once her smile was not the practiced kind. It was small and real and a little sad.
“Dinner’s ready,” she said finally, her voice gentler now.
Arya looked up from Ghost, brushing her sleeve across her cheek. Robbie had climbed onto a chair, eyes wide as he stared at the wolf, but Ghost only turned his great head slightly, unbothered.
Sansa moved to serve the stew, ladling it into bowls — her movements smooth, familiar, the kind of grace built from long habit. She poured Jon’s ale, filled Arya’s cup, and took her seat last, the way their mother always had.
For a moment, the three of them sat in silence, the fire crackling, the scent of herbs and bread wrapping around them like a memory. Robbie reached out, small fingers clutching at Jon’s sleeve.
“Dad,” he whispered, “is Aunt Rya stayin?”
Jon looked across the table, his gaze meeting Arya’s. She smiled faintly.
Sansa answered for them both, her tone soft but certain. “Aye, sweetling. For as long as she wishes.” She approached her with careful steps, wiping her flour-dusted hands on her apron before setting down the steaming plate. The smell hit Arya first — rich, buttery crust, a hint of onion and pepper, and something so achingly familiar that it almost hurt to breathe.
Arya blinked, eyes wide. “Is this…?”
Sansa’s face lit up in quiet pride, the kind that came from small triumphs hard-won. “The famous kidney pie of Old Nan.”
Arya laughed, a sound caught somewhere between disbelief and joy. “You knew actually made it?”
Jon, already seated across from her, leaned back in his chair with that teasing half-grin that still belonged to the brother she remembered. “Go on, taste it! She spent months trying it until she finally got it right.”
Sansa gasped, giving him a playful swat on the shoulder. “Jorrel!”
He chuckled, rubbing the spot with exaggerated pain. “It’s true!”
Arya’s smell fell bu tried to keep herself steady, Sansa as if she felt her sudden change, she leaned toward her “We do not use our names around Robbie, he repeats literally everything this days!”
Robbie giggled from beside him, delighted at seeing his parents mock-argue. Ghost huffed and circled the table once before settling near Arya’s chair, his great head resting against her boot.
Arya lifted her fork slowly, feeling oddly nervous — as if tasting the past might break the fragile present. The crust gave way with a soft crunch, and the first bite melted on her tongue — savory, spiced, warm in a way no southern food had ever been.
“Oh gods,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “It’s just like I remember.”
Sansa’s cheeks pinkened. “Almost,” she admitted, pouring a bit of gravy over Arya’s plate. “The flour here is coarser, but I make do.”
Arya looked at her — really looked at her. The soft light of the fire caught on the stray strands of Sansa’s hidden auburn hair, on the curve of her smile, and Arya thought she’d never seen her sister more at peace. There was still that quiet strength in her, that steady patience Mother had — but now there was warmth too.
Jon raised his cup of ale, catching Arya’s gaze. “To Old Nan,” he said softly,
Sansa’s eyes flicked toward him, tender but heavy with meaning. Arya clinked her cup against his, her throat tightening a little.
“To home,” she murmured.
The word hung between them — fragile, trembling, and real.
The courtyard smelled faintly of damp stone and rosemary from the garden. Lantern light flickered over the fountain where the three of them sat — too close for comfort, too far for ease. Robbie was asleep upstairs. The house had never felt quieter.
Jon poured the ale first, then the wine. His movements were deliberate, his silence heavy. Sansa watched him with that careful attention of someone who knew how to read his silences better than his words. Arya sat opposite them, her back straight, her eyes darting between their faces.
For a long while, the only sound was water falling into water.
Then Arya spoke, her voice steady but low. “You two seem… settled.”
Sansa smiled faintly, eyes on her cup. “We’ve made a life here.”
“A life,” Arya echoed, almost tasting the word. “Is that what you call it?”
Jon looked up sharply, but Arya didn’t flinch.
“I mean—while the North fought and bled and froze, you were here, weren’t you? Hiding under false names. Playing at peace.”
“Arya,” Sansa said softly, a warning.
But Arya wasn’t finished. “You always wanted peace, Sansa. You dreamed of songs and warm beds and fine dresses. I thought you learned better when they took it all from us. When they broke everything.”
Jon’s hand tightened around his cup, knuckles whitening.
“Arya,” he said, his voice rough. “Enough.”
But she went on, her words sharp and fast — the way she used to swing a wooden sword, not to kill, but to prove she could.
“And you, Jon. You taught me to fight back. To never kneel. You were the one who told me we never stop fighting, no matter how bad it gets. But look at you now — you ran. You ran like the rest of them.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Jon’s breath hitched, just once. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t look at her.
“You don’t know what I ran from,” he said finally, low, each word forced out as if it cut his throat to say.
“I know enough,” Arya shot back, but her voice trembled now, grief tangled in her anger. “I looked for you, both of you. I looked until my feet bled. Until I stopped believing anyone was left to find. And all this time, you were here.”
Her hand gestured vaguely — to the walls, to the lanterns, to the life that seemed too soft, too warm to fit the word Stark.
Sansa’s breath caught. She saw Jon’s shoulders stiffen, the way his throat bobbed before he rose suddenly from the bench.
“I didn’t ask for this,” he said, his voice shaking. “You think it was easy? You think I could just live like nothing happened?”
Arya met his gaze, unflinching. “No. But you did it anyway.”
Jon stared at her as if struck. For a moment, he said nothing — and that silence was worse than shouting. Then he turned and walked away, Ghost padding after him, his white fur silvered by the lamplight.
The door closed softly behind him.
Sansa sat very still, her hand still curved around the cup he’d poured for her. The wine trembled just a little from the tension in her fingers. She let out a slow breath before she spoke.
“Call it destiny or cowardice for all I care, sister,” she said quietly, eyes still on the ripples of the fountain. “But Jon and I are not them.”
Arya blinked, the words pulling her back. “Not who?”
Sansa turned then — not Ashara of Myr, not the hostess with the soft voice and perfect smile. This was Sansa Stark of Winterfell, calm and resolute, her grief folded neatly into steel.
“We’re not the Lannisters. Or the Targaryens. Or any of the others who burned the world for their pride,” she said. “We didn’t build this life to forget, Arya. We built it because it was the only way to live.”
She leaned forward, her voice softening, but her eyes sharp.
“You think we stopped fighting. But survival is its own kind of fight. It always has been.”
