Chapter Text
It takes several days before Sansa can bring herself to believe it. To understand that she is not dreaming; not yet dead. Against the odds, her mind has not broken from the strain of all that she has endured. No, Sansa is a child again. In a girl’s body, returned to Winterfell as it was. Long before King Robert came, and forged the first link in the chain that ripped her world apart.
They tell her she has been confined to her room, burning with a fever. Maester Luwin was extremely concerned. When the fire under her skin finally cools, she allows her parents to take her into their arms, and weeps at the feel of their sweet embrace. She had forgotten the scent of Mother's hair, the rough callouses on Father's gentle hands. It is so lovely to see them all again; Robb, her brave brother so noble and honest, sullen Jon who carefully graces her with a rare smile, grumpy Arya, who tells her she is stupid for staying out in the snow and getting sick. Sweet Bran, the cheerful boy running recklessly through the halls, so different from the solemn Three-Eyed Raven. Rickon, the babe she barely knew, beautifully loud and unafraid. Even Theon, with his sly smiles and confident swagger, brash and quick-witted, so rich in spirit compared to the hollow creature he became.
I won’t let it happen again, she vows, to every god she knows. I will save you all, and destroy all who attempt to stop me.
*
She spends a lot of time, those first few nights of restoration, trying to understand how a foolish, unflowered girl could influence anyone, enough to prevent the tragedies to come. Her lord father did not believe in omens, magic or visions. If she tried to convince him of what was to befall their House, he would think her mad. If she had an ally, someone else who had lived all that is to come, mayhaps her trial would be easier to endure. But as far, no one seems to recall having lived out these days before.
Cersei Lannister had called Sansa little dove with that sick smile on her face, because the Sansa she knew was as defenceless as one. Cersei would never have allowed fat King Robert to betroth her precious lion to a wild wolf, like Arya. Sansa could never feign to be so unladylike, no one would ever believe it. Sansa is not built to carry arms. But she is not completely incapable of change, she knows this. In this second life, the gods have granted her the chance to become something new. A she-wolf, cloaked in a lady’s garb. No, she will not be betrothed to any Southern man in this life, at any cost.
Before any of her hopes can come to pass, Sansa must first learn to be a player in the great game. A woman’s weapon need not be tears, but it need not be only her woman’s place either. Mother would be horrified to see Sansa with any weapon in her soft hands. Catelyn Stark detested war and weaponry. She scorned it as a man’s excuse to abandon his family and the duties of home. Sansa understood now that it was fear, of the outcome of war, which worried her mother so. But commanding her daughter to stay out of the training yard would not protect Arya from all the men who would attempt to harm her. Father and brothers and guards could not be relied upon for protection. No one can protect anyone, save themselves.
Mother would mayhaps faint, if Sansa ever asked to join the boys, as they sparred under Rodrick Cassel’s careful eye. So Sansa simply does not ask.
First, she must pick her weapon. Sansa sits among her family, at the feast to celebrate her miraculous return to good health, and eyes the swords she sees strapped to her lord father's guards. No, she is not built for such a heavy, obvious weapon. Arya was the swords-woman of the family, and rightly so. Sansa will never forget the display of skill she watched with Petyr Baelish by her side, as Arya danced through her spar with Brienne. Mayhaps in the new world Sansa will create, Arya will never need to progress to such a level. But she still deserves to learn, and Sansa is loath to overshadow her sister’s passion with her own sure-to-be clumsy attempt. She firmly resolves never to learn more than the basics of swordplay. Daggers were more easily concealed, anyway.
She will never forget the furious fear in Joffrey’s eyes when Tyrion stabbed a table, and threated to cut off his cock, after the monstrous King attempted to call for a bedding. Sansa has no love for any Lannister, but she cannot deny Tyrion was kind to her. Still, in future she would prefer to be the one that holds the dagger; not beholden to any man to provide it for her.
Yet, it is not enough. The dagger is a close-range weapon. Sansa is not yet a killer. But if she is to become brave enough to be a player in the game of thrones, she may have need to become one. How much easier it would be, to fell her enemy at fifty paces, rather than five? This is why she chooses the bow. It has dual qualities; if Sansa is ever lost in the wilds again, a bow may keep her fed, the way a sword would not. If she could hunt for herself, Sansa may never go hungry again. What a wonderful life that would be.
No one can learn a new skill without a teacher. Jon might help her, now that she no longer turns her nose at him, nor reminds him of his supposed birth. But she has only been restored in this life but half a moon; no one will believe her new, kinder self is indicative of her future behaviour until she has proven herself over the years. She cannot afford to wait that long. The master-at-arms would never teach her without her lord father’s consent, nor would any other man sworn to her father’s service. Robb’s honour would not allow him to assist her in secret either, as he would feel duty-bound to tell their parents of her request.
It is just as well then, that Theon Greyjoy is the greatest archer Sansa has ever known.
*
The only one who ever rivalled Theon in skill, that Sansa ever looked upon with her own eyes, was Ramsay Bolton. Remembering Rickon, fleeing like a frightened doe, felled by a single arrow skewered through his back, makes her sick to her stomach. She stares at the venison on her plate, colour rapidly draining from her face. So intent is her stare, that Sansa misses her mother’s insistent questioning after her health, until Arya punches her in the arm. Her little sister, so full of energy and ire. Here, she is still the wild wolf, not tempered by all the hardship she suffered, in the world Sansa will not allow to come to pass.
“Forgive me, Mother,” Sansa demurely whispers, “I am well, only a little tired.”
Mother does not look convinced, but Sansa’s smile is disarming enough to mollify her. She does not notice how Sansa carefully avoids eating the meat on her plate.
Sansa eyes the kraken among wolves, who is still more boy than man here. Theon, with his lazy smile and arrogant assurance, dressed in finery, as though the world were his to command. She is surprised by how much she approves of him this way, in comparison to the tortured wretch she saw him reduced to. This is the man that sacked her home and put her little brothers out into the cold. A part of her will always hate him for that. But it is difficult to see that oathbreaker, in the young man seated down the table from her, japing with Robb.
Jon reminded Sansa once, when he spoke of his time at Dragonstone, that Theon had been a prisoner in their home. No matter how well he was treated. Theon lived under the threat of execution, every day that Sansa's father lived. It had been a shock for her, to equate Theon’s childhood in Winterfell, to that of her own imprisonment in King’s Landing. Theon was beholden to his father’s good behaviour. Much as she had been beholden to Robb’s military decisions, and she was beaten viciously by the Kingsguard for each one of her brother’s victories. Theon may not be publicly beaten, but she has no doubt he knows her lord father will not fail to do his duty. Should Lord Balon rebel, Theon will pay with his life. Theon is not her father’s ward, nor her brother. He is a hostage.
How could she ever hope to secure his loyalty? She knows Theon loves Robb, truly and honestly. But he betrayed him, nethertheless. She now understands Balon will never give up reaving ways, if he senses an opportunity to seize power. If Westeros erupts into war, and Balon rebels, Theon’s life will be forfeit. That, she cannot allow. She owes him her life. Sansa would never have escaped the Boltons without him. Would never have reunited with Jon, whom she had believed to be her only living kin.
Regardless of the disgust she still feels, knowing Theon to be a child-slayer, he must be protected. Those horrid events have not yet come to pass. And yet, she cannot deny that she still feels indebted to him, for aiding her escape. She will do everything she can to ensure she is never sent South, and that the Bolton's sick practices are exposed. But similarly, she must ensure Theon is never sent back to the Iron Islands. Balon and Yara will never accept him. Though Theon may reject the title, she would name him for a Stark, and keep him beside Robb. Starks do not do well outside the North, and she cares nought for the opinion of others in this. She will make it so, despite the considerable obstacles in her path.
She cannot hate Theon here, she realises, as she watches him tease Robb and roll his eyes at something Jon mutters. Quite separate from her own views, she is sure Robb would never permit Theon’s execution for Balon’s crimes. And if Robb stood against their lord father, the results could be disastrous. Robb loves Theon as an elder brother. He oft looks to him for advice. Sansa learnt that he followed Theon’s counsel, in the early stages of the War of the Five Kings. She knows that losing Theon for Balon’s treachery is something Robb would not abide. Jon has taught her not to punish a son for his father’s sins, but Sansa knows her own father would never agree to such sentiment. Always, Lord Eddard Stark was a man of honour and steadfast duty. And Houses have been destroyed over far less than a son standing against his father. It is an issue she knows must be rectified, before the Lannister's cuckolding of Robert Baratheon is revealed.
The boys are too far away for Sansa to listen their conversation this night. Every so often, her lady mother glares in their direction. As a former Tully of the Riverlands, Lady Catelyn could never hold any love for the Ironborn. Too much blood was shed between their lands. Nor could she love her husband’s nephew, proclaimed to be his natural son. Sansa knows her mother despises Jon's presence, and mistrusts Theon greatly. Her lady mother's prejudice has resulted in much folly, and Sansa knows not how to begin to alter her staunch beliefs.
Sansa bites her lip, knowing she cannot afford to be caught staring at her father’s 'ward'. Nor can she reveal Jon’s parentage at this time. If she tells Jon, he will demand proof she does not have. If he asks Father, Lord Stark may feel compelled to send him away, to ‘protect him’. No, the knowledge is too dangerous, while Robert Baratheon lives, and commands her father’s respect. However, Jon will never go to the Wall, if Sansa can prevent it. She doesn't have any intention of suffering Joffrey to ascend to the throne, nor will she live through the Dragon Queen’s conquest. There is only one Targaryen that deserves the Iron Throne, though she doubts Jon would ever want to claim it. But that is a matter for another day. There are only so many issues Sansa can tackle at once, and she has no influence yet. Still, she knows the problems will percolate at the back of her mind, declining to be supressed for long.
She eats her dessert, with a fake smile pasted on her lips. Her favourite lemoncake is cloying against her throat, the rich sponge almost choking her, before she washes it down with cool water.
Formulating complex strategies is something Sansa now has ample experience in. Determining how much time she has to work in is more difficult. She cannot afford to rush, and give away her true intentions. She must wear a mask of steel and iron, like Robb’s crown was said to be, hiding her claws and teeth. But slowly, steadily, Sansa will assume the mantle that was as always hers to take; she is a Stark of Winterfell, a wolf of the North, and Winter is Coming. She will never allow herself to be collared and chained again. The price for her freedom is a cost which could never be too high.
*
She seizes her opportunity, as soon as an opening presents itself. Theon has always been a betting man; a known gambler and whoremonger. Sansa-that-was was unaware of much of this. She had been far too concerned with herself, and all her selfish wishes to abandon the North for a Southern husband, to notice much else. She has vowed to never be that stupid, vainglorious girl again. It begins here, with her siblings and true friends.
The Sansa she is now, can finally understand Theon’s sly looks and whispered japes (even if most are said out of her hearing). No one expects the prim and proper eldest daughter of Eddard Stark to challenge Theon Greyjoy, heir to the Iron Islands, to a bet. Not even in jest. Theon’s mouth hangs open dumbly, when Sansa suggests it, a playful smile dancing around her lips.
She is too young for the smile to be misconstrued. But she knows that same smile on her elder face and body, the one that she had before she died and reawakened in the past, would be taken as flirtation. An enticement to more. Theon shifts uncomfortably, and Sansa wonders if she has in fact miscalculated, and he will think her wanton. It matters nought, if she obtains her objective.
“You think Jon will best Robb?” he repeats her suggestion, as though her words were spoken in a language foreign to him.
The clash of tourney swords rings through the yard as her brothers spar, panting with exertion. They have been at it long, and are both visibly tiring. They are not as skilled as they will become, Sansa knows. Just as she knows Jon has always been the better swordsman of the two. She remembers Arya boasting of Jon's prowess in this fight, in her first life. Now that she herself knows how to look for it, Sansa sees her sister was right about his skill.
“Jon’s form is far superior,” Sansa shrugs, as though that truth were nothing of consequence.
As if it was natural, that a lady of breeding would stoop to an honest assessment of skill. Instead of exulting an heir over a younger son, let alone a bastard, as any highborn would. Sansa-that-was would never neglect her lessons to skirt the yard and watch her brothers. She had found swordplay grim, dirty and boring, versus gossip and laughter with her friends. Now, though it is sweeter than she ever imagined to be with Beth and Jeyne again, her friend’s concerns are not her own. Their chatter is idle, ridiculous and sometimes spiteful, though innocent compared to the ladies in King’s Landing. Since Sansa returned, she has stopped insulting her sister and demanded her friends do the same. They look at Sansa with barely veiled confusion. Theon looks at her that same way, now.
Still, she cannot take back her words, even as her heart beats wildly, praying he will not question her changed attitude.
“If I take that bet and win, dear Lady Sansa, what’ll I gain?” Theon eventually asks, his wry smile firmly back in place.
“What should you like, Lord Theon?” She mimics his formal address, politely, and sees the sparkle of honest pleasure in his eyes for a change. It is not usual for Theon’s smile to be so genuine.
Jon feints to his left before striking out on his right instead. Robb skitters backward, but is still caught with a glancing blow to the ribs. His yelp of pain carries easily across the yard. Sansa watches Robb grimace, but hold his ground; lunging out a strike of his own, which Jon easily repels.
“A dance!” Theon declares over the singing of steel. “If Robb wins, I ask for the pleasure of your company, during the first dance of Bran’s name-day feast, my lady.”
“I accept your terms, my lord.” Sansa readily agrees. It is not a difficulty to accept, by any means. Theon is a graceful dancer. Sansa has no desire to wait for another man to ask her, when she can seize the chance to be on the floor immediately. She needs to find a Northern boy worthy of her hand, before Robert is compelled to come North. That won’t happen without considerable effort on her part, and every gathering of Northmen is an occasion to impress. Even if she knows this is one particular bet Theon will never win.
“Ah-ah,” Theon tuts playfully, “I can’t agree to the wager if I don’t know all the terms.”
Sansa pretends to consider her forfeit, should she win. She feels his eyes glancing over her still form, as she watches her brothers swipe at one another.
“If Jon wins… then you must assist me in an endeavour of my choosing, without question or complaint.” Sansa declares.
Theon chuckles, no doubt finding her choice absurd. “I suppose you wish me to sit still, while you braid ribbons into my hair, my lady?”
Sansa smiles, but chooses to say no more. Thankfully, Theon’s curiosity wins out. He agrees to her terms, and looks only mildly disturbed, when she refuses to name the task he must assist her with. Jon wins his bout with Robb, just as she said he would.
*
“Meet me in the godswood, early on the morrow,” Sansa whispers as she twirls elegantly around Theon, their palms pressed together as they move in tandem. Theon lost the bet, but Sansa needs him in high spirits, and dances with him first, and repeatedly, throughout Bran’s name-day celebrations.
Theon’s brow furrows, but he does not object. Judging by how deep in their cups most men already are, there will be little chance they will be seen by anyone if they rise and slip out early. She can tell Theon is longing to ask her to explain herself, but he cannot seem to find the words. Inevitably, he settles on being offensive.
“Anyone would think you wanted to get me all alone, my little lady,” he grins, licentious and unashamed.
She wonders what he hopes to achieve, by goading her. Perhaps Theon wishes to give her a chance to blush and stammer and back away from him. Sansa-that-was could be relied upon to parade her virtue. She would have been horrified at any hint of impropriety. But this Sansa knows Theon would never dare take liberties with her. And after enduring Joffrey’s vicious taunts, and Ramsay’s brutal madness, she doubts any mere words Theon could say, will ever truly frighten her. She chooses to ignore his taunt, and sees the surprise flare in his eyes when she maintains the sharp steps of the dance, undeterred. His smile never falters.
“You promised to assist me, without complaint.” She reminds him quietly, mindful of the jolly crowd around them. “Will you come?”
The song is almost at an end; a lively Riverlands tune played to honour her lady mother, and their Tully heritage. Sansa knows the steps intuitively, even though this younger body must only have learnt them lately.
Theon holds her eyes, for once silent in his assessment. She remains stoic under his scrutiny, refusing to flush beneath his unwavering attention. Whatever he finds in her face, is enough to captivate him into agreement.
“Aye, my lady,” he rasps, “I’ll come.”
The music draws to an end, and all the dancers slow to an standstill. Most men merely bow to their ladies. Theon goes a step further; he clasps her hand, and presses a gentle kiss to it. Sansa ignores the heat rising on her face, telling herself she is only warmed from the vigorous steps of the dance.
Sansa curtsies perfectly. Theon takes a step back, but before he can release her entirely, she steps forward again and whispers; “Come alone. Don’t tell Robb.”
She refuses to look down in maidenly shame when his eyes snap toward her, his stare wide with alarm. She doesn’t give him the chance to question her, only squeezes his hand briefly, then turns away and hurries to freedom, eager to escape Theon’s bright, soulful eyes. He is a handsome man, she thinks, then pushes the unbidden thought away with vengeance.
*
Chapter Text
Sansa dresses in her simplest, darkest clothes. Her plainest cloak covers her recognisable hair. She cannot afford to be questioned or noticed. She slips out of the castle, walking slowly, but with purpose. The bundle in her arms, wrapped in dark furs could be anything. But she doubts the guards would have cause to question a girl dressed almost plain enough to be a servant. Sansa has learnt the value of confidence, so she is careful to never slow her stride, nor speed up. The godswood is deserted at this hour, as she knew it would be.
She walks far enough to be concealed amongst the sturdy trees, hidden from the gate. It is still summer, warm enough to go without thick furs. She avoids the heart tree; and indeed all weirwoods. She will not damage them in her efforts to become an archer, or she will risk the wrath of the old gods.
Sansa never felt the cold as much as her brother’s bannermen, even in the depth of winter. She quickly abandons her cloak, hoping Theon will join her soon. Her prayers are answered, as she spies him slinking toward her, deftly avoiding the exposed roots and muddy furrows. He is wary, she can tell; his eyes flicking all about them, as though suspecting some trickery. Still, he leaps with confidence over a particularly jagged rock, landing on one leg with a flourish and a cocky smile. His balance is steady, no pain on his face as he bounds toward her, giving Sansa a bold smile followed by a shallow bow. His antics should irritate her, she knows. Theon is a foolish, insecure boy, playing at being a brave, carefree man. But her heart lurches, to see him so whole, so sure on his feet. The last time they were in a wood together, they were fleeing from Bolton’s hounds, terrified and wounded both.
She shakes off the image of that broken, battered creature she will never see again, as Theon approaches her.
“My lady,” he greets her warmly, but she knows the affable grin on his face is a lie.
Theon’s real smiles were reserved for Robb, alone. Sansa fights the urge to clench her fists, and vows to pray to the old gods that it will not always be so. If she can forge a more honest relationship between Theon and the North, he might be their true ally in the wars to come. But he needs to feel valued. In the Vale, trapped by the whims of Sweetrobin and Aunt Lysa, while Baelish skulked in the shadows, Sansa learnt what it means to be on the edge of a family. Constantly on edge, always frightened for the future; and she was not threatened with execution. But he will only be safe if Balon does not rebel, if the North is ever undefended.
She shakes off her worries like snowflakes caught in a direwolf’s fur. It may never come to pass. Each step must come at its proper time.
“Good morrow, my lord,” she says, with a formal curtsey. “I trust you enjoyed sound sleep, and the day finds you well.”
Theon quirks one eyebrow, tossing his rich, glossy hair over one shoulder. “My sleep was very deep, and well earned, thank you.”
His sultry tone, and obvious emphasis on certain phrases, would never have been understood by Sansa-that-was. Then again, they would not be together like is, if this body were truly a reflection of the girl residing in it. But she understands his lopsided smile all too well, and cannot help but wonder which serving wench he tumbled the night before. His satisfied smirk tells her more than she ever cares to know, of the events taking place in his bedchamber in the hour of the wolf.
Sansa ignores the way her heart gives a disobedient stutter. If her face flushes, it is merely from the cold. The tense set of her shoulders reveal her apprehension, even though she keeps control of her expression. Briefly it occurs to her, that this may be the first time they have ever been alone with one another. To his knowledge, anyway.
“I am glad to know you are well rested, Theon,” she blithely replies, “As I require your eyes bright and aware.”
“Ah, yes, my sworn duty. And what does my lady command?” He teases her, mockingly over-chivalrous.
Sansa’s weakness for romantic songs and gallant knights is well-known, and oft belittled by her brothers. She ignores his taunting, stooping to uncover the bundle that has lain unobtrusive at her feet. The bow laying among the furs does not belong to Theon. Nor is it one of her brother’s. Those are finely made, decoratively carved from strong wood, and would quickly be missed. The plain one she stole from the armoury is shorter than a longbow, made specifically with the training of green boys in mind. She was careful in selecting one that had seen use, but was still sturdy and well-kept.
“I wish for you to teach me,” she says. The words are simple enough, said with a careless shrug, but spoken clearly, and with force.
His sea blue eyes widen in shock, and his smile finally falters. To behold it, should not be as satisfying as it is.
*
Theon refuses, of course. Mayhaps he believes it a jape, some silly game. Her stubborn insistence of serious intention gives him pause, but still, the answer is no.
Sansa anticipated this.
Theon is aware of his tenuous position in the household. The Starks have treated him well, for a hostage. They did not have to allow him to be trained in arms. Nor allow him to attend lessons, alongside the Lord Paramount of the North’s own children. Theon could have been forced to perform menial tasks, dressed as a servant and beaten for the merest infraction. They could have starved him, locked him away, shunned him at every turn. Father would never have done so, but another, less honourable lord, might have.
But Sansa knows Theon lives in fear of his privileges being removed, just the same. If they were discovered, Theon would surely lose much freedom and trust. Robb might protest, but not overmuch. Not if he believed Theon had been meeting in secret with Sansa, with dishonourable intentions. Theon’s appetites are well known, and he would suspect the worst. It would tarnish her reputation, if they were discovered, no matter her young age.
A single morn, they could reason away. But a series of meetings, where anyone could stumble across them? Where their joint absence was noted and remarked upon? He would be a fool not to worry. Gossip spreads like wildfire among the smallfolk. It wouldn’t take long for her mother or siblings to hear of it, to question their behaviour.
The archery is another problem all together. They both know Lord Stark would never countenance such a thing. Weapons are dangerous, especially in unskilled hands. If any harm came to Sansa under such circumstances, no one would hold her to account. Not if they could blame an over-familiar ‘squid’. No one would believe that the idea had been her own. The blame would fall solely on Theon, and the punishment would be severe. She is aware of the selfishness of her command. But the danger he faces, is nothing compared to the horrors they all face, and are woefully under-prepared for. She cannot afford to be defenceless when the Long Night falls again.
She knows Theon, far better than he could ever know the person she has become. He has no hope in a battle of words, not against Sansa Stark. She honed her wordplay in King’s Landing, under the tutelage of the likes of Cersei, Littlefinger and the Tyrell women. She knows the power of words. How to wield them, when to withhold them. She wheedles, whines and cajoles, flatters and sighs.
Theon still is a boy on the cusp of manhood. Like so many young men, he is easily charmed by a pretty face, and honeyed words. He allows himself to be persuaded without much effort.
*
She assumes he thinks her like to falter at the first mistake. That when he corrects her stance and bemoans her weak grip, she will fuss and whine and give up. Mayhaps he would be right, if her mission was not of so much import. If she did not know her enemies so well. But Sansa will prove herself a dutiful student, patient and obedient. She was always good at following instruction; Septa Mordane did not heap praises upon her head, merely because of who she was.
Archery is not like embroidery. Though the careful focus, absolute investment and attention is the same. Sansa is not a strong girl, and it takes a lot of effort to draw back the string and loose an arrow. Theon tuts and adjusts her elbow, repeatedly chiding her for taking too long. Soon her fingers begin to chafe, red and sore, her arms burning from the strain of perfecting her stance. It is a good ache. Honest work, difficult to master.
When the hour to break their fast grows close, Sansa thanks her reluctant tutor. She knows how important it is to make a person feel appreciated, needed. She reminds Theon of his promise to aid her, and begs him to tell no one. For a long moment, she thinks he will argue. That he might proclaim no woman worth his tutelage. The storms in his light, sea-green eyes are hard to read. But she sees the mischievous flicker behind that wall of dismissal.
He leaves with a gruff assessment of her paltry skills, taking the bow with him. But he does agree to meet her again. Sansa watches him march away, brisk yet quiet. When his lithe form has disappeared through the trees, she sags to the dirty, leaf-littered ground. Laughter bubbles in her throat, and for a short blissful while, she lets the madness swallow her up.
*
She breaks her fast with her family, a precious bounty she once squandered. The fare is simpler than she remembers, having grown accustomed to the rich pickings in the Crownlands and Vale. But it is hearty and warm, and shared among the only people she has ever loved.
Arya is energetic, full of tales of the Mormont women, who apparently spent the feast poking through Winterfell’s armoury. Sansa keeps quiet, letting her sister enjoy the recount. Bran is also in high spirits, naturally, having received a cornucopia of gifts, including a pony. He’s excited for his first riding lessons, already anticipating jousting in a Southern tournament. Her sweet-natured little brother, so warm and wide-eyed, who became a blank stone, dedicated only to the weirwoods. Not this time, Sansa vows. The old gods can find another oracle.
“May I join Bran for his riding lessons, Father?” Sansa asks politely, keeping her face placidly calm. She cannot afford to seem desperate.
Sansa was never a good rider, too afraid of appearing wild and unruly. Horses were oft ill-tempered, frightening to a gentle girl. Large dusty beasts that would ruin a lady’s delicate dress, whipping her hair into a tangle in the wind, making her skin shiny with ugly perspiration and an uneven flush. But in this life, Sansa must make a match with a Northman, or at most, a lord in the Riverlands. She must be competent in skills that will impress men who have no time for fearful flowers.
“You have other lessons to attend, Sansa,” Mother says reprovingly, “And you have plenty of free time to indulge other interests.”
“Septa Mordane has said I am progressing very quickly in my studies, Mother. She said my sewing lessons need not be so frequent.”
Sansa speaks only the truth; histories, Westerosi law and customs, household management, these are things she understands far beyond the knowledge she should have at this stage. She blames her leap in progress at her eagerness to regain footing, after being confined to the sickroom. She has been careful to add in the odd mistake, having realised she was suspiciously lacking effort in her assigned tasks. Her dreadful accounting is not faked; she has never had a head for figures.
Her skill at sewing cannot be hidden. It is too tedious to slow her fingers, and Sansa cannot countenance wasting good material with falsely placed stitches. Winter is coming, and sturdy clothing is needed. After sufficient time, the plainer garments are always given to the keep’s servants. They are modified to clothe themselves and their families. Waste material becomes rags, to soak in tar for torches or women to fill their smallclothes during their moonblood. There will always be wool and cotton left over, but there need not be profligate excess.
Sansa recently finished a smart tunic in a deep blue wool, carefully edged in green and grey vines. Mother and Septa both cooed over the work, surprised by the intricate detailing. She has kept it in her room for days, waiting for an appropriate moment to gift it.
She waits patiently for her declaration to be considered. Her roaming gaze settles on Jon, who is not eating with them. Instead he is sandwiched in at the lower tables, so as not to unsettle their guests. It is for Mother’s sake, and it hurts to know that Sansa would once have agreed with that disrespect. The treatment bastards receive is disgraceful, she now understands intimately. She shakes off the memory of grasping hands in the Eyrie, stolen, unwanted kisses and savage promises.
Jon never approaches her, so Sansa has made a point of seeking him out to wish him good day. She publicly complimented his skill in the yard, when she won her wager. His smiles are confused and hesitant, but she returns them without reservation, and has not referred to him once as ‘half-brother’.
“Why riding, Sansa?” Father presses her, regaining her attention. “You never expressed much fervour in such things.”
She shrugs as carelessly as she can affect. “Mine own lessons concluded some time ago, but I never advanced satisfactorily, Father. It would be remiss of me to leave a fundamental skill to languish.”
“A very mature approach,” Father concedes, “If Septa agrees with your assessment, I see no reason why you cannot be spared for an afternoon per sennight, to join Bran.”
Bran frowns, likely worried Sansa will dominate his lessons with her requests. She is already cherishing time spent with her real brother, rather than the living shell that replaced him. Sansa leans across the table to ruffle his hair, his auburn locks thick and unruly.
“I am a terrible horsewoman, Bran. You’ll soon surpass me.” She assures him, “We shall race through the wolfwood with Jory, and no doubt you will win every time.”
His smile is wide and wonderful. Sansa ignores Theon’s gaze, burning into her from the other end of the table. She would not know how to answer his questions, if he even knew how to give voice to them.
*
Sansa rests uneasily on her featherbed each night. There were not enough bannermen in attendance at the celebration of Bran’s birth. Regardless, the revelry had continued long after the hour of the wolf. As usual there were few additions to the household when their guests began to leave.
Fostering between noble houses in the North is practically unheard of in these days. It is little wonder the relations between Starks and their bannermen were so low. But she will be alone with Bran for hours at time. She knows how to plant an idea. There are few knights to squire for in the North, but their mother is a Tully by birth. Brynden the Blackfish is a renowned knight, respected by Father and loved by Mother. It should be an easy scheme to bring to bloom. That should take him far enough away from whispers on the icy wind.
In the long hours of darkness, Sansa recalls the North as she knew it, in the time of Jon’s reign. Many of the lords recently hosted in her lord father’s castle, had no longer been living by then. They had been replaced by their lordling sons, brothers or grandsons. Or where the succession was in question, their keeps and holdfasts were juggled by hungry cousins and their jealous bastard brothers. If it all comes to pass as it did then… in a few short years, the North will be unrecognisable. Their numbers were decimated by Robb’s call to war. Battles with the Ironborn, Boltons, and later Jon and Sansa’s own forces, cleaved their numbers like a butcher’s knife cuts meat.
Is it her duty, to ensure the lineage of these fickle lords? Those who spit on her as a Lannister cast-off, a Bolton bride not worth consideration? Who denied the very existence House Stark? Until her valiant cousin fought and nearly died to earn their respect. Most of them disregarded their pleas, until the Battle of the Bastards was already won. The Umbers turned little Rickon over, to the only monster worse than Joffrey Baratheon. Ramsay could not be allowed to live. Somehow, her father must learn of his crimes and execute him. But how she could orchestrate such a thing, she knew not. But it must be done.
It is unwise and unkind of her to damn them all, she knows. Many had been worried they would not survive coming winter. Few men had remained, after Robb’s march south. The meagre harvest had been depleted by sending half of it to his army. Stores low, their supplies and men depleted, with former enemies housed on their lands. The North was fractured, hostile. But burns her throat bitterly, every time she must swallow down her ire.
She finds no easy road to sleep.
*
Sansa feels his eyes following her as she walks to her lessons or sups with her family. Whenever she looks back, Theon has usually turned away. But she catches the quick movement, the swish of his hair or twitch of his shoulders. He eyes her with confusion and doubt. She is not the Sansa he knows, the frail flower so determined to be a proper lady she nearly lost herself along the route. She is determined, steadfast. Despite having no natural prowess, and thin arms, alien to exertion.
Theon grumbles at her slow progress, bemoaning the early rises he need not subject himself to. But Sansa sees the glow of pride in his eyes. She is shaping into a real archer, under his tutelage alone. No one to share the praise with, or compare his method to.
They meet at irregular hours, to disguise the pattern of their shared absences.
“Hold your elbow steady,” he tuts, pushing it higher with his fingertips. “The shaft follows its trajectory.”
Her arm throbs from holding the string taut for so long, but she does not complain. She takes a deep breath, and lets go on the exhale. She hits a tree hard enough for the arrowhead to lodge in the bark. Far from the mark Theon had scored with his hunting knife, but progress nonetheless.
“Better,” Theon grunts, “But you still take far too long to aim.”
Sansa will take it.
*
She writes regularly to her Uncle Benjen. It is not an easy feat to accomplish. Sansa-that-was had never shown much interest in the Black Knights. Their stories had no fair maidens, only monsters prowling in the snow. She had done her duty and written to him when asked, but not frequently, and not without cause. It had taken every ounce of her strongest, most courteous manner to allay Maester Luwin’s suspicious nature. But she succeeded in charming him. Making him believe she had an urge to fulfil her family duty, by sending words of warmth and love to her brave Uncle, the chivalrous Ranger on the Wall.
Benjen expresses surprise and gratitude for her unprompted letters. She knows he writes to her father. Just as she knows Ned Stark not a poetic man, famously of few words. But Sansa is well-known for her determination to be a lady. Her letters are long and detailed, with news of Winterfell, and her family. She heaps praise on her siblings and their accomplishments, Theon included. She confesses her doubts about any upcoming betrothal taking her far from home. She lays out her determination to marry to a Northman.
Scattered amongst these girlish outpourings, she asks for clarification of the stories and legends she has heard, with all the courtly flourish she could master. Benjen is reluctant to reveal much, at first. His frequent ranging Beyond the Wall made his responses unreliably irregular. But slowly, surely, with her mature penmanship and turns of phrase, she fools him into forgetting just how young she is.
Benjen is a shrewd, careful man. But he is unable to behold her. To see how small and weak she is, with her high, clear voice. He begins to reveal unsettling truths she knows he would otherwise have kept secret far longer. She hoards her letters, keeping them securely locked in a small chest with a lock, which was a gift from her lady mother. She suspects there will come a time when they prove very useful.
*
Sansa takes advantage of her opening, as soon as it prevents itself. Her quarry is not hard to unearth, for all that he avoids undue attention. With the others attending to their lessons, and Mother safely sequestered in her solar, she seizes her chance.
Jon stares at the tunic she has pressed into his hands in astonishment. He traces the neat embroidered vines, the richly dyed wool fit for a lord. Or a hidden prince. Sansa is tired of seeing Jon in dour shades, or Robb’s cast-offs. She had to hand it over in private, so that he was not embarrassed by her attention, or shamed by anyone else’s reaction.
“It is… lovely, Sansa.” Jon swallows visibly, “But I cannot accept something so fine. It would not be fit.”
He looks leery of even holding such a finely stitched garment. Jon was never one for ostentation, so Sansa had been careful to limit her artistic flair. She crosses her arms, playing at being her petulant former self.
“I made it for you.” She insists, “And I shall be offended if you reject my gift.”
Jon twists the material in between his hands, longing plain on his face. She doubts it is for the lordly tunic itself, but rather the acceptance that comes with it. The idea that Sansa spent hours working on something entirely new, especially for him. That such care and attention was obviously taken.
“I am only sorry I could not complete it before the feast. The Manderleys brought the material with them see, and I knew the colour would look splendid with your hair.” She continues, undaunted by his reluctance.
Sansa has an inkling a dress was made for Arya from the same bolts of fabric, in another life. That dress would be ruined, ignored and unappreciated. Arya will gladly wear coarser fabric, that would better withstand climbing and tussling in the dirt anyway. The unmade dress will not be missed, so Sansa had snapped it up for her own project instead. Jon shares Arya’s colouring, and Sansa will not see him constantly clad in black, if she can prevent it. The dark blue will look very fetching on him.
Jon flounders, cheeks bright red from her attention. He is completely unable to formulate an argument. In the end Jon can only nod, clutching his new tunic with pride.
“Thank you, Sansa.” He whispers, standing a little taller.
Delighted by her success, Sansa bounces onto the tip of her toes, to press a kiss to his cheek. She rushes away before he can change his mind, to alter her own clothes. Her pale green dress would be very unsuitable for riding. Her freedom is calling. With enough practice, she will ensure she need never rely on another man to provide an escape, ever again.
