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She has come to terms with the fact she will spend the next few years of her life as Rickon’s regent.
She shall rule in his stead and thus allow her little brother to assume some sort of normality after so many years spent in the wild. It has taken months for Rickon to warm to her, to allow her to hug him tight and smooth down his curls. They are the last two Starks left, with Arya still missing, Jon now recognised as a Targaryen, and Bran lost beyond the Wall. She mourns her lost family, mourns the loss of Mother and Father and Robb, but as she prays in front of the godswood she swears she shall make them proud, shall forge Rickon into a Lord Stark that will make the North whole once more.
It surprises her when Rickon comes to her chambers late one afternoon, a letter clutched tightly in his grasp. He is growing quickly now, and all she can do is let the seams out in his pants, not having the spare fabric to sew him new ones – the castle might be restored, but the crops are not, and fabric is scarce. She thinks he shall be as tall as their father, with the auburn curls and blue eyes that remind her so painfully of Robb. Shaggydog is by his side as always, broad and quietly menacing, and as ever the sight makes her heart pang with the thought of her lost Lady. She greets Rickon with a smile, pours him a glass of honeyed milk and beckons him to sit. Her brother is still so nervous and unsettled around people, despite all the years with her by his side.
She has just celebrated her twenty second nameday, Rickon now a boy of 13.
It will only be a few more years until he is old enough to rule on his own. The thought should gladden her, for she knows Rickon shall be a great lord. She has taught him everything she knows, everything she has learn and come to understand, even what she remembers from their father. When Rickon assumes his seat, she shall be free to doe as she likes after so many years of self-imposed solidarity, free to even perhaps marry– but who would want her, still a maid at the age of twenty-two? Who would believe she is still a maid, after being married to Tyrion Lannister? Even if her former husband, now the Hand of the Queen, has tried to quash any rumours that he bedded her during their short marriage, the majority of Westeros does not care to believe it.
Rickon passes her the letter, sipping hastily at his milk. She unfurls it, arching an eyebrow at its contents.
When she had first returned to a ruined Winterfell, hair just beginning to turn completely auburn once more, marriage proposals had come steadily, from houses in the North, houses with heirs who were boys younger than Rickon – even from hedge-knights in the south who thought her so ruined she would accept anyone. She had burnt those letters as soon as she received them, stifling her sobs as the flames licked at her hands. After all she had been through in King’s Landing, the unspeakable treatment she had suffered from the hands of those who dared to call themselves knights, she had sworn never to marry a man who boasted of his knightly attributes. Perhaps not even any man at all. No, she would not marry, not yet, not even when the Queen herself desired to make her part of a marriage alliance. Interference from Jon had swiftly put an end to that desire.
She does not want to marry, not yet, perhaps not ever, not after all that has occurred. She does desire children, for what else could bring joy back to the reconstructed halls of Winterfell? Rickon would legitimise any children she bore, she knows this, and he would take delight in them, but as she reads the letter before her she thinks he may not have to.
As a frightened girl in King’s Landing, she had been thrilled by the proposal issued by the Tyrells, thrilled by the chance to trade King’s Landing and its rumours and whispers and threats for Highgarden and its puppies and barges and songs. Even when the dream had crumbled, she still dreamt of the peace she could have found in amongst the roses in Highgarden.
The Tyrells have assisted her in the rebuilding of Winterfell and establishing peace in the North after the Bolton’s reign of terror, sending her crops when she was in desperate need of them and pledging their support to Rickon’s rule. She thought this was due to Margaery’s remaining fondness of her. However, it seems it was not Margaery, but Willas who had remained fond of her all these years, despite never having met her. She figures he would be a man of thirty-three now, only two years younger than her father was when he was executed. And still unmarried, it seems, surprisingly. She supposes that as knightly Garlan and kind Leonette have had three babes, Willas does not worry for the succession of House Tyrell.
He desires to marry her, desires to know if she shall take him as her husband and come to live at Highgarden with him. It doesn’t have to be for a few years yet, he writes, for he knows how dedicated she is to rebuilding Winterfell, reunifying the North and ensuring everything is as perfect as it can be when Rickon assumes his seat. But he would be so very happy if she agreed to be his wife, as she had so many years ago.
She drops the letter in shock, the paper floating slowly down to the floor. Rickon looks at her with his wide Tully eyes, Robb’s eyes. She forces herself to smile softly, to pat his hand in assurance that she is okay. Her brother is still just a boy in so many ways, a boy forced to grow up without the love from his parents and siblings. How could she even think of leaving him? How could the gods give her a chance at happiness now, when she has resigned herself to the fact she shall never be happy – that her happiness died the day she left Winterfell for the capital, stupidly hoping one day she would be Queen and would be adored?
How can she leave when she is so needed here – even if Willas’ offer causes her heart to pound faster than it has in years.
Her marriage to Tyrion was doomed from the start, her relationship with Joffrey tainted by his tendency to hurt her, and her relationship with Petyr never truly desired on her behalf, and nothing but an obsession over her mother on his. The gods have seen fit to try and prevent her any happiness, but she has managed to carve out some here in Winterfell, and she thinks that it is enough.