Arya’s jaw tightened, but the fight in her eyes faltered, just a fraction. She looked down at her hands, scarred and still trembling.
The fountain murmured again, filling the quiet. Sansa reached for her wine, her hand steady now. “You want the truth,” she said softly, almost to herself. “But I wonder, little sister… after all this time, can you still bear to hear it?”
Notes:
Hmm
Alright, did you made your guesses? Did you figure it out..
Note: Jon and Sansa never use their real name around Robbie,
+ and I always hated how they treat Arya in the fics, like she's is yes teenager but she is mature too in. World of westeros.
Chapter Text
Arya gave Sansa a long glare before she nodded, she did not to be asked twice.
From the moment she stepped into the house of her siblings here in Myr, she mentally prepared herself for why her brother and sister are married.and have. A child.
“The Eyrie had opened its gates for the first time since the snows began to fall. Though the castle itself perched high above the world, the celebration was held below, in the soft green valleys that curled around the Giant’s Lance. A young lord of House Belmore had welcomed his first son, and the Vale—starved of joy during the long winter—decided to answer with song, banners, and a tourney in the newborn child’s honor.” Sansa started to drift into the long lost past while Arya listened…
Few years ago...
Large tents bloomed across the hills like bright flowers. Drums echoed between the stone cliffs; the wind carried the scent of roasted boar and lavender wine. Below it all, the lords and ladies of the Vale buzzed with excitement, gossip, and the promise of spectacle.
Inside one of the ladies’ tents, lit by lanterns stamped with the falcon sigil, Alayne Stone sat between her friends Myranda Royce and Mya Stone, fingers tangled in ribbons and combs.
Myranda chattered as she braided Alayne’s hair with the skill of someone born to court life.
Mya lounged across a cushion, boots dusty from the mountains, always half wild.
“And I swear to the Seven,” Myranda said dramatically, “Harry the Heir checked your backside twice while he passed this morning.”
Alayne rolled her eyes and adjusted her gown’s sleeve. “He checked the pastries,” she said. “Not me.”
“Oh? And did the pastries happen to be shaped like you?” Myranda teased.
Mya laughed, tossing an apple into the air. “He’ll ride today. Harry never skips a chance to show off when there’s an audience.”
“And when there are girls watching,” Myranda added.
“And when one girl is watching in particular,” Mya said, flicking her eyes toward Alayne.
Alayne felt her face warm but lifted her chin with practiced poise.
“As if he would name me queen of love and beauty,” she said lightly.
It was her safest tone — the one that made her sound amused, not afraid.
Myranda scoffed. “Oh, he will. You’re the prettiest thing in the Vale, and every lord knows it.”
“Only because they think I’m Baelish’s daughter,” Alayne murmured.
Mya’s expression softened. “So what,” she said in a rare gentle voice, “you’d still be the prettiest thing in the Vale.”
Alayne didn’t answer. Compliments no longer settled happily inside her; they rattled around like loose coins.
Outside, trumpets sounded — the opening blasts of the tourney.
The hills trembled with cheering.
Myranda squealed. “Come on! If Harry wins even a single tilt, he’ll be insufferable.”
Mya rolled off the cushion. “He’s insufferable already.”
Alayne smoothed her skirts, checked her braid, and stepped out of the tent into the sunlight.
She didn’t know it then — but that was the day everything started to break.
The sun hung high above the valley, spilling gold across the tilted lists and the bright silk banners of each house. The mountains stood like silent sentinels. The air carried the scent of pine, churned dirt, sweet wine, and baked honeycake.
Alayne walked between Myranda and Mya, the three of them cutting through the crowd toward the grandstands.
Knights in half-plate polished their armor. Squires hurried with spears and pennants. Minstrels tuned lutes near the wine sellers. The Vale had come alive.
Alayne felt eyes on her—she always did now—men assessing, ladies whispering behind fans. Baelish had taught her to walk with a graceful, measured pace, chin up, smile gentle, expression unreadable.
Sansa Stark used to blush under such looks. Alayne Stone drifted through them like a swan. But inside, she felt very much like Arya: ready to run.
The crowd parted as Ser Harrold Hardyng approached on horseback, his white cloak trailing, his armor chased with silver falcons. He looked every inch the young hero the Vale hoped for—straight-backed, handsome, ambitious.
He swung down from the horse with a flourish he practiced far too often.
“Ladies,” he greeted smoothly.
Myranda immediately elbowed Alayne in the ribs.
Alayne dipped her head with practiced modesty. “My lord.”
Harry stepped closer—closer than courtesy demanded—and lowered his voice.
“I trust you’ll cheer for me. It would… encourage my victory.”
His tone suggested more than that. It always did.
Mya snorted loudly behind them; Harry ignored her.
“I cheer for all the competitors,” Alayne replied, sweet and neutral.
Harry smirked. “Then cheer for me most.”
He offered a hand to escort her to the stands.
Alayne hesitated.
Then Littlefinger’s voice—always lingering at the back of her mind—rose like a serpent:
Charm him. He is your future.
She placed her hand in Harry’s. His smile sharpened with satisfaction. But when he led her forward… she felt nothing. Not fear. Not attraction. Not hope.
Only hollowness.
The first joust began with a roar. Knights thundered down the lists, lances shattering, splinters flying. The vale lords cheered, wine sloshing from their cups.
Harry preened every time he saw Alayne glance his way.
Myranda leaned in close and whispered, “You know he’s going to crown you queen of love and beauty if he wins.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Alayne murmured.
But she felt the world beginning to tighten around her shoulders like a noose.
Harry won his first tilt. Then his second.
By the third, the crowd had begun chanting his name.
“Go on,” Myranda teased. “Smile. Look besotted.”
“I am not—”
But then it happened. Harry galloped forward, lance braced—
And his horse slipped on a patch of churned mud.
The gasps rippled like a wave. Harry crashed into the lists with a shriek of metal and dirt.
Myranda grabbed Alayne’s arm. “Seven hells!”
Mya winced. “That’s broken ribs at least.”
The maester rushed in. Squires panicked. Knights shouted for space.
Harry was pulled to his feet moments later, pale, furious, spitting blood.
And his eyes snapped immediately to Alayne. As if she had cursed him.
As if her very presence had doomed him.
Petyr Baelish appeared beside her as if summoned by fear. “Poor boy,” he murmured with mock sympathy. “Ambition can be a heavy horse to ride.”
