A/N: This is a Jonsa fic. If that kind of thing doesn't butter your toast, there's no need to read further. This story is canon compliant and occurs about 10 years after the events of Season 8, Ep 6. Rating is for future chapters. The POV will switch between Jon and Sansa.

This is also my first time writing fanfiction in many years, so please bear that in mind. I may be a little rusty. I'm a teacher on summer break, so I hope to have this finished by August. Updates should be regular.

Please review!

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Jon

Jon Snow starts awake, breathing in cold air so deeply that it makes his chest hurt. Although it has been years since he was stabbed by his traitorous brothers of the Night's Watch, at times Jon finds himself suddenly awoken by his own gasping breaths, as if death has discovered him again in the darkness of his sleep and has decided to drag his body back under. His lungs burn and his heart jumps as they remember their familiar patterns. This doesn't happen often, but always seems to predestine a turn in Jon's path. It was an abruptly spinning compass at times when he believed himself following true north, and it always left him feeling unnerved. If only he'd had this foresight years ago, when he'd first left Winterfell for Dragonstone...

A crow screams in the distance, breaking Jon from his thoughts. He looks at his surroundings; the fire had banked while he slept. Trees creak in the wind and fresh snow glitters as the sun rises for the new day. Ghost is huddled up next to him, breathing heavily. Spring had finally returned to Westeros with the demise of the Night King, but this far North the nights could still be harsh and the ground was often still covered in snow. Jon could feel the bitter wind in his bones, and sometimes he thought maybe he was made of it; maybe he'd been knit together with ice and stone. Maybe he was a wight. Or a walker. Sometimes he thought the numb under his skin wasn't just from the cold.

Jon heads back home after many weeks in the wilderness. The surviving free folk clan had made a home several miles north of the broken wall, and named Tormund Giantsbane King-Beyond-The-Wall. Battered and weary though they were, the free folk lived hundreds of years there before, and soon they rebuilt their lives on the wild and barren land. Tormund's first action as king had been to appoint Jon as Head of the Council of Former Crows, of which he was the sole member. Tormund had laughed heartily at his own good-natured jibe, but he was slightly surprised when Jon actually accepted. As the "Head Crow" he had many duties, but the one he performed now was his preferred.

The Land of Always Winter had many secrets, and Jon would often go on these scouting trips hoping to discover something, anything out there. Each time he went farther, and each time he thought he could feel more of himself being lost to the bleak horizon.

He was entirely too indifferent to that idea.

Out there he wasn't the Queenslayer, or Aegon Targaryen, or even Jon Snow. Out there he was just a body breathing in and out over and over, a small dark spot against the white expanse.

Tormund never wanted him to go alone, but he'd acquiesced his friend's request as long as Jon took Ghost with him. So the pair trekked across the frozen land together, eventually returning home with few stories and even fewer accolades. Often he'd slip back into his tent at night with nary a free folk the wiser. Jon had learned how to be quiet, and they had become much more lax with their security since the fall of the Night King and his army of the dead. The rest of Westeros was content to leave the Wildlings to their frozen north.

Sometimes Tormund receives ravens with news from the Queen in the North and King of Westeros. At first they were addressed to Jon himself, but when no ravens returned with a reply, the sender stopped penning their messages to him. Jon never reads the missives, but he hears talk. The Six Kingdoms are doing well. Bran the Broken is a good king. The North is prosperous under its queen's reign.

Jon can't be part of that life anymore. It was better for everyone if he faded into nothing; he couldn't hurt anyone else that way.

Jon and Ghost return to the free folk village soon after daybreak. A sentinel on the outskirts raises his hand to acknowledge Jon as they pass. He can hear the bustle of the free folk as they start rousing from their beds for the day. Babies are crying. Women are shouting at their mates. Fires are being stoked by bleary eyed men. As he approaches his own tent ready to shake off some of his traveling gear and heavy furs, Jon hears a familiar voice calling him.

"'Ay, Head Crow! Have ye' finally returned? Did ye' get tired of ye' balls being frozen to the side of yer leg?" Jon smirks a little. No matter his title or circumstance, nothing would stop King Tormund Giantsbane from making a raucous joke for all and sundry to hear. Sometimes Jon is jealous of his friend's ability to be so full of mirth and joy. He wishes he could laugh with the same abandon and feeling.

Jon turns and is struck by surprise at who is walking quietly behind the King-Beyond-the Wall. Her blonde hair is short-cropped, and falls somewhat severely against a face with an expression that is equal parts stern and curious. She walks a little stiffly due to her armor, and as she nears Jon can see that her eyes are searching his face. Despite the years that have passed, Jon sees that she recognizes him instantly.

Tormund breaks the silence. "I see the way yer looking at my big lady, Crow. Don't get any ideas, she's all mine." He laughs loudly and Ser Brienne of Tarth, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, narrows her eyes at him.

"As I have said many times, Tormund Giantsbane, please refrain from any inappropriate suggestions. I have been commanded to this...place for one particular purpose, and I will thank you to remember your manners." Tormund laughs again and Brienne turns to Jon. "Jon Snow, I would like a moment to discuss a matter of great importance with you. A matter that involves King Bran and your future."

Jon examines Brienne for a moment, wondering at the purpose she hinted at. "I'm sorry you have traveled this far, my lady, but I am no longer part of that realm of men. I disobeyed my orders and refused my place in the Night's Watch. King Bran does not rule here."

Brienne looks uncomfortable. As Commander of the Kingsguard, she likely doesn't have to deal with much argument at her requests, but Jon surmises that she isn't one to let the position go to her head. No, Ser Brienne of Tarth is uncomfortable because she takes pride in doing the right and honorable thing, and she isn't sure if what she is about to say or do is the right or honorable thing. "Jon Snow, King Bran may not be your king-" She grimaces as she says this. "-but, when you were sentenced to the Night's Watch for your crimes against Daenerys Targaryen, that was under King Bran's reign. Although this was under duress and at great-"

Jon interrupts her suddenly. "My lady, Ser Brienne, Lord Commander...Lady Commander? I apologize, I don't know what you'd prefer to be called. Regardless, I don't think you understand. I don't mean to hear anymore of this. I've just returned from a very long scouting trip, and I have business to be sorted. Now, if you'll excuse me." Jon turns abruptly, enters his tent, and starts shrugging off his furs.

Outside he hears Tormund mollifying the knight and leading her away with promises of the best goat's milk in the North, all too happy to have the statuesque woman to himself. Jon sets to the task of sorting his gear, refusing to imagine what his cousin Bran could want with him. Though much time has passed since he was involved in the politics of Westeros, Jon knows that it isn't customary for the Commander of the Kingsguard to leave King's Landing. He doesn't allow himself to think, or to hope, or to wonder what this visit could mean for the people he once loved. Arya...Bran…Sansa...

When Brienne spoke Daenerys' name, it was the first time he'd heard it out loud in many years. It was a punch to Jon's gut. He'd had nothing but time to pour over every choice and decision he'd made that lead to him putting a knife in the woman he thought he loved. What began as anguish and soul-crushing weariness slowly turned to anger and quiet shame over the years. Anger for allowing his feelings to blind him the truth of who she was, and shame for allowing his family to nearly be destroyed because of it. The free folk never spoke of what happened beyond the wall. Sometimes he thought that maybe it was all just a fever dream, a thing born of his nightmares and suffering.

The North was everything that Daenerys Targaryen wasn't. There was little there to remind him of her, and eventually he allowed himself to stop hearing the sound of people crying out as they were burnt alive, and the smell of flesh as it melted from their bones. Eventually he stopped remembering. Eventually he could only focus on the sound of snow crunching beneath his feet and the smell of pine trees and dirt. Eventually he felt nothing at all.

As he lay down in his tent that night, Jon remembers how he'd awoken that morning, with the sudden jolt of his body refusing to succumb again to death. It was an omen. Here was Brienne of Tarth, a shadow of his past returning to remind him of everything he'd worked so hard to forget.

Jon stared at the roof of his tent and willed himself not to think. Not about Arya travelling across the world searching for belonging and adventure, or Bran on his throne and ruling all of Westeros from a gilded chair.

Jon definitely did not think about Sansa with her hair kissed by fire, or the way she'd looked at him when they'd last said goodbye. Jon couldn't afford to think about that.

He closes his eyes and tries to sleep, but in the darkness the crows are screaming.