It has to be enough.
---
Two years have passed. She does not think about the offer made by Willas Tyrell, concentrates solely on ensuring Rickon’s status as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North will not be contested. When Daenerys had first claimed the throne, many had come to her suggesting she ask for the North to be conceded entirely to House Stark – but Jon was to become Daenerys’ husband, become the King, and how could she separate the land that had been his home from the rest of Westeros? She had known Jon would ensure anything planned for the North was done in its best interests, that their people would not starve nor go penniless, and he has. Her brother –hercousin – has proved himself many times over to be the capable king and leader she’d so often thought Joffrey was going to be.
Westeros shall remember Robb Stark, King in the North, but she knows they shall also remember Rickon Stark, Lord of Winterfell, perhaps even with more fondness.
She tells herself the reason for not considering the offer made by the Tyrells is because she needs to ensure stability – but she is lying to herself, and she knows it. The day she had first arrived back in Winterfell, having heard rumours of an alive Stark boy, the people, weathered and broken as they were, had cheered and cheered, their voices carrying in the chilly winter breeze. They have merely been waiting for the Starks to return, and even if Rickon has not proven himself to be the capable and just leader she’d known he could become, they would still have supported him.
She could have left years ago, could have had a babe by now, but she hasn’t and she only has herself to blame.
She summons Rickon to her chambers one night to speak with him, his fifteenth nameday looming ever closer. Robb begun a war against the capital when he had been just sixteen, had the courage to take leadership over men more than twice his age, and Rickon is more like the brother they have truly lost every passing day, his wild anger stemmed by his long hours of practice in the yard. She often thinks she should remain in Winterfell until Rickon’s eighteenth nameday, should remain with him just a while longer, but she knows there is truly no use for her here, not any more. Sure, Rickon still might look to her for advice before making his final decision, but soon he shall stop and will make any and all decisions on his own merit. It is only right.
It is up to her to forge her future, a chance she has never been granted. Gaining freedom from King’s Landing had come at a prize, and she can only be thankful that Petyr Baelish has been long dead. But now she has been given the possibility to become whoever she so desires, to marry or remain unwed, to have babes or die childless. Long gone are the childish dreams of spending her days being treated like a lady in a song. All she wants now is someone to hold her tight when the sun sets and someone who can hold her hand whenever the nightmares decide to plague her.
Rickon enters her rooms with a tired sigh, his tall frame falling into the chair across from hers. She arches an eyebrow at him, swallows a laugh at his expression, and merely pushes a plate towards him. “Eat,” she murmurs, trying not to remember the earlier times when she had told him something similar and he had looked up at her with an expression of utter distrust.
He complies, and a few moments pass as Rickon eagerly cuts and consumes the bread and meat before him.
It is only when he has devoured almost the entire plate, that he looks up and seemingly remembers the reason for coming to her room to eat dinner, instead of snagging a plate from the kitchen to share with Shaggydog.
“You wanted to speak to me?” he questions her, having quickly swallowed the food still in his mouth before speaking. The sound of his voice almost makes her weep, for gone is the little boy who could barely string a sentence together. In his place in nearly a man grown, and she knows she is doing the right thing by leaving Winterfell in his hands. In time Rickon shall marry, and Winterfell will be alive once more with children who only know about the terrible events she has experienced because they have read about them.
“I’ve decided to accept the Tyrell’s proposal,” she informs him, deciding it best to speak honestly. Rickon does not take kindly to being flattered before being told bad news, and besides, the words pain her enough as she quickly speaks them and sees Rickon’s forehead furrow.
He inhales sharply, pushing his plate aside to place his arms on the table, hands propping his chin up as he looks at her. “You’ll be leaving Winterfell then,” he says. “You’ll be leaving me.”
She has to stifle a sob at his words, stretching out a hand to brush a wayward auburn curl behind his ear. If Tyrion had forced her to consummate their marriage, she could have had a son close to Rickon’s age. She doesn’t, but as Rickon looks at her, leaning into the palm she has pressed to his cheek, she swears she understands the pain her mother felt when she and Arya left for King’s Landing, never to see them again. Things are better now, and gods be good she shall visit Rickon as many times as she is able, shall never let him think he is unloved.
But this is best for everyone, and even when Rickon begins to cry soundlessly after she nods to his question, she does not rethink her decision.
---
Rickon does not weep when she leaves Winterfell, having wept enough the night before, her hands stroking his auburn curls for the last time. An entourage of Northern men are already astride their horses in the yard, having offered to accompany her as far south as Maidenpool. From there men from Highgarden shall meet her, and she thinks it rather funny that she is to be traded like a parcel. As she watches her brother standing proudly, his advisers and sworn bannermen around him, she has never been more certain that this is the right thing to do. No matter how excellent a lord Rickon shall be, alliances still need to be made, and she would rather forge her own than have one made for her.
