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Chapter Text

It is late afternoon, and the castle hums with life as everyone prepares for the feast this evening. Many lords and ladies have come to Winterfell ahead of the arrival of the King and Queen, and with each passing day the Great Hall becomes more crowded. Each lord and lady brings with them a retinue of knights and hedgeknights and healers and so many more women and men each eager to sell their wares, or glimpse a sight of the royal family.

Sansa is walking the halls from where she has attended her afternoon lessons with Septa Mordane, to her chambers to ready herself. Normally, she would walk with her friend Jeyne Poole or a handmaiden, but they have all run off to the courtyards to watch her brothers train with blunted swords. It’s something they’ve all seen a hundred times, yet more and more these days the other girls have found it increasingly captivating.

Jeyne has taken these days to flipping her long brown hair behind her, trying to catch the eye of Robb or Theon, or even her bastard brother Jon – though Sansa can’t quite comprehend why. Jeyne Poole is one of her best friends, but even Jon is so far above Jeyne’s station that no one would ever approve of a match, so it seems to her that such flirtations simply serve to embarrass everyone involved – not that she could ever tell Jeyne such a cruel thing.

She is lost in these thoughts as she walks slowly through the halls – one foot in front of the other, just as the Septa has taught her – when she stumbles slightly on an uneven stone on the floor. A thin, bony hand reaches out of a shadow and steadies her, rights her from falling. As soon as the long, thin fingers make contact with her arm, she can feel the cold of them through the wool of her dress. Sansa looks down to watch those same fingers curl around her wrist, touching the pale skin underneath. She feels a jolt of fear course through her, and it occurs to her that she should have never thought to walk these halls alone, not with the castle so full of strangers.

Before she can wrench herself free of the tight grip that holds her, she looks up to see an old woman looking intently at her. The woman’s face is gaunt, with drooping cheeks and sunken dark yellow eyes, reflecting the dim red and orange rays of late afternoon sun, as though they are on fire themselves. She is so old, her skin is nearly translucent – yet those eyes shine so intently, so brightly that Sansa feels a strange spark of life emanating from this woman.

The woman gazes down at Sansa’s arm, at her wrist still held tightly within her bony fingers. Her brow furrows, as though in concentration. Any other person – if they knew she were the daughter of Eddard Stark – would have let her go by now. Yet, this woman holds Sansa within her grip, and so she stands still, entranced, almost intrigued by such blatant audacity.

“Unhand me,” Sansa manages to croak out, “I am Sansa Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark.”

Those firelit eyes blink back up to her own, bright blue and as wide and endless as the summer sky.

"I know who you are, girl,” she says not unkindly, with a voice that rasps and creaks like a tree’s branches groan in the wind. “There is such sadness that lies before you.”

Sansa swallows hard, biting down the growing fear that sits low in her chest. Were these words a threat? She would give anything for Jeyne to be here right now, so much so that she’d throw out all propriety and let Jeyne sit at the head table with her tonight, if she would just appear.

“I’m sorry?” She manages to stutter out, fighting the urge to dip her head in deference, as the Septa had always taught her to do with elders. Instead, she hardens her voice with a defiant cadence, a Stark strength that she has never been certain has run through her veins. 

The woman smiles a wide grin, and Sansa can see gaps where teeth should be, but appear to have long since decayed. “I am a woods witch – a seer, a diviner of destiny. I came to Winterfell to give readings.”

Her head tilts down to where their skin connects, icy cold of winter licking at the heels of her summer skin. “You, wolfgirl, if you're not careful, you will spend your days making yourself smaller until one day you've become so small that you will slip away."

Sansa tries to tug her hand from the old woman’s grasp, but the woman is deceptively strong, and holds her tight within her grip. She can feel a tingle down her spine, as though ice is melting and dripping down her back. “I’m not a wolfgirl,” she protests, “that’s my sister. And what does that mean, why will I slip away?”

The old woman tilts her head, and for a second the waning light catches her wrinkled, pockmarked face. "You are what I’ve seen, girl, and I’ve seen a wolf. Larger than any wolf should be, wild as the true north; white as snow, as the bark of a weirwood tree.”

“Ghost,” she whispers, and she thinks of the albino runt that Jon had found alone the day they had come home with a direwolf for each Stark.

“Aye, I suppose we all become ghosts someday,” the woman replies, unaware of what has really been said. “But in the meantime all the world is a game, a ladder, a race to the top – and many believe that you are just a rung on that ladder, sweet girl." The old woman twists Sansa's hand within her own, and Sansa can feel muscles and tendons straining under paper-thin skin mottled with veins and arteries that bend and ripple the skin around them.

"This line here," the woman points to a line crossing up her palm to her middle finger, "is your line of fate. And this–" She indicates a line that arcs along her palm separating her thumb from the rest of her hand, "this is your life line."

Sansa looks down at the lines in her palm, wondering how they could mean anything about her life and fate, and yet... The air now seems heavy, and the fine hairs on her arms are standing on edge, as though lightning has hit the ground inches from her. She can smell ash in the air too, like an extinguished campfire, though she can see no smoke.

She wants to run, she doesn't want to know what this woman has to say. Prince Joffrey will be here in a fortnight, and once King Robert approves of the match her life will be decided. After that, all she will have to do is be a good wife and a good mother and give him lots of sons. As far out as Sansa can see, her life is already determined, set in stone. There is no race and no ladder, and if she is to be queen someday, she will surely never be made to feel small.

Sansa straightens her back and arches a brow at the old woman, who smiles back that same gapped-tooth grin. If none of this is real, then I have nothing to be afraid of, she thinks, and steels herself once more. "What do these lines tell you, my lady?" The woman is neither a lady, nor her own, but it doesn't hurt Sansa in any way to give this woman such a courtesy, so she gives it all the same, in hopes that it will aid her later on.

"I am no lady, not like you," the woods witch muses, her fingers running up and down the lines, sending uncomfortable prickles through Sansa’s arm.

"There are many crosses in your fate line," she continues, as her brow furrows, "your life will not be easy. You will face many obstacles."

Sansa feels her mouth dry, and her tongue feels too big for her body, sloppy and impossible to control. She has watched all those around her struggle with their own troubles her entire life. She’s watched her bastard brother Jon crave everything he cannot have, watched him desire love and attention from places he’ll never get it. She’s watched her brother Robb crumple under the weight of knowing that someday he will be the Lord of Winterfell. And Arya too, who fails at all the ladylike things that appear to come so easily to Sansa.

All they ever see are the neat, even stitches and the pretty roses they create. No one ever sees the blood on the back of the fabric from her pinpricked fingers, no one feels the pain in her hunched-over back and strained eyes. No one ever sees what they don’t want to.

The woman seems to sense the pain in Sansa, and her voice softens, her grip loosens. "This right here," she says, "your life line begins with your head line here, so your heart is ruled by your mind. This will serve you well I think. Hmmmm..."

Sansa can feel her patience waning from the woman's cryptic words. She wants to run to the peace and serenity of the sewing room, to the calm sense of right and wrong afforded by Septa Mordane – but instead she remains seated, fixated on the old woman in front of her.

"What does that mean?"

"Could be nothing," the old woman replies. "Could be everything just the same."

"That does me no good," Sansa declares in a huff. These words are so cryptic they may as well be from the Seven-Pointed Star. If the gods truly wanted us to follow the laws and decrees that they have lain down, shouldn’t they be just a little more clear?

The woman gives Sansa a small smile, hiding the few remaining garish teeth behind thin, dry lips. She sighs softly, and her fingers trace the long line that crosses from Sansa’s thumb to her wrist. "Let me be a bit clearer then. I see that your life line is strong and long and without breaks. That means that when the world will try to break you, if you bend and adapt to it, you will survive."

A lump grows steadily in Sansa’s throat. Why will the world try to break her? Why will her life be hard? She has spent her life being good, doing what her Septa says. Each day she prays to the seven, and she never prays for herself. She's even prayed for Jon before, hoping he finds his own sort of peace. What has she done to deserve such a wretched fortune?

"Tell me my lady, why is my fortune so bleak," she asks, willing her stiff tongue and bleary eyes to focus on the woman on front of her, trying to push down the tears that sting the corners of her eyes. She is no longer certain if they are tears of fear or sadness.

"This isn't your fortune, nor is it bleak, Lady Sansa. This is your destiny, whether you believe me or not. You will be a queen, this I see. You will rule your kingdom in time, but it won't be the kingdom you've always dreamed of, and you won't have need for a king."

Sansa’s mind is reeling, yet part of her can only focus on the words that have said she will be a queen, that her dreams will come true. But what is a queen without a king? There have been kings who’ve had no queens, and kings who’ve had two – but never has she heard of a queen without a king.

“What if I want a king?” She blurts out, and her cheeks redden immediately at the implication, at the thought of kings and queens and husbands and wives.

“Aye,” she says, inspecting Sansa’s hand carefully once more. “If you want a king, a king you shall have. But choose wisely, choose carefully, and remember this, girl; princes make poor kings.”

Sansa frowns. How else can a man become king, if not by first being a prince?

“Remember this too, girl,” the woods witch continues. “The North is your home, it is the only place you'll ever be safe again. But to get back, you must play this game all the same. Let them think that you are a doll, or they will burn you down like kindling. Trust no one but those you love, love no one but your family and your kin."

Sansa clenches her jaw now, in a fortnight she is to head to King’s Landing, away from family and friends. "What of Prince Joffrey?"

"Prince Joffrey,” she replies, with a hint of amusement, “will never make you his queen. I must go now, girl. Remember what I’ve told you today."

With that the old woman releases Sansa from her grasp, and turns on her heels, hobbling away with a sort of energy that belies her appearance.

Sansa is left there, looking at her palm, pondering the words of this woman, and whether to believe her. She is struck by the sudden realization of the minuteness of her own family, and how many have been lost in Robert’s rebellion. Her father stands alone, the last of the Starks - save for his children. If she can only trust her family, there are so few she can trust.

Just as she thinks to dismiss the mad warbling of the witch, Ghost and Lady come bounding down the hall towards her, rapid streaks of grey and white. She kneels down and hauls them up in her arms, and they give her face eager licks as they writhe happily in her arms. 

The woman’s voice comes back to her mind, as wisps of wind blowing through leaves in the godswood. I’ve seen a wolf. Larger than any wolf should be, wild as the true north; white as the snow, as the bark of a weirwood tree.

Sansa gulps and looks up to see Jon on the other end of the hallway, looking back at her with those fathomless eyes of his. His face is downturned, though it’s hard to think of a time when he doesn’t look at her like this. All his smiles are saved for Arya and Robb and Theon, and all his dark gazes are saved for her. She never knows what he’s thinking when he looks at her like this, but his eyes linger in a way that makes her skin turn to gooseflesh all the same.

She puts Ghost down, and instead of running back to Jon, he curls up around her feet. Jon looks down at Ghost, then back up to her, and his face pulls into a look of such anguish she feels her cheeks begin to burn. 

“What is it?” She tries to say, but her voice comes out as a whisper.

Jon moves to step forward, then thinks better of it, and remains in place. “Lord Stark sent me to fetch you for dinner. He said it was best you not walk the halls alone until the King and Queen arrive.”

Sansa walks slowly to him, Lady wriggling in her arms, Ghost weaving in and around her legs as she moves and nearly tripping himself in her skirts. Jon grimaces at the sight. “I’m sorry for him,” he manages to rasp out, “he's enamoured by Lady is all. Doesn’t seem to know how small he is, what a bother he can be.”

As she bends down to drop Lady down to play with her brother, she looks up at Jon and gives him a small, knowing smile. She wants to tell him what the woods witch has told her – of Ghost and family and princes who shouldn’t be kings. She is struck too by the desire to wrap her arm round his and let him escort her to the Great Hall.

Instead, she walks a pace in front of him, watching pain strike once more across his face like lightning across the sky, and she feels that pain in her own heart as well – but this is the way of the world into which they’ve been born, from which the die has been cast.

“He won’t be for long,” she whispers, letting her fingertips linger behind her and brush his own in assurance, trying to ignore how his touch reassures her in turn.

Chapter Text

Prince Joffrey introduces himself to Sansa with a flourish and a kiss to the top of her outstretched hand. The way he dips down his golden head, the way one of his legs bends so slightly is elegant and practiced – the movements of a gallant man. Yet, as his lips meet her skin, she has to fight to maintain the complacent smile upon her face, has to remind herself that he is the prince of her stories, come to whisk her away from the tedium of Winterfell.

Except nothing about Winterfell has been tedious these past couple weeks. Sansa has fallen behind on her needlework, she has drifted off during her lessons with Septa Mordane, and she has been distracted at the feasts, tripping over her own feet during a dance with her older brother Robb. Even her younger sister Arya has asked her what’s wrong. But each time she opens her mouth to tell of what she’s heard, it sounds childish and stupid, so she loses the nerve. Words are wind, and magic has long since left Westeros – everyone says so.

No matter how she tries to reassure herself of these things, the woods witch’s voice still calls out in her head; princes make bad kings, and Prince Joffrey will never make you his queen.

So when Joffrey's thin, dry lips touch her skin, instead of the gallant act he has just performed, she sees all the dissonance around her. She sees how Queen Cersei looks at the king the way that her mother looks at Jon – as though she resents his very existence.

For a moment, the queen's gaze turns from her king and the Starks, to the crowd of common folk that have gathered to look onwards, and Sansa could swear she sees a glimmer of fear in Queen Cersei's eyes. She watches the muscles in Cersei’s jaw clench and unclench as she takes a small step back towards her brother Jaime, and the fear disappears as quickly as it had arrived.

It occurs to Sansa in that moment that in King Robert is the answer to the woods witch’s riddle. The usurper they call him – he was no prince before he became king. The king should have been Rhaegar Targaryen, or his son or brother, but they’re all gone now, just like so much of her own family. Does that mean that Rhaegar would have been a bad king? Does it mean that King Robert is good?

Under his reign there have been no more wars, and the kingdoms have prospered, as they so often do during summer. Her septa has told her that Westeros is as united as it has ever been; with a Lannister and a Baratheon and a Stark by their side, how could they not be? And someday she will inherit it all, she will stand beside Joffrey just as Cersei stands beside her king.

She looks to the queen and king, a sharp pain ricocheting through her chest, and she feels trapped in place. A grimace sneaks its way past the façade as the retinue walks past, but she catches it after only a second and pulls her face back taut as a bow. Looking around she is relieved to find that no one has seen her – save for Jon.

