Chapter Text
i.
Jon willed himself not to look down where her naked body shivered slightly. She knew he was trying to search in her eyes the little Sansa who wished for nothing more than to be in a song, to fall in love, to be the rose of Winterfell, and positively not to lose her clothing in front of her bastard brother. He was not going to find her. There were only little pieces left of that girl and a much greater part of what she once saw in Cersei: the rage of a woman who is tired of being undermined.
"Sansa--"
"Jon, look at me."
He didn't, not immediately. His hands curled into fists, grimacing slightly, but then his eyes fell. She knew by heart what he was going to find―the bite marks, the cuts around her breasts, arms, and belly, the skin deformed by fire in her hips, her thighs, her very core.
“I have the body of a woman, but the scars of a man. I will not be wed to some lord so he can cast me aside in my own home, Jon. Not again.”
ii.
Sansa remembers the soreness in her knees as she begged Joffrey to have mercy and pardon her father. Cercei's sweet and concerned voice, asking if she had some business for the king and the council, had given her the courage to do so. Hope fueled her heart beatings when Joffrey silenced maestre Pycelle because he wanted to hear what she had to say.
Oh, how stupid she had been.
A stupid little girl with her stupid dreams.
When her father was sentenced to die, Sansa had screamed and wailed, desperately trying to end the nightmare that was unfolding beneath her feet. The lone wolf was powerless under the gaze of the lions. She found herself terribly alone, scared, and broken.
As the sword was lifted into the air, her throat constricted with anguish and her eyes shut tightly, but she never ceased to beg them to stop. Even when night came, with the moon shining inside a room that was not her own, so far away from anyone whom she could trust, she did not stop begging. Sansa pleaded to the gods, the old and the new ones, to please, please, turn back time and take her pain away.
They did not listen to her ―and them hardly ever would―, for when the morning came, she had still been alive while her father had not.
iii.
How long do I have to look, she had questioned Joffrey. He responded by making his guard slap both her cheeks with such a force that it left her jaw aching throughout the day. Still, she hadn't shed a tear, not in front of him. He was undeserving of the satisfaction it would have surely given him, much less when her father's head rotted as one of his trophies―he had taken enough of her already.
Sansa wanted him dead, a feeling that had been completely foreign in her thirteenth years of life until then. She had walked the steps in his direction, thinking of nothing else but the need to rid this world of him. It startled her how easy it became to loathe him and everything he was, including his mother, and this filthy southern land.
If it had not been for Ser Clegane, who prevented her from following her desires, she would have succeeded. His actions not only had saved her life but also a part of her innocence.
On that day, Sansa understood that she had to learn to lie in order to survive because she was not brave enough to kill herself or another human being. Not yet, at least.
iv.
The weakness that overcame her when Joffrey punished her for Robb’s rebellion, had pained her even more than Ser Meryn's blow to her stomach or the ardor of the cut on the back of her legs that followed. She had despised finding herself once again begging in her knees to such a wicked creature for a life she wasn't even sure she truly wanted.
As they had torn apart her dress, humiliating her, she thought that she should have done it, she should have killed herself and not let him, and those vultures from the court, to see her and treat her like this.
Unfortunately, it has always been a human instinct to do quite the contrary―to yearn for survival, and Sansa was no different.
Tyrion Lannister's gallantries meant nothing to her, even if he had been the only person to show her some sympathy since her father's death. That is, after Shae, of course. Despite this, his words had given her some kind of comfort, because she knew now that to win them in their own game, she only needed to survive. She was starting to learn how.
v.
She remembers standing by the shore at Myrcella Baratheon's departure to Dorne. She had felt sympathy, for she knew what it meant to be kept away from her home and her kin. Still, the knowledge that Cersei Lannister's cold heart had broken into a thousand pieces, thrilled her far more than what she cared to admit. Of course, the queen expressions hadn't betrayed anything, her face always a façade of pride and mighty, but her eyes had glistened with sorrow and longing. Sansa had been happy for Cersei’s pain in the same amount that she wished for Catelyn Stark's warm embrace.
The feeling hadn’t last, replaced by the sheer terror she felt when she found herself running away from the people of King's Landing and its starving rage. It was the result of Joffrey’s war and stupidity.
The blow to her cheek that the scoundrel gave her hadn’t hurt enough because all she had feared was the disgrace it would come to her if he got between her legs. They had laughed, holding each of her ankles as one of them stripped, readying himself to rape her. They didn’t, not physically, The Hound saved her from that, but they had done something to her soul that she thought it would never heal.
It was the same feeling that washed over her as the sun rays crept into her nightmares and woke her up to the knowledge that she was now able to bear Joffrey’s children. Sansa knew he was worse than those men.
Only then did she understood what it meant being a woman in a land where cruel men could decide over her body. She never forgot what Cersei told her that same night: the more people you love, the weaker you are. She knew now there were no fairytales in real life.
vi.
Sansa had been brave when The Hound came to her bedroom the night Stannis Baratheon raged war outside the castle. She had been brave when she tried to strip in front of Tyrion Lannister after they made her marry him, and she had survived the pain caused by her brother and her mother's death soon after. She had been brave too when she ran away as Joffrey choked with poison at his own wedding. All those moments had given her a false sense of power, so she lied about her aunt Lysa's death, feeling tired of being threatened by others, and as she stood within the walls of Winterfell and walked the path to the Godswood, all dressed in white, Sansa thought she had the right cards to play.
She was, after all, the last Stark alive and very far away from Cersei's grasps.
vii.
Her time with Joffrey had not been for anything and one would have to be blind not to see the truth behind that smile and the shine in those eyes. That Ramsay Bolton was a wicked man, or at least that some part of him was awfully and terribly sinister, was an understatement. But she had been willing to have him in her bed chambers until she gave him a son if only it meant to regain Winterfell and be home again.
She had even dared to hope that Ramsay would be good to her, maybe they would grow fond of each other, learn to respect each other, and eventually, he would've given her the place she was born to take as the Lady of Winterfell.
Without so much as a hesitation, she had ignored the things Ramsay had done to Theon. They should have been enough to realize that he was never going to be a good husband, but she had wanted to make him suffer for what he had done to her brothers. She should’ve known to fear a man capable of destroying another one like Ramsay had done to Theon.
Suffering, what a conspicuous word. She had thought she had suffered at King's Landing, always so full of terror because of Joffrey and Cersei. The nightmares had drawn her almost to insanity, watching every night her father's eyes while she begged him to lie, to please beg for mercy and her brother's head replaced with his wolf's, and her mother's body, white as a sheet, at the bottom of a river. But she doubted it could be compared to Ramsay fucking her raw.
He would hit her when she grew tired of screaming in pain, commanding her to keep going as it was music to his ears. He would undress her completely and burn her when she tried to struggle, leaving her limp as he pushed different objects inside of her, always careful, claiming he was eager to have her full of his children.
He hurts me every night, she had told Theon, but that did not even cover what he did to her. He had hit her, beat her, spit on her, cut her, burned her, bitten her, raped her over and over, with his own body and other things too, enjoying her suffering and pleads. He had tortured her and then left to enjoy his sleep, satisfied with himself night after night.
In the end, despite the fear he must have felt, the boy her father had raised was the one to save her. Sansa would always remember the feel of Theon's hand holding hers.
viii.
She had replied to lady Lyanna Mormont that she did what she had to do to survive but that she never stopped being a Stark. No one had the right to judge her and neither did they could take away what was hers―her name and the ones that came before her.
In a way, despite every part she had lost, Sansa knew she had never stopped being herself: a lady of Winterfell, fair, feminine, always careful with her attire and her hair, just like her mother taught her, but now she was also strong in mind and soul. She was as strong as any man and even more.
If Ramsay wins, I'm not going back there alive, she had told Jon and she had known this time she would be true to her own words. She saw fear in his eyes, pity, I'll protect you, I promise. He knew nothing. No one can protect me, no one can protect anyone.
Jon hadn't listened, so she did what she had to do. She had decided she was going to save him and bring them both back to Winterfell, even if it meant having a snake in her home.
As she had walked away, listening to Ramsay's hounds eating him alive, she thought about how different it felt.
She had turned from porcelain to ivory, to steel.
ix.
The Queen of Dragons was summoning him and they both knew why: the war in the South was to come. Even if he didn't want to leave, there was nothing he could do for his honor was always first. She suspected his love for the queen herself had something to do as well.
In the rush of a moment, Jon had suggested for her to take a husband and rule the North. Bran was not Bran anymore, he had other things in his mind, and Arya was a free soul, she was never going to do what it was expected of her, preferring much to fight her way through life.
The King in the North must always be in the North, he had said, as if that was reason enough for her to relent. She knew those words came from the lords of the North who wanted a King and Jon was not enough anymore, he had made a mistake by bending the knee to Daenerys. Still, she knew he had only considered the proposal so that she could be safe by a man's side. A good man he would deem worthy before leaving. She wishes he hadn't promised to protect her.
There are no heroes in real life. Here, the monsters always win. She hoped Jon's fear for her didn't turn him into one.
“I have the body of a woman, but the scars of a man. I will not be wed to some lord so he can cast me aside in my own home, Jon. Not again.”
When he finished regarding her, he walked the distance between them. Her tremors had increased, but she didn't know if it was due to the cold in the room or because of her rage. He picked up the cloak that pooled around her feet and covered her naked body with it, tenderly kissing her forehead. He was trembling too, but she doubted his reasons. She couldn't read him at the moment, not with her mind so adrift.
His arms surrounded her as carefully as he could, waiting for her to push him away. When she didn't, he held her with a strength that she only remembered present in the embrace of her father. She wanted to cry, but there were no more tears left in her.
“You won’t. Never again. I will protect you, Sansa.”
She wanted to believe in him. He had almost perished trying to keep them all safe from the While Walkers. No one can protect anyone.
She melted against him slowly, needing to believe in him if just for those seconds. She smelled the leather of his clothing, felt his calloused fingers against her left cheek, his beard tickled her right as she nuzzled against him. She wished life had been different, that she had been different.
Jon deserved better and so did she.
x.
Maybe in another life, she would have turned her face to touch his lips with her own. They had been brothers once, but time had changed them beyond repair and he had become her grates strength. So her foolish heart had hoped once more.
Maybe she would've let her heart beat as fast as it was doing now, relishing in the touch of a man who truly cared about her. Maybe, in that other life, she would have been lucky enough to be wed to him, a man who had seen how intelligent she was, who tried to listen to her ―though sometimes unsuccessfully―, who respected her and cherished her.
But not in this life. She was never going to be that stupid little girl who hoped ever again.
He walked away, leaving her to dress again, to be what she had to be: the Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North.