Alayne swallowed. “He looked… angry.”
“He will get over it.” Baelish placed a possessive hand at the small of her back. “Your task is simply to remain lovely, obedient, and useful.”
Useful.
The word struck like a sting.
“And remember,” he said softly, “no matter who courts you, no matter what mask you wear…”
His voice dipped near her ear. “You belong to me.”
A chill raced up her spine.
Alayne forced a smile. “Of course, Father.”
Baelish’s eyes brightened with triumph.
The celebration bled slowly into night — torches dimming, laughter softening, music drifting like smoke between the tents. Alayne Stone slipped away early, claiming a headache, though in truth she simply needed quiet.
Inside her tent, she loosened her hair, pulling free pins until the dark strands fell across her shoulders. She lit a single candle and sat before the small bronze mirror Baelish had gifted her.
Her reflection wavered in the flame’s flicker.
Alayne Stone stared back.
But she did not like the way Sansa Stark watched from beneath.
She lifted a brush to smooth her hair when—
Something cold tugged at her spine.
Not a sound. Not a voice. Just a feeling. A pull.
She stiffened and turned sharply toward the tent flap.
Nothing.
The wind hissed against the canvas. A few feet away, men laughed near the fires. The horses stamped in the dark.
Just nerves, she told herself. But the feeling grew — a strange electricity crawling up her skin.
She turned back to the mirror.
And that was when she saw it.
Not in the tent. In the reflection behind her — a silhouette sliding past the canvas wall, faint but unmistakable.
A wolf’s shadow.
Alayne froze, breath trapped in her chest. For a heartbeat she was ten years old again, combing Lady’s fur in the godswood.
Her voice cracked before she could stop it.
“…Lady?”
She pressed a hand to her mouth, horrified she’d said it aloud.
No one could hear her. No one must ever hear her.
Her pulse hammered. She wanted to call for Petyr, for the guards, for anyone — but something inside her rebelled at the thought. Instead, without understanding why, she reached for her fur cloak, wrapping it tightly around herself.
The wind outside cut bitter and sharp through the canvas when Alayne pushed aside the flap.
The camp stretched behind her, lines of tents glowing faintly from dying firelight. She kept her steps soft, slipping between shadows, hardly breathing.
She told herself she was foolish. Dreaming. Imagining ghosts.
But then—
She saw it.
A flash of grey fur between the trees.
Her breath hitched, her heart stumbling into her throat.
“Lady…” she whispered, before she could stop herself. She ran.
Her slippers soaked with dew. Branches brushed her cloak. The camp shrank behind her, swallowed by the trees and moonlight. She didn’t think, didn’t question — she followed.
Her mind screamed that Lady was dead.
Dead and buried in King’s Landing.
Killed because of Joffrey.
Killed because she hadn’t been brave enough to tell the truth.
But her heart didn’t care.
Her heart only knew the shape of a grey wolf.
She broke through a line of pines, breath freezing in her lungs—
And something enormous moved toward her.
Not Lady.
Not gentle.
Not soft.
A massive white wolf barreled from the trees, fur bristling, red eyes glowing like coals.
Alayne’s scream rose—
but caught in her throat.
She stumbled backward, falling to her knees in the snow-dusted leaves. The wolf skidded to a stop only a few feet away, claws digging deep into the earth, fangs bared.
She gasped—
And then the eyes hit her.
Red.
But familiar.
So painfully familiar.
Her lips trembled.
A name tore free before she even understood it.
“Ghost!”
The wolf snarled, stepping forward to strike.
“Ghost—STOP!
"It’s me!” she cried, throwing her hands up.
“It’s… it’s Sa..nsa!”
Her voice broke on her true name, raw and terrified.
Ghost froze mid-step.
His ears pricked. His breath steamed in sharp bursts. The growl sank, low and questioning.
Sansa’s heart hammered against her ribs.
Slowly — as if he feared startling her — the direwolf lowered his massive head, sniffing the air around her. The wildness in his eyes shifted, softening into recognition.
Her breath collapsed out of her in a sob she didn’t know she’d kept locked inside for years.
“Ghost,” she whispered, tears blurring her vision.
“What are you doing here? Are you—did you—”
But the wolf stepped forward and pressed his head gently into her chest, huffing warm breath against her cloak.
Alayne buried her face deeper into Ghost’s thick fur, letting the warmth and familiarity of the wolf steady her shaking hands. His scent — a mix of pine, earth, and something untamed — filled her senses. She remembered Lady, the soft comfort of her own childhood, the way she had clung to the wolf as if she could hide all her fears in the safety of her fur. And now, here was Ghost, a ghost of that past, yet alive and solid under her trembling hands.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, harsh and unrelenting. She pulled back just enough to look at him properly. The wolf was larger than she remembered, a mixture of pure white and streaks of grey, his eyes glinting in the moonlight like shards of ice. “You look… dirty,” she said, trying for a smile, though her voice cracked, betraying her fear and confusion. “How did you get here?”
But Ghost only nudged her gently with his nose, sniffing her cloak and hair, as if confirming she was the same girl he had known years ago. He pressed his massive head against her shoulder again, and Alayne hugged him tighter, holding onto him as if letting go would mean losing every memory of home she still carried.
Her mind drifted, unbidden, to Jon. Oh, poor Jon… she thought, heart aching. She remembered the cold words of Petyr, telling her about the death of Ned’s bastard, slaughtered by his own men at the Wall. He must have suffered so… The thought struck her like a blow, and she cried harder, burying her face into Ghost’s fur once more.
“You better stay away from him, m’lady,” a harsh voice cut through the night, snapping her back to the present. Alayne jolted, pulling back sharply. Ghost shifted, growling low and deep, a sound that seemed to rattle the shadows around them. His body pressed between her and the figure, every muscle taut, eyes glowing in warning.
The man stepped forward, a sword glinting in the moonlight, but Ghost did not move an inch from her side. Alayne’s heart raced, and she looked toward the camp, only to realize how far she had wandered. The torches were tiny pinpricks in the distance, and the familiar noise of the celebration felt like another world. Fear clawed at her chest, sharp and cold.
“Stay back,” she said.
Ghost growled again, low and threatening. His presence was both comforting and terrifying, a reminder that some bonds could not be broken, no matter how far she had fled.