He has lingered in the courtyard, hanging in the slim shadows of the castle wall that defy the bright summer sun. Eyes darker than storm clouds follow her, and his long face softens with a curious interest as he watches her. Jon has grown used to the shadows, has found it the easiest way to escape her mother’s wrath. With it has come a quiet calm that surrounds him, and the ability to watch everything around him with a keen awareness that unnerves her. Both him and Ghost are so quiet, she often finds she doesn’t see them until it’s too late, until they’ve seen all the small, devastating things that no one else does.

With a jolt of embarrassment, Sansa realizes she has held Jon’s stare for nearly a minute, and neither of them has moved, as though their gaze has formed a tether. The courtyard is empty now save for them, and she knows her mother will chastise her tonight for this. Somehow, she’ll find a way to chastise Jon as well – she always does.

Jon looks away first and walks out of the shadow towards her. Rays of sun catch his eyes, sending sparks of colour to ignite within them, and she finds she still cannot break away. Does he know how afraid she is, has he seen it or guessed it?

“Shall I escort you back to the castle, Sansa?” He asks, as he takes one more step forward, his boots sinking slightly into the soft mud of the courtyard. She nods, even though she’s sure that if he takes another step forward her heart will explode, and all the things she’s kept inside these weeks will come bursting out.

Jon ticks his head towards the Great Keep. “After you, my lady,” he murmurs, and Sansa takes a deep breath of relief realizing he won’t come any closer, that her secrets will remain safe for now.

As she walks by him with a wide berth, she feels his gaze on her, knows the way he has calculated her movements, memorized the pattern of her breaths. She tries to steady her breathing and ignore his gaze, focusing instead on the steady sound of Jon’s footsteps behind her, as though he is corralling a skittish filly.

“Jon says that he will leave for the Wall with uncle Benjen, when we head to King’s Landing in the morning,” Arya says despondently, as she stabs at the embroidery hoop in her hand. Jeyne lets out a quiet scoff beside them, though Sansa can’t tell if it’s because of what Arya has said, or the way she is making a rose look rather more like a war scene, each stitch another bloody drop hanging in the air. The thought unnerves her.

“It’s the only thing that makes sense really,” Jeyne remarks. “He has no place here in Winterfell, he’s just a bastard. Besides, with Lord Stark gone, Lady Catelyn is sure to send him away anyway. At least this way he’s with family.”

It’s the only thing that brings Sansa comfort, to know that Jon will have their uncle with him, it serves to take some of the sting away. It’s too hard otherwise to think of him alone in the cold, to think that he has decided to take the black. Men of the Night’s Watch take no wives, have no children of their own.

She remembers the way Jon had watched over Bran and Rickon when they were babes, knows the way he looked at them with a yearning she couldn’t understand. The way he hovers outside Bran’s chambers now waiting for him to wake, for mother to leave – is a testament to the ferocity of his love.

Now though, that possible future will be forever extinguished, and it’s so hard to believe it’s what he really wants, what will make him happy. But Jon is as stubborn as their father, so determined to prove himself a man, so desperate to throw his life away for honour, to punish himself for what happened to Bran – who is she to stop him?

“Bastards can marry and have a family just as well as we can,” Arya replies indignantly, her dark eyes fixed on Jeyne, daring her to disagree.

“Bastards only beget more bastards,” Jeyne says, as she turns to Sansa for support, making the fatal mistake of looking away from Arya, who angrily throws the hoop at Jeyne and runs off in a flurry.

Words die in Sansa’s throat, and despite the hurt expression on Jeyne’s face, she cannot say anything at all.

She looks back down at her embroidery, at two direwolf pups playing in tall grass; one dark grey and one white as snow.

“Sansa, come here,” Lord Eddard Stark says gravely. “Tell us what happened.”

She takes small steps forward, one foot in front of the other, looking only at the ground and unable to raise her head. Queen Cersei had fetched her from her father’s tent, dressed her up in the finest silks, and wrapped a silver locket round her neck like a doll. She had even brushed Sansa’s hair til it shone like molten metal, while humming a quiet song under her breath.

Before, the thought of the queen of the seven kingdoms even speaking to her had sent a wild thrill through her body, but now she’s seen the truth and it has shattered her world irrevocably. Underneath each careful movement by the queen is a dark secret, a sharp weapon that she wields. The way she has dressed Sansa up and called her little dove isn’t a kindness, it’s a taunt. The queen is reminding her that she is small and weak and powerless.

The song she had been humming is the Rains of Castermere, and though Sansa knows little of so many things, she knows what that song means. As she had sat straight-backed and unmoving in the thrall of the queen, she had understood very clearly the threat that had been intended – do as I tell you, for my claws could tear you apart.

When she raises her head upon entering the tent to look first at Arya, whose eyes are wide and bulging like a deer, she sees the frantic fear that matches her own. She looks next to her father, who stands tall and proud as a great pine tree, unmoved by all that he observes. What would he do, faced with such threats? Would he face the wrath of the seven kingdoms, all to tell one small truth?

Joffrey’s face has turned an indignant shade of red, this boy who is to be her husband is quick to anger, finds it easy to blame others, lashes out to all those around him – all this Sansa has seen in just one afternoon. For the first time, she really, truly believes what the woods witch has told her, and with a cold dread that feels more like relief she repeats in her mind; Prince Joffrey will never make me his queen.

A quiet cough rings through the quiet of the tent, and Sansa moves her gaze over to the queen, standing beside the king, fingers dug into his shoulder like the talons of a falcon. Cersei raises an eyebrow, looks down at Sansa’s silks, as though she has performed for Sansa the greatest honour in Westeros, as though Sansa is bound to appease her now.

Her mouth is dry like wool, and she can feel her body shaking. Her lips open to speak, but no words come out, for which she is desperately thankful because she doesn’t know what she’d say even if she dared. Her eyes lock with her father’s once more, and they must see the fear within her own – the indecision. “The truth Sansa,” he whispers, “always tell the truth.”

Sansa looks to her sister, to the matted brown hair and clothes so dirty that she can no longer discern what colour they once were. But no matter how different they look – how different they are – they are kin, and if she is to believe what she’s been told, then she must trust her sister, and give that trust back in turn.

“Out with it, girl,” Queen Cersei demands with a predatory shriek, all honey from her tone gone. Her claws sink deeper into the shoulder of King Robert’s tunic, and it seems impossible now that he doesn’t feel it.

“I–“ Sansa begins, but she finds she doesn’t know how to end the sentence. The choice between her family and her safety is more than she can bear.

When she looks up at the king, she sees a softness in his eyes, and an idea comes to her mind. “Please don’t hurt my family,” she begs softly, hanging her head in deference.

King Robert looks down at her with a somewhat bemused expression, as though what she has said is ridiculous. Is it possible he doesn’t understand what is happening in this tent, doesn’t see the danger in his own queen?

“No one will harm you or your family, you have my word,” he says, the booming geniality making way for a softer tone.

As his words course over her, she feels an invisible wire within her back loosen, and the breath she’s held for minutes finally releases. She looks up and meets his eyes and is taken aback by the kindness set within them. Is this a kindness he affords all those lower than his station, or just the daughter of Eddard Stark?

“It’s as Arya says, as I told father days ago,” she murmurs, trying to look only at the king.

“You dare call me a liar!” Prince Joffrey fumes with a screech like his mother’s, a serpentine rage building within him, eyes narrowed to slits.

He will never make me his queen, she thinks once more, trying to assure herself she has not thrown away the keys to the seven kingdoms with a single sentence, and failing as she does. If it wasn’t true before, it likely is now.

“I want them gone now, the whole lot of them! Liars, every single one of them!” Cersei screams, all claws and talons and a tongue like a knife. King Robert’s expression only now changes from the kindly look he has given Sansa to one full of wrath, focused only on his queen.

“You would call Lord Eddard Stark a liar?” He bellows. “You would call the hand of the king, the man who saved my life a liar?”

His hand pulls at the claw upon his shoulder so tightly that Sansa can see the queen wince and twist in pain, as he removes it and pulls her down so that she must look up to him to meet his gaze. “I’ve given my word no harm will come to them, I won’t have you make me the liar, woman.”

“You would take their word over mine, over your own son’s?” She hisses, and Sansa watches the king’s gaze drift not to his son, but to Eddard Stark. When Sansa looks to Joffrey, she sees anger and rage, and a sadness deep as an ocean. For a second, she feels pity for him, for a boy that is invisible to his own father.

“Fine, Robert. Believe them and not your own son. But I want those – those things – those beasts out of here, now! They will not come to King’s Landing, I will not have them there,” Cersei finishes with an indignation and cool voice that weaves through Sansa’s ears like venom along a vein. She grabs Joffrey by the uninjured arm and runs from the tent in fury.

“Women are all the same, aren’t they Ned,” King Robert exclaims in exasperation. “This won’t blow over easy you know.”

Sansa feels her father’s hand on her shoulder, and she looks up to meet his gaze. “You’ve done the right thing today, Sansa,” he mutters sternly.

“But at what cost,” she whispers scornfully, biting back tears and feeling a terrible foreboding that is sinking into her bones.

The calm smile on his face turns to a dark frown, and he looks reproachfully back up to the king.

“Seven hells, Ned,” he huffs after a time. “The wolves have to go, you must know that.”

Sansa runs from the tent as fast as her feet will take her. She runs to where Lady sits demurely, her leash wrapped delicately round a post. Her knees give out and she sinks to the mud, ignoring the way that it licks coolly against her skin through her dress. Her arms wrap round the pup, and Lady nuzzles into her neck softly. Lady is hers, Lady is good and kind and gentle – why doesn’t that seem to matter?

Footsteps pull her from her thoughts and jolt her up to her feet. She wheels around as fast as she can, to find Arya standing there before her, rocks in each of her hands. Her eyes are as crazed as her hair, and she looks like the wildlings Old Nan used to tell them stories of. Sansa looks down at the rocks with confusion and fear.

Arya’s eyes follow Sansa’s gaze, and her eyebrows take on a pained furrow. “It’s what I did to scare Nymeria off,” she confides, her voice breaking as she speaks. “I threw rocks til she ran away into the forest.”

Sansa looks at her sister in horror, before turning back to Lady and kneeling down to hold her in her arms once more. “I can’t hurt her, not Lady.”

“If you don’t, they will.”

The words hang heavy in the cool night air, and neither of them move for a few minutes.

Arya helps Sansa to loosen the collar from Lady’s neck, and together they stand on the edge of the forest, throwing rocks until she scampers away. Long after she is gone, Arya reaches out a hand to hold Sansa’s, and she turns to cry on her younger sister’s shoulder.

Once long ago, her septa taught her that we never hurt the ones we love, but now Sansa is no longer sure of that.

Chapter Text

Sansa has learned all the hiding places that King’s Landing has to offer. She has found hidden corridors and small crevices and nooks in which she can hide away from Prince Joffrey.

He doesn’t dare lay a hand on her with her father here in King’s Landing – not with the esteem that King Robert holds for her father, an esteem she watches Joffrey crave. But Joffrey is his mother’s son, and he has found ways to hone his words til they are sharp as daggers. With eyes that shine maliciously and don’t ever miss a thing, he has quickly learned exactly where to stab to make her hurt the most.

He tells her all the things he will do when King Robert passes, when he is king of the seven kingdoms and all must bow to him. The way his eyes spark as he speaks tells Sansa this is less an idle dream, and more a promise. She wondered at first who filled his head with such dark thoughts, but after only a couple weeks she has learned to watch and observe the world just as Jon used to, and she knows by the way the queen clenches her wine goblet – by the petulant stares and seething remarks – that it is his own mother who taught Joffrey to wish his father dead.

Though bandages no longer cover Joffrey’s injured hand and the skin has long healed, a small scar remains, running along the back of his hand from finger to forearm. It is a jagged, ugly thing – a daily reminder of the treachery of the Starks. Sansa often watches as he rubs it absentmindedly in an almost indulgent way, when he tells her what he will do to her sister and her father when he is king. He seems to derive a certain sickening enjoyment from his own misery, almost as much as the enjoyment he gets from the misery of others.

Most nights when Sansa kneels by her bed and says her prayers to the seven, she prays for the king’s health and that his reign may be long and prosperous. But when one day Joffrey told her that he had sent men to the Riverlands to track down and kill Lady, she was ashamed to pray that night for his death. The next morning, Sansa had asked Septa Mordane what the gods do when we wish for evil things and watched as the bony features of her face tightened even further, as though her skin were liable to tear. Even though she promised herself she’d never wish for such a thing again, Sansa finds those words sitting in the back of her throat each night, just beyond reach, waiting patiently to be uttered once more.

Today she has refused to even leave her bed, much less her chambers, and neither Jeyne nor Septa Mordane have succeeded in convincing her to leave. She rolls over in her bed and looks out the window, watching the ravens fly to and from the rookery, fresh scrolls tied neatly round their spindly legs. The sun has already risen past its apex, and Sansa breathes a sigh of relief that she may go one day without Joffrey’s hateful words.

No one knows, for she has not told a soul the true extent of his torture. She knows what her father would do if she told him the truth, and she can’t bring herself to cause such disorder.

She is roused from her thoughts by a knock at her chamber door, no doubt Septa Mordane come to scold her once more.

“Sansa, unlatch this door this instant.” Instead of the septa's cold voice, it is instead her father’s voice that carries through the heavy oak door as though he’s already in the room - and by his tone alone she knows that she is in trouble. It is with a quiet tinge of fear and that special kind of sinking guilt only felt when one fails their parents, that Sansa finally throws the furs from over her body and shuffles to the door.

She unlatches it and her father streams through, closing the door behind him. He looks tired, as though he has aged five years since their arrival here in King’s Landing. What must it be like to sit in Robert’s throne room, where his brother and father died so horribly all those years ago? 

“Septa Mordane has told me that you refused to open the door, refused everyone - even Jeyne.” His head tilts down to her, and she feels as though she is a little child caught running in the kitchens once more. “I’d expect this of Arya, but not you Sansa. What is the matter?”

She bites at her lower lip and looks down at her bare feet, which look so small next to his. “I was just so tired,” she whispers, her voice crackling in like static at every other word.

“What do you have to be so tired of, Sansa?”

She feels the guilt inside her double, until it’s as though her chest is too tight for her lungs.

