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Chapter Twenty-Seven: Before the Storm
The White Harbor market was unlike anything Sansa Stark had ever seen.
It was alive with color and sound, filled with merchants calling out their wares and eager buyers haggling for the best price. Stalls overflowed with silks from Pentos, glass from Myr, perfumes from Volantis, rare spices from the east, and jewels that shimmered like stars. The scent of roasted meats and freshly baked bread drifted through the crisp morning air, mixing with the salty breeze from the harbor.
Sansa felt as though she had stepped into one of the songs Old Nan used to tell—of great cities beyond the sea, where lords and ladies walked among treasures from every corner of the world.
She clung to her mother's side as Lady Catelyn moved through the crowd with quiet grace. Beside them, Wynafryd Manderly, the eldest granddaughter of Lord Wyman, smiled brightly as she led them through the stalls, eager to show off the wonders of her home.
Behind them, Jory Cassel and two Manderly guards formed a protective escort. Jon Snow walked slightly apart, his dark cloak draped over his shoulders, one hand resting near the hilt of his sword.
Sansa sighed softly.
Why is he suddenly acting as if danger lurks behind every corner?
They were in White Harbor. The North was loyal. No one would dare attack a Stark here.
She let her mind drift as they walked, admiring the elegant dresses being sold at one of the stalls. She had been pestering her mother about a new gown for the upcoming feasts at New Castle, something fit for the daughter of Winterfell.
But her thoughts faltered when she caught Wynafryd sneaking glances at Jon.
Her cheeks were flushed pink, and every now and then, her gaze would dart toward him before she quickly looked away.
Sansa was not surprised.
Jon had always been handsome, but now, at fifteen, he was growing into something more. He already stood a head taller than Robb, with broad shoulders and the lean, powerful frame of a warrior. His curls were thick and dark, always a little messy, framing his sharp features. His grey eyes—so much like their father's—held an intensity that drew people in.
Sansa had seen the way the serving girls in Winterfell looked at him, giggling when he passed. She had even overheard them whispering about him in the kitchens.
Even now, as they moved through the market, she noticed young women sneaking glances at Jon, whispering behind their hands.
Her mother's gods—the Seven—did not speak kindly of bastards, but Sansa was a northerner, first and foremost.
And in the North according to her Aunt Dacey, Starks and Snows of Stark blood had lived together in Winterfell for generations.
Even so, she had been raised to heed her mother's words, so she kept her distance from Jon.
Yet, deep down, she envied him.
She envied the way Robb, Arya, and Bran treated him like a true brother, the way they ran through Winterfell's halls, wrestling, laughing, playing.
She envied the bond they shared.
She was pulled from her thoughts when Wynafryd whispered, "He looks tense."
Sansa blinked and turned her gaze to Jon.
His posture had shifted, his muscles taut. His grey eyes, usually calm, were sharp and watchful, scanning the market like a hawk searching for prey.
Sansa frowned. "Perhaps it's because we left the direwolves at New Castle."
Robb and Jon had brought Grey Wind and Ghost to White Harbor, but Lady had been left behind at their mother's insistence.
Jon had also left his weirwood bow behind today, trading it for a longsword strapped to his hip.
Before Sansa could ask what was wrong, Jon stepped closer to Jory Cassel and whispered something.
Jory stiffened immediately.
His hand went to his sword, and the two Manderly men drew their weapons.
"Jory, what is—" Catelyn started, but she never finished.
Because in that moment, the market exploded into chaos.
More than twenty men were moving through the crowd, their gazes locked onto Sansa's group.
And then—
Steel.
Sansa barely had time to register the glint of blades before Jon moved.
A shadow, swift and silent.
His sword was out in an instant, and before the first attacker could react, Jon had already cut his throat.
The second man fell just as fast, a single thrust piercing his chest.
A third gurgled as Jon's blade tore through his side.
Everything happened too quickly.
Then—chaos erupted.
The attackers charged forward.
Before they could reach them, a blur of grey and white burst through the market.
Grey Wind and Ghost.
The direwolves moved like lightning.
Grey Wind lunged, sinking his massive jaws into a man's throat, ripping him down with terrifying ease. Ghost was eerily silent, his fangs tearing into another attacker's leg, dragging him to the ground.
Screams filled the air.
Merchants ran, toppling their stalls in their panic. The once-busy marketplace was now a battlefield.
Sansa couldn't breathe.
Her feet were frozen in place as she watched Jon move with terrifying grace, his sword dancing between foes like a thing alive.
A man lunged at him with an axe.
Jon sidestepped effortlessly, driving his blade into the attacker's stomach before twisting and slicing through another's hamstring.
The ground was slick with blood.
Sansa stood frozen, unable to process what she was witnessing.
Her brother—her quiet, serious brother—was death in motion.
Within moments, nearly all of the attackers lay dead.
The last man standing turned to run—
Jon was faster.
He cut into the man's arm, sending him crashing to the ground.
Then, in one brutal motion, Jon drove his sword through the man's forearm, pinning him to the cobblestones.
The man howled in agony.
The world was silent, save for the sound of labored breathing and the soft growls of the direwolves.
Jory Cassel exhaled sharply, snapping out of the shock before turning to the two Manderly guards.
"Take the Lady Stark and the girls back to New Castle," Jory ordered. "Now."
Catelyn hesitated, her grip on Sansa's arm tightening. "But—"
"Go," Jon said. His voice was calm, but there was something in his tone that brooked no argument.
His eyes—those cold, unreadable grey eyes—remained fixed on the man pinned beneath his sword.
Sansa had never seen him look like that before.
Catelyn grabbed Sansa's hand and turned to leave. The Manderly guards surrounded them, leading them away from the carnage.
As they moved, Sansa could still hear the last attacker groaning in pain.
Then—
The bells.
Loud and urgent, ringing across White Harbor.
An alarm.
Sansa's stomach twisted with dread.
Something else was coming.