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Chapter Text

Winterfell stood proud and imposing even in the mist of the morning, great gray walls rising from nothing but the lighter gray fog. The tips of the towers disappeared into the snow laden clouds in the gray sky. Few signs of life came from the castle in the darkest parts of the dawn; the fires burning livelier than the guards roaming between the turrets; the false lords’ banners flapping was the activity at all near the gates. Less than a league away from the noble walls of the northern castle, Wintertown was nestled into the snowy plain just off the Kingsroad. 

Wintertown stunk of horseshit and burnt bread in the mornings. Signs of life appeared only when the sun crept over the horizon and began chasing the chill away. It was bakers and castle workers awake first, followed by the merchants and mothers. By noon, the smell of blackened bread was gone and the unpleasant scent of animal droppings not as noticeable. The village came to life in the brightest hours of the day, soaking up the natural heat as washerwomen rushed around, merchants haggled with their wares, and children ran underfoot. Nightfall brought the sharp scent of the cold and mouthwatering aromas from the outdoor cookfires and stoves that the smallfolk of the north gathered around despite the chill. Sundown sent them all scurrying into their modest homes. When the hour of the wolf struck, only faint traces of woodsmoke were in the air. 

It was then that she appeared. 

The watchmen all claimed different things. One said she emerged from the cold, a maid of ice. Another swore he saw her slip out of the shadows behind the tavern like a wilding raider. Two more argued over whether she rode in on a direwolf or merely arrived as one and changed her skin. Another still said he never saw her at all until he was surrounded, until they were surrounded. It is unanimously claimed that she entered the castle through the godswood, despite first appearing in Wintertown. 

The maid appeared, wearing naught but furs and leathers, dressed somewhere between a spearwife and a frogeater. Bards sang consistently of her ivory skin, her hair kissed by fire, and the direwolf of the True North at her side. They sang she was more beautiful than her aunt Lyanna, more beautiful than even Allara Stark was said to be long ago. They sang of the blood on her hands, in her hair, on the teeth of her army. Across the Seven Kingdoms, they sang of Sansa Stark and her pack, sneaking in under the snow to reclaim her ancestral home. 

Pretty as the songs were, they said it was with naught but a wolven army she took the castle with. No one sang of the short statured lord guiding her, a lizard lion emblazoned on his cloak but a painted direwolf on his leather shield. There were no rhymes for the wildings and watchmen at her side, nor for the half-maester and displaced septon. No songs about the Hound, the Bears, or the Mermen. Only those who saw the battle knew the truth of the Reed men tunneling into the godswood to reach the Bolton men on the inner wall and the wildlings allied with her bastard brother scaling the half-frozen outer walls. Mormont women and Manderly men rushing the walls so that no traitor to the North escaped; men of the Night’s Watch opened the gates and let the wolves in proper. 

And it was the Hound who drug the Bastard of Bolton from his sleep in the lord’s bed, deposited him bloody, bound, and bleating before the Lady Stark. 

Ramsay Snow was surrounded on all sides. His men were dead, dying, or hostage. His father was dead and buried, by his own hand at that. The Crown was more than a moon’s ride south and no true friend to what was left of House Bolton. A wolf bigger than anything he’d ever seen (no, not a wolf, a  direwolf , like the sigil of the house who’s castle he’d taken) circled him and the woman standing before him. The easy way she ran her hand over the wolf’s head and shoulders spoke volumes of her identity – as did the dozens of cousins of the beast at her side roaming the yard. And one by one, Lady Stark’s pack was closing in. 

He was put in the kennels, given Clegane as a guard, and forgotten while the wolf maid took back her castle. 

The Great Hall’s hearths burned the Bolton banners alongside logs taken from the wolfswood, warming the large hall more than the scarce occupants. The kitchens gladly prepared a hurried feast for the return of their rightful ruler, someone not cruel or mad like the usurper that no longer haunted the halls but now resided with the hounds. Already ravens were flying out with word of the Stark in Winterfell. The half-maester was kept so busy that he only scurried down from his temporary tower to the hall on the promising whispers he’d heard but everyone insured Lady Sansa had not, for the crowning of the queen was rumored to be happening before the celebratory dinner. A hunting party of ten men were the lone unfortunate group to miss the event, as well as the Hound, still watching over his prisoner. 

It was the Merman’s younger son, Wendel, with the booming voice and mustache that quivered when he laughed, who presented the crown. He removed his trident-tipped helm, sank to his knees before the High Seat where Lady Sansa sat, and took a modest silver circlet from his cloak. A sapphire carved to look like a winter rose was flanked by twin howling direwolf heads at the front, the rest of the crown made up of three braided bands of silver. Even in the dim, firelit hall, the crown sparkled and shone. 

“House Manderly has followed the Starks since they gave our ancestors asylum in the North, and we have kept faith with our liege lord ever since. We swore our swords and our house to your late brother as King in the North. Let us be the first to hail his oldest sister as our Queen,” the portly knight humbly requested. Bloodspray still painted his armor, the sweat and stink of the adrenaline of battle still clung to him. He had fought bravely with the patchwork army of the wolf maid. 

The hall answered him before the Lady could, the exhaustion and wounds of the motley group gathered forgotten for the moment. As one voice, they all called for the same thing. 

"Queen in the North! Queen in the North! Queen in the North!” 

And so, dressed like a spearwife, with a dagger she herself bloodied with the Bolton men’s lives strapped to her thigh, and a direwolf at her feet, Sansa Stark was crowned Queen in the North. She smiled benevolently upon her court from the seat of the Old Kings in the North, the snarling direwolves under her bloodstained hands a just as strong a reminder that the North remembers as her own breathing beast. 

Afterwards, she sat at the High Table with only a few of her vassal lords and most of what could be considered her friends to celebrate their victory. She gripped the half-maester's hands tightly when they spoke of the letter to her only surviving brother at the Wall, eager to share the news of their success. The direwolf at her side nudged the She-Bear for scraps of boar. Queen Sansa even made the normally melancholy Lord of the Neck laugh. Her Tully blue eyes glimmered just as brightly as the sapphire at the crown of her head, her smile brighter than any of the fires burning in the hall. The soldiers and wildlings, the servants and knights, sat just below their queen and feasted with her. Along with boars the hunting party caught, the meager fare of boiled beans, mashed turnips, and roasted onions from the glass gardens filled their stomachs just as well as the fresh bread and dark beer warmed their blood. 

When the last of the men in arms drank the last of their beer, their queen was called to the lord’s solar to deal with the multiple cowering hostages found in the castle. 

There were more than Sansa anticipated, starting with her supposed sister. 

Jeyne Poole disappeared years ago; once she was taken away, Sansa never thought to see her again. Joy and sorrow flooded Sansa’s heart simultaneously to see that it was Jeyne they passed off as the pretender Arya. The horrors Ramsay inflicted on his bride turned Sansa’s stomach; the way Jeyne collapsed at her feet and sobbed in relief tore her heart to shreds. She refused to believe Ramsay was held as a captive and the Starks once again held Winterfell until Sansa herself appeared before her. The Queen and Lady escorted her shaking friend to the kennels where the Bastard of Bolton lay, bleeding and beaten, in a pile of soiled hay. His wife stared at the unconscious form of her husband for many long moments. She looked to the stoic Sandor Clegane, standing vigil outside Ramsay’s locked cage with a longsword at one side and a charcoal-colored wolf at the other. Jeyne’s hands gripped Sansa’s so tightly there would later be half-moon shaped bruises where her nails were, but the change in Jeyne had been immediate. Her shaking did not halt, but a smile stole over her pale lips and she left the kennels with a tentative confidence in her steps. 

As soon as they were in the courtyard, she pulled Sansa (her friend, her savior, her  Queen) to a stop and shot a conspiratorial glance towards the crypts. She told Sansa of the whispers of what haunted the resting place of the Starks. A giant shadow-wolf, blacker than night save for his ferocious teeth, guarded the tombs and twisting tunnels beneath the castle. No Bolton man that entered the crypts returned, growls could be heard from the entryway, blood and fur appeared on the steps at regular intervals though no one came forth to say they saw something exit or return. 

Sansa thanked her for the information, one hand on Lady for support due to the terrifyingly wonderful way her head was spinning, and returned to her solar to meet the other ghosts haunting her home. 

Theon Turncloak was presented to the Queen in the North in a manner much different than his master. Before Ramsay had been placed in the kennels, Theon had to be removed. Two of the crannogmen were set to guard him during the aftermath of the battle, ordered by their lord to make him presentable. He was bathed and fed, then placed in a guarded chamber until it was time for him to be brought before the Queen at her leisure. 

The solar was silent, save for the crackling hearth and clanking of the nervously shifting armored guard behind the Queen. She asked for Ser Podrick to stay with her, as Ser Brienne stood guard at the Lady Jeyne’s door down the hall. He fought valiantly during the battle, and Sansa knew how very proud Brienne was of her newly knighted squire. The man before, even scrubbed clean and given a proper meal, looked a shade away from death’s hands. 

Theon-of-old was nearly a man grown, young and arrogant and spirited. He had a head full of dark hair and thought everything was amusing, irrelevant, not worthy of his time. 

The Theon-of-old had been fiercely loyal to Robb, as well. 

This man, though privately, Sansa did not feel certain that described him properly, before her was unrecognizable as Theon-of-old. This Theon looked many years older, older even than her father. He had pale white hair drier and more straw-like than Brienne’s, shook like the canopy of leaves in the godswood during a windstorm, was missing several fingers on one hand, and looked as though he had not seen the sun’s light in many moons. He would not raise his eyes to hers. He cowered before her. 

Lady padded around her father’s desk – her desk – and moved towards the man on the flagstone floor before it. She was the Stark sigil come to life, a fierce gray direwolf protecting a Winter Queen. Her bright yellow eyes pierced Theon so thoroughly he had no choice but to meet them. 

“Theon Turncloak, of House Greyjoy,” the Winter Queen spoke. The strength in the voice, the steel of her spine, startled the man into looking at her. He was not the only one who had changed, or the only one surprised by the other. This was not the sweet Sansa Stark, singing her songs of all-encompassing love and heroic knights. “You have committed treason against House Stark and the North, broken oaths to the King in the North and your liege lord, murdered both Brandon and Rickon Stark, heirs to the North and Starks of Winterfell, taken Winterfell as your own, murdered the kennelmaster Farlen for a crime you had no evidence he committed, and allowed monstrosities to happen right before your eyes to a daughter of one of your liege lords vassals. Any of one of your crimes is punishable by death, and I do not think you have seven lives to pay for them all. What say you to these charges?” 

Under the gaze of the Lady and the Queen before him, Theon had stopped shaking. He closed his eyes and sunk into a bow so low his nose touched the floor between his hands. When she called for his answer, he slowly sat up, daring to meet her eyes once more. 

“Lady Sansa-” 

“Queen Sansa, actually,” Ser Podrick cut in. 

The shadow of a smile crept at the corner of his lips, what was left of his heart twisting painfully at the thought of a younger and more naive Sansa Stark dreaming of being a queen. He wished she could have achieved that through a better path, a path that involved the prince of her summer dreams and her brother living many years as a loyal Warden of the North to his sister’s husband. 
 

Memories were nothing more than that, however, and Theon had made peace with his choices the moment Lady met his terrified black eyes. 

