Playing the Game (Game of Thrones)

Finally, Sansa’s shoulder slump and she lets out a very soft breath. Pulling herself from his grasp, she nevertheless tilts her head in agreement.
 
“Indeed, Your Grace. Let us retire inside.”
 
And with that, they make their way indoors. Jon’s retinue split off, for the most part, but when Daenerys moves to step away as well, Jon catches her hand in his own and tugs her to his side, bringing her with him as they follow Sansa to her father’s old office, which from the look of things, has become the Lady of Winterfell’s War Room.
 
Admittedly, Jon is almost glad to be a god as he steps back into the office. The last time he’d been here, Eddard Stark had been telling him that he wasn’t going to be allowed to stay. That his actions with Jeyne Poole were enough to get him thrown out on the basis of Catelyn Stark’s dislike of him alone. Now… now both the previous Lord and Lady Stark were dead, one killed down in King’s Landing and the other slain at the Twins alongside her eldest son.
 
As much as Jon disliked Catelyn Stark for disliking him in turn for no other reason that she thought he was her husband’s bastard, he could acknowledge that she hadn’t deserved to die like she had. Robb definitely hadn’t deserved to die like that.
 
Regardless, leaning into his divinity allows Jon to… accept the return to this room with more aplomb than he otherwise would have. So much had changed, not just in the time that he’d been away, but also in the room itself. And the people who were now in it… they’d changed too. He, Daenerys, and Sansa… none of the three of them were anything like they once were, all that time ago.
 
When Sansa turns to regard him and sees he’s brought along Daenerys, Jon preempts any caustic words on the part of the red head by stepping forward and introducing the two women.
 
“Sansa, this is Daenerys… mother of my firstborn, and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”
 
Stiffening up, Sansa’s nostrils flare as she bows her head respectfully towards Daenerys.
 
“A pleasure, Your Grace.”

And then she looks to him and her lips thin.
 
“However… I must correct you on one matter. There is another child. A Snow.”
 
Jon jolts, blinking as he finds himself caught off guard for the first time since becoming divinity made manifest. He didn’t… no, he did know. He just hadn’t thought about it. Hadn’t realized. A foolish oversight on his part, but, well, he hadn’t felt her…
 
“Jeyne…”
 
… And he still didn’t feel her. Sansa bows her head and swallows thickly, nodding.
 
“I’ve raised her daughter as a member of the household. Jeyne… Jeyne didn’t survive the Boltons and their depravations, but I kept her daughter safe. I kept YOUR daughter safe. She’s seen a few years now…”
 
Sansa trails off, and from the way her eyes dart to Daenerys, she’s clearly wondering how his Queen will react to all of this. Jon wonders as well for all of a moment before knowing as easily as breathing. Daenerys is no Catelyn Stark. Reaching out to him, hugging his arm, the Targaryen woman smiles.
 
“Oh, but that’s wonderful. We must be allowed to meet her. And… if it’s alright, we should take her in, don’t you think Jon?”
 
The woman who had pushed for him to impregnate all of his concubines after finding out that Bellegere was doing everything in her power to avoid stepping on her toes wouldn’t care that Jon had had a child long before he’d met her. Of course, this completely surprises Sansa, catching her off guard as she blinks owlishly. Jon just smiles and shrugs when she looks to him for confirmation.
 
“Natural born children are treated very differently in Essos than they are Westeros. We’ll most definitely want to take the girl with us whenever we end up leaving… but first, I’m here to help Sansa. Please, tell me of your woes. You mentioned enemies to the North?”
 
Once again, the cracks in the red head he’d grown up with shine through. Sansa Stark has grown from a fragile and altogether soft girl into a hard, very brittle woman. She juts out her chin and does her best to hide the wobble of her lower lip, even as she slowly lowers herself into a chair and nods, clutching at the edge of her father’s desk, which even with her impressive fur dress, feels too big for her.
 
“Yes.”
 
Her tone is clipped but betrays a tenor of nervousness… of want and desire, and of clear jealousy and envy. She hides it well, but Jon is who he is. He is WHAT he is too. He sees through her, even as Sansa begins to explain.
 

“The North… the North is weaker than it’s ever been before. We’ve suffered greatly in the time that you’ve been gallivanting across Essos, Jon.”
 