*
Chapter Text
The days pass without much incident of worth. Her progress on horseback is far slower than that of the bow. Bran needs time to learn basic manoeuvres, and his proficiency is of more import than Sansa’s whim to partake in her brother’s lessons. Jory has Ryswell in his ancestry, perhaps a reason why he is so proficient with horseflesh. Secondary to his duty as a guard of Winterfell, he attends Ned Stark whenever the Lord of Winterfell has to purchase horses. Sansa accosts him with questions, trying to understand what makes a good beast, and what hidden hazards to look for. Jory seems amused by her interest, and indulges her. He builds it into somewhat of a game, to see if they can name every type of horse in the stables, and those ridden brought by traders, or vassal houses bringing their taxes to Winterfell.
Sansa eventually learns to separate a palfrey from a rounsey, the drays which plough the fields and transport grain, Bran’s lone pony, and the coursers that fill their stables. Father’s lone destrier is an elderly horse, retired from warfare and nothing at all like Sandor Clegane’s cantankerous beast. There are no hardy garrons this far South; bred as they are in the Gift, specifically for the Night’s Watch. Though apparently this breed is also favoured by the Northern mountain clans. Jory promises to point them out, when the Black Brothers visit next. Apparently, her Uncle Benjen rides one, so Sansa seizes this topic to write another letter. She extolls all she knows, lamenting that she will never see a Dornish Sand steed, implying that she never intends to travel South. She also pleads for Benjen to arrange the sale for a garron of her own.
It will be a far cry from the docile palfrey she had before, but she knows with no shadow of doubt, she will never be gifted a warhorse. Quite aside from the lack of decorum it would show, it would also be a bold, attention-grabbing statement. No one would believe a girl capable of wielding such a large, aggressive animal, was anything but the same. It would also be seen as a frivolous waste of money; to throw away a charger on a woman who would never see battle. Any implication that she might put it to its proper use would be incredibly foolish on her part. She must work in the shadows. There must be little evidence of her abilities to drag into the light, so that suspicious eyes do not fall on her.
But she also recognises the need to own a creature capable of stout heart. Garrons are special horses, specifically robust, bred for the cold climate and deep snows. They are the strongest on rough terrain, which even the majestic destrier struggles with. Garrons are the only horse capable of repeated travel North of the Wall. There is no more resilient beast that Sansa could hope to use. If she ever needs to flee her home again, all the better to leave on a magnificent beast that could take her anywhere, even high into the mountains.
Still, her capability on the actual horse leaves much to be desired. Sansa is more confident than she ever remembers being, sitting still and using a commanding tone. Her leg movements are strong, instead of a tiny nudge from weak ankles, as it was in her first life. However, she much prefers her lessons in warfare, from Theon. Sansa oft falls asleep to the thought of archers filling the battlement crenulations, or lined up on a shoreline, their arrow-tips alight with burning flame. What must it be, to stand in front of an army, as Ramsay’s archers did? Row upon row of deadly intention, with tiny the spears pulled taught against the bow, each man curved back, aiming high into the clouds. Mayhaps she will discover what that poignant, pregnant moment feels like, someday. Theon is a dedicated teacher, and Sansa has no doubt she will be capable of it, providing their lessons last long enough.
Theon has treated her well, since recognising his opportunity. Sansa is his acolyte, devoted to his method. During their private moments, he is the centre of attention, and she follows his every command. To a boy scorned and largely ignored by the guards and other men with standing in Winterfell (with the exception of Robb), it must be an ocean of consideration in comparison. Sansa thinks she can finally understand the nuance of Theon and Robb. Robb, the lord in training sometimes lost amongst his grave responsibility. Theon, the fun, elder brother figure, in need of a pupil to take under his wing, to counteract the many that belittle his contribution. They are a matched pair. Sansa wonders, in idle moments, if Robb would have grown to be as serious and sullen as Jon, if it were not for Theon. The Ironborn are famous for irreverent revelry; some of that must have been carried within him. Enough to drag Robb out of his sometimes imposed isolation, to shrug off his duties for an hour or four, in the pursuit of merriment.
But Theon is surprisingly subdued while they are alone. There is no one to impress with his clever remarks. She remembers his casual cruelty, his mean comments, designed to poke fun at all of her chivalrous dreams. But this Sansa doesn’t waste time chirping about knights and songs. Instead, she does as he demands without question. She follows his instruction, without endless debate, and adheres to his advice. It is more respect than many of the household show him, she knows. That kind of deference must be heady, to a disparaged hostage. Brick by brick, Sansa builds a bridge between them. Until it seems natural to sit at his feet, sharing a sack of apples, and ask him about the Iron Islands.
Theon regards her with some surprise, as though no one has ever asked him about his home. Mayhaps they haven’t. Robb has never much cared for anywhere outside the North. Too busy learning the needs and disputes of his own people. Theon is only too happy to take advantage of a willing ear. He tells her of powerful, streamlined ships, bare rocks moulded by salt and spray, his Uncle Dagmer, a great warrior who always treated him well. His bizarre Uncle Aeron, wholly devoted to the Drowned God, constantly cold and dripping sea-water.
This leads to legends about the Drowned God himself, tales not unlike the ones Old Nan spins on wet and windy afternoons. There are false starts, when Theon’s lips twist into a grimace over a story he cannot remember the finer details of. After several of these fits and spurts, Sansa urges him to write to his favoured Uncle, who is apparently a distant relation, rather than brother to one of his parents. And she implies that his sister might also wish to hear from him. Theon snorts dismissively, but something in his eyes seems curious. She suggests reports of his proficiency with the bow and sword, hunting and horse-riding, and dagger-throwing contests, might be of interest.
“They’ll want to know if I’ve taken any salt wives, yet.” Theon sighs, and though Sansa has some vague knowledge, she pretends otherwise, and asks him to elaborate. He explains their status as thralls, but how their children are treated far better than bastards. She didn't know that the current House Greyjoy is in fact descended from a trueborn lord and his salt wife’s get, having no other heirs to become Lord.
Sansa shudders. “How horrible,” she sniffs, “To have so many wives to care for!”
Theon frowns, perplexed. He cannot understand how truly and deeply she feels horror on behalf of these enslaved women, no more than broodmares for their pirate husbands. No doubt he thinks it a boast-worthy achievement, to have many women, and only sees the benefit of laying with a variety. He thinks only of his own pleasure, and nothing of responsibility, and duty towards those women.
“Think on it,” Sansa continues, “A man must provide a warm, safe home, dresses and food and trinkets. Father lavishes attention on Mother, especially when she is with child. Imagine doing so for four women or more!”
Theon blanches, quite unwillingly imagining such a scenario. Sansa pretends not to see his discomfort, and whittles on.
“The cost of shoes alone!” she trills, “Not to mention the babes. If each wife had two each, that would be eight. All children need a station in life, holdings and a household to run it, not to mention eight marriage pacts, dowries…”
“It’s an outmoded practice anyway,” Theon mumbles, down-hearted.
“Still, it’s lovely that they care for their bastards so well, educating them in a useful trade. And allowing them to be raised by their mothers.” Sansa acknowledges, with a knowing look.
She knows Theon will consider the life of a salt wife’s son, versus Jon’s plight. Raised amongst his “betters”, Jon will always be derided, overshadowed, his achievements pushed aside. The son of a salt wife will be raised under the love of a mother, visited by a father invested in their future. Expecting them to fight as a warrior on their ship, when they are grown. Meaning they will be taught not only arms, but sea-faring, a lifelong trade. That is a more stable future than Jon has ever been presented with.
Sansa stifles her gasp of surprise when she realises this. Has she been as neglectful as her lord father, regarding Jon? For all her noble intention to see Jon free of the Night’s Watch, free to take up the mantle of his birth right, she gave no real thought as to his position in the interim. She has had imprecise imaginings of him fighting alongside Robb, but in what capacity? As a guard, a sworn shield? Or as a bannerman, with lands of his own? The North is littered with crumbling, empty holdfasts. If they are to keep their lands free of Southern invaders or undead monsters, they need more defences. It is yet another plan to formulate.
She springs up to claim her bow, to distract herself from her oversight. Theon chortles as she wobbles, unsteady in her eagerness. He reaches out a hand to secure her, something he would never have done scant moons ago. As she leans into the confident hand at her hip, Sansa attempts to convince herself it is no more intimate a touch than dancing.
*
Dressing in Northern garb and cantering about with Bran is one thing. And it is easy for Sansa to lose herself in the feminine arts, which were always her strong suit. But no Northman will take a bride who has no head for numbers. Southern women could rely on appointed castellans and stewards to oversee their bountiful crops. Spending their days twittering in the sunlight, and nibbling sweet cakes. But in the North, the lady of the keep is expected to help run the household. Stores of food, candles, furs, servant’s clothing; mending, building and cleaning supplies. These are only some of the things maintained by her lady mother at Winterfell. Sansa obediently sits with Mother, whenever she balances the accounts. But the numbers bounce across the page, when she attempts to make sense of them. They may as well have been written in High Valyrian.
Mother is far too busy to pester for additional lessons. Though Sansa is glad kindly Maester Luwin and patient Septa Mordane still live, she hardly wishes to spend excess time with them. Their lessons can be exceedingly dry, if the subject is not a stimulating one. She spends several successive nights pouring over her notes, which serves only to frustrate her to tears. She needs must do what she did with her other deficiencies; find a tutor.
It is when she attends the rookery to feed the ravens, that inspiration comes. Having long since learnt which ravens go where, so that she can send her letters to Benjen, she suddenly sees her own path as she traipses out. As she stumbles down the steep staircase of the Maester’s tower, she catches a glimpse of Luwin: asleep in his chair. His winkled face is serene in sleep, grey as his crumpled robes. The door to his library is wide open. Directly across from Sansa, is a towering structure crammed with reams of parchment.
Letters, decrees, missives. Hundreds of messages, dutifully cared for and copied by the maester when they fade. And on the very bottom shelf, a row of dark, leather-bound books. The very same kind Mother and Father use, to keep track of the North’s finances. Sansa finds herself creeping across the warped wooden floor before she can stop herself. Her dainty feet skitter across the room, avoiding an errant ink bottle tucked into the rucked edge of a dusty rug. Just as she is reaching down to collect her prize, Luwin gives out a tremendous rumbling snore. Sansa shoots into the air in fright, her spine snapping straight. Her sudden movement rattles the entire case. Releasing a giant plume of dust. She hides her face in her hair instinctively, to avoid the worst of it.
A horrible silence fills the room in the wake of her mistake. Heart beating wildly, she is sure she has been caught. Sheepishly, Sansa pierrotites to face the consequences. He gives a smack of ancient lips, but Luwin remains fast asleep. Sansa wastes no more time; snatching at a book from the back, cautiously wriggling it loose. Then she turns tail and rushes out, reluctant to press her luck further.
*
The next day, she sets herself a task she could complete in her sleep; gloves. At this age, Sansa should find leather tough to work with. But she has fashioned shoulder guards from boiled leather. Three sets of embroidered gloves are completed with much time to spare, as she intended. Declaring her intention to gift them immediately, Sansa strides from the sewing circle, unheeding of Arya’s protests.
The boys are in the yard, drilling their footwork. Most days they spar, but occasionally they line up with the household guard, and run through a series of uniform movements. Sansa stops to watch, as they brandish their shields and weighted wooden swords in unison. The sweeping movements are akin to a dance, graceful in a way.
With her sewing basket firm in hand, she makes her way down to the yard. Bran’s usual seat affords an excellent view. She knows when Theon catches sight of her, because his stance broadens, and he throws her a sweat-drenched smile. It is attractive, the way his pale rose-gold hair slicks across his forehead, dark and damp. His skin would be hot, she thinks, and then fumbles for an unfinished handkerchief to distract herself with.
She sits for an acceptable amount of time, until they are all used to her presence. When they are no longer interested, she darts away. Bran’s favourite seat has the advantage of being directly in front of an entrance to the kitchens. Sansa sneaks in, quiet and quick. Her success in the library has made her daring. She doesn’t feel guilty when she swipes the blueberry tarts; they’re to be eaten by her family anyway. The portly cook that catches her, does nothing more than shake her head in exasperation. Sansa offers her a bashful smile but no explanation, as she hurries back to her abandoned basket.
Theon gives her a look; letting her know he noticed her absence. Because he notices me now, Sansa realises. I intrigue him. She does not know how to deal with this news, so she disregards it. Her loot safely nestled amid scrap fabric, she checks over her gifts, and just in time. The men separate with sighs and groans of exertion, seeking water skins.
Unbothered by the audience, Theon strips off his tunic and undershirt. His chest is hairless, well-defined and soaked with sweat. Sansa stares as he gulps down water. The ripple of his throat is unaccountably interesting. She is rooted to her spot, half-sprung into action, her basket dangling precariously in her loose grip. The look he throws her is blatantly flirtatious, when he catches her gawking. It involves a wink.
Sansa shakes herself, but not before Robb takes notice. He follows Theon’s diverted attention to find Sansa standing rigid, with flaming cheeks, biting her lip. His curly head swivels between them, blue eyes blown wide in incredulity. Sansa charges forwards, desperate to rectify the situation before he can make a scene.
“Jon!” She calls, stopping her brother who was beginning to slink away. As he always does, if Robb and Theon are being too boisterous together. She offers him the butter-soft brown leather gloves she has made for him, with Ghost embroidered on both wrist coverings. Jon doesn’t hesitate to accept this time, though he cannot yet appreciate the sentimentality of the embroidery.
She quickly digs in her basket for her other offerings. The exact same is passed to Robb, through Grey Wind is of course sewn in gleaming silvery grey. The golden krakens on Theon’s dark green gloves were the hardest, with their delicate tentacles. Sansa worked hard to make them as accurate as possible. The boys examine their new gloves and offer their thanks, while Sansa beams. She knows the men tidying the training yard are watching her treat them all the same, showing no deference to Robb.
“Walk me back to my rooms?” Sansa the asks, offering her lordly big brother a wide smile. To refuse after a gift would be very poor form. So with a longing look at the water skins, he nods. She smothers a laugh.
“I will permit you a drink first, brave ser!” She japes, and Theon is the first to chuckle.
She sees Robb physically shake off his doubts; likely convincing himself he did not see what he initially believed. It will be easier for him, to ignore such a thing. Until it is as though he has willed it out of existence. Sansa will do nothing to dissuade him from that. A dalliance with Theon is futile. Her parents will never permit a match, and it offers no political advantage. She must marry to secure the loyalty of the North.
Sufficiently watered, Robb offers his arm, and Sansa takes it daintily. She comports herself with dignity, as always, but no longer obsesses over being recognised as a lady. Gone is the naïve girl who cared only for courtly love, sweet songs of fair maidens and handsome princes. Not that most of her family have noticed. Robb still treats her kindly, as he always did. He was the least likely to make japes at her expense, and always consented to play knights and maidens with her. He was her knight in shining armour, regardless of his sword being only a wooden one. Sansa had always loved him best, for these reasons. They seem so shallow now; Robb is responsible, attentive, clever with a great mind of strategy. There are better reasons to adore him than her girlish appreciation of his pandering.
When they reach their destination, she invites him in to take some rest. Robb eyes her, slightly puzzled, but agrees. Safely inside, she reveals her bounty, and his compliance becomes much more willing. Blueberry tarts have ever been Robb’s favourite, and these are still warm. Having removed them from prying eyes, Sansa has ensured he doesn’t have to share them with Jon and Theon. She giggles as he moans in pleasure, having worked up a fierce hunger drilling his footwork.
She only takes one pastry for herself. They are sweet with a hint of tartness; lovely in small doses but too sour for her to ever enjoy an excess. She much prefers the over-sugared lemoncakes. Robb adores the sharper treat, and greedily gobbles them up. Now she has him, having provided both nourishment and protection for his fingers from the icy weather.
He is powerless to refuse, when she brandishes her contraband, and pleads for him to teach her about sums.
*
Sansa no more trills about tragic separations and brave tourney knights in the South. But she still enjoys stories as much as all her siblings. Old Nan’s scary tales from Beyond the Wall are a favourite of Bran’s. Sansa peppers her with questions, and the elderly woman indulges her.
A summer storm has confined them to the family wing, swapping tales. Old Nan is extremely ancient, and eventually falls asleep. Thus the children take it upon themselves to entertain one another. Rickon is keen to waddle about the room, having recently mastered walking, and is fascinated by Jon’s dark curls. One too many sharp tugs find him scooped up into Sansa’s warm arms. Thankfully, her red hair is a fine enough substitute, and he settles on her lap without much fuss.
She largely ignores the others, in favour of cherishing time with her littlest brother. But after one of Arya’s warrior princess stories, Sansa steers the talk away from dragon women. She is unfavourably reminded of the wrathful Targaryen would-be queen. She requests a story of the Long Night, the Last Hero, and Bran the Builder.
That leads to boasting between the boys, all named after glorious Kings; the innumerable Brandons, the courageous Jon Stark who drove out raiders and built the Wolf’s Den. And the most recent addition to legend, Robert Baratheon, whom Robb recounts with a grizzly retelling of the Battle of the Trident, the blood and rubies spilling beneath his mighty Warhammer.
“Who is your namesake, Theon?” Bran chirps, with big curious eyes.
Theon winces, struck silent. What can he say? Sansa well knows his patchy accounts of legendary Ironborn. She bristles against the unintended humiliation. This kind of ousting will not do at all. Theon must be folded into the family, not pushed from it.
“Theon Stark defeated Argos Sevenstar in the Battle of the Weeping Water.” Sansa begins, dutifully reciting the tale from memory, elaborating on the gory details; “He then tied Argos’ rotted corpse to the prow of his ship like a carved figurehead, so everyone could see his victory against the Andals. King Theon ravaged the Andal invader’s villages, killing almost a thousand men and women. Then his men placed spikes all along the coast, and displayed all their heads. So that any other would-be invaders could see what awaited them, if they thought to attack the North.
He was a fearsome commander and a great warrior; his people nearly starved during the constant war of his reign, which is why his statue in the crypts is so gaunt. He was a King of Winter, but everyone called him the Hungry Wolf.”
Bran claps in delight, thrilled. Theon was staring at her in awe, and appreciation. She had included him in their nostalgic tales of a more brutal North, sewing him into the tapestry of their family.
“That makes no sense,” Arya naturally ruins the moment, consistently tactless. “Theon wouldn’t be named after him, because he’s not a Stark.”
Sansa watches with a detached sort of horror as the grin is wiped clean from Theon’s face. This is how you estrange someone, she thinks. With casual disregard. Each careless comment stone upon stone, until you have built a wall betwixt allies.
“Don’t be stupid, Arya.” She snaps, furious that all her efforts could be ruined in one fell swoop. “Of course he is.”
All eyes are on her now, Jon and Robb with scepticism, Theon with shock. Bran and Arya just look confused, and Rickon is entirely occupied with her hair, clutching it in a tight fist as he stares up at her chin.
“Theon is as much Stark, as he is Greyjoy.” Sansa posits, “Just as Father is an Arryn, yet brother to a Baratheon King. Blood and birthplace alone doesn’t make you who you are. Where you grow into maturity is more important, and the people you grow alongside. The family you cherish.” Sansa insists.
“But Theon has his own family-” Arya pipes up again, confused.
“Obviously.” Sansa scoffs, “And what of it? We have kin in the Riverlands, cousins in the Karstarks, and our Aunt Lysa in the far South. A woman we have never even met. Should we feel more love for them than we do Theon, who shares our home and hearth?”
She sniffs dismissively, a perfect parody of the girl she used to be. Theon looks like a man recovering from an unexpected blow, blinking rapidly in stupefaction. Robb seems utterly charmed, a lopsided smile growing across his face with her every scathing comment. Jon is frowning. It is difficult for him to adapt his notions, Sansa knows better than anyone. His understanding of family and honour is very strict. He is more of a Tully than she ever was, always putting family and duty first.
“Neither Robb or Jon were born in the North. It doesn’t make them any less our brothers.” Sansa concludes, “The same is true for Theon.”
There is nothing anyone can say to that. Robb would never call Theon anything less. Jon is far less convinced, but perhaps her mention of father helped, as he doesn’t seem entirely sceptical. Theon swallows thickly, his eyes suspiciously moist.
*
Notes:
Due to lots of requests, this story has been elongated, so there will be more chapters! :)
Chapter Text
Sansa has not forgotten her foes; the enemies of all men of conscience. Magical monsters with fearsome powers can seem like an insurmountable issue. But human men are flesh and blood, and can be cut down. And Ramsay Bolton needed to be dealt with as soon as feasible. Ideally before he reached maturity, and stepped into power. There must be some crime she can have her father investigate. The Boltons would always continue their foul practices, regardless of their liege lord’s orders. Of that, Sansa could be certain.
But her family were not frequent guests at the Dreadfort. Sansa had visited once, but she did not recall anyone drawing attention to Lord Bolton’s bastard. No doubt Ramsay had been skulking in the shadows, imagining all the foul things he wished to do to them. Later attempting to slake his insatiable bloodlust, by torturing the smallfolk. People that would not be missed. So long as Roose Bolton ignored his son’s penchant for violence, and indulged in his own sickening practices, no one would be brave enough to hold them to account. No one save her lord father, shored up by the protection of his bannermen. But how could Sansa force such an occurrence to take place?
Fury wars with pity in Sansa’s heart. The Bolton servants are assuredly suffering needlessly. But it is fear that seizes her bones. If the Northmen cannot unite in a time of peace, there is no hope for them. For when winter comes, the dead will walk. She cannot encourage a war within the North, between Winterfell and the Dreadfort. The Bolton men have no reason yet to turn against the savage cruelty of their lord. The North would bleed, and look weak and unstable compared to the other realms.
It is listening to Beth and Jeyne’s idle chatter that the bolt of inspiration comes to her. They are talking of marriable men in the North, a common topic, but they mention an eligible lord Sansa had completely forgotten existed. How she could have been so stupid and oblivious, she does not know. Domeric Bolton still lives. A trueborn heir, with a stalwart reputation. Fostered in the Vale, no less, and probably on the road home by now. She cannot recall the incident surrounding his death, but knowing Ramsay, he probably had a hand in it.
What could it hurt to ask after Domeric? To press her parents to invite him to Winterfell, and tell them of his adventures? Sansa does so at the first moment she has command of their attention. Her mother seems amused and knowing, Father baffled but intrigued. Mayhaps he wants news from the place he himself was once fostered. To be reminded of his carefree days, or to learn from a first-hand account how the lands of the Vale have changed.
Father duly wrote to Lord Bolton, and though the Leech Lord was reluctant, he could not refuse, having no justification. It should be considered a great honour, that his liege lord views a bannerman’s son as a trustworthy source of information. A feast to celebrate his return as a knight, held in a Lord Paramount’s hall, is no small feat. Domeric also accepts their invitation. He sends a gracious letter of his own, detailing his expected arrival.
They are informed one morning that Domeric will join them between five and six moons, depending on the weather. He has indeed been knighted, and is a solid jouster and swordsman, who apparently plays the harp. Theon and Robb share twin looks of contempt, but Jon seems interested. Jon is more concerned with honour than anyone else, even Father, and thus Southern sentiments of chivalry are more fascinating to him. Sansa sincerely hopes that Domeric is the kind of man who will not be cruel to Jon, for his perceived bastardy.
Bran is the most delighted, as he has continued to cling to his dream of being a knight. Sansa immediately sees her folly, when Bran begins to talk of nothing but squiring for the man. How ever will she now persuade him that the Riverlands, and Uncle Brynden, is the better choice? Experience counts for little with someone so young. Bran cares more that Domeric is a Northman, a knight who follows the Old Gods. Therefore the perfect knight, according to Bran. The idea does have its merits; it will bring fostering into her father’s mind. Roose would not dare harm Bran while Father lived, knowing it would bring the might of the North upon him. And the Dreadfort is not half so far from home.
She knows not how to dissuade Bran, nor if it would be right of her to do so. Sansa will do everything in her power to ensure he never falls, but she cannot be with him at all hours. It would be better if she could ensure the King and his retinue never come North. However, saving Jon Arryn is a feat she doubts she could accomplish. All the ravens in the North will not convince the extremely logical, dutiful Warden of the East, to set aside his wife in fear of his life. Not on the word of a stranger. And if Lord Arryn did somehow free himself from Aunt Lysa, Sansa has no doubt Lord Baelish would deploy some other agent. It is decidedly not her place to bring chaos to the Seven Kingdoms by uncovering the plot, or claiming herself to be some form of oracle, predicting the future. She has no desire to ever capture the attention of Littlefinger in this life. If she stays far away from all his schemes and plans, she might never have to deal with his unwanted advances again.
But that does not provide any solution to her predicament. Ramsay lives in the bowels of the Dreadfort. Could she ever forgive herself, if Bran became the object of his fixation? Would Roose be able to dissuade him, when tales of Stark skin cloaks were well known? That temptation would be too much for Ramsay, she expects. He would have to taste some of that glory for himself.
Mayhaps she should focus on sending Arya away. If all goes wrong, and the King wishes to take them South, it would save her. It is Arya who is not built for courtly intrigue, and she deserves to stay here. Sansa knows just who is capable of protecting her. Bear Island is fiercely loyal and strong. Lyanna Mormont would be an excellent companion to wild Arya; a subdued, dutiful, tough girl. Arya was charmed with the Mormont women, and Sansa reminds her father of such. She asks Maester Luwin why fostering has fallen out of favour in the North, with specific examples of young ladies sent as handmaidens. She trusts the two men will eventually work themselves into the correct concluding corner.
But that doesn’t crack her problem of endangering sweet Bran. She watches his first series of swordplay lessons, the wooden sword sagging in his hands, too heavy for him to heft. Will Domeric even consent to take him? Her brother is too young to squire, more suited to be a page. A position lacking glory, but the first step to knighthood. Then she feels it, like a strike to the flesh. How her plans may combine. She flies to Jon’s room, as though her heels had caught aflame.
*
Jon is always happy to see her now. Sansa gifts him with all her large projects. Having recently added a blood red jerkin, the colour of Dornish wine, and a matching cloak edged in red fox fur, to his wardrobe. Mother had turned pale, thin-lipped and furious, when he first wore it. The blue tunic could easily be concealed, as undershirts naturally are, in a realm where layers are always necessary. Not so with a cloak. But Mother could hardly take the clothes from Jon’s back. Sansa is still angry that there was part of her lady mother that clearly wanted to scream at Jon to remove it, and stop daring to dress as a lord.
Sansa shakes away her idle thoughts. She cannot explain her scheme to Jon exactly, but he now trusts her enough to listen to her idea.
“Bran is far too young to squire,” she explains, “And Mother will be reluctant to let him go. You know how she babies him.”
Jon nods, reluctant to speak against Lady Stark, yet he will not contradict his sister’s statement either.
“Father would worry also. The past enmity between the Starks and Boltons is well known. Mayhaps he might think Bran would not be accorded the respect he deserves.” Sansa muses, though Father would never consider such a thing.
Ned Stark was a man who found it difficult to understand that others lacked his sense of honour. Which is what ultimately lead him along the path to the destruction of his own House.
“So you wish me to speak to Bran? To keep him from raising up his hopes?” Jon guesses. He looks reluctant to contemplate such a task. It would be a horrible thing, to be the one to subdue Bran’s innocent smiles. It is a good suggestion, but not what Sansa desires anymore.
“Nay,” she announces, “I wish for you to accompany him.”
Jon goes rigid with surprise. Or mayhaps, he believes she wants rid of him. Sansa reaches out and grasps his fingers with her own.
“Father will not worry over him, if he knows Bran will be watched over by you. He understands how well you love us all, that he would be safe with you to protect him.”
Jon is not convinced, she can easily see.
“It would insult Lord Bolton, for Lord Stark to request he take in his bastard.” He whispers, ashamed.
Sansa bites her lip in agitation. She should have anticipated this. Jon was a martyr for his honour; he considered himself a stain upon Ned Stark’s. A blemish that could only be scrubbed out by earning glory in the Night’s Watch.
“Bastards have a reputation they do not deserve. You certainly do not deserve it.” She squeezes his hand between both of hers. “Any household would be lucky to have you as a guard, Jon. And Bran couldn’t hope for a more loyal, loving protector.”
Jon mulls the idea over, grey eyes skittering across her face, teeth chewing on his lips. “Do you truly think Father would agree?”
“Assuredly!” Sansa exclaims, “And Lord Bolton might be more accommodating than you think. He has a natural son of his own, you know. He lives in the Dreadfort with his family, just as you live with us.”
This is not true; Sansa knows little of Ramsay’s upbringing, but she doubts it was anything akin to Jon’s life alongside her. Respected and taught beside trueborn siblings. Roose Bolton was not a warm or loving man, he was cold-blooded.
Ramsay was kept in the North when Bolton banners rode to war with Robb. That is not the action of a man proud of his child, but of a strategist who had left his son behind, in case he could press his advantage with the North undefended. A calculated move that came to fruition when they were installed as Wardens after Robb’s death.
Jon doesn’t seem any more familiar with Ramsay than any of them were, before Roose unleashed him. Sansa explains away her knowledge, by claiming servant’s gossip. Once the announcement about Domeric’s arrival had been made, it truly set tongues wagging regarding all things Bolton. She just adds a few details that were never made. It might not yet be enough to sway Jon, who promises to consider her proposal. But only if Bran remains determined to follow Domeric. It all depends on the knight being worthy enough to follow. And there is no way for Sansa to have any insight on that.
*
Robb and Sansa have never shared many lessons. They were the eldest of their Father’s trueborn, but their lessons diverged when they were still very small. Though Sansa is the eldest daughter of lord, and Robb a lord to be, she is expected to marry a vassal lord, whereas Robb will become a Lord Paramount. Those duties are very different. Running a household and tenants is not comparable to running an entire Kingdom on behalf of the crown. There is a reason why Mother has so many responsibilities, and it is because Father trusts her with Winterfell, when he needs focus on the North as a whole.
Sansa has only really shared dancing lessons with Robb. Being the only noble girl similar in age, they learnt the steps together. They remain partners, when memories must be refreshed before important feasts. Now, he shows nothing of the guidance he had, when they were being directed in tandem. Robb is frankly a terrible teacher.
Robb attempts to point out patterns, frustrated when she cannot see them. He makes leaps with his understanding of the ancient accounts, that he cannot explain nor untangle. They are working to follow the life of Winterfell in the time of Father’s grandfather, Lord Edwyle. When taxes were apparently high, and there was a regrettable lack of sheep. All according to Robb. Sansa does not see it herself, and it is only the despair on her face that has Robb rubbing her shoulders soothingly, and vowing to slow down.
They go over basic numbers, setting aside the complex records. Robb explains what each household levy in the North owes Winterfell and the King. It is only after he explains their duty to the Night’s Watch, that he frowns and mumbles about the lack of supplies sent from the South. Sansa helpfully points out that if the North is sending more than their share, it means their people are suffering unduly, due to a dearth of food. Robb declares their lesson done, and marches off to find Father, without much more of an explanation. Sansa smiles to herself, as she tucks the stolen book back into its hiding place.
She may not have achieved her goal in truth, but Robb questioning the South’s commitment to the Night’s Watch can only be a good thing. Especially if it forces Father to have a frank exchange of letters with the current Lord Commander. Their duty to the Wall is an urgent one.
*
When the news comes from White Harbour, Sansa can’t quite believe it. Nothing like this ever happened in her past life, she is sure of it. No one save for grizzled sailors who had travelled far had ever seen a kraken. Those men were not believed. It was supposedly a deep ocean ghoul, the sigil of Theon’s House; a foul, fearsome monstrosity, with a huge head and long lashing arms, like whips with teeth. There had ever been reports of a live one seen reaping the land or harbour, but that could never be verified.
And now apparently Lord Manderly had a dead one in his hall, bought from a sea merchant who dragged it aboard. Not bloated pieces of indistinguishable flesh, washed ashore, or strange seaweed arranged to look frightening. An entire intact carcass, with a head and tentacles and one giant waxy eye.
The Stark children are all equally fascinated and disturbed by the tales of this fleshy pink head, and the pale pliable arms. The single eye is said to be revolting. Theon is savagely pleased, to be vindicated in the nightmarish tales he used to tell, to frighten them when they were small. Jon had always been dismissive, so spends much of the announcement staring at Theon in horror.
They beg Father to go. Manderly has had the creature salted, but intends to pickle it and keep it in his Mermaid’s hall. Theon is not the only one who longs to see it before its skin is tainted. Days of whining after Father, and bringing up the mysterious monster in all conversations, gains results. Father will hear not one more word about it. They will pack up their things and be on the road in two days, and the first one to complain about the driven journey will be sent home immediately.
Sansa has no intention of being that unlucky soul. Her riding lessons certainly come in handy, as Father’s pace is relentless. They careen across the land, hooves kicking up chunks of dirt and tufts of grass. Sansa oft finds herself riding beside Theon. Shrieking with laughter, the wind whipping her hair into a frenzy, as they race along the road. What greater symbol of freedom could there be than this? Sansa’s horse, a charger borrowed from a guard left behind, leaps confidently over stones and tussocks. She ignores Robb’s barked orders to slow down.
Arya glares at her from Bran’s slow pony, her brother riding in front of Jory, too young to undertake such a long journey alone. Only Mother and Rickon stayed behind, her youngest brother unable to gain much from the viewing, and Mother uninterested in viewing the monster. Sansa is glad for it, as Jon’s smiles are always quicker and broader, when Mother is nowhere to be found.
She quickly forgets there is an objective to their excursion. Slowing to trot beside Robb and Jon, for once she is included in their japes. Robb does an impression of Lyonel, who got drunk and fell from his bench at the tavern. Jon laughs, but makes no attempt as his own impersonation. Sansa sits higher in the saddle.
“Guess who I am!” She demands, then screws up her face into a pinched expression. “Boys! Are you men or ruffians! Do you think the Warrior calls such beasts into his service?”
They erupt into laughter, her rasping words a wonderful approximation of Septa Mordane’s irritated tone.
Robb wipes a tear from his face. “That was brilliant! Just so.”
Sansa flushes with pride, a happy smile blooming on her lips. She casts a look over her shoulder, her red hair curling into the nape of her emerald green cloak, damp with exertion. Theon is watching her, as he keeps pace with Lord Cerwyn’s weaselly son, who met them on the road.
She pretends she doesn’t understand the longing in his heated gaze.
*
There have been reports of unusually deep summer snows further North, where Umber lands border Roose Bolton’s territory. It was a ready excuse for those declining to attend Bran’s celebrations. And yet the Merman’s Court is full to the brim of curious men and women, a roaring rabble of voices making it difficult to hear even Robb, who is sitting directly next to her.
“I still think the Mermaid’s Hall would be a more fitting name,” Sansa muses, but without the disdain of her past cutting comments.
“It’s a lord’s court!” Robb chides, but evidently Theon heard and agreed with her, because he leans over the table in an uncouth manner, and hollers;
“She’s right, Robb! Just look at all those sodden wenches.”
Theon swept his arm in a wobbly arc, narrowly avoiding sloshing mead over Wynafryd Manderly. The girl glared at him, but he paid her no mind. Sansa hoped her grin was hidden by her hair, as she ducked down to cut another piece of her lamprey pie. It was a strange day indeed, when Theon Greyjoy did not endeavour to endear every girl in the vicinity to favour him. He catches her eye, mischievous grin firmly in place.
“Have a care, Theon,” Robb sighs, no doubt for the rude comment hidden in Theon’s words, as much for the reckless manner of his movement. “Your Hall is very beautiful, my lady,” He continues, directing himself to the eldest granddaughter of the Fat Merman Lord.
“Thank you, my lord,” She purrs in reply, beneath a flush Sansa suspected was entirely fake. Wynafryd seemed like a clever minx, full of flattery and sweet maidenly virtue, coating hidden schemes. She’s another Margaery Tyrell, Sansa thinks uncharitably, playing at being kind, but always out to gain something for her House. Robb ought to be careful, else he’d be returning to Winterfell a betrothed man.