Alayne’s hands shook as she hugged him tighter. “I… I don’t know who you are, but you won’t touch me,” she whispered fiercely. Ghost’s eyes met hers, steady and understanding, as if he could feel the weight of her past, her pain, and her resolve.
The man hesitated, caught between curiosity and fear, and then slowly, with an exasperated grunt, stepped back into the shadows.
Alayne exhaled shakily, heart pounding. The night seemed colder now, sharper, yet somehow safer with Ghost by her side. And as she looked down at him, the connection to her past, to Winterfell, to the girl she had been, strengthened.
She whispered softly, almost to herself, “I don’t know how you found me… but thank the gods you did.”
Ghost nudged her shoulder one more time, and she allowed herself to lean against him, the night pressing in around them, filled with whispers of memory, fear, and something resembling hope.
The man’s eyes flicked to her again, narrowing. “You know him?” he asked, voice low and rough, glancing at Ghost as if the direwolf might leap at him any second.
Alayne’s hand tightened around the fur she had wrapped herself in. “I… I’ve met him,” she said carefully, her eyes never leaving Ghost. “He’s not… he’s mine.”
From the shadows behind the man, a soft, commanding voice cut through the night air. “What is happening here?”
Alayne spun around, heart hammering. A figure emerged, moving like flame among the dark trees — a woman draped in red, her cloak flowing and hair the color of blood, catching the moonlight. Her eyes were sharp, penetrating, yet not unkind.
The woman’s gaze settled on Alayne and Ghost. “Ah, what do we have here.” she said softly, almost in recognition.
“She seems lost, Melisande,” the man said.
Alayne’s breath caught. She had heard tales of certain woman of red named Melisandre — whispers in the halls of the Vale, stories of Stannis’ red priestess who spoke of visions and fire. Yet it cannot be her, anyone could ave red hir like that.
Ghost stepped closer, sensing her unease. Alayne knelt slightly to press her face into the wolf’s fur, drawing courage from his warmth.
“You need not fear, Edd,” the woman continued, her voice smooth and hypnotic. “I am Melisandre, servant of the Lord of Light. And you, child, are far from the life you thought you had.”
Before Alayne could answer, the man called Edd beside her stepped forward, revealing himself fully in the moonlight. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a calm, careful gaze — .
Melisandre stepped closer, and the firelight from her lantern, though small, made her cloak seem alive, as if the red itself burned. “You are in the wrong side of the content, child,” she said quietly, yet every word pressed into her like a hammer. “And yet, you are protected. Ghost knows that too. And soon, you must know as well.”
Alayne’s hand brushed Ghost’s fur again, and she realized that fear and awe had mingled into something sharper: the pull of destiny she had never felt before, stronger than any wind, stronger than the Vale itself.
A sudden scream split the night air, raw and urgent. Alayne’s heart leapt into her throat. Ghost’s fur bristled, his low growl vibrating through the earth beneath them.
Melisandre spun, her cloak flaring like fire in the dark, and Edd stepped up alongside her, arms half-raised as though to shield her. “You left him alone?!” Edd’s voice was sharp, but carried something deeper, almost scolding, aimed at the red woman.
Before Alayne could react, a figure burst from the shadows of the woods. The man ran with a mix of desperation and fear, stumbling over roots and uneven earth. Melisandre stopped him mid-step, raising her hands as if calming a frightened child.
Alayne’s eyes widened as she saw his face — the moonlight catching every line, every familiar curve she thought she would never see again. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. The world seemed to tilt, and the forest noises faded into silence.
Without thinking, without meaning to, her voice escaped in a whisper: “Jon…”
He is here. They lied. Jon is alive.
Jon froze, chest heaving, eyes locking onto hers. Ghost padded closer, nuzzling her side as if urging her to stay calm, while Melisandre’s gaze remained fixed on the boy — wary, suspicious, searching for something Alayne couldn’t name.
Edd stepped forward slowly, his hand on the Jon’s shoulder, steadying him. “He’s safe,” he said firmly, but his eyes were cautious. “Ghost, come here boy!”
But Alayne’s fingers clenched into the fur of Ghost’s neck. She barely recognized the sound of her own voice when she spoke again, trembling between relief and disbelief. “Jon… it’s really you.”
Sansa stood frozen, unable to believe her eyes. This was not the Jon she remembered — the clean, composed boy she had known. This man was wilder, harsher; his hair tangled, his beard grown. And yet… there was Ned in him, in the set of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders. The resemblance made her chest tighten.
Her trembling hands reached toward him, almost instinctively, but before she could move closer, steel flashed. A sword’s tip pressed against her neck, sharp and unyielding.
“You’ve seen wrong,” the man growled, his voice rough and wary.
Alayne’s lips pressed together, forcing herself to speak, to break through the fear in his eyes. “I know… Jon. Jon, this is me!”
But Jon didn’t answer. He recoiled as if she were a phantom, a child seeking refuge. He buried his face in Melisandre’s neck, trembling like a boy afraid of the dark.
“What did you do to him, witch?!” Alayne shouted, her voice cracking with fury and fear, echoing across the trees. Ghost hissed, white fur bristling, stepping protectively in front of her, his teeth bared at Melisandre as if to say: Do not harm her.
Melisandre’s eyes darted between the two of them, calm but calculating, her hands lifting slightly. “Oh, drop your sword, Edd. She is harmless,” she said, her voice low, commanding.
Edd hesitated, the tension in his body tight as a drawn bowstring, before finally lowering the weapon. The steel slipped from his fingers and clanged softly against the earth.
Alayne exhaled shakily, but she reached for Jon again, this time slowly, cautiously, her eyes locked on him.
Melisandre’s eyes glimmered in the moonlight, her red lips curling into a faint, knowing smile. “It seems that R’hllor led me to you, Sansa Stark,” she said, her voice both gentle and commanding.
Alayne staggered backward, nearly slipping to the ground, her hand instinctively clinging to Ghost’s thick fur for balance. The name — spoken aloud by someone who knew truths beyond her own — struck her like a bolt. Sansa Stark… It was her name, her real name, one she had buried beneath Alayne Stone for so long.
Edd’s eyes widened, a mixture of shock and disbelief crossing his face. “You’re… Sansa Stark?” His voice caught, half question, half accusation.
Alayne hesitated, she was walking into a dangerous ground, Petyr was near and here was Jon.