Daenerys doesn’t like that, he can tell, but Jon places a hand on the small of his Queen’s back and sends her calming, soothing sensations to settle her down before Sansa can notice.
 
“I’ve heard some of what’s happened in Westeros, and some of what’s happened to the North and to you. But not all of it. Still, I’m sorry you had to suffer, Sansa.”
 
Jaw set, nostrils flaring, Sansa trembles for just a moment before catching herself.
 
“The Boltons thought they’d won. But the North never forgets. And a lone wolf backed into a corner will always strike out. I killed them, Jon. I killed them all. Poison.”
 
Daenerys gasps, but Jon is just nodding along, having already suspected as much. Sansa Stark had taken back her agency. The Lady of Winterfell had risen. Her bid for freedom, even through an underhanded tactic like poison, still resonated with him deeply. He was, after all, a God of Freedom above all else.
 
“You did what had to be done, Sansa. The Boltons and Freys tried to decapitate our family. So, you did the same to theirs in turn. An eye for an eye.”
 
Sansa jerks her head up and down in a nod, even as she works her jaw.
 
“I just wish I could have taken revenge on the Freys as well. For mother, for Robb. But like I said, the North is weak enough as it is… and I fear that we will be conquered any day now and there will be nothing I can do to… to stop it.”
 
Her voice hitches and takes on a wobbly tone as she professes some truth to him, letting her guard down even if just a little. Jon resists the urge to stride forward and take her in his arms right then and there, knowing she would not respond well. She has to come to him for this to work. Still, Jon lets his face soften, lets his eyes fill with sympathy.
 
“You have a heavy weight on your shoulders, Sansa. From what I can tell, you’ve been carrying it well if nothing else.”
 
That gets the first smile from the icy Lady of Winterfell that he’s seen since he arrived. It’s a small thing, and gone as quickly as it comes, but it’s a smile all the same.
 
“Thank you. And with your arrival… perhaps we’re saved.”
 
She shrugs her shoulders, acting almost unconcerned as she leans back in their father’s old chair. She looks at him expectantly, as if she thinks he’s going to immediately shoot her down, that he’s going to deny her what she needs. She’s so very ready to be proven a fool again, so ready to be betrayed and backstabbed once more. But Jon just steps forward and nods, standing before their father’s desk.
 
“I won’t let any more harm come to you or the North, Sansa. You have my word.”
 
So prepared for rejection, so ready for betrayal, Sansa Stark looks shocked speechless at his heartfelt declaration of intent. As she stares at him, surprised, Daenerys steps up beside him and gives her own two coppers.
 
“Jon has never let anything stand between him and doing the right there before, Sansa. I’m sure you know him fairly well, but you should know… he cut across the coast of Essos to save me from a pair of monsters, one of which was a savage warlord and the other my own brother. He then took on the whole of Essos over its institutionalized slavery, before plumbing the depths of Valyria itself. He is… capable of so much. You don’t have to worry anymore, now that he’s here.”
 
Looking between them, it’s clear Sansa doesn’t even know what to say in the face of… well, all of that. Giving her an encouraging smile, Jon gently coaxes more out of her.
 
“What is the threat to the North, Sansa? The Wildlings?”
 
Jerking her head up and down, she lets out a low shuddering breath before finally speaking again.
 
“The Free Folk, or so they’re demanding we call them. And truth be told, we can’t exactly gainsay them at this point. They hold the Wall, every last bit of it. The Night’s Watch is defunct as far as we can tell, with every brother either dead or turncoat. Our scouts say that the Free Folk occupying the wall number in the tens of thousands… there might be over a hundred thousand of them. And though the vast majority seem intent on fortifying the Wall for some reason, there has been plenty of spillage, raids on lands as far south as Last Hearth.”
 
As she speaks, she leans forward again, tapping the map of the North that lays out on their father’s death at the appropriate places when she mentions them. Jon stares down at it, forced to believe her. Not just because he trusts Sansa wholeheartedly, but because reaching out… he can feel them.
 
A hundred thousand isn’t a bad estimate. All those little lights, many of them packed onto the Wall all along it, while at the same time spilling into the North with some even settling on the Gift in the meantime. Its even easier to see all those little lights with his divine senses because beyond them… beyond them is nothing but Darkness.
 
