Chapter Text
CHAPTER ONE
After I have travelled so far
We'd set the fire to the third bar
We'd share each other like an island
Until exhausted, close our eyelids.
-'Set Fire To the Third Bar' by Snow Patrol.
When Sansa was a young girl, she wanted a prince. Fascinated by the stories told by Septa Mordane and her mother, she forgot about the parts with Mad Kings. She saw only a chance to escape far away from the chill of Winterfell, to be loved by someone powerful, and to be the most beautiful woman in the kingdoms.
When Sansa was thirteen, she wanted a prince who would be king. So, she focused her attentions on Joffrey, her lovely lion prince. She had not realised that danger, true danger lay in the hearts of men. Her time in Kings Landing was imprisonment, her long dreamed for prince a monster.
When Sansa was fourteen, she wanted the King in the North. She wanted her brother. She wanted desperately to escape Kings Landing, to escape being ‘Little Bird,’ to escape passing her Father’s rotting head every day. To escape the beatings and torment from the lion king. She wanted Joffrey to pay.
‘Maybe he’ll bring me yours.’
When Sansa was a little older, she wanted the Knight of Roses. She wanted High Garden, roses, ladies drinking tea. She wanted the sister she desperately missed.
She got the Imp instead. Shackled further to Kings Landing, a lone wolf among lions. Tyrion was kind, for a lion. It was humiliating for her but afforded her a little protection. Tyrion did not push, and for that she was grateful. With Tyrion she felt like maybe she wasn’t the only prisoner to the Lannister’s. All she had to do was wait for Robb. Her brave, strapping brother, the King in the North. He would come for her.
Until he lost his head and her Mother’s body was returned to the river, and Sansa’s hope died with them.
When the lion king fell, Sansa got a liar who wore the face of a friend. Littlefinger did as he promised so long ago- he took her from Kings Landing. She was no longer a prisoner, but by no means was she free. Littlefinger rarely showed his true colours. His words were half truths and lies, his eyes always watching. He was more adept at lying than even Cersei- but he was just a man, and all men had weakness. His eyes gave away what his lips did not, and Sansa knew what he wanted.
He wanted power, and he wanted her.
It was only when he sold her to the Bolton’s she realised he would sacrifice her for that power.
When Sansa was eighteen, she got a monster. She walked through the godswood, wearing a dress as white as the snow falling and hoped that it could not be as bad as being married to a Lannister. She had escaped people who murdered her family, to be sold to people who murdered her family.
But nothing could have prepared her for her suffering. Each day she got imprisonment and loneliness, each night the nightmare that wore the mask of her husband returned and did unspeakable things to her. She tried not to cry, for that gave him more pleasure. But some nights the pain he caused was so intense that she cried, low, guttural noises, like a wolf howling to the moon.
But there was no pack to go back to.
When Sansa was a little older in body and eons in soul, she concluded death was better than bondage. So, she jumped off Winterfell with a friend, who was an enemy, who was a brother, determined that if she would die it would be whilst some of her was still left.
A few days later, Sansa got tired. Tired of running. Cold to the bone. The barking and snapping of dogs behind them, feet crunching in the snow. Theon told her to run, that he’d hold them off, but they both knew he could not.
And then she got a sworn sword. Brienne of Tarth was surprisingly gentle despite her size, oozing both a ferocity and a kindness that made Sansa want to weep. Brienne had found her before, with words of a promise to her mother. Seeing Brienne now reminded her desperately of Catelyn Stark. She had already turned the woman down once, and where had that gotten her?
So, the pledge was made, by the old gods and the new.
When Sansa was nearly nineteen, she found the Commander of the Night’s Watch. Except he wasn’t, anymore. He had been betrayed by his people. He was hardened and unlike the boy she knew from Winterfell. When Sansa saw Jon again after so many years apart, time stopped. Her breath caught in her throat, and she felt rooted to the spot. Part of her thought it must not have been him. He looked so different, his face impossibly pale, scratching scars around his eyes. He looked tired in a way no hours of sleep would help. The sort of tired Sansa felt in her bones. No matter how different he looked, she would know his face anywhere. The faces of her family members were all she saw- constantly etched into her brain. They were all lost to her in everything but memory.