He betrayed House Stark, knowing full well that he should have died for them before doing so. And so, he would die by the hand of House Stark. It was how it should be and he could not bring himself to regret that. Before the end of his miserable life, he knew he must tell Sansa the truth of her brothers. 

“I would need seven lives to pay for all of my crimes, Your Grace, but you do not know the truth of all of my crimes.” 

Her cold eyes held a fire that spoke of reprimanding him, and he begged her to listen. “Please, Queen Sansa, I swear by the old gods and the new, by what little life I have left, by the love I bore your brother and the love I felt that I pwed my father,” and something in that forced her to listen, be it the sincere and shaking words or the tears in his eyes, “I did not murder your brothers. Your father was good to me, better than mine could be or was, and I could not harm his sons despite any threat I tried to make. Bran and Rickon escaped. They ran off with the wildling Osha and the simpleton Hodor. Summer and Shaggydog went with them, too, and the Reed children. I murdered a miller’s boys, down by Acorn Water. There was two of them of age with Bran and Rickon and after I burned their bodies, no one could tell the difference.” 

A long silence stretched in the dead air of the room, three pairs of eyes trained on Theon Turncloak and his confession. “I deserve to die for betraying Robb, my king and my greatest friend, and breaking my oaths to him. I deserve to die for betraying the North and House Stark, who welcomed me not as a prisoner but as a guest. I deserve to die for entering Winterfell under false pretenses and capturing it. I deserve to die for killing Farlen, a loyal and true man in service to House Stark. I deserve to die for allowing Ramsay to do cruel, unforgivable things to Jeyne and everyone else in Winterfell’s walls. And I deserve to die for killing the Acorn Water miller’s sons. But I have not earned that sentence for killing Bran and Rickon.” 

Jeyne’s words of the shadow in the crypts came back to her, as well as the relieved confession of a half-maester, half-crow (I swore I would not tell your brother, my lady, but I never swore anything about telling his sister.) on the way down from the Wall nearly a moon ago. The queen believed the traitor. He seemed to speak only the truth, and Sansa would reward him for that, but not without also punishing him for his crimes. 

“You owe House Stark a debt greater than you are able to repay, Theon Turncloak.” 

When she did not speak further, he answered, “Yes, Your Grace.” 

“What little life you have left, you swore by. You owe us many more lives than that, and so it does not suit me to kill you right away. I charge you, Theon, to return to Winterfell the heirs you have lost. Find Bran and Rickon Stark, bring them home, and you shall owe House Stark two less lives.” 

Chapter Text

The dream was a normal one, not the much-coveted wolf dreams Sansa preferred. 

Her normal dreams were usually nightmares. This one was no exception. 

During her waking hours, her memories of this night are not so vivid. They faded over time and with her reluctance to revisit them. They were locked tightly in a trunk in the depths of her mind, a heavy iron lock and matching chains keeping the lid tightly shut. They were not the only memories locked away in this fashion. But in the night, when Sansa was helpless to control the direction of her dreams, the chains were struck from the trunks and the lids lifted open. The memories were free to slither out, twisting around her and clinging closer than any silk or skin she’d ever worn. But this memory, of the greatest injustice and most gruesome crime, always found a way to cling tighter than the rest. 

The dream started with the haziest part of her waking memory – their arrival – though it seemed perfectly detailed. The saddle was hard and a little uncomfortable beneath her; the Hound was warm and reassuring behind her. Her hands were frozen in their position, twisted in Stranger’s mane, out of anticipation rather than due to the weather. 

(It would be moons before she felt the cold, moons before she felt anything really, though the first true snowstorm that reached the Neck marked the return of her smile. It had been gone since that dreadful night.) 

She had been frozen in anticipation since the first direwolf banner came into view, snapping and snarling in the wind. Her heart had moved up, lodged itself in her throat, and she knew Sandor felt the bow-taut rigidity of her body against his own. They’d traveled for so long, switching off between traveling days and sleeping nights and traveling nights and sleeping days. Inns and towns were avoided when possible, though the need for supplies drove them to seek civilization often enough. Sandor took to wearing a cowl rather than his distinct helm. She’d kept her hair covered – even posing as a septa for a time – until tonight. Tonight, she would ride to the gates of the twins and pull down her hood, her Tully coloring unmistakable in the Riverlands. The guards would recognize her immediately, they would take her at her word that the fearsome Lannister Dog accompanying her meant no harm and only sought a reward for his good deeds, and then, then they would take her to see Mother and Robb... 

Her breath hitched, caught in her throat with her heart, and she felt the cage of Sandor’s arms around her tighten as she saw his hands on the reigns do the same. 

(In her memories, she finally released one of her hands from his mount's mane to wrap around his, trying to give him a reassuring smile over her shoulder. Then he spoke and told her something felt off. Something was not right.) 

But then they were just a few paces from the gates, in line behind a small group of knights and a merchant with his cart. The knights turned suddenly, some signal Sansa had not recognized being given, and the slaughter started. Screams came from the keep before the them; the sounds of men dying and fighting and killing all around her were louder than anything she’d ever heard. Sandor whirled his horse around so fast it made her feel sick, or maybe it was the mockery of a fight raging on either side of them. A man in chainmail with a flayed man on his shield reached for Stranger’s reigns and lost his fingers in the process. The blood coming from his hand was so red, redder than sigil on the discarded shield, redder than her hair. 

In the dream, Stranger did not take them to safety despite Sansa’s cries of protest. Instead, the horse stayed rooted to his spot by the gates. Sansa looked all around her, watching her fathers’s - her brother’s - bannermen be butchered. She knew there was not supposed to be a battle tonight. This should have been a meeting of allies, a celebration of her uncle’s marriage, not a massacre. The Northmen weren’t even wearing armor, mail, only a few in boiled leathers. 

None save the Bolton men. 

They closed in around Stranger and his riders, the flayed man prominent on their shields and chest plates, their footsteps a singular movement and intimidating sound. Blood dripped from their swords, maces, daggers, spears, dirks... Sansa couldn’t see any of their faces, despite only about half of them wearing helms, and that sent a cold thrill of fear through her chest. Stranger whirled around again, as if the immobile dream Sandor behind her was looking for a way out. They froze in a nearly complete circle of men, with just enough room to frame the gates. 

Just enough room for the gates to open. 

And open they did, revealing a macabre sight before her. Sansa wanted to close her eyes, to scream herself hoarse and cry herself sick. Anything but see the grisly scene parading out the gates. 

Robb’s body was strapped to a horse, his hands lashed to the reigns and his back propped up to look as though he were riding, but Grey Wind’s head was sewn in place of his. Blood sluggishly flowed from a number of places on his mutilated body, most notably a stab wound to his torso. Beside his horse walked the nude, unnaturally pale corpse of their mother. Her beautiful auburn hair was soaked, matted, and darkened with blood, as though she had washed her hair in it. There was no life in her Tully blue eyes, only dull anger reflected in their depths. A red ribbon wrapped around her throat. It the same color as her hair, and the head of hair clutched in one of her hands. Somewhere, distantly, her heard an unfamiliar woman sobbing hysterically, both pleading and in pain. Somehow, she knew this was Robb's queen Jeyne.

The procession moved towards her, her mother’s mouth moving silently and the direwolf head bobbing almost comically with the clop of the horse’s hooves. The Bolton men moved closer. Stranger stamped his hooves in impatience, moving from side to side a little. 

Frozen, unable to move or run or even think, Sansa gaped like a trout and stared at the awful scene. 

Everything seemed to be closing in on her – her butchered family, the traitorous Northmen, even the sky. Her chest felt tight and she took quick, gasping breaths that flowed into one another much too quickly for her lungs to gain anything from her breathing. Her heart beat hard and fast in her throat. It felt like it would tear its way out. Maybe it would match her mother’s ribbon, or perhaps take her head clean off so that they could sew Lady’s on her body instead. 

Her heart beat harder and harder, building pressure, building tension. Sansa waited for it to explode, or even stop completely, but the intensity grew with every beat of her heart. 

She did not wake up screaming. She had not woken up screaming for moons and moons, the last time only a vague recollection of slightly humid swamp air and Lady Maege bursting through her door. 

She woke up with a gasp, shooting straight up as she did. Beside her, Jeyne Poole was already awake, a wary look in her eyes and her hand outstretched as if to touch Sansa – or as if she had just touched Sansa, in an attempt to wake her. Lady Jeyne sat up as well once she realized Sansa was awake. She brushed her hair over one shoulder, then curled her arms around her waist in a now-familiar motion. Sansa had seen her do that numerous times in the weeks since her army had recovered Winterfell, when Jeyne felt unsure or anxious. As she often did. 

“Are you well, Your Grace?” 

Sansa, both terrified and annoyed at her nightmare and the tragedies she could not shake, snapped, “Jeyne, you are my friend. I grew up with you in these very castle walls and allow you to share my bed. We are currently not in court, either.” 

Her friend grew meek and withdrew into herself at the harsh tone, a byproduct of the awful treatment she’d received in these very castle walls. (Though she also suffered behind other walls, in the Red Keep and Baelish’s brothels, but Sansa tried very carefully to keep her mind off of Kings Landing more often than not.) “I am sorry, Sansa,” she whispered. 

“No, I am sorry. I don’t mean to be so foul-tempered with you. You’ve done nothing to deserve my poor mood. Thank you for waking me.” Sansa smoothed her hands over the furs on her lap, eyes roaming the room until she found Lady laying before the cold hearth across the room. Her yellow eyes shone in the darkened room as she stared back at Sansa. The queen relaxed fractionally with the reassurance of her direwolf. Slowly, as to not startle her friend further, she slid back beneath the furs and blankets of her overlage bed. She turned on her side and faced Jeyne. 

Her big brown eyes were trained on what Sansa had sought out. Lady often slept alongside Sansa when Jeyne was not nearby; even as large as it was, the bed did not comfortably fit all three of them. Lady usually lay by the fire or in front of the door. She was the best guard anyone could ask for, not to discount Brienne or Sandor or so many others. Surrounded by so many fierce warriors and with training of her own, Sansa Stark should not feel afraid of anything. The Boltons were slaughtered like they’d slaughtered their own Northern brethren. Cersei still ruled from Kings Landing, leagues to the South and weeks' worth of riding from Winterfell – though with the Neck under Sansa’s control, the North was currently secure. Joffery was dead. 

Yet, she constantly felt on edge and still fell prey to her more gruesome thoughts and experiences, just like her night terror waking with its intensity. Only Lady being nearby gave her a measure of peace. The brush of her mind against Sansa’s, the protective growls that ripped from her teeth at any sign of trouble, the sheer size of her Lady. And the wolf dreams. 

Summoned by her thoughts, the direwolf rose and padded her way over to the bed. She lay her large head in Jeyne’s lap, wagging tail slowly brushing the floor as she waited to receive affection and attention from two of her favorite ladies. 

Jeyne had never feared Lady in this new life at Winterfell, as if she’d never had an ounce of hesitance or anxiety in her bearing towards the direwolf when Lady was naught but a pup compared to her current size. She scratched behind her ears, brushed her fingertips over Lady’s muzzle, and ruffled her hand down the wolf’s expansive back. Sansa smiled softly at the comfort her friend drew from her wolf, leaning over Jeyne to drop a kiss to Lady’s forehead before settling back into her bed for the remainder of the night. She heard Lady move away before she drifted off, pleased when the direwolf lay at the foot of the bed and returned to her vigil. 