Not that Sansa will allow it, of course. She has been contemplating a way to instigate a betrothal between Robb and House Frey. Getting that treacherous old lecher, Walder Frey, to feel indebted to House Stark for raising up his family. Making one of his daughters the future Lady of a Lord Paramount, would surely guarantee his support far sooner, in the coming wars. Especially if the deal were long struck, his daughter already installed in Winterfell. Mayhaps even with a babe? But these might yet be the fancies of a girl. It troubles Sansa, but it seems wasteful to her, for Robb to be pushed toward Alys Karstark or a Mormont.
Father has never shown any interest in betrothing Robb, though offers must have come, once his heir survived infancy. It seems like their lord father is not yet capable of seeing them as growing young people. The doll Father gifted her in Kings Landing, proves he will yet feel that way for many years to come. Sansa releases her frustration with an exaggerated exhale. The Merman’s Court is beautiful, every interlocked wooden crevice painted, all manner of sea creatures mingling amongst deep blue-green waves, with a fearsome battle betwixt kraken and leviathan on the wall behind Wyman Manderly’s giant cushioned throne. Part of the thrashing tail of the leviathan is obscured by Theon’s head. And the beautiful, haunting faces of mermaids peer out from every shadowed crevice.
The Starks are naturally seated at a place of honour, the highest table, slightly below the dais of the throne. Wyman is chuckling loudly, and quaffing ale with Father, who looks mildly alarmed by the miniature tidal wave each time Lord Manderly drinks. Were Mother here, Jon and Theon would no doubt have been placed elsewhere. Jon with the servants, Theon with the lesser Houses. Instead, Jon is happily sandwiched between Bran and Arya, who are very pleased not to have to engage in conversation with Wylla Manderly, who is on Sansa’s other side.
Would that Sansa could retreat into conversation with Robb. Instead she remembers her courtly lessons well. She politely enquires after the favoured activities of the ladies of White Harbour. She tries her absolute best to keep her gaze on Wylla’s sparkling eyes, and ignore her garish, vomit-inducing hair colour. Why any girl would favour green, Sansa could not imagine. She takes a moment to picture herself with dark purple hair, or perhaps a bright sunny yellow. Something playful and beautiful. Not a shade roughly the colour of the fungus that grew on men’s feet, if they stayed shod in wet boots for too long.
Lord Manderly has dragged out the unveiling of his creature so long that there have been many grumblings about deception. The Stark household had only arrived three nights ago, though there are some who have been here almost a fortnight. Apparently, they were under the impression that the Warden of the North was the guest of honour they were waiting for. Many are sour this was not the case, regardless of the obscene amount of food, mead, ale and wine on display every night. Sansa watches Theon gorge himself on seafood like a starved waif, and decides then and there she will discover his favourite dishes, and pretend they are her own. The Manderlys are famously loyal to the Starks; they will provide recipes and ship the ingredients, of that she has no doubt. She remembers all to well, what it was to never eat the food of your Kingdom, and wish, just for one night, to enjoy the comforts of home.
Apparently, the special guest they have been waiting for has arrived, as Wyman Manderly roars his intention to bring out the beast shortly. But first, a final addition to their ranks. The doors open to permit a man recently dressed for dinner, his hair still wet from cleaning away the dirt of travel. Sansa sits rigid in her seat, as she claims her first glimpse of Domeric Bolton, a man grown. Her heart makes an uncomfortable thump, and she wonders if this dark-haired, lithe stranger is to be her future husband.
*
Notes:
Two updates in one day? This is madness!
Chapter 5
Notes:
If anyone is curious, Aneurin Barnard is my fan cast/face claim for Domeric Bolton, for your ease of imagination. If you have a scroll through there's him in armour, on horseback, wearing fine clothes/a cloak etc. He's dreamy mhmm? And he does share some features with Iwan Rheon (Ramsay). They're both Welsh, for instance.
Chapter Text
*
Sansa had tried not to imagine the foul appearance of the kraken. She couldn’t help but worry that its death was an omen, much like the direwolf killed by a stag. Though no one could understand it at the time, retrospectively, its meaning was clear. Robert Baratheon gored her family, when he demanded Father join him in King’s Landing. The stag too had been killed by the mother she-wolf, Sansa recalled. The Baratheon line had been destroyed entirely in the time Sansa came from. Part of the blame for that could be laid at Father’s feet. He could have staged a coup during Robert’s dying hours, caging the lions and calling Stannis to King’s Landing to take his throne. Honour stilled his hand, and cost him his head. Everyone ignored the direwolf omen. Sansa would not overlook this new message from the gods.
That it was a message for House Greyjoy was obvious. But what exactly? Perhaps the manner of the creature’s death would reveal it. She had to hope it was not foreshadowing the total destruction of Theon’s House. She had no desire to lose him, and did not wish him to lose his other family. No matter how distasteful Mother insisted Theon’s father was, whoever replaced him could be far worse. A man trying to prove himself is a dangerous thing, Sansa knew. Both Joffrey and Ramsay had been insecure boys, desperate to cow everyone into believing they were strong.
She had been so focused on the kraken, she clean forgot to dwell on Domeric Bolton. Once he arrived, it seemed obvious he would meet them here. He had travelled partly by boat to see the spectacle in White Harbour on his way home. But thoughts of his journey had been far from her mind during their own. It had been wonderous to travel the North, with a welcoming destination at the close. So little time of her life had been spent out of doors. She’d never hunted with the boys, who got to stay in the wolfswood and sleep under the stars. It had been a lovely novelty, to explore her new riding skills and spend time with her brothers on the road. Consequently, she had given Domeric little thought. Now Sansa felt wrong-footed and under-prepared for confronting him.
Her first impressions were pleasant enough. He was a man of much height, broad in the shoulder but still thin. He had long dark hair, lightly curled, and blue eyes, from what she could gather at a distance. The heir to the Deadfort bows stiffly but deeply to Lord Wyman, before joining the Ryswell contingent, on the far side of the Hall. Naturally, Sansa realised. She foolishly expected him to join the Starks. But logically, he would sit with his mother’s kin. They had been separated for many years during his squiring. He probably missed them fiercely, if he felt anything for his family the way Sansa felt for her own. If she had ever escaped King’s Landing while her mother and brothers lived, she would have wanted to be with them over all others. The circumstances were not truly alike, but enough that Sansa could sympathise.
She doesn’t stop herself from seeking him out with her eyes, even as the fat Lord began to postulate on the kraken’s life and death, and generally pontificate. She follows his dark head across the hall, pretending not to notice Theon watching her. Domeric’s stride is purposeful and poised. She guesses he would be a proficient dancer. Thoroughly distracted, Sansa tunes out Lord Manderly’s endless droning. She is not alone. Arya, despite her glee at finally getting to see the monster, laid her head upon the table. Sansa only notices, when her sister begins to snore. Horrified, Sansa hisses at Jon.
The useless boy only snorts with laughter, finally poking Arya awake after several long minutes. Their sister sits up, groaning, scrubbing a hand through her nest of tangled hair with a glare. One of her sleeves had trailed through her soup, and she carries a stream of it across the tabletop. Bran sniggers into his fist, but Sansa is mortified. Mother would be so embarrassed, were she there. Wynafryd and Wylla both eye Arya with a mixture of contempt and humiliation. They know their grandfather is similarly boring the other guests into an early grave.
Thankfully, the incident inspires Wynafryd to deliver them. She bounds from her seat, thanking her lord for his wise words, leading the room into a toast. Lord Wyman looks startled to be interrupted, then smiles, blinking stupidly. It is clear his speech wasn’t done, but Wynafryd is merciless. She roars for the kraken to be wheeled in before he can say another word. The guests straighten from their slouches, slamming their goblets into the tables, a drumbeat that thrums throughout the room.
The Starks wait with baited breath, as Manderly men push in a cart, longer than it is wide. It is specially designed for the singular purpose of housing the prize. The thick wood was painted green and gilded with gold. Those sat at the top table were the first invited forward. Theon leaps to his feet, somehow at Sansa’s side before she can properly shake out her skirts and stand. He offers her his elbow. She takes it, surprised when he lays his opposite hand atop hers. Their siblings move forwards without them, but Sansa stays rooted in place. She looks up at Theon, her hair falling back away from her face. He is far taller than her. His gaze is unsettled, something frantic and frail in those murky, watery depths. Father steps down from his seat on the dais beside Lord Manderly, and snaps Sansa from her daze. She drags Theon forwards, his feet still planted firmly as she begins to charge forward. He quickly matches her pace, using his spare elbow to push Robb aside. They peer into the long box together.
The beast is hideous. Pink flesh ranging from salmon-bright, to so pale it is almost white in places. Its body was entirely head, and enormous. Easily the side of a man, yet far wider. (Unless that man was Lord Manderly). The eye alone is humungous. Robb demonstrates, by holding his two hands over it, one above the other. The rim can still be seen above his topmost fingertips. The head is somewhat shaped like an upturned pear. The outer edges are thinner than the robust centre, almost fin-like. Its body is far bigger in comparison to the eight slimy tentacles, than the Greyjoy sigil on Theon’s chest would suggest. Bran’s hair bounces, as he constantly swivels between the golden depiction, and the true animal.
The two arms with bulbous hands are particularly long, wrapped around the creature’s body. They have been nailed into the edges of the box, to prevent tangling. The tentacles are covered in curious circles, and a Manderly guard leans in to poke one, and point out the hooks nestled beside. It is quite awful, and Sansa is very glad of Theon’s arm to cling to, keeping her steady.
Father and Jon are frowning at it with equally furrowed brows, but Robb seems delighted. He pokes at a tentacle and lets out a theatrical cry of disgust. Sansa casts a worried look upon Theon, to see if he is offended by Robb’s jape. But Theon seems entranced with the creature. He is taking note of nothing else. Maester Luwin is the only one who seems to match him, cataloguing every detail with academic curiosity.
“It’s a bit small,” Arya whines, completely absurd. The beast could easily have eaten her up, had it been alive.
“Aye,” agrees the lad who had helpfully pointed out the claws. “Maester Theomore suspects it might be a cub.”
“I doubt that was the term he used,” Maester Luwin argues, but nods in agreement. “But I do believe it may be a young, juvenile specimen.”
“How did he die?” asks Theon, unusually solemn. No playful smile in place to deflect the tension from his words.
“I would need to examine the creature at length,” Luwin starts, “Although that is really Maester Theomore’s place-”
“I don’t understand how he got here?” Theon interrupts, speaking a little too fast. “How was it found?"
The Manderly guard shrugs, clearly unmoved by Theon’s worry. “The merchant said it washed ashore, and he happened to be first to reach it. He didn’t know if it would fetch a good price here, but said they always do in Sothroyos, according to him. It will be an excellent addition this great court.”
“Lord Manderly intends to display it here?” Father asks sternly. He has never been a man to mount his kills, the way Southern houses did. Still, the Manderlys originated in the Reach, and were forgiven all manner of oddities due to their Andal blood.
Theon looks altogether queasy as the guard explains Lord Wyman’s intention to pry up some of the wooden planking in the floor and install the box. They will pickle the creature below a wall of glass, so that people may stand and look upon it.
“It’s not right.” The Ironborn boy protests, “Though if it washed ashore the Drowned God may have rejected it.” He shakes his head, puzzling over the issue.
“Krakens belong in the sea.” Theon eventually declares, reaching out his free hand to gently brush one of the many tentacles.
Sansa squeezes his arm in solidarity. She had never laid eyes upon Lady’s dead body. Although Theon had no bond with the kraken babe, the thought of her lost direwolf was enough to allow Sansa some insight. They took their fill of the mysterious beast quietly from then on. Robb watches Theon with concern, and cannot seem to help himself from glancing at where Sansa’s pale hand is tucked into his friend’s arm. Then Father ushers them away, so that others might have their chance to look upon it.
Arya declares the kraken to be hideous and entirely without merit, but everyone else seems pleased to have seen such a rare sight for themselves. Even Theon, who placed his hand upon the monster’s bulging head, and whispered an unfamiliar prayer over it.
When Sansa presses him about it later, huddling close, Theon explains that he prayed the soul of the creature found its way to the Drowned God’s halls, even if its flesh was caged.
*
Sansa does not meet Domeric Bolton officially until the next day, at luncheon. She and the other Starks had been exploring the city after breaking their fast. At first they trailed around together, in a large party with their guards. That way they learnt the lay of the stalls, and what lovely things were available to purchase. Then they were each given an allowance of silver from Father. They were to buy a single trinket for themselves. The remainder, should there be any, could be spent on foreign treats and drinks in the marketplace.
As soon as her siblings began to chatter excitedly over their intended purchases, Sansa pressed her money into Theon’s hands. She begged him to buy her a jewelled Tyrosh dagger. There had been a stall filled with the beautiful curved blades, the pommels and sheaths glittering with different combinations of emeralds, diamonds, amethysts and rubies. He took the leather pouch from her swiftly, hiding the transaction with ease.
“Is there any particular specimen that my lady desires?” He had purred, and Sansa had blushed.
She mentioned a blue and green dagger. It had laid towards the outer edge of the table, on a purple velvet cushion. Dutifully, Theon had bought it for her, muttering that he would find a way to pass it to her at dinner. She intended to conceal it in her luggage.
Sansa felt very stupid at luncheon, when the others began to shown off their wares, and she was empty handed.
“Didn’t you find anything pretty enough, Sansa?” Arya sneers, brandishing her Lysene finger-trap. Bran is currently stuck in the wooden contraption, and quite unable to shake it off. Jon reaches over and releases the catch with a sigh, sending Arya a quelling look.
Sansa flushes, angry that her oversight is so public.
“I have it,” Theon shrugs, slouching forward lazily.
“Whatever for?” Robb asks, a challenging edge to his voice. Theon casts him an unimpressed look, before reaching into his pocket. Sansa wants to scream at him not to be so foolish. But she is frozen, helpless to watch as he draws out a small object wrapped in thin, waxy paper.
“Sansa was worried thieves might make off with her precious cargo- or else she would drop it,” drawls Theon.
Arya snorts at that declaration, but leans over like the rest, as Sansa accepts it. She unties the string holding the paper together with trembling fingers. A clam falls out into her hand.
“Father said we weren’t to spend it all on food!” Bran pouts, probably wishing he had.
Sansa stares at the unexpected gift, cautiously opening the shell to reveal the beautiful shiny inside. A pair of pearl earrings are nestling within, set in silver fixtures. Her heart leaps at the sight of the expensive, unwarranted present, wondering what she could have done to earn such a thing. She swallows back the sudden burning sensation in her throat, and smiles defiantly, showing off her pretty trinket. Arya curls her lip in disgust, but Theon winks at her when she catches his eye. She beams at him genuinely, truly grateful.
They are interrupted before anyone can question her on their cost or origin. Domeric Bolton is polite and quiet as he hails their attention. He bows as stiffly to her father, as he did to Lord Manderly the night before. Sansa drinks in his features, trying to see if they conceal the same level of cruelty as Roose Bolton’s other son.
Domeric is taller than his brother, a man grown. His hair is curled like Ramsay’s, but far darker, akin to Jon’s. His eyes are darker also, a stormy blue, more lively than Ramsay’s pale ice chips. His smile doesn’t light up his face with manic glee, and is instead a subdued, almost saddened thing. His chin, nose and the shape of his eyes are where he favours Ramsay most. The cut of their jaw is an exact likeness. But his lips are a different shape, less plump. He is as handsome as his brother, perhaps moreso. But that may only be due to Sansa’s lack of fear toward him. His house has not yet betrayed her own. Domeric is not seeking to rule the North through her. Not yet, anyway, she thinks darkly.
“I am pleased to meet you all,” he says, making sure to meet each of set of curious eyes watching him. “And deeply honoured for your invitation to Winterfell, my lord.”
Ned Stark waves away Domeric’s formality. “We are lucky to have you, a man who can tell us much of the land South of the Neck. Life in the North can be very inwardly focused. At times it is as though we forget the other Six Kingdoms exist.”
Domeric smiles humbly, “My time in the Vale was a pleasant one. I will be happy to speak of it to willing ears.”
“And of jousting? You’ll tell us about it?” Bran interrupts, eagerly.
“I was lucky enough to participate in a tourney.” Domeric reveals. “I can certainly speak of it, should it interest you.”
“Yes!” Bran squeals, launching into his usual spiel about wishing to become a knight. Sansa shakes her head. Bran is usually shy around strangers, but give him a real knight to speak to, and the boy makes Theon look reticent. She casts a glance at the man in question. He is watching Domeric with an odd combination of distrust and interest on his face. She wonders what thoughts might be running across his mind.
They pass a pleasant luncheon together, Father making sure they do not wear their poor guest out with too many inquiries. As the servants begin to clear their tables, Sansa and her siblings hop from the benches, keen to get back outside. She turns to find Domeric at her elbow, smiling down at her from a great height. She shivers to be so close to the flayed man sigil once more, carved into the boiled leather of his jerkin.
“There is to be dancing tonight, my lady.” He says, and she wrenches her eyes from the hated symbol with considerable effort. Domeric doesn’t seem to notice.
“I have heard it said you are a lively dancer, Lady Sansa, very sure on your feet. I trust you will let me see for myself, this evening?”
Sansa curtsies, and feels her face slip into the mask she wore at King’s Landing. “I should like that very much, Ser.”
It does not feel like a lie, and yet Sansa feels nauseous, at the thought of touching the skin of another treacherous flayed man
*
When she returns to her room to change for dinner, Robb is sitting on her bed, worrying the knitted green blanket with his hands.
“I know you didn’t buy those earrings.” he accuses her, “I was watching your face when you opened that clam. You didn’t have clue as to what was inside.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Who else could have bought them?” Sansa swept his charges aside, crossing to her wardrobe to begin sorting through her dresses. She intended to wear green that night, and wanted to assess her options.
Robb crosses his arms with a huff, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “Theon. Theon bought them for you, as a gift.”
Sansa thrusts her chin out, unimpressed by his display of dominance. “Why ever should he do that?”
“Enough, Sansa!” Robb's patience snaps, “You have to end this game with him.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking of, Robb-” She begins to insist, until he takes her by the shoulders, and forcefully steers her to sit on the guest bed.
“What did you actually spend your money on, hmm?” Robb casts his eyes about her room, searching for her hidden trinket. If he starts ferreting about the place, he may uncover her beautiful, sapphire and emerald encrusted dagger. It would not be so easy to explain as the earrings.
“Myrish ribbon!” Sansa exclaims. “It’s not as pretty as the lace, of course, but that is worth more than its weight in gold and I would never have been able to buy any. Mother promised me a wedding gown in Myrish lace, and when I saw the ribbon-”
Robb sighs heavily, not caring one whit for Sansa’s sewing fabric. He waves away her words, resting his hands upon his hips, looking extremely put upon. Were his expression not so grave, Sansa would giggle at his attempt to impersonate Father.
“Sansa, I know you enjoy your girlish games,” He begins, earnestly settling beside her. “But you must know life is not a song composed entirely of maidens and fair knights.”
“I know that!” Sansa insists, insulted. She knows she has shown great maturity in the past moons, compared to her previous self. It hurts to think that others still see her as a stupid girl.
Robb pats her knee paternally. “I thought so, since you have grown up so much. But you cannot court a man’s attentions, and think it just a game.”
Sansa gapes at her brother, aghast. “I would never do such an improper, vile thing!”
“Sansa,” Robb sighs, “Theon is almost a man grown. I know you have some affection for him; you were the one to name him a Stark. You can’t accept gifts from a man, for no occasion, as though he were courting you.”
Sansa pouts, still stung by his insult. “I didn’t know he was going to gift me them.”
Robb sighs again, suddenly a world-weary old man. “I know that, Sansa. But to accept them, it sends a message you may not intend.”
Sansa bristles, unused to his patronising tone. No one speaks in such a way to her at Winterfell, during her lessons. She could hardly have rejected the pearls, in front of everyone. What did Robb expect her to do, return them?
Her brother insists; “Creating false expectation leads to heartache and fury. You know it can never lead anywhere.”
“Theon has no false expectations!” She wails.
“You know that isn’t true,” Robb fixes her with another stern look. “To toy with a man’s affections is a cruel thing, Sansa.”
She slaps him with an open fist before she can stop herself. Robb clutches his reddened cheek in disbelief. Sansa’s chest is heaving with constrained anger, and she does not trust herself to speak immediately, frightened of what might come pouring out. She is so alone in her mission, constantly frightened and confused about the steps she is taking. Theon’s friendship has been a source of comfort, and Robb’s accusations are spoiling it.
“How dare you?” she hisses, “I would never do such a thing. Like some waspish, fickle Southern wench, withholding her attentions without reason, and playing her suitors against one another. Do you really think so low of me?”
Robb opens his mouth, but seems to think better of it.
“Get out!” Sansa snarls, physically pushing him off her borrowed bed, and out of the room, “Go!”
Her brother allows her to bully him out, shamed by his unintended insult. Sansa slams the door in his face, the wood rattling in its frame, as she presses her back to it. She clasps one hand across her mouth to capture her sob, as she slides to the floor. The tears come heavy and fast.
*
Sansa eventually gathers hold of her senses, in enough time to have cleaned her face free of tears, before the servants of White Harbour come to help her dress. Sansa has chosen a pale green and white dress, reminiscent of the Stark banner, and defiantly wears the pearl earrings. She requests that her hair is drawn back, leaving just a few strands to trail down her neck, to showcase them. She rejects any suggestion of complex Southern braids, but instead asks for her locks to be collected high onto her head, and allowed to tumble down her back. It is a style she once saw Margaery Tyrell wear, though she had a crown to nestle in the front.
Sansa observes herself after they are done, in the looking glass. The neckline of her dress is a mixture of grey and white beads, glittering at her throat. Her hair shimmers like fire in the candle-light. She is still wearing a child’s body, but she feels less of a doll, with adult jewellery and a her hair arranged like a woman grown.
“Will you send for Theon Greyjoy?” she asks the Manderly handmaid, “I wish for him to walk me to the feast.”
Theon obliges her with exaggerated flourish, his black doublet new and sharp. By coincidence, the cuts on the sleeves reveal green silk beneath. They match like a twin set of lord-and-lady dolls.
She takes savage pleasure in the look on Robb’s face, as they join the Stark party on the way to the Hall. His cheek is still red, but it turns a darker colour when he sees her on Theon’s arm. Sansa sneers at her brother, before tossing back her hair, and focusing her attention on her escort. Robb is forced to accompany Arya, who drags her feet, having been stuffed into a particularly nice dress.
Sansa anticipates her dance with Domeric with fear gnawing in her stomach. It prevents her eating much, though she manages almost half of the eel stew. She need not have worried so much, she finds. Theon is the first to pull her into the dancing, twirling her to the quick tune.
“I knew they’d suit,” he confides, when she thanks him for his thoughtful gift.
“I always know what women want,” Theon postures arrogantly, then winces, as if remembering he need not brag to her. Sansa laughs, unoffended.
“I doubt anyone knows the true desires of another, always,” she muses, catching sight of Domeric Bolton, still seated. “And even less reveal what is truly in their heart.”
Theon looks at her seriously then, all trace of jollity gone. “You speak truly there, my lady.”
“I often do,” Sansa confesses.
*
Chapter Text
Sansa strokes the neck of her borrowed horse, the attractive chestnut mare naturally placid, her muzzle buried in the feed sack. Sansa has been gently untangling her mane, running the horse-brush through thick hair until it shines smooth. She is distracted by the warm breath of the beast and the heat of her soft furry hide. She does not notice Lord Domeric approach until he speaks.
“You have a deft hand, Lady Sansa,” he compliments. His tone is soft and even, not over-honeyed with flattery. It seems more an observation than a compliment. She acknowledges his words with a tip of her head.
“A horse is a responsibility best not left to stable-hands and strangers.” Sansa says, “I believe she will feel more secure if she becomes familiar with my touch.”
“I could not agree more,” Domeric nods, “A horse is not a tool, such as a sword or a smith’s hammer. It cannot be cleaned and set aside. A relationship between rider and horse must be maintained.”
“I confess she is not mine to keep,” Sansa smooths her hand down the neck and shoulder of the lovely animal one last time before she steps back to face her companion properly. “I had need of a mount for the journey to Winterfell, and a guard gladly gave me use of her. Still, she is in my charge until we return home, and I will see her well satisfied. I take my duties seriously.”
“I see it is so.” Domeric acknowledges, with a lop-sided smile that curves one half of his face, creating a dimple in one cheek. It is charming, in its subdued way.
For the first time since meeting him Sansa sees him alone, without the visage of his brother hovering in front of his face. He is his own man, and it is time she took him as such. It would be wrong to judge him by his brother’s sins, and Sansa knew a man was not responsible for the actions of those that shared his blood. Jon had shown her that. It was a path she was determined to follow. Theon did not deserve to suffer for Balon’s sins, just as Domeric did not deserve her scorn, for Ramsay’s.
“Do you enjoy to ride, Lady Sansa? I imagine it cannot be often if you have no steed of your own.” Domeric enquires.
Sansa considers the beautiful black destrier Domeric has stabled a few stalls down from her current mount. He has entered the tilts on that stocky but calm horse. He must enjoy riding himself, and be curious to know if she shares his opinion.
“As a child I did not.” She admits, “But I grew out of that. I now enjoy the activity so much that I accompany my younger brother Bran, during his lessons. It is my excuse to spend extra time riding. Mother is not so fond of allowing my sister and I to ride freely, in the wild Northern fashion. She would prefer us to ride in the Southern manner.”
Domeric listens to her explanation with concentration, watching her intently. Sansa meets his scrutiny with open, honest eyes.
“Ladies in the South do conduct themselves differently.” Domeric says. Sansa cannot tell if he prefers or disapproves of that differing conduct. She satisfies herself with a nod, to indicate she has heard him, but has nothing to add to his statement.
“There is nothing I enjoy more than riding.” He confides in her suddenly, his eyes shining with genuine pleasure at joyful memories. “Would you like to meet Aemon, my horse? I named him for Ser Aemon the Dragonknight.”
Sansa bites her tongue to stop herself from reacting too positively to the name. The Dragonknight was one of her favourite heroes from the songs. She allows herself to nod and smile brightly, walking with a careful distance between herself and the newly anointed knight. She would not wish her and Domeric’s arms to brush; that was how rumours were started.
The splendid horse immediately trots to the open stable door, ducking his head down over the closed partition of the door. Domeric gives Ameon a friendly pat on the nose, before taking an apple from his pocket, and a sharp knife from his belt. He quickly slices the apple in half, offering one piece to his horse, and the other to Sansa. She waits for the large teeth to make quick work of the first piece, and then offers her own. She strokes the soft nose of the tall horse, and offers Lord Domeric her compliments on such a lovely destrier. He seems surprised she can put a name to the breed.
“Should you like one for yourself someday, Lady Sansa?” his question seems genuine, and not a jape at her expense. Mayhaps he wonders how confident she truly is, in her riding proficiency.
“I do not think I would be suited to such a powerful animal,” Sansa shakes her head, her red waves bouncing. “I have arrangements with my Uncle, Benjen Stark, for mine own horse. He is arranging the sale of a garron for me. I had thought to pay for it myself, from the coins I have collected from my father, but I believe Uncle Benjen may gift it to me on my name-day.”
Domeric frowns. “A garron? An unusual choice, I suspect, my lady.”
Sansa shrugs. “The lands of the North are rugged and untamed, Ser. What use is speed, if my horse falters in deep snow or cannot climb with a sure hoof? I should feel safer on a horse bred to range North of the Wall.”
He seems impressed, she notices.
“A very well-reasoned assessment,” he notes, in that now-familiar tone of statement with just a touch of warmth, rather than a resounding compliment, and she smiles. It is nicer than the overblown praise the likes of Wyman Manderly heap on her head, for her luck at being born the eldest daughter of a great House.
“Sansa!” Theon’s voice calls to her across the stable yard. He is charging toward her confidently, but falters when she and Domeric turn, and Theon can see exactly whose company she is keeping.
“Lord Domeric,” Theon greets the flayed man stiffly, and receives an equally cool response. The two men eye one another with hooded eyes and barely contained mistrust. How such an animosity can have arisen within days, Sansa does not know. She resists the urge to roll her eyes at the antics of boys.
“Have I been sent for?” Sansa enquires, injecting herself into their silent staring.
Theon reawakens to her presence, and his frosty look melts into a warm smile. “I’ve glad tidings, my lady!”
He offers her his arm, and she takes it automatically, almost beginning to walk away before remembering to take her leave of Domeric Bolton. She thanks him for introducing her to his horse and hopes they can enjoy a ride together one day soon. It seems the correct thing to do, having just discussed their mutual enjoyment of riding. Sansa feels Theon’s arm stiffen in her hold, but does not allow her placid mask to slip. Then she is free to walk with Theon. She does not fail to notice he does not share his news until the Bolton heir is well out of earshot.
“An unexpected turn has befallen on me,” he says, but does not seem to know how to continue. A grin is gracing his features, but there is worry in the set of his brow.
“You seem in high spirits,” Sansa prompts, her eyes dancing about his face.
“I am,” Theon says robustly, as though he has need of the reminder. “I am pleased. An Ironborn ship has come to White Harbour. My father has sent men to view the kraken.”
Sansa cannot stifle a small gasp. She feels foolish for not having anticipated that Balon would want verification of such an omen for himself.
“Do you think your Father will be among them?” She asks, wondering how the Lord of the Iron Islands might react to seeing his estranged son after so many years, among the party of his enemies. How the reality of Theon’s upbringing might impact him, when confronted with the actual sight of it. Would he quarrel with her father, displeased by Theon’s Northern ways? Sansa swallows, unwilling to imagine how Theon might react if his father insults him publicly.
Theon chews on his lower lip, seemingly bothered by the same concerns. “I do not know.” He admits, “They say he has not left Pyke in many years.”
“Well, we must make sure you are properly outfitted should you meet your family,” Sansa says, suddenly wary of how warmongering Ironborn would react to Theon’s fine silk doublet of a patterned mint green. She begins to tug him towards the guest the rooms the Stark household has been given in the Manderly castle.
Theon allows her to lead him to the room he is using. Sansa quickly leaves his side to root through the clothes hanging in his wardrobe, looking for the plainest, roughest materials. She settles on a black tunic, a dark brown leather jerkin with full sleeves, and decides the grey breeches and muddied boots Theon is wearing will serve well enough. She selects his least adorned cloak, one that is dark grey and has a black kraken sewn on the left shoulder.
“They will be glad to see you hale and hearty. I suspect they will want to spar with you. I know you brought your bow; you can ask for targets to be set out. Lord Balon will surely be waiting for news of you and your training from men he trusts, if he did not come.”
Theon nods enthusiastically. “Yes, he will have asked his men to see that I am healthy and that you Starks have treated me well.”
“No doubt, your treatment is your lord father’s main concern,” Sansa assures him, though she doubts the truth of her words. Lord Balon has never been described as a warm, caring man. But her pretty lies are for Theon’s sake, to give him the confidence to confront his father’s men.
“You should look ferocious in that.” She declares of her final clothing choices, “Perhaps an extra knife or two strapped to your thigh?” she suggests, motioning to the throwing daggers on Theon’s table.
“As you say, my lady,” he concedes, amused. She tilts her head in silent question. Theon answers with something wistful in his tone, when he says; “I suspect your lady mother directs Lord Stark in a similar fashion.”
Sansa feels her cheeks heat up.
“My mother has an impeccable eye.” She declares, and orders him to change quickly, taking her leave.
*
Robb is sparring with Domeric when she finds him. His hair is slicked with sweat, but his movements are strong. Domeric gives no quarter, and Sansa can see that Robb’s pride will not allow the fight to be a quick one. Sansa prevents that with a prompt word in Rodrick Cassel’s ear. He ends the bout, leaving both competitors disappointed to have not bested the other.
“Father has sent for me?” Robb asks her, rolling out his shoulders, as he hands his shield and sword to the young Manderly servant come to claim them.
“Not exactly,” Sansa reveals, leading her brother away from prying ears before he can protest.
She needs him equally presentable, as she doubts their father would allow his daughter into the room, when the Ironborn contingent arrives at New Castle. And Theon cannot stand alone, with only Lord Stark in his Warden of the North mask as an ally. Robb is still Theon’s closest friend, and will jump to his defence should anything untoward happen. This is the first time she has sought out her brother's assistance since their altercation. Her demeanour has been cold with Robb since his vile insinuations, but as she frogmatches him towards his chambers, she claims all will be forgotten if Robb performs his duties as Theon’s brother admirably.
“Be mindful of his pride Robb, should Theon feel humiliated by his crude kinsmen. I know how boys lash out and refuse comfort when they are wounded.” Sansa chides, shaking her head at the folly of men.
“I’m not a nursemaid, Sansa-” Robb protests, and yelps when Sansa pinches the delicate skin of his wrist in retaliation.
“For shame, Robb Stark!” She cries, “You would abandon your closest friend, if he were in need? If Theon is hurt, you will offer him assurance and counsel in private, and even a hug, if need be.”
She makes her demands belligerently, because he owes her a boon, and he knows it. Robb sighs dramatically, but swears to provide comfort, if it is warranted.
“With a hug,” Sansa presses, and enjoys the sight of her brother squirming.
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Sansa,” he resists, withering under her sharp look.
“You’d be surprised how reassuring the embrace of a younger brother can be.” Sansa says authoritatively, remembering the feel of Bran in her arms, when he returned to Winterfell on the back of a cart. “And you are Theon’s younger brother.” She says forcefully, and because they have reached Robb’s rooms, she pushes him towards the door, raising an eyebrow in silent judgement when he turns to cast her one last dubious look.
Her plan comes to fruition when she sees Robb clap Theon on the shoulder, slinging an arm around his neck when a Stark man comes to direct Theon to Lord Manderly’s solar. Her brother waves off the guard’s concern when he refuses to stay behind. Sansa watches proudly across the courtyard, as her brother accompanies his friend to face the men of his homeland, for the first time since boyhood.
*
Sansa meets the Ironborn that night, after they have been offered bread and salt, and Lord Manderly has found them rooms, regardless of the bulging guests burdening the castle’s supplies. For the first time since their arrival, Theon is dining away from the Starks. He is seated between a stocky, gruesome-looking warrior, with a huge scar dissecting the lower half of his face, and a greybeard with long, fine hair and equally long grey robes, darker than those of a maester. To Sansa’s great relief, Theon is smiling, chattering attentively with the scarred warrior. The man is drinking copious amounts of ale, but seems to be listening to Theon with fondness. The smile ravaged by his torn lips seems broad and genuine, not mocking. But Sansa is not privy to the conversation from this distance.
As soon as it is acceptable for guests to stand and mingle, Sansa immediately moves across the room, dragging a reluctant Arya with her. The Mormonts are only two tables away from Theon, and Arya perks up when Sansa leads her to Dacey and Jonelle. She makes polite conversation with them for a time. Once the talk turns to weaponry, and they are sufficiently distracted by Arya’s keen questions, she slips away unnoticed.
Theon spots her making her way closer, and is quick to join her midway between tables. Saving her the awkwardness of hovering nearby and hoping to inject herself into their talk. Looping her arm over his elbow is a familiar manoeuvre. She stands tall and dignified as he introduces her. Theon seems proud of her, as he motions to the men his father has sent.
“These are my Uncles, Aeron Greyjoy and Dagmer Cleftjaw. Uncles, I present Sansa of House Stark, eldest daughter of Lord Eddard.”
Sansa curtsies, trying not to be downtrodden at the blank gaze of the greybeard, Lord Aeron, who is as damp and pale as Theon described. Dagmer offers her a hideous grin, which Sansa returns without a wince, because she has been in close proximity to Sandor Clegane many times. The other men are covered in various weaponry, axes, knives and maces favoured over swords. Theon does not look out of place with excessive knives strapped to his thighs and belt.