The gods have answered her prayers and the last of the pack still lives.
the words caught in her throat. She opened her mouth, but instead of answering, she stepped forward, her hand reaching toward Jon. Her gaze pleaded, almost desperate: He does not know me…
Notes:
Sansa did not need to go way back in her story..
This is "how I met your mother " without going through 9 seasons to reveal the mother lol
The long night hasn't started yet here and it was early days of the winter right after the end of book five.
Chapter Text
Ghost’s warmth at Sansa's hip steadied her, even as her heart hammered unevenly.
I was never good to him, she thought. Not like Arya was. Perhaps that’s why he won’t look at me.
A sting pulsed behind her eyes. He was her last thread to home, and even he—broken as he was—turned his face away.
But Ghost nudged her again, firmer this time, as if refusing her self-pity. He pushed her forward until she stood within arm’s reach of Jon Snow, close enough to feel the faint heat of his skin. Close enough to know this wasn’t some cruel dream shaped by longing.
Her breaths came shallow. The world around her—the strange men, the red woman’s watchful stare—blurred and fell away. Only Jon mattered.
Without thinking, her hand lifted, trembling, and came to rest on his shoulder.
“Sweet Jon…” Sansa whispered.
He did not flinch. His stillness frightened her more than any recoil would have. His head remained tucked against Melisandre, like a small child hiding in a mother’s skirts.
Sansa felt the priestess studying her, weighing something unseen.
Slowly—so slowly—it was like coaxing a frightened animal, Jon lifted his face. And when his grey eyes met hers, Sansa’s heart cracked open. They were not the eyes she remembered. They held no recognition, no spark of the brother she once knew. Only a soft, confused emptiness.
Just like Sweetrobin, she thought helplessly.
Her smile wavered, but she forced it steady for him.
“Hello there, Jon…” she murmured.
She reached down, gentle as snowfall, and took his hand. His fingers curled loosely in hers, limp but warm. She tugged, trying to draw him away from the red woman’s grasp, and this time he followed—slow, uncertain, but willing.
Ghost moved with them, a silent guardian at her side, the great wolf’s presence enveloping her like a memory of Lady walking beside her once. Sansa felt the beast’s readiness, his tension coiled like a spring, ready to act the moment she needed him.
Jon blinked at her again, head tilting slightly, as if trying to place a forgotten dream, however that warming dream ended before it start.
“I am afraid that we have to end this little reunion of yours, someone is looking for you Lady Stone,” the red woman spoke, pulling Jon away from Sansa. That sweet warmth she felt disappeared.
Sansa frowned until she heard the shouting of hounds from afar, Petyr noticed her absence! Seven hells why now? before she could grasp the sudden act, she saw the red woman taking Jon into the depth of woods.
“Wait! Where are you taking him!?” Sansa called. Jon don't leave me!!
“Away from you and the preying eyes,” Melisandre answered back without looking.
Sansa turned with a frown to the giant direwolf in front of her, what should I do? She mentally asked Ghost as if he could understand her.
“We can’t just leave her alone!” she heard the man Edd protest after the red witch.
Melisandre stopped and looked over her shoulder, and Sansa could see the smirk; “ i am sure, she can find her way back,” and with that the woman left taking with her everything
Sansa stood frozen, Ghost’s white shape between her and the darkness where Melisandre had vanished with Jon and Edd. The forest swallowed their silhouettes in moments, taking with them the fragile warmth she had only just felt.
And she remained—Alayne Stone.
Lord Baelish’s bastard.
The girl in the pretty dresses and careful smiles.
The thorns of that lie closed around her like a cage.
She could hear the hounds now closer—Petyr’s, the Vale’s hounds—and with every echoing bark she felt the walls he had built around her tightening. Alayne was supposed to run back. To explain. To curtsy. To say she’d lost her way in the woods. To be grateful. To be obedient.
But Sansa Stark… Sansa Stark was not supposed to be here at all.
She pressed a hand to her ribs, trying to breathe. The air felt thin. Sharp. Like needles pricking her lungs.
I am trapped.
The thought came not as fear but as truth.
Alayne Stone had been a shield once—something she hid behind while the world hunted her—but now the shield was rusted and heavy, strapped to her so tightly she could hardly move. Every lie Petyr fed her had become another thorn woven into her skin. Each false smile another knot tightening around her throat.
Ghost turned toward her, eyes like pale moons, waiting.
“What should I do?” she whispered, though no sound left her lips.
The direwolf only watched. That was answer enough.
Sansa took a step into the woods.
The thorns pulled at her like hands begging her to stay—scratching, snagging her cloak, biting into her palms as she pushed past. She felt Alayne clinging to her, that soft timid girl who had learned to lower her eyes and hold her tongue. For a heartbeat she almost turned back.
Return, Alayne whispered.
Survive.
Obey.
But Sansa was done obeying.
She pushed farther. Another step. And another.
And with each stride something inside her began to shed—quietly at first, like a loose thread slipping from a hem. The careful posture, the practiced softness, the Vale’s false safety… it all started to fall away.
The deeper she walked, the lighter she felt. As if Alayne’s skin was peeling off her shoulders in shreds, caught on branches and left behind among the thorns.
She bled for it—cold wind stinging her face, brambles cutting her wrists—but she did not stop.
She would not abandon Jon.
She would not go back to Petyr’s pretty cage.
She would not pretend to be someone else again.
Sansa stumbled into the clearing, breathless. Melisandre turned first, her red cloak catching the firelight like a flare. Edd froze, hand half-way to his sword. Jon looked up from where he crouched beside Ghost, his brows knitting faintly—as if trying to remember a face he had once known in another life.
But Sansa didn’t falter.
“Take me with you,” she said.
Her voice did not shake. She kept her spine straight, her chin lifted. She had bowed enough for a lifetime.
Melisandre’s eyes slid over her—heels to hair, as if peeling her apart with a single glance. Sansa felt naked under it despite her cloak. No one looked at her like that. Not even Cersei. Not even Petyr.
It was the look of someone seeing truth beneath skin.
Edd said nothing. Jon’s dark eyes followed her, unfocused but intent, as if drawn by the sound of her voice.
At last Melisandre sighed, almost amused. “We do not take traces with us, sweet girl.”
The words struck like a blow. Sansa drew a harsh breath, cold air burning her lungs.
“You don’t know what it is to hide,” she said. “To smother yourself day after day. To pretend you’re no one, just to stay alive.” Her throat tightened. “If going with you means I leave Alayne Stone behind—then good. I will erase every trace of her.”