Sansa closed her eyes and did not dream again. 

The queen spent her morning writing letters, Jeyne always at her side with more inkpots or parchment as needed. She also ran back and forth between the rookery, escorted by Brienne, so that the poor half-maester was not forced to climb up and down the tower all day. 

It felt strange, at first, to be working at her father’s desk in his solar. The room had not changed much, once the Bolton banners were taken down. It seemed to be one of the few places belonging to the castle’s lord that the Bastard of Bolton left relatively untouched. The same bearskin rug lay in the center of the room, keeping company with the great elk head mounted above the hearth that her uncle Benjen killed on his first hunting trip. Her father loved to tell that story. 

But he was dead now, and Uncle Benjen lost beyond the wall... How things had changed. 

She tried to make the place her own, in small ways, since starting to use the lord’s solar. Lord Wendel not only arrived at Moat Cailin with the army Sansa had expected, but also several trunks full of lavish gifts from his father that she had most certainly not expected. The many moons traveling from Greywater Watch to Moat Cailin to the Wall to Bear Island and then, finally, Winterfell, had not left her much time to appreciate the finery he’d thrust upon her. Now, with her safety and her castle secured, Sansa and Jeyne had sorted through all the trunks and tried to brighten the castle in smalls ways. Such as the delightful, lovely, wonderful lemon scented candle burning behind her. It reminded her of summer and her happier childhood, long elapsed. She also hung the Stark banners in their rightful places, two of them framing a woven tapestry depicting her family during that mirthful time. 

(A servant presented it to the Sansa the morning after her coronation, while the new Queen in the North listened to complaints and requests from her smallfolk. Her name was Elyse, and she had been in charge of the maids for as long as Sansa could remember. She walked before Sansa with a spine of steel, and yet curtsied to her queen fluidly and with great respect; she spoke of returning a few preserved Stark family treasures to Sansa and had her sons bring forth a large trunk full of tapestries, some fine silver pieces, and most of the heirloom Stark jewelry that Lady Catelyn left behind in her rush South. Sansa thanked her profusely and promised great rewards for people so loyal to House Stark.) 

No matter her efforts, only the lemon candle and Lady made the room feel more like her own. She imagined that several more mornings of laborious paperwork at her desk may change her mind. 

She finished her letter to Lord Manderly, thanking him for his seemingly unlimited kindness and flattering his son Wendel for his bravery and competence. The courtly words were practiced and polished, but not untrue. Once the ink and seal were dried, she sat it aside and began working on a second letter to Lord Manderly, which would be copied by Samwell and Jeyne until there were enough copies for every lord in the North to receive one. 

I, Sansa Stark, Queen of the North and Lady of Winterfell...  

And how good it felt to write that, after how hard-earned her place had been. 

...cordially invite you to attend the trial of the bastard Ramsay Snow, the attempted usurper of the Starks and traitor to the North...  

He was put in the kennels, given Clegane as a guard, and forgotten. He howled louder than the dogs, his screams worse than any noise his canine companions made. The kennelmaster, a young man named Garin who braved approaching both Lady and the pack of her smaller cousins to prove himself worthy of the job. and was then questioned severely by the Hound to assure that he was worthy, answered the crying pups and barking bitches. He did not answer Snow. Queen Sansa commanded the Hound be the only person able to speak to the bastard, at his leisure. 

Ramsay Snow had spent two very long fortnights in the Winterfell kennels. Garin spent nearly ten hours a day in the kennels, and he’d never heard Clegane speak a word. 

The silence angered him, it seemed, for Garin had heard the bastard say all sorts of things in order to get a reaction out of his silent, hulking guard to no avail. Clegane would enter the kennels at dawn, the same charcoal wolf at his heels every day, and leave at dusk, this time without the wolf. She worked the night shift guarding the bastard, which both Clegane and the queen assured Garin was more effective than merely a guard and the kennel’s sturdy lock. 

Something about the way the wolves listened to Queen Sansa made him think this to be true, even without the startling bond between the queen and her Lady. 

Sansa enjoyed keeping the bastard locked up in the kennels where all her hounds should be. She enjoyed sweeping through the keep with a sworn shield at either elbow and a back of wolves on her heels. She especially enjoyed the way other people kept their eyes trained on the animals, and forgot her. The hard flinch they gave when one of them snarled or stepped forward was even better. 

But sweeter than the thrill of power or the promise of protection from her pack, sweeter than the distance and caution people treated her with when she surrounded herself with beasts and remained unscathed, was Ramsay’s rage. Every few days, the queen came to inspect her prisoner. Brienne would stand at the entrance to the kennels and announce the queen. Sansa would step forward, flanked by six wolves, and walk to the end of the kennels with measured, unhurried footfalls. All three men who frequented the kennels would know her without the heralding. They all knew her by the sound of her walk and the whisper-soft padding of the wolves following the queen. Once she reached the last cell, Clegane would enter and forcibly drag the Bolton bastard from his soiled hay and bare walls. 

Six times since her return to Winterfell, he was deposited livid and bloody before her, on his knees in subjugation. Six times, Lady materialized between he and the Queen in the North. Six times, Ramsay bared his teeth but backed down, like a well-beaten hound. Six times, Sansa smiled her prettiest smile – the one reserved for kindly kings and perfect princes – down at the demon in the dirt by her feet. She would pinch his chin between two gloved fingers, turning his head this way and that while pretending to inspect him. A dark part of her was always happy to see the various cuts and bruises inflicted on him by Sandor. He would have gladly broken bones, taken fingers and toes, taken the bastard’s head, at his queen’s command. But she was determined to give him a very public trial and she needed him very much alive for that. After a perfunctory examination, she turned to Garin and said, each time, “Snow is in fine enough health. Clean him up and put him back.” 

Then she would step away and turn to go. When Ramsay behaved, he was immediately taken and scrubbed down with warm water and gritty soap. He emerged clean and was dressed in a fresh tunic and breeches, then thrown back in his cell until he was dirty again. The few times he had cried out and lunged for the retreating queen, Lady held him at bay. His first attempt lost him two fingers. The next, his left ear. A final attempt at grabbing his captor lost him the use, and subsequently the entirety, of his right hand. Each time, the kennelmaster and half-maester would patch him up so that Clegane could toss him right back in with the hound and the hay. 

He talked himself hoarse after every single visit, raging and scheming for a reaction. 

The Hound never spoke to him. He watched his queen go, then took up his position in front of the bastard’s cell. He wondered how long it would take the Northern lords to arrive. 

Chapter Text

The opening of the Winterfell gates that morning was a marked occasion, though they opened at exactly the same time every morning. The usual line of working men and women, mingled with a few visitors or petitioners, had been shuffled to the side. There seemed to be more noise on the other side of the gate. It sounded busier and more bustling than most early mornings. Murmurs broke through the crowd as the gates opened and revealed a small party waiting to depart.

Queen Sansa sat, mounted on an enormous black courser at the head of the party, flanked by Ser Brienne on a bay mare and Ser Podrick on gray, dappled stallion. She wore a beautiful dark gray gown with white lace and accents in a simple Northern fashion, her fiery hair braided in a single plait down her back and a silver circlet with two crossed direwolves meeting in the middle atop her head. The horse she rode trotted out of the gates proudly and smoothly. One of the queen’s hands held the reigns comfortably, the other rested upon his neck in an easy, affectionate gesture.

The crowd’s gaze was glued to their queen until the end of the small party, made up of Winterfell’s bakers and kitchen maids, began handing out bread and small sacks of turnips to the waiting parties. They continued to do so in the town, drawing the crowd to their cart and away from the queen and her knights. A hungry hoard, most pressing in around the castle workers in hushed wonder, grew as word spread and more people were roused from their houses to enjoy the queen’s charity. Mothers were given priority to the rations on orders of the queen; they lingered in the streets singing her praises the loudest. A few curious smallfolk eyed the path Queen Sansa took, towards the town’s guild masters.

She both dreaded and felt at peace with the visit she was to make today, calling upon the Master stone mason of Wintertown. For three generations, his family had been tasked with carving the stone likeness of Winterfell’s lords upon their death. Sansa had known Merryk since she was but a girl, and he a routine guest at her father’s table during times of peace or few other visitors. When she asked her father, once, what made Merryk come for dinner so often, Lord Eddard only smiled sadly and answered, “So that he may know your beautiful face, and that of every member of our beautiful family.”

She hadn’t understood, then. She knew of his talents with shaping stone like clay, painting pictures with chisel and picks. She hadn’t known he would one day use his talents to make memorial statues of her parents and her siblings, of herself should she meet her end soon enough.

A small part of her feared that she would lose composure during this visit to Merryk. He was no stranger, remembered thrown food between siblings and tantrums over retiring to room. He likely mourned the loss of her family as well, though not as acutely as Sansa herself. There was the chance he would offer her genuine expressions of sorrow and well-wishing, enough true emotion in his voice to break the porcelain mask she wore to hide the pain. When his house came into her sight, Sansa smoothed her hand along Stranger’s neck in an effort to calm herself. He snorted and shook his mane after too long, making Sansa laugh from the clear annoyance radiating off of him. Stranger cared little for a distressed Sansa on his back, he’d frequently demonstrated, and disliked it even more when she smothered him in an attempt to calm down.

Queen Sansa dismounted the displeased horse, pulled half of an apple from the saddlebag, and appeased him a bit with the treat. She ordered him to stay and await her return without bothering to leash his reigns to anything. He would not leave her any sooner than Brienne or Pod.

Merryk’s house rose intimidatingly above her, though she tried to convince herself that was nothing but a silly thought. A stone house with two floors and a patchy garden off to the side compared poorly to the stone walls outside of Winterfell, let alone the ancient castle itself. There was nothing intimidating about dark roof and smoking chimney, nor the blue curtains in the window or the little stone deer standing motionless in the yard. She ignored her anxieties and knocked on the door, Podrick and Brienne flanking her.

His wife answered the door. Sansa knew of Lynelle from stories, and the frequent descriptions of her waist-length, raven-black hair that Merryk loved so much. Lynelle’s gorgeous hair was pulled back by two braids twisted around the crown of her head in a Northern fashion, well-suited to the warm, layered dress and flour-dowsed baker’s apron she wore.

Sansa smiled kindly when the door swung open, holding that smile firmly in place when Lynelle’s expression bloomed into panic and she hurried dropped into an unsteady curtsy. Her hands passed over the apron once or twice in an effort to dust it off and her plush lips thinned into a stressed smile.

“My Gr- My Queen, good morning. It is such a pleasant surprise to receive you this morning. I am at your service, Your Grace.”

“Good morning, Lady Lynelle. I have heard much about you from your husband, Lord Merryk, a dear friend of my late lord father’s.”

“Oh, I’m no Lady, my Queen, but I thank you for the honor.” She dropped into another curtsy and ushered them over the threshold into the house.