“It is good to meet those who share blood with Theon. You look to be as devoted to the Drowned God, and as mighty as he described.” Sansa says, her voice unwavering.
“You know of our god?” Aeron turns his vacant stare to her, eyes narrowing suspiciously. His voice is a brittle rasp.
Sansa tips her head in a shallow nod. “Naturally. The Drowned God is an old god, after all. The old gods are many, and watch over us all. I would be sure to pray to him to subdue the Storm God, before I undertook any sea voyage.”
Aeron’s look becomes far more perceptive, nodding in approval. “Greenlanders don’t usually know true devotion.”
“Uncle,” Theon hisses, displeased, so Sansa realises she has been insulted. She shakes it away, as words are wind.
“I keep to the old gods of my forefathers, my lord,” Sansa says with steel in her voice, “And I count the Drowned God amongst them. I pray you all are found worthy to sup in his watery halls when he calls you forth.”
Dagmer chuckles, spittle flying from his cleaved lips. “She’ll not easily bend, this one,” he observes. It seems a mild warning, if the knowing look he shoots toward his nephew is any indication.
“A weak woman provides no challenge, and no thrill,” Theon throws back, uncaring of the implications he is making, right in front of Sansa, and anyone who might be listening on the surrounding tables.
His distant relation concedes to the wisdom of youth with a jolly bobbing nod, as he raises his mug of ale. “To challenging women!” He roars, the Ironborn joining in with lewd calls of their own.
Sansa refuses to shy away, instead blinking inquisitively, stretching her head another half-inch above the ground. She notices glares from the nearby tables. The other guests have not been subtle in their anger at the inclusion of Iron Islanders. Sansa has no doubt many were expecting them to be turned away. To be denied harbour in the first instance. She is glad is was not so. Hostility between regions is not conducive to a secure North, ready to face war from the South and death from the far North.
She has not forgotten the danger that lies Beyond the Wall, focused as Sansa is on her own family turmoil. There is no use securing the lives of her family and their stronghold on the North, only to see it all devastated beneath the Night King’s sword. Everything she does, is to ensure the survival of her people. Even the more unsavoury ones, she thinks, as she regards the boisterous Ironborn.
If she steps a little closer to Theon and squeezes his arm just a tad too tightly, he makes no comment. When Sansa enquires as to their opinion on the kraken, she is met with calls of ‘what is dead may never die!’, which Theon joins in with. Aeron Greyjoy stares at her as though he can see through her flesh to the fragile soul beneath, and proclaims that krakens belong in the sea.
Sansa’s smile is a savage thing, when she informs him that Theon said the exact same words.
*
“A sailor?” Sansa repeats dumbly, staring at Jon owlishly, her eyes comically wide. She had not anticipated that their excursion to White Harbour would cost a her a brother. Jon shifts under her attention, wringing his hands with nervous energy.
“Lord Manderly’s offer was very generous, more than a- more than I deserve.” He mutters, cheeks warm. Clearly not believing himself worthy of work as a deckhand on a Manderly ship, to be trained in the ways of a seafarer.
“But what of Bran?” She asks, bewildered. Jon was not known as a boy to shirk his duties. Sansa had not considered he might not feel it was his obligation to protect his younger brother, should Bran be sent to the Dreadfort.
Jon grimaces. “There are those far better trained to guard him than I. Besides, I thought you might suggest Bran be fostered as a page in Riverrun first, much like Ser Domeric was a page in Barrowton before his squiring.”
Sansa frowns, surprised she did not think of that suggestion herself. She blames it on the distraction of the Ironborn, and her preoccupation with Theon’s feelings. Domeric had mentioned his two fosterings with fondness, and she should have seen the way to fulfil Bran’s wishes, and her own. Her brother’s safety was compromised because of her distraction, and she hates herself a little, that she cannot bring herself to feel much guilt over it. Keeping Theon close is a duty I must not neglect, she reminds herself. I needed to ensure Robb would be a source of comfort and a confidante.
“And Father has agreed?” Sansa enquires, wondering if there is still time to stop this scheme before it gains momentum.
Jon gives a flicker of a smile, that is gone between one breath and the next. “Lord Manderly is in talks with him today. I think he wishes for his granddaughters to return to Winterfell with us, for a time.”
With those words, Sansa understands completely. The Lamprey Lord, as she has heard him called behind his back, is more shrewd than he appears. How much of his dopey, long-winded speeches are simply an act, to lull his guests and rivals into making a mistake? She has been blind, so distracted by other matters. Wyman is suggesting an exchange of sorts; taking in a bastard son and giving him a trade, and supplanting his own eligible granddaughters in Winterfell.
Wynafryd Manderly has been complimentary to Robb, her sweet smiles so reminiscent of Margaery Tyrell. A woman who always wanted to be noticed doing good. Whose charity toward the smallfolk must always have an audience. Margaery cloaked her intention to have the Tyrells rule the North through Sansa, beneath an offer of marriage to allow her to escape the Red Keep. Margaery was so formidable because her kindnesses were real. Whereas Joffrey only ever faked genteel affection and empathy, Margaery took her genuine compassion and amplified it. Wylla Manderly is a less skillful player, but she too has been flattering toward Sansa’s eldest brother. Wyman Manderly wants his blood to rule the North, through a great-grandchild.
Sansa wonders if it would be such a bad thing, if Robb married into the wealthiest house in the North. Then she remembers that the Manderlys are already loyal to the Starks, and her brother must remain unattached to foster a more useful alliance. But she doubts her parents will consider such a thing, if he falls in love with a loyal bannerman’s daughter. Many still smarted that the currect Lady of Winterfell was a Southerner. Sansa now understood how disgusted the Northmen were, that she and her siblings were raised in the Light of the Seven, as well as the old gods. That Robb had no interest in the Seven wasn’t enough to make them forget that a Sept had been built in the heart of the North. Not for the first time, Sansa curses her Father’s honourable foolishness.
“Do you think Father will say yes?” Jon asks her, a hint of longing in his eyes. He craves to be away from Lady Catelyn’s harsh glares, Sansa knows. To see a future for himself, where he might carve his own path.
“I could not guess,” Sansa replies honestly. She now understands Father had been terrified of Jon’s parentage being discovered, which is why he would never allow Mother to send Jon away. But would he consider such an opportunity for Jon, or dismiss it, like every other future his adopted son may have had? Nothing was a good enough hiding place save for the Wall. Were murderers, thieves and rapers the only company you wanted for your supposed son, Father? She wants to ask. Did Benjen’s presence allow you to ease your conscience of leading Jon astray, of never telling him the truth of what the Watch had become?
She doubts she will get the answers she desires, if she presses her Father on why he will not provide Jon with ideas, on what his future may contain. There are any number of crumbling castles or holdfasts he could gift Jon, without their size being an insult to his trueborn children. He might have suggested Jon go to Oldtown to train as a Maester, or have him assist Rodrick as an apprentice, to become Robb’s master-at-arms in years to come. But Father had never suggested any such thing to Jon to Sansa’s knowledge. No wonder Jon had seized upon the first opportunity for escape, just as he had in her past life.
“Theon shall be jealous, if you learn to steer a ship.” Sansa japes, “Though you may find yourself green with seasickness, confined to your cabin. Wolves are not meant for prolonged swimming!”
Jon laughs, and Sansa determines to be kind and supportive of her brother’s path, even if it takes him from the safety of Winterfell far sooner than she would like.
*
Chapter Text
Though House Stark may be the greatest of the Northern houses, there is no denying it is far from the grandest, Sansa ruminates, as they rumble along in the wheel house. Though Sansa did not express her reluctance as vocally, she is as displeased as Arya to be here. They are confined to the wooden box, whilst the boys ride free. All save for Bran, who was tucked up beside Arya.
Arya had promptly fallen asleep rather than engage in polite conversation with the Manderly sisters. Bran was well on his way to joining her, having thoroughly extolled the virtues of Winterfell to the girls. He now drifted in that space separating the waking world from dreams. Sansa wanted to reach out to him and smooth down a disobedient lick of hair, but knew better than to disturb his peace until it was a settled one.
She watches as clouds roll by. Her view of the procession is blocked by the Manderly man that has chosen to ride alongside for the last hour or so. There is no courteous way to ask him to move, so Sansa refrains from attempting. It would be rude to her companions, to suggest she is seeking distraction from their company: especially as it is the truth.
It is not that Sansa finds the older girls unpleasant. They are infinitely more sensible and mature than Beth and Jeyne, due to their age and social status. After Wyman’s sons, they are all that passes for a Manderly heir, though there are cousins that will dispute it, if they do not marry well. They speak to her with a sweetness that is just shy of overtly patronising, taking Sansa’s supposed age to expect her ignorant. Or perhaps it is scorn, of her lady mother’s Southern manner reflecting in Sansa’s actions. She cannot help the stance of her walk, nor alter too obviously the method of her speech.
As the months have gone by, Sansa has noticed the broadening of her Northern accent, dipping into tones and phrases more commonly tumbling from Robb’s mouth. She hopes the action is seen as affectionate worship of her elder brother. Sansa-that-was believed him the person closest to a Winterfell knight. It is a belief that stretches to Jon now, and Rodrick Cassel, the ever-watchful master-at-arms. They are men worth emulating, honourable in both thought and action, though there are moments where Robb’s stupid boyhood shines through. Still, they are closer to a true knight than any Sansa encountered in King’s Landing.
They are Northmen who truly protect the weak and strive to do justice, for the goodness of it, and not the benefit it will bring them. She once felt that way about her father, but she cannot bring herself to extoll the famed honour of Ned Stark any longer. She loves him fiercely. But too many dark secrets surround his image, for her to waft them away. They are smears across the looking glass, obscuring the image within. Beneath her father’s solid, stoic advice and gruff demeanour, lies a man in constant conflict with the truth. A man who hides from his responsibilities, every time he fails to step in front of his wife’s ire toward Jon. It is a crime Sansa is quickly coming to consider unforgiveable, anger boiling in her breast.
It was Father alone who managed to stymie Jon’s escape however. Sansa cannot be sorry for it, regardless of the tears Jon fiercely fought to keep from falling afterward. Robb had been unable to make Jon reconsider his acceptance of Lord Manderly’s offer. She even discovered that Theon had tried, in his usual brash manner; denouncing the scheme as running away, and prodding at Jon’s duty to his family. Neither boy had made an impact, and Sansa hasn’t bothered.
Arya knew nothing of the scheme until it was denied, and she has refused to speak to Jon since, terribly betrayed by this thwarted abandonment. Bran, naturally, finds the whole idea romantic and thrilling, another adventure straight from his compendium of knightly tales. Jon has remained quiet on the subject, having outlined his ideas logically and maturely to Father; who promptly forbade him without much justification.
Sansa had hoped for a less decisive denial. The illusion, at least, that Father would mull it over. As a demonstration that he considered Jon’s opinions to have merit, and be worthy of consideration. But as always, their father was completely blind to the motivations and needs of others. Insensitive, is the word, Sansa decides, as the clouds ahead rumble. Heavy splashes of rain begins to descend in great sheets. Father is not wilfully cruel, he is merely unable to pick up on the subtle clues they exhibit, and therefore react in a more delicate manner.
Thankfully, Lord Manderly was less easy to dissuade. He had invested thought in his scheme, and no doubt worried Lord Stark would reject his granddaughters, without some form of exchange. After long private talks, Father announced that both the Manderly girls would be accompanying them back to Winterfell. Futhermore, Jon would return with them to White Harbour in a year. He did not say that Jon would be free to pursue a career on a ship then, but he did not deny it. When Lord Manderly loudly announced the girls would be accompanied by retired sailors, able to ‘show him the ropes’, Jon had blushed with ill-hidden hope. Father’s lips had merely pursed in displeasure. He hadn’t disavowed the idea again, and that was sufficient to distract Jon from thoughts of the Wall. It was an adequate accompaniment to Sansa’s schemes also. This way, she would not lose precious time with the brother she had underestimated before.
Now, she catches glimpses of Jon and Theon riding ahead, their darkened hair quickly sodden due to their unhooded cloaks. Jon should have worn the fox fur one that Sansa had made him, she thinks. Of course Jon would never wear something so lovely, for such an arduous ride. The dark reddish-brown was not a Stark colour either. The dark grey he wore blended better with the Stark men riding ahead.
Theon had no such qualms, of course. His dark teal cloak was proudly emblazoned with a huge black and gold kraken, easy to spot among the dowdy colours of the contingent of Northmen. The Manderly green was forest-like and not at all comparable. As the sky turned darker, the rain heavier, she considered that Theon’s current garment would look very elegant, as it cloaked his bride under his protection. Despite the dreadful weather, she yearns to canter alongside them, and could not disguise her sigh.
“The rain will force us to make camp early, I should think,” Wylla comments, tossing her green braid over her shoulder, as she leans out of the other window to observe the dim sky.
“I suppose you’re right,” Sansa agrees blithely, for lack of anything substantial to say.
She has successfully avoided most attempts to be drawn into long conversations with the older girls. Sansa has no desire to become a source of information for them, in their quest to win husbands out of this short fostering. No doubt Wynafryd has her sights on Robb, though Domeric Bolton would be more age appropriate for her. Wylla is probably hoping that Robb will find her more enchanting, but would no doubt be pleased with any Northern heir she could catch the attention of. At some point during their stay Father’s other bannermen will visit; she may be hoping to ensnare Smalljon Umber or a Forrester.
“I am sorry for you, Sansa. You are surely missing the comforts of home, and any delay must be vexing.” Wylla presses, and Sansa is forced to engage with her properly.
“Winterfell is my home, and I cherish it,” Sansa admits, entirely truthfully. If there was a way for her to live there forever, she would take it. But she doubts Robb will leave to become King of the Seven Kingdoms, or decide to marry her. To move away and form a household somewhere else was the fate of all wedded women, and Sansa had accepted that many years ago.
“But there is a joyous freedom in riding along the King’s Road, that cannot be replicated by walks in the Godswood.” She drops the volume of her voice, as though imparting a great secret.
Wylla nods somberly, as though she can relate with her own experiences. It may be true; Sansa doesn’t know how well-travelled the Manderly girls are. If their grandfather was shrewd, he would have been trotting them around to his vassal houses in the hopes of spreading word regarding their beauty and feminine skills. Despite his rotund size, Lord Wyman wasn’t showing any inclination towards ill health or mental infirmity. He was a wiley one, with plots she couldn’t imagine the scope of. Thus he had seized on this chance to ingratiate his granddaughters with the sons of House Stark.
If Lord Wyman lived as long as the putrid Lord Frey, control of White Harbour could skip a generation. Especially since any war that broke out could put his sons at risk. A shocking thought burst into Sansa then; perhaps Wynafryd had no interest in Robb at all. There was a possibility that the idea of keeping Jon close, and training him as a seafaring man, was a way to capture themselves a Stark in all but name.
If Wynafryd married Jon, with all still believing him to be Ned Stark’s bastard, their children would be Manderlys. She would gain control of New Castle. With all the servants and guards already loyal to her, there were some who would treat Jon as a stud, to be tolerated for the creation of heirs. The concept made Sansa feel sick, and she hastily swallowed down her bile. She wouldn’t allow Jon to be a pawn in anyone’s games. He deserved a wife that loved him for the good, courageous man he was, and not for the blood of the First Men that flowed in his veins.
She glanced between the Manderly girls with fresh eyes. There was always the chance that Wynafryd was more ambitious than retaining her family seat. Perhaps she was hungry for the more prestigious title of Lady Stark. It would not do for Sansa to follow her around, preventing her from ingratiating herself with Jon, and allow Wylla to swoop in and bewitch him instead. She could feel a headache building behind her eyes already, at the thought of sacrificing her time to prevent these girls from digging their claws into her unsuspecting brothers.
Before she could get entirely lost in her distressing thoughts, the wheelhouse trundled to a stop. Sansa immediately stuck her head of the window, ignoring the cold rain which dripped down her neck and splattered her face. She could see barely anything in the gloom, the sun completely submerged behind black clouds. A loud, menacing rumble rolled across the sky, sending a shiver down her spine. She gasped as a bright bolt of lightning sizzled through the air behind the trees yonder. Bran woke with a start, flailing off his seat and into Arya’s knees, earning himself a startled kick. Sansa ignored them both; the lightning had startled the horses, and the air was filled with frightened whinnying.
She placed a hand on the window ledge, fumbling for the lock just below it. She was suddenly desperate to get outside. The small wooden box they were sitting in felt like a dangerous place to be in a thunderstorm. Her fingers were quickly numb from the frigid rain, and she could not get a grip on the latch.
“Lady Sansa-” Wynafryd Manderly called out for her and tried to place a hand on her arm, in a soothing gesture. She did not succeed however; Sansa finally managed to open the catch, just in time to watch another bolt of lightning brightening the sky. Sansa had been putting her weight behind the door, and could not pull herself back once the latch came loose. She tumbled helplessly out of the wheelhouse, straight into Theon Greyjoy’s waiting arms.
*
The ride to the inn seemed endless. Sansa was tucked as close to Theon’s back as two people could possibly be. Her arms were clenched securely around his middle, her front kept warm and relatively dry, as they confidently bounded across the open ground. The road had become a swamp bog, the carts attached to drays sunken into the thick mud. Sansa spared a thought of sympathy for the poor souls that would be stuck in the rain, attempting to free them.
Slightly ahead of them, Domeric Bolton shared his horse with Lady Wynafryd, whilst Wylla was stuck behind Rodrick. Both girls had seemed disappointed that the Stark boys had not suggested they ride with them. Jon had tried to offer Arya a hand, which she slapped aside, before throwing herself at Robb. Jon kept his face carefully blank, and instead scooped up a sleepy Bran. Their little brother allowed himself to be carried like a babe in arms, and was currently tucked against Jon’s chest.
Theon and Sansa reached the inn before her brothers. He had already secured her a spot beside the roaring fireplace and helped her to peel off her soaking cloak, before they squelched in. Theon presses a cup of hot, spiced wine into her numb hands, flopping down into the space beside her. Bran and Arya are deposited on the floor by their feet; there aren’t enough chairs for everyone. The inn was small, and there was already a group of men in one corner nursing their ale and staring with hollow eyes. Sansa turns away from their vacant stares, and instead gave her attention to the fire. Theon was a pillar of warmth beside her, and it took all her self-control not to sag into him, as though he were a decorative cushion.
Sansa mainly ignores the bubbling speech around her; Rodrick securing the best rooms and Wynafryd demanding hot baths for her and her sister. Jon and Robb are more concerned with food, but Theon was a peaceful presence beside her, sipping on his own wine. She turns toward him as the Manderly women begin to trudge upstairs. Her sopping wet hair was plastered to her face, but she didn’t notice until Theon reached up a hand to brush it behind her ear. His calloused fingertips gently brush her pale cheek, and she cannot prevent the hitch in her breath.
In the dimly lit inn, his eyes are pools of moss, his chapped lips a ribbon of pink on a face made of snow. She wants to bring a healthy blush to his cheek with a kiss. She licks her cold lips, imagining what his cool skin might feel like beneath them, but it was not to be. Jon and Robb clatter toward them, throwing themselves at the bench opposite, breaking the moment. Sansa finds her wine inexplicably enthralling, ducking her head, as Theon stares past her huddled form, into the jolly fire.
“Needs another log,” he grunts, before rummaging in the log pile for a suitable hunk of wood.
“Where’s Ser Domeric?” Bran asks around a yawn. Sansa blinks as she realises the man is indeed missing.
“Worried about his horse,” Robb replies with a lazy shrug, “All the horses really. Thinks they need coddling, because of the storm.”
Sansa frowns, but doesn’t point out that the horses are indeed frightened by the loud thunder. She saw a terrified mare rear up and almost throw her rider, though she couldn’t make out who the man was in the gloom.
“He’s mighty protective over that horse,” Theon comments, though without the scorn Sansa was used to hearing there. He finishes poking at the fire, arranging the two additional logs he had placed there, and re-joins her on their bench.
“It’s a fine animal,” Jon points out, “He’s right to take due care.”
Theon lets out a noise, neither disbelieving or agreeing; “There are more important things than horses, Snow.”
Sansa does not miss the way his eyes flicker toward her as he says so.
“I know you know it,” Theon continues, “Otherwise you’d be out there, prancing around in the rain and mud, instead of here, making sure your family is warm and fed.”
He indicated the serving wench, making her way toward them, with a tray laden with bowls of stew, a plate of sausages, and another of hot rolls. The rolls were reheated and thus slightly toasted on the outside. They fall upon the bounty like ravenous dogs, Arya especially, who drinks from her bowl as though it is a mug. Sansa is too busy mopping up the vegetable stew with her crunchy bread to admonish her, but she makes a note of it for later. There were some things she could not ignore, if she wanted to maintain her reputation.
After consuming the food, they drift toward their rooms; Sansa and Arya are sharing, whilst Theon and Jon have another. Robb is sharing with Ser Domeric, who eventually clatters inside, just as they are making their way up the stairs. Sansa elects to ignore his arrival, in favour of a warm bed. She quickly strips off to her smallclothes. Instead of hunting in her travel trunk for a suitable nightdress, she chooses to wrap herself in one of two spare blankets the serving wench had pressed into her hands. She offers Arya the other, and they bury under the bedcovers together like two tiny field mice in a nest.
She is asleep before the candle smoke dissipates after she blows it out.
*
Moody clouds remain on the horizon in the morn, but the storm has been blown south, so they are free to continue. Sansa dresses in a thick, woollen blue-grey dress and her sturdiest brown boots. She has no intention of being cooped up in the wheelhouse again, not when there is open ground for her to ride across. The road remained too treacherous for so much traffic. In the crowded inn, she enjoys two eggs, whilst pocketing a fresh apple. Most are still eating as she escapes to the stables, pointing out the horse she wants bridled and saddled, to the young hand working there.
Smiler is wary of her at first, but quickly won over by the apple, and allows her astride without a fuss. Sansa practices the manoeuvres she has perfected during Bran’s lessons, riding out to just beyond the yard to see how he responds to her. Theon gapes to see her trotting self-assuredly atop his horse, when he finally stumbles outside into the weak morning sunlight.
“Would my liege care for a ride?” She asks, tilting her head to one side, so her red hair tumbles attractively down one shoulder.
“Sansa!” Robb hollers, alighting from the inn’s stone doorstep. “Quit japing, and get down from Theon’s horse. You’re supposed to be in the wheelhouse!”
Sansa sniffs derisively, “If you’re so enamoured with it, you ride in it. You can keep that slow, lumpy carriage. I’ll be riding this horse.”
“That’s my horse!” Theon splutters, and Sansa offers him a single risen eyebrow.
“It was,” she concedes, “Smiler and I have come to an accord.” She pats the lovely animal on its freshly-brushed neck, the horse flicking its tail obediently, completely unconcerned with being stolen.
“You are welcome to join us,” she offers again, this time holding out a hand. Theon dithers for a moment, offering Robb a hesitant look, before a mischievous grin lights up his face. He takes her gloved hand with his warm fingers, and launches himself onto the horse behind her.
One arm settles on her stomach, pulling her firmly into the space between his legs, while the other takes hold of the reins in her slack hands.
“Lead on, my lady,” he says, his lips brushing the delicate skin of her ear. Sansa obeys, immediately wielding the horse to turn and trot back out of the yard, ignoring Robb’s increasingly nonsensical protests.
Theon laughs into her hair as they race off, joining the men who have lashed the carts of luggage to the work horses. Sansa joins him, her heart light as giggles drip from her lips.
“I always knew you were a troublemaker, Sansa Stark,” Theon confides, and Sansa doesn’t bother to deny it. It’s a long time since she was concerned with the rules and restrictions of a proper lady. She isn’t about to go back to caring about them now. There are other things occupying her mind, far more important.
*
Theon and Sansa don’t push Smiler too hard, knowing their combined weight will weigh heavily on the poor animal if they attempt to rush and race ahead. They are content to go at a steady pace toward the back of the procession. Father shoots her a confused look when he notices, but he is too far ahead to comment on it, or demand she re-join the other girls in the wheelhouse. She was careful to keep it that way.
The stop for lunch is brief enough to matter little; she snatches a short conversation with Jon. He cheerfully imparts the welcome news, that Arya had deigned to speak to him, when they broke their fast. Sansa is glad. Arya can hold a grudge for an inordinate amount of time, and Jon doesn’t deserve her ire for seeking to better his prospects.
Theon sits in front when they set off again. As much as Sansa enjoyed the feel of his warm hands on her stomach, his sensual whispers into her ear, she also values the chance to cuddle into him as the temperature drops.
In the morn, they had discussed Yara Greyjoy’s marriage prospects. Lord Aeron had declared that the dead kraken was an omen, that the Greyjoy line might die out, if steps were not taken. He muttered several things about Balon never taking appropriate steps to curb Yara’s behaviour. Sansa had been surprised when the Ironborn made noises of agreement. Yara was a respected, battle-tested leader in the time she had come from.
But the lack of other Ironborn women fighting alongside her had not gone unnoticed, even then. Yara was not a typical example of a maiden from the Iron Islands. Apparently Lord Aeron was convinced her behaviour could lead to the downfall of their House, if it wasn’t curtailed. Sansa felt pity for Yara then, this woman she had never met, in either of her lives, but whose fierce reputation preceded her. Sansa knew what it was to be forced into an unwanted marriage, and doubted Yara would be prepared for all it entailed. But with her father alive, and with the Ironborn influenced heavily by Aeron's drowned men priests, she doubted Theon’s sister would avoid her fate.
Theon spoke of the noblest houses of the Iron Islands, outlining what he could remember of their eligible men, though marriages may have taken place he was not informed of. He decided that any House would do, so long as it wasn’t House Farwynd of Lonely Light, because everyone knew they all had ocean madness.
“Due to them staring out at the edge of the world.” Theon had said, with deep gravitas. Sansa shivered at the thought of being surrounded entirely by ocean, with no land in sight anywhere, and nothing but a tiny rock with a solitary lighthouse to live on.
After lunch, their conversation is mostly subdued by the biting wind that has risen up, howling past them with frost in its wake. Still, it allows Sansa an excuse to snuggle deep into Theon’s back, his warm cloak tickling her cheek. She almost drops into sleep before they stop to make camp for the night. The sun won’t set for another few hours, but they break to set up camp, due to the threat of snowflakes that could quickly become a blizzard. Fires need to be blazing merrily before that happens.
Theon jumps down from Smiler’s back, but Sansa chooses to stay seated until there in somewhere suitable to sit. A few men head into the sparse thicket of woods that had cropped up on their left as the day wore on, to cut down suitable firewood. Sansa strokes Smiler’s soft fuzzy ears as she watches the hubbub of camp being made. Arya and Bran stagger from the wheelhouse and immediately scurry off. Jon is helping to erect a tent, securing the base with a large hammer. Then gentle murmur of voices is cut through by a shout; a wild yell of terror.
Sansa is cantering toward the noise before her mind catches up with her insistent legs, urging Smiler on briskly. She sees the problem from several feet away; from where the men had ventured into the wood to collect firewood, a boar has burst free from the underbrush, and gone careening toward the camp. The men launch themselves from its path, but Theon is trapped in a dip of land, squatting beside a tiny creek, re-filling his waterskin. The boar charges him, tusks glinting with deadly intent, as Theon drops the waterskin, fumbling for the sword that is still strapped to his horse, beside Sansa’s thigh. His fingers find only a short dagger, and as he scrambles backward and falls, Sansa knows it will not be enough.
The first arrow skewers the boar’s shoulder; enough to make it squeal in pain and fury, but not enough to halt its charge. The next arrow hits a better mark. Straight through the boar’s eye, and into its horrid, piggy brain. Sansa pants in exertion, her heart beating wildly. Her third arrow is already drawn from the quiver and knocked against Theon’s bow, before she registers the boar falling to the ground, dead. For a long moment, the camp is deathly silent. Theon’s head whips toward his saviour, the look in his eyes proud and hungry when he sees Sansa still gripping his bow, but not shocked.
Not like Robb, who Sansa hears roaring “Seven Hells!” as she finally allows her fingers to grow slack. She unmounts from the horse without conscious thought; completely ignoring proper care for weaponry, as she lets Theon’s bow drop from her shaking fingers onto the damp ground.
“Sansa?” Father calls out to her in disbelief, but she doesn’t turn to him. Her eyes are only for Theon, who has clambered to his feet and up the grassy ledge toward her. She cannot stop her eyes from roaming over him, searching for injuries she knows cannot possibly be there.
Theon says not a word as Sansa launches herself at him, throwing her arms about his neck and dragging him close. His arms wrap around her back and squash her even closer, as she buries her face into his neck and just breathes, shaky and irregular and marred by terrified tears.
Chapter Text
Sansa has never been especially forthright about her manipulations. She has maintained the notion that she could only achieve her goals by working in the shadows. To an extent, she still believed this. It is unlikely anyone would take her words of warning seriously regardless. Her wisdom would only be acknowledged in hindsight, and by then it would be too late. That didn’t stop her from providing pearls of wisdom and advice, in the high-minded manner of all sisters. Disguising her true warnings among more playful turns of phrase.
She has never undertaken a gamble of the like she is about to play now. Intellectually, she knows she holds all the cards. She is armed with surreptitious knowledge her father could never dream of, and as far as he will know, there is nothing to prevent her from using it. It is quite a tincture to swallow however, once she is facing the stern, poe-faced guards outside her Father’s solar. And her father’s grim, unmoving expression as he bids her entry.
“You know why you are here, Sansa,” he begins brusquely. “You refused to explain your actions while we were on the road. I allowed it, for the sake of not revealing my evident lack of control over my own daughter’s education, to strangers. But the time for answers has come, and I will be satisfied.”
Sansa ducks her head, in a perfect mime of feminine piety and filial obedience. “I am sorry to have worried or embarrassed you, lord father. You must know that was never my intention.”
Ned Stark sighs, leaning back heavily in his chair. Despite her many years of practice remaining stoic under pressure, Sansa’s urge to fuss with her skirts or twist her fingers together is immense. She takes a deep breath to centre herself and continues to suppress the urge to shrink in fear. She has nothing to be ashamed of.
“Those are hardly my primary concerns, child.” Ned points out, but not ungently. “To become proficient with a bow takes skilled knowledge and practice. You cannot think me so simple-minded as to believe you could fell such a broad beast, without experience.”
“I know you are not a fool, Father!” Sansa protests, cringing from the shrill sound of her own voice. Just a fool for your honour, her private thoughts ponder.
“Then you will tell me how you came about your knowledge of the bow,” Father demands, “And why you believed you could learn this skill without seeking my permission.”
“I did not think you would grant it to me, had I asked,” Sansa mutters resentfully, risking a skittering glance across her father’s face.
“Then you knew full well the implications of your defiance. Sansa, I expect such willfulness from Arya and your brothers. I hold you to a higher standard, because you have never defied and disappointed me in such a manner before.” Lord Stark clucked, his eyes two uncompromising grey rocks.
Sansa’s throat burned with the injustice of it all, tears of anger prickling at the corners of her eyes.
“So, had I been a worse daughter, ill-mannered and unrefined, you would allow me more leave to act as I wish?” She snaps, momentarily forgetting herself. “That hardly seems fair, nor honourable.”
She speaks as the Lady of Winterfell again, spine straight and fists clenched, head high and chest thrust out, proud and unbroken. Ned Stark regards her as though he had never set eyes on her before, and in a certain manner, it is true. He had been long-dead before Sansa-that-is was forged in the fires of abuse and mistreatment.
“Perhaps your words have merit,” He concedes, “But I am still your father. You will grant me the respect afforded me as such, in both behaviour and speech.”
Sansa swallows down the words which expressed just exactly her thoughts of that. Father seemed to sense them anyway.
“Am I so unapproachable? That you would be frightened to even make your request?” He asks softly, steering the conversion in a less volatile direction, and succeeding in making hot shame squirm in her belly. But Sansa refused to be cowed and swayed into submission.
“Nay, Father.” She whispers, “But my need was so strong, that any delay or denial would have broken my heart, clean in twain.”
Ned frowned, reaching out to take her pale, ice-cold hands in between both of his own, warmed from several hours seated beside the fire as he went about his work. Sansa felt guilty then, for adding to his already considerable burden. He could not be expected to notice everything that went on in his household, when he already had so many issues to occupy his mind. That is why most lords employed little birds. Spies to watch and take note, and report on the movements within the keep and their wider lands.
“I just don’t understand, Sansa,” her father murmurs sweetly, giving her crown a gentle stroke, brushing back her fiery red hair, so that he could better see her face. “You have ever been a proper lady. Why did you believe yourself lacking in any manner, that you needed to add such a skill to your repertoire?”
Sansa worries her lip, unaccountably nervous, despite her earlier conviction about her chosen course of action. She has decided to be more active in her alteration of the events she knows from her previous life. A powerful ally was needed, and she has access to no man more powerful than her father.
At this juncture, he cannot be relied upon to follow her instruction, convinced by its veracity on its own merit. He would need to be convinced of each individual step, and she lacks both the patience and precious time for that. Sansa has no brute power to simply command him, but nor are tears her only weapon. She must rely on feminine wiles and manipulation.
“It was not so much the skill that was of import,” she shrugs, looking away from her father’s enquiring face, into the fireplace. She hopes she is accurately portraying innocent, girlish reluctance and bashfulness. It was difficult to tell, without watching her face in a looking-glass. Sansa has practiced appropriate levels of emotion to trot out when necessary. She would need every weapon at her disposal, if she were to convince her father of her sincerity, so she did not feel ashamed of herself for conducting herself so.
Her falsehoods are made in the service of something far greater than herself or her own petty ambitions. Their family was at stake, and she would not cower from the risky maneuvers she needed to make to ensure their lives, and happiness. For there was no point in securing their safety, if they were only to be miserable, or reduced to a state where death would be the preferable option. It was a huge responsibility to undertake, but her honour would allow her to take no other course. It was her duty to her family, even if it is to be a silent, unacknowledged one.
Though he did not know it, Father is about to become her unwilling accomplice, and he would ensure she achieved her important aims.
“What do you mean, it was not the skill at the bow that concerned you?” Father asks with another confused frown.
“Oh, Father. Have you never done one thing, with the aim of gaining something else?” Sansa trills, watching with satisfaction as something like understanding begins to grow in the creases of Lord Stark’s face.
She pulls one of her hands out from between his, to better emphasise her point. Singing her sweet songs of courtly love and maidenly virtue again. “Have you never wished to remain close to someone, so much that you would take up an interest, that would allow you an excuse to stay near?”
An uncomfortable Ned Stark reveals his dismay, with an uncontrollable twitch in his lower jaw. “Sansa, child, of whom are you speaking?”
Sansa blinks at him in feigned confusion. Pretending to be bemused that he would not already know.
“Why, Theon, of course.” She states sweetly, with a happy sigh. As though her father had merely forgotten a trifle. The dark cloud that shrouds her father would have revealed that no such thing was true, if she had actually been naive enough not to already know it.
Ned Stark rocks back into his chair, as if absorbing a physical blow. Though who else he might have suspected, Sansa could not have guessed.
“I doubt it will be a great surprise to anyone.” Sansa whispers with exaggerated flare. “Mother and I have been discussing wedding traditions upon the Iron Isles. I have already spoken with Robb at length about the responsibilities of courtship and marriage. Uncle Benjen even said he would give me a horse as a wedded gift; I do hope he will be allowed to come down from the Wall and deliver it himself.”
She chirps her birdsong with joyous maidenly cheer, watching as Ned Stark winces to be confronted with his own oblivious nature. He cannot know just how greatly Sansa is elongating the truth. Though she has given no outright deceptions as yet, it felt just as false.