Her eyes were rooted to him as he slowly clunked down the stairs, his feet heavy as the gravitational pull drew him to her. They had never been close. Not like the others. Jon had never been a brother to her. She had always corrected ‘half-brother’ and ignored the hurt in his eyes. Ignored him. But he was right here in front of her, and suddenly he was Father, and Robb, and every prince and knight she remembered from her stories. Every good one. He was the only piece of her life left. And as they surged towards each other, arms wrapped tight as they clung together, those pieces- his and hers- clicked into place, forever intertwined, never to be separated again.
They’re in the Lord Commander’s rooms, Jon’s belongings unceremoniously dumped back in the room. His friend, Edd, seemed relieved. They had been there for hours, basking in each other’s presence. The golden glow of reunion could only last so long, though, as the inevitable question came from both of them-
What happened to you?
His eyes were as black as the night, like Winter had come long before the white raven flew. They only darkened as through the night Sansa told him everything she felt she could. Her time and torment in Kings Landing. The kindness of Margaery Tyrell and her family. The tricky nature of Littlefinger. The violation of her mind and body by Ramsey, in Winterfell no less. Her home.
To anyone else, Sansa would have rather had her eyes pecked out by ravens than tell them what happened. The ghosts that haunted her. Her Father. Her Mother. Robb. The thought of losing Bran and Rickon. But there was something in the eyes of Jon Snow that told her she was not the only wolf who lay awake at night.
In return, he told her of his time at The Wall. Going beyond it. His time among Wildlings, Ygritte. The Battle of Castle Black. He told her of the White Walkers, the unbelievable things he had seen. He told her of the attempted evacuation of Hard Home, and the ultimate destruction of it. He told her of Stannis Baratheon and eventually, told her of his death. The betrayal by his brothers, who stabbed him in the back. Sansa would have thought he was talking in riddles, but she had seen the way people were looking at Jon, like they had seen a ghost. And then there was The Red Woman, who parted the crowd like the oceans when she passed. Though Sansa had not seen many magical and impossible things, she had seen the cruelty and cunning of humans. And no matter what the world, that would remain the same.
“Where will you go?” Sansa asks him after a while, all the while thinking,
Please don’t leave me. I need you. You need me. we need each other. We’re family.
“Where will we go.”
I could never leave you. You are blood of my blood. Part of my soul. The pack has been divided long enough. Jon swore this to himself, and to their family.
Sansa allowed herself to smile, her heart singing. “Where will we go,” she confirmed.
Jon couldn’t help but smile back. It’s like she was a ghost, one of the many that had haunted him since he left for the Night’s Watch. But she was here, right here, and he couldn’t stop himself from touching her to remember that. A hand on the small of her back as he led her into the building. His fingers brushing hers as he handed her a bowl of hot broth. Those same fingers settling lightly on her wrist, the steady thrumming beneath reminding him this is real.
Sansa couldn’t help but touch him too. She leaned back into his steady hand as he guided her up the steps. Swiped her thumb over the skin of his calloused hands gratefully as he gives her food. And when his fingers settled on her wrist, she took his hand in hers. So long she had thought she was alone in the world. The fact she hadn’t heard news of Arya or Jon until she met Brienne meant she already presumed them dead. She couldn’t afford the pain of losing anyone else by daring to hope.
But here he was before her, his dark, curious eyes illuminated in the fire. Looking into them was like a reflection of her soul- they had not been through the same, but when he said
“we should never have left Winterfell,”
so vehemently, she knew pain and suffering were not hers alone.
Her Father had once told her
‘the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.’
And Sansa finally understood what he meant.
“There’s only one place we can go,” Sansa said finally. “Home.” The word was foreign on her lips. Winterfell was not home when she was with the Bolton’s. Winterfell was a place full of ghosts. Even she could hear the suggestion in her tone. The price of what she’s asking.
“Do you expect the Bolton’s to pack up and leave?” she also heard the sarcasm in his. The want to make her see sense, that it was suicide. Sansa wanted him to see the truth- there was nowhere else to go. They would never be safe.
Sansa’s chin was stubbornly set as she said, “We’ll take it back from them,” as if it was the simplest thing in the world. Jon shook his head, the clanging of swords and the screams of the dying ringing in his ears.