Politely ignoring the needless correction as Lynelle led the group to a small sitting room, Sansa motioned for Brienne to close the door behind her and leave Podrick to guard the outside. Once her sworn shields were divvied up and Lynelle bid her guests to make themselves comfortable and offered them tea and bread, Sansa asked after Merryk. “I thank you for the refreshments, Lady Lynelle. You are a most gracious host, though I was wondering if I could speak with your husband. I would like to commission him for a few pieces.”

“Of course, of course, Your Grace, I’ll get fetch him right this moment,” she assured, voice going a little high with stress, hands fluttering around her apron again. Lynelle darted from the room towards the stairs. They could hear the quick footfalls of her race to find her husband a moment later.

“Quite a nervous woman, isn’t she?” Sansa whispered to Brienne, standing behind her with a cup of tea in one hand while the other rested on the hilt of her sword.

Brienne frowned into her cup, the expression warring with the amusement in her eyes. “You’re a queen now, Your Grace. A queen visiting with a stone mason’s wife isn’t very common, even in the North. Most queens would have simply summoned the mason to the castle, allowing him to return home with stories of their new ruler to his wife.”

“Merryk and my father were friends for many years, even when my father was nothing but a second-born son returned from the Eeyrie and unsure of his place in his own home. My lord father always spoke very highly of his true friends, such as Merryk and Lord Reed; I feel I owe them the same respect he gave them. That merits more than summoning him on a whim and forcing him to wait in line with the petitioners to be given an audience with me.” Sansa sipped her tea, wishing her father were here.

“It is admirable that you wish to uphold the good relationships your father kept, my queen. Though,” she added, reproachfully, as only Brienne could do with a queen, “it is much easier to protect you within the walls of Winterfell. Surrounded by your guards and your wolves.”

“I suppose it’s a good thing I left Lady behind to help Theon in his mission, after all. Poor Lynelle may have fainted at the sight of a queen and a direwolf.”

The frown grew deeper and the light of laughter dimmed in her sapphire eyes. Brienne did not answer.

“I know what you’re thinking, ser, and I wish you would trust my judgement on this matter.”

“You are my queen. I trust your judgement on all matters. I do not trust every person that my queen places her trust in. People are fallible, especially those who have already turned their cloak once.”

Sansa sighed, resigned to saying no more as two people could be heard coming down the stairs now, and she had a greater need to speak with Merryk than to reiterate an argument with Brienne. She could not convince her knight that this was the right path, that Theon would not fail her in this, at least. That knowledge she felt in her bones. Brienne did not understand.

Sansa rose; Brienne mirrored the action. Merryk bowed deeply, bending his knees to go to the floor until Sansa waved him off. She reached forward, clasping his hand and forearm in a formal Northern greeting and smiling softly. He looked much the same as the last time he visited the Great Hall – a tall, thin man with strong arms and big hands. Arya had been fascinated with his silver mustache when she was young, the sharp contrast of his black hair almost comical. She’d climbed atop tables and chairs alike to tug at it and then toddle off in screeching laughter when the flushed septa tried to pry her away. The memories brought a brighter smile to her face.

“It is nice to see you in good health, Merryk,” she said.

“My queen, it is good to see you in the North, with a crown upon your head.” His eyes were misty. The smile on his face caused them to crinkle, making his effected expression more obvious. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Your Grace?”

But he knew, she saw. The lines around his eyes faded even though his smile never faltered, just as the stone mason withdrew his hands and tucked them behind his back. He knew the purpose of her visit.

“I would like to commission their statues, Merryk.”

The stone mason bowed deeply, attempting to hide the mask of grief that overcame his face at her words. He stood straight once again. Sansa pretended she had not seen his face. “Of course, Queen Sansa. Would you like to sit and discuss the specifics?” He held out an arm in invitation, sitting only after she arranged her skirts and folded her hands in her lap. Lynelle scurried back to the kitchen to fetch more tea. Brienne stood still as stone behind her. “I have measurements from each of your family members two moons prior to King Robert’s visit, and vivid memories of their faces until their departures.”

“I am...” Sansa cleared her throat and tried again, determined to let that be her weakest moment behind the walls of Merryk’s home. “I am grateful to you for your vivid memories, then. I would like the likenesses to be as close as possible. Especially that of my Lady Mother’s. There are too few Lady Starks in the crypts of my house.”

The surprise that flitted across his face at the first mention of her mother amused Sansa, and the way he buried it without hesitation to give way to acceptance pleased her. “Lady Catelyn was a great beauty; it shines through in her daughter to this day. I will be glad to capture her image to the best of my ability.” He paused for a moment, accepting the tea from his shaking and silent wife. “Will you be commissioning six statues, then, Your Grace?”

“No, not at this time,” she murmured, expecting the question or something like it. “I only wish for you to make statues for my lord father, lady mother, and my brother, the king, at this moment. There is nothing of them in the crypts, not their bodies nor their greatest possessions nor even their bones. I have that, at least, of Bran and Rickon...” She looked away, visibly affected, and took a slow breath. “As for Arya, I’ve had no official news of her death. I dare to still hope.”

She had heard no news of her sister for moons and moons, since Lady Brienne joined her and Sandor in the Neck. She had only hope, and dreams.

“My apologies, my queen. I know it is a sensitive subject and the entirety of the North mourns the tragic loss of your family.” Merryk’s silver mustache danced as he cleared his throat. “I will put my very heart and soul into these likenesses, Your Grace. Your lord father always had a place at his table and a kind word for me, though I’m put an unimportant man who chips away at rocks all day. He ruled the North with a fair, strong hand and unparalleled compassion. He brought pride to being a Northman again. And Lady Catelyn was always the picture of grace, a shining image of beauty. For any of their children to suffer the way you have is the worst crime imaginable.”

Sansa allowed her eyes to water but no further. Allowed her breathing to stutter but not hitch. She stood and bowed her head, lower than proper, to Merryk. She motioned to Brienne, who opened the door and spoke briefly with Podrick. “My father never thought of you as such, Merryk, and would be ashamed to see you speak so. You were a dear friend to him regardless of your trade or station. He knew you to be the only artist worthy of entrusting with House Stark’s memorial statues. I trust that you will do them justice, Merryk, as I am going to do the same in my own way,” she said with a tired try at a smile.

“Your father’s regard and your own words honor me, my queen, just as my family was honored generations ago with your House’s patronage. If anyone can wring justice from the vile men who committed such atrocities against House Stark, I believe it would be Ned’s daughter. Thank you, Queen Sansa.”

Podrick entered the house with a large basket in his hands before she could respond; he passed it to Sansa with a slight bow and took his place beside Ser Brienne. Sansa turned and presented the basket to Merryk. “Take this as a token of my appreciation for accepting so much work at one time, my lord.” She ignored the way his cheeks flushed a ruddy red at the title, as she’d ignored his wife’s discomfort at the gracious treatment earlier. “Thankfully, Winterfell’s stocks remained mostly untouched during the invasions. The castle will be doing as much as we can to help the smallfolk and minor lords through the coming winter. There’s a selection of vegetables, some bread, and even a few salted herring. Lord Manderly has also been most generous in helping to smooth the turbulent conditions of the North.”

Merryk accepted the gift with the flush still evident on his face. “Thank you, my queen. I shall travel to the castle to report on my progress weekly, if it please you.”

She nodded solemnly and prepared to depart. “Yes, Merryk, that would be wonderful. Thank you for taking the time to visit with me. I am glad to finally have met your lovely wife, Lynelle. Her hair is as lovely as you’d always proclaimed, and she was a fine hostess.”

In the kitchen, a cup shattered on the floor. A fond smile bloomed on Merryk's face as he led them to the door.

Sansa left the house with an amused little smirk on her face. She spent the ride back petting Stranger's neck, determined to ignore the rattling of a locked trunk in the depths of her mind.

Theon is given a tiny room with the bare essentials. The small cot, weathered trunk, and wash stand were much more than he expected to be receive. The woven rug and thick blankets were just as surprising as the heavily-mended sets of clothing stuffed into the trunk. He spent most of his time in the small bedchamber. He stayed huddled on the bed, wedging himself into a corner, and wasted the hours away thinking.

He did too much thinking these days, it felt. Which amused him in a dark way, for all the lack of thought he lived with before becoming the shadow of himself that haunted Winterfell.

When he left his bed chamber, it was for meals or the occasional walk around the godswood. He had yet to go before the heart tree – did not feel as though it would be right, after all the wrongs he had committed. Something in him soured at the thought of appealing to the old gods when he had betrayed the Stark family. He ghosted among the other trees and avoided any of the northmen going to pray. The silence of the woods comforted him in a small, muted way, and that was enough.

Only the sight of Lady Sansa – Queen Sansa – in the godswood sent would make him flee the peace he found there, if he had already braved leaving his self-imposed cell. (The queen didn’t even bother to give him a proper guard, just simultaneously warned him and informed the captain of the guard that Lady would be watching him at all times.) Too many difficult, terrifying emotions rose up at the sight of Sansa, who looked so much like Robb. So much like the person who’d trusted him the most in the world, the only person he’d loved above himself. The shade of her hair was a bit off, both redder and less orange than Robb’s, and her eyes were lighter. But it was enough, more than enough to see such a close resemblance in his sister. Theon had never felt such guilt or horror with himself as when Sansa the Winter Queen gazed at him with something very close to hatred in her Tully blue eyes.

He could hardly stand that gaze.

So, he hid away in his own tiny room and thought of how to find Bran and Rickon. Less than a fortnight had passed since the queen gave him his orders, and Theon felt he owed her at least an attempt at recovering her brothers. He knew nothing of where they could have gone if Sansa herself hadn’t come across them in her travels over the North. They were not at the Wall with Jon, their bastard brother, or hiding out with one of the Northern lords still loyal to House Stark. Lord Reed walked around Winterfell daily with no signs of having heard from the Stark boys or his own children. Surely, they wouldn’t have gone South.

If only he knew where to start, Theon could put himself to use. He would never succeed, never repay the Starks what he owed, but he could try for the rest of his miserable days.

And what miserable days they were adding up to be, if the way he was awoken that morning gave any indication of the future.

He slept poorly, every night without exception. It was fact and he lived with it. Some nights, he slept less poorly than others. The previous night had been one of those nights, where he only had dreams that brought him great anxiety and sorrow in their duration rather than pain. So many nights he passed the hours writhing in pain, remembering tortures and feeling the loss of various phantom parts of himself. Emotional pain seemed a cool relief to invisible, white hot knives reminding him of his master’s caress.

He dreamed of a black iron and bronze crown, rough hands with clean nails, and a clear laugh that grew husky under the influence of drink and the privacy of locked doors. He dreamed of never leaving and of keeping his promises. He dreamed of sweet, torturous things that would never be.

He awoke to a full set of teeth and the deep snarl that vibrates a direwolf’s chest. The teeth were mere inches from his face. The snarl vibrated his chest. The Queen’s Lady stood over him, taking up every free inch of the cramped cot, growling until he opened his eyes and froze in fear at the sight.

When she was satisfied that he was awake, Lady leapt from the bed and moved to stand by the door. Her unsettling grace kept him locked in place for several moments. She settled an expectant eye on Theon and barked under her breath, gruff and impatient. At the order, Theon scrambled out of bed and began fumbling around in a hurry to dress for the day, missing fingers no longer a hindrance with buttons and laces. He was tugging on his last boot before he thought to question why he followed a dog’s orders, what made him know instinctively that Lady meant to lead him somewhere.