It gives her no pleasure to humiliate her beloved father, but as no man can be trusted to behave as she would bid them without pressure, Sansa decides she has no other recourse.
“Sansa, Theon is not... a suitable choice for a match,” he starts softly, and mindful of her delicate, easily offended sensibilities.
Sansa’s answering frown was not entirely pretense. “Whatever do you mean? He is the son of a lord; I am a lord’s daughter. A perfectly natural alignment.”
“Written on parchment, it may be so.” Lord Stark agrees, “And yet, in actuality, the world is a much more complex place. There are delicate paths we must tread, to maintain peace and harmony.”
“But many families marry into the Houses of their old enemies, to secure new alliances and usher in a time of peace.” Sansa counters sensibly, in the matter of fact tone she has copied from Maester Luwin. “It is a well-known practice.”
“And those matches are usually arranged during the truce, by the warring factions. Not by the betrothed themselves.” Father argues.
Sansa laughs at him. “But we are no longer at war. An alliance, to prevent future strife, can only be a positive undertaking, Father. Especially as ours will be a love match.”
Ned’s face blanches white, and Sansa is sorry for it. She did not wish to cause him undue pain or heartache, regardless of his blundering ways. Her father is a good man, who does not wish cruelties upon even his greatest enemies. He always chose a clean death over torturing his prisoners, and was respected for it. She knows he does not deserve to fret over her wellbeing, nor suffer sleepless nights wondering just what Theon has done to her right under his nose.
“Sansa, I cannot deny your lessons have steered you well, and your intentions are no doubt pure.”
He cups her soft cheek in his sword-calloused hands as he continues: “My darling child, when you are older, I’ll make a match with someone who is worthy of you. You are a radiant light, and I know you’ll bring warmth and happiness to any household. You deserve a man who is brave, and gentle, and strong.”
Sansa allows him a moment to stare into her bright blue eyes and gauge the seriousness there. Then she lets him know her true mind.
“I have already found such a man for myself.” She pushes his hand away roughly, her stance strong again, as the former Lady of Winterfell steps back and resumes her battle-ready pose.
“I almost lost him to one large pig. Do not let yourself believe I will lose him to another,” She snarls wrathfully, picturing fat King Robert Baratheon. “I suggest you speak to Theon, Father. For I will marry him and no other.”
Without waiting to be dismissed, she turns in a flurry of skirts, scattering a heap of papers as she stomps out. Leaving only a plume of fluttering scrolls and unsatisfied queries in her wake.
*
Since returning in disgrace two nights ago, Sansa has been confined to her rooms when not attending meals or lessons. She revels in the opportunity to stalk away unhindered and unaccompanied. Though not publicly punished for her indiscretion, Father and Robb have taken to staring at Sansa as though she were an uninvited stranger at a feast. The latter spending several minutes simply gawping at her each time he caught sight of her. As though each glance at her was bringing back vivid, incredulous memories.
Arya seemed to swing wildly between angry disbelief and begrudging respect. Sansa’s secret interest was apparently an exciting activity worth merit. But that she had openly defied the rules, then flouted her abilities without apparent punishment was too much for Arya to stand. She turned purple with rage whenever anyone mentioned it. And since they could all speak of little else, she spent her days flush with a particularly unflattering shade of puce. Sansa was ignored as though she carried the pox. Though she was attempting to foster a better relationship with her sister in the long run, momentarily Sansa was glad for the distance.
She had needed quiet and clarity to reformulate her plans, now that a secret she had never intended to reveal was so widely known. Jon will was the only one not pestering her about it. He was impressed but not shocked, and Sansa suspected he had stumbled across her secret some time before and kept her faith, even from her. It warmed her heart to think that their bond had strengthened so. She expected him to keep Arya’s secrets thus, but that he would do so for her was a wonderful surprise.
Mother, after initially welcoming her home with open arms, was now refusing to speak to her. But her eyes flashed with fury whenever she caught sight of Jon. She had decided he was Sansa’s teacher, and would not allow Sansa close enough to ally her suspicions. Dropping the usual pretense of household harmony, Sansa had bluntly told Jon to stay out of Mother's path for the foreseeable future. In truth, Sansa now felt the sooner Jon could be settled into training for a future trade, the better. He doesn’t deserve Mother's wrath.
Theon had remained mostly silent on the matter, save for complimenting her quick draw loudly in public, and breathing his true, incredulous praise into her hair; "You saved me, you brilliant girl," as he swept her into a hug.
“Good thing I had you take on those squirrels, eh?” He muttered while passing her a plate of bread rolls to dip in her eel stew.
“I see you finally cured yourself of the need to take a sennight to aim,” he chuckled as he passed her a water skin on the road home.
“Already bloodied at such a tender age. The Islands could use more women like you.” He declared as he passed her in the draughty corridor, his long spindly fingers trailing across the worn bricks of stone.
“My fierce defender. I thought the Warrior had taken to wearing skirts for a moment, back there,” he teased, before pressing a kiss to her hand, helping her down from Smiler’s back.
She needed his joviality now, to lift her spirit and remind her why her determination was so important. I know he cares for me. Even if he does not yet love me, it is highly possible he could grow to, she tried to reassure herself, knowing that the gnawing pit of fear biting at her stomach would not leave her be until she heard him accept the betrothal from his own lips.
He would be furious, she knew. For pushing a betrothal on him, circumventing his chance to woo, court and delight her by asking her himself. Still, her only hope was that she had not misunderstood the depth of his feelings, or that he would feel so offended by her interference that he would deny the match. Her machinations would not stand up against his defiance. Not least because she knew his protest would truly damage her fragile heart.
*
She finds him in the glass gardens. Before they left for White Harbour, they sometimes took a turn about the gardens together, arm in arm. Sansa can name most of the flowers, and they would make a game of it, Theon pointing out the more exotic specimens to test her.
She is making an effort to learn the properties and tinctures of the plants which grow there. Maester Luwin is a font that can only be tapped so many times for knowledge. Luckily, there are books in her mother's solar on the subject. It is not unusual to find Sansa seated by the fire, her nose in some ancient herbology tome. If anyone bothered to challenge her about the title, she has devised a lie about the secret meaning of flowers, but so far no one has noticed. They simply assume she is enchanted by some rosy history of knightly chivalry and forbidden love.
Those half-forgotten stories stir in her memory now, as she finds Theon stood, his back to her, beneath a mistletoe liana, hanging from a holly bough. He cuts a dashing, romantic figure, with his dark clothes silhouetted against the vibrant green. He turns at her approach, her dainty steps and rippling pink skirts disturbing the leaf litter with a light rustle.
The dying light catches his mischievous eyes at such an angle to make them twinkle and shine. He reaches out for her, a silent invitation, likely offering to take her hand in a chaste kiss. Unbidden, Sansa launches herself into his arms. She feels him lurch precariously for a moment as he absorbs the unexpected weight. Then he wraps her in his warm arms, his cool cheek pressed against her own. She turns to nuzzle her nose toward his ear, allowing herself a moment to daydream, casting them in the leading roles in mummer's show of the pastoral idyll. They are the springtime lovers, flush with hope and longing, before winter will cruelly rend them apart.
Forgive me, my love, Sansa thinks.
“Whatever for?” Theon murmurs in reply.
Sansa carefully untangles herself, just enough to lean back, balancing on his clasped arms. She tries to hide her surprise and bashful worry at speaking such things aloud in his hearing, but Theon’s expression is unmoved. He is not caught unawares by her proclamation of affection, and though it warms her heart, it chills her cockles. She had scarcely let herself to believe it, yet alone acknowledge it. Only when her hand was forced, did she fling open the stable door, allow her heart to gallop away freely. That Theon could read her so well, and understand the depth of her infatuation, is both frightening and wondrous.
What else has he noticed without speaking of, she ponders. How deeply does his own affection run? Will he defend me and fight for me, or allow me to fall by the wayside and leave me in a cloud of dust, when he realises a youthful dalliance is not what I am looking for?
Before she has the chance to answer him they are interrupted, and not by a messenger from her father, as she anticipated. Instead, Domeric Bolton gives an awkward cough when she whirls her head to face the intruder. Theon stiffens, moving back as if to relinquish her, but Sansa will not have it. She tightens her grip on his shoulders, anchoring him to her, pleased when he chooses not to struggle. He could easily free himself, but instead remains placid in her arms.
From the corner of her eye she sees him bare his teeth menacingly at Ser Domeric, who holds his ground, mildly alarmed.
“I beg your pardon,” He says stiffly, “The interruption was not intended.”
Sansa nods graciously, not trusting her voice at this juncture. He heart is already lurching wildly in her chest, her stomach dropping to rest somewhere alongside her knees.
“Lady Sansa, are you... quite well?” Ser Domeric enquires, despite his obvious discomfort with the situation.
May the old gods bless him, for being brave enough to ask, like a true knight. He will not leave a lady in a compromised position before checking that she is there of her own volition. Sansa is pleased to learn it, though she wishes it were in other circumstances.
Sansa looks back to Theon then, squeezing her arms together where they hang about his neck. His hands answer in kind, pressing into the delicate pink material of the dress, against her back.
“I have scarcely been better, Ser.” She replies, raising to the tips of her toes to nose at Theon’s stubbled jaw. He is still turned away from her, glaring at their unwelcome companion.
“Ah,” Domeric gives out an almost involuntary inflection of understanding. “I see. I shall take my leave of you, then. Again I offer my apologies.”
“Verily, none are needed,” Sansa says, “Good day, Ser.”
Summarily dismissed, he slinks away near silently. Truthfully, they would not have paid him any more mind of he had set about destroying plants in a thwarted rage. His rival seen off for the nonce, Theon drops his head to press his forehead against hers, their breath mingling as they inhale as one.
At length, Theon whispers reluctantly; “That was foolish.You should have protested and had me scolded for taking liberties.”
“Never,” Sansa promises, equally hushed. “My liberties are yours to take.”
He emits a queer noise at that, a strangled yelp, midway between a groan and a whimper. Sansa doesn't have much time to consider it, as no sooner has he made it, Theon crushes the final scant space between them and captures her lips with his mouth. It is her first kiss in this life; the only kiss that has ever mattered.
She moans and he holds her impossibility close, moving his lips sensually over her’s, until she opens her mouth and their kiss can deepen. Her fingers tangle in his freshly washed hair after he runs his through her long locks and angles her head where he wants her. She giggles when their noses brush and bump, swallowing his chuckles as their lips meet again and again in kisses without end.
Notes:
Hope everyone had a lovely Christmas! Thank you all for your super encouraging comments and kind words :)
Happy New Year, everyone!!! Hope you have a blast celebrating ringing it in tonight xxx
Chapter Text
Sansa was not entirely sure of her feelings for Theon. She cared for him, naturally, and knew they made a handsome match, visually. She could happily admit his face was fair, his entire countenance pleasing to the eye. Theon has a far more rugged, manly look, than the fussy, over-clean beauty Joffrey hid his true cruelty behind. Theon played on his looks also, to charm and beguile. The difference between them, was that he had never been a truly malicious man. Theon liked to play tricks and jape with Robb, sometimes at the expense of her and her siblings. But his games were not sadistic like Ramsey's or Joffrey’s, and he would be horrified if any of them had gotten truly hurt as a result.
Intellectually, they are evenly paired; they share enough interests to have witty repertoire. Equally, Sansa’s love of feminine arts and Northern culture, versus Theon’s love of the sea and Ironborn history, diverges enough, that they both compliment and contrast one another. It is not love, not yet, but it has a solid foundation, a healthy seed that if properly planted could grow into genuine affection and deep love. They could be strong together, Sansa knows. She needs only to convince her family of it.
Father and Mother will be the hardest take to battle alone, without support. She understands the need for allies better than any of her peers. Of the youths in Winterfell, only she is blooded and tested in war. She is the one who has lived through the War of the Five Kings. Even Domeric has only played at warfare in tourneys and training. And she doubts her little indiscretion with Theon will put him off pursuing her hand.
Youthful dalliances were often chaste, and she knows Lord Roose Bolton will have instilled the importance of securing the North, through her, into his heir. Domeric Bolton is probably cursing his bad luck, having discovered that winning her over is going to be more difficult than anticipated. Sansa supposes he went straight to the rookery, to report his progress after catching sight of them. To reassure his father of his renewed conviction, now that he had a challenger to depose.
But the Boltons would never again rule the North, and especially not through her. Who knew what heinous acts may befall Father and Robb, if she married Domeric, and provided an heir? The temptation to kill all her brothers and rule through her Bolton son would be too much for Roose Bolton, that much is evident from all she knows of him. He will always be a turncloak in the making, but she will not be the one to provide the knife for Roose to hold at her brother’s throats.
She needs Robb’s assistance. Even if Father never grants them permission, Robb’s support may go a long way towards swaying him. Letting Father know that Robb is mature enough to make his own decisions, free from his influence, is almost as vital. If Father dies, Robb could be counted upon to keep his word, if he had already lent his support to the match.
She ponders all of this, in the nursery with little Rickon in her arms. The Manderly sisters have returned to their rooms to sort dresses, which Sansa declined to join in with. They still have some time before the feast, but the poor weather has confined them all inside. Arya had run away from Septa Mordane before she could be trapped into an extra sewing lesson, and for once Sansa had followed her. They had run laughing through the stone hallways, footfalls clattering loudly, cheeks flushed pink with breathlessness. Eventually, they found their way to the playroom, where Bran was reading from his book of Knightly tales, Rickon listening attentively. Old Nan is snoring in her rocking chair, her knitting hanging precariously from her withered fingertips.
Sansa had scooped Rickon up with hugs and kisses, and settled him in her arms so they could listen together. Arya had sighed heavily at the lack of entertainment, but had flopped down in a messy heap beside them, too tired after their long, impromptu run, to scamper off again.
After enduring some tales of the Ninepenny Kings, Arya snatches control of the book from Bran and begins poking about. Muttering about Daenys the Dreamer, and the birth of the Targaryen dynasty. Luckily, Arya’s attention is divided, when Robb’s head appears round the nursery door, and the book is utterly forgotten when Jon and Theon spill in after him.
“Daenys had a prophetic dream. Do you know what the future holds in store for you, Rickon?” Sansa asks her baby brother, who turns to her. He is delighted to be singled out, even while his elder brothers steal the room’s attention, as usual.
“Brilliant circumstance.” Sansa declares to Rickon, loud enough to catch Theon’s attention, though truthfully he was already focused on her, yet trying not to show it.
Sansa continues; “You have the fortune to be the youngest son of a great lord, Rickon; you can adventure and learn a chosen trade, given leeway to follow a path of your own devising. You could become an unruly knight, like our uncle Ser Brynden the Blackfish, or a seafaring merchant, off to discover mysteries across the Narrow Sea.” She tickles Rickon’s tummy as she states such, delighting in his squirms of laughter.
“Mayhaps you will join one of Jon and Arya’s expeditions to Essos or Ibben, far across the Shivering Sea.” She sees the other occupants of the nursery turn to her, taking an interest in her words now also, and her tone becomes more serious.
“Jon is going to become a sailor, you see, no doubt a Captain of his own vessel someday. He might be Robb’s representative when our brother becomes the Lord of Winterfell. Then he could broker important deals with the Iron Bank, who are notoriously fickle. But Jon wouldn’t take any of their nonsense would he? He would be wise to their tricks.” Rickon nods seriously in agreement, though he cannot truly understand her words.
“Jon might become a knight or be granted a lordship for his good deeds, and marry a beautiful Essoi maiden.” She sees Jon blush, grateful but embarrassed by her faith in him.
“And me?” Arya interrupts. “You said I’d go with Jon too?”
By now they are all invested in Sansa’s words, her playful suppositions. She takes a deep breath, preparing herself to slip real truth into her words.
“Arya is going to become a great explorer, and travel much; perhaps even more than Jon. Maybe she’ll even brave the wilds of Sothoryos, and ride on a zorse during her escapades. Or find out exactly what or who lives in Ulthos. She might learn exotic arts across the Narrow Sea, like how to be a Braavosi water dancer.”
“What about me?” Bran pipes up. Robb leans over to ruffle his hair, giving him a playful nudge for his keenness.
“You’ll be fostered with some great knight, and learn all his ways.” Sansa predicts, hoping to all the gods that her words here will be accurate, and come to pass. “Until your skill surpasses even your teacher. Then you’ll be knighted yourself, and roam the Seven Kingdoms, winning glory and acclaim in tourneys everywhere.”
Bran wriggles in his seat, enchanted. Jon nods at him when he catches his brother’s eye, confirming Sansa’s words.
“Eventually you’ll make your way North, and fight alongside Robb in real battle.” She adds. “You’ll be lord of your own keep, naturally, but mayhaps Edmure Tully, a notoriously unreliable fool, will die without issue. Then you’ll be the Lord of Riverrun and the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, when our grandfather dies.”
There are some surprised faces at that, when her predictions take a darker edge. Robb blinks several times, his mouth dropping open as though to protest. Theon elbows him in the ribs instead, pushing forward so he can be closer to Sansa, and ask;
“And you, Sansa? Where will you be?”
She smiles beatifically, her voice dropping a little lower, as if her next words are only for him.
“I will travel also, but though I will learn much on the road, I doubt I will leave Westeros. I will leave the North though, for the Iron Islands. For I will marry a lord there. And I will keep his home and hearth warm, and fill it full of laughter and babes. He will trust me to rule his keep in his stead, when he goes to war. Mayhaps he will send me back to Winterfell for my protection sometimes, but I will defend either home with my bow and my wits.”
“The Iron Islands, Sansa?” Robb repeats, dumbfounded, his gaze flickering between her and Theon (who is still leaning forwards into her space), in rapid succession.
“What about Robb?” Bran breaks the moment with innocent, childish curiosity.
Robb’s gaze settles on her, heavy and resigned. Mayhaps he has accepted there is little he can do to prevent the bond between her and Theon from growing thicker by the minute.
“Yes, Sansa,” he asks, “What great tales do you have for me?”
“Hmm,” Sansa pretends to think it over. What she is about to do will change the course of all their lives, but she has accepted her accelerated pace. Her duty is to House Stark and the North. She cannot wait for death to fall upon them with icy hands before changes are made. Jon did not wrestle freedom from Daenerys in her past life; there is no reason to believe he will manage it in this one.
She leans close to Rickon’s chubby face, speaking in an exaggerated hushed tone, making sure the others can still hear. “Robb is going to be a great King. The greatest King in Westeros for centuries.”
From the corner of her eye, she sees Robb’s head snap towards her, the small, reluctant smile that had been forming on his face becoming fixed and brittle.
“Ah, Sansa!” He moans, “everyone else gets likely tales, yet mine is a jape. I’m no Prince!”
“Maybe so,” Sansa concedes, fixing him with her steely gaze. “Nethertheless, you’ll be the first King in the North since Torrhen knelt.”
There is amused silence at first, but when Sansa don’t blink and titter, chiding him for thinking her serious, everyone shuffles uncomfortable with her treasonous words.
“Sansa, you shouldn’t say such things.” Jon warns, but she ignores him. The time has come to be bold. The Lannisters gained much from their risk-taking, the Tyrells losing more for never going quite far enough. Sansa will not repeat their mistakes.
“But I am being perfectly serious. Think on it, Robb. Why should we be ruled by some pompous warmonger in the South? Robert Baratheon’s interest in the North begins and ends with his regard for Father.” She sits up, her eyes bright with fervour.
“Jon Arryn may be named Hand, but he is King in all but name.” She carries on, “Father says King Robert never attends small council meetings, instead spending his time hunting, drinking and whoring. And Jon Arryn is not a young man. He won’t live much longer, and once he is gone, Robert won’t know or care what goes on in the North.”
“The North is not a rich region, not like the gold and silver mines in the West, so Tywin Lannister won’t much care either.” Theon chips in, in a tone that says he can’t quite believe they’re discussing this.
Sansa beams, grateful for the suppport. “There won’t be much protest if we secede from the Iron Throne, and without dragons, who is there to stop us?” She says.
“The might of the Reach and West?” Robb suggests, aghast. “Sellswords from Essos, and any Northman that wants his house named Warden of the North in my stead. I’d be the Stark that lost Winterfell.”
Sansa snorts, unladylike. “Nonsense. The North, fight against the Starks, for Southern kings?”
Jon and Theon both bark with incredulous laughter at the thought of it, then stare at one another in horror, for inadvertently agreeing on something.
“Consider the North, as a free and independent Kingdom, tied through blood to the Iron Islands and the Riverlands, and Aunt Lysa in the Vale. We could maintain trade with them, and if you build a fleet of warships at White Harbour and Sea Dragon Point, you’ll be the first King with power at sea since Bran the Burner.”
“Sansa, this is madness.” Robb chides, sending Theon and Jon a black look.
“Is it? Father, Robert Baratheon and Balon Greyjoy won’t live forever.” Sansa cajoles. “When they are gone, if you have already placed your family strategically, think of all you could achieve. Jon to broker deals and trade across the Narrow Sea. Give Theon, your friend and brother, leave to take back the Driftwood Crown and Kingdom of Salt and Rock. Since you are as brothers; there’ll be no need for more war with the Iron Isles, if they raid South of the Riverlands, against our common enemies.”
“Two additional Kings in Westeros? Sansa, please,” Robb scoffs, but Theon says nothing, his eyes widening in shock and something like hunger.
“What of it? Change is always inevitable.” She dismisses, “And do you think the Riverlands would want Edmure Tully, the floppy fish, if they could have Bran instead? If Bryden the Blackfish trains him, Bran will know their ways and be considered an adequate Riverlander. That leaves Rickon, Arya and I.” She ticks off their names on her fingers.
“Help me convince Father to betrothe me to Theon, and you tie our kingdoms in blood. To any grumbling bannermen you can say I’ll be your eyes and ears on the Islands. To angry Ironborn, the prospect that a Greyjoy might one day rule the North, if you have no heirs, would mollify them. Even if we know such a thing will never come to pass. For there must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”
“And you’d be happy, marrying Theon... for politics?” Jon asks, sceptially.
Theon’s face is carefully blank, lips pressed firm in silence. Sansa laughs, her eyes gentle as she surveys the face of the man she hopes to love someday.
“Of course. I’ll look very fetching in black and gold, I should think. The kraken would sit just right cross my waist or shoulders.” She japes, sending Theon a wink. Jon doesn’t seem convinced, but it is not Jon whose testimony will carry weight with Father.
“And you’d make yourself Queen of the Iron Islands in the doing so,” Arya snarks snidely, after absorbing everything with disturbed silence thus far, peppered by the odd disgruntled noise. Sansa ignores her barbed tone. In her arms, Rickon shifts and wriggles, and she squeezes him in a soft hug, before ruffling his tumbling curls.
“Train Rickon to be your heir, Robb.” She recommends, “That way, if you have no sons, he can inherit your crown, with Bran already installed in the Riverlands. Unless, Bran, you’d prefer to be King of the wintery North, instead of Lord Paramount of the grassy plains and rich waters in the Riverlands. You may fall in love with the place, once you are fostered there. It doesn’t matter, as long as you promise to accept Robb’s decree, and never go to war against Rickon over the Winter Crown of the North. I see no reason we cannot spend our days in peace and harmony, once the fight for our independence from the Iron Throne is over.”
She reaches forwards, gripping Robb’s hand in her own paler fingers. Despite himself, he seems enchanted by her words, the vision of a future he never could have imagined alona and unaided, now painted irrevocably on the inside of his eyelids. He will never be able to escape it, she knows. Her words will whisper to him in the dark of his dreams, compelling him against his will.
“Discord comes from confusion.” Sansa warns them, but Robb most of all. “It is what tears Kingdoms apart. When Father dies, have your bannermen swear fealty to you, personally, as Lord of Winterfell, but not Warden of the North, not as a protector for the Iron Throne. That way you break no oaths, if you never personally swear yourself to any Baratheon kings. Later, you can swear them to your chosen heir when he comes of age. We never want another situation such as the Dance of Dragons, even if we may be upon our own personal Hour of the Wolf.”
Robb is now gawping at her with that familiar look, the one that asks who has replaced his sister with this mature woman, able to wield her words and a bow, like a true warrior.
“Not sure I’d be able to rule the islands without such a genius political strategist for a Queen,” Theon declares suddenly. “You’d best allow me to marry her Robb. You know I’d take good care of her, and be a true and honest husband.”
He speaks with a jolly turn of phrase, in a light tone, but Sansa knows Robb can see the longing in Theon’s eyes. They’d be brothers by law then, as Robert Baratheon was so desperate to be with Ned Stark that he tore apart a whole continent for it, all in pursuit of his pride. Sansa wonders then, if Theon would be capable of the same.
“You must not speak of this, of course. Not unless you frame it as a jape. We would all be killed in our beds if the Baratheons and Lannisters caught wind of it before we are ready for them to know.” She cautions, glaring at them all so that they understand the truth of her warning.
“By the gods, Sansa, how did you come up with this?” Robb asks, still stupified.
She shrugs. She can never tell them the truth. Her stunning words will be enough to occupy them for weeks, she knows.
“What do you believe I am doing, when I read songs and tales of sweet maidens and fair princes? Those tragic lovelorn tales, where the brave knight dies fighting for a Kingdom he doesn’t even have a stake in?” She counters, pleased with their guilty blushes. She knows they thought her vapid, filling her head with nonsense. She does not blame them, for it was true once.
It will never be true again.
Chapter Text
It seems that whatever Domeric wrote to his father was not enough to convince him, for as they break their fast, Father announces Lord Bolton’s intention to visit them in time for the feast. He should arrive soon, much to Mother's ire, as yet more guest rooms, inadequately heated, will have to be prepared. Even after all this time in the North, Mother forgets that Northmen are used to the temperatures. They do not require the rooms best heated by the hot springs. Robb is confident enough to point this out, rolling his eyes behind Mother’s back when she snaps unhappily at him in reply. Mother has a short temper, in these days of late summer.
Sansa expected this circumstance, having understood that any father would wish to see his heir after a long separation. She had hoped she would have more time to prepare for more Boltons invading her home, but this is what comes of rash action. She had not intended to be caught with Theon. Now she must deal with life as she finds it, not as she wishes it to be.
The Manderly girls are in a flutter, after reaffirming that Domeric has no sisters. No doubt pleased to learn they will have no challengers for Robb. Robb himself seems glad of their attention, though Sansa has seen him grow frustrated a time or two, when he attempts to break free and spend time with Theon or Jon.
Wynafryd enjoys games of cyvasse, which Robb can only stand for half the match, before he becomes terribly bored. Jon is a more patient player, and regularly finds himself dragged into matches. However, Jon himself shrinks away from the ladies, especially Wynafryd, whom he seems to find overbearing in the extreme. Across the cyvasse board he finds it easier to deal with them. He can distract himself with the pieces and his strategy, and ignore their probing questions. The Manderly heir is growing frustrated by their lack of affection, Sansa believes. No doubt annoyed that she has wrapped neither of them around her finger like a sock puppet yet.
Theon is the only one who openly scorns them, especially Wylla, whose choice of hair colour he has publicly disparaged. More than once he has rescued Sansa from the girl's twittering. Mainly by accosting her and leading her away, without acknowledging or inviting the other girls to partake in whatever activity he is taking her to. Now that Sansa’s archery is no secret, she has started practicing in public, skewering the hay targets under Theon’s careful, proud eye. Wynafryd seems increasingly incensed by this disregard. She eventually loses decorum and questions Sansa herself about it.
“Do you not find the Greyjoy boy most terribly ill-mannered, Lady Sansa?” She asks, a well-tailored eyebrow raising archly. “He seems very possessive of your time. How dreadfully bored you must be, humoring him so often. It really is too good of you, to put up with him.”
Sansa offers her a placid yet bland smile. Affecting an unknowing air.
“I’m sure I don't know quite what you mean, Lady Wynafryd. Theon and myself share a great many interests. We are firm friends.”
Wylla hums disbelievingly, whirling around to face Sansa from where she has been surveying herself in the mirror, holding a pearl necklace to her pink throat.
“Just friends, Lady Sansa?” She says with emphasis, and a pointed smirk on her face.
“Well, since you ask,” Sansa murmurs coyly, ducking her head as though in shyness, “my family secretly views Theon as another Stark son. I know the North considers him just a lowly hostage here, the son of an enemy House. But in truth, Theon is Robb’s greatest friend, along with our brother Jon. He would never allow his life to be forfeit for Lord Balon’s actions.”
She sees her words have startled her guests, for Wynafryd sits up straight from where she has been lounging gracefully and shares a significant look with her younger sister. Sansa is not discomfited by this, having observed how Theon is treated by the Winterfell households and their visiting bannermen, and the lack of interest he garnered in New Castle. Their blatant upset at disparaging a potential key ally is no surprise to her. She can well imagine the scorn Theon received, fighting beside Robb in a place of honour many Northmen would have coveted for themselves. No wonder he was so easy to push from the fold. Why continue to fight for people who disrespect your efforts at every turn?
“Truthfully, Robb could feel no deep regard for anyone who dismissed Theon outright, though he may feign friendship. Robb takes note of such things.” Sansa says airily, as she holds up a belt decorated with sea glass and moonstones, against the green lace dress the sisters had presented her as a gift.
She acts as though her words should have no impact, but uses her position by the looking glass to watch as Wynafryd’s countenance becomes more calculating, whilst Wylla’s face crumples in defeat. Of the two, she had been more vocal of her dislike of Theon, in retaliation for the insults to her ugly hair. Sansa sees a ripple of determination settle into her jaw; no doubt she, like Domeric Bolton, will not be so easily swayed from her goal.
It does not matter: Sansa has already warned Robb to take note of the way the sisters treat those they are not invested in impressing. He has not been awed their manners so far, though they are polite to servants and not rude or overly spoilt, despite their fine clothes. He will not be fooled if their attitude toward Theon abruptly changes.
*
Jon corners Sansa after she has been praying in the godswood. Praying she had not overplayed her hand, revealing so much of her strategy so early in the game. At the time, she reasoned that steps needed to be taken, even now, to ensure that her brothers would go along with her intentions, if they understood the reasoning behind it. If Bran refused to go to the Riverlands, or Jon decided to take the Black again, or Robb became embroiled in a romance with a Manderly girl, it would plunge a knife in her plans.
She cannot be everywhere at once, and it would drive her to the brink of insanity if she attempted to try. Even if they think her plans mad, they will linger in the recesses of the boy’s minds, at least. Here, at the beginning, it might be enough to stop them making any rash decision that might make Sansa’s vision of the future dissolve. It is easier than trying to ferret out private plans and elbow her way into discussions she should not be privy to. This way, they all take some of the responsibility for the future, themselves.
So far, they have taken her warnings seriously. Bran talks of nothing but being a knight, but never mentions becoming Lord of Riverrun. Though he has taken to extolling the deeds of his knightly Uncle, the Blackfish, and following Mother around, slinging questions of him at her. Though Bran is probably her favoured child, especially now that Sansa is in disgrace, even Mother seems harassed by the prolonged attention. Still, it keeps her distracted, and out of Jon’s path. Bran’s high voice carries, boisterous with youth, and Jon can easily scramble out of sight if he hears them coming.
Robb sends evey free hour in the training yard, whenever he can avoid the Manderly ladies. A great King is usually a great warrior, after all, particularly if he aims on winning his Kingdom by conquest. He spars frequently with Domeric, being slower to adopt his techniques than Jon. The gap between heir and natural son is no longer so obvious anymore, Robb setting aside his pride to ask for assistance, even from his younger perceived half-brother. Jon is a good teacher; Sansa well remembers him leading the training during the Second Long Night. He had lots of experience then, having trained Black Knights for years.
Jon is far more confident in himself and his place at Winterfell, now that Sansa has taken to pointing out his worth and trustworthiness so often. He seeks her out, sure of his welcome, in a way he never would have in their first childhood together.
Now when he corners her after her prayers before the heart tree, Sansa is surprised when he leads her to Arya’s room, her small sister punching him in the stomach in dubious welcome.
“I said I didn't even care!” Arya yells, in reference to some previous argument Sansa is not aware of.
“Oof,” Jon wheezes, “Not here. Inside.”
They scurry into the haphazard room, Arya’s belongings scattered about much less artfully than in Wylla’s room. Sansa settles on the reasonably clutter-free bed, noting the finery of the furs. Jon needs some thicker, better furs on his own bed, she decides. She will request the material to work on in her next lesson.
Patiently, Sansa waits until Arya finishes chewing on her lips and fingers and eventually blurts out;
“You didn't say what would happen to me. Not really. If I’m lucky, when Robb’s Lord, he’ll let me on Jon’s ship. But what if Father's married me to some lordling twit by then?” Arya demands, clenching her fists.
Sansa blinks, then smiles softly, “Arya, Father hasn't even secured a betrothal for Robb yet, and he’ll be of age in only a few years. You still have plenty of time.”
Arya snorts, unconvinced.
“The boys all get to be grand lords and knights, you’ll be Queen, and I’ll be made to marry the Smalljon and have giants for babes!” Arya wails, before giving her bedpost an angry kick. Jon hurries forward to scoop her up and prevent her from another. The two of them join Sansa sitting on Arya’s bed.
“Nonsense,” Sansa chides, “the Smalljon can have Alys Karstark or Meera Reed, or some other girl nearer in age. You should be more worried about Riverlands lords, hoping to curry favour with Bran, and place their sons in his seat, if he has no heirs.”
“Urgh!” Arya groans, her head dropping into her hands in despair.
Sansa takes pity on her then, and stops playing her silly japes. She knows that will not come to pass; Arya would scarcely allow it.
“You need not fear, Arya.” Sansa soothes, “Robb has Bran, Rickon and I for alliances. Bran could marry Shireen Baratheon, for Stormlander support, or a Vale woman. Rickon can take a Riverlander or perhaps a girl from the Fingers. Maybe simply a Northern bannerman’s daughter. Theon and I may even have babes then, that could be betrothed to a cousin, if Robb or Jon have children also, and we feel the need to keep our legacy secure. We have many options. You need not be pressed into a marriage you do not want.”
Both of them stare at her then, and she well knows why. Everything she had said goes against all they have been taught of Westerosi customs, and the Seven Pointed Star, as taught by Septa Mordane. There, it is always the women bartered in pacts to secure Kingdoms, land, trade and heritage. Only in Dorne are the circumstances slightly different. A thought of Dorne gives Sansa pause. Oberyn Martell’s reputation has reached this far, even at the age she is now. In her own time, his fatal fight with the Mountain, in pursuit of justice for his long dead sister, is legendary. Soldiers waiting for battle to break out are little better than smallfolk fishwives for gossip. Sansa heard much walking through the encampments with Jon, during their campaign. Tyrion Lannister told her about Oberyn’s death though, speaking in his usual flippant manner about dark and ugly deeds, to disguise the true disgust and horror he felt.
Mayhaps she ought to spend more of her time filtrating the information she gathered on the dragon Queen’s allies. Sansa intends to steal them out from underneath her, after all. She had thought it too early to spread her influence across the Seven Kingdoms, but hasn’t she already vowed to be more bold? The thought had her rising, gathering her skirts about her, so that she may make haste to her own chamber. She has clean forgotten Arya’s woe, until one look at her sister’s uncertain face has her re-evaluating her priorities.
“Do you mean it?” Arya demands, eyes big and bright with hope or just tears.
“I promise,” Sansa says, stooping to drop a kiss to her sister’s unruly hair. “Besides, I do not think some foppish lordling, keen to prove himself, would suit you at all.”
“No?”
“Decidedly not,” Sansa says, “I rather think a mature, solid man, dependable, but one who can keep up with you, yet will allow you to go your own way- that is the kind of man you need. Someone reliable and dutiful, akin to Jon. A tradesman, I should think. Someone practical. A merchant or soldier; yes, a man of action. A blacksmith, mayhaps?”
