Chapter XXIII: Sansa III – A Meeting
“Your Grace,” Jon said, and Sansa watched as he inclined his head in respect. When he looked up, she rolled her eyes, and finally, he grinned. He looked good, she decided. He’d picked up a bit of a tan, even, despite living north of the Wall. Life as an outcast clearly suited him more than a crown ever had.
“You don’t need to call me that,” she told him. “You’re my brother.”
Jon cocked his head in question and his smile became ironic.
“You are,” Sansa insisted. “The rest doesn’t matter. Now tell me, the Lord Commander told me you’re a king. Again?”
Jon sighed. “It’s a long story.”
They took a seat at the table in the solar in the King’s Tower and he told her the rest of it while Sansa rubbed her hands and tried to get used to the cold. She didn’t much like the Wall, least of all the weather, but she was glad to see Jon thrived in it. He deserved to be happy, more than anyone she knew.
In the end, took a cup of mulled wine to get her fingers moving normally again, and by then Jon had finished his tale.
“But enough about me,” he concluded. “How are you?”
“Well, as you can see.”
Jon raised an eyebrow in question.
“I am,” she insisted. “And so is the North.”
“I wasn’t worried about the North,” he said. “I’m sure you’re handling it better than I could. You were raised to be a queen. That was what your mother always wanted for you. I’m asking how you are. My sister. Sansa.”
For a good long while, she stared into the flames, wondering what to say.
“Alone,” she finally muttered, and she saw Jon stiffen out of the corner of her eye.
“Ah. You won’t be forever,” Jon promised. “These things take time.”
“I know,” she said, even if she didn’t. She didn’t know how to make friends anymore. Cersei and Petyr had seen to that. Trust no longer came easily to her.
“If it helps, we can make this a regular thing,” Jon suggested. “We meet here, once a year, and talk about the relationship between the North and the free folk. It’s not much, but I’m closer than Bran is. And Arya, wherever she has gone—”
“She sends her love, by the way,” Sansa told him, and they shared a fond but exasperated look that only their sister could conjure.
“I wish I could write more often, too, but we don’t have ravens or maesters to keep them at Hardhome. And not much paper, truth be told.”
Jon smiled and shrugged at his own predicament, but in Sansa’s head, the wheels began to turn.
“I’m sure that can be changed,” she told him. “With the right letters to the right people, we’ll find a maester for you yet.”
Jon looked skeptical, but Sansa was determined. If she could see her brother but once a year, at least she’d have his letters.
Fin