She was out the door before he could think of doing anything but complying.

The sun still slept beyond the horizon, hardly peeking into the darkness of the morning, and the castle was empty in the cold gray dawn. Lady led him out into the courtyard, towards the kennels, and he thought perhaps Sansa’d grown tired of knowing how little effort he had put forth towards his mission and grown angry, but the direwolf’s abrupt stop more than twenty paces from the kennels stopped that line of thought. She sat on the steps leading down to the crypts, tail brushing the dirt from the stone stairs while she waited for the slow human before her to get the message.

Theon did, quite quickly, and wish he had not. The crypts were said to be haunted, now, and he could not say it was unlikely. Atrocities had been committed against the last four generations of Starks. Any of them could have plenty of reason to haunt the protected resting place of their family. A younger Theon would not have believed the maid’s gossip and children’s whispers, had laughed himself hoarse at the story of Robb and Jon playing at spirits in the crypts to scare their siblings.

He would rather believe in grumpkins and snarks than know the truth of the monstrous man behind whatever was happening. Theon had learned his lessons. The real monster was always a smiling lord, a brave knight, a handsome king, an arrogant third-born son.

It never seemed to be one of the horrifying creatures of Old Nan’s tales or the vengeful spirit of some old lord. Just a man, or perhaps a woman, behind it all.

Lady seemed insistent that he learn the truth of these stories, though, as she turned sharply and descended the stairs into the crypts. Theon sighed and hefted the nearest torch from the castle wall before following her. If he didn’t, she might try forcing him, after all. The cracked stone stairs would not be kind to him should Lady drag his sorry self down their length. He’d much rather walk, he told himself, though his knees were shaking.

I should fit in well enough, he japed in thought as he tried to ignore his instinctive need to flee. With my white hair, dead spirit, and broken body.

(Lady Catelyn once accused him of covering everything up with a jape or a joking manner, so that Theon never needed to take responsibility for his actions or words. He could never find the right way to articulate that was never his intention, he only wanted to make others laugh and laugh some things off himself. Lady Catelyn likely would not have been inclined to hear his explanation with her ingrained distaste of the Ironborn. Now, he would never be able to explain himself.)

Long halls stretched for what looked like leagues on either side of the small entrance cove, though he knew they eventually ended and once led to the older tombs – the ones of the Kings of Winter. His heart seized in his chest at the thought of his King, who’s body had been defiled and head mounted on a spike. Never would his bones rest in the crypts of his forefathers beneath the castle of the kingdom they ruled. Theon dropped the torch and from its light as it rolled away before puttering out, could see Lady give him a startled look. When the darkness came, it was all-encompassing. His eyes were much too weak to see in the deep black recesses beneath the castle, though his ears were more than sharp enough to pick up on the deep growling coming somewhere from the hall to his left.

His heart was still bleeding, still open to the dark world around him, at the thought of his king. But the sounds of snarling grew closer and Theon fought the waters that held him beneath their freezing surface, their fingers clinging to him and spreading despair and hopelessness. He emerged and forced himself against the wall nearest the staircase. A huge, heavy shape helped to herd him along the wall and into a slight cove. Lady stood in front of him and faced the danger, deathly quiet apart from her quiet breaths. Whatever beast was down there with them – and it was quite a beast, by the threatening sounds it emitted and the scrape of claws along the stone floors – came closer still. In front of him, Lady was close enough that he could feel her hackles raise. She shifted, slightly. He wished he could see, nearly as much as he wished to flee the gruesome death looming before him.

(Did he wish to flee a death only marginally less awful than what he deserves? Did he wish to exit the crypts of Winterfell and continue living, day after day, with the weight of his mistakes and the knowledge of his choices? Did he wish to escape the Stranger’s embrace, to sink beneath the sea of the Drowned God’s domain and face him as the craven he was in life?)

The monster lunged, perhaps, or perhaps Lady lunged, but either way, they ended up only feet from Theon in a heap or snarls and growls. The shaking had spread from his knees to the entirety of his body, as if the movement traveled through his blood to reach every miserable inch of him. He crouched, hoping to find an escape or a hiding place. His hands roamed desperately over the stones in the walls, of the floor, looking for something that indicated a way out. A loud yelp startled him and he jumped, smacking his knee into the stone wall and falling back on his arse. Panic erupted in his mind and he desperately wanted to see how Lady was fairing, though that yelp sounded nothing like her. He wondered if she was in pain.

He wondered if he would survive this journey to the crypts, and wondered if he did, would Sansa blame him for the inevitable injury and possible death of Lady? Were the direwolf to die down here, protecting him, would Theon owe House Stark another life he cannot repay? Or would Sansa kill him for the loss of her wolf, her brothers, her hope... Theon had taken so much from the Starks of Winterfell. So much he could not give back, could not make right.

He collapsed from his slight crouch, knees slamming to the floor a half-second before his palms followed. One of the hit something sharp, it felt as though he were bleeding, and he wrapped his fingers around it. A stone, it felt like. Smaller than his fist, flattened on one side with a jagged edge where he’d grabbed it. It was not much – was not the bow and arrow he once could take down a pigeon in the air with nor the short sword he felt most comfortable wielding in the training yard. It was just a broken stone.

Theon rose to his knees, aimed for the general direction of the battling beasts, and drew back his arm to cast the stone. He couldn’t be sure if he would hit anything, or miss the monster and hit Lady, but it was the thing he could do.

Only, as his fingers tightened around the stone in preparation for the throw, something small and strong flung themselves at him and Theon cracked his head against the wall. Everything was black, still, and he could not tell if his eyes were opened and unseeing or sealed shut. Steel bars were wrapping around his throat, a boulder sat atop his chest to take the air from his lungs. He could not break free and he could not see.

After a time, he could not breathe. Then, he could not hear. He welcomed the loss of feeling like an old friend.

Chapter Text

She was singing to herself and mending one of Rodrik’s shirts by the window to enjoy the mid-morning sun when the maid all but burst through the door to her bedchamber, panting and insisting her mother requested her presence as soon as possible. Dread filled her heart, sinking it to the pit of her stomach at the thought of more tragic news or terrifying threats coming their way. The maid did not follow her out of the room, and instead began tidying the room and rifling through one of her trunks. 

Whatever orders she’d been given, she seemed in a rush to complete them. 

Talia forced herself to walk quickly despite the weight of her dread and found her mother and Ser Duncan in the great hall, bent over a letter. 

Her mother turned upon the noise of her entry, a smile stretching her lips wide across her face. Her eyes were sparkling in the same way they’d been at the joy of Rodrik’s safe return. Talia felt her heart lighten a little at the lack of obvious trouble. Her mother met her half way, throwing her arms around Talia without letting go of the parchment, crinkling against the back of her dress in the strong embrace. 

“At last, Talia, we have received wonderful news. A Stark is in Winterfell once more! Sansa Stark returned to the North and, with the help of her brother at the Wall, the one Gared spoke of in his letters, put together a force and took back Winterfell. Ramsay Snow is imprisoned and the queen has called all the lords of the North to attend his trial.” There was something else shining in her mother’s eyes, or perhaps lurking in the shadows at the edges, that spoke of pleasure at the thought. And Talia did not blame her, not when her heart lifted at those words in particular and she wondered, hoped, at the results of this trial. Surely, this queen would not let him go unpunished. The Starks had always been honorable and fair to their vassals, without mentioning the horrors House Bolton committed against their liege lord in siding with the Lannisters and Freys in their treachery. 

She would get to see Ramsay pay for his crimes, pay for taking one of her brothers away for good and allowing the other to be taken to Highpoint as a hostage. 

Her eyes filled with familiar tears at the thought of Ethan and Ryon, and she tried instead to focus on what her mother was saying. 

“-at once. The maids are packing our things now and Rodrik went to have a stablehand ready the horses. We must make all haste and arrive before the Whitehills, or surely they will whisper lies in the ears of our new Queen. We cannot allow that to happen.” Her mother, both hands on Talia’s arms, beamed down at her and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “We will get Ryon back, Talia, and see those responsible for harming our family brought to justice. 

“Now, I must send a letter to Asher and Malcolm to let them know there is no need for an army. There is a Stark in Winterfell once more!” 

Talia watched her mother sweep from the hall with a true smile. She felt hope for the first time in moons, ever since Gared was sent to the Wall. She thought of the letters he sent her, detailing his friendships with a few other watchmen, including Jon Snow, the bastard brother of the Queen in the North. It was possible he met this new queen during whatever help her brother offered her, though he had never spoken of a Stark visiting the Wall in his letters. Gared spoke highly of Jon more than once, stating he was the first person to treat him kindly at the Wall and one of the few that understood his apparent desire to become a Ranger. While she wished he’d decided to do something safer, such as becoming a Builder, she understood the need for action. It had been torturous to be so powerless in her own home since the Boltons took over, watching as the Whitehills were given their lands and more power than they deserved, as Ramsay killed her brother with a smile on his face.

She returned to her room to dress for riding, thinking on this new queen. Perhaps she would be kind and merciful, as the princesses in stories were painted. 

Perhaps she will be a  direwolf  in truth , Talia pondered,  with sharp claws and strong jaws to crush her enemies. Perhaps she will be strong, just, and honorable, as people say her father and brother were.  

Theon awoke slowly, mind foggier than Pyke on a winter morning, and the first thing he registered were Tully blue eyes staring back at him. His heart stuttered in his chest for a moment, before he realized it was not Robb. Only Sansa, the Queen, and he did not know why she was smiling so. She had rarely smiled at him since her return. He could only remember once, actually, when she had thanked him for attempting to shield Jeyne from Ramsay’s ire in the short, awful months of their marriage. 

And now a second time , he thought.  Though I’m not sure what I’ve done.  

“Theon?” she called, softly, which made no sense. She was right in front of him, less than an arm’s length away, but her voice seemed much further away. 

He blinked, tried to move his arms to prop himself up. His hands responded, twitching and flattening against the warm furs blanketing his cot. His elbows attempted to support his weight for only a moment before he was laying limply on the furs again. Theon sighed and tried to focus on Sansa again. 

She had leaned away from him, his head lolling to the side to follow her movements. The fat half-maester, a friend of Jon Snow’s if the maid’s chattering could be trusted, stood near the closed door in his small bed chamber. Sansa moved away, sitting demurely on the trunk at the foot of the bed. Her hands fluttered between himself and the other man, urging him forward. The man bumbled about for a moment, taking a cloth from the wash stand and ringing it out hastily before walking towards Theon. 

He heard a movement at his side and tried to turn his head to find the source of the noise. It took him longer than it should have, and more awkward than it should have been. His eyes landed on Lady, familiar grey fur and shoulders as high as his own, nearly. She moved so gracefully, carried so much threat and danger in every inch of her lithe form. Theon remembered the sound of her snarls echoing of the stone walls of the crypts and shuddered. As she approached Sansa, Theon could see there were twin gashes across the width of one of her hind legs, the fur around them pushed back and matted with a salve that covered the wounds. Her movement did not seem to be hindered; Theon hoped she had not been hurt in his defense. 

The half-maester had been calling to him, and he realized only when he put a tentative hand to Theon’s cheek to turn his face. “Lord Theon?” 