A wicked idea comes to her then. Yes, it is time she made a visit to the rookery, and reached out to other Kingdoms.
*
Although she will not see it, in a few days Sansa will cause Stannis Baratheon to grind his teeth obsessively, and clench his fists, the vein in his balding head throbbing as he reads her missive.
Lord Stannis Baratheon, Master of Ships and Lord of Dragonstone,
I write to you my lord, else I would be remiss in my duty. One of my Houses calls for duty and honour, and I would not have either, if I did nothing to warn you of the dangers posed to your Kingly brother’s bastards. Though not officially of your House and line, they carry the blood of your forefathers. I know you will understand that stepping aside to allow them to be harmed, when you are in a position to prevent it, might be looked upon by the gods as a mass kinslaying. All gods abhor such, even the mysterious gods worshiped in abundance across the Narrow Sea.
Your reputation as a logical, honourable and well ordered man is well told across all the known world, of this I can have no doubt. No man was ever more mindful of his duty. Your brave withstanding during the siege of Storm’s End will be remembered in perpetuity, as a trial of extreme endurance successful entirely to the fortitude of its commander. Your brother is no such man, though passion runs furiously in his veins. This matter cannot be left to his judgement, and though these scattered seedlings I implore you to gather are not your own, still the blood that runs through them is hot.
I write to beseech you to have your agents seek out these children, and scatter them across Kingdoms where lions do not prowl, where they might grow and learn a trade. Then they will be of use to society and worthy of the small drop of noble blood which graces their veins.
Be assured of my friendship, my lord,
the Red Wolf.
The letter will fall heavily on his desk, and he grimaces at the thought of being confronted with his brother’s many misdeeds.
*
“Don’t you think Mikken provides the very neatest work, Robb,” asks Sansa, fingering her wolf’s head brooch. It is a delicate, yet aggressive thing, with large biting teeth.
“Aye,” says Robb, patting his normal sword, not the blunted one he uses in practice bouts. “A man of great skill.”
“Such a shame he has never had an apprentice worth mentioning in the same breath,” Sansa adds slyly. It is just the two of them, Jon still with Arya, and Theon surprisingly absent. Her bones sing out to search for him, but that is not her current mission.
Robb catches her falsely light tone, eyes narrowing in suspicion at the road she is leading him down. “Indeed.”
“Wouldn’t it be worth our while, then, for Father to find an adequate young man to learn from him? Some strapping lad, already vastly skilled, but eager to continue to improve and expand? Perhaps bringing knowledge of techniques taught elsewhere in the Seven Kingdoms.”
“Sansa-” Robb pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes screwed tightly shut, before giving in with a heavy sigh. “You wish me to speak to Father about Mikken’s new apprentice.”
“What a splendid idea!” Sansa crows, “For Father has grand connections through the King. He should have a trusted representative select someone from the Street of Steel.”
“Anything else?” Robb drawls, apparently done with the pretense.
“He must be able to display a singular skill, in something particular.” Sansa announces, before floundering. She cannot for the life of her recall what skill exactly it is, that would single out the right boy unequivocally. Arya spoke of it, and she saw him working with her own eyes, and yet...
“Shields?” Sansa mutters to herself, though Robb is still listening intently, “No, that’s not right. Nor is iron fixings for furniture, nor shackles, nor silverwork. Damn it all to the Seven Hells... Hell- Helm!”
Sansa shrieks in joy for stumbling upon the right thing, startling a kitchen maid, who is passing by with a bushel of vegetables. The poor girl jumps, spilling several beets, blushing bright like one herself when Robb bends to scoop them up. Once the girl is safely on her way, Sansa continues.
“Helms, he should be skilled at helmet making,” Sansa commands, to Robb’s enduring frustration.
“Whatever for? They’re rarely worn in the North, and plain ones suit just fine.”
“Because it is skilled labour. Difficult to get correct. And don’t you want someone who is able to properly outfit a King for battle, Robb?” She prods, with intensity.
Robb continues to grumble, but does as he is bid, regardless. “An apprentice smith, skilled at helms.” He mumbles to himself, before muttering; “Whatever next? Dancers from Lys? Gods be good!”
Sansa leaves him to bemoan his terribly difficult life, having more tasks to complete before the Boltons arrive, and hostile forces invade her home. She will not be able to move freely then, for fear of all the eyes watching from the shadows.
*
Oberyn Martell will read the letter addressed to his brother with consternation, and no small amount of worry.
Prince Doran Martell, Lord of Sunspear and Prince of Dorne
The Beggar King will not live to ever see Westeros again, and the coin fell wrong for his sister. Do not think them the only members of their kin still living. Instead ask yourself why the mourning sword and his sworn brothers fought wolves in the sand for a blue rose. What treasure did they hope to protect among that bed of blood? For a wolf can hold many secrets in its paw, especially amongst the snow, where lions, stags and falcons fear to tread.
My condolences for the loss of your beloved sister. She deserved justice, which the wolves longed to give her, while stags and lions laughed. Your time for vengeance will come.
Your friend, the Red Wolf.
“Do you think there could be any truth to it?” Oberyn will ask, incredulous at the bold words. A code so obvious only a simpleton could not crack it, yet sent by raven, and not messenger.
“That is what I intend you have you find out,” Doran will reply. “Perhaps we will send Quentyn with you. Arianne’s hatred of him only goes stronger by the day, I suspect.”
“Then tell her the truth, and end this feud before it begins,” Oberyn will admonish him, yet always with the understanding his words will fall on deaf ears.
*
Sansa finds Theon pouring saltwater over his head by the deep pool in the godwood. She does not question what he is doing; he was given a pewter jar with which to do so by his Uncle Aeron. Theon received a blessing from the drowned man on the beach by the harbour on the banks of the White Knife, and a reminder that ultimately, all water begins and ends in the sea. Though she thinks him slightly mad, she kneels beside him anyway, and does not complain at the salty taste of his lips.
A tiny wooden icon nestles on the edge of the water by his feet, bought from a trader on that same trip to White Harbour. There are some that worship the Drowned God elsewhere in Westeros, more still in Essos. The little icon, with a hole through its centre and several winding appendages that could be legs or tentacles, plus one particularly phallic shaft of wood arising diagonally outward, can be found in these places. Arya described a large statue much like this is Braavos, though not exactly where. Only mentioning that the Drowned One was considered an aspect of the Many-Faced God there.
Theon has carried the little symbol of home in his pocket, since purchasing it. “A little godliness might do me a good turn,” He had grinned, the same smile he wears now.
“You’ll catch a chill,” Sansa chastises, rubbing the dripping water from his locks with the corner of his thick cloak.
“I’ll have you to warm me, won’t I?” He replies, and Sansa cannot help but laugh at his presumption.
“Always,” She declares, pulling him back to her, to claim his mouth again, until their lips are swollen and breath is heavy.
As they make their way back to the main courtyard, Sansa can see riders unmounting, and for one awful moment, her heart plummets, at the thought of confronting Roose Bolton so soon. But the men carry no banners, wear no sigils, and dress all in black.
She hears Bran and Rickon squeal before she sees them, carried under one arm each, like a bundle of firewood. This kindling giggles and squirms however, utterly delighted to be caught.
“Uncle Benjen!” Jon’s voice carries across the yard, and Sansa’s steps skitter and increase, dragging Theon along. He is not so enamoured to be included, but she does not care, having grown more affectionate of her uncle from afar.
Benjen is dressed in thick dark furs, his long hair tied back neatly, his beard rugged like a Mountain Clansman. He kisses Sansa on both cheeks, eyes wide at her diminutive stature. He follows her movement with his eyes, as she steps back into Theon, and wraps his arm about her waist. She weaves her fingers into Theon’s, across her own stomach, and sees clear comprehension in those Stark grey eyes. Acceptance, though perhaps grudging, quickly follows. Another ally has fallen into her lap, and she didn’t even have to pray overmuch for it. The Gods indeed are good, Robb, she thinks.
Chapter 11
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
When Sansa is called to her Father’s solar, she thinks little of it. He has been displeased with her since her outburst, but has not argued with her demands. He is probably hoping that some time will cool her temper, and he can try again. Sansa expects this conversation to go much the same path as the last, though perhaps she will be even more forceful in her command of betrothal to Theon. While waiting for admittance, she is startled to spy Uncle Benjen in the room, when she is given leave to enter. Benjen cannot meet her eyes when she looks to him for guidance and a smile, and her stomach sinks. This will be worse than she has anticipated, if Father’s almost apologetic grimace is anything to go by.
“I have received a letter from Dorne.” He begins, “A party has set off from Sunspear that will sail the length of the Seven Kingdoms until it alights in White Harbour. At the end of those months, Princes Oberyn and Quentyn will travel with their party for a prolonged visit here in the North.”
“How wonderful,” Sansa trills, somewhat confused by this opening speech. “They say Prince Oberyn is a very well travelled man. A strange thing that he has not ventured North before. Is he coming to see the Wall?”
Her eyes flicker to Benjen, hoping he will join the conversation, but her efforts are fruitless.
“I could not say.” Father states, “But it seems likely that if Prince Doran is sending his heir to the North, he comes to claim a Princess.”
“Oh no,” Sansa cannot contain her whisper.
“You would be the wife of a Lord Paramount, and rule over all of Dorne.” Father continues. Still in that same measured tone of voice, as though he is trying to circumvent her grief with calm soothing tones.
“Have you forgotten how strange and backward the Dornish are?” Sansa shrieks, “Arianne is Doran’s eldest, and his heir. She will be the ruler of Dorne.”
“I have been informed,” Ned grimaces at this, likely at the reminder that the dishonest profession of spying exists, “She does not have her Father’s support. He has sent her away from him, and does not teach her as one does an heir.”
Sansa’s fists clench, her face no doubt flushed and hideous with suppressed rage. She cannot afford mindless anger at this juncture. She must collect her thoughts and provide a logical rebuff.
“You told me you wanted to see a Dornish Sand Steed, once,” Benjen says gently, as if that will soften the blow of what he knows she will be losing.
Sansa recoils from the betrayal, taking a step back from the apparently united brothers.
“How dare you?” she hisses, quiet and low, “Do not compare a passing interest in horses to my feelings for Theon! For you know, you both know, what you are asking of me.”
“First affections can fade, Sansa,” Father claims, “Not all young romances ever come to fruition. We all must do our duty-”
“The Others take your duty,” Sansa snarls, deciding that mindless anger is going to rule the day after all.
Benjen blanches, clearly uncomfortable to be partaking in this conversation between Father and daughter. Meanwhile, Father sighs heavily, looking for a brief moment the exact double of Robb.
“Sansa, you are the eldest daughter of House Stark. You have always known your marriage would be decided by your Mother and I.”
“Where is Mother?” Sansa demands, “I don’t hear her trying to throw me to the vipers at the other end of the world!”
Father purses his lips, annoyed at her dramatics. “Your Mother and I are in agreement. She will talk to you privately on this matter later; her duties keep her busy.”
Sansa frowns at this- of the two of them, Father’s duties are more pressing, yet he has found time in his schedule for this ridiculous conversation.
“I hope you have not yet written to Dorne, Father.” She brings the discussion back to its true path, “For they will be bitterly disappointed.”
“By all reports, Quentyn Martell is a studious, dutiful man. Not known for reckless or foolish behaviour. He may not be such a bad match, Sansa, if the one you wish for is out of reach.”
“Theon is not out of reach. He is right across the keep, attending to his studies, as I should be. Instead I waste my time here, listening to plans that will never come to pass.” Sansa replies scathingly, her eyes flashing dangerously.
“I know not where this bold new attitude has arisen from, Sansa,” Father cautions, “But I do not care for it. You will mind your tongue around your elders.”
“And if I do not? If I stand on the battlements and tell all of Winterfell I am a ruined woman with soiled virtue, what shall you do then?” Sansa counters, glaring harshly. She is dancing across thin ice now, and no doubt frozen water will soon grip her ankles tight and drag her under.
“Sansa!” Father calls, aghast, but quietens when Sansa merely rolls her eyes.
“I am not, of course.” She reassures them, Benjen’s mouth hanging open for a moment, considering how far she is willing to push this issue. “But once a rumour is started, it is difficult to quieten.”
“You grow far too wild, my girl,” Ned Stark says, entirely unprepared for the stubbornness of daughters that have almost flowered.
“Will you promise not to betroth me to anyone but Theon?” Sansa asks, knowing it is futile, but willing to give him one last chance until she forces the issue in a manner she can never take back.
“You know I cannot promise you so,” Father sighs, “If not Quentyn, there will be other eligible lords better suited than Theon. I am afraid it will always be so.”
“You may live with that fear, but I do not.” Sansa retorts, “But here is a promise I will make with you Father, a bargain of sorts. You will promise not to betrothe me to another, and I will promise never to tell what I know of Jon’s mother.”
There is a confused silence at that, her Father’s face at once shuttered and guarded against her, in a way she has only seen when he was talking to Lannisters. The silence yawns between them like the gaping maw of a gorge, cut deep into the hillside, breaking them apart with every prolonged moment.
“I do not know what it is, you think you know, Sansa-” Father begins, but Sansa has had enough of her time wasted.
“I know blue roses and blood accompanied his birth.” She whispers, “I know three men died in the hot sand for his sake, and only a fool would not realise what you found in that tower, as Lyanna lay dying.”
Father’s face blanches white, and he staggers to his chair by the cracking fire, suddenly haggard. Benjen starts toward him, catching his eye with a cry of his name, but recoils back from whatever truth he finds in Ned's eyes. Benjen may have had his own suspicions, but she and Jon had never found out if he had known the real truth. Apparently, he did not.
Wordlessly, Benjen paces the length of the room in agitation, before slamming his fist into a small table. The wood splinters and groans in agony, but he pays it no mind.
“By all the gods, Ned,” He eventually murmurs, twin pairs of grey eyes meeting, like for like.
“I could have claimed him, fabricated some tale of a wife dying in childbirth, had you hidden him among your men. He need not have had a bastard’s lot.” Benjen hisses, suddenly incensed. “How could you condemn him to such?”
It is all Sansa has ever wanted to know, but Ned provides no answers, simply dropping his weary head to his hands.
“I did what I thought best,” his words are muffled among his weather-beaten hands.
“Best for whom?” Benjen growls, “He could have been Brandon’s get, at least, if he must be a bastard. An insult to your wife, but not one she would grow to hate as much as she does. She loathes the boy, Ned! How could you have been so utterly selfish?”
Ned lets out a low moan, and to her complete shock, Sansa realises her father is weeping. She has never seen her Father look so old and worn.
“I do not know. I don’t know a great many things, but how it came to all this...” Ned looks up then, seemingly forgetting that Sansa exists entirely. The world has narrowed to two brothers of ice and snow. “All I can say, is that I took each step I deemed worthwhile, at that moment, and this is where it led me.”
“And yet you never re-visited this path you trod?” Benjen says, disgusted. “Not even to tell me? Whom did you believe I would betray him to?”
“No one,” Ned moans, “I could not speak of it. I still can’t. I’ve tried to tell Cat so many times...”
Sansa edges back toward the door, aware she has unleashed something she should not have, something she cannot contain. Some hurts run too deep, and this will have consequences she cannot predict. She curses herself for being overconfident in her plots and schemes, that one little thrown horse-hoof into her plans would cause her to tumble into all disrepair.
She slips out unnoticed, leaving the brothers to continue their woeful confrontation. There are some things she does not need nor deserve to hear. If Jon is sent away because of her stupidity, she will never forgive herself.
*
She worries obsessively in the hours before dinner, biting at her nails, a filthy habit she was long cured of, fallen back to in extreme stress. What is to become of her, and all her grand plans now? Will Father ever forgive her for revealing his deception to Benjen? What will happen if he tells Mother, now that Sansa has forced his hand? The possibilities reel in her mind, making her dizzy and sick with it. She does not think she could eat a thing, but attends the hall at the correct hour, knowing her absence will be noted. Father does not look to her once.
Benjen however, watches her with calculated confusion, clearly over his horror at the truth. Now beginning to wonder how Sansa stumbled across such information, and who else might be privy to it. He sits hunched in his chair, haggard and unapproachable.
But all Benjen says to her, is a reminder that the Boltons will arrive soon. With so many strangers in Winterfell, they are not to speak on the topics previously discussed. Sansa agrees at once, ashamed of her reckless behaviour. Secrets seemed so odious to keep, but bringing them into the open was certainly not her intention either, no matter how unsavoury she found the lies. She never wanted to put Jon in danger. She longs to curl up in Theon’s warm embrace, burying her face in his familiar scent, but she cannot have him question her downtrodden spirits. She only has herself to blame for her misery.
Only a terrible daughter would attempt to blackmail her father, into arranging the marriage she wanted for herself. Sansa has never been so selfish, nor so rash, and she deserves to reap whatever punishment she has sown here. But she will not take the words back. Her action was despicable, leveraging Jon’s safety for her wants. But she would never have actually done it. She need only have her Father believe her capable, and it will be enough. This is what it means to be a player in the great game; one must sacrifice steeply, for greater gain. And Sansa has no issue sacrificing her honour for the lives of her family. Her only real regret is, she fears Father and Uncle Benjen will never look upon her the same way again.
Her depressing thoughts rattle around her head, until Mother comes to brush out her hair after dinner. It is a ritual they have not shared since Sansa returned from White Harbour, and she cherishes the action now. Mother’s hands are gentle, her presence warm, but somewhat saddened.
“Your Father has taken leave of his senses, my dear,” She says, when Sansa’s hair is safely tied in rags to sleep in.
Sansa turns to face her, clutching her in a quick hug of gratitude before sitting back to look up at her mother, standing over her, brush still in hand, a watery smile on her face.
“His is finally of a mind to look for a match for you. A eligible suitor will soon be travelling here from the far South, a rich lord who could clothe you in finery and fill your days with endless joy, yet instead he seeks to betroth you to man found right here, in this cold and oft desolate land!” screeches Lady Catelyn Stark.
Sansa’s heart skips a beat. Surely Father would not jump from Quentyn to Domeric, after her indiscretion?
“I don’t want to be the Lady of the Dreadfort!” Sansa wails, “Never, never!”
“Peace, my child.” Mother hushes her, seemingly forgetting about their recent frosty silence in her worry, “Domeric Bolton would have been a preferable option. But it is not of consequence, it will not come to pass. I should never have mentioned it.”
Sansa’s heart leaps, slamming into her ribcage painfully.
“Is it Theon, Mother?” she asks hopefully.
Mother eyes her dubiously, as if worried about what news she can handle, before eventually nodding.
Sansa bursts into happy tears, laugher bubbling up her throat before she can stop it. “Oh Mother, this is fantastic, brilliant news! Oh! I cannot wait for the announcement. Theon will be so astounded.”
Mother accepts her enthusiastic embrace with limp arms, her mind unable to catch on quick enough to Sansa’s jubilation.
“I will look so very fine in a new black and gold dress. I must wear it when Father gives the news, you must tell him to hold off until then. Please, Mother.” Sansa beseeches her, and Catelyn Stark can do no more than nod in acquiescence, dumbfounded.
*
Theon approaches her, pale and overwhelmed. Sansa sees at once that Father has spoken to him. She gathers him in her arms again, not caring who can see, reassured that soon no one will question their intentions and care for one another.
Father does not speak to her regarding Jon, save to ask her who else knows. Demanding to be told how she discovered the terrible truth. She fabricates an unconvincing lie that she heard him talking to Lyanna’s statue in the crypts, and eventually worked out the rest, during her studies of Robert’s Rebellion. It is all he can get from her, and he eventually gives up on digging up more. When Sansa promises that no one else she knows of is privy to the information, Father tells her to forget all she knows, in return for the marriage she has brokered. She agrees to do so, but with the caveat that Jon be allowed to follow the path he has chosen, and become a sailor. And that Father will bequeath him land and a holdfast of his own, within the year. She thinks that will be sufficient enough to reassure Jon that he is well-loved and wanted in the North. Father accepts with only mild reluctance.
“You have done a cold thing, here, Sansa.” Father says sternly, “I did not think you capable.”
“A great many things are capable for love, Father. As you well know. Jon is proof of it.” Sansa replies, as she leaves his solar, her heart far lighter.
Her joy does not last long. Finally, the Boltons have arrived to darken their doorsteps, with their dour demeanour and chilling sigil hoisted high, and blazoned across all their leathers. Sansa watches with Bran from atop the battlements as carts are unloaded, men barking orders at one another. Domeric Bolton, her Father and Mother, Benjen and Robb are all present to greet Lord Bolton, who is not overly affectionate with his heir. He clasps him across the forearm in a greeting of respect, at least. Sansa’s breath is stolen by the stocky young man that skitters forward once Roose has been led inside by Father. Domeric is hanging back for no reason she can discern. Until the young man comes forward, that is, from his place hidden amongst servants and guards. It is a face Sansa would know anywhere; oft in the dark of her nightmares, and no less welcome in the pale light of day.
Domeric clasps Ramsay to his chest like a long-lost love, or else a beloved brother, sorely missed. How any man could love such a foul creature, she cannot fathom. She had never seen Ramsay anything other than angry or callously happy at causing misery to others. He was obsessed with Theon, who drew the focus of his attention, even when Sansa became his wife. Though he forced himself upon her regularly, it was nothing versus the sick pleasure he derived from his games with Theon, whom he adored in his disgusting, perverse manner. Theon was forced to share his bed far more than Sansa ever was. Here is the monster that first bound them, in their shared pit of despair. Bile rises, but she swallows it down. She has done her heaving, crying and choking over Ramsay. She will not allow him to take another dignified moment from her.
Facing him again was not something she thought she would have to do in this life, however. She had hoped to plot his demise without ever looking upon that hated face ever again. But she will abide and endure, and see it gone from this world once more. Nothing can stop her from exposing him now, in her own home. She is privy to Winterfell’s secrets, and the household as it always should have been, strong and healthy. Bringing him down will not take an army this time. A few well placed words should be enough.
Still, her bones quiver to see Domeric holding his bastard brother close, their embrace not broken as they move into the warmth inside the castle. Is it possible that someone in this world was capable of genuinely loving the monster she had slain once already? What a very strange life it was, if so.
*
Roose Bolton’s eyes are pale chips of ice that bore into her, but Sansa is not cowed. He has no reason to be interested in her, no reason save for his clear hope that she might wed his son. All possibility of that is dismissed though, when Father announces at the feast;
“I have the great pleasure of announcing the first betrothal in my House, since mine own. My beautiful daughter, who has flourished here in the North, will one day leave our shores to become the Lady of the Iron Islands. No doubt her wilful nature will serve her well, as she brings her feminine, zestful joy to their shores. Theon, raised as a Northman, though Ironborn, will care for her with more regard than any other could, I am sure.”
His muted bannermen, a furious Roose included, can only raise their goblets of wine and mugs of ale as Ned toasts the happy couple. Her siblings are stunned, even Robb, whom Sansa assumed would be privy to the rapidly unfolding events. He regains equilibrium quickly, however, clapping Theon on the shoulder and bellowing out his congratulations.
Sansa remembers nothing more than dancing the night away after that; safely encased in Theon’s arms for the majority of it. She allows herself to be led by Jon, followed by Robb for a set or two, Benjen, and a sweet dance with Bran. Domeric, gracious in defeat, dances with her for one song, and bids them great happiness. Sansa, flush with joy and wine, squeezes through the crowded throng afterwards, throwing her arms about Theon again, nuzzling into him and allowing herself the pleasure of a mostly well-executed plan.
Father’s knowledge of her understanding will not rest where they have left it, she knows. There is nothing she can do about it now, however, determined to enjoy her night, resplendent in her dress, thick black strips of velvet bordered with gold accents, heavy sleeves flowing beside her arms. She will allow nothing to come between their happiness for this one occasion, despite her very real demons, lurking in the shadowy recesses of the hall. Watching the revellers with ice blue eyes, peering from a face too young to hold such cruelty, as the like she knows she will find there, if she only turns her head to look.
Chapter Text
Missives are sent across the Seven Kingdoms to announce Sansa’s betrothal. All the Houses in the North, as well as Theon’s family and Sansa’s from the Riverlands, are invited to their celebratory ball. It will be an event kin to the Harvest festivities in the North, the grandest hurrah before the dark of Winter falls across the world. Northmen are generally frugal, but these are the feasts where the most livestock are slaughtered, so that even the smallfolk can enjoy in the celebration. Mother is desperate to show that they are not savages in the North. She knows that her father and brother will likely be in attendance, judging the circumstances they bartered for their daughter when they used her marriage to secure an alliance. She is more stressed than ever, walking through stone corridors with bundles of fabric or rolls of parchment, muttering to herself, Bran still hot on her heels.
Sansa wonders what Jon Arryn will think of her alliance, knowing Robert will be displeased. His obsession with tying House Stark to House Baratheon would not be assuaged by suggesting Bran for Shireen. The disfigured girl was not of his direct line, and he still had three children of his own, and many arrangements he could make with Ned’s other children. The thought of Arya matched with Joffrey makes her dry heave. Perhaps she ought to suggest Robin Arryn to block it. Arya would absolutely hate that gross boy, and no doubt run away from the Eyrie. But Cersei would never allow a marriage to Joffrey anyway, the only time that poisonous disease of a woman could ever be relied upon to make the right decision. But the current Queen might not be able to stop Robert Baratheon, if he insisted.
Sansa could work better with Myrcella for Robb, though she would rather not. Any match with one of Cersei’s cubs means they will never be free of her tyranny. The woman would do anything to protect and defend her children. Sansa well remembers watching as Cersei was forced to give Mrycella to Dorne. They only real advantage Sansa can see, is that it would prevent that particular match. She cannot allow the Dragon Mother’s allies to band together again. This means separating the Tyrells from the Dornish and Yara’s Ironborn. Though Theon’s sister's command of a fleet remains to be seen, if she is to become a married woman. And what can be made of Quentyn, is an entirely fresh circumstance.
Sansa decides to set aside her notions for marriage pacts for the moment. With any luck, the Tyrells will forget their plot with Renly, now that their path to the throne is clear, without Sansa to stand in their way. Margaery is welcome to attempt to tame Joffrey. Perhaps their marriage will last a little longer, this time, if it comes earlier. Joffrey will not have exposed his true colours so blatantly, as he only had free reign for his cruelty once his supposed father had died. Sansa wishes the other girl luck. Margaery may be a vixen, but she was also a friend. Despite her efforts to use Sansa to gain the North, at least she was kind about it. She was her only balm in a nest of hatred, and Sansa will forever be grateful for that. Still, it will be no great loss if she never meets the Rose of Highgarden again.
Her other focus is the Night’s Watch. With Benjen here, it doesn't take much to press Jon to ask him questions during their talks. Benjen mistakenly takes this for Jon’s interest in the profession, which irks Sansa. She doesn't want anyone to sway his head. Since men will have their private conversations, she has no other way of gaining information. Jon tells her that the Rangers have been reporting stranger stories of late, and Sansa at once suggests it is time Benjen paid a visit to Old Nan. Jon gives her a dubious look, but her idea that Old Nan might be pleased with the new stories win him over. She can only hope the old servant can shake some sense of foreboding into her Uncle, if her tales and descriptions of long missing foes match. She has ever known Old Nan not to seize an opportunity to induce terror.
Benjen presents Sansa with her horse. Naming it a celebration gift, now she is a betrothed woman. The chestnut red mare snorts happily, snuffling at Sansa’s hair with her warm fuzzy nose. Her hide is warm, her mane thick, with hairy hooves; a horse bred to survive in the cold. Sansa does not have a name prepared for her, but requests that she is stabled beside Theon’s Smiler, whom she will have to get along with. The two will be accompanying one another on many rides, after all. She will think of an adequate name, that might present the two horses as a pair, much like Theon and herself.
There are more pressing matters to attend to. Ramsay has not approached the Stark children, but Sansa has felt his presence haunting her childhood home like an inch she cannot reach to scratch. She wants to burn him out, smother him in his sleep, or else have a guard push him down a well in Winter Town. She wants all record of his existence expunged from this world, his name no more than a forgotten whisper on the wind. But she stems her instincts, knowing she has been too quick in her recent judgements.
If she is to dispose of this beast cloaked in human flesh, she must ensure that it can never be linked to House Stark. Well she remembers all the suffering that resulted from Mother taking Tyrion Lannister hostage. All the turmoil that followed, after Ser Jaime attacked Father in the street like a common dog, stemmed from the rash act of a grieving mother. Mother was so sure that it had been Tyrion that sent Bran hurtling from the tower. Sansa now knows who truly broke his back and took his legs from him, and knows she cannot take action without proof, as her mother did.
For the moment, she can do nothing but ensure that Ramsay finds no reason to fixate his hatred, and evil games, on her family. Theon especially is not known for a delicate nature and compassionate turn of phrase. Sansa is well aware that men such as Ramsay, with no scruples themselves in their treatment of others, turn rabid if they believe they are being ridiculed. And they hold grudges forever. Ramsay will not forget the treatment he received here in Winterfell, and though Sansa has no real power over the servants, she has at least instructed the ones that regularly cross her path to be extremely polite to the Bolton household, even the lowborn among them.
She takes pains to be more explicit with her family, however. Having witnessed Ramsay’s public display of affection for his brother, she understands the facade he will be displaying. Every moment of her incarceration is seared into her mind, and she remembers Ramsay kissing her hand and treating her with all courtesy in public, his handsome face not yet twisted into the cruel grin that would haunt her dreams.
“There aren't many Boltons.” Arya whines, kicking at the dirt, as she and their younger brothers share a picnic. Theon is sat beside Sansa, but Robb and Jon are nowhere to be found. Sansa brought blueberry tarts for Robb especially, but Rickon is happy to stuff himself with them.
Bran nods seriously. The older boys have gained a playmate in Domeric, and the girls now have the Manderly sisters, who are sharing Arya's blanket along with Bran. But there is no one of age with Arya, no younger girl to share her interests with.
“There are enough,” Sansa replies dourly, “And watch that you mind them. Boltons aren’t ones to suffer fools or disrespect. They still keep the cloaks made of our ancestors, you know.”
Bran pulls a sour face at that, putting down his half-eaten sausage. “That’s foul, Sansa!” He whines, and she nods seriously.
“Exactly. So watch you don’t become one. Flaying might be outlawed, but there are other ways to cause harm. The bad blood between our families runs deep, and if I hear you have been adding to it, you will spend your time confined to your rooms, missing feasts and all manner of frolics.”
Her brother and sister giggle, but Sansa silences them with a glare.
“I speak truly,” She cautions, “Ramsay Snow, natural son of Lord Bolton, has a reputation for bringing gruesome, grizzly punishments to those that displease him. Lord Roose refuses to reprimand him, being too fond of his son. Mind that you keep out of his way.”
The Manderly girls share a look of alarm at that, and she prays they do not question her mother about it. There are enough things Sansa cannot provide answers for. She leans into Theon, thankful for his warmth and silent support. Sansa and Theon are nestled on their own blanket, with the picnic basket, and the flailing Rickon taking up the rest of the space. Manderly and Stark men are watching over them a little ways off, enjoying their own light lunch and watering the horses.
The sky is a crisp, pale blue, the sun's arc through the sky lower in these autumnal days, lazy white clouds puffing along slowly, high above. Lightening the mood, Theon points out one that looks like a falcon, whilst Sansa is more adventurous, and names one particularly rotund cloud a hippo. They are ferocious creatures that reportedly live in Yi Ti, she informs them all.
“I don't think those are real, Sansa,” Theon grins, “A water-cow that squashes people to death? Sounds like one of Old Nan’s tall stories.”
“Stories have to come from somewhere,” Sansa reasons sensibly, reaching over with a damp handkerchief to clean some of the food smear from Rickon’s decorated purple face. He squirms, but doesn't resist too vocally.
“Hmm, I suppose. All manner of strange things could lurk far across the Summer Sea.”
“Will you take me there, someday?” She asks, suddenly curious about Theon’s lack of wanderlust. He didn't press her for detailed predictions on his own future. There is only one path he has ever mentioned for himself: the road that leads back to Pyke.
“Where? Yi Ti?” Theon blinks, sitting up from where he had been leaning back, low to the ground, resting on his elbows. He winds his finger around a blade of glass, twinning the green round his finger like a strangling vine.
“Should you really like to?” He asks, peering up at her from underneath a flop of clean hair.
“Travel that far on a ship?” Wylla reiterates, wrinkling her nose. “Such a long journey would be... Perilous.”
“If you venture nothing, you gain less.” Sansa shrugs her shoulders. “Navigating the stars, with the rush of the sea spray against your skin and the lingering taste of salt in the air. Stopping at peculiar, far-flung tropical ports, to trade and barter for spiced fruits and shimmering fabrics. Dark wooden trinkets and mysterious tonics. Coloured glass and candles with sweet scents. Alighting on bizarre shores, where the sand beneath your feet is dark and glittering, or the foreign trees drip from the humidity. Deciding when and where to travel because of the whims of the wind.”
“You have a gift for painting a romantic picture, Lady Sansa,” Wynafryd compliments. “Such a thrilling notion. Pirates, slavers and storms at sea might put a dampner on such idealism, however.”
“There is no point to always believing the worst. I prefer to hope for better situations, taking the necessary precautions to prevent unfortunate issues.”
“Avoiding dangerous situations to begin with might be the safer option.” Wynafryd counters, “Rather than placing oneself in harm’s way and hoping for the best.”
Sansa glares at her challenger, not in the mood to have their outing soured by petty arguments. She is, however, thoroughly through with pretending to be meek and unopinionated. She has been run roughshod over many times in her parallel lives, and it is an experience she is utterly done with.
“Be that as it may,” She sniffs haughtily, “Life is not a sequence of safe hearths and harbours, where only friends gather to wish you well. I would rather live a life worth remembering, than encase myself in some safe keep, to wither my bones until old age takes all courage from me.”
Wynafryd struggles to find a rejoinder to that, her lips twitching with the effort at not pursuing or pouting them. Sansa sees the older girl struggle to keep the ill feeling off her face, and turns away in triumph. Rickon provides a realistic outlet for her dark glee, allowing Sansa to coo gibberish at him while he waves his pudgy fists in happiness, at the continued sweet treats. A blueberry tart massacre has taken place. Half-decimated pastry is left carved open in craters, where the filling has been scooped out by fat babe fingers. Theon and Bran pick up the slack like hungry starlings, eating the leftover victims, undiscerning of the crumbled mess of pastry. Sansa eats her lemoncakes with more refinement, sneaking an unnoticed corner of blueberry tart when no one is looking.
She is saved from whatever reply Wynafryd eventually comes up with, when Robb comes galloping toward them, skidding to a halt on his winded horse. There is a glazed look in his eyes, as he stumbles from the saddle and flops down onto Sansa and Theon’s blanket. Unheeding of the curiosity his unwarranted presence brings, he absent-mindedly scoops up a blob of blueberry filling, that Rickon has missed. Staining his lips and fingers blue as he licks off the messy treat, Robb continues to sit in silence, blinking in a daze.
“Robb?” Sansa braves, “Are you well?”
Robb hums in response, licking a blueberry off his thumb. He catches her eye after Sansa weaves her head into his eyeline, and lets out an overly loud exclaim; “Oh, yes!”
He casts about awkwardly, looking for something to say, before grinning privately to himself, ducking his chin. Rickon proceeds to crawl into Robb's lap, quickly cuddled close by warm, welcoming arms. Robb's coy grin doesn’t seem to match his next enthused words;
“I have convinced Father to repair the Broken Tower!” Robb boasts, “Since we looked through Edwyle’s accounts, I found a store of copper everyone had clean forgotten about. It was written into his logs, but never spent. I had Luwin go through Rickard’s accounts, but it was still missing.”