Before fear could stop her, she unclasped her cloak and let it fall to the snow. The silver crescent brooch Petyr had given her hit the ground with a soft thud. Then her slippers. Her rings. The chain around her neck. The tiny pearl earrings, carefully chosen by Petyr to “suit Alayne’s station.”
She tore them off.
Edd turned his gaze away at once, jaw tightening. Melisandre only watched. Jon—sweet, lost Jon—did not look at her, too busy stroking Ghost’s muzzle with a childlike tenderness.
Sansa hugged her arms to her chest, breath coming out in white shivers. Melisandre lifted a brow.
Sansa swallowed.
Somehow, she understood.
This was not simply undressing.
It was shedding a skin.
She looked at Jon again—not the barbarian the Vale would see, not the broken creature the red woman was holding into, but the boy who had once smiled at her awkwardly across Winterfell’s hall.
And so, with trembling fingers, she loosened the last symbol of Alayne Stone still clinging to her—a finely embroidered overshirt, stitched in the Vale’s colors. She pulled it over her head and dropped it atop the rest.
Winter kissed her bare arms. Her hair whipped around her face. She stood small, shivering, but unbent.
“I am Sansa Stark,” she said, lifting her chin.
“And I am not leaving him.”
Silence.
The wind sighed through the trees.
Then Melisandre smiled—not kindly, but knowingly, as if she had been waiting for this.
“Very well,” the red woman said softly. “Come, Lady Stark. The false girl is dead. You may walk with us.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Edd muttered, sounding more exasperated than shocked.
He tore his own cloak free—thick black wool smelling of smoke and pine—and thrust it toward her without daring to look. His head snapped sharply to the side, face red despite the cold.
Sansa accepted it with shaking hands, shame burning hotter than the wind. She wrapped it tight around herself, swallowing a hysterical laugh rising in her throat.
Gods. She had once mocked Cersei Lannister’s walk of shame—quietly, secretly, the way girls in gilded cages mocked their jailers. And now here she was, stripped in the middle of a frozen wood with only a strange man, a witch, and her lost, broken brother watching.
Poetic justice, or some cruel joke the gods decided to play on Sansa Stark.
She wanted to scream at Melisandre—to curse her for forcing this, for seeing through her, for tearing the shell of Alayne Stone away with a single look. But she kept still. For Jon. For Jon, she repeated like prayer-beads between her fingertips.
A sudden roar of flame snapped her thoughts in two.
Sansa flinched hard, stumbling back as her discarded garments erupted in fire—bright, crackling, hungry. Silk shriveled. Wool curled in on itself. Petyr’s fine embroidery melted into blackened threads. Her slippers collapsed into ash.
She gasped and turned wide eyes toward Melisandre, whose expression did not change. The red woman simply stepped past the burning heap, as calm as if she had lit a candle, not set fire to Sansa’s entire former life.
Edd muttered something that sounded like a prayer turned into a complaint, but he shouldered his pack and took the lead.
Melisandre strode into the woods without slowing, Jon trailing at her side with Ghost pressed close, step-for-step.
Sansa hesitated.
Of course she did.
Her throat tightened with an instinct older than fear—look back, look back, as if by sheer will she could still salvage Alayne’s quiet life, her silken bed, her careful lies.
But Melisandre’s voice drifted through the trees, soft as snowfall but sharp as prophecy.
“Do not look,” she said. “And they will not find you.”
Sansa closed her eyes.
She inhaled a breath so cold it hurt.
And barefoot, wrapped only in a borrowed cloak and her stubborn Stark will, she stepped forward—into the dark, after the witch, the sworn brother, the direwolf…
…and Jon.
For her blood brother.
for Jon.
The hidden camp lay low in a tangle of thorn and swamp-grass—little more than a hollow with a dying hearth and bedrolls of worn leather. It didn’t look like a place anyone should survive a night in, yet it felt…secret, tight as a clenched fist against the cold.
Melisandre stopped in the center and turned.
Edd started unpacking without a word.
Sansa clutched the cloak tighter around herself.
Melisandre’s red gaze passed over her—neck, shoulders, knees—as if she were appraising a sacrifice. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she reached inside her satchel and held out a folded bundle of dark fabric.
“A gown,” she said lightly, as if she hadn’t just burned Sansa’s entire identity to ash moments ago. “Put it on before you freeze.”
Sansa snatched it with a stiff nod and turned her back to them. The wool was rough, foreign, smelling of smoke and stranger’s hands—but it was warm. She forced her trembling fingers to lace it, each knot tying her further from the Vale.
When she turned back, her spine straightened.
“Now,” she said. “You will tell me what’s wrong with him.”
Melisandre’s lips curled faintly. “All at once, girl. Sit.”
Edd knelt by the firepit and struck flint. Sparks crackled, catching on dry grass. Fire sputtered to life. Ghost’s ears twitched. Jon stiffened.
Sansa opened her mouth—only to freeze as Jon yelped softly, scrambling back, hands flying up to shield his face. He backed away like a wounded animal, breath ragged.
“Jon?” Sansa whispered.
He didn’t look at her. His eyes were distant—full of terror. He crouched low, trying to hide behind Ghost’s flank.
The fire crackled. Jon whimpered.
“Gods,” Edd muttered. “He hates it. Every damn time.”
Sansa didn’t think—she simply moved.
She knelt beside him slowly, palms up like she used to do with a frightened Robin.
“Sweet Jon… I’m here. Look at me.”
He peeked between his fingers. Something in his expression softened when he saw her face—like a tiny door cracking open. She reached out, touching his wrist lightly.
The moment her skin brushed his, he leaned in as if gravity pulled him to her. He pressed his forehead to her shoulder, trembling. Sansa wrapped an arm around him without hesitation, her eyes burning hot.
“He’s afraid,” she whispered.
Melisandre stepped closer, shadows flickering over her face. “ Fear is often the strongest piece.”
Jon clung to Sansa’s cloak, burying his face deeper into her shoulder.
Edd added quickly, almost defensively, “He ain’t witless. He just… . He eats, walks. But he can’t talk. Knows no one but Ghost.”
“Why bringing him here?,” Sansa muttered, anger hardening her voice, “to, to prove that the last stark has gone mad .”
Sansa tightened her hold on Jon, her fingers carding instinctively through his hair.