“I don’t have an army.” Jon refused to fight. He’s tired, tired in his bones. He’s done nothing but fight since he left Winterfell, and now he has no one to fight for him.
Sansa’s eyes were as hard as ice, her tone glacial. If Jon wanted to throw up her past in her face, she could throw up his. “How many wildlings did you save?”
“They didn’t come here to serve me.” Jon’s voice was firm, pleading. Don’t ask this of me. “They don’t owe me anything.”
And that was Jon all over. Kind. Honest. Humble. He had risked his life, the lives of his men, to help people who once tried to kill him. Simply because it was the right thing to do. Sansa would not begrudge him that. She admired it. It made him a good man.
And good men got killed.
“They owe you their lives.” Sansa had learnt many things from the Lannister’s. Lannister always paid their debt, and made sure others paid theirs.
She had risen by this point, her spine straight and her head high. Jon had risen also and made his case. He was done fighting. He told her of the things he had seen and done. The price he had paid.
“I’ve fought. And I lost.”
He wanted it to stop. Sansa understood. But she also knew he would be trading fighting for running, and that was just as bad. He was bone tired, but adamant. Sansa could see him wavering when she told him,
“we’ll never be safe.” Jon faltered, just slightly. She took her shot, her earnest eyes searching his.
“I want you to help me. But I’ll do it myself if I have to.”
And that sealed their fate. Because wherever she went, so would he.
Then came the letter. Dread pooled in Sansa as she snatched the letter from Jon, his eyes pleading her not to read, but nothing Ramsey Bolton could write would surprise her after it said he had Rickon. Her heart tightened painfully. Her baby brother may still be alive, but he would not survive this coming war. When she looked at Jon, his eyes distraught, she didn’t have the heart to tell him. She wanted to believe they could save him. She had to believe there was a chance. She read the threat from Ramsey around the lump in her throat. She knew even if Jon struck that bargain Ramsey would never stick to it. She watched his reaction to her words, his knuckles white, his eyes stormy, and when they met hers it was like watching a hurricane tearing through a small village. There would be nothing but destruction in their wake.
“We’re marching on the Bolton’s. We are saving Rickon and we’re retaking Winterfell,” he tells the room grimly. They would take back Winterfell, or they would die trying.
Sansa had learned that knowledge was the most important thing you could have. She had the best teachers, after all. So, she sat in on Jon’s war councils, from Castle Black to the war tent in the woods as they travelled to the different houses. She listened. She offered council when she could, but she did not know war, bloodshed or the battlefield. She had not held a sword in her hand.
What Sansa knew was people. So, she flattered, and was kind. She reminded them of her Father, of his gratitude for their loyalty. When trying to rally the bannermen she wore her hair in a long red braid like her Mother, knowing the guilt of what happened to the Stark’s was a bitterness left in the mouth of the North. She stood, her Mother’s ghost, moving pieces on the board. The North would remember. Sansa would make sure of it. They went to House Mormont, with little Lyanna at the helm. Sansa’s flattery didn’t do much then, and the girl’s words had stung.
But Sansa’s words rang true, the truth she had held all this time through everything, as she did what it took to survive. “I am a Stark. I will always be a Stark.”
It was Davos that convinced Lyanna, and with the promise of their first men- as little as the number may be- gave them a little hope. “Jon is as much a Stark as I am,” she would tell them when they asked why they should fight for a bastard. Sansa felt that lie. In the dark of the night she would admit to herself that she would never feel that way about a brother.
Then came word that the Karstarks and the Umber’s had declared for House Bolton. The realisation that it would only be the smaller houses they could convince. When more houses refused the call than answered it, Sansa could feel worry start to seep into her bones. Even with the number of free folk grateful and loyal to Jon, it wasn’t enough. With House Mazin it wasn’t enough. With House Hornwood it wasn’t enough.
Sansa tried to tell Jon. But it was all he could get. Alone in her tent, she swallowed her bitterness and sent a raven to Littlefinger.
They fought like cat and dog, her and Jon. Polar opposites, constantly disagreeing. Different experiences left them jaded and untrusting, different teachings gave them different approaches.