“… You said they’re demanding that you call them Free Folk. Does that mean you’ve been in contact with them? Non-violent contact?”
 
Nodding again, Sansa sighs.
 
“Yes, they sent… envoys. As embarrassing as it is, they were the ones who told us that the Wall had fallen to them in the first place. With how weak the North has become, with how in disarray everything is, we likely wouldn’t have known until they were right on top of us, if they had wanted to invade. But I can only imagine they’re holding off to shore up their food stores before marching on us. Or whatever it is they do. I can’t imagine they’ll be happy with just the Wall, not when they can have all of that and more.”
 
Frowning, staring down at the map with his actual eyes while peering North with his divine senses, Jon… shivers.
 
“What have they said about their intentions? Why did they take the Wall in the first place? Why do they fortify it?”
 
Groaning, Sansa rests a hand on her face.
 
“They’re claiming that they’re running from something. That the dead rise again, if you can believe it. Obviously, it’s all lies. They’re trying to lull us into a false sense of security, I imagine. Not that it’s even all that necessary, given how much has been lost to the wars in the South at this point. The North is theirs for the taking whenever they finally decide they want it. We’ll fight, of course, but… well, until you arrived, I didn’t have much hope.”
 
Jon nods slowly, taking all of this in. Both Sansa’s information… and the information he was now privy to that she wasn’t.
 
“… Indeed. My armies should present a bulwark against further Free Folk aggression. I can start moving them into position in the coming weeks, and once we’ve fortified Last Hearth, we can push onto the Gift. However, it might be a good idea to hear the Free Folk out. If it is a lie, it’s an outlandish one. But if it’s true…”
 
Sansa scoffs at that, abruptly standing from her father’s chair and crossing her arms over her chest as she looks away.
 
“Really? You’re seriously entertaining the thought that the dead might be pushing the Free Folk down past the Wall?”
 
Daenerys speaks up here, her tone soft and comforting.
 
“Sansa… Jon and I have seen much in our time on Essos… Jon more than me. He is not the same man you last met. He is… not a man at all anymore.”
 
Before Sansa can respond to his Queen’s confession, Jon proves it. He unveils a bit of his divinity, letting Sansa gaze upon a fraction of his True Self for half a moment before cutting it off again. His eyes glow with power, the room flashes with light… and then it’s gone. He’s half-expecting some sort of reaction from Westeros’ Gods, expecting the Seven to do something… but they remain as silent as they have since he showed up on their home turf.
 
Despite them blocking his gaze when he was back on Essos, now that he’s actually entered their realm, they’re suspiciously silent. Almost like the Red God back on Essos, hiding from him out of fear or something. Only, they should be much more powerful as a Pantheon then a single god, so what do they have to fear of just Jon?
 
Regardless, Sansa DOES react, her eyes widening as she slams back into the nearest wall, awestruck by the half-second view of his true self. Finally, the steely, icy red head shatters, choking sobs of emotion that could be positive or negative as she holds a hand to her mouth and gazes upon him as if seeing him in truth for the first time.
 
Jon offers her his arms… and Sansa all but leaps into them, crashing into his chest with great force as the Lady of Winterfell finally allows herself to break down. Jon smiles and holds her, comforting her even as she sobs into his chest, as she clings to him for the warmth and comfort that he is most able to provide.
 
However, he’s taken off guard a bit when her emotions suddenly take a turn. He sees it coming at least, but he’s still somewhat surprised when she suddenly pulls back from him, looks him in the eye… and then kisses him on the lips with amorous intent. Sansa Stark’s lips are soft and a bit salty from her tears, even as she plies his mouth with her own.
 
Daenerys is watching of course, but her smile makes it clear she’s perfectly okay with this… supportive of it even. Meanwhile, Jon is just now realizing how badly Sansa wants him, indeed, how badly she has wanted him. This… this goes back to Jeyne, doesn’t it? When Sansa witnessed the two of them together, her first instinct might have been to tell her mother… but afterwards, it was clear that the sight had affected her deeply.
 
Jon could give her what she wants. He could give her what she so desperately desires. But would it be what she needed? And… if he was going to give her this, would he do it with or without Daenerys’ help? One thing was for certain… Sansa needed him; he just wasn’t sure how to make sure they all came out of this intact.

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