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On the darkest day of the year, Winterfell woke up covered by a thick blanket of the whitest snow. The sun had not yet risen on the horizon, and when it did it would only give a few short hours of pale light, and yet the whole castle seemed to glow in the darkness before the dawn.
It had been snowing heavily for near a moon’s turn – a constant curtain of white that had made it impossible to see more than two feet from the tip of your nose, let alone across the courtyard – so when Sansa woke up early on the longest day of the year, she let out a gasp of delight at the sight that met her outside the window.
From her chambers she could see straight across to the stables. She knew that the stable boys had be battling with the glittering layers of snow and ice on the roof ever since winter started, but that morning the buildings scattered around the courtyard looked nothing but peaceful. She knew she must be one of the first ones awake, for the snow lay untouched, and the footprints that had been added the day before were all but gone. Behind the stables, the trees of the godswood stood cloaked in white, branches drooping towards the ground under the heavy weight of ice and snow.
Her chambers were warm – the fire had been burning in the fireplace when they went to bed the night before, and the hot water running through the castle kept them warm even when the fire went out – and yet the sight outside the window sent a shiver through her. Winterfell glittering in the dark, swept in a soft cover of snow, peaceful and quiet and beautiful.
It was midwinter, and the thought filled Sansa with joy.
Only a few years ago it would have seemed impossible, or like madness, that the darkest day of the year would be one that she would look forward to, that she would be so happy on a day that promised to be bitterly cold and that would only bring a few hours of feeble sunlight.
They had lost so much to winter before. When the cold winds blew across Westeros, farmers in their huts and knights in their holdfasts had all prayed to whichever gods they followed for protection against the coming darkness.
During the Long Night, winter itself had been the enemy. They had never been sure if the Others brought the cold, or if the cold brought the Others. They had only known that the ice winds were deadly and the darkness unrelenting. It had seemed like the end then. Moons passed, but the sun never rose. And as the dead got closer, it had seemed like all was lost. Huddled together with the other women in the crypts deep beneath Winterfell, Sansa had pressed strangers’ children to her chest to keep them warm, and cursed winter with every breath.
When it was all over – all the horror and death and nightmares that the cold had brought – and the days had slowly started getting longer, Sansa had wept, though if it was for joy, or for grief of all they had lost, she could not have said. As spring had bloomed around them, they had started rebuilding what they could. Stone by stone, Winterfell had started to feel like home again, to feel safe again.
Spring had brought mourning, yes, but also hope, and a wedding, and the spark of something resembling happiness. Sansa had wept again the day the first flowers peeked through the melting snow, and she discovered she was with child.
Jon had wept too, and pressed trembling yet gentle hands against her waist. She had loved him so dearly already then, but there had been an uneasiness nonetheless, something unspoken hanging between them. This man had been her brother once, and it was sometimes easy to forget that he was now her husband, no matter how handsome he had grown to be.
When spring had given way to summer only a few moons later, she had been content. Winter had been hard and unforgiving – surely that meant that they would be given a long summer?
But summer soon gave way to autumn winds, and Sansa had felt the fear creeping back into her blood. As the days grew shorter and the rain started beating incessantly against the castle walls, she wandered from her mother’s small Sept to her father’s ancient Heart Tree, and prayed again and again, to any gods that would hear her, that they would keep winter at bay until after her child was born, happy and safe. But when had the gods ever listened to her before?
The farmers had only collected a single harvest from the fields before a raven flew north from the Citadel and the Starks were proved right once again. Winter was coming.
Her daughter was born in the middle of a snow storm, amidst tears and screams and a mother’s crippling fear. Sansa had clutched her to her chest and refused to let go – if she let go, the gods would take her from her, like they had taken so many others. Winter was a cruel time for a new born babe, and Sansa wanted to keep her in her arms as long as she could. Death had followed her all her life, and she was certain it would follow her here as well. Through chapped and dry lips she had sung to her little girl in a voice so cracked she could barely get the words out.
In the end, it was Jon who had convinced her to hand over their daughter to him. He promised her that he would stay right there, watching over their little girl all through the cold night. Perhaps it was the exhaustion from the birthing bed and from forcing herself to stay awake after, or perhaps it had been the adoring look in her husband’s eyes as he looked at the babe that had finally allowed her to drift into sleep, the fear still clutched in her heart.
The days grew colder, the nights crew darker, and Sansa refused to name her little girl. If those cruel gods knew her name they could call to her, could lure her daughter away from her. The whole North knew that if this winter continued much longer, they would all be lost. The summer and autumn had been too short to refill the empty pantries and cellars left behind by the Long Night. Soon, winter would start claiming lives, and Sansa knew that new born babes would be among the first.
So she spent all her time in her chambers, clutching her daughter to her chest and singing softly to her. She refused to bring her outside, and refused to let the servants touch her. The only one she allowed in her chambers was her husband, who looked as scared and miserable as she felt. They had been so sure that their pain was over, and yet there they sat waiting for it.