That does not make her heart hurt any less, her eyes clouded by unshed tears as she saddles her mare. She looks at Rickon, smiling sadly and inhales sharply. One last look at Winterfell, at the newly restored towers and hall, before she turns her mare around, and races through the open gate, hair flying in the wind. Only when she is at least an hour’s ride from Winterfell does she let her tears fall, sobbing so loudly she thinks Rickon just might be able to hear how heartbroken she is about leaving him, even if it is for the best.
The Riverlands are still ravaged and scorched as she travels through them, stopping more often than not offer money to those in need, her purse never empty. Tyrion had given her more money than she could spent in five lifetimes upon their annulment, most likely intending for her to use it to restore Winterfell. Winterfell has been restored, money put aside for Rickon’s children and their children, and she still has plenty to spare, especially for those in need. Her inner thighs are bruised purple by the time they reach Maidenpool, her body weary from the road. It had been originally suggested for the two parties to meet at King’s Landing, but she had refused. She would ride past King’s Landing, not enter it. The Tyrells, thankfully, had agreed.
It is a surprise to see Ser Loras in her greeting party, dark circles almost a permanent fixture under his eyes and his curls limp. She’d heard he had been so very close to death, only to prove everyone wrong by rising out of bed one day and demanding his sword. He is not longer the handsome knight she’d first encounter, but she thinks it for the better, thinks perhaps this Loras is his true self. He looks just as startled to see her, hurries forward to help her off her horse, and that is when she knows she has truly changed. She might still retain the blue eyes and auburn hair she’d striven to hide in order to survive, but her foolishness has disappeared, replaced by determination, and she is no longer the child that had blushed as Loras handed her a rose.
“Lady Sansa,” he greets cordially, bowing at the waist.
“Sansa,” she corrects him, surprising even herself by stepping forward and embracing him. When she pulls back she registers the look of shock on his face, and merely murmurs, “We are to be family after all.”
Loras smiles gently back at her. “Margaery shall be pleased to see you,” he informs her, before motioning toward the inn. They are to rest for a night before heading back to Highgarden, exchanging their horses for fresh ones and departing on the dawn.
She thinks her happiness is close to realisation, and it delights her.
---
Margaery has remained married to Tommen all these years, eventually bearing his children. Tyrion legitimised him as a true Lannister, and he is to inherit Casterly Rock in time, Margaery a lady instead of the queen she’d desired to become. Nonetheless, from the letters she’d sent her, she had surmised Margaery was happy, content with her children and husband. She shall soon discover the truth anyhow, but she is more nervous to finally meet the Willas she has dreamt about for years to dwell on her friend’s happiness. She wonders if he is as nervous as she is, wonders if she shall surpass the image he has formed in his mind of her or fall short of it. She hopes it is the former.
She smells Highgarden before she sees it, smells the scent of roses and fresh dirt that she’d dreamt about. Loras plucks her another rose as they ride beside one another, an action she quirks her mouth at, but says nothing, merely accepts the rose with a thankful smile. It is much warmer here than in the North, and she finds she must trade her gown for another, something lighter and freer. It is made from a blue material, and she suspects it might have been her mother’s from her days at Riverrun, and delights in the discovery, ecstatic that she has a piece of her mother with her as she embarks on her new life. She writes Rickon letter after letter, detailing the parts of Westeros he shall likely never see due to his duties in the North, and intending to send them the night she arrives in Highgarden, eager to ensure her brother knows she is constantly thinking of him.
Perhaps a Southern match can be made for him also, although she thinks it would be better for Rickon to marry a daughter of one of his bannerman, to better solidify the peace.
Her own southern match proves delightful, and she is instantly glad she accepted his proposal, albeit a few years late. Willas marries her without delay, draping a green cloak around her shoulders and declaring to all that she is his lady love. He is thirty-five now, the same age as her father when he was executed, but to her he looks as youthful and handsome as she had imagined, his ruined leg not nearly as displeasing as Joffrey’s smirks or Petyr’s calculating looks had been.
When she does not produce a babe within a year of their marriage, she thinks something is wrong with her, thinks the hits she took to her stomach as Joffrey watched on in glee have damaged something inside of her – thinks tragically that after all she has been through she shall never have a child, shall never give Willas the heir he needs. She knows Garlan would be a capable lord if it were necessary for him to inherit, knows giving him a babe will not make Willas love her any more than he already does, but the failure devastates her so deeply.
She shares her grief with no one, doesn’t outwardly fret upon the situation and attempts to ignore the cruel whispers and kind enquires from Rickon. It is only when Willas discovers her seated at her desk, weeping over the latest letter from Margaery, lines of black ink containing her joy at discovering her latest pregnancy, that her husband truly comprehends her feelings upon the matter. He shakes his head at her, seats himself on the bed and drags her into his arms, letting her weep against his neck.
She misses her moonblood for the next two moons, and often awakes to Willas’ hand resting on her stomach, a part of her body she knows will now begin to swell furiously due to their babe.
She swears she shall teach this babe everything she has taught Rickon, and she can only hope her child shall make her as proud as he has.
With Willas as its father, she knows her babe will be perfect, a pleasant reward after everything that has occurred.