He leans forward conspiratorially, pleased with himself: “So I went to the Tower, and in the cellar, under a pile of rubble, it was just sitting in a chest gathering dust! I persuaded Father to let me pay for the work with it. Since we’ve Bolton and Manderly men here, we won’t need many labourers from Winter Town, which doesn’t really have so many spare men to begin with. Now would be the most auspicious time to begin. Since idle men cause trouble, as Mother always says. Father has given me charge of the project.”
“How wonderful!” Sansa exclaims, not in the least because if the Broken Tower is mended by the time of Robert’s arrival, Cersei Lannister won’t be tempted to fuck her brother in it. “Mother must be pleased, at the thought of extra rooms.”
Robb’s mouth gives a funny twitch then, his eyes sparkling with the mischief of one in the possession of a secret. “Yes, Mother was happy to know we won’t be strapped for space in future. Though I think she’ll have her hands full with other concerns before much change has begun.”
“When will the work start?” asks Arya, in the midst of peeling an orange.
“On the actual tower itself? Within the month, I should say,” Robb decides, “We’ve only to wait for the correct tools and ropes. We’ll need to dig first, see, as most of the stones that are missing from the east side are buried in the dirt at the base. We fetch that up, and there’s no need to drag stone out of the wolfswood.”
“And that can begin immediately,” Theon supposes, gratified by Robb’s quick nod.
“How exciting,” Wynafryd flashes the heir of Winterfell a sultry smile, “So many changes afoot in the North, and such a worthwhile project instigated by you, before even reaching maturity.”
“Well...” Robb pretends not to preen at her words, which leaves Sansa wanting to scowl. “It’s not my design or anything. Luwin still has the architect’s designs, copied from the original.”
“It wasn’t built by Bran the builder?” Bran enquires, shocked. Sansa is equally surprised to learn such. She had thought all of Winterfell erected during the Age of Heroes.
“Apparently not,” Robb helps himself to a hard-boiled goose egg, wrapped in lettuce. “It was a later addition added by Edric Stark.”
“Edric Stark?” Wylla repeats, obviously not familiar with the name. Sansa herself isn’t sure of the man in question, though she recognises the shape of it. She will have seen it written on their family tree, somewhere. There is a giant tapestry in Father’s solar where the leaves of a weirwood contain the names of every Stark that has ever lived, and even most of the bastards. Though Sansa is not familiar with the history of this man, she would never be foolish enough to say so. If Wylla is hoping to impress Robb, her lack of knowledge of the seat of the North, will not win her admiration.
“Son of Cregan, brother of Barthogan. The one that married his niece, Serena.” Robb elaborates, continuing to raid their picnic for remaining titbits. “Apparently he was some kind of masonry prodigy. He designed lots of improvements and built Greywater Watch, apparently.”
“He built Greywater?” Theon repeats, “How do you even set about designing a castle that floats?”
“Much the same as any other, I suppose,” Robb shrugs, “I’m more concerned that he married his brother’s daughter. Who does that?”
“Targaryens, mostly,” Theon quips, making them all snigger, even the high-minded Wynafryd.
“It would be like marrying Uncle Benjen,” Robb continues, with a disgusted wince. “Horrid.”
“I don’t know,” Theon muses, “I think you’d make a rather fine couple. Benjen’s a handsome man, Robb. I’m happy for you.”
Robb throws a sausage at him, landing a perfect blow on the crown of his head. Sansa can’t contain her giggles, only laughing harder when Theon gives her a look of acute betrayal. She lets out a shriek when Theon lunges at her, leaping up to avoid his tickling fingers. He chases her around a mulberry bush, roaring in triumph when he succeeds in catching her, lifting her up into his arms, her back tight to his chest. Breathless, she can only wheeze through shiny, grinning lips, as he buries his face in her throat and inhales her. Pressing kisses to her neck and humming in contentment, as she smooths her fingers over his own, and whispers his name with love on her lips.
*
Robb continues looking pleased with himself for the rest of the afternoon, dragging them all to Mother’s solar when they return to Winterfell, after bidding their company good day. It is only Starks and Theon who make their way down the hallways to Mother’s apartments, though they are joined by Jon along the way. Their brother is quiet, but smiles to see them, accepting a leaping hug from Arya. He carries her into Mother’s room, where Lord and Lady Stark are waiting for them.
Sansa stays close to Theon, wondering at their summons, and fearing the worst. Would Father reveal the truth to Jon and negate the terms of her betrothal pact? Surely not with the little children here, she reasons. Rickon is but a babe, Bran not much better. They would not be able to understand the need for secrecy, and Father would never take such a risk.
Besides, if he had told Mother, she would not be seated placidly at her writing desk, with a small smile on her lips. She doesn’t even scowl at Jon and Theon’s presence, when she usually wishes them excluded from family occasions.
“We have a joyous announcement to make,” Father says, as Robb goes to stand at his side, on the other side of mother, barely containing his glee. Clearly, he has been waiting for this moment with anticipation.
Mother takes Father’s hand, looking up at him as he stands strongly at her side, the two of them with their heir the paragon of what a great House should appear to be.
“I am with child,” Mother says with pride, caressing her stomach with her free hand for a moment, before resting it there.
Sansa stares and stares, willing the words to make sense. This cannot be; they must be mistaken. Has she really altered this much, as to result in the formation of a new life in the world? Or could it be that she is living in another place entirely, another world? Has she usurped the place of a Sansa that died of fever, in a lifeline where there are seven children to Eddard Stark’s name. If so, has any of her meddling even made any changes, or were they always destined to live out these lives if this Sansa survived? Has she affected any difference at all?
Chapter 13
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sansa comes to face her adversary in the strangest manner possible. She knows Domeric Bolton plays the harp; they all do, as he brought it back home from the Vale, and played to rapt attention in New Castle. Here in Winterfell, he has only played it once for a small audience, the night his Father first arrived in Winterfell. Still, the melancholy notes are familiar, and charming. She cannot help but be entranced by it, wrapped in her thoughts of the new babe and all it could mean, following the sweet sounds when she hears Domeric practice. Her winding path takes her to the guest rooms, the suite door to the adjoining chambers the Boltons have been given, wide open.
In the temporary solar, Sansa gets the shock of her life when she sees that it is Ramsay, and not Domeric, holding the delicate instrument between his solid thighs. He plucks at the strings with confidence, while Domeric watches with pride, eyelids heavy. Lulled by the melody, just as she was. She watches in awe, unable to believe that such a brute could be capable of anything so refined and beautiful as the sweet music. But the notes speak for themselves, hanging on the air like the high voices of the siren singers, found on the shores of the Fingers.
It is difficult for her mind to reconcile the foul creature that took pleasure in skinning live people, and the young man seated before her, lost in the rhythmic motion of his song. The final notes hang in the air like a promise, before Domeric claps, breaking the silence with his quiet, solitary applause.
“Excellent,” he praises his brother, “Despite the gap in your practice, I still believe you’re more advanced than I was at your age.”
Ramsay scratches behind one ear, apparently not one to gloat over achievements that are actually admirable to others.
“Not as good as are you now. Father wouldn’t let me have a harp.” Ramsay scowls then, picking at his nails.
Domeric leans around the instrument to stop him, covering his hands with his own. From this angle, Sansa can see the sides of both of their faces, and the longing for approval in Ramsay’s eyes, when he looks up at his brother. All at once the truth hits her, and she steps back, her heart pounding, breath heavy. She recalls that Ramsay told her once Domeric was buried with his harp, because he loved it so. He made a point of mentioning that his Father ordered it so.
She sees now the missing pieces, that she would never have been able to access, had she not seen the brothers interact. Despite Ramsay’s status, Domeric is oft found in his company, supping with him at the lower tables, or riding out with him. Sansa has seen them stepping up to the hay targets together, when packing away her own bow. But never had she seen them like this, quietly soaking up one another’s presence.
Ramsay’s adoration is obvious, from those cold, bright eyes staring up at the brother that trains at swordplay with him, and taught him to play the harp. Roose Bolton had always been a cold, unfeeling man, the kind of man who would indulge his heir if it would make him more eligible to Southern maidens, but give no such leeway to his bastard. What exactly did Ramsay Bolton lose, when his elder brother died? The only affection he could rely on, she realises. The only warmth to be found in the Dreadfort.
Sansa makes her way to neutral ground, toward the Broken Tower, where she can be alone with her thoughts. Roose Bolton had claimed that Ramsay had killed his brother, but Sansa doubts it. She stumbled across a private moment, where Ramsay had no reason to perform courtesies. He had no reason to fake admiration out of public view. Yet he let his brother still his agitated fingers with a soft touch, and was willing to play for him, and open himself to criticism. Those were acts of trust, of an affection she did not believe him capable of.
But then, Cersei Lannister was the cruellest woman Sansa had ever encountered, and even she could be sweet to her children. After they were dead, she allowed her madness to consume her. Does Ramsay stand upon a similar precipice? Is Domeric the only thing keep him from plunging from the cliffs of sanity into the abyss below?
She resolves to speak to Domeric as soon as possible. If there is a possibility of solving this mystery, and preventing the atrocities that could come to pass, she must take it.
*
She gets her chance when she encounters him in the glass gardens again, this time unaccompanied. He bows to her, stoic and chivalrously offering the rock he was seated on. There isn’t room for two, but Sansa does as she is bid, hoping he will not immediately hurry from her. Alone like this, he can put forth his case for being a better match than Theon, and she expects him not to waste such an opportunity.
She is not disappointed, when he asks if she has ever visited the Iron Islands.
“I have not yet had the privilege. But I suspect I will be allowed to accompany Theon to his sister’s wedding, now that we are officially betrothed.” She replies, breathing in the sweet scent of lemon from the tiny tree that struggles to produce fruit year after year.
Domeric gives her a dubious look. “There are no glass gardens there my lady. Not many plants of any kind, and no trees. I wonder if such a place will make you happy.” He asks, but his tone is gentle, and not disparaging, despite his words. He is a very matter of fact man.
“A hovel in the woods would please me, Ser,” she disagrees, “So long as Theon would share it with me.”
“Your devotion is truly so deep?”
She can’t fault him for his incredulity. He does not know what Theon once was, the wretch he could become, or how Sansa has played her part in making him the less burdened, loveable man he is growing into. Domeric does not know how Theon and Sansa suffered together, until they were two parts of the same miserable creature. Close to broken, yet the only ones capable of saving one another.
“Just so.” she says firmly, “There are parts of him that are wholly mine, that no one else could understand. We are parts of the same whole.”
Domeric considers her words thoughtfully, not dismissing her as sentimental because of her youth.
“Then I wish you great fortune together, my lady.” He declares, “Would that I could find someone to complete me so.”
Sansa smiles mischievously. “Could not Lady Wylla be such a person?”
With pink cheeks, Ser Domeric attempts to deny her suggestion. Sansa has seen him look at the older girl across the room once or twice, seen those looks returned, but without real heat. If he makes a more active pursuit, however, she has no doubt Wylla will open herself to the possibility. After the Starks, the Boltons are the second most ancient and great Northern House. She would not turn away from the chance at being the Lady of the Dreadfort, and it would take one less complication out of Robb’s path. If Roose Bolton can be satisfied with Manderly silver, he might not go looking for more in the shape of a fat Frey’s dowry.
“As your Father’s only heir, you must feel some burden to continue your line?” She asks, sweeping the issue aside for now. Planting the idea as a serious consideration will have to be enough.
“Aye,” Domeric nods, “Though my brother provides some comfort, of course, even if he cannot inherit.”
“The two of you seem close?” Sansa asks, seizing upon the chance to learn more.
Domeric winces then, a guilty look passing across his face. “In truth, I have been keeping something from him, that might draw a wedge between us.”
“Is it really so abominable?” She wonders, but the knight only shrugs. He glances about the flowers, as though the poppies and tulips may grant him the reassurance that he needs to go on. The old gods must be watching over Sansa, for he sighs, and continues.
“If I told him, I could not be sure of his reaction. Will you offer me a woman’s kind perspective, Lady Sansa?”
“I would be glad of it, kind Ser.” She says, repeating his compliment.
“Before I was summoned by your Father, I had planned to visit my brother’s mother. She is of the smallfolk, and lives on my Father’s land. He has forbidden it, but if I encountered her on the road home, and feigned some reason to take her hospitality, such as my horse throwing a shoe, Father could not accuse me of betraying his orders.” He admits, not without a cringe at his blatant intent to flout his Father’s rule.
At once, the truth becomes clear to Sansa. Had Father never summoned Domeric, he would have gone directly from White Harbour to the Dreadfort. Encountering this woman on the road, and dying of some mysterious illness shortly after. Sansa can see it now; Ramsay thrilled to have Domeric home after so long, only to watch him deteriorate in agony. What might that do to a half-mad child, desperately awaiting his brother’s return, the return of the only outwardly affectionate person that cares for him? It does nothing to excuse his later acts of heinous violence, but it goes some way to explaining what pushed him down the path of becoming so utterly irredeemable. It was not Ramsay that killed Domeric at all, she realises.
How would she feel, if the privileged young son of the man that forced a son upon her, turned up at her door? She would not welcome him. She would want to kill him, to punish his father. How naive Domeric was, to expect the best of everyone. Knowing nothing of the pain of rape, he could not be presumed to understand the depth of hatred Ramsay’s mother would hold toward his family. Whatever poison did she seize upon? Whatever plant was at hand, no doubt. Sansa can almost taste the dark triumph at the back on her throat, standing in this unknown woman’s shoes, the same taste of satisfaction she felt watching that same woman’s son torn apart by his own hounds.
Domeric's premature death will not happen this time, not if Sansa has any say in matters. If Domeric is what is necessary to contain Ramsay’s sadism, Sansa takes no umbridge in keeping him safe. The Gods knew Domeric was the better heir for House Bolton. Sansa would see it so.
“Might I ask, Ser, if your brother asked you to seek his mother out?”
It might be difficult, to derail his mission, if so. To her relief, Domeric shakes his head.
“Then might I suggest, my lord, that you wait until he is of age, and then ask him if he wishes to seek her out? Then he might make the decision for himself, and if he is not pleased by what he finds, he will have a man’s wisdom to deal with it?” She doubts the veracity of her own words, as Ramsay will always be a manic beast to her mind, but she cannot say so to Domeric.
“Mayhaps you are right,” he sighs, “I have a tendency to be too hopeful, it has been said. The woman has never come to ask after him, as far as I know. Still, I cannot fathom how anyone could abandon their child.”
Domeric meets her eyes then, the blue-grey colour of his startlingly close to the famously Stark grey colouring.
“I was only six years old when Ramsay came to the Dreadfort. I had never seen a babe before, and none other has seemed as sweet to me since. He was near silent, but always watching, with ice blue eyes, like my Father’s. I had always wanted a brother, and to me, he was a gift from the gods.”
Sansa cannot help but smile at that, despite the subject of their conversation. He is not yet the monster of her nightmares, after all. The Ramsay of this tale is just a babe, innocent like any other.
“You have a great deal of love for him,” she reasons, and will not fault him for it. They are kin, and she could expect no less from a man such as Ser Domeric. He may not be outwardly expressive, but in his own measured way, he is kind.
He does not deny it, straightening to a bold, unashamed stance. Most men would not be so proud of their bastard brothers, ones that may one day challenge their claim.
“Truly, Lady Sansa, from that moment, he was mine. There might not be so many years between us, but my Father is not the sort of man invested in small children. He left me to the care of my mother, Ramsay to wet nurses. When my mother died, we had no one but each other. I have loved him as though he were my own son, from the moment I held his tiny fingers betwixt mine.”
She cannot imagine a life without her boisterous siblings, alone in Winterfell, with no other high born children to play and learn with. How would she have felt, if Robb had never been born, and no babes came after her? If one day, Father had presented Jon as a babe several years younger than her, and promptly ignored him? I would have done the same, she thinks. I would have watched out for him, and he would have been mine.
“Then it is your duty to continue to do so.” She says, “He must have missed you greatly, while you were in the Vale.”
“Yes, though he is not one to admit such in words,” Domeric grins, “In Barrowton, we harassed my Aunt together, disappearing for days among the barrows, hunting and sleeping beneath the stars. Leaving him behind to squire, was the hardest thing I have yet done.”
“Then reassure him it will not happen again,” Sansa reasons, “No matter the circumstance. Let him know he will always have a place by your side, whether he wishes to seek out his mother or not. He might think you are sending him away, otherwise.”
Domeric’s brow creases heavily. “I did not consider such. There will never be a time I wish him gone from me. You do not suppose he could already believe so?”
“We may suppose all manner of wild things, if left alone to brood in the dark,” Sansa says with ominious weight. “You have already told me your Father is man not known for providing reassurance.”
Alarmed, Domeric takes his leave of her, swiftly walking towards the lowly quarters where Ramsay has been stationed. He leaves her alone to stew in her own revelations, her next move suddenly unclear. With Roose as his influence, what manner of man might Domeric become, if the boy he considers his son meets some inexplicable end? If the culprit could not be found and vengence taken, what demonic countenance might take hold of him? He and Ramsay are cut from the same cloth, after all. The same volitile Bolton blood runs in both their veins. Domeric may grow suspicious, despising everyone about him, considering them all potential enemies. Just like his brother was, her mind whispers, lashing out at everything in his path, hateful toward everyone.
Does she not have a responsibility to ensure such a thing does not come to pass? Is not Ramsay a dog better leashed to his brother, if the affection between them is genuine? The whispering trees and shrubs will not provide her with answers. Sansa has asked the gods for enough already; some things she must attempt on her own. She is not capable of forgiving Ramsay for all that she suffered at his hands, for all that Theon suffered. But she might be able to accept a world with him still breathing in it, providing he never becomes such filth again. If she even hears a hint of it, she will not hesitate to move against him. For now, he has been given a reprieve from her shadowy justice.
*
An extended hunt has been planned for the morrow, Mother gratified that the cold stores will be replenished, and the castle emptied for several days. Any women are granted leave to join in the first ride out, to be escorted back on the dawn of the next day. Sansa is keen to go, as is Arya, but Mother rules her too young. Women do not partake in even this much in the South. Mother grimaces at the thought of Sansa on horseback, shooting at hares alongside the men, but she does not speak against it, to her great relief.
They ride out at first light, accompanied by the Wandering Crows of the Night’s Watch, most of whom are continuing on their way South. Uncle Benjen is returning to the Wall, though, his duties as First Ranger preventing him for being gone so long. Benjen is staying for the first day only, and will accompany the women home on his way past Winterfell. Sansa once again thanks him for her horse, now named Sunbeam; for to beam is to smile, and none so bright as the sun.
Sansa brushes her mane and saddles her, proud of her lovely animal, and ability to care for her. Sunbeam is fond of carrots, apples and nuzzling Sansa with her nose. She is not convinced by Theon yet, but Smiler is tolerated, enough that his rider is accepted by default. They gallop out into the wolfwood together, Sansa’s heart lightened by the simple feel of the wind whipping through her unbraided hair.
The party rides for a few hours to get deep enough into the woods, before watering the horses, splitting into two factions, and slowing their pace to a crawl. Sansa has never attended a hunt before, but she carried her own bow, her Tyroshi dagger hidden from sight, strapped to leg. Sansa and Theon have joined the party after land animals, such as hares, squirrels and stoats. Ramsay, to her relief, has gone with the group seeking birds.
Sansa’s first victim is a squirrel, having grown somewhat proficient at hunting them in the godswood. She no longer has qualms about loosing her arrow, since she felled the boar. The small creature is still quivvering with life when she reaches it, however. Wordlessly, she hands it to Theon, to have him snap it’s neck. There are some things Sansa finds she is too squeamish for, and the crunch of tiny bones beneath her fingers is one of them. Once relieved of its suffering, the squirrel goes into their sack, alongside Theon’s hare and a pigeon that flew into his path.
The time passes smoothly, most of them stripping off their cloaks under the warm sun. Sansa has not felt so unburdened since returning to Winterfell, confident as she directs her new horse through the stream and over crunchy leaf litter. Theon is her constant companion, playful compeition arising between them as they count their kills.
The peace of the day is interrupted by the bellow of the a horn; the other party is in danger. Wide eyed, they band together again, from where they have been spread out to unearth the most prey. Sansa’s party rides hard toward the direction the other went, her heart in her throat the entire time. Robb and Jon were both in that party. She fears to think on what may have befallen them. Another boar? A wolf? A horse fallen, trapping its rider beneath? The possibilities are chilling.
She does not expect to find a bloodbath. Slaughtered men and women lay littered in a clearing, their blood dripping from grass and trees, her brothers unhorsed and panting in the middle of it. Aside from a Bolton servant, there are no casulaties among their men. Only a few of the ruffians still live, clad in roughly patched furs, no refinement in their faces or countenance. A troop of wildlings. Sansa watches in bewildered fear as the wild men from beyond the Wall sneer, their yellowing teeth bared in snarls. These are not the men she grew to know and admire, none moreso than Tormund. She had almost forgotten these petty skirmishes they used to endure, before they found common ground with these foreign people.
One man startles at the new arrivals, starting towards Sansa’s party, who are quickly closing the gap left in the semi-circle of Robb’s party, encasing them. Domeric Bolton, still mounted, is the man first in the wildling’s path. Sansa does not hesitate to nock her arrow and let it fly. The man falls with a cry, a spray of blood erupting from his chest. She glares at the other wildlings that were following him, daring another to advance upon them. They fall back, surrounded, unwilling to risk it.
“Drowned God,” Theon whispers at her side, staring at her in awe.
She smirks back at him, unrepentant. He is not the only one admiring her, either. Robb has a thrilled grin on his face, and Ramsay Snow turns to the one who beat him delivering the blow. He drops his own bow to rest against his horse, to regard the brave girl that defended his brother, with a frisson of interest.
Sansa lets her eyes slide over his face, seeking out her own brothers, uncle, and betrothed, finding them all still hale and hearty. She wants to kill the other wildlings for daring to threaten them, but it is not her place. Robb orders them trussed up and returned to Winterfell, enduring the grumbling of his men for a hunt cut short.
Benjen opts to return with them, sure the Lord Commander will want to know what these men have to say. For that, Sansa cannot help but be grateful, for extended time now granted with the man that forced some sense into Father. And she is curious to see what Benjen will make of what the wildlings say about the horrors beyond the Wall.
Notes:
I know most people won't be cool with this. All I can say is, I am adding my own back story to Domeric, because I personally subscribe to the theory that Ramsay's mother murdered him in canon (along with some help from Reek 1.0) when he came to meet his brother for the first time. Obviously in GOT, this cannot be the case cause they make a point of Ramsay being raised at the Dreadfort. So, I had to account for the discrepancy, and this is what I chose. It adds another layer to the nature vs nurture debate.
In ASOIAF, Ramsay hates Domeric because his mother raised him to see himself as Roose's true heir and a "real" Bolton, obsessed with their history. In my headcanon, Ramsay was raised by Domeric, who was a new sort of Bolton, happy to let their history be scrubbed out by chivalry. Then he died in weird, unexplainable circumstances, after three years of Ramsay suffering under Roose without him. Ramsay went absolutely batshit, convinced Domeric's Southern ways angered the old gods, and the only way to be a true Bolton was to follow the old ways.
In my defense, this is my rare pair haven, where all the strange and wonderful head canons and pairings get room to play. That's why Ramsay lives. Not because I like him as a person, but as a character and plot driver, he's fascinating. This is about a United North, all the North, not just the pieces that are admirable. And a Ramsay Bolton loyal to Robb? That's thrilling to me, so that's what you're getting ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Chapter Text
Work on Robb’s tower progresses at a steady pace, without much difficulty. The smallfolk begin to refer to it as such, as after a few moons of solid work on the lower structure, it cannot really be called ‘broken’ any more. Robb puffs up with pride whenever he hears the phrase, and decides to add his own flair to the project, commissioning a stonemason to carve direwolf gargoyles to be placed at strategic junctures where stones are missing.
Sansa volunteers to sort through the dusty wreckage of old belongings that used to be stored there, before work began. Most of it is useless; mouldy old desks, moth-eaten furs, ripped tapestries, ugly candlesticks that were probably unwanted gifts for some unfortunate lord of ages past. She does find some gems however; chests that can be cleaned and polished until the wood gleams, and a trunk of thick blankets, plain but salvageable. Inexplicably, Sansa finds a beautiful Stark maiden’s cloak. It is pale grey and covered in blue winter roses, grey and blue embroidered weirwoods, with a repeating pattern of black and silver wolves running in a border around every edge. The entire cloak is covered in tiny seed pearls, some of which dangle by loosened thread, but that is easily fixed.
Intrigued, Sansa takes the beautiful piece inside the keep to be washed, overseeing the maids cleaning it, almost afraid to lose it. Father’s brow wrinkles when she presents it to him, running his fingers gently over the fur-lined silk.
“This was my mother’s,” he admits, “She was a Stark by birth, as you know. It was meant to pass to my sister.”
He stops then, as ever unwilling to say more. They have not spoken in depth, since Sansa forced his hand regarding her betrothal. Since then, he has been preoccupied by the dire warnings of the wildlings, which Sansa only knows of because of Benjen. She attempted to sneak down to the cells to speak to the prisoners herself, but was quickly turned away by the guards. Unlike Maester Luwin and Old Nan, they cannot be relied upon to sleep on the job and allow her to go about her business.
Benjen tells her that the wildlings are clearly afraid of something, perhaps a particularly powerful clan that is swallowing up territory. When Sansa tentatively enquires if their stories in any way resemble Old Nan’s tales of the Long Night, he twitches and gives a funny shudder, and refuses to answer. But he takes the wildlings back to Castle Black with him, after several hours locked in private discussions with Father, and that is something at least.
Preparations for the grand celebration feast continue to stress Mother, who covers ream after ream of parchment with lists of ingredients, bolts of fabric, and furs required, and orders for sundries such as oil, firewood, candlesticks and even cutlery. New wall hangings have to be sewn, to hang in any room with more than one bare wall. The castle is a-flutter with suggestions for who might come to visit. Sansa herself is keen to see old, familiar faces, long before they are harrowed by the effects of war. She wonders if the tiny, fierce Lyanna Mormont will be among them, as a child of five should be considered old enough to travel. Ned Umber is just a year younger than her, making him a perfect companion for Rickon. She hopes the two of them will both come; not in the least because she wants Rickon to be matched with Lyanna. This will go a great way to solidifying Northern support when Robb becomes King, if his heir apparent is already betrothed to a stable, respected Northern House.
The Cerwyns and Forresters are already here; Cley Cerwyn, Ethan and Rodrik Forrester sparring with Robb and Domeric on an almost daily basis. Jonelle Cerwyn, Mira and Talia Forrester join Sansa’s sewing circle, though the Forrester girls spurn Septa Mordane’s instruction at every turn. They are devoted to the old gods, and pray in the godswood every morning. The young ladies appear quite horrified that the Warden of the North’s daughters have a member of the Faith as a tutor. They get along well with the Manderly girls however, despite the fact they all seem to be vying for Robb’s attention.
Mother is already fretting at the idea of the Whitehills arriving before there are enough bannermen to provide a buffer between them and their sworn enemies, the Forresters. Especially since the Glovers have not yet arrived; House Whitehill are sworn vassals of House Bolton, and it will make things awkward indeed, if the Forresters do not have the support of their own overlord House. Mother makes sure the Bolton and Forrester rooms are situated as far apart as possible, intending to stow their supporters close to them, to ensure each family feels secure, with allies nearby.
The Ironborns arrive earlier than expected, causing a commotion, with their uncouth manners and insistence on remaining armed at all times. Theon’s sister has not come, but his distant relation, Uncle Dagmer has, as well his actual Uncle Victarion, a beast of a man, of very few words. They are not the most well-received by Theon though, despite his clear joy at having relatives to celebrate a happy circumstance in his life with. No, that honour falls to a lady whose dark hair is streaked with silver, with pale green-blue eyes. She walks with the aid of an older woman, whose hair is the exact same shade of pale golden red as Theon’s.
After the Ironborn alight their borrowed horses, and the rest receive bread and salt in the central courtyard of Winterfell, Theon charges forward, his face slack with disbelief.
“Mother?” he calls, taking the silver and dark-haired lady’s hands into his own. She stares at him without comprehension for a long, uncomfortable moment, before her face crumples, and she begins to weep.
“My baby,” She wails, scrabbling at Theon’s shoulders, smoothing her hands across his ashen face, before clutching him to her breast. She refuses to let him go, even when the remainder of their party is keen to get warm inside. The lady who shares Theon’s hair colouring is referred to by him as Aunt Gwynesse, and is the only one who can get Lady Greyjoy moving. She leans heavily on Theon, keeping him wrapped in her arms.
Despite their initial mistrust, Mother seems to warm to Gwynesse Harlaw, who is a woman that tolerates no nonsense, but is never crude or short with the servants. Mother must be grateful for the help at keeping them all in line, as her waist thickens and her ankles swell. Roose Bolton seems intrigued by Victarion Greyjoy, and Sansa shudders to think on whatever keeps them in rapt discussion. Though none of the Northern houses is particularly warm toward the Ironborn, no actual fights break out. Ethan Forrester seems particularly leery of them, cringing out of their way when he encounters them.
Alannys Greyjoy spends most of her time sitting by the fireside in her room. Theon visits her at least once a day, holding her spindly fingers within his own. She doesn’t talk much, seeming to forget where she is and who her companions are. She always remembers Theon after a short moment. Theon doesn’t succeed in having her refer to him as anything other than her baby. He is only mildly annoyed about it. He seems so pleased to have her here, to much care that she often asks after his dead brothers, and strokes his hair as though he were a child Bran’s age.
Some days, Theon even manages to coax her out of her room, to take a slow turn about the glass gardens. Alannys is enchanted by the bright flowers, especially the vibrant orange and yellow ones. Theon takes to threading one or two into her dark locks. Sansa teaches him how to tuck them into a twist of hair, so that they won’t fall out. Domeric Bolton seems especially moved by this show of devotion, and offers to play his harp for her. Alannys never seems more peaceful than when sitting in the glass gardens, clutching Theon’s hand in both of her own, her eyes serenely closed, as Domeric weaves his blissful music.
Sansa finally fulfills her promise to ride out with Domeric, putting Sunbeam through her paces as they gallop through the wolfswood. Jonelle Cerwyn is a keen rider also, and joins at their back, along with Ramsay Snow and Jory Cassel. Sansa never thought there would come a time when she would be comfortable in the company of two Boltons, without any of her brothers to provide protection. But truthfully, she is not so afraid of this Ramsay, who is still in many ways a green boy. He looks to Domeric for direction in most things. Without the manic smile on his handsome face, he stops being a waking reminder of her nightmares. Sansa would never allow herself to be alone with him. But her skin no longer crawls in outright terror of him, whenever he is near her.
*
Private moments with Theon are more difficult to snatch, with so many other people in the castle demanding their attentions. Still, Sansa makes an effort to seek him out, if too many hours go by without one of his salacious smiles directed her way. She craves his hands skimming across her body, his tongue in her mouth, his teeth nipping at her neck and ear as he cradles her close. She breathes him in, when he steps near and brings her hand closer to her chest, as she learns the method for close-range archery. Dagger-throwing practice doesn’t hold the same temptation, but she enjoys attempting to best him, cheering in victory whenever her blades hit their mark.
Her parents are leery of letting her learn hand-to-hand combat, but since she’s already hidden several moons worth of sparring one-on-one with Theon from them, they can’t do much to stop her. During her first official lesson, she lays Robb flat on his back, and socks Jon in the mouth when he attempts to go too easy on her. After that, she enjoys some physical sparring as well as the verbal kind, though she is forbidden close-range weapons. Having pushed her luck thus far, she makes this small concession to her parent’s wishes.
“You’d make a formidable enemy, my love,” Theon predicts, when she offers him a hand up, after sweeping his feet out from under him. She flushes at the endearment, pleased and proud that he could love a woman that wants to fight.
By the time Gendry arrives from King’s Landing, Winterfell has become a hubbub of activity and Northern unification, as the future rulers of the great Houses grow closer by the day.
Domeric Bolton puts forth an official suit for Wylla Manderly, and the two begin an authorised courtship. Roose Bolton seems mollified at the idea of tying his House to the richest in the North, though he makes it explicitly clear no Sept will ever be built at the Dreadfort.
Winterfell and Winter Town are brimming with life and hope, and with so many workers at his disposal, Robb’s Tower is almost complete by the time the Martells arrive.
*
Sansa never really knew Oberyn Martell, though she formed an impression of him from afar. Tyrion Lannister spoke of him fondly. Knowing he had the gumption to bring his paramour to King’s Landing, she knows to expect Ellaria Sand to accompany Oberyn. Thus she does not share her parent’s mortification at her being publically introduced as such. The Martell contingent are wrapped in expensive furs from Pentos, in warm colours ranging from burnt orange to sunny yellow, bloody crimson and rust bronze. Sansa did not know which Sand Snakes to expect, but curtseys to the four that arrive as she would any highborn girl, ignoring the derision in their eyes. She has nothing to prove to these sneering girls, and it can only be to her benefit, if they underestimate her. Jon seems fascinated by these publically cherished bastards. Sansa warns him that the Dornish are hot-blooded, and that the girls will not be maidens, charmed by his innocence.
“They will use your inexperience to manipulate you,” she cautions, “And do not suppose they will be interested in a marriage. You once said you would never father a bastard of your own, though I suppose one raised in Dorne would not suffer as elsewhere in Westeros.”
Jon blushes fiercely at her frankness, mumbling that he was only interested in their foreign ways, funny accents and lovely dark skin. She sees how Oberyn Martell’s eyes follow him about the room, probably searching for the shadow of Rhaegar in Jon’s sleek features. No doubt Oberyn learnt as much as possible about the ‘Bastard of Winterfell’ before ever setting foot in the North.
Quentyn Martell is the least flamboyant of the Martells. He leaves the least prominent impression, being a shy sort. Not one to volunteer his opinion, or push his way into the training yard like his base-born cousins. That will not do for Sansa’s plans at all, as Quentyn is the one that can really secure House Martell to their cause. Being in line to be Doran’s heir, should Arianne make a match which could give her control over the Seven Kingdoms, Quentyn is the one that needs to be tied to the North. Sansa hopes the bonds of friendship can grow strong enough to matter during his stay. She is not sure any Northern girl could stand to travel so far from home. She could be wrong however, as the lure of being named ‘Princess’ is apparently enough to garner interest from Wynafryd Manderly and Alys Karstark, despite Quentyn’s rather dull lack of Dornish fire. Quentyn enjoys to play cyvasse, one point in his favour, at the least.
The sennight-long betrothal festivities include three huge feasts, a hunt and several feats of fighting prowess, including an archery competition Sansa intends to win, dancing, Braavosi acrobats and jugglers, and a mummer’s troop sent by her grandfather, whose health prevented him from travelling. Edmure Tully is in attendance though. Affording Sansa an opportunity to raise her eyebrows at Robb in vindication, as they watch him boasting and drinking at the opening feast of the festivities. He flusters the serving girls and ignores Jon’s presence to the point of flagrant rudeness. He insults Theon, upsets Mother when she tentatively asks after his own marriage plans, and sneers at Father whenever someone pays the Lord of Winterfell a compliment.
Bran eyes their uncle with disgust, a glint of something wicked in his eyes when he later informs Sansa; “I’m going to steal his seat and all his titles. That will teach him to be mean to Jon and rude to Father.”
“Quite right,” Sansa agrees, tucking his bed covers all about him, before leaning down to press a kiss to his brow.
*
The hunt is only a short one of three days; men come and go, past the acrobats that perform feats in the courtyard each day, juggling leather balls, eggs, daggers and finally swords. Theon tells Sansa about the traditional Ironborn game of Fingerdancing, culminating in the gruesome tale of his Uncle Urrigon’s death.