“Nothing,” she replies, voice so quiet she’s not even certain her father can hear her, but not daring to look up and search his face for recognition. She knows shame would cover his face – shame that he had raised such a weak and childish daughter. She had flowered last month, and despite her attempts to hide it, word had spread through the castle. She is a lady now, a woman grown, and ladies don’t hide in their chambers like children.

It is only the sound of his sword scraping against the ground that brings her back from her thoughts, alerts her to her father kneeling down to look her level in the eye. “Sansa, what is wrong?”

She can feel her lower lip quiver uncontrollably, and the pain in her chest meets the shock of his words in a wave that overcomes her, causing hot tears to stream down her cheeks. She dips her head down even further in hopes that he won’t see.

“I can’t – I’m sorry, father.”

The tears come fast now, burning her cheeks and blurring her vision. There is no certainty, no assurance in what would come of the words in the back of her throat, but she knows they are treacherous, perhaps even selfish. I’m throwing away the keys to the seven kingdoms, she thinks, throwing away everything I thought I ever wanted, everything I begged for all my life.

“Sansa, tell me what is wrong, and by the old gods and new, I vow it will all be okay,” her father says, tilting her head up to his with hands made rough by years of war. He had fought for this peace, so now how could she put that peace in danger?

“Father,” she breathes, “what if I didn’t want to marry Joffrey? What if I didn’t want to be his queen?”

"I would send for men to come from Winterfell and take you and Arya home. Tell me, is that what you wish?" His expression is strained and stern, and she knows that he would do as he says. It is because of this that she can say nothing, because without her and Arya he'd be alone here, and somehow that seems more terrible than anything Joffrey can say.

“This is my Needle,” Arya exclaims proudly, as she shows Sansa the long, thin blade. Before now, Sansa has only seen it from afar, on that terrible day by the Trident.

Looking closer, it really does look like a sewing needle – sharp and shimmering as it catches the light. The only difference is that it is not meant to pierce fabric, but skin and flesh and bone. Such things aren’t meant for ladies – but then again Arya never wished to be one.

“Father is giving me lessons, but you can’t tell anyone,” Arya hisses under her breath with an ecstatic glee that Sansa so rarely sees in her. She tries to smile and feign happiness for her sister, find some solace in that at least she has found enjoyment here in King’s Landing. It’s been nearly three moons now, and she still can’t bring herself to tell Arya or her father of any of things that Joffrey says. Those wounds sit carefully hidden under silk and brocade and the Southron updos her servants tease her hair into each morning at the behest of the queen.

“Does Septa Mordane know?”

Arya rolls her eyes, and looks from side to side, ensuring that the solar is empty of everyone, even the servants. It seems she too has learned that nothing here is a secret as soon as the words have been voiced. “Father tells her I’m going to dancing lessons, and instead I go to see a master fencer. He’s teaching me how to fight.”

Twin ripples of aversion and envy ebb and crash through her body as she attempts to sit idly, absorbing the happiness this strange rebellion has given Arya. What rebellion would be hers, if she could even choose it? It’s been so long that her mind blanks when she tries to think of something, anything that could be hers, and hers alone.

“Who gave you Needle?” Sansa asks, as she reaches out carefully and Arya relents the thin sword to her grasp. She has never held a weapon before – not even a knife – and the weight of it surprises her, so much so that she must hold it with two hands. How heavy then must a greatsword like Ice be? The idea that so many men are so much stronger than her, that even Arya is stronger than her, makes her feel smaller and weaker than she ever has in her life.

In all the years that she had watched her brothers train in the yards, it had never occurred to her how difficult what they were doing was. Now though, she feels a strange appreciation wick through her body as she recalls the way that Jon and Robb would spin and duck and thrust their swords at each other with a careless ease that feels impossible to her now, as she holds Needle in her hands.

“Jon gave it to me, before we left Winterfell. See, here is Mikken’s mark.” Arya points to a small mark near the handle of the sword, simple lines that connect to create a dancing wolf, carved into the metal beside the blade’s edge.

Sansa's fingers trace the lines of the wolf as she tries to ignore a quiet voice that nips and bites and rips at the edges of her brain.

“Jon didn’t give me anything before we left.” Sansa’s head snaps up quickly like a rabbit in tall grass, eyes fixed on her sister in embarrassment. Those words should never have been uttered aloud.

Arya looks to her with a curious tilt of the head. “You never were that close though, were you?”

Before she knows what has happened, Sansa’s arm has buckled under the weight of the thin sword, and it slips past her fingers on the mark, wetting the blade with her blood.

It is late in the evening, and Sansa knows she shouldn’t be running through the Red Keep alone. But with that knowledge comes a heady feeling of freedom and triumph, and she relishes it, along with a single red rose clutched tight in her stiff, bandaged hand. It had been given to her earlier that day by Ser Loras, during the Hand's Tourney. No other lady had been given one – save for her.

So no matter the angry words that Joffrey had snarled into her ear, she had found a strange giddiness leaping and bubbling from within herself each time she inhaled the sweet scent of the rose. Ser Loras was kind and gallant and handsome; all brilliant white teeth and soft brown curls that framed his face and made her wonder what it would be like to wrap them round her fingers. If she begged him to save her, would he slay her dragon and wrap her up in his arms tight and warm and safe as a babe?

She had sat at dinner dreaming of how he’d hoist her up on his horse, and how together they’d ride off to Highgarden together. Highgarden was in full bloom now, roses far as the eyes could see, and every part of her ached to see such beauty – or any beauty – again. The trouble came though each time she tried to picture how he’d save her. Much as she hated Joffrey, she could not imagine the gallant Ser Loras with Baratheon blood upon his sword, though she couldn’t say if it were for his sake, or hers.

A dark notion took hold in her mind as she thought back further on the day, on how Gregor Clegane had not been stopped by Ser Loras, but by his own brother, who was neither gallant, nor a knight. The image of Ser Loras on his steed come to rescue her began to fade from her mind, replaced by something darker, looming in the shadows of her mind. If princes make poor kings, do knights make poor saviours?

Only after the queen and her brother Jaime had retired did Sansa feel a boldness overtake her. She had looked from side to side at the table, and found that Arya, Jeyne, and her father had stolen away as well. Septa Mordane was slumped over the table in front of her, having drunken her weight in wine. 

It would only take a minute to slip from the hall, and Sansa was dressed in a muted gown that she hoped would broker less attention this late in the evening. Still though, she must move swift and quiet as her sister had taught her, like a deer running through a clearing to the safety of the forest.

When Joffrey was turned away, she stole herself from the hall as quickly as she could and ran down the hallways, her slippers padding softly on the stone, relishing the brief, electric feeling of freedom flooding through her chest.

She slows only when she knows she is safely away, when the murmur of the hall has drained away to quiet that seems to envelop her. The corridors she walks through now have no light save for that given by the wall sconces, whose candlelit dance on the walls to an unknown tune. There are no arrow slits this deep in the castle for her to peer out and check the hour, and there is not a soul to be seen. She follows the corridor carefully, afraid of turning back and running into Joffrey.

Minutes pass and still she continues forward, walking up a narrow set of stairs, pausing only when she begins to hear wisps of voices echoing along the stone walls. She continues after a time, and the closer she becomes the more certain she is that it is a man and a woman, and that they are arguing.

“Patience…” A man’s voice entreats; amongst other words she can’t discern. She walks closer, feeling breath stall in her lungs, the hairs on the back of her neck bristling with the acute knowledge that somehow this is a conversation she shouldn’t hear.

“I’ve been patient, I’ve been patient for years. We need to move now, quickly,” the woman replies, with a familiar sort of venom that Sansa has grown accustomed to. No one’s words bite quite like Cersei’s.

“Why now? What’s changed?” The man sounds casual, unworried, languid as that shabby tomcat that sunbathes in the Red Keep wherever he pleases.

“You don’t understand, you don’t know. I saw something – someone – in the crowd at Winterfell. We aren’t safe, I’m not safe.”

“You are safe as anyone in Westeros, safer than everyone I’d wager. Who else has a Kingsguard at their beck and call?”

“This is serious, Jaime,” she hisses, and realization dawns on Sansa that the queen is speaking to her brother. “I think Ned Stark suspects as well. We need to move even quicker than we planned.”

“He suspects nothing. Northern men aren’t known for their intelligence.”

“How can you know?? Pride will be your downfall Jaime. We must act quickly and carefully –”

“I’m tired of being careful,” he replies, and Sansa hears a curious sound as if fabric is being torn.

“If you. Won’t act. Then. I’ll do it myself,” Cersei manages to pant out stochastically, her voice now muffled and strained, as though each word is a great effort.

Just then, a large, calloused hand covers Sansa’s mouth, swallowing her scream. An arm reaches round her middle, and it is so strong she cannot even struggle against it. “Little bird has flown too far from her cage,” comes a whisper that is more an ugly rasp, like the scrape of swords against each other.

She looks up through tear-filled eyes to see the Hound, Joffrey’s sworn sword. How has he found her? Has he followed her here? She searches his face looking for malice, fear boiling up in her veins like liquid ice. He lifts her and carries her from the corridor, down the stairs, and along another long corridor. She smells the sick scent of stale wine lingering in his armour and on his breath, and she swallows hard. 

“You shouldn’t have been there, little bird,” he growls out finally, putting her back down on the ground. By now, she has resigned herself to whatever fate he has decided for her. He is thrice her size and clad in armour, what hope does she have?

The flames from the sconces catch in between ripples of his scarred flesh and cast small dark shadows that make him look even more hideous than he does in the light. She winces as she looks up to him, taking in everything that he is, and everything he isn’t. They stare at each other for a time, and flames glint past his eyes. She sees sadness there where she was expecting that terrible hunger she has seen in so many men’s eyes - and from that she gains a quiet strength. If he were going to hurt her, he’d have done so by now.

“Why did you take me from there?”

“Little bird was ‘bout to get her wings clipped, hearing things she shouldn’t hear.”

Anger and indignation surge up within her, and the words leave her mouth before she can even think about them. “I’m not a little bird.” She sets her jaw and looks up at him, at his scars and his dark, wine-drunk eyes. She gazes at the hole where his ear should be, and notices the way he tries so hard to cover it with carefully combed over hair, watches the way he tilts his head to keep the burned side out of her view.  

He lets out a laugh that sounds like thunder clapping across the sky, and the burnt corner of his mouth twitches. "Have you no more pretty songs to sing? Did what you see today at the tourney take them all away from you?"

"Pretty songs only serve to hide the truth," she replies with a boldness that seems so foreign to her. "I find I'd rather the truth these days."

"Aye, the truth. You'll find there are as many truths as there are mouths in King's Landing. Now off to your chambers, before we’re both sent to the dungeons, wolf cub."

Sansa lies in her bed that night dreaming of a pack of dogs surrounding a lone direwolf, snapping at her heels and tail and muzzle with razor sharp teeth that sting and rip at her flesh. The next morning when she wakes, her heart still aches with the echo of her unanswered howl, and once more she finds herself too tired to leave bed. She lies there in a sleepy haze trying to make sense of her dream, of the Hound's words, of what she had overheard - but finds that it is all too much.

In a sudden rush of fear, she sits up from under her furs, and her body is assaulted by cold morning air. She doesn't feel it though, doesn't feel anything but dread. With a shock of horror, she looks wildly round the room, but doesn't see what she seeks. She must have dropped the red rose that Ser Loras gave her in one of the corridors she shouldn't have been in last night - for it was not in her hands when she entered her chambers last night, and it is not here now.

Chapter Text

The invitation arrives shortly after Sansa’s servants have finished dressing her, delivered by the shaking hands of a young girl that she has seen several times hiding in the periphery of the queen. It takes a certain kind of practiced malice to teach a girl so young to be so afraid. Sansa makes a mental note to sneak the girl a cake or two when she can. It’s a small gesture, but it’s all that she has to offer.

The parchment is sealed with wax holding the Lannister seal, and once more Sansa is taken aback by how boldly the queen refuses her own husband’s name and house, how she does so in these small and simple rebellions, right under King Robert’s nose.

She has been expecting this letter all morning – knew that it was coming after she could not find the red rose – and yet somehow the expectation has made it even worse, made it feel as though there are a thousand wasps in her stomach buzzing to get free. She breaks the seal and unfurls it, and the buzzing turns to sick dread and nausea as she reads the words elegantly scrawled onto the paper.

One hand goes to the small side table in her chambers to steady herself, while her other hand grabs at the ribbons of her bodice, trying desperately to loosen it. It must have been tied too tight today, as no matter how hard she gulps for air she cannot get enough in her lungs. It’s as though the room is closing in on her, as though she is too big, or the room too small, and there isn’t enough space to breathe. It's dizzying, maddening, as though she is trapped and cannot escape.

“Ella!” She calls out for her chambermaid, hoping that she has not yet left the adjacent solar. Ella walks forward into the chamber with an expression of concern on her young, tired face. It seems that all of Cersei’s servants have this same look, this same wary apprehension; and it’s just another reminder of how tight Cersei’s claws have curled round them all.

“Please, it’s too tight,” she begs, her fingers scraping helplessly against the ribbon and eyelets behind her once more, before Ella understands and gets to work loosening the bodice.

“I’m sorry Lady Sansa,” she whispers, “I didn’t mean to tie it so tight.”

Sansa worries at her bottom lip, finding herself wishing Septa Mordane were here to tell her to stop, to tell her what ladies ought and ought not to do. This is too hard, and too much to suffer through alone; which is probably the very reason why her chambers have been placed so far from all those she knows, even Jeyne.

The ribbon loosens, and she can finally take a deep breath.

She forces herself to think of Lady running free through the forest, and for a second it's as though she is right there with Lady, running alongside her, and they are chasing the scent of a young rabbit together. As minutes pass, her heart slows and her vision clears. Air fills her lungs, the panic subsides, and she remembers what she must now do.

“Tie it back up.”

“M'lady?” Ella asks, her voice hesitant, and Sansa can’t tell whether she is feigning concern or whether it is genuine. Dully, she becomes aware that this scene she has made will be relayed to the queen, like everything she does is.

“I’m alright now, I just – just tie it back up. I need to prepare for lunch with the queen.”

Another servant comes to escort Sansa to the queen, and it is now abundantly clear that Cersei has had a hand in Septa Mordane's strange absence today - the queen wishes to have Sansa alone.

She is brought to a great patio bathed in the bright white of the midday sun, and the brilliance of it all nearly blinds her. The queen sits at a table under a gold and red canopy, with servants on either side filling her wine and water goblets simultaneously. The table is laden with more cakes and fruits than either of them could ever eat in a week. The queen gestures for Sansa to sit beside her, and she sees a tray of lemon cakes directly beside where she is to sit.