His eyes focused on the man hovering over his, then flitted to the cloth he moved to press to his forehead. The cool, coarse cloth felt sweeter than he’d imagined, gave a relief he did not know he was seeking. He closed his eyes in contentment. He only opened them again at Sansa’s insistent voice, the sharp tone a stark contrast to her smiling face earlier. 

The maester looked him over carefully. Theon awoke more fully during the examination, the fog slowly leaving his mind and his limbs regaining their feeling. His head ached more the longer he was awake, and the growing dryness of his mouth spoke of his previous sleep being induced by milk of the poppy. He wondered how long he’d slept, what had happened in the crypts and how he had wound up back on his cot. Beneath the blankets covering him, which the maester pulled aside and returned as needed, he wore nothing but a pair of cotton breeches. His head was wounded, the maester spending far too long poking and prodding at a bump on his temple. He seemed to be unharmed otherwise and assumed that was entirely due to Lady. The usual aches and sharp pains of his existence returned with his awareness. 

“Wha...” Theon licked his lips, though the action did nothing. His first attempt at forming words failed spectacularly. Sansa procured a cup of water from a small table he didn’t remember being shoved in the corner, though the small wooden bowls, mortar, pestle, and jars of herbs seemed to indicate that it belonged to the maester. She passed it to the maester, who pressed it to Theon’s lips. He met the cup halfway by unsteadily raising forward and drank greedily, uncaring of the liquid slipping down his chin onto his throat and collar. 

He forced himself to stop drinking halfway through, pulling away. Water sloshed forward onto his chest, cool against his heated skin, and he took a deep breath. His stomach clenched around the cool water and reminded him of the morning meal he’d missed. And possibly the mid-day and evening meals, depending on how long he had been asleep. 

Sansa gave the maester an order and a look at once, causing the man to bow his head and scuttle off to the table. He began mixing some things in the mortar. Sansa began speaking to him, drawing his heavy black eyes back to her. 

“You went down to the crypts with Lady this morning, on my orders,” she said, and that did not make sense. How could she order Lady to lead him anywhere, he wondered, before the strange way that Grey Wind served Robb in all things, like a faithful steward or sworn shield, came to mind. “There were rumors of a great beast lurking beneath the castle, though I had a thought it was something else. You were attacked by a direwolf. Lady defended you, fought her brother until he understood who she was and that neither of you meant any harm to him or his companion. Lady carried you from the crypts and caught the attention of the kennelmaster. Garin rushed to make sure you were alive, then alerted Sandor of what you had discovered.” 

Her voice grew lighter the more she spoke, until her smile returned and bloomed brighter than he’d seen since her return. “Sandor ordered you to be attended by a maester and sent a messenger to meet me on my way back from Wintertown, carrying the news of Rickon and Shaggydog’s miraculous appearance.” 

He took a sharp breath, unable to believe what she told him. Rickon, hiding in the crypts after all this time? His mind raced, recalling the monster in the crypts rumor cropping up only six moons or so ago. Ramsay dismissed the stories for a time, until one of his guardsmen grew bold enough to venture down there on a bet. He lost his life, though none of his coin, and Ramsay was amused. It was only a fortnight before his downfall that he’d sent a few men to try and capture or kill the beast; none of them returned, nor the second beast-hunting party. He spoke of going down there himself to rid the castle of the creature. Theon thought it would have been a fitting death, for Ramsay to die with his blood dripping form a direwolf’s teeth. 

He must have slipped down into the crypts when no one else was around, perhaps coming in through the godswood as his sister. The Starks knew the castle and grounds better than anyone, including himself or any intruder. 

“You have returned two of the lives you owe to House Stark, Theon Turncloak. Winterfell now has not one, but two Starks roaming its halls, and not one, but two direwolves at their sides. I thank you for finding my brother,” and that was the Sansa of summer, the one who lived in his memories singing her romantic songs and braiding flowers into her shining auburn hair, “and wish you well repaying the rest of your debt.” 

And she left, tucking her hands into her sleeves, their ends trailing halfway to the floor and swirling around with her skirts as she departed. Lady followed her out, rising from her spot laying before the trunk her queen had occupied. She shook out her fur, shot sharp yellow glance at Theon on his cot, and trotted out the door. Theon let his head fall back onto the cot and vaguely wondered when someone had put a small pillow on his bed. He stared up at the shadows on the ceiling above him, a white noise of shock, contentment, and pain growing louder in his ears than the maester’s rustling movements. 

Lord Commander S  

Jon,  

I have the most wonderful news, Jon, and pray to the old gods this raven finds you swiftly. Theon  Turncloak , as you know, was tasked to pay seven life debts to House Stark for the seven that he took from us. Today, he has repaid two of those debts by returning Rickon and  Shaggydog  to us. Rickon is alive, Jon, and safe at Winterfell. Sam has examined him and proclaimed him to be in good health, though in need of a few moons of hardy meals. I wish you could see him; he looks so much like Robb at his age that it tears at my heart, though I am ever grateful to see him at all. He has grown so much. He remembers everyone; he thought me to be mother until he realized that Lady was mine, and knew me as his sister. He seems to have a stronger bond with  Shaggydog  than you or I with Lady or Ghost. It is nothing for him to slip into his wolf’s skin on a whim, and I find he is almost as much wolf as boy. We will have to work on making him comfortable around people again, as well as his manners and other such things, but I am currently content allow him his wildness.  

One of our brothers has returned home, Jon, and I will arrange for a visit to the Wall soon, depending on Rickon’s improvements in the coming moons. We will find our siblings, Jon. We will find Arya and Bran and bring them home. Robb may be lost to us, but the rest of the Starks survive. I am sure of it.  

Mance and five of the free  folk  he brought with him departed for the Wall three days ago, as scheduled. I have prayed for their safe arrival and imagine their travels were easy enough as the snows have not fallen for nearly a fortnight. One of the women, Rowan, decided to stay on at Winterfell, and I find her to be pleasant enough company. Rickon has attached himself to my side or Rowan’s since we’ve found him. I assume he is missing Osha, though he cannot speak of her fate any further than she left him alone to hunt and never returned. I have agreed to send out a scouting party to find her, though I urge you to ask among the free folk residing at Castle Black for news of her. Rickon shows great concern over her, and a great desire to see you once again. I will have him write to you once he has relearned his letters, and hope to make a trip to Castle Black soon.  

Rejoice in Rickon’s safety, brother, and do not forget my offer to you. You always have a home in Winterfell, if you wish.  

Your sister, the Queen of the North, and Lady of Winterfell  

Sansa Star k 

“The evening meal will be waiting for you in your solar, Your Grace,” Brienne told her as they climbed yet another set of stairs. 

“I hope you remembered to have them send up enough for you, as well. I have too much work to do before we retire for the night, Ser.” 

“Of course, my queen. I cannot serve you on an empty stomach, after all,” she quipped. 

When they finally reached the rookery to send her good news to Jon, she was surprised to see a raven already waiting with messages from Castle Black. There were two letters attached to the raven, one bearing Jon’s writing of her name and another with the sigil of House Tarly, addressed to Samwell. She placed it on his desk and sent the first maid she found on her way to her solar to tell him it was waiting for him. Sansa knew of his tense relationship with his father, and silently hoped the letter was from one of his sisters, or perhaps his mother. 

Podrick waited outside the door of her solar, fidgeting nervously. 

“Ser Pod,” she said as she approached, “good evening. What brings you to my solar only an hour after I have dismissed you for the night?” Nodding her thanks as he opened the door, she entered and motioned for both Pod and Brienne to follow her. The lemon scent of the solar welcomed her and she wished Lady weren’t out hunting with Shaggydog, but she could not begrudge Lady for spending time with her previously lost brother when she herself had spent the entire day in the lord’s chambers or the godswood with Rickon. She only allowed Rowan to take Rickon to the kitchens for a meal and then his chamber for the night because she had avoided her work all day, letting the missives and complaints pile up. 

When they were settled, Brienne by the door, Sansa seated at her desk, and Podrick standing before her, he spoke. “Queen Sansa, a rider approached the gates while you were in the rookery. He is but an hour ahead of his party, he claimed, sent ahead to send word of their arrival.” 

“And which house has the honor of being our first guests?” 

“House Forrester of Ironwrath, my queen, sworn to House Glover of Deepwood Motte.” 

Sansa smiled at his attention to detail and thanked him, sending him off to find Elyse and Calla as a final errand for the night. She was curious at the Forresters speedy arrival, not expecting Robett and his party for a few more days as per his answering raven. While smaller vassal houses did not always accompany their liege lord’s traveling party, it was rare to travel alone in the North with winter so close. She would make sure the kitchens had a hot meal for their guests. 

Over her own hasty meal of venison stew in a still-warm trencher, she read her letter from Jon. She and Brienne discussed the group of free folk he was sending to Winterfell – including a certain “red-headed loud-mouth" that her knight was not pleased to hear would arrive soon – and the safe return of Mance and the spearwives. He spoke of his plans to populate the Gift with the wildlings, a trip beyond the Wall he was planning to scout the locations of the wights and their masters. Sansa was glad he had Ghost with him at all times, as well as friends in both Edd and Gared still at the Wall with him, as he seemed to be sending all of his most trusted allies South these days. She did not expect there to be many problems with Stannis and his men filling the empty ranks of the Watch, but she feared the day he was left alone with all the dissent his men expressed working with the free folk. 

In the morning, she would send a scout to search for Tormund and his men. For now, she would worry about the guests she knew to be approaching. 

Elyse and Calla appeared at her door at the same time, entering and curtsying to their queen. Sansa greeted them warmly. She was quite fond of both the women, Elyse being the most efficient head of the maids and general staff that she could ask for while Calla ran the kitchen with graceful experience and few complaints when rations were cut for the eminent arrival of so many guests. 

“I am sorry to disturb you so late into the evening, my ladies, but the first bannermen are approaching the gates. How many of the rooms have we gotten prepared, Elyse?” 

“All of the rooms in the Great Keep are serviceable, Your Grace, though a few on the third floor still require fresh bedclothes. All of the beds shall be ready tomorrow, once the sheets and blankets pulled from storage are aired out. The Guest House shall be finished in another two or three days.” Elyse curtsied again, her silver hair already taken down for the night falling over one shoulder. 

“And the kitchens, Calla?” 

Calla was much younger than Elyse, younger than Sansa’s lady mother would be now, though not by much. She had a bold tongue, Brienne once claimed, but Sansa appreciated her frank nature. It suited her open, expressive face and the stern way she carried herself. “Ready as we can be, Queen Sansa. There is still plenty o’ stew from supper, and I’ll have extra trenchers warmed for the bannermen. Extra barrels of mead have been brought up from the cellars and Wintertown delivered their wheat this very morn. We’ll cook for as many as we get, so long as we know they’re here.” 

“The party approaching is no more than a dozen in number, I’ve been told, though we can expect at least five more on the morrow. Thank you for your time. Have a good evening, Elyse, Calla.” 

Murmured goodnights and another round of curtsies saw them out the door and Sansa putting on her heavy fur cloak. She sent the mound of work pushed to the side of her desk a baleful look before making her way to the yard in preparation of meeting the Forresters. 