“Father had his revenge though,” Theon sniffs, “He had the stupid maester’s fingers chopped off and sewn back on, just like he did to Urrigon. They say the man died in agony, raving with madness.”
“How fitting,” Sansa replies, nauseated. She resolves to forbid Theon from playing the game, if he ever wants to lay with her as man and wife should. She remembers well what he looked like, with his fingers missing.
The archery competition draws attention from every House. Sansa is not the only woman taking part, either; Lyra Mormont is very good, as is her mother Maege. Meera Reed is better than all of them, Sansa included. She fears a fight will break out when a Whitehill attempts to stop Ramsay Snow from stepping into position, to take his turn.
“The games aren’t open to you, bastard.” He sneers, a hand roughly pushing into Ramsay’s chest. Sansa sees Domeric snap to attention, a murderously dark look on his face, and charges forward to prevent the inevitable bloodshed. In the world she came from, that Whitehill would lose a hand for such insolence.
“The competition is open to everyone, my lord,” she corrects him, her voice edged with steel.
“You don’t want a bastard boy taking part in your betrothal celebrations, Lady Sansa,” the man says, attempting to tell her how she should feel.
“Sooner a baseborn than a buffoon, Ser,” she snaps, “So step aside.”
She can hardly believe she is defending Ramsay Bolton to anyone, over anything, but the gratified look she receives from Domeric tells her it was the right thing to do.
Naturally, Ramsay wins. The proud smile on his face at the weirwood bow he receives from her Father, the grand prize for the winner, is the first time she has seen his face light up with genuine pleasure. It might be the strangest thing she has yet seen, in this new world.
The Martell girls perform wonderfully in the spear throwing competition, most Northmen not proficient with the weapons. The crannogmen are their only real challengers, but Nymeria Sand manages to best them all.
Theon gains credit for the best kill of the hunt, taking down an elk that requires four strong men to drag it back to the keep. Domeric insists he is going to compose a song about it, in awe of the single arrow that brought it down, lodged deep in the animal’s heart.
Though she has fun dancing, twirled around by Northmen, Ironborn, Dornish and her betrothed, perhaps the most gratifying moment for Sansa comes when they are watching the mummers perform the tragic tale of Florian and Jonquil. Alannys Greyjoy, who is lost in her own head for most of the time, begins to weep during the final act of the performance. She is sat between Theon and Sansa. So Sansa can clearly hear her, when she sings along softly under her breath, to the well-known song about the lovers. In the final throes of the show, she reaches over to grasp Sansa’s hand. Theon's mother looks her in the eye, with a gaze that is for once lucid and knowing. She offers Sansa a watery smile and a nod, perhaps the only approval Sansa feels truly humbled to have earned.
Chapter 15
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Everyone breathes a sigh of relief once the guests begin to trickle away. Some parties are small and barely missed, other groups of bannermen vast, quickly decreasing the crammed hall when they depart. When the Ironborn are ready to take their leave, Alannys Greyjoy refuses to go, hysterically hanging onto Theon and sobbing so that Sansa thinks her heart might break. No amount of coaxing will from Gwynesse can sway her. Lady Stark is moved by the display, her hands dropping to her own heavy stomach before she intervenes.
Gwynesse and Mother work out the terms between themselves, secluded in Mother’s solar. Sansa stays with Theon the entire time. Alannys is inconsolable as she holds her son’s face to her shoulder. Mumbling nonsensically into his crown as she brushes his hair, damp from her tears, down past his ear. Sansa pretends not to notice Theon’s own red rimmed eyes. When Gwynesse returns, she announces they will be staying indefinitely.
“I’ll not leave my sister. My brother can keep his precious rocks,” she huffs, “He’ll be thrilled. He’s been denying my claim to them all these years.”
She sounds a little chagrinned, to have been ousted from her home without any warning. Her gaze softens when it settles on her sister though, still rocking and muttering under her breath, unwilling to be separated from her son.
The impatient Ironborn are furious when Gwynesse informs them they are expected to leave their liege Lord’s wife at the seat of their enemies. Angrily insisting she is handing the Starks another hostage.
“My sister is already a hostage of their own pain.” Lady Harlaw sneers, “Dragging her from her boy now might just snap the last threads of her mind. She’ll likely not survive the journey home, whether its from finally dying of grief or throwing herself overboard directly to the Drowned God’s halls.”
The burly, belligerent Ironborn men are chastened by that. Still, Victarion Greyjoy protests that he’ll not leave his brother’s wife unprotected from the Starks. Which is how the grisly Dagmer Cleftjaw and the Goodbrother triplets come to be permanent fixtures in Winterfell. Victarion Greyjoy himself might have stayed, were it not for his loyalty to his brother; not allowing him to make such a decision, without a direct order.
He makes it clear he’ll return for the Lady of the Iron Islands if ordered. It will likely be taken as an act of war if they refuse to hand her back under such circumstances. Lord Balon and his wife have been living apart for many years, her exact location shouldn’t matter much. But Sansa knows men can be funny about such things. She suspects Balon will object purely out of spite. Gwynesse writes a letter to her brother Rodrik, urging Victarion to deliver it first. Allowing Rodrik accompany him to smooth the news to her goodbrother, might make it better received. Victarion seems relieved to pass the responsibility into another’s hands, carefully tucking away the hastily scrawled missive.
It takes hours for Alannys to calm down enough to understand they aren’t leaving, and she is safe to fall asleep. Theon doesn’t leave her side all night. He sleeps in his Mother’s room, curled up under the furs at the foot of her bed, clutching onto her hand. Sansa suspects it might become a regular occurrence. Judging that it will take some time for Lady Greyjoy to settle, into something like her previous docile state. Though with Theon’s continued presence there is some hope for an improvement.
Aside from the party of Ironborn, the crannogmen also remain longer than the other vassal Houses, having the most distance travel. Therefore needing the longest time to recuperate. Domeric Bolton leaves for a time, but he is back before two turns of the moon, to continue his suit of Wylla. Ramsay is left at home in the Dreadfort, Sansa is pleased to see. Domeric claims to have forgotten is harp in his haste to return. Sansa suspects it was entirely intentional, to give his brother a chance to practice out of his hearing. And therefore the opportunity to surprise him, with newly learnt music when he returns.
Domeric continues to practice in the training yard against the Stark guardsmen. Robb and Jon stand stronger against his superior knowledge now. They all make daring attempts to best Dagmer Cleftjaw, who has taken over Theon’s training, as he is the master-of-arms for House Greyjoy. The man wields an axe quicker than any of their swords. Theon is dubious of fighting with battle-axes, considered primitive in the North, but after witnessing Dagmer best all comers without the use of a sword, he is converted.
Meera Reed’s sparring sessions with the Sand Snakes also become regular entertainment. She is bold and ruthless, not opposed to employing the underhand tricks that crannogmen are so derided for. Spear fights often devolve into punching, kicking and biting before the fight is declared done. Lyra Mormont oft joins them, sometimes allowing Arya a chance to stand against her, though it is clear she wants to learn the Dornish methods. She spends hours twirling her spear with the swift, fluid movements they have shown her.
“Rather lovely, isn’t she?” Robb sighs, as he watches Meera send Tyene sprawling into the dirt with a solid kick to the chest.
“Tyene?” asks Jon, eyes wide. The Dornish girls are fierce, and they are all a little scared of them.
“Meera,” Robb counters with a soft smile, resting his chin on his fist. Sansa stares incredulously, unnoticed by her besotted brother, sharing an amused look with Jon. Well, at least the Reeds are famously loyal. Perhaps if Meera doesn’t spend the next few years of her life trekking toward the Land of Always Winter, something can come of it.
When the Mormonts leave, Maege asks Father to allow Lyra to stay and continue her lessons with Oberyn’s girls. Sansa now shares her sewing circle with Wylla, Wynafryd, Lyra and Meera. Though Nymeria and Tyene sneer when she invites them, Sarella Sand chooses to join them, sometimes accompanied by Ellaria. It is much nicer to spread the Manderly girls attention among the other ladies, as they no longer focus on pumping Sansa for information.
Sarella is insatiably curious, but her questions are about Northern history and customs. She explains how Dornish dresses are threaded together, and that they have some dresses made by seamstresses in Volantis. She teaches them these techniques in return for tips on embroidery and how to clinch fabric so it hangs in the Northern style.
Sarella adores Old Nan. She sneaks into the nursery to sit at her feet, and ask about the Last Hero, the Night’s King and his White Walker bride, and all manner of questions about the creatures that live beyond the Wall. Sarella is by far Sansa’s favourite of Oberyn’s daughters, as she is too busy being in awe to be rude or condescending about Northern womenfolk. She is also the only one of the Dornish party who carries a bow.
Along with Meera, she provides Sansa with some much needed female company in the practice yard. Arya too, has taken up the bow. Sansa never thought she would be teaching her sister arms, and not the opposite position. Arya is thrilled when Sansa repositions her fingers on the string, tilting her elbow, well-remembering Theon clucking about Sansa’s tendency to drop it, at the beginning.
When she isn’t pestering Lyra or the Sand Snakes for lessons, running away from Septa Mordane or shooting arrows with Sansa, Arya can be found in the smithy. She sits on whatever surface is available, swinging her legs and distracting Gendry with her nosy questions about King’s Landing. The boy has the patience of a Silent Sister, Sansa thinks, when she catches her sister poking about in the tool pots and attempting to lift his bull-shaped helm.
Gendry has been kept busy with requests for similar items, since Robb paraded his work about and commissioned a direwolf helm of his own. Since the work is not ostentatiously covered in vines or jewels or other Southron affectations, but rather fearsome in its simplicity, his popularity only grows. Domeric Bolton commissions an entirely new breastplate for his armour. He asks for a huge flayed man, intricately detailed. No doubt the macabre work will stir everyone’s interest in the man who forged it.
*
Sansa takes the decision to warn Jon Arryn that there is a conspiracy to end his line. She isn’t sure how it will be received, but guesses that plots and schemes of all kinds must have been uncovered all throughout his long tenure as Hand. Under her Red Wolf moniker, she generalises the danger to his House, insinuating that mockingbirds in the Vale grow weary of a lord and heir never seen. She vows it will be the only time she directly interferes with one of Baelish’s games.
She could not hope for a better outcome of her warnings. Mother talks of how she’d like to visit her sister who has inexplicably turned up at Riverrun, were it not for the babe preventing her travel. There is talk of Jon Arryn growing paranoid in his dotage, employing taste testers for all his food and drink in King's Landing. Mother shares her thoughts with Gwynesse, who has quickly become a fast friend. Despite Mother’s best efforts not to trust an Ironborn, even a woman. Gwynesse offers her thoughts whilst decimating a leg of chicken; “Sisters can be hard work. You’ve plenty o’ babes that require your attention more.”
Mother is somewhat mollified by that. Though she remains nervous, regarding any ravens that come from the Riverlands. Ever since Edmure was injured, on the road home. Apparently their party encountered bandits on the Kingsroad, causing Edmure’s horse to bolt and throw its rider. Nothing is said about the bandit’s origins, or punishment. Sansa suspects that Edmure was merely reckless or hapless, and fell from his horse in some clumsy accident. Whatever the cause, he dislocated his sword-arm shoulder. It has been popped back into its socket, but is not healing correctly.
Sansa feels guilty for all her ill-thoughts of her Uncle, remembering the lesser man Jaime Lannister became after losing his sword-hand. Then again, Edmure Tully is not one of the greatest swordsmen of his generation and a famed Kingsguard knight. He doesn’t need to be a great warrior to be a good lord to his people. Sansa suspects his insecurity over the injury will sour his already uncouth nature. She still fully intends to install Bran as a better alternative.
*
When the Reeds leave, the castle barely has enough time to breathe before they are replaced by the most unexpected guests imaginable. In the gloom of late evening, the warning horn sounds from the battlements, quickly followed by the shouts of guardsmen. The family are eating in the full hall. The outside commotion is given cause when Jory rushes in, running full tilt toward the high table.
“Riders approaching, my lord- Skaggs!” He pants, breathless with exertion, eyes wide with fear.
Father reacts immediately, leaping to his feet. “Lower the gate, send all men to the battlements. Robb! Get your mother and the children to the Great Keep. Boy,” this he directs to a stablehand, “Fetch my Greatsword.”
The children all know the threat is severe when Father calls for Ice.
“We’re not fitted for a seige,” Robb whispers, as he lifts Rickon into his arms, settling him on one hip. His other arm is given to Mother to lean on. “The stores are empty from all the visitors. We’ll not last a week.”
“Quiet,” Mother snaps, fear making her brittle, as they hurry down the stone passage. “The children don’t need to hear.”
Father sends men with them for protection, their steel bare already, as they lead the way, and defend the rear of their small group. Bran and Arya are ashen with fear, Rickon silent in response to the tension, Arya gripping Sansa’s hand so tight it hurts. She doesn’t tell her to let go.
Had it not been for Robb’s keen, watchful eye, they might have snuck away to watch the Skagosi ride up from the battlements. But the heir of Winterfell takes his duties seriously, when directly ordered in terse situations. So they wait together in the nursery, huddled like baby birds, for the sound of battle to commence. Sansa sings a sweet lullaby, Mother quickly joining in. It appears to calm the room somewhat, allowing Rickon to drift into sleep. The rest of them are not so lucky.
It seems like days before Father returns to tell them all is safe. In reality, it is deep into the hour of the wolf. Though curious, their questions will not get answers until the following morn, and they reluctantly traipse off to bed. Of course they all end up in Robb’s room, piled on his bed and whispering tales of terror of the fearsome man-eating Skaggs, until the sun begins to crest the horizon.
Mother clucks in disapproval to find them there in the late morn, all of them having slept in. She mutters that it is not appropriate for Theon and Sansa to share a room until they are wed. But the sheer number of chaperones whom did not leave throughout the night, rather nullifies her argument.
They converge in Father’s solar for a private breakfast, where he explains the Skagosi have come to give their regards to Theon and Sansa, on their betrothal. It is considered a ploy. So they have been stationed outside, and the gate is still lowered, barring entry to the castle grounds. Winter Town is unprotected, however, and Father feels a sense of keen responsibility that they cannot spare many men to station there, to watch over the smallfolk.
Their worries appear to be unfounded however: the Skagosi do not settle in for a siege. Instead spending several days chanting and brandishing bones, dressed in little more than smallclothes and hairy cloaks, throwing curious coloured power into their many fires. Causing plumes of smoke and flame erupt in bright white, pink-purple, green or blue colours. Apparently, it is a blessing. After enduring several days of these strange rituals, the huge, grizzled Lord Stane is invited to dine with the household. His eerie blue gaze is wide and terrifying, and the children spend most of their time staring at him, and the black, spiraling ram’s horns protruding from the helm he never removes.
Eventually, Arya plucks up enough courage to ask Lord Stane if they brought a unicorn with them. His belly laugh is deep and booming, and Bran upends his mug of water on hearing it.
“Unicorns can only thrive on Skagos, girl,” A man named Eryk Magnar, proclaimed the heir to House Magnar, insists. “They’d shrivel and die on open land, so far from their rocks.”
Through brisk, his tone is teasing, and the Skagosi are less fearsome after that. For their declaration to wed, Sansa is gifted with a necklace, Theon a bone-handled dagger. Then Lord Stane clasps their hands together, pressing hers over Theon’s. He says something commanding in the Old Tongue, before peering into their eyes fiercely, one after the other.
It is only after they have left, in as much haste and mystery as they arrived, that Father reveals they came because of a prophecy written in the Old Tongue. From what they understand, it talks of a wolf girl that marries a kraken from the Sunset Sea, and how this hails the dawn of a new Age. Sansa doesn’t know much about prophecy, save for Jon’s destiny as the Prince that was Promised. As long as it will not interfere with that, she is happy for the Skagosi to regard her as some harbinger of change. A new Age is just what they all might need. She wears her curious new bone and sea-glass necklace with pride, despite the odd looks she gains toward the primitive design.
*
Mother gives birth during a summer storm; a blizzard rages outside the icy castle walls whilst Catelyn Stark howls within them. Maester Luwin worries it is taking too long for a sixth birth. Mother shouldn’t be labouring so long, with such difficulty. The peasant midwife had been installed in the servant’s quarters, but was called to Winter Town to deliver twins to the baker’s wife before the storm hit. With hail pelting the castle, she won’t be returning tonight. Sansa mops her Mother’s sopping brow, praying to the old gods, and to the gentle Mother, font of mercy, for the first time since she reawoke as a child. She is forced to promise Mother she will take good care of the babe, and her other brothers and sisters, should Catelyn not survive. Sansa watches through her tears as Mother’s struggles grow weaker, her cries quieter.
It is Lady Gwynesse that saves Mother and the babe both, charging into the birthing room and scolding them all, as she should have been sent for immediately.
“Get up at once, Catelyn,” she demands, and sets about dragging Mother to her knees. She feels about the quivering bulge of Mother’s hard belly, tutting at she maps out the shape of the child within.
“The babe’s turned sideways, is the problem,” she glowers, “Help me get her off the bed, girl.”
Sansa complies, her fingers crushed between Mother’s as they help her from her sweat-soaked covers. Mother takes a slow, trembling turn about the room, wheezing in pain with every second shuffling step. Then Gwynesse has Mother kneel again, pushing at her stomach. She seems pleased with the result, blowing a frazzled strand of hair away from her face, hands busy supporting Lady Stark.
“It’ll do,” she grunts, as Mother howls and clutches at her, her belly rippling with the contraction. Sansa is shocked when, after pushing and crying out through several more contractions, to no avail, Gwynesse presses her hand between Mother’s legs. She grasps the baby inside of her, and on the next heave, helps coax it out with her clawing fingers.
Minisa Stark enters the world squalling in blood. Sansa is the first to hold her, picking her from between Mother’s legs, and the servants take care of the after birth.
Sansa cleans the baby with a waterlogged towel, before a maid shows her how to swaddle the girl in a thick woollen blanket. Fox fur is further added, to keep out the chill. Gwynesse has seen to the ruined bedsheets whilst Sansa dealt with the babe. She is the one to reassure her that Lady Catelyn is only sleeping, though she looks pale as death, her hair fanned out on her pillows like a shroud.
Father and all her siblings have been waiting, impatient with worry, in the adjoining room for hours. When Sansa alights the doorway with the babe in her arms, a silent cheer ripples through the air, as her sleepy siblings jerk up, pretending to be fully awake.
“You have a daughter, my lord,” Sansa says, carefully transferring the precious bundle into her Father’s waiting arms. She sags with exhaustion, now that the ordeal is over; Theon hurries to her side, taking hold of her elbows to help prop her up. Whilst the others crowd around the new baby, she folds into him, weary, bones thrumming with not-yet dissipated fear.
Mother does not wake properly for three days. They have to spoon-feed her soup in her half-waking, delirious state, to give her strength. Sansa visits her every day, to wipe the sweat from her clammy chest and arms, and watch over the babe with her wet nurse. Little Minisa is hale and like to live, says Maester Luwin, though Sansa cannot help but worry.
When Mother wakes, the whole castle rejoices, and the feast in honour of the new Stark finally takes place. Lady Gwynesse is named an honourary goodmother to the child, for her help bringing her into the world.
“Well, now,” says the strict woman, cradling the sleeping babe with a suspicious shine to her eyes, “Another niece, eh?”
Wynafryd Manderly gifts them with a range of baby clothes she and her sister have stitched, including a woollen dress which is fashioned like a mermaid’s tail. Domeric Bolton offers a tome of Northern tales and lullabies, to be read or sung at night, whilst Theon provides a wooden direwolf he was whittled himself, buffed smooth, to chew on when she starts teething. Lyra Mormont gifts a fur-lined blanket with a bear and wolf playing together, and Quentyn Martell gives a toy made of silver he commissioned from White Harbour.
“It is a rattle,” he explains, “The beads inside provide a melody when shaken. Babes in Dorne use them to amuse themselves, providing comfort when all is too quiet.”
The piece is exquisite, the handle shaped like a weirwood, complete with a laughing face, the branches of which wrap around the bulbous head of the toy, where direwolves dance amongst the fluttering leaves. He seems bashful and flattered by Mother and Father’s profuse thanks.
Rickon is miserable for the first fortnight after Minisa’s birth, his position as the babe of the household usurped. Mother has no time for him, preoccupied as she is. He takes to moping, clutching onto her skirts and crying loudly when she refuses to pick him up, her arms already full with babe. Sansa is a poor replacement, though she tries, carrying him about with her as she attends her lessons, pinching his cheeks and cooing with approval as he does his best to master his letters. She will not allow herself to be distracted at all hours, however, which only leads to more screaming fits and tantrums.
In the end it is Robb that comes to their rescue. He names Rickon as Castellan to the Tower, his duties being to follow Robb everywhere and provide commentary on how well the work is going. Rickon spends his days plastered to Robb’s side after that, or sat on his hip, during his frequent sleepy spells. The workmen seem buoyed by his presence, always ready to whistle a tune for the littlest lord.
Robb’s Tower is almost complete, with only doors and furniture to be fitted, rugs and tapestries wanted to provide much needed warmth. The fireplaces inside are constantly lit, as the finishing touches are made to the streamlined tower. Robb reveals that he intends it to be Theon and Sansa’s living apartments after they are wed. So that they may have some privacy to retreat to, away from the family apartments.
Touched by this thoughtful gesture, Sansa embraces her brother, thanking him with a kiss to his brow.
“I’m handing responsibility over the interior to you two,” Robb announces then, “So that you can fit it how you’d like it. There’s room for two bedrooms, a small solar, and a nursery, plus a cellar for storage. If you keep a little bread, cold meat and wine there, you’ll not have to send for servants if you want a private meal.”
“Thank you, Robb,” Theon says, and the two men clasp arms, their affection more public now that Sansa has allowed them to claim it. Before, Robb was seen as a kind young lord, humouring his Father’s hostage. Now, they are closer to equals.
“I thought your Mother might like the other bedroom, to share with Lady Gwyn.” Robb says, “To give the place a purpose. You’ll not wed for a few years yet, and it might fall into disrepair if no one uses it.”
“Oh Robb,” Sansa cries, deeply moved at this proof of the sensitive, gracious man her brother is growing to be. Far more aware than Father, and perhaps no longer doomed to repeat his honourable mistakes.
She launches herself at her brother then, hugging him close, and dragging Theon into the fold. Robb laughs as they accost him, both of them taking a shoulder each to hook their chin over, their arms about his waist and back. Robb pats their backs, softly soothing as the two of them cuddle him close. They embrace for a long time, content to bask in the warmth of love.
“Moat Cailin’s my next project,” Robb beams, as they clutch him tightly, “Don’t tell Jon, but I’m building it up for him. Father says he’ll grant him the keep, if it’s fit and proper for a lord and household.”
Sansa begins to cry then, her happy laughter not stemming the thick tears in the least.
*
Theon and Sansa grow more adventurous with their stolen kisses, snatching moments alone whenever they can. It becomes a usual sight to see Sansa scurrying through the castle grounds, tugging Theon behind her by their clasped hands. Aside from Robb, they are the only ones with a key to the spare room of Robb’s Tower, which they will share when they are wed. It becomes their usual haunt, a private space to trade kisses and love nips.
Sansa grows used to the feel of Theon’s hair between her fingertips, and the satisfied sigh he makes when she climbs into his lap, nuzzling his cheek with her cold nose. When they are inevitably shooed out by Lady Gwyn, as she comes to be called by most, they giggle, unchastened, and skitter to the dilapidated First Keep to continue their illicit kisses.
“We’ll not have use of this place long, once Robb decides it needs re-building,” Theon japes, as Sansa runs her hands through her hair in a failing attempt to make herself more presentable.
“Don’t give him any more ideas,” She warns, “The smallfolk have already started to call him Robb the Builder.”
“There’s no danger of it really; Robb likes to sneak in here with stolen ale too much.”
Sansa stores away that information for future use. Next time she needs something achieved, and Robb is being difficult, she’ll know what to hold over his head. It has become second nature to file away secrets and suppositions, almost a chore to catalogue them. It is all part of playing the game, and Sansa accepts the discomfort all in the name of something greater.
“You sneak off far less, I’ve heard it said. You used to ride out to Winter Town far more often than you do now.” Sansa comments, not yet sure what she wants to gain from her inference. Some guarantee of Theon’s fidelity, perhaps? Men are fickle, she knows, and she truly does not wish to share him with lowborn wenches or ‘thralls’ on the Isles.
Theon flushes deeply when she enquires about it, scrubbing the back of his neck awkwardly with one hand, in an effort to avoid her eyes. She waits patiently, knowing this opportunity to tell the truth will challenge him. Is he the man she once knew, still boasting over his abilities, reluctant to admit anything that might cast a pall over him? Or has he truly been altered by her interference in his young life?
“Well, I- there are places in Winter Town,” he stutters, his eyes flickering to her briefly, before sliding off again just as quick, “Where one might pay for the company of a woman. I’ve no need of that, now that I have you.”
Sansa sighs in relief, mollified that her future lord husband feels able to tell her the truth.
“I thought as much,” she reveals, gratified when his eyes widen. She still has the power to unhinge.
“Truthfully, there were only a few times when I plucked up the courage to actually go. I spent a lot of my time in the tavern,” Theon admits sheepishly.
She laughs at that, stepping close to him and catching his wrist, holding him, but in such a way that she can escape quickly, should she need to. His next answer should determine if such an action is needed.
“And after we are wed? Can you truly swear off other women, if you are bound to me?” She asks, cursing herself for the obvious vulnerability in her tone.
“What other women?” Theon asks, bewildered. “I don’t need anyone but you, Sansa. You’re all there is.”
Her heart soars, the familiar hot prickle of tears at their ducts, waiting to fall. Still, there are other doubts that niggle at her mind. In her previous life, she was married more than once; and yet the gods never blessed her marriage bed with a babe. There were times she was thankful for it, not wanting to provide an heir to a hated man, or bring a child into the Second Long Night, when existence was a misery for all. Now however, she carries the fear that she is not capable of providing one. Theon was unable to have heirs in their last life also, and it weighed on him always, preventing him from taking a wife or claiming the Iron Islands, even after his sister had died. She will not be the one to take his birthright from him again.
“I’ll allow you one concession.” She says, sliding her arms about his waist, leaning back against his own when they wrap about her.
Theon says nothing, unsure.
“If there’s no children... after ten years, I’ll allow you a thrall, in the Ironborn fashion. But she must be a girl that comes willingly, not some poor wench that you steal from her family.”
“Sansa-” He begins, aghast, but she puts her hand to his chest, over his heart.
“Ten years is a long time, my love,” She soothes, “We might be separated by war, brought down by sickness, blighted by winter. There might be babes that die in the womb or the cradle. There’ll be some who doubt your devotion to the Ironborn way, having grown here and married a ‘greenlander’. I’ll not have anyone dismiss your claim to the Seastone Chair. This way will combine two issues; showing you follow their ways, and ensuring the Greyjoy line.”
Theon looks ready to protest, but something desperate in Sansa’s eyes must hold him back.
“It won’t come to that,” he grumbles, “You’re young and healthy. We’ll have little babes with curly red hair and eyes like the sea, you’ll see.”
“I hope so,” she agrees, relieved that the conversation is over, as he kisses her again. She resolves to promptly forget about it, unless it should become necessary, so many years down the line. She never wants to think of him in the arms of another girl. Theon is her’s.
*
Quentyn Martell is not the sort to sneak off with stolen ale, or play pranks, or do anything much considered risky, but worthwhile in the name of fun. Still, he comes out of his shell a little, spending his days with Robb, Theon, Domeric when he is visiting from the Dreadfort, and Jon when he isn’t being given extra instruction on what being a master of a keep will entail.
Father has adhered to Sansa’s stipulation. Jon will be accompanying Wynafryd and Wylla back to White Harbour in less than two moons, but he has also been made aware he will be granted a masterly title and a keep of his own.
“You’ll always have a place at Winterfell,” Father assures him, showing some tact for once, “But if you’re to become a seafarer, you’ll need a title better than merely being my son.”
Jon falls over himself with his thanks, bashful and so sweetly surprised that Sansa cannot help herself from embracing him. Quentyn watches with some confusion, perhaps expecting a bastard of the North to be less loved. Well-knowing the rumours of how they were treated beyond Dorne.
“Do you miss your own brother and sister?” Sansa asks him, during a break from dancing one evening. “It must be strange to be so far from home.”
“Truthfully, I thought it would seem stranger. But the North is not as joyless and unwelcoming as I was led to believe.” He seems to think better of the words, as soon as they have left his mouth. "I have never been close to my sister. My brother is a good man, but we are very different. He is more akin to your brothers than I could hope to be."
“Variety is what keeps life intriguing. Perhaps my brothers do not need more of the same. And you speak true, the North can be a harsh and unforgiving place.” Sansa acknowledges, not in the least surprised that a boy from a clime so different would find it hard to love the place of her birth. The North can seem barren and hostile, even to its own people. Sansa herself only realised how much she truly loved it, when she thought it lost to her forever.
“But its people are wonderful,” Quentyn says quietly, demure but not for the sake of flattery, she thinks. “So many Houses and bannermen, all working together to build and feast and share joy. It is inspiring to see.”
Sansa feels her chest thrum with pride. “In the North, we know Winter is Coming. We must protect each other, for cold and death are the true enemy. Not one another, despite our disputes.”
“I think I am beginning to understand why it must be so,” Quentyn confides.
“Some things are more important than the arguments of men,” Sansa says, gratified when he hums in agreement.
*
When the Stark children say their goodbyes to their brother, it is bittersweet. Sansa sees her plans coming together in neat folds, one crease upon the other until the entire fabric is a series of ripples, each affecting the next. But it doesn’t stop her heart from lurching, knowing last time Jon and the Starks separated, it was many years, enduring much hardship, before they saw one another again. She’ll do anything in her power to prevent such a circumstance befalling their House again.
Arya sobs the loudest, angry at herself for crying, whilst Theon surprises himself and everyone else by accosting Jon with a one-armed hug, and a plea for Jon to at least attempt to enjoy himself. Robb and Jon embrace the longest, two brothers that have never been separated since Jon’s arrival in the North. For a time, they were the only two boys in Winterfell, the only children of Eddard, and the bond they share holds a wealth of secrets and affection stemming from that time.
“Be safe, little brother,” Robb says, ruffling Jon’s hair as though he were Bran or Rickon. “And mind you write often. Arya will steal a horse to come visit you, if you don’t.”
“I might do that anyway,” Arya grumbles, before being reluctantly pulled into a hug of her own. She’s still mad a Jon for leaving. She manages to contain it, knowing that Jon will be happy in White Harbour. And she will get to sail on his ship one day, because of the training he is about to receive there.
Sansa holds Minisa up for Jon to kiss, her brother excruciatingly gentle with the babe, stroking her soft cheek and kissing her tiny fist.
“I’ll speak of you often,” Sansa assures him, when Jon kisses her also. “She’ll know who you are, and your love for all of us, I promise.”
All too soon Jon is astride his palfrey, hand raised in one last salute of farewell. Then he is crashing out the yard, horse hooves clattering against the cobblestones as he canters away, following the procession and his own changed destiny.
*
She has been anticipating the return of a dear friend so long, that Sansa had forgotten the events which preceded it. Sansa is startled at the reminder when a deserter is found, wandering from his post at the Night’s Watch. Her heart lurches, realising she has run out of time. Her childhood is now over; soon King Robert will be on the road North, no doubt furious she is not available to marry his disgusting, pompous son. At least Cersei and Jaime definitely won’t be pushing Bran from Robb’s Tower; they’ll not have access to the keys.
After Minisa’s birth, Mother agreed to send a letter to Ser Brynden. They have received word that he would accept Bran as a squire, once he had completed his time as a page for Ser Domeric. Sansa no longer fears for his safety in the Dreadfort, trusting Domeric to watch out for him. And Lady Wylla too, as her marriage to Domeric has been settled on for a few months hence, in White Harbour.
Robb, Theon and Bran ride out with Father, returning not only with six tiny mewling direwolf pups, but a full-grown, wounded direwolf mother, and the Night’s Watchman, who was supposed to be a head shorter by now. Instead of beheading him for ‘wandering in madness induced by fear’, Ned Stark has brought him home to Winterfell to interrogate gently, after the man has drunk broth laced with sleeping draft, and had a decent rest.
Sansa is too distracted to care much about those details however. To busy with tiny Lady squirming in her hands and attempting to lick her cheeks. Theon remains leery of the animals, but stays tucked into Sansa’s side, watching over her in case the tiny creatures coordinate an attack.
“I missed you, girl,” she says quietly, breathing the almost-forgotten earthy scent of Lady’s fur. All the other Stark children are too busy fawning over their own little wolves to notice how quiet she has become.
“Be a while before Mini can train her pup,” Robb says, indicating the unclaimed and unnamed Ghost.
“Oh no,” Sansa whispers, stricken. That absolutely cannot be allowed to happen; Ghost was a part of Jon, and a piece of him would always be missing without his silent White Wolf. “I’ll look after him! Theon can help me.” She declares, scooping up her brother’s pup.
There are many traders that travel to White Harbour and back. Once Ghost grows big enough, Sansa will smuggle him away, pressing silver coins into the returning merchant’s hands. He will be long gone before anyone thinks to ask why they haven’t seen the white pup for days.
Jon will open the crate and yelp in surprise when a direwolf pup leaps out, a silver bow tied round its neck, bowling him over. Ghost will stand on Jon’s chest and lick his chin sloppy. And Jon won’t be able to stop grinning for days, after reading the contents of Sansa’s letter.
Another lovely part about the direwolves returning to them, is that with the survival of the mother, they have a giant, full grown protector already installed in Winterfell. Storm, as they have named the mother wolf, spends time lolloping through the godswood, after the wound on her shoulder has healed. Most of the household is terrified of her, but she is a cautious, predatory beast.
“A miracle the she-beast survived,” says Farlen, the kennel master, “A few inches more, and her throat would have been pierced.”
No, not a miracle, Sansa thinks. An omen. This life won’t tread the same path as the last one, regardless of whether the old gods have sent her back or into another world entire.
Storm stares at her with glowing golden eyes, too knowing. Then she is distracted by the excitable yips of her pups, who surround her, bouncing, tails wagging in anticipation of fresh milk. Storm has decided that Theon is also in need of mothering, and takes to following the petrified youth about the castle grounds, seating her massive head in his lap. She whines if he walks down a passage she is too large to fit down, and curls up on his feet when he sits by the fireside in his room.
“I swear I bolted my door last night,” Theon whines, “And still I wake up with a giant wolf numbing my legs.”
He might grouse endlessly, but Sansa has seen him sneaking her pieces of meat under the table. Life at Winterfell feels stable and safe, regardless of the strife she knows is on the horizon. Maybe she hasn’t moved enough pieces on the board to yet secure her brother’s legacy, to prevent her parent’s fates. But she has made a good start, and done her best with the resources allotted to her. It will have to be enough.
“So, my love,” Theon says, cuddling her close in the godswood, in that same spot she bid him to teach her to shoot an arrow, so long ago. “Did it come together as you had hoped? After you lured me here to seduce me?”
Sansa giggles, searching his lovely clear eyes, free from the shadow of despair.
“Only time will tell.” She replies, swallowing any further questions with her kiss.
Notes:
An extended chapter to finish, and finally we get the direwolves back, as I know you were all excited to see :)
Thank you to everyone who has followed, reviewed, given kudos and bookmarked this story! I treasure you all. It's been a journey- this is the longest fic I've written and completed, by far. I've fallen headlong into this verse with no regrets. Watch this space for more snippets, and yes, the sequel!
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