But their babe was not even three moons old when another raven came from the Citadel – spring was on its way. Even as the days outside her window grew longer and the winds grew warmer, Sansa could hardly believe it. She had feared the worst, but now –
She named her daughter the day the first flowers peeked through the melting snow. Jeyne, she was called, for her dearest friend and the Queen that Robb had chosen. There were other names, she had known, ones that were expected of them, and that would honour the ones they had lost. But those names still carried so much sadness, and there was nothing to be sad about the day her husband held their child in his arms and brought her outside for the first time in her short life. There was only happiness that day. She had seen it on Jon’s face too – seen the fear and the worries wiped away by his smile, joyful tears glistening in his eyes – and she had known that she loved her husband with her whole heart. She had kissed him in front of the Heart Tree, laughing against his smiling lips, their daughter nestled between them.
And so when spring had turned to summer again, and summer to autumn, she had not worried. She had a warm home, and a husband who loved her, and a little girl who grew stronger every day. The ravens from the Citadel changed – the seasons were as short as they had been the year before, and winter looked to be the same. The maesters believed they would no longer have to guess at the length of each season as it approached. So when it got darker and colder once again, Sansa simply smiled at seeing her daughter play in the snow for the first time, and spent hours making castles and snow angels with her in the courtyard.
The cold days had still been long and hard though, especially outside of the castle walls, and so Sansa had decided to throw a great feast on the darkest day of all.
The kitchen was busy for days. They cut enough wood to keep the massive fireplaces in the Great Hall burning all through the night, and they sent word that all those who wished were welcome at the Winterfell hearth. They sent horses and sleighs to help those in Winter Town who could not walk themselves, and greeted them at the gates with cups of warm wine. The castle walls and every path through the snow were lined with burning torches to keep the cold and darkness at bay.
Inside the hall, there had been joyful music and children’s laughter, and tables overflowing with dishes both salty and sweet. It had almost seemed like something out of a song to be sitting at the high table with her daughter on her knee next to the man who was her King and husband, and look at the scenes of joy in front of them.
Years passed, summers came and went, two more daughters were born to the King and Queen in the North, and every winter the Starks in Winterfell held a feast on the darkest day of the year. The winters may still be brutal in the North, but they were not as long and deadly as they once had been. The music and fires and food reminded the smallfolk and castle-born alike of that, and filled them with warmth enough to last until spring finally came again.
It would be no different this year.
Down below, a few people had started milling around the courtyard, preparing for the day ahead. She could see their Master of Horse wading through the snow towards the stables, and several maids were walking towards the kitchens with their arms full of wood for the cooking fires.
Sansa smiled to herself as she heard her husband stirring from sleep in the bed behind her. He must have noticed the furs next to him were empty, for he let out a confused mumble of her name. “Sansa?”
“I’m here,” she said quietly, turning from the beautiful sight outside to meet her husbands eyes. His sleep-tussled hair and soft smile filled her with another rush of happiness.
“Come back to bed.” He lifted the furs for her, and even though Sansa knew they would both be expected in the castle before too long, she couldn’t help but climb in next to him with a happy sigh. Though the burning hearths in the Great Hall would keep them warm all through the day and night, there was no better shield against the cold than Jon’s arms. She rested her head against his chest and let out a quiet hum of contentment when his arms wrapped around her.
From the bed she could see straight across to the fireplace, where some of the embers that had burned during the night were still glowing. Above that, on a hook where they sometimes hung their cloaks to dry, she could just about make out the shape of a single sock.
Sansa turned her head so that she could look up into Jon’s sweet face. His eyes were heavy with sleep, but he smiled when he noticed her looking. “Is that the sock Minisa knitted for you?”
Their second daughter had been so proud when she had presented her father with the first thing she ever knitted – a sock for him in grey and white wool. Though the sock had been so big that it would have been more fit for a giant than for the King in the North, and though there had only been one and not a pair, Jon had kissed their daughter’s head and told her that he would treasure it more than anything else he owned. As much as he had loved it, though, he had had little use of it. Until, it appeared, today.
“Yes,” he said, a smile stretched wide across his face and his voice still rough from sleep. “I have put some small gifts for the girls inside it. I expect they will join us here soon enough.”
Sansa lean up and kissed him softly. “For all three of them?” she asked, and felt his chest rumble under her as he hummed in response.
She rested her head over his heart again, and smiled to herself. She wondered if he would do the same thing next year. If he did, she expected that he would have to prepare four gifts instead of three, though he did not know it yet.
A son this time, she thought, and let her hand drop to her waist. She still dreamt of a little boy that would look like the brothers she had lost. Or he might look like his father. She pressed a soft kiss above where Jon’s heart was beating, and imagined the black haired boy she might hold in her arms this time next year. Her son would come to love midwinter too, she was certain of it – he would be a Stark, after all.