Chapter Text

Meera  woke up the exact same way she fell asleep – cold, huddled up against her barely-breathing brother’s back, shivering ,  and angry. She stretched out her legs and moved her fingers around in hopes of bringing feeling back to them. Her gloves had grown threadbare during the journey beyond the Wall, as had her nerves, her sanity, and her brother. A glance at  Jojen  told her that he fared no better this morning than the night before, as he still lay prone and pale. Bran sat propped against  Hodor’s  side, the both of them sleeping soundly, Summer covering their laps.  

A bitter taste coated her tongue every time she looked at Bran Stark as of late, no matter how hard she initially fought the feeling. He hardly knew any better than her what their purpose was, traversing the frozen wasteland of the True North only to take shelter in a cave with a  Tagaryen  and the Children. All he knew was his supposed destiny, in an even more vague way than  Jojen claimed to know his. He pushed for this trip harder than anyone, after all. He said it was the right path, that they would find what they were looking for and fulfill their fates by taking this road.  

This couldn’t be fate. fatewas not the smell of rotting leaves, a diet of mushrooms and snowmelt and tree paste, the process of slowly losing one’s mind and a loved one all at once. She smoothed a hand over Jojen’s forehead, fingers catching in his tangled curls, and fought the urge to sob. This could not be her brother’s fate.  

She spent the rest of the day trying to speak with Bran, when he wasn’t hiding in his visions. She ate the  weirwood  paste and drank the snowmelt and, when no one was looking, crushed a few mushrooms up as finely as she could and shoved the powdery results into  Jojen’s  mouth, washing it down with the sips of snowmelt she administered to him regularly. Her stomach noticed the difference in her  measly  meal, but she knew it was for the better. Her brother needed the strength far more than herself, and she was beginning to suspect that the  weirwood  paste was not what the Raven told them.  

Meera angled her small cot closer to Hodor than night and spent a few hours whispering of Greywater Watch to him, before slipping into stories of their time together at Winterfell. He hung on to every word she spoke of their homes. From the story of crafting her first spear to how beautiful Winterfell looked for the first time, he nodded enthusiastically, and even smiled a bit. Hodor couldn’t communicate very well, but she read the longing for home in his voice well enough. A few tears fell down his large, ruddy cheeks when she spoke of the Great Hall and the Godswood. She placed a hand on his arm and promised that, soon, they would return. Her homesickness was just as great as his; her brother’s health could not take this cave much longer. It was decided.  

Her dreams were filled with the  Wolfswood , sounds of prey nearby, the rush of victorious joy she got whenever her spear found its target, and her brother’s congratulatory laughter. She would be feasting on rabbit and fish soon enough. They would reach a river before they reached the Wall, and there were plenty between Last Hearth and Winterfell. She looked forward to the focus of fishing and the delicious, salty results.  

The gates of Winterfell were a sweet sight, when they were initially spotted, so far off. The closer their party came to the  gates,  however, the more Elissa began to fret. An irrational part of her wondered if this was an elaborate trick set up by the horrible Boltons, in order to see who would turn their cloaks on the turncloaks. She feared that this new Queen would care little for such a small vassal’s problems. If she listened to her plea, heard of the Forester’s troubles, and took pity on them, there was still no guarantee that all would end well. Would the Queen order the  Whitehills  to return her son, only for her to find they had already killed him? Elissa fought to keep the image of little Ryon, pale and still in a way he should not be, from overtaking her. There was no time for such dramatics.  

They would be meeting the Queen in the North today, after all. She had duty to her late husband and their family to ensure that everything went well.  Rodrik  was trained to take over his father’s duties, and though he had to step in much earlier than  any of them  would have wanted, he was a strong, sensible man who listened to counsel. If anything, she worried that his injury caused him to lose footing in his self-confidence as well as on the battlefield, but she knew her son to be adaptable. It was a blow to his ego, undoubtedly, and quite a few of their men would question his ability to lead them, being half-crippled as he was, but  Rodrik  was strong. He was a Forrester of  Ironwrath .  

As was Talia, the daughter she kept close to home, and both did and did not regret that decision. She did not fear her younger daughter being locked away in the capital, or even killed for the supposed treasons of her family. She did fear the way Talia withdrew into herself since Ethan’s death, the blame she placed upon herself for the entire ordeal. They would stay for Ramsay’s trial, watch as his life was taken from him the same way he took her son’s, and she hoped that would bring them peace – Talia, if no one else.  

Rodrik  ordered the banners to be raised a league away from  Wintertown , situated a small distance off of the  Kingsroad . He rode at the front, flanked by two men carrying their banners, with Elissa and Talia directly behind him. A guard rode on either side of them and two more protected the rear of their small party. Both her horse and her daughter’s carried extra packs, their riders  without   heavy armor and weaponry adorning their persons, and  Rodrik  had given both of them daggers at the beginning of the journey, should they have to make a quick escape and need to cut away the excess weight.  

She knew little of wielding a dagger. Any of her knowledge was entirely secondhand, from watching the guardsmen play with theirs on slow days to hearing her husband and sons discuss technique and blade shape. The small blade gave her a modicum of comfort they reached the towering gates of the castle, Stark white banners snapping in the wind and a small contingent of guards arming the walls.  

Elissa hoped the gates opening to them were more than literal, that they signified the open arms and welcoming her family would receive. She spurred her horse on when the party began moving forward. Talia reached across the distance between them, offering her hand and an excited look, which she took and tried to return. Her daughter had faith in this new Wolf Queen, from the stories they had managed to collect from the smallfolk during the ride to Winterfell.  

All the legends spoke of her beauty. They said her hair was made of flame and her  countenance  of ice; her beauty charmed man and beast alike, for the wolves listened to her as well as the soldiers. Some claimed she was the Maiden reborn, come to show the North the true gods, though Elissa doubted both that and the likelihood of it succeeding, should it be true. There was talk of her generosity and charity, how fairly she treated everyone from the maids to the Fat Merman’s son. Elissa was  heartened  by the stories of Sansa Stark finding out the truth of Ramsay Snow’s bride, who turned out not to be her younger sister Arya but instead her childhood friend and the daughter of Winterfell’s previous steward,  Jeyne  Poole. Enraged by the terrible actions taken against her friend, she added  Jeyne’s  treatment to the list of crimes to be addressed in Ramsay’s trial, and ordered the girl to be trained in her father’s stead the moment she was well enough, to become the first Lady acting as House Stark’s steward. More rumors spoke of her equal treatment of highborn men and women alike, of her respect for the smallfolk and anyone who proved themselves talented or commodious. There were a few mentioning her savagery. Her army was said to be composed of the fringes of the North –  frogeaters , wildlings, and the reclusive Bear Island maidens. As a girl born from the flowers and fruit of the Reach, the North was wild enough when she first arrived. The more she settled in among the furs and trees of  Ironwrath , the more she understood that what some considered savagery, others considered survival, culture, tradition, and entertainment. She doubted that the Wolf Queen changed her skins, but not that she and her  direwolf  had a bond unlike anything most people could comprehend.  

Their horses trotted through the gates, halting and shuffling their hooves in anticipation of their riders’ dismounts. One of the guards helped her from the saddle and led her to her son’s side, where each member of their party was arranging themselves for presentation. Elissa stepped forward to stand at  Rodrik’s  side, and a moment later Talia did the same on his right. She gave her son’s arm a reassuring squeeze and turned to face the Queen.  

It had been years since she had been in the stronghold of the Starks, though not long enough to mistake this young woman as anything but Catelyn Stark’s daughter. As much as Rodrik took after his father, she was a vision of her lady mother. The much talked-about red hair and river blue eyes, known Tully traits, were paired with the Stark matron’s posture and poise. The Queen of the North was as beautiful as the tales told and she was endeared to see her emulate her late mother. Elissa had done the same when she came North, instilling her own mother’s steady self-confidence in herself to endure the harsh attitudes her husband’s men had towards a Southron wife.  

“You stand before Her Grace, Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, the Lady of Winterfell.” The knight who spoke was a woman, though Elissa had not realized it until she spoke. Her son looked at the woman curiously, before leading them all in greeting the Queen.  

He bowed respectfully, attempting to use his cane as little as possible, and she was pleased to see her daughter drop into a curtsy as deep and graceful as her own.  “Your Grace,” Rodrik said, and it was murmured through their party. They were urged to stand and he continued. “It is an honor to meet you, Queen Sansa. I am Rodrik Forrester, and this is my mother, Lady Elissa Forrester, and younger sister, Talia. We have heard nothing but your praises along the road to Winterfell. Everyone in the North is glad to see a Stark in their rightful home.”  

“As I am glad to be in my rightful home,” she said warmly. With a wave of her hand, three stable boys moved forward to tend to their horses. “ Welcome , Lord Forrester. You are the first to arrive and stay behind her walls. Your home,  Ironwrath , is rather close to us, is it not?”  

“It is not a long ride at all, Your Grace. Less than a day with fresh horses, though I admit we were more than eager to arrive quickly.”  

“I trust you had an easy ride, then.”  

Elissa kept her ears on the conversation and her eyes on the smallfolk milling about the courtyard. The stable boys were all quick-fingered and soft-spoken, not a single one of the  Ironwrath  horses shying from them. A few other men collected their belongings as she heard the Queen speaking of their rooms. Every one of them worked quickly and efficiently to get their party out of the cold. She felt hope stirring tentatively in her heart as they were escorted inside and immediately offered bread and salt.  

The queen kept a steely silence about her during the ceremony of guest rights, though it was no mystery as to why. She sat at the High Seat, twin  direwolves  snarling under her hands, a living one at her feet. A small staff served them a hot meal. There were fires blazing in several of the hearths, Stark banners hanging along the walls, and several wolves lounging around in the corners or under tables. She could see faint scorch marks along the edges of the walls covered by tapestries and knew that while the Starks had returned to Winterfell, the castle was not without wounds for them having left. Then again, neither were the Starks.  

She was still inspecting the air of the castle, eyes carefully tracking the servants of the keep and how they responded to the queen, when one of the stable boys hurried into the hall. He bowed deeply before the queen, forehead past his knees for one quick second, before he started tripping over his own tongue to speak. Every single one of the wolves in the room had turned to look at him.  

“The Hou- Ser- Mister- Clegane has sent me,” the boy panted, “there’s been a problem.”  

The great  direwolf  rose from the floor, shaking out its fur and baring its teeth. The queen took the news with tight lips and a cold glint in her eyes. “What is the problem?”  

His eyes dropped her face to the floor. “Snow is causing trouble, Clegane said.”  

The  direwolf  growled, though from her expression, Elissa almost expected the noise to come from the queen herself. She shared a look with Rodrik, who stared at her wide eyed but silent. Glad for his discretion, she reached for her goblet of wine and took a sip. It was best not to appear too interested in Ramsay Snow’s fate, even as she thrilled a bit of the way they stripped his name from him so easily, until she had spoken with the queen privately.  

Clegane, though, that interested her. She had heard many stories of the patchwork army that had taken back Winterfell. There was even a song or two of her time with the warrior women of Bear Island and the  frogeaters  of Greywater Watch, but none had mentioned the Hound. His name was as feared in the Reach as it was the Stormlands, the  Westerlands , and the  Riverlands , now. That was what the rumors of his desertion said, anyhow – the Hound was ravaging the  Riverlands  as they sat in Winterfell’s great hall, slaughtering and pillaging his way up one side of the Trident and down another. She could not imagine how he wound up in service to the Queen in the North.  