Her heart skips for a second, because it has been months since her last lemon cake, and she isn’t sure how the queen knew they were her favourite, or how she procured enough lemons to have them made – except in the middle of the tray is a single, wilted red rose; and all of a sudden it’s as though she is back in her chambers once more and her bodice is too tight and she can’t breathe. A gasp narrowly misses exiting her mouth and tears are welling in her eyes. She looks back to the queen, who pulls the chair out for her to sit on, its legs dragging loudly on the flagstone.

“Sit, little dove.”

Sansa sits in the proffered chair as a servant comes to glide it back to the table with a practiced ease. She tries not to look at the rose nestled carefully in the tray of lemon cakes; tries not to think about what it’s doing there, what it must surely mean.

“Would you like some pomegranate juice, little dove? I fear you’re too young still for wine so early in the day, but I’ve heard this juice is quite refreshing and you do look a little peaked.” Cersei leans over and pours the juice into the goblet nearest to Sansa, and she is so close now that Sansa can smell the wine on her breath – sweet and sour in turn.

She takes the glass and drinks a small sip, finding it to be just as sickly sweet and sour as the queen’s breath, and not at all to her taste. She places it carefully down on the table and clasps her hands neatly in her lap, trying and failing to not finger the thin silk bandage that is still wrapped round her hand from her careless wound by Needle.

“Oh dear, what happened to your hand?” Cersei asks with a calculated sweetness, simultaneously elegant and casual.

Sansa looks up to Cersei’s eyes, which seem to sparkle gold under the canopy, and she knows instantly that Cersei thinks herself to be a cat who's caught a particularly delectable mouse. “I cut it on a stone while climbing stairs,” she replies quickly with the first lie that comes to mind. She tries to avoid eye contact; but between the queen and the rose and the fine silk bandages wrapped neatly round her hand, it's hard to find a safe place to set her gaze. 

“A stone,” the queen echoes, her lips curling up in a malicious smile. “You should be more careful where you’re walking in the Red Keep little dove, you wouldn’t want any scars, would you? They’re such ugly things, aren’t they?”

She pauses to relish in another large gulp of wine, gesturing for Sansa to drink her pomegranate juice. It’s so sweet that it scarcely refreshes her and seems to instead only parch her already constricted throat. She finds she has not been given water like the queen, so she suffices to dryly swallow the stickiness lingering in her throat. “Father always told me that scars tell a story of who we’ve come to be, that they should be worn with pride.”

Cersei lets out a small laugh like the tinkle of bells, and the cascades of blonde hair ripple like molten gold. “For men perhaps, but not for women. A woman must be beautiful and without flaws at all times – a queen even more so.”

Sansa looks to the queen, and it is true that she is beautiful – perhaps one of the most beautiful women in all the seven kingdoms – but right below the surface Sansa can see all the many flaws, eating herself from within. Her mind drifts back to the night before; to the hurried, frenzied fear in Cersei's voice as she argued with her brother. What could Father know about the queen that could make her this afraid?

“You haven’t touched a thing Sansa, poor dear you must be hungry. Why don’t you have a lemon cake?" Cersei gestures to the tray of cakes, and Sansa's stomach flips painfully. "I heard they’re your favourite, so I had the cook bake them special for you.”

She lifts the tray and brings it to Sansa, such that the rose sits almost below her nose and it’s impossible now to pretend that they both don’t see it. She can feel Cersei’s eyes on her, as though Sansa is her prey caught in a trap.

Sansa swallows hard and tries to look away, to look anywhere else. “I’m not hungry,” she demurs, trying to tease honey into her tone.

“Take one.”

Sansa reaches out and tries to take one from the corner furthest from the rose; but as she does, Cersei tilts the tray and the rose falls down onto her plate.

Still, she doesn’t say a word. She just looks from the rose to Sansa and back again, one eyebrow elegantly arched.

It has been a week and Sansa still has not recovered from her lunch with Queen Cersei. No matter what she tried, Sansa could not build up the strength to remove the rose, as though holding it in her hand would be some admission of guilt – which was absurd because they both knew perfectly well where the red rose had come from and what it meant.

Cersei had sat there for nearly an hour drinking goblet after goblet of sweet Arbor Gold, pausing to eat a cake or two in between. By the end, Sansa’s stomach had begun to protest loudly, but she still could not bring herself to remove the rose and fill her plate.

She was only finally excused by the entry of Septa Mordane, who had run onto the patio with news that her father had been injured, and Jory Cassel had been struck down in the streets like a dog. Just before Sansa had run from the queen, Cersei had caught her gaze once more and given her a hard, calculating look, as though she had declared war.

Since then, Sansa has not told a soul of what she had heard in the corridor, or that the queen knows that she had been there. Nothing seems important when she looks at Father and sees the pain that his leg gives him, the pain in his eyes from knowing he has lost so many good men.

It seems unbelievable that amidst all this tumult King Robert has deemed it necessary to go on a hunt; but then again everything about the king seems unnecessary to Sansa. It is as though he is a caricature of a man, blown up like a pig’s bladder by a court jester.

Sansa and Arya stand in the corner of the throne room, relishing in this rare opportunity to watch their father sit atop the iron throne and dispense the king’s justice. He is not truly king, just Robert’s hand, but the way he sits atop the throne is as though he were born to it. The spikes of the sword ends seem to meld into nothingness around him, and he sits atop it straight-backed – strong and true.

Old Nan once told Sansa that after the sack of King’s Landing, their father had found Jaime Lannister sitting atop the throne, and that Father could have taken it from him and claimed it for himself. Instead he had waited for Robert Baratheon, and crowned him king. No one else would do as he did, no one else could.

Perhaps that is why when he sits now on the throne, it’s as though it were made for him, as though this is the duty for which he was always destined. The way their father takes so well to this new position is only another source of frustration for his council, standing idly around him. Queen Cersei roll her eyes, Maester Pycelle narrows his own as though he is counting sums; but Sansa's gaze pauses on Lord Baelish, who is standing there with a bemused expression on his face, watching a burlap sack of rotten fish spill out onto the floor.

It’s as though this all is a game to him, and that notion makes her think of the woods witch’s words. She hasn’t thought of them in days, but now they flow back into her mind like tendrils of water on the edge of a creek bed. Lord Baelish turns away from the scene to look out into the crowd, and in an instant his eyes meet Sansa’s, as though he knows she is watching him. His gaze roots her to the spot, freezing the blood in her veins.

“I don’t trust him,” Arya grits through closed teeth, her fingers tapping at her side where Needle often sits.

“Who?” Sansa asks, her eyes still fixed on Lord Baelish, who now has a calm, implacable smile plastered on his face.

“Littlefinger. He’s trouble.”

“Lord Baelish is the master of coin for all the seven kingdoms,” Sansa hisses under her breath. “You cannot call him Littlefinger.”

“Everyone does. I hear them. I get to hear lots of things when I’m off chasing cats.” Arya’s face breaks out into a devilish grin, as stray strands of her messy hair fall into her face. “I sneak up very quietly, just as Syrio taught me, and I can hear all the things they say.”

Sansa’s mind drifts to that night outside Cersei’s chambers, and the things she heard that she shouldn’t have. Her face reddens, and she decides not to chastise her sister for indiscretions that so closely match her own. “What do people say about Lord Baelish?”

Arya looks hard at Sansa, dark eyes like smoke from an old fire, voice low and level. “They say that Littlefinger is the most dangerous man in the seven kingdoms.”

Sansa looks from her sister to Lord Baelish in incredulity. This man is neither tall nor short, not young nor old, neither rich nor poor. To her, there is nothing interesting, nothing unique about him. He is just a man. And yet the way he looks at her – as though she were her mother – disturbs her more than she can say.

She watches as Ser Loras offers to bring the king’s justice to the Mountain, watches as Queen Cersei fixes her jaw, and Lord Baelish’s eyes twinkle as though someone has told an amusing jest. Once, she had dreamed of Ser Loras saving her from King’s Landing, but now she’s not sure he can even save himself.

"What else do these people say?" 

Arya beams excitedly, as though she has held the choicest gossip for last. "They talk of sorcerers and magic and birds that die."

Sansa feels her throat constrict, and she looks to her sister in fear. Sorcerers and magic... and birds that die? She gulps hard, wondering if her sister believes in magic, and if that bird is her.

"Have you told Father what you've heard?" She asks, her voice so strained she barely recognizes it.

"He thinks I'm lying, says there's more important things to worry about. Then when I tried to tell him that it was important, we got interrupted by a black brother from the Night's Watch."

Sansa tries to master her voice, keeping her voice level and calm. She tries not to let her mind wander to far more dangerous places than it already has. Is her bastard brother Jon safe, is he well? Would a black brother travel all this way just to bring word that Jon fares well? She bites anxiously at her lower lip.

"Oh? What tidings did he bring?" 

"He was here for more recruits for the wall, said he'd take them from the dungeons."

"The dungeons?" Sansa asks before she can stop herself, her heart sinking in her chest. Long ago, they had all believed the Night's Watch was a noble calling, uncle Benjen had always said so. She fondly recalls them all playing Come-into-my-castle together when they were younger. Back then in their games, the black brothers were always welcome and greeted with a feast, as befitted a knight or a lord. How could noble men come from the dungeons of King's Landing?

Arya nods slowly, and Sansa's heart breaks for her bastard brother. It seems that they both had had foolish notions of the way the world ought to be. She finds herself yearning for the quiet simplicity of Winterfell, and how their lives had all been before this all began. She would give anything to watch Lady and Ghost frolic through the corridors once more, to sit by the hot springs in the godswood and sew, watching her brothers and sister play together.

"And Jon? How fares he?" Sansa asks, as casually as she can, trying to hide the sadness and disappointment from her face.

"Well enough as he can, I suppose." Arya seems to have noticed Sansa's sudden melancholy, and she looks from Sansa to their father sitting atop the throne. “Would you like to join me for a dancing lesson the day after tomorrow?” She asks nonchalantly, fingers drumming against her hip once more.

Sansa isn’t sure she wants to; she’s afraid of the strange Bravosi man, afraid of dancing, afraid that her life will never again be as it was before. She's afraid of so many things, she finds it hard to give voice to them all. 

“I –“ she pauses, thinking carefully. She remembers all the things that Arya has learned in these weeks since she has started her lessons, how it felt to hold Needle in her hand, and the rush of strength in holding it such as she had never felt before. It stands in cold contrast to how it had felt to sit beside Cersei – weak and powerless and at her mercy.

“I think I would.”

Chapter Text

“I hear you’re joining Arya for her dancing lessons later today,” Father remarks, as they break their fast together in his solar. He’s taken to having most of his meals in his chambers lately. Sansa suspects it’s because his leg is troubling him more than he says, but the piles of books stacked on his desk make her wonder if there is more that ails him.

“Did Arya tell you that, or Septa Mordane?”

His face breaks into a small smile and he takes a large swig of the thick brown ale he so often has early in the morning. “Your septa told me; but I’m beginning to think she’s catching on to us. I fear she may seek employment elsewhere if we keep on this way.”

Sansa tries to stifle a smile by catching her lower lip in her teeth, but gives up the endeavour when she looks to see her father smiling widely at her. Back in Winterfell, he’d smile and laugh with them often, and there has been so little to smile of lately that she decides to relish this moment.

“Septa Mordane once told me that everyone should learn how to dance, I can’t see how she could possibly object.” Sansa breaks off a piece of bread, grinning as Father stifles a snort of laughter. She used to prefer her bread with preserves, but lately she has had little taste for sweet things, and eats the bread plain instead.

“Aye, I suppose so. I’m just glad you two are getting along.”

We have to, Sansa thinks, we can’t trust anyone else. She doesn’t give voice to her thoughts though. She wants to, but her father looks so tired this morning. He has so many duties and so many responsibilities – and doubly so with King Robert away searching for the White Hart that he has so long desired.

His ravenous coveting for the rare beast strangely reminds her of the dark looks she has come to expect from men when they’re in their cups - as though they’ll liable to swallow her whole. She is old enough now to know that men have certain desires, but they confuse and disturb her all the same. No one ever looked at her like that in Winterfell, and she had never felt unsafe there. Here, it’s as though she is tiptoeing on lake ice, never sure if it can sustain her weight.

She finds herself saying a silent prayer to the gods that the Hart may elude the king.

“Arya isn’t so bad, if you bathe her regularly,” she jests, trying to take her mind from her own upsetting thoughts.

Her father lets out a deep laugh, and his eyes crinkle as he does. The stress is finally gone from his face and he looks ten years younger, as he did back in Winterfell.

She had come here this morning to finally confide in him all of her misgivings. After Queen Cersei's confrontation and Arya's words in the throne room two days ago, it has become too difficult to keep ignoring the voice in her head that tells her that something is wrong. But now seeing him, that voice has begun to war with another that says maybe it would be easier to say nothing at all, to just laugh and reminisce. It asks her what good it would do to tell him the truth of what has been happening behind his back, and she finds she has no answer.

Sansa takes a deep breath and looks into eyes like storm clouds, reminding her of how it felt to sit by the Heart Tree in the godswood with her brothers and sister and look up trying to find shapes in the rolling clouds. She remembers fondly how Arya and Bran would always see great warhorses and their riders atop them, how Robb and Theon would jest of seeing pretty maids in the clouds' shapes. But Jon - Jon only ever looked, and he never told her what he saw. Instead, he would ask her and smile softly as she would show him in the clouds where she saw Jonquil bathing in the maiden's pool, or Aemon and Naerys crying together on the eve of her wedding. 

Back then she had always told herself that she believed in the seven gods just as her mother. Now though, she finds she can no longer deny the way it felt to be in front of that old Weirwood tree, to watch the blood red leaves sway in the wind, and the ancient face carved into the tree follow her every movement.

Father always told her the old gods were quiet, that they only observed the world before them – as her father’s eyes follow her now, watching the downward curve of her lips, the furrow in her brow. 

Maybe it's true then, she thinks, remembering the long-faded words of Old Nan; when we need them, the old gods appear in the eyes of those we love, showing us the path forward.

She watches her father's face tighten, as though he can hear her thoughts. The lightness of seconds before is erased by hard lines, like the ledge of a cliff. It is implacable and yet devastating at the same time; and the quiet, easy calm of before has been replaced with air thick as fog, sticky in her throat as though she has swallowed sap.

