Between Jon Snow and Sansa Stark as siblings.
The wind howled like a lone wolf across the white expanse, carrying with it the whisperings of the Old Gods and the New. Winterfell had stood resolute against the onslaught of the longest winter, its grey stones holding memories of a thousand years. Now, as the spring thaw began, sometimes the chill seemed to relent. On this day, as the sun dipped low and the shadows lengthened, the atmosphere in Winterfell was one of peace, a marked contrast to the strife that had gripped the Seven Kingdoms in years past.
Inside the castle, the soft glow of hearth fires battled against the creeping cold. Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, sat by the fire in her private quarters, needlework in hand – a pastime that reminded her of her mother and simpler times. Her red hair was a beacon of warmth in the room, her stitches careful and deliberate. Every now and then, she paused to listen to the laughter and voices drifting in from the hall. The castle was alive, comfortingly so, with the noise of the nightly feast.
There was a knock at the door, and without waiting for a response, Jon Snow stepped into Sansa's chambers. He wore furs, his dark hair dusted with snowflakes that had not yet melted. There was weariness about him, yet his eyes held their usual resolve.
“A raven came from King’s Landing at dusk,” he announced, but his cadence belied the simplicity of his words.
Sansa set her needlework aside, her blue eyes reflecting the flames. “And what news does it bring?”
“None that won’t keep until morning,” Jon replied. Then, with a half-smile, he added, “I’m too tired for the tidings of the South tonight.”
They spoke then of trivial things – of Bran's latest visions, of Arya's unannounced departures, and of the rebuilding efforts. Yet beneath the casual conversation, there was a palpable tension, as though words hung unspoken between them.
Their talk was interrupted when Maester Wolkan entered, carrying an old scroll. His face, usually an unreadable mask, was etched with concern. “My Lady, Lord Snow,” he began, “a curious discovery.”
He offered the scroll to them, his fingers trembling slightly. “This was found concealed within the crypts, near where Lord Baelish...” His voice trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence. The crypts held many secrets, some less savory than others. Littlefinger's demise was a shadow they had all hoped to leave behind.
Jon’s eyes narrowed as he unrolled the ancient parchment, and Sansa leaned closer, the orange glow of fire dancing across their faces. The script was fine and intricate, unmistakably the hand of Petyr Baelish.
As Jon read aloud, the words seemed almost to corrupt the air, their meaning slithering like a serpent through the room:
“To whom it may concern, if you are reading this, then I have met an untimely end...”
Littlefinger's words were a meticulous confessional and a puzzle – one last game from beyond the grave. The letter spoke of debts and secrets, of loyalties bought and sold, and hinted at a final gambit that could unravel the very fabric of the peace they had fought so hard to achieve.
“What does he mean?” Sansa’s voice cut through the silence that followed, her gaze on Jon, who seemed to have aged a decade in mere moments.
“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “But Littlefinger always had more plots than the Citadel has scrolls. We need to figure out his intentions – before someone else does.”
Thus, as the stars appeared one by one in the darkening sky, did brother and sister, bound by blood and honor, embark upon a journey to unveil the truths left in the snow, ever watchful of the shadows that loomed long in the light of the moon.