River blue eyes studied the stable boy and then her  direwolf  in turn. She came to a decision, staring into the striking yellow eyes of the wolf. “Escort Lady to the kennels. Tell Clegane he is unlock the door and allow her in, should Snow not comply with simply the threat of doing so.”  

Elissa’s eyes widened as she stared down at her half-empty trencher, spoon losing the carrot she had been fishing out when the queen started to speak. She fought the urge to snap her head up and gape at her. Surely, she didn’t mean for the wolf to carry out her orders? There had been talk of the Starks having unholy connections to the  embodiment  of their sigil for as long as there had been Starks, from what she could tell as a  Southroner  uprooted and replanted in the North, but she had always taken those for stories, such as the Children of the Forest or the tales she had heard of the  Arryns  seeing through the eyes of their falcons.  

The boy bowed and turned to go with a hasty, “Yes, Your Grace, thank you.” He did not glance over his shoulder or question the order. The  direwolf  began to slope after him, lips pulled back to show full, glistening teeth, moving silently on paws larger than Elissa’s hands. She had been right then, that the Stark queen had an unusual bond with her direwolf, though it appeared to be even deeper than she had thought.  

“Wait!”  

Elissa dropped her spoon at the same time the pair walking out the door half-turned, every eye in the room going to the pale face of her daughter. Dread shot through her chest, a cold bolt of lightning rushing through every vein in her body, and she grit her teeth to keep herself from scolding Talia. The queen was looking, as well.  

“Please, your Grace, if I could-” Talia bit her lip, seeming as if she wanted to take the words back and sit down, act as though nothing had happened. Good girl, Elissa urged her silently. Don’t anger her.  

“Go on.” The words were not cold, only curious, but they fell from unsmiling lips as Sansa Stark stared her daughter down from the center of the High Table. Her green eyes darting around the room, Talia shrunk under the scrutiny of so many people. Seeing this, the queen stood. Her woman knight took position directly behind her after pushing in the queen’s chair, hand on the hilt of her sword. She looked towards the door leading out the hall and scowled, her big lips making the expression dramatic. “Lord Forrister, I would like to speak with your sister in the hall, for a moment.”  

It was not a request. Kings and queens did not make requests, and Elissa knew this well. She knew this when her uncles and father and cousins were called away to war, when she was summoned from nearly a decade of peaceful Northern living to pledge her loyalty to a new pair of monarchs, when the king called the Starks to the South and only one returned. Fear gripped her. She could not lose her family to another ruler.  

Without shaking, Talia stood. There was a light in her eyes, one that looked like hope rather than the terror Elissa was sure shined in her own. How it must feel to be young and seeking hope, only to turn to a beautiful queen with the power to set things right. How it must feel, to be more certain good things will come than bad.  

“Lady Forrester, please join us. Ser Brienne will keep your son company while we speak.” The expression on the knight’s face said that she very much, did not agree with this directive, but her mouth did not open from its scowl. “She and Lord Forrester can discuss battle scars, and the like.”  

Ser Brienne bowed her head to the queen and ignored the amused tinge to her orders. She sat down at one of the empty chairs closest to Rodrik while Elissa stood and gripped her daughter’s arm. They followed the queen, joined by the  stablehand  and the  direwolf , into the hall. The boy closed the door and scurried off to the kennels on the queen’s command. Alone in the hallways with the queen and her  direwolf , Elissa held tightly to Talia.  

“Now, we’re away from prying eyes, Talia Forrester. What is it you would ask of me?”  

“Ramsay Snow killed my brother, Ethan, when he was acting as Lord of  Ironwrath . He was my twin. We were the same age, and Ramsay Snow said that he would take me as a hostage, when he was displeased with my family. Ethan wouldn’t let him take me, and so he stabbed him in the throat. Right in the middle of the hall, in front of everyone. He gave my youngest brother, Ryon, to the  Whitehills  as a hostage, and they’ve hated the  Forresters  as long as the Reeds have hated the Freys.”  

Sansa closed her eyes, unable to bear the weight of both hearing the words and seeing the truth written on the women’s faces before her. She had known Ramsay was a monster, heard firsthand accounts from her closest friend and countless others, seen the proof in Theon and Jeyne alike. But to kill a boy, standing up for his sister, in front of his family – that was too cruel to bear. Then, to take away another brother, another son, and place him in the hands of an enemy. Lady bristled at her side, long body sliding against Sansa’s skirts as a whine slipped out of her throat. She did not know what to say, but young Talia was not done speaking.  

“I want to see him, locked away wherever you’ve got him. The kennels, the boy said,” Talia spoke with fervor, her brow drawn down in an obstinate expression. “I want to see Ramsay Snow, and I want him to know that I will be here to watch him pay for what he has done. Not just to Ethan, or Ryon, but every life he has touched with his monstrous hands.”  

Lady Forrester pinched her mouth into a tight line, as if she wanted to protest but did not dare. She held her daughter in a white-knuckled hand, eyes sharp, and Sansa wondered if she feared what she would say to the girl, asking the queen for such a thing. She  certainly  would have never approached Cersei this way, and not only because it was the  Lannisters   responsible  for her family’s deaths in the first place. Cersei was no friend to the people. She didn’t have an understanding bone in her body.  

She was different, and had vowed to be long before she reached for her crown. Sansa had felt these same emotions, wanted that same revenge, and more than once. She would grant Talia Forrester this request. Then, she would ensure than once the  Whitehills  arrived, the youngest Forrester son was returned to his family and those who aided in his  abduction  were punished. She would also stop by Rickon’s rooms on her way to retire, however long that may take her tonight, and take a moment to enjoy having a piece of her family back. Rickon was the baby of the Starks, like Ryon of the  Forresters , and Sansa could spend hours recalling memories of teaching him to speak or watching him toddle along around the  godswood  after Arya and Bran. She also memories of long months of wondering how he fared with them gone South, and even longer thinking him dead. It was not a pain she wished on someone else, the same way she would never wish a loss like Robb’s, like Ryon’s, on someone else.  

“He is going to be violent, and vulgar,” she stated bluntly. Talia looked up at her with wide, green eyes, and for a moment, she was reminded of little  Myrcella . “I do not imagine he will back down to the threat of being attacked, and Lady will attack.” The  direwolf  growled as if to  emphasize  her point. Sansa stared down at Talia Forrester seriously, and then looked to her mother. “Is this something you are comfortable with seeing?”  

“Yes.”  

The word was resolute. Elissa Forrester regarded her daughter with eyes that shifted from weary to respectful, and Sansa felt a pang in her heart at the thought of her own mother. She missed her dearly. Running a castle without Lady Catelyn’s help had been something Sansa was capable of from a young age, and she rarely wished for advice on what to do concerning Winterfell. At times such as this one, where someone asked something impossible to refuse but with an uncertain outcome, that she longed to have her mother’s wisdom at her disposal, her graceful hands brushing out Sansa’s hair and taking away her worries at the same time.  

Lady Catelyn was dead, and so was Talia’s brother, and Ramsay Snow would be very soon. That was how the world worked, she was learning. Everyone died. Not everyone was truly given a chance to live, and some people chose to take lives for amusement, some for pleasure, some for revenge. Those who lived did not always have a hand in choosing who lived, the same way they could not always choose who died. Sansa held the sword, this time.  

The doors to the kennels were propped open, a torch above the doorway and several inside to shed some light in the dirty stalls and dirt paved path leading down the aisle. They heard Ramsay long before they saw him. His shouts were directed at Sandor, words like scarred and dog and mush-brained being thrown around the freezing air like snowballs lobbed at a sentinel. The Forrester women did not flinch. Sansa was curious to see them both take on a look like steel in their eyes, watched as they straightened their spines to look like the Ironwood trees stitched into their dresses.  

She swept in behind Lady, the two women flanking almost as Brienne and  Podrick  would. Ramsay knew the sounds of her skirts on the floor and her wolf’s panting breaths, by now, and he grew quiet when he recognized them. It was not submission, she knew. It also was not the clever trick he thought it to be, but she never bothered to inform him of that.  

Sandor stood in front of Snow’s stall with his feet planted  shoulder width  apart and a deep scowl etched into his features. The scarred side of his face responded less to his expression, but she knew he had plenty of practice in making this particular one as fierce as possible. He looked down at her without wavering.  

She opened her mouth to greet him, but Ramsay spoke first. His voice was hoarse, taunting. “My, my, I wasn’t expecting visitors this late in the evening, or I would have made an effort to clean myself up.” He gestured with a three-fingered hand to his tattered clothes and unwashed body. “I like to look nice for all the  noble  ladies of the North, after all.”  

The words fell flat, where Sandor was concerned, well-versed with his twisted sense of humor, but it caused Lady Forrester to let out an angry noise, behind her. His grey eyes flicked over her shoulder to study her companions before he raised a brow at Sansa. Lady paced in the space between their legs. Sansa could feel her impatience growing.  

“Stand aside, please, Clegane,” she spoke, voice pitched for everyone in the kennels to hear. “Lady is going to teach Ramsay Snow a lesson about keeping his voice down. Then, I believe Talia has a few things she would like to say to him regarding her brothers.”  

She could not see Ramsay around Sandor’s massive frame, but she heard him scramble to his feet in interest just before he started attempting to draw attention to himself again. “Talia, little Talia Forrester? I imagine she has quite a few things to say, regarding those brothers of hers,” he laughed. “I’m so glad that we ended up here in Winterfell together after all, sweetling-”  

Sandor had already moved aside and unlocked the gate before he said too much, and Lady knew well her part in the things to follow. With her muzzle she nudged the gate open and slunk through, without even a backwards glance as Sandor slid the lock back in place, eyes glinting in the torchlight.  

She struck without warning. There would be no sizing him up, this time; Sansa could feel her impatience to sink her teeth into the beast of a man before her from the moment the stable boy relayed the news of his disobedience. She could feel the bloodlust, and the fury at holding back, and the disgust of being near a man so vile. If she wanted, she could close her eyes, open them again, and feel the way her teeth sunk into his shoulder. Sansa had thought many times of closing her eyes and allowing herself to taste the blood of someone that had made such a vast amount of people suffer. She did not. She kept her eyes wide open and watched Lady shake her head, her large rows of teeth sunk into the skin and muscle of Ramsay’s shoulder.  

He screamed as loudly as he shouted. She would have a headache, later, but she did not flinch away from the noise and only called Lady away once she could identify the crunching of bone underneath his shrieking. Her jaws held clamped down with more pressure than men could stomp with, and she had not bitten him playfully. Bloodied maw and lolling tongue, she paced around the man in his cell. She may have obeyed her mistress’s wordless order, but every instinct she had called out for the death of this thing  whimpering  on the ground. She could smell his vileness strongly enough that it coated her tongue. He was no good at all.  

Sansa turned to the Forrester women, thoughts clearing slightly as she distanced herself from Lady’s emotions. There was a metallic taste in her mouth when she opened it to speak. “I will leave the two of you alone, so that you may speak your piece, Talia Forrester.” She raised her hand, and Sandor fell behind her the very same way Brienne would, a feeling of contentment settling over her shoulders like a cloak as she made her way to the mouth of the kennels to wait.