"What's wrong, Sansa?" His voice is calm as the ocean, but underneath she hears a building roar, like a wave rising to crest. 

She wants to be strong for him, and even though it's difficult to know if strength lies in hiding the truth, or in telling it, she decides to tell it all the same.

The words come slowly, stilted, by a hoarse voice she only dimly recognizes as her own. When she begins, she can tell that Father doesn’t believe her. He has never believed in anything but the old gods, and they have no use for magic or sorcery. But she continues nonetheless, telling her father of what the woods witch told her, of the things that Joffrey has said to her, of what she overheard Queen Cersei say to her brother. He does not interrupt her, and instead listens carefully as she finishes her story by telling him of the conversation that Arya overhead in the depths of the Red Keep, of how she believes that they’re all in danger, that she is the dead bird of which they spoke.

He looks pained as he stands and pulls her to his chest, holding her tight as though she were a child once more. Before she can stop herself, hot tears burn down her cheeks. She should be embarrassed, should compose herself and behave as a lady would, but instead she digs her face deeper into the stiff leather jerkin, finding comfort in the musty smell of well-worn leather and the way it feels to be held safe once more.

“I will send you and Arya home in the morning,” he says stiffly, his arms still holding her tight to him, and his words only serve to make her sob harder.

"Am I to not marry Joffrey, then?" 

He shakes his head sadly. "No sweetling, you won't be marrying Prince Joffrey." 

Relief rushes through her, and she prepares herself for her next question. It's the hardest one, yet it comes out before she can stop herself. "So you believe me, Father?"

He pauses for a moment, and in that pause she sees all the truth she'd ever need.

"I believe that something is wrong, but let us get you home first. There will be time later to talk of everything else."

She tries to blink back tears and tries to pretend that it doesn't matter. She doesn't need him to believe in all the things that she's seen, so long as he is taking them back home. Yet if he doesn't believe her, does that mean she's been wrong about this all? Has she only made things worse than they were ever supposed to be? Has she been doomed by these visions of her own future?

“I’m sorry father," she murmurs softly.

“Sansa, you have nothing to be sorry for. It is my fault for bringing you and Arya here at all. I should have known – I knew a long time ago that something was not right, and yet I did nothing. And now…” His eyes trail to the books on his desk, and he winces as though pained. “But I promise you, nothing bad will happen to you. I will send Tomard to the harbour now and he will secure you a ship.”

“And what of you?”

“I am hand of the king; my place is here. I fear I have failed both you and Arya, failed my wife, and failed Bran. I will not fail my duty as well.” He holds her hands in his, turning them over, and he catches sight of the scar on her hand from Needle, his face turning only more grave.

“Sweetling, you are too young to know such pain, too young to have scars.”

Sansa tilts her head up proudly to her father, and repeats back to him his own words, the words that the queen so loathed to hear. “Scars tell us the story of how we came to be, and I’m proud of it – it means that I will fight.”

“Aye,” he replies with a grim grin, one she has watched him give Arya so many times before, as though her wild nature gives him a strange sort of sad nostalgia. “Perhaps a different weapon though, maybe one not so unwieldy to you.”

From his belt he produces a simple knife with a handle black as night. There is nothing outwardly special about the blade, yet as he places it in her hands and she lets her fingers curl round the warm, dark material of the handle, she feels something flash through her, watches the morning light glint off an impossibly sharp edge.

“This blade is Valyrian steel,” he says, “that’s why it’s so sharp and yet so light in your hands.”

She turns the blade over in her hands, and it fits as though it were meant for her, neither too light nor too heavy. There is something old about this dagger, older than her, maybe even older than King’s Landing. How does her father not feel it too?

“Where did it come from?” She asks, her fingers dipping into the fine grooves along the hilt of it, memorizing every line, every jagged divot in its uneven surface.

“It was the dagger that was used to try to kill Bran, the dagger wet by your mother’s blood. It is a sign of the treachery of the Lannisters.” He pauses to look down at the blade, his eyes filled with something she cannot put to words. “It is only yours if you wish it; but I feel that so long as you wield this dagger, they cannot hurt you.”

Small tears begin to fall upon the blade, and it slices apart the sunlight that glints off the teardrops into a rainbow of colour that only she can see. “Thank you, father,” she whispers, unwilling or unable to raise her voice, as though she were in a sept, watching someone be anointed with holy oils. She knows her father doesn’t believe in magic, but she feels it in this blade, with its strange heat that warms her hands.

“Don’t thank me,” he says gruffly. “If I’d done better, you wouldn’t need it all. No daughter of mine should ever have need to protect herself.”

She swallows hard, eyes still entranced as light dances off the edge of the blade. “I don’t need to, I want to."

He brings her back into a great bear hug. When he pulls away, his jaw is so tight that the muscles in his face jump from strain. “There is one more thing,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “What I tell you now will only be told to your mother, and only if the worst should happen. You will not put the words to paper, and you will never speak them aloud. Words are wind and carry along in it just as easily.”

He leans down and whispers words into her ear so grave that she feels the weight of them rest upon her shoulders. It is the burden of a vow, of a promise made that must be kept, and she will not carry it lightly.

It is midday by the time Sansa leaves her father’s chambers. She walks carefully along the corridors of the Red Keep to the quiet patio where Arya takes her lessons. Her mind swims fantastically with thoughts of what her father has told her, of what it could all mean.

Why could these words not be uttered aloud, or put to paper?  Lord Reed had been Father’s bannerman during Robert’s rebellion, yet not a soul has heard from him since her father’s return to Winterfell, since Robert was crowned king. Why now then, must her mother seek him out?

She pauses to look through an arrow slit, watching birds fly free in the sky. 

Far off in the distance, she hears the sound of two wolves calling to each other, their howls low and mournful, cutting through the din of King’s Landing. It’s strange to hear the call of a wolf during the day, much less two, and it makes her heart lurch forward into her throat, sending a shiver down her spine.

Her fingers reach through layers of oilcloth to curl round the black hilt of the dagger. It is strange to think that there is power in a blade – especially one she knows not how to use – and yet she finds it there all the same.

Now I have a claw of my own, she thinks, as she imagines Cersei’s own unfurling from her throat, from her heart, from her soul.

Despite all the grim words she has shared with her father, in this minute and for as long as she holds the blade, she feels just a little less afraid, and just a little more sure of her path forward.

“You’re late, girl.” The voice carries across the patio, and Sansa looks over to see the Braavosi man standing with wooden swords in his hands. She feels her cheeks redden with embarrassment; she is unaccustomed to being spoken to in this manner, and it’s jarring.

“I’m sorry,” she stutters, “I was speaking with my Lord Father.”

“At least he calls you girl,” Arya retorts, and the Braavosi throws the wooden sword at Arya. She catches it midair, quick as a flash of lightning.

“But you are a girl,” Sansa replies, even though you don’t look it right now.

It’s true though, Arya is dressed in a tunic belted loosely round her waist, and breeches that would better suit the son of a cook or servant. Her hair is tied back tight, and only a few strands of hair hang forward. The only way that Sansa recognizes her sister is by Needle, which hangs safely at her waist.

The Braavosi now throws a wooden sword at Sansa, and she raises her hand out, only for it to fall to the floor several feet from her. He cocks an eyebrow up and gives her a stern appraising look. The look is all the more severe on his long, narrow face, with no hair to soften his expression.

“Girl, boy, it makes no matter if you can’t catch a sword. And how do you expect to train in a dress, girl? You’ll trip all over your skirts.”

The man’s words cut into her like ice, and she can feel a sort of indignation bristle up within her. “Ladies must wear dresses, and I am a lady.” She fixes her eyes on him, matching his expression. “I would train as I would fight, or I think there isn’t much point; wouldn’t you agree?”

His face breaks into a small smile, and he bends down to pick up the sword from the floor. “Quite right, quite right. Do you know who I am, girl?”

“Arya has told me that you’re Syrio Forel, and that you are one of the greatest swordsmen of our time.” He hands the wooden sword to Sansa, and she finds she cannot even hold it steady with two hands, much less one. She drops the oilcloth to the floor and tries to focus on the wooden blade. Her arms buckle under the weight of it.

“You look unsure of that, girl,” he replies, amusement still dancing on the tip of his tongue and in the corners of his mouth.

“It’s just –“ she says, as she tries to readjust her grip and hold the sword level, “if you’re the greatest swordsman of our time, what are you doing here, teaching two girls how to fight?”

This time he does laugh, a great belly laugh that surprises even Arya. “That is a question for another day, girl. Today, you will learn how to hold a sword.”

Sansa falters, and looks down at the wooden sword. She sets her jaw and thinks of all that Father has told her today. She thinks of winter coming, and how they must stay together and prepare. She thinks of Prince Joffrey and his leering glances and serpentine words. She finds strength in her anger; in a way her septa always told her ladies never should.

“I don’t want to learn how to hold a sword.”

“Then why are you here?” He asks, his eyes narrowing in interest.

She drops the gods awful wooden sword to the ground, and fumbles around in the oilcloth on the ground for a minute. When she leans back up, she is brandishing the dagger. It catches the midday sun, the blade shining and shimmering like liquid gold in her hand.

“I want to learn how to use this.”

Chapter Text

“Hand me that dagger, girl,” Syrio drawls with an air of interest. His eyes track from the handle to the tip, and she finds them just a little too curious, making her reluctant to give it to him. Instead, she looks back to Arya who now has a quirk of a smile on her face, her head tilted to the side.

“Sansa, where did you get a dagger?”

“Father gave it to me,” she replies, watching the smile fade from her sister’s face and turn into one of concern.

“Father gave you a dagger?”

“I – he saw the scar from Needle. He said I would find the dagger easier.” Everything else is left unsaid between them, but Sansa can see by the dark expression on Arya’s face that she understands – for Father to give her a weapon, any weapon at all – it means they are in far more danger than he has told them.

Syrio walks closer to her until he is only an arm’s length away, his hand gently reaching out for the blade. He gives her a soft reassuring smile, and eventually she loosens her grip on it and relinquishes it to him.

His fingers curl round the handle of the dagger as her own withdraw, and it’s as though she has lost a part of herself in letting it go. There is a strange strength in holding the blade, not as though she were immortal or untouchable – she isn’t so naïve to believe such a thing – but something more nuanced, as though her father’s words are true, that perhaps as long as she holds it she will be safe from the Queen and her son. It’s a small comfort that she has grown to cherish in the few hours that it’s been hers, and she finds her hand missing the blade’s weight as a wolf would miss its’ claws.

Syrio twirls the dagger in his fingers, testing it with quick slashes in the air. He bends and moves like water, as though the blade is an extension of his arm. The edge is so sharp that it seems to sing as it cuts through the air - wind whistling through the leaves of a weirwood tree.

“Why did you even tell Father you were coming to these lessons?” Arya asks, spinning her wooden sword with a careless ease that makes Sansa feel weak; for she can barely even hold her own up. “Why must you always tell everyone everything.”

“I don’t tell everyone everything.” Her voice is as severe as the edge of her blade is sharp, but beneath it she wishes she could make her sister see that she's only doing what she believes is right. “I keep more secrets than you’ll ever know about.”

Arya pauses to look at her sister, thick eyebrows furrowed together in concern, but she doesn't say another word.

In that moment Syrio finishes with the dagger and stops in front of Sansa. His fingers dance along the blade, the handle held out to her to grasp once more.

“This blade is Valyrian steel, and as finely crafted as any I’ve seen,” he remarks as she takes hold of it once more. “Where did your father obtain it?”

“From Lord Baelish,” Sansa replies hesitantly, watching the concern in her sister’s face only increase. Once long ago, Arya would give voice to all her worries without thinking, and at least then Sansa would know what it was her sister thought of her, even if she didn't understand it. She wonders how it is possible that the same blood flows through them, yet the worlds that they exist in seem so far disconnected. She had hoped for so many things today, and tries to tell herself that understanding Arya was not one of them, and that hoping for Arya to understand her certainly was not either.

Arya just stands there watching, concern drawing her face out so tight it’s as though she’s looking at Father himself.

“I’d be very curious to know how it came into his possession. Blades are not like coins; they do not pass hands so easily – especially an exceptional one such as this. Do you see this handle, girl?”

Sansa nods as her hand comes to rest round the dark handle and all it’s familiar imperfections. In the short hours that it has been in her possession she has memorized each and every curve; she could stitch its likeness in her sleep.

“This is called the hilt, and it’s made of dragonbone. Strong as steel, yet light as a feather.” He pauses to release the blade back into her control, and she feels the strength return to her body, flame filling her lungs. “This blade doesn’t come from Westeros, though I can’t say for certain how long it’s been here. I’ve seen ones like it before in Braavos, stolen from the Doom – but even there they are rare and coveted. This Lord Baelish must know men in high places to give such a blade away so freely.”

He tilts his head to the side, eyes passing from the blade to her face. “Perhaps you may find him asking for it back one day.”

Sansa feels a rush of fear run through her, remembering the way Lord Baelish’s eyes had paused on her in the throne room. She looks back to her sister and remembers her words, remembers what was said about him in the murky depths of the Red Keep. There is something cold and calculated about his small smile, about his movements and actions. It’s as though he – the real him – is lying just under his surface; a beast waiting under still water, hidden by its reflection.

“He doesn’t even know that I have the dagger,” Sansa retorts quickly.

“Just so. Best for it to stay that way, I think," Syrio says slowly, in a distracted manner. “Now, first I will show you how to hide the dagger under your skirts and how to brandish it quickly. Then you will learn lessons from Arya. Only after, only in time will you learn the water dance. All things take time, and the more important they are, the longer they take.”

They break after only an hour, but it is enough time that Sansa has drenched her dress with sweat. Her hair has fallen out of it’s braids and sits plastered to her face and neck like thin tendrils of fire licking against her skin.

This water dancing, as they call it, is more work than any dancing lessons she has ever had. She isn’t used to sweating, isn’t used the stinging ache in every single muscle of her body. She feels dizzy and frustrated and weak – and somehow amidst all these things, she feels a tiny thrill in the pit of her stomach, as though she is doing something she shouldn’t do.

Ladies don’t learn to fight or wield steel, ladies don’t sweat or swear or stand on one leg, ladies don’t have bruises on their knees and dirt on their face, do they?

She glances back to Arya, who is standing sidelong to her. She has told Sansa that this is the best way to stand, that it makes you a smaller target. Her wooden sword stands out in front of her, and it is still - not a quiver of weakness showing through. Sansa dips her head down and bites at her lip to hide a smile; but when she looks up Arya is beaming back at her.