But when it came to the parley, face to face with the monster that still haunted her nightmares, brandishing Shaggydog’s head on a spike, all the tension between the two of them faded away. They were one, united, and Sansa could feel the pieces of their souls curved together. Any disagreements were between them and no one else. Jon had told her she didn’t need to be here, trying to protect her. He didn’t realise that no one could.
Ramsey talked big, trying to get a reaction. His words and lecherous look crept under her skin, peeling away layers like his house sigil, like he had tried to many times. Sansa kept his gaze.
“You’re going to die tomorrow, Lord Bolton. Sleep well.”
Then she turned and rode away, trying to hold in her scream.
Sansa did not know battle. But she did know Ramsey. And she knew Jon. He was loyal, and brave, but incredibly headstrong and impatient. She understood the urgency- Rickon was her brother too- but Ramsey was playing with him, taunting him, and Jon was clay in his hands.
“We need more men!” she urged him, her hands clasped in front of her. Jon whirled on her, anger pulsing through him. Did she not think he knew this? That he had tried? They had gone from house to house, begging for help. He had been over the plans with Davos and Tormund until his eyes could no longer see, trying to find some way in which they might win this. He had fought unimaginable things. He had fought the dead. He had fought his own men. But this- trying to fight an impossible battle for their family, for their home, for her- he had never had a fight like this.
“We have all the men we’re going to get. We’ve recruited all the men who’ll fight for us!”
“It’s not enough!” she cried. If he would only wait, if he would only listen to her. She couldn’t put it easily into words, the sense of foreboding she felt, the dread coiled tightly inside her. No words she spoke would do Ramsey’s twisted mind justice, would show Jon that no matter what he planned it would be exactly what Ramsey wanted. She wanted him to acknowledge that he had made a mistake. That he should have asked for her council sooner. Sansa did not know battle, but she knew people. Maybe if they had more time. But that’s one thing the Stark’s had never been granted- enough time. They were constantly on the run against a ticking clock, trying to beat the sand in the hourglass.
“Battles have been won against greater odds.” There is nothing more Jon could say. He heard her, he saw her, but it was too late. Ramsey had their home and he had Rickon, and if they did not stage this one last fight, he would quite possibly get Sansa again.
Then we will lose, Sansa thought. Her eyes pierced his, her voice steely.
“If Ramsey wins, I am not going back there alive. Do you understand me?” She would not go back to him. She was willing to die to get away from him once. She wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.
Jon slumped slightly, affected. He knew Sansa well enough by now. Knew when she was bluffing, but nothing in her showed any signs of a lie. She meant was she said. The horrors she faced at the hands of Ramsey Bolton made death look like a sweet release. She was here, right in front of him, kissed by fire and with ice in her veins, her once porcelain skin now steel. Something had changed when she fell into his arms at Castle Black, some part of him tethered forever to her. The thought of losing her was unbearable now- she was all he had in the world.
The atrocities she had seen and had done against her weren’t fair, even to a silly young girl with dreams. Just as the travesties done to him weren’t fair to the young, idealistic boy who wanted nothing more than to be a knight. They had always been the two who had most believed in the tall tales of their childhood. He wasn’t a knight and she wasn’t a princess. But ever part of him wanted to protect her, like the stories they loved so. His voice was gentle as he made a promise. “I won’t ever let him touch you again. I’ll protect you. I promise.”
Sansa wanted desperately to believe him. Jon was everything the knights and princes were in the stories. Brave. Protective. Strong. He was everything Ned had wanted in the person she would marry. Gentle. Good. Kind. She so badly wanted to go back to a time where she could have believed him.
But she was looking at Jon Snow across battle plans, and the storybook in her head slammed shut.
“No one can protect me. No one can protect anyone.”
The Battle for Winterfell was nothing like her experience of Stannis Baratheon’s attempted take on Kings Landing. In her newfound wisdom Sansa could see that then she did not have much to lose, despite her fear. There was the hope that Joffrey would be slain, the Lannister’s snuffed out and her suffering ended, either by freedom or the blade of a knife. But here, on a battle field with the stench of death, blood and adrenaline hitting her, the only music was the clanging of weapons and the screams of the dying. There would be no one to sing to comfort them. No one to cry for them. No hands clasped in prayer. There was only Winterfell or death.
