You're my brother. If you tell me it is true, then I believe you.

[ she had never been kind to jon, she realises. she'd taken her mother's prejudices and worn them as her own, more the fool she was. she cannot rightly blame it to girlhood alone, even if jon might give her that kindness. no, she was old enough to know better. she knows this now, looking back on her treatment of him.

bastards can be cruel, she knows, but jon had always risen above it. as like their father in ways that perhaps her mother had never liked, because jon looked so like father when all but arya wore tully colours despite being trueborn.

oh, my dear mother, sansa thought in mourning. it's not jon's fault that father left so much of himself in jon's blood.

she reaches for jon's hand, grips it tightly in hers. ]

I only care that you're safe. Here. And alive. It's just us now. Robb is gone, and Bran and Rickon and— and Arya might be, I don't know. Father would not want us at odds.

I had heard of you being Lord Commander. Uncle Benjen would have been happy for you.