“I didn’t think you’d like this, I thought you’d hate it more than horseback riding.”

“I do, and yet I don’t,” Sansa replies as Syrio takes the wooden sword back from her, and gestures for her to sit at a small table. Arya comes to sit by her, catching a blood orange that Syrio throws at her.

She passes Sansa the orange, and Sansa proceeds to pull the dagger out from under her skirts to cut it. The sticky, red juice wets the blade and stains her fingers as she cuts slices for them. She passes a slice to Arya who takes it with relish and bites the flesh from the rind. Sansa takes her own slice and eats it greedily, a drop of juice dripping down her chin. She has never felt a hunger like she does now, has never felt as tired or as invigorated as she does now.

Today, she has learned how to hide her dagger against her leg, secured by her stockings. She has learned how to hold it with one hand; and that it is strong enough to pinch between fine links of chainmail and pierce right through it. She has learned how to hold a sword and stand on one leg, and that the body and the mind are weapons one can hone.

It makes her think back on how Septa Mordane once told her that a lady has no need for weapons, and she wonders now what the septa had truly meant. Had she meant that as a lady, Sansa was supposed to give up her body and her mind too? 

“I’m sorry for what I said earlier,” Arya says, pulling Sansa from her thoughts. “About you not keeping secrets. I only meant that back when we were in Winterfell, you used to tattle on me to Mother and Father and Septa Mordane.”

“I only ever did what I was told was the right thing, what I thought I was supposed to. I’m not like you…" Sansa sighs, and looks at small calluses that have formed on her hands from the sword hilt. "I wasn’t made to fight or break rules or wield swords. I was made to be the doll on a prince’s arm. I was made to be married and have babies and be a man’s queen.” 

“I don’t think any of us are made to be anything,” Arya says quietly, handing Sansa her last piece of fruit. “I think we make ourselves what we want to be.”

Sansa accepts the piece and eats it slowly. Her mind drifts back to what the woods witch told her about her destiny and what she was meant to be, and she finds herself wondering which version of herself is true, and what she would choose if she were given the chance.

When she finishes her piece of orange, she tries to wipe the stickiness from her hands onto her skirts, smiling as Arya does the same with her breeches. Syrio comes to sit at their table, another blood orange in his hands. He peels this one slowly and carefully, handing sections of it to each of them.

“See girl,” he says, showing her the palms of his own hands. “There is no mess on my hands, unlike you. Let this be a lesson too; only use your blade when it is necessary. You’ll find blood much harder to wipe away than juice.”

Red juice stains her fingers and the edge of the blade, and she wipes only harder to remove the stains. She knows she is learning to protect herself, and yet the idea of hurting another person makes her feel ill all the same.

Sansa sits in a large chair carved from oak, identical to the one next to it in which her sister has been deposited. Beside them sit their trunks, filled to bursting and ready to be sent to the ship. In a few short hours they will be back on their way to Winterfell, and she knows that as soon as she gets home, she will go to the Godswood and kneel before the Heart Tree. She can only hope the old gods will still listen to her – she wonders if anyone will.

She and Arya share a wary sideways glance with each other as they hear their father and his men speaking in hushed tones. They hear only bits and pieces, but it's enough to figure out that King Robert is dead; long live King Joffrey.

Arya doesn’t know everything that Joffrey has said, everything he’s done – but somehow Sansa is certain that she knows enough to know that they need to leave. They’ve all heard the stories of dead cats strung up like pigeons, of rabbits shot and left to die alone in the corridors of the Red Keep.

They sit silently as Father finishes writing a letter on parchment and affixes his seal to it; a wax direwolf howling at a long-gone moon. He stands, leaning against his desk in pain – his leg is only getting worse, and never better as the days go by. It’s as though he is a deer with its leg caught in a trap, and not the wolf he should be.

It is only when he has passed the parchment to Tomard that Sansa looks back at her sister and nods, Arya nodding back in their new, unspoken language.

“Come with us, Father,” Arya says, and Sansa watches a hundred kinds of pain pull across his face like the tide against wind-worn rocks.

“Robert commanded me to be Protector of the Realm until the heir comes of age; I cannot leave.”

The heir, Sansa thinks, not Prince Joffrey, not King Joffrey.

“Who is that parchment for?” The words escape her mouth before she can stop them, yet she needs to know, somehow it seems more important than anything else.

“I didn’t realize that I answer to my daughters now,” he replies, with the quirk of a smile breaking through the pain that mars his face. “This parchment is to be given to Lord Stannis Baratheon, on Dragonstone.”

In that minute, little pieces from the periphery of her mind come together like a puzzle, and she begins to see everything that she has missed. Books stacked high on his desk, the broken, clipped conversation between Queen Cersei and her brother, how easily Father agreed to send them home, how Lords Stannis and Renly are now both gone from the city’s capital. They should be here, celebrating the coronation of their nephew – a nephew with blonde hair and bright green eyes...

A cryptic smile flashes before her mind's eye; and the riddle that has plagued her these long months unfurls before her like parchment in a fire. He’s no prince, she thinks, and he’s no king. 

Before Sansa can voice her suspicions, they are interrupted by a loud knock at the door. Tomard moves to open it, and she can see the faces of Lord Baelish and Lord Varys, accompanied by two of the Kingsguard and a city guard. Sansa recognizes the slaggy jowls of Ser Janos Slynt and droopy eyes of Ser Meryn Trant, and a knot in her stomach ties tight. 

“Your presence is requested in the throne room,” drawls Lord Baelish, and Sansa feels his eyes on her even though she refuses to look at him. She imagines the dragonbone hilt of her dagger burning against her thigh, and pictures sticky sweet juice dripping from the tip of the blade.

“Don’t go!” She cries out, and Arya grabs his arm, echoing her cry.

“I need to deliver the last words of King Robert to the council.” His words are terse and final, and the knot in her stomach only tightens further. "My girls will stay behind with Tomard in my chambers.”

Father hobbles forward, Lords Baelish and Varys leading the way and Ser Meryn Trant at his heels, jeering at the way he struggles to walk.

Arya looks at Sansa as they stand there, her hands dancing at her side where Needle often is. It isn’t there now. It must be tucked away in her trunk, but when she looks up to the cruel, frog-like face of Ser Janos, Sansa finds herself wishing it were in Arya’s hands.

Minutes pass by like sap dripping from a pine tree, and the air is thick with something Sansa has only ever felt once before; when Robb and Theon sparred with live steel, and in Theon she saw a glimmer of some immeasurable anger, a cavernous hunger deadset on consuming them both.

The guard stands on one side of the closed door, and Ser Janos stands on the other. Tomard stands in front of Sansa and Arya with his hand on the hilt of his sword. Long ago she could have pretended nothing was wrong, but now she knows by the way his fingers are curled round the hilt, by the square of his shoulders, by the sweat on his brow – something terrible is about to happen.

It is the cityguard that moves first, a clumsy strike by a cheap sword to Tomard’s shoulder. It brushes off his armour with only a grunt of pain and nothing more. But Tomard is not young, and even when he was, Sansa does not imagine he ever moved as fast as Syrio Forel. He wheels around like an oryx, his own sword pulled from its scabbard and connecting with the breastplate of the city guard. It dents the metal, but like the hit against his own self, glints off to the side.

Strikes like streaks of silver and the clashing, scratching sounds of metal echo in the air til she hears the guard scream out in pain, clutching at his bleeding face. He falls to the ground and Tomard looks to Sansa and smiles, proud that he has done his duty and protected them. Sansa smiles back, and for an instant she thinks he looks more a knight than any she has ever seen – before the sword connects with his head and his body crumples in front of her.

She has seen blood well from a needle prick to her finger, has seen her moonblood on crisp white linens. She has learned how to clean a goose and gut a fish; but never has she seen the blood of a man pool on the floor, until today.

“He’s dead,” she whispers, fingers scraping behind her to try to grab Arya’s arm. Her body is numb, and her limbs feel thick and slow. Something wet drips down onto her dress in front of her, and for a minute she fears it's blood, before she realizes that she is crying.

“Stop moving and sit down, the both of you.” Janos' voice is cruel, but the worst part is that he sounds bored by it all, as though the death of a man is nothing to him. Blood drips from his sword, and he doesn’t bother to clean it off before resheathing it.

Arya taps at her side so slightly that no one notices but them, and Sansa closes her eyes deliberately in acknowledgement. They sit down in the large oak chairs and she moves to flatten out her skirts, pulling the dagger from where it is hidden and hiding it up her sleeve. She has no plan, and her eyes are fixed on Tomard lying face down on the floor. Her mind goes back to yesterday, when Syrio told her to only use the dagger when necessary. Is that now? Why isn't she sure?

“Why did you kill Tomard?”

Ser Janos only grunts, and deposits himself in Father’s chair, hefting his muddy feet up on the desk.

“What’s happening? Where is Father?” She persists, daring to look up into eyes like damp seaweed.

“I answer only to King Joffrey.”

“In the name of our father, Lord Eddard Stark, Protector of the Realm, tell us what is happening,” Sansa persists, forcing fire into her lungs.

Ser Janos only laughs. “Ned Stark can’t even protect himself. The king is Joffrey now, and your father is in for a very hard lesson.”

Arya cries out in anger and launches herself at Ser Janos, but he only swats her away like a gnat, sending her flying back against the trunks. Anger fills her at watching her younger sister hurt by this terrible man that dares to call himself a knight, and Sansa brandishes the dagger from her sleeve, waving it in front of her as a warning. 

She doesn't know truly why she has done this, if it is to protect Arya or herself, or maybe both of them, or maybe still because of the way he cut down Tomard while his back was to him.

With the sound of a heavy lid thudding shut, Arya now comes to stand beside her, Needle in hand, and they are both backing away towards the door. She had always thought that in the stories when these things happened that everyone had a plan, that they knew their next moves. All she can think of is how it must feel to be a raven taking flight, leaving it all behind.

“You will let us leave now,” Arya says, finally cutting through the din in her head.

“I won’t.”

The man lunges forward to grab Sansa by the wrist, just as Arya thrusts Needle forward to ward him away. Instead though, it connects with and pierces through the mail of his hand. He screams out and holds it in pain, blood seeping from between his fingers. Sansa feels frozen in place watching the blood drip to the ground.

Arya grabs her hand, squeezing it tight and hissing in her ear, “run.”

Sansa turns to run after her sister, but slips in the blood on the floor, falling off balance and nearly to the floor. One hand remains within Arya's, while the other goes to the ground to balance herself, the dagger falling with a clatter. She scrambles to grab it, and when Arya pulls her back off the ground, her hand and the dagger are sticky with blood. 

They begin to run to the only place they can think; down corridors and stairwells, each more unkempt than the last. They peek through doors hidden behind tapestries, and down spirals of rock and metal, until all Sansa can see is Arya in front of her, and the blood on her own hands.

She can hear her sister whispering – 

“Fear cuts deeper than swords,

Swift as a deer, quiet as a shadow…”

- it’s calm and soothing, like a prayer. Sansa learned all her prayers once, could recite them off by heart. In this moment she finds she cannot even name the faces of the Seven.

They only pause when they reach a cavernous dark room that seems to echo back the sounds of their shallow breaths. They have nearly no light, and the little that leaks through cracks and crannies in the old mortar and stone is only enough to see the next footfall in front of them.

Yet out of the corner of her eye, Sansa sees a flash of something tall and massive, and wonders if it is a doorway. She pulls at Arya’s arm, and they stop in front of it, squinting through the inky blackness in front of them.

“Balerion,” Arya whispers in awe, “the black dread.”

Sansa looks up to see teeth as large as greatswords above her head and finds that they have nearly walked into the jaws of its skull. The skull is large enough to fit a wheelhouse inside it, or at least half a dozen horses. It is black as the room around them, yet somehow Sansa knows just where to reach to feel the smooth dragonbone surface. As soon as her fingers connect, she feels her body thrum with that familiar warmth, as though the skull itself is still warm with life. She looks down at the dagger in her hand and it feels hot now, blood soaking the hilt and blade. Power fills her limbs and she feels like she could cut down an entire army with this single blade. 

“We need to go, now,” Arya hisses once more, pulling at Sansa’s sleeve.

Her hand leaves the skull, and just like that the heat leaves her body and she is only a girl once more, lonely and cold and afraid. She shakes her head from her thoughts and runs from the room as fast as she can. 

They stop only when they need to, after their lungs are ripped wide and raw, and they are so far down in the depths of the Red Keep that neither of them know how long they've been gone.

Sansa collapses to cold, wet ground trying to regain her breath, and finds herself holding Arya against her, feeling tears wet her shoulder; but in truth she is a thousand miles away, back in Winterfell. She is holding Bran and Rickon and sitting by a large hearth telling her mother to go the Neck, to seek out the truth her father could not voice.

She tries to wipe away the blood from the dagger with her skirts. It’s no use though; the blood has seeped into the dragonbone and dried to the steel.

Chapter Text

The endless corridors of the castle dungeons decay slowly into dirt and timber passageways so narrow Sansa and Arya can not walk abreast. Still, they continue forward, searching for light or the smell of stale saltwater in the air, or any indication at all that they are close to being free. Just when Sansa is sure she can not take it anymore, she feels a cool breeze against her cheek, and they both begin to run full tilt in its direction.  

They exit the cavernous dark of the passageways to the sight of Blackwater Bay in front of them and a rock crevice surrounding them, pale moonlight sparkling off the dark water. Their escape from the castle had taken so long that the day had turned into night, but Sansa is so tired that she cannot say for certain if it has been one day or two since they fled the Red Keep.

Even though she knows they should continue and get as far from the castle as they can, her body is so weary she can scarcely move, so she begs Arya to let them rest within the safety of the rocks. But Sansa finds that the idea of rest had been naïve, and once she lays down on the cool, densely packed earth she cannot sleep. Every time she closes her eyes all she can see is Tomard’s smile, and how his eyes had turned wide with shock as the sword came down upon him. It’s enough to make her stomach turn and her heart ache, and guilt sets in deep in her chest.

Tomard would still be alive if not for them, if not for all the mistakes she’s made, and the mess she has made of everything. She says a silent prayer for him that the old gods may grant him happiness and love and whatever it was he wished for.