They were losing, Sansa could see with a grim realisation when she arrived on the field with Littlefinger, Yohn Royce and the knights of the Vale. The Bolton forces were overwhelming their people, crushing them, and in the chaos, she couldn’t see Jon. It was only when the knights broke the Bolton’s phalanx that she spotted him. She hadn’t seen fighting like it. With Joffrey it was all showing off and pretend, bravado. Jon fought with a grim determination, cutting down men like they were nothing, with an intensity and burning fury that would have frightened her if it wasn’t Jon.
Her eyes followed an intense battle between Tormund and Smalljon Umber when out of the corner of her eye she saw something. It was Ramsey, watching his unfolding defeat with a twisted fury before turning his horse and heading back to Winterfell. He’s going to get away, a voice in her head screamed. Then, the ground shook as Jon tore across the battlefield after him, Tormund and Wun Wun right behind him.
No, he isn’t, a voice whispered as she ushered on the reins and raced after them.
Jon barely saw the demented smile on Ramsey’s bloody face as he beat him. He saw Rickon. He saw him as a baby. Learning to walk. Telling stories. Running through Winterfell. He saw his fear as he runs from Ramsey. He saw him being struck down, his lifeless body in his arms. He saw his brother, Robb, being betrayed by Roose Bolton. He saw Shaggydog’s head on a spike. He saw so much red he thought if he started screaming, he would never stop. He saw Sansa as she arrived at Castle Black- frightened, jittery and bruised. He heard her hisses as Brienne tried to fix her wounds as best she could. He heard her screams in the middle of the night, the blind panic in her eyes. He saw the flat truth in her face as she told him she wouldn’t go back to Ramsey alive. He saw so much red he couldn’t think, he couldn’t hear, he was blinded.
There was a change in the atmosphere, the tie that bound him to Sansa loosening, the pain in his chest easing at the soothing balm of her presence, and the red mist parted long enough for him to see her. He did a double take. She had been in his head so much he was almost surprised to see her here, in the courtyard of Winterfell, Tormund’s arm blocking her from going further.
“You don’t need to see this,” Tormund told her, and Jon could hear her answer as she sidestepped the wildling and stumbled towards Jon, her face pale and shocked, but not scared.
“Yes, I do.” She stared, fixated on Jon still pinning Ramsey, the man’s head lolling under him. He understood that as angry as he was, this was not his kill to make. He would do it for her, if she asked. But the decision had to be hers. She stared stonily at Ramsey but did not give him a nod. Jon staggered to his feet, throwing his sword to the ground.
“Lock him up,” he spat.
“Take him to the kennels,” Sansa’s voice rang out and left no room for argument. As more of their forces poured into Winterfell, bringing in injured, Jon turned to Tormund.
“Do as she says.”
When Sansa was nineteen, she got her first kill. She had considered many ways in which to rid the world of Ramsey. But his dogs, his loyal, starving dogs and favourite threat, were the way she decided to go.
For so long he had been her tormentor. He did unspeakable things to her body and mind, inflicted horrors on her. But here, locked in a kennel, she realised he is just a man. A horrific part of her story, but one that would fade like the scars he had given her, nonetheless.
“Your words will disappear. Your house will disappear. Your name will disappear. All memory of you will disappear.”
Sansa watched her husband be eaten alive by his dogs for a few moments, relishing in his screams. She turned her back on him for the last time and smiled.
All memory of Ramsey Bolton would disappear.
But she would keep that one for a while.
When Sansa was nineteen, they won back Winterfell. The banners of House Stark flew again. A girl and a bastard had won the battle for the North. Except they weren’t, now. She was now Lady of Winterfell. And Jon was King in the North. They sat where Ned and Catelyn had once sat, the people of the North now theirs. She sat to his left as he stood, uncomfortable with the chants started by Lyanna Mormont of
‘King in the North!’
She had always wanted to be a princess. And Jon had always wanted to be a knight. They would never fulfil their childhood dreams, too scarred, tarred and blackened by the cruelty of the world. The disillusions they had were shattered and the reality of the world had seeped into their bones. Yet somehow, she, a girl, had found herself the Lady of Winterfell, charged with it and all its people. And Jon, Ned Stark’s bastard, was now King in the North.
She couldn’t help but wonder what the price would be.