Chapter 13: The Price of Power
The halls of Winterfell were silent, filled with the heavy air of mourning. Jon stood in the Great Hall, staring at the banners hanging above him, the direwolf of House Stark swaying gently in the cold breeze that slipped through the ancient stones. Winter had truly come, and with it, the bitter knowledge of the cost of victory. The battle was won, but the North was still fragile, fractured by years of war and betrayal.
Jon's thoughts were interrupted by the soft sound of footsteps approaching. He turned to see Sansa, her pale face drawn tight with exhaustion. She had been tirelessly working to organize the aftermath—speaking with the surviving lords, ensuring that the dead were given proper respect, and that the wounded were cared for. In many ways, she had taken on the role of a leader in Winterfell as naturally as breathing.
"Jon," she said quietly, her eyes scanning the empty hall before resting on him. "We need to talk."
He gestured for her to sit, and they both took seats at the long table that once hosted their family, the memories of happier times hanging over them like a shadow.
"What is it?" Jon asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
Sansa hesitated, her hands fidgeting with the fabric of her sleeves. "The Northern lords. They're growing restless. We've reclaimed Winterfell, but… they're divided. Some are still loyal to the Boltons, others are questioning whether we can truly lead the North."
Jon's jaw tightened. The victory had been hard-won, but the political landscape was still dangerous, filled with hidden enemies and those who would seek to exploit the chaos for their own gain. He had been raised at Winterfell, but as a bastard, not a true Stark. Even after all he had done, there were still those who doubted his place.
"I knew it wouldn't be easy," he said, running a hand through his hair. "But what do they expect? I bled for this. We all did."
"It's not just that," Sansa said, her voice soft but firm. "They're talking about the future. About who will lead the North. Some of the houses… they're whispering that we need a Stark on the throne."
Jon frowned, his confusion evident. "But I am a Stark."
"To some of them, you're not," Sansa replied gently, though the words were a dagger to Jon's heart. "You're a Snow. And though you've proven yourself in battle, there are those who will never see you as anything more than Ned Stark's bastard."
The weight of her words settled over Jon like a heavy cloak, dragging him down into a spiral of doubt. He had always known that his lineage would be a point of contention, but after everything he had sacrificed for the North, the idea that it might not be enough was crushing.
"And what do you suggest?" Jon asked, his tone edged with frustration. "What do they want me to do? Step aside?"
Sansa looked at him with sympathy, but there was also a steely determination in her eyes. "No. But we need to be smart about this. The North is more than just a battlefield. It's politics, alliances, and tradition. The lords want stability, and they want to be sure that Winterfell is in the hands of someone they can trust. Someone with Stark blood."
Jon stared at her, his chest tightening. "Are you saying I'm not enough?"
Sansa shook her head quickly, her hand reaching out to touch his. "No, Jon. You've done more than enough. You've led us through the worst of it, and no one can question your courage. But the lords will question your right to rule. That's just the truth."
Jon leaned back in his chair, his mind racing. He had fought for this, bled for it. He had reclaimed Winterfell, defeated Ramsay, and yet the weight of his illegitimacy still hung over him like a curse. Was there no end to it? No moment of peace where he could finally just be?
"What do you think I should do?" Jon asked after a long silence, his voice thick with weariness.
Sansa took a deep breath, her blue eyes meeting his. "We need to make a public stand. Together. You and me, united as Starks. I may not be a warrior like you, but I understand the politics of this. We need to show the lords that we are the North, that we will stand together and lead them into the future."
Jon studied her face, seeing the wisdom in her words. Sansa had grown into a formidable woman—no longer the naive girl who dreamed of knights and princes, but someone who had survived the horrors of King's Landing, the cruelty of the Boltons, and come out stronger for it. She understood the game of thrones in a way that Jon never had.
He nodded slowly. "You're right. We need to be united."
Sansa smiled faintly, though there was still tension in her eyes. "And there's something else. The lords… they want a king."
Jon froze, the words hanging in the air like a thunderclap. A king? The idea seemed absurd. He had never wanted power, never craved the throne. He had been thrust into leadership by necessity, not by ambition.
"A king?" he repeated, his voice laced with disbelief. "Why me? I'm no king."
"You're a Stark," Sansa replied firmly. "Or close enough. You've proven yourself in battle, you've earned the loyalty of the Free Folk, and you've reclaimed Winterfell. They see you as a leader, Jon. They want someone who can unite the North, someone who can protect them in the wars to come."
Jon shook his head, the weight of it all pressing down on him. "I never wanted this."
Sansa's expression softened. "I know. But it's not about what you want. It's about what the North needs. They need someone to rally behind, someone they trust to lead them into the future."
Jon stood, pacing the length of the hall as his mind raced. He had spent so much of his life fighting against his own illegitimacy, his own sense of not belonging. And now, here he was, being asked to become something he had never imagined.
"A king," he muttered, the word feeling foreign on his tongue.
Sansa rose from her seat, her gaze steady. "You don't have to decide now. But think about it, Jon. The North is looking to you. If you refuse, they'll look elsewhere. And who knows where that will lead."
Jon stopped pacing, his hand resting on the back of his chair. He looked at Sansa, at the woman his sister had become, and he realized that she was right. The North needed a leader, someone strong enough to guide them through the long winter ahead. And whether he wanted it or not, the mantle of leadership had fallen to him.
But even as he considered the possibility, doubts gnawed at him. Was he truly ready for this? Could he bear the weight of a crown, the expectations of the North? And what of the looming threat beyond the Wall—the White Walkers, the army of the dead? How could he focus on ruling when the real enemy was still out there, waiting?
"I'll think about it," Jon said at last, his voice low and uncertain.
Sansa nodded, though there was a flicker of relief in her eyes. "That's all I ask."
As she turned to leave, Jon's mind continued to race. The battle for Winterfell was over, but a new battle was just beginning. The battle for the soul of the North, for its future. And Jon wasn't sure he was ready for it.
But ready or not, it was coming.
And winter was here.