After she finishes her prayer, she begins to quietly sing a song that Old Nan taught her as a child. It’s a slow, melancholy one that Old Nan had told her had been sung by a wildling bard a thousand years ago, back when the Starks were the Kings of Winter. Old Nan would always tell them stories like that; of wildlings that crept over the walls to snatch up girls and take them to the Lands of Always Winter. She supposes it was a way to make sure they never wandered far, and it had worked. Until this moment now, Sansa had never gone anywhere without permission. 

She hears the rustle of Arya turning over to face her, though they can barely see anything in the blackness. “I always wished I could sing like you,” she murmurs sleepily.

“I always wished I could be free like you,” she whispers back. She wonders if Arya knows how it feels to be told what you will be when you grow up, like a bird trapped in a cage, fluttering against the bars.

“We are now.”

Arya’s words hang heavy in the air, and neither of them speak for a time. Was it true? She pictures her life spreading before her as a small bird with wings unfurled for the first time. Would it fly or fall? Something inside her wants to hold it close and protect it, keep it safe from the world and all those that could harm it, and suddenly she can't decide if freedom thrills or terrifies her.

Slowly, with a mind heavy in thought, Sansa resumes her singing, until she believes Arya to be asleep. She pulls the dagger from her thigh and holds it in her hand. Even in the darkness, it catches scant rays of moonlight, shimmering along the blade.

Arya shifts again, and Sansa catches the hint of moonlight shining from the dagger along her face, eyes open and fixed on it. “Jon told me every good blade deserves a name.”

“Is that why you named yours Needle?”

“Me and Jon both named it Needle – it was the right name," Arya replies simply. "What will you name this one?”

Sansa pauses. She had never considered a name for the dagger. There was power in a name – Mother had always said that – and a name should not be given lightly.

In the distance, she hears the sound of wolves calling to the moon – low and mournful as her own song had been. She tells herself that it is a good omen, that the wolves are calling them home; and in that thought she finds a name.

“Wolfsong,” she whispers. “It’s name is Wolfsong."

Sansa falls asleep with tears in her eyes for everything that they have lost today, hoping to dream of how it will feel to be safe within the walls of Winterfell once more. Instead, she dreams of birds flying through the sky and being shot down by archer's arrows. She tries to run and tell the archers to stop, but they don't listen, and when she gets closer she sees a hundred dead crows spread along the meadow grass before her, painting the pale golden-green field black and red.

By the time she awakes the next morning, the sun has risen far up enough that it glints so sharply off the bay it nearly blinds her. Bells are ringing loudly throughout the city, proclaiming the death of King Robert.

She turns to see her sister curled up tight like Lady used to, and she looks even younger than her nearly 15 years. A pang of sympathy runs through her, that is quickly snuffed out when Arya’s eyes snap open like a cat’s, and she fixes eyes dark as onyx on Sansa.

“Why didn’t you wake me? We need to go; they’ll be looking for us.”

“You hate when I wake you up,” Sansa replies, moving to stand and stretch. In truth, she feels as though she has not slept more than an hour the whole night and she still feels exhausted.

“This is different, you know we need to go.” Arya flits her eyes up and down, appraising Sansa. “And you need to take off your gown.”

Sansa catches a choice insult in the back of her throat and swallows it down. They don’t need another fight; they need to work together. But it's only made worse when Arya insists that she must continue on in only her shift, lest anyone notice the rich silk and brocade of her gown. Even though she knows her sister is right, it sets her to a proud sort of anger – that she should have to strip down and not Arya, who's already looks a crofter’s son.

The idea of running about King’s Landing in only her shift makes her think of what Septa Mordane would say, and that only serves to bring everything back all at once, and she feels a shudder of sorrow rock through her. Arya holds her and tells her that Father is alright, and so are Jeyne and Septa Mordane. She knows it isn't true, but it is a kindness that helps her stand and keep moving.

At first their new world is chaotic and busy, and it's hard to make sense of how they've ended up here at all. Arya spends her days spying on the gate guards waiting for a time when they can slip out, and catching pigeons to buy them bowls of brown. On the first night Sansa gags on it and refuses to eat, but by the third she's so hungry she no longer cares, and eats it greedily, telling herself it’s pigeon pie.

As the days pass, she finds ways to fill her time, and it stretches and contracts round this strange new pattern they've created. When Arya is out, Sansa will sneak into burned out buildings and practice with Wolfsong and play all the games that Syrio once taught Arya. She still finds it silly to chase cats and stand on one leg, but she does it all with Tomard's smile etched deep in the back of her eyes. Arya had said that in every thing they do, there is a lesson – a way to be stronger, quicker, smarter - and Sansa never wants to see another person die in her name again.

She begins to tie her hair back tight into a bun that she tucks into an old bolt of fabric fashioned into a sort of wimple; and as the weeks pass her shift fades to a brown reminiscent of old, roughspun wool. But no matter how hard she tries, she never grows used to the smell of the city, and even after weeks in the streets of Flea Bottom she finds she must cover her nose almost everywhere she goes. 

They learn quickly to take turns at rest, and sleep in deep stone notches in the cliffs, far from every other person. Boys are cruel and steal their bread; but men can steal everything when given a single chance, and neither is willing to take a risk. She has seen girls that wander the streets alone and it reminds her that they are lucky to have each other. She tells herself that when they arrive back home to Winterfell, she will walk the streets of Wintertown and make sure no one lives like this, and that thought helps her push through each day.

Most nights they fall asleep sharing stories of what it will be like to go back home, and how old Robb and Bran and Rickon will have grown. Arya likes to say that Robb will have grown a beard by now, but Sansa teases that it will be like thin wisps of cloud on a sunny day; and that brings them both to laughter.

Often, Sansa dreams that she is with Lady, riding on her back through thick evergreen forests with her sister by her side. They howl together at the moon for their brothers, and when Lady catches a squirrel or rabbit they share in it together, thick blood dripping slowly down her throat. But sometimes she still has that terrible dream she had the first night they left the castle, of a hundred dead crows, and no one around to hear her cry.

Each morning she wakes to her sister's hard shove and a grumble for sleep, and relents the cold, hard stone, sufficing to sit on the ledge in her shift stiff with mud, and the smell of brine heavy in her nose. She watches the sun rise over Blackwater Bay and looks at her sister curled up tight and small. It makes her clutch at Wolfsong for reassurance, and she promises them both that they'll make it home.

They rise together one day to a bell tolling once more, breaking the steady rhythm of this new life. Sansa recognizes it as a summoning bell, and though she doesn’t know what it’s for, she feels a heavy lump grow in her throat.

As they approach the Sept of Baelor, she spots a crowd larger than any she’s ever seen gathering, making her even more nervous. She adjusts the cloth on her head to make sure her hair is hidden and walks carefully with Arya's hands clutched tightly in her own.

Her heart stills at the sight of their father in chains on the High Septon’s pulpit in front of the throng of townsfolk. He looks old and tired, and his hair is so thick with grease and dirt that it hangs limp round his face. He still hobbles on his leg, and it leaves her to wonder if he’s been seen by a maester at all since that day. Guilt runs through her for not coming back, for not helping him, and she feels a pull towards the stage, though she knows she cannot go.

Prince Joffrey stands before the crowd in bright golds and rich crimson fabrics, a crown larger than King Robert’s propped upon his head. His smile simpers with a sort of delight that she recognizes from the day he cut the butcher boy’s cheek. This monster is not a king, much less a prince.

Arya and Sansa stand with their hands still clasped tightly, watching Joffrey proclaim himself King. When the people shout and scream his name, Sansa grips her sister’s hand so tight that Arya lets out a quiet yelp.

“This man would call himself King, would take the throne away from me. What say you to this?” Joffrey’s voice rings clearly through the din, cutting into Sansa like a knife. She wonders what it would be like to sink her dagger into him and watch his pain instead. Would he cry out like he did when Nymeria bit him?

The crowd screams out treason in answer to his call, and something dark and angry runs through her, unlike anything she’s ever felt before.

“How do you answer their call, Stark?” 

Lord Eddard Stark only looks from Joffrey to Cersei, then to Lord Varys, who is standing on the pulpit clad in rich silks. “Where are my daughters? You told me I’d see them safe.”

“Denounce what you’ve said and repent, and you shall be granted leave to join the Nightswatch. Denounce and we will send your daughters back home to Winterfell," Cersei says with an air of contempt.

Her father fixes Cersei with a stern look, and Sansa watches his jaw clench and his eyes narrow. “Why are they not here today?” 

“They did not wish to see their traitorous father,” Cersei replies coolly.

“I see,” he says, though Sansa must strain to hear him. “Your greatest weakness Cersei is that you do not have honour; and that is something I know my daughters have. That is why I know they would be here today if they were here at all.” Though weak before, his voice now rings loud and clear through the crowd, and quiet murmurs ripple through like waves. He shifts his gaze to the crowd. “I will not stand here and denounce the truth, one that’s as clear as day before you all here. Look at the boy and see the truth; that is not King Robert’s son.”

“Liar! Traitor! You dare speak lies to me, right to my face?" Joffrey’s voice is a shriek, all indignation and confused anger. Sansa watches Lord Baelish give Lord Varys a careful glance, as Ser Illyn Payne begins to walk forward.

Her father looks out into the crowd, and he looks so sad and so tired, leaving her to wonder how many other burdens he holds on to. She thinks of all the pain her father has known; of Bran, of King Robert, of Lord Jon Arryn. She thinks of her grandparents and uncle and aunt that she never knew, and it’s like a fissure rips open in her heart. Before she knows it, she is crying.

When he is seized and flung to the marble steps, he is still looking out into the crowd, eyes never wavering from the faces of those who have condemned him. But Father doesn’t see any of that; his eyes are fixed on her and Arya. His lips pull into a quiet, sad smile and for the first time in her life, Sansa sees tears streak slowly down his face. 

In a move so swift she doesn’t notice until it’s too late, their worlds are blinked out by dark wool that smells of sour sweat and old wine, and before either of them can scream or kick, strong arms lift them up and drag them from the crowd.

After a short time, she hears the crowd scream loudly, and with a dull agony that throbs inside her chest she knows her father is dead.

Sansa recognizes the old, dirty man with rotten teeth as the Black Brother Yoren. He pulls them into an alley and cuts Arya’s hair short, calling her a boy, just as Syrio had done. At first Arya protests, but after their time in Flea Bottom Sansa can't help but think that it would be easier to pretend, than to have to be a girl. Yoren dashes that fanciful thought quickly enough.

“She can pass for a boy well enough, but you’re a woman grown. Any man with even a single eye can see that from a mile away.” His words sink deep into her in the most uncomfortable way. Even though it is the truth, it cuts into her, her body bristling against his harsh words.

“Stop it,” Arya interjects, “don’t talk about her like that.”

Yoren only turns his head down to Arya, an amused look upon his face. “’Til I get you back to Riverrun, you won’t be talking back to me like that, boy.”

“Riverrun?” Sansa tries to hide the surprise from her voice. “I thought you were taking us to the Wall.”

Yoren laughs loudly. “Aye, lot of good two girls will do there. I heard talk your mother is at Riverrun with her ailing father, and your brother marches south past the Twins as we speak. Safer to take you to Riverrun than anywhere else, and the sooner I get you off my hands the better.”

Sansa swallows hard then, trying to understand what she is being told. Why was her mother in Riverrun? Why had Robb taken the banners down south? Had he waged war for their father, for her and Arya? The thought fills her with dread, all while she still can't figure out why it was she had been so certain he would take them to the Wall, and not Riverrun or Winterfell. Why had that notion made her so happy? She knows that she should be happy to go to Riverrun to see her mother, and it was where she had to go to honour the promise she made to her father, and yet something about the Wall feels more safe.

The North is my home, she thinks, it's the only place that I am safe. 

Yoren pauses to look at her once more, and Sansa wishes once more that she could cut off all her hair and pretend to be a boy like Arya. Boys may have to rule and fight and die for those they love; but she doubts that many know what this kind of fear feels like. A thousand tiny worms crawl under her skin as she imagines what it will be like to travel north with a group of men picked from the dungeons of King's Landing.

“You girl, you’re some small lord’s daughter caught running away to the hand’s tourney. Any man that despoils you owes me the 20 gold dragons that lord promised me, and I’ll have their manhood. That should keep them away.”

Hot, wet tears begin to stream silently down Sansa's cheeks. In this moment, more than anything else in the world, she wants to be with her mother and her father again, to be home and have Lady and Ghost ever present and following at her heels. Would the two direwolves still be so close now that they were nearly grown? Was Lady even still alive? She chokes on her own tears.

“Is that all she’s worth to you?” Arya cries out in anger.

“Any more and they’d know the truth of it,” he replies with a casual sort of deference.

“I’m alright.” She tries her hardest to quell the tears, to harden herself. Nothing this man says is as bad as the things that Joffrey has already said to her. She needs to be stronger if they’re to make it through this - she needs to be as strong as Mother, as strong as Father, as strong as the direwolf that is their sigil. These were only words, and Father always said that words were wind.

“It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair that I get to pretend, and she can’t,” Arya continues, eyes cold and fixed on the black brother.

“Life isn’t fair,” Yoren grinds out angrily. “You think I wanted this life for myself when I was a babe like you two? Real life isn’t all castles and dresses and plates piled high with sweets. That is a dream, and out here if you don't wake up, you won't survive.”

Sansa closes her eyes and tries to think of anything but the roar of the crowd in the distance that makes her blood boil, reminding her of how it had felt to stand before the skull of Balerion, to feel it’s heat rush through her. It makes her think that maybe there is power in anger. Septa Mordane had always told her that anger is not a weapon, and even though she knows that, she wonders if it can be a tool all the same. If there is power to be found in anger, then perhaps it can be wielded and molded to serve her needs.

They will be some small lord’s wayward daughter and some crofter’s son. They will travel north with Yoren and his group of men and boys bound for the Wall. They will make themselves so small that no one sees them, crouching down low like wolves inching towards the kill. And when they reach Riverrun and her mother, the whole realm will learn the truths her father died for.

She gathers up all the anger within herself and imagines tying it into a tight ball, knotted up within a promise for all those that have wronged them;

Winter is coming.

Chapter Text

The wagon scuttles along the road, bouncing with every divot and bump, making Sansa feel ill. At first, she had protested and wanted to walk alongside it with Arya – though Arya now goes by Arry, and most everyone is convinced she’s a boy. It had seemed so odd to Sansa that everyone should be so easily fooled, but Arya had simply told her that most people only see what they want to see, and not the truth.