“Tell me how to help him,” she demanded. “All of it. Now.”
Melisandre’s red eyes glowed like embers. She settled before the small fire, hands lifted over the flickering light as if coaxing its breath. Her shadow stretched long behind her, swallowing the thorn-lined hollow.
“My lord put you in this path for a reason,” she murmured, voice low and smooth, “He brought us to the Vale for you.”
At that, Edd’s expression changed—shoulders stiffening, eyes narrowing as if he’d been waiting for this moment.
“So that means,” he said carefully, “our search ends here?”
Melisandre did not look at him. Her gaze stayed locked on the dancing flames.
“Perhaps…” she murmured. “The night is long, and the path winds where it must. We will wait for a sign to our next destination, crow.”
Edd’s jaw tightened, but he bowed his head in reluctant obedience. Then he turned toward Sansa, and for the first time since she’d met him, his face softened.
“I heard about you from Jon,” he said quietly. “Back when he was still… him.”
Sansa felt something lodge in her throat.
“You’re as beautiful as he described,” Edd added, looking almost embarrassed. “Do not fear, Lady Sansa. No one will harm you while you’re with us.”
Her breath stuttered. He spoke of her. Jon spoke of her.
The last time she’d thought of him, it was snowing and there was miles and The Wall—icy, distant, unreachable. Yet somehow he remembered her enough to speak of her. Enough that Edd recognized her through a name and a ghost of description. She felt shame, for she was never the good sister to him of all their siblings.
Had Jon missed her? Thought of her?
Did he carry pieces of her even now, hidden beneath whatever darkness clung to him?
She swallowed. She could not ask.
Sansa lifted her chin and faced Melisandre directly.
“Tell me,” she said, voice steady. “The truth. The whole truth, please.”
Melisandre raised her eyes from the fire. “Your brother died,” the red woman began softly, “and what returned to us… was not the same man.”
Jon twitched at the word died, pressing closer to Sansa’s side. She wrapped her arms around him instinctively, shielding him from the fire’s glow.
Melisandre’s voice deepened, the fire reflecting in her eyes like molten metal.
“They stabbed him. His brothers. His Night’s Watch. The ones he trusted most…”
She flicked her fingers toward Jon’s chest. “Knives here. Here. Here. The last blow in the heart.”
Sansa tightened her hold on him.
“But his spirit did not cross fully into death,” Melisandre said. “A thread remained. Thin. Fragile. I pulled him back with flame and prayer. But the thread was damaged… tangled.”
Edd looked into the fire, guilt etched into every line of his face.
“He knows us, sometimes,” Edd said. “Other times… it’s like he’s seeing the world for the first time.”
“He can relearn,” Melisandre added. “With time. With guidance. With someone who can reach him.”
Her gaze slid meaningfully to Sansa.
Jon whimpered faintly and Sansa brushed his hair from his face, whispering soft comforts without thinking.
Melisandre’s smile sharpened.
“Yes,” she said. “Just like that, sweet girl. You see? His soul listens to you.”
Sansa’s heart hammered.
“Why me?” she whispered.
Melisandre’s gaze returned to the fire.
“Because R’hllor brought you to us,” she murmured. “The maiden wolf;”
Melisandre moved with practiced ease, kneeling beside a small iron pot and scattering dried herbs into the simmering water—wintermint, pine needles, willowbark. A soft steam curled into the air.
“Warm your blood,” the red woman said without looking at Sansa. “The night is cruel.”
She poured the brew into three wooden cups. One she handed to Sansa, one to Edd, and one to Jon, who stared at it blankly as though unsure what it was.
Sansa hesitated—her fingers hovering over the cup’s warm rim.
Edd lifted his own and drank without blinking. Only then did Sansa raise it to her lips.
But when Jon struggled, lifting the cup clumsily and nearly spilling it, she set hers aside at once and moved to him. His hands were too large, too unsteady, his fingers fumbling like a small child’s. Sansa placed her hands over his, steadying the cup as she guided it to his mouth.
He drank obediently, eyes fixed on hers with a soft, muddled trust that pierced her to the bone.
Melisandre watched them silently for a long moment before returning to her place by the fire.
“I was leaving for Winterfell with Stannis Baratheon,” she began. “But in the flames, I saw death waiting for Jon Snow. A blade. Many blades. The Lord of Light commanded me back.”
Edd poked at the fire. “King Stannis respected Jon.”
Melisandre’s gaze darkened. “When I arrived… I was too late.”
Edd took up the story, jaw tightening. “At dawn, we found him in the snow. Cold as the Wall itself. Some of the brothers said we ought to burn him—the way things are done when a man might not stay dead.”
Sansa’s stomach twisted.
“We hid him, of course… the body” Edd said. “Took him from the ones who wanted to see his corpse turned to ash. We kept him safe… or tried.”
Melisandre lifted her eyes to Jon—who sat hunched, shoulders stiff, staring at the fire with hollow, unblinking intensity. There was no recognition in his gaze, only a deep, haunted emptiness. The kind Sansa had once seen in broken knights and frightened boys.
He looked like a prince carved from moonlight, beautiful and vacant.
“I had seen men return from death before,” Melisandre whispered. “By other priests, at other times. I had never done it myself. But why would my lord show me Jon Snow’s death, why command me back, if not to intervene?”
Her fingers curled as if shaping invisible fire.
“So I performed the ritual.”
Edd exhaled softly. “And he woke. Just… not all of him.”
Sansa touched Jon’s shoulder gently. He didn’t flinch, though his breath trembled.
“They would have killed him again,” Edd said. “The men who followed Jon… they were shocked but loyal. But the others? They saw him as wrong. Not natural. Not fit to lead. A… weight.”
Sansa blinked sharply. “A weight?”
Edd nodded. “The same reason they killed him the first time, breaking his vows.”
Sansa felt disbelief rise sharp in her chest.
“My brother was a Stark,” she said. “A Stark would never betray his vows.”
Neither Melisandre nor Edd contradicted her.
“He didn’t betray his oath,” Edd said. “Not truly. Not in his heart. But they said he did. They said he let the freefolk through the Wall. That he gave them land. Homes. That he had grown too close to them… And there is the pink letter, of course.”
~~~
"Jon was killed for the wildling?” Arya, now sitting beside her like a shadow from the past she didn’t expect, frowned deeply, unbelievably, cutting her from continue telling the story.
Sansa swallowed hard, feeling memory and grief rise like a winter wave.
“No,” Sansa said. “Edd just told us.”
Her voice cracked, a whisper falling into the cold. She couldn't bear to tell her sister that Jon died for her. Jon died for trying to rescue Arya.
For his love to Arya, her sister would live with guilt.
Instead, Sansa smiled softly and decided to continue from where she stopped her tale. “Jon died because he was leaving the Night’s Watch. Because he made a choice they hated. The freefolk… that was only the excuse they used to put their knives in him.”
~~~~~~
“Aye,” Edd said softly, “ For Arya Stark. But it was not her eventually, some girl pretending to be your sister, I don't know the whole story but King Stannis granted her safety in winterfell.”
Finally Sansa looked at Melisandre again.
“So you ran south!? If King Stannis believes in rights and wrong, if he respect Jon. he should have protected Jon, if he wasn’t safe at the Wall, why come here of all places?”
Melisandre looked into the flames as though the answer glowed there.
“I searched for the fault,” she said. “If the ritual was wrong… if I failed my lord… then I had only one last resource.”
She lifted her gaze, red eyes shining strangely.
“Thoros of Myr. The only man and red priest I know who was granted the gift of resurrections—and brought life himself to one who had died often.”
Melisandre exhaled, slow and thin.
“He is somewhere in the Riverlands—or was. Stannis remains in Winterfell now. Edd volunteered to protect Jon. Edd, Jon and I came south, searching for Thoros so he may tell us what Jon Snow is… and what he is meant to become.”
Sansa looked at Jon for a long, aching moment. The firelight played over the planes of his face, catching on the faint scars, the pallor beneath his skin. Slowly—almost afraid he would flinch—she reached out and touched his cheek.
He didn’t react at all.
Then, gradually, as if moving through water, Jon leaned into her palm. His breath caught. His eyes, unfocused and wandering, finally lifted to meet hers. And for a heartbeat—one small, fragile heartbeat—Sansa thought she saw him. Not the hollow shell Melisandre had dragged back, not the empty-eyed ghost Edd described, but Jon. Her Jon.
But the moment passed. His gaze slid away again, lost.
Still, Sansa held his face as gently as a mother might hold a wounded child.
“I will do whatever you want me to,” she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her chest. “To have Jon back. Whatever it takes.”
“A vow is a dangerous thing, sweet girl,” the woman murmured. “Even the gods listen to them.”
“I don’t care,” Sansa whispered.
Edd nodded once at Melisandre, then at Sansa. “Then it’s settled.”
Jon blinked at Sansa again, confused by the voices, his hand closing loosely around hers. He clung to her like someone drifting between worlds, and Sansa smiled.
Melisandre stood, red cloak shifting like a living flame. “At first light, we leave this place. Our path lies south. We seek the Brotherhood Without Banners.”
“I thought you are looking for a priest?” Sansa asked.
“Yes, Thoros joined the brotherhood.” Melisandre’s gaze did not move from Sansa. “If there is still a spark in Jon Snow, Thoros of Myr may help us fan it into flame.”
Sansa lifted Jon’s hand, pressing it to her chest as if to remind him of warmth—of life. He stared at her touch, bewildered, but didn’t pull away.
“Then we go,” Sansa said. “For Jon.”
Ghost rose from his resting place, paws silent, and came to stand at Sansa’s side. As if choosing with whom his loyalties lay.
Edd threw more wood onto the fire. Melisandre whispered something to the flames that made them hiss.
And Sansa held Jon’s hand tightly—more for herself than for him—feeling the weight of the vow she had just made settle on her like destiny.
Their journey, and the long search for the Brotherhood, had begun.
Notes:
I must say... Sansa conflict with Alayne was my favourite part to write.
Jon is complicated case, his resurrection came wrong but believe me there is surprise in his return from death.
There is great adventure waiting for our couple.
Pages Navigation
earnestly_yours on Chapter 1 Thu 25 Sep 2025 10:12PM UTC
Comment Actions
1412Black on Chapter 1 Thu 25 Sep 2025 11:03PM UTC
Comment Actions
Secret198331 on Chapter 1 Fri 26 Sep 2025 12:28AM UTC
Comment Actions
goldenhawks on Chapter 1 Fri 26 Sep 2025 12:30AM UTC
Comment Actions
revejoy on Chapter 1 Wed 01 Oct 2025 05:06PM UTC
Comment Actions
NovaMe on Chapter 1 Fri 26 Sep 2025 01:56AM UTC
Comment Actions
CmdrAdama on Chapter 1 Fri 26 Sep 2025 03:01AM UTC
Comment Actions
The_BrokenHeart on Chapter 1 Fri 26 Sep 2025 05:27AM UTC
Comment Actions
bluerosebells14 on Chapter 1 Fri 26 Sep 2025 02:18PM UTC
Comment Actions
Morandir on Chapter 1 Fri 26 Sep 2025 04:54PM UTC
Comment Actions
riahchan on Chapter 1 Fri 26 Sep 2025 05:17PM UTC
Comment Actions
NowGodsStandUpForBastards on Chapter 1 Fri 26 Sep 2025 11:03PM UTC
Comment Actions
P13RR0T on Chapter 1 Sat 27 Sep 2025 11:57AM UTC
Comment Actions
LO2020 on Chapter 1 Sat 27 Sep 2025 07:33PM UTC
Comment Actions
lunalee23 on Chapter 1 Sun 28 Sep 2025 07:04AM UTC
Comment Actions
bikadoo on Chapter 1 Fri 10 Oct 2025 12:43AM UTC
Comment Actions
Obviously (Guest) on Chapter 1 Sun 12 Oct 2025 07:56PM UTC
Comment Actions
Eruherdiriel on Chapter 1 Fri 21 Nov 2025 05:29PM UTC
Comment Actions
Agneska on Chapter 2 Thu 09 Oct 2025 09:35PM UTC
Comment Actions
jrcornett1995 on Chapter 2 Thu 09 Oct 2025 10:06PM UTC
Comment Actions
GreenIllusions on Chapter 2 Fri 10 Oct 2025 12:34AM UTC
Comment Actions
NovaMe on Chapter 2 Fri 10 Oct 2025 02:30AM UTC
Comment Actions
riahchan on Chapter 2 Fri 10 Oct 2025 02:59AM UTC
Comment Actions
Pages Navigation