Jon

The night air was sharp as daggers, burning his lungs with icy fire.

It was calling to him again.

At first it had been a vague whisper, veiled within the back of his mind ever since the bloody night Winterfell had been reclaimed.

Now, he heard voices in the dark hours of the night where he could find no sleep or rest. And every time he closed his eyes, however briefly, he could see it waiting for him. The ironwood door that led into the underbelly of Winterfell, where all her kin and Kings rested eternally. The winding, spiraling stone steps leading ever downward into the pitch black.

His oldest, most feared nightmare.

Jon could never quite make out what the whispers said. They rushed together like the whipping frozen winds of the keep itself. Secrets he had no right to know. Then why did they torment him? Was he to be the Mad King, as well as the Bastard King of Winterfell?

His very bones ached for his brother, Robb. Arya. Bran. Rickon.

His blood is on my hands.

So much blood on his hands. Jon closed his eyes, immune to the frigid cold that drenched the courtyard in icy stillness. The door was there. Perhaps it was his penance. A reminder that he was not supposed to be alive at all, that each breath he took was an affront to his family's memory. A dark seed of regret, always present within his heart took hold.

How he wished he hadn't survived the Watch. The battle. The urge to simply let go of everything, to drift into nothingness was more acute a pain than any scar or wound he bore. It was open, inflamed and raw. Nothing eased its potency.

Nothing, save…

Jon opened his eyes and the ironwood door disappeared. Awareness sparked to life within his veins, and he turned toward the soft, silent footfalls he hadn't heard approaching. Somehow, he knew she would be dressed in nothing more than a woolen robe, her feet clad in slippers, hand wrapped in Ghost's white fur. They neither of them felt the cold.

She stopped a few feet from him, Ghost sitting obediently by her feet. Jon met her gaze in the shadows.

"It is late," his voice was dry, grating. Uncouth. Yet he saw none of the disdainful impatience he had once glimpsed in her when they had been children. If anything, he saw her features, usually so guarded relax a little. He watched her pale hand surface from beneath her robes to stroke Ghost's head.

"It would seem I had a visitor again. I hadn't the heart to turn him away."

Jon felt his chapped lips crack a little in a smile, the first he'd given that day. It felt strange, like the echo of a song only half-remembered.

"He worries for you," he said softly.

Sansa knelt in the snow, her pale robes pooling like a patch of blue-grey moonlight around her. Jon watched silently as she took Ghost's huge head between her hands. The direwolf turned toward her, quiet and grave as she nuzzled her face into his neck. In that moment, Jon felt everything else fade away. His grief. His worries and guilt. His wish for the peace of death. His heart stirred, and it was only because he knew not to intrude that he stayed where he was, and did not approach her. Ever watchful, he waited patiently in the ice and snow and the silence.

"I miss her so much."

Jon caught the words, but said nothing. It was like this, between them. Confiding little shards of the last five years to each other. She had never spoken about Lady. When he had commanded Ghost to hold vigil outside her chambers at night, it had been because he knew she had needed the presence of a wolf again. He had only commanded Ghost to her side once; the direwolf had taken to seeking her out every night since then.

He heard Sansa sigh, a stream of white mist rising into the night air. He remained perfectly still, watching her as one would a wild doe caught in the open.

"She was so gentle," Sansa murmured, raising her head and gazing into Ghost's steady scarlet eyes. "So obedient. Trusting. She trusted anyone. She trusted me."

Jon didn't have to hear the words to know what she was thinking: and her blood is on my hands.

"She loved you," he spoke quietly. "That is why she trusted you. Loyalty—true loyalty—is borne from love. Devotion. Not fear. You honor her memory. That is something no one can take."

Sansa stood. "It is admirable," she said after a moment, gazing at him with an unguarded expression that made him move toward her, his footfalls heavy and crunching, the snow brittle like broken glass beneath his boots.

"What is?" he asked, curiously. Sansa's gaze did not waver. "The way you sound like him. Like father. Like a King."

Jon shifted his feet, his hands suddenly feeling unnatural, as though he didn't quite know what to do with them. A flush burned in his cheeks, stinging all the more in the cold air. Sansa's knowing smile was all-encompassing, and he found he couldn't look away. He didn't want to.

"Although eventually you will have to learn how to accept a compliment," she added dryly, and he realized with a rush that she was teasing him. The tension snapped. They both laughed, just as they had the night she had returned to him. The night they had basked in each others company, and she had drunk stale ale from his cup and asked him to forgive her their past. He still recalled the expression on her pale, bruised face when he had immediately replied that no forgiveness was needed. Sad. As though her soul had aged a century since their days at Winterfell.

"You always were a better pupil than I," he said, fondly remembering how she used to chide them all, especially Arya, when their attentions wandered from the septa's stern lectures. Sansa's smile vanished. "I was arrogant. I thought—" she began then faltered, her gaze dropping to her hands which were twisting together absently.

It took no effort for Jon to reach out and take her hands in his. They were like ice, whereas his burned, always warm with some internal flame. As though his blood was somehow hotter. It had been that way since he'd awoken to find himself half-naked, his chest and ribs marred with fatal red gashes. The one that stretched across his heart still stung, the slowest to heal.

He felt no pain now. Intently focused on her bowed head, Jon allowed the warmth from his hands to permeate the chill in hers.

"You're cold," he said, as gently and softly as he could manage.

"I feel nothing," she replied quickly. Too quickly. Jon sensed she was withdrawing from him, and though it hurt he didn't question why. He knew. Slowly he came to her side, folding her hands into the crook of his arm.

"Come. Neither of us can sleep. There is something we used to do at the Wall. When the night was blacker than pitch and none of us could see a bloody thing."

She raised her head, blue eyes lit with curiosity. Jon smiled down at her. He still regretted his rough speech, but he had stopped coming to expect the disapproving looks she always used to give him. Still, he would try and smooth the rough edges for her. She was all he had left. When she was near, the ironwood door did not haunt him.

"As long as it doesn't involve that ghastly swill they told you was ale," she said, suddenly wary. Jon watched with amusement as her eyes widened considerably at his answering grin. She tilted her chin into the air, an unspoken acceptance of his challenge.

With Ghost at their heels, they left the empty courtyard together.

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