It was another of Syrio’s lessons that she would never have, another thing taken away from her before she had ever known she’d wanted it. So many things that she had once taken for granted, she would cherish if they could just make it home. But we’re not going home, she thinks, we’re going to Riverrun instead.

She closes her eyes and thinks of home, remembering summer snows and great stone walls and the godswood within Winterfell. Her mind fills with the image of soldier pines and evergreens growing thick and dense round the heart tree, and most every night when she dreams, she sees the ancient red face carven into the weirwood bark staring back at her, watching her – always watching.

Every morning now is the same; a handful of nuts or berries to stave away the hunger, and then they continue on. She tries her best to make herself scarce, while Arry goes wherever he pleases. She tries not to let it bother her, tries to tell herself that she and Arry are not related, so there is no reason to be close; but it hurts her all the same, and she finds she misses the closeness that they had in Flea Bottom, back when she didn’t have to remind herself to call him Arry.

After what Yoren had told them about her, everyone stays far from her and simply calls her girl, because she won’t name herself. She had tried in the beginning to think of a new name, but no other name has felt right on her tongue. It was easy for Arya to shed this piece of herself, but Sansa clings to it like she’s sewn it to her body with muscle and sinew.  

It’s as though if she lets go of her name, she’ll forget herself completely – and there’s already so little left to hold onto. Her shift has been covered with a cheap woolen dress that itches with every movement, and her hair has not been washed in so long that it looks the same as Arry’s. Some days she wakes and wonders if her entire life has been a dream, and this is all there is – dirt and mud and hunger pains, and only a lonely road ahead.

They’ve been on the road now for weeks with the Black Brother Yoren, and his crop of men set for the Wall. It makes Sansa sad to know that these are the recruits sent to train and live at the Wall with Jon. Most are no older than her; green boys who’ve stolen loaves of bread to feed their families.

It seems unfair that this should be their sentence, but whenever she says that, Yoren reminds her that life is not fair. He’ll tell her that it’s not like the stories and songs that she grew up with, and when he does, she pictures Tomard’s face and Ser Janos Slynt smiling all the while, a grimace with teeth bared white and sharp and mocking her.

No, there are no true knights, and no true justice, or the gods would never allow Ser Janos and Joffrey to live, she thinks, as she sits in the wagon, cutting a notch in its wood to mark the passing of yet another day. Sansa knows the truth now, and she is beginning to believe there are no other men like Father had been; good and kind and just.

Three of the men in their company are even so dangerous that they must be kept locked in a cart. While Arry finds them endlessly fascinating, any time Sansa comes near, two of them say such awful things that it makes her skin crawl, and her hand reaches down to pat Wolfsong, sitting safely under her shift. She’s still not sure she’ll ever use it, but even just feeling of the dragonbone against her thigh is enough to quell the fear that lurches up within her.

There is one man in the cage who always sits there with a knowing smile on his face, watching her and Arry. His hair is half red and half white, and he is handsome and polite. But she knows now that being handsome does not make a man good, and there must be a reason he’s in chains.

She thinks that Arry likes him because his voice reminds her of Syrio – a thick Braavosi lilt, and words that flow like water. It even seems to Sansa that he says boy just like Syrio used to, sending her skin to gooseflesh. It’s as though he knows what Arya knew; how to look under the surface and see the truth.

They travel the Kings Road at a slow pace, much to the complaints of others in the party. Yoren had told them it was because the road was treacherous, but she still wonders if he does if for her own sake. Even though they walk past burnt holdfasts and desolate fields, most nights he makes camp before the sun has even set, and he often does so when he glances at the weariness in her eyes.

Here though, closer to Harrenhal, they begin to travel faster, and the lands have not been lain waste to as badly; such that Arry even finds them apples, and they finally fill their hungry bellies.

It is getting dark, and Sansa prepares herself for another restless night in the cart, when Yoren stops at the roadside by an inn and looks appraisingly upon it. Every other night thus far they have only slept under the stars, as Yoren has seemed unwilling to take any risks with both Arry and her under his care. But tonight, his eyes trail from the shadow of a castle in the distance to the dirty mess of men before him, then back to the inn.

“We’ll stay here tonight, and by tomorrow we’ll reach Harrenhal,” He rasps. “Harrenhal is held by Lady Whent, a good friend of the Night’s Watch. I’d have you all clean yourselves, lest we come looking like beggars to her door.”

In front of them is a quaint inn with stone and mortar walls. Its roof is thatched with straw and tar, and smoke churns out from a small chimney. Her eyes follow the smoke into the setting sun, and amidst the reds and deep violets in the sky she can see one of the great towers of Harrenhal looming high and dark above all the trees around.

Old Nan had always told her that Harrenhal was cursed, but she tries to tell herself that those were tales for children, and she is now a woman grown. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Arry giving her a wary glance, and she nods so slightly no one else would see it, but she knows that Arry has.

When everyone goes off to the baths, Yoren grabs her by the arm and pulls her close, his breath acidic from the sour leaf in his mouth. “Best you not stray far from me tonight, girl. There’s wolves in these woods, and dogs in this inn.”

Sansa fixes Yoren with a cold look, wishing to tell him that she is a wolf too and that she isn’t afraid of them, but she is too weary from their journey to bother. Instead, she follows him to sit in the common room and he passes her a tankard of ale. After one sip she finds she has no taste for it, and instead she occupies her time by watching and listening to all those around her.

The room is not large, but there must be 30 men seated at rows of benches. On one end is the kitchen, and on the other is a hearth, and between the two the common room is warmer than anything Sansa has felt in weeks. Dinner must be getting served soon, as the smell of meat pies wafts into the room from clay ovens.

She turns her head to the sound of three men down the table from them, drinking from large tankards and speaking boisterously amongst themselves. One man is young and comely, but the other two are older; one with a gnarled beard and tired eyes, and the other with grey hair that has almost thinned away to nothing. Sansa pretends to busy herself with her tankard, but instead listens intently to them when she catches mention of King's Landing.

“Aye, in front of the whole crowd he did,” says the young man.

“And what of it? Any man will sing any song when his head is liable to fall,” replies the man with the tired eyes.

“But only to save his head. Surely he knew what he said would mean his death.”

“Who knows what the truth is; everyone there’s a liar,” counters the man with the tired eyes.

At that, the old man with grey hair tilts his head from his tankard and looks the other two right in their eyes. “Lord Eddard Stark was no liar. Everyone in the realm knows that. If he said it, it must be the truth.”

Sansa feels her heart swell hopefully at the old man’s words, and she leans just a little closer.

“Then why is King Joffrey still the king if he’s a bastard as they claim?” says the young man quietly, his voice barely above a whisper when he utters the word bastard. For all his talk, he’s just as afraid as everyone else, it seems.

The old man closes his eyes and takes a long drag from his tankard. “He won’t be for long. Lords Renly and Stannis press closer each day.”

“Lord Stannis perhaps, but I heard Lord Renly was cut down in battle by one of his own knights,” says the man with the tired eyes.

“No, I heard he was killed by a ghost, by the Stranger made flesh,” The younger man retorts, his voice even softer than before. “They say it was punishment for affronting the gods by staking claim to what wasn’t his.”

The man with the tired eyes lets out a snort of derision. “There are no ghosts, save for those in your head, Benfrey. It’d do you good to stop listening to idle gossip. Besides, highborns have been taking what isn’t theirs since the Andals, and no god has struck them down yet. All they do is take and take, and then ask for us to give more. And now the Stark boy rides south and holes up in Riverrun. It’s because of him that my fields were torched, and my cattle slaughtered.”

“Oh, it were Stark men that torched them all, were it? He torched his own mother’s lands? And near as I can tell, the Lannisters killed his father and both his sisters; a man has a right to revenge.”

The young man frowns at the old man’s words. “They say his sisters are safe in King’s Landing.”

“If you believe that, you’re a bigger fool than I ever thought. No one has seen them in a moon's turn. Besides, none of this would have happened if the Stark boy had just stayed in the north where he belongs. But no, he travels south with his men to protect his honour, and proclaims himself King in the North. He takes Jaime Lannister hostage, and now all the Lannisters do is torch our lands. I’m down to my last silver coins; where will my next meal come from?”

Sansa listens carefully to every word they say, though she doesn’t understand everything that they speak of. Her heart skips a beat at the mention of Robb, and she feels a queer tightening in her chest. She hates that he has traveled south at least in part for them, and she longs to see him again; to tell him that they’re both alive. But another part of her takes pride in the notion of him being crowned King in the North. The Starks had abandoned the title during Aegon’s conquest, but now that the last Targaryens were dead, why shouldn’t they rule themselves?

Let the Lannisters have King’s Landing, she thinks. Let them choke and drown themselves with their own greed.

It is this hope that her brother will avenge their father that lifts her spirits so high that she even lets the large boy named Hot Pie sit beside her on the benches. He offers to give her half of one of his pies in exchange for her tankard of ale. When she passes him the tankard, his fingers brush against hers and his cheeks flush instantly, forcing her to bite down a small smile. For everything that he had seemed when she first met him, she finds now that he is kind and bashful, and he begins to speak to her of pies and breads and biscuits.

It brings back memories of the kitchens in Winterfell – of the smell of freshly baked bread and sneaking in at night to steal cakes with Arya – and before long she finds herself speaking and laughing with him, as she did so long ago. At first, she is weary,s but later finds she is enjoying herself more now than she has in months.

Hot Pie beams with pride when he speaks of all the things he can bake, cheeks red and chest pressed out in a way that makes her stifle a giggle. “When we get to the Wall, I’ll bake you anything you please. What’s your favourite dessert, m’lady?”

As she ponders his question, her mind sinks down slowly to a dark place filled with blood red roses and sickly sweet lemoncakes and her father standing on marble steps with tired, grey eyes that seem to say goodbye for the last time. She has to bite her cheek to stop the tears from coming.

“I’m not one much for sweets, I’m afraid,” she answers carefully, swallowing the knot in her throat. “But if you could make meat pies as good as these, I should be very happy.”

Hot Pie grins wide and she can see dimples form in his cheeks. “These pies are fine, but I promise you m’lady, when we get to the Wall, I’ll make you pies thrice as good as these. My mother made hot pies for a living, and she taught me everything I know.”

Sansa smiles sadly at Hot Pie – at his soft face and wide blue eyes – and she finds herself wishing once more she were going to the Wall, and not Riverrun.

Tilting her head up and flaring her nostrils, she finds the air heavy with blood and the smell of rotting meat. Up in the pitch-black sky, crows fly and soar down to peck at dead bodies; but she knows there is fresh meat deeper in the woods. It was always better to have fresh meat. It tasted better and gave her more strength; and she’d need strength for what was to come.

She is running fast through the forest on the scent of a hare, when she hears the pained howls of men, echoing through the forest. It sounds far away and muddled, yet loud all the same. Her hackles raise, and her nostrils flare once more to try to pick up a scent. It’s something old and familiar, something warm and comforting from long ago. She forgets the hare, and soon she and her sister turn to run towards the scent.

It is only when she feels rough hands shaking her awake that Sansa realizes she is being woken from a dream so vivid she can still remember the feel of wet leaves under her feet.

Her eyes blink open slowly, and she sees that the room is filled with flickering light even though the sun has not yet risen. She turns to look out the window and sees fires blazing outside the inn, sending orange-red tendrils licking up the walls to the straw and tar above their heads.

Yoren had slept in her room with her to keep her safe, letting her have the bed and sleeping on the floor. Though the idea of it would be appalling to Sansa Stark, she is thankful for Yoren, because the flames are right outside the window, and the sounds of men screaming seem to be coming from every direction, and she is more afraid now than she had been even running through the dungeons of the Red Keep.

She turns to look at Yoren, and sees his eyes look wild and filled with an angry sort of fear. He has always said that he has been doing this for thirty years and would do it for thirty more, so his fear makes her own stomach twist into tight knots. She pulls Wolfsong out and brandishes it, watching the light flicker off the Valyrian steel blade. Would tonight be the night that she finally wet it, would she finally learn the lesson that Syrio warned her of so long ago?

Yoren wheels around and bends to pick up his own sword. He doesn’t bother to pick up his scabbard. “Go, run to your sister. Grab the others and run far as you can, til you reach Harrenhal. Lady Whent will find you passage to Riverrun.”

Sansa stops behind him, frozen in place. “What of you? How will we find you again, after?”

“You won’t.” His voice is flat and final and brokers no questions. She pauses to look at him one more time, and she wants to say a hundred things at once, but no words will form in her mouth and she is running out of time. The air is filling with thick black smoke and it burns her eyes, making them water.

What does he mean that he won’t see them again? Why will he leave them now, after all this time?

Her eyes flick down to the abandoned scabbard on the ground, and his old, weathered black cloak beside it, and slowly she begins to understand why he hasn’t bothered to pick them up. When she looks back to him, his eyes are glassy, and his face is pulled taut with pained resolution, fear hiding just below its surface.

“Why?” She breathes, before she can stop herself. “Why are you helping us?”

“Benjen was a friend of mine, and the Starks have always been good to the Watch. It's the least I owe your family.”

She looks up at him, at his gnarled beard and long, tangled hair, and guilt and sadness surge up within her. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she whispers, soot stinging ever more at her eyes, and now she must wipe at them to keep them clear.

He lets out a quiet snort of laughter and opens the chamber door. “Most good deeds go unthanked, I’ve found. Often as not, they get punished. The gods will know and judge my deeds as they see fit – thanks or no thanks – and maybe it’ll be enough to keep me from the seven hells if I’m lucky. Now go.”

Sansa runs as fast as she can from the room down the hall. Every door is open, and heads are peeking out. She sees Arya’s sharp eyes appear from behind a door at the end of the hall, and runs as fast as she can towards her, her dagger gripped tightly in her palm.

Arya grabs her by the hand, and together with Hot Pie and Gendry they climb out of the window and down the rough stone walls. Once they are outside, they can see fires everywhere they look, and hear the sounds of screams coming from every room of the inn.

Arya pulls at her arm for them to run into the woods, but Sansa can’t help but look back at the inn and think of Yoren and all the people left inside; and even though there is no longer soot in the air, her eyes keep watering all the same. 

“Where d'you think you’re going?” The voice is loud and booming, and her head snaps round to see it’s coming from inside the helm of a man in ornate armour with a sweeping crimson Lannister cape round his shoulders.

He whistles and a half dozen other Lannister men come forward, surrounding them all. One moves forward to grab Sansa, and before she can think she swipes at him with her blade, keeping him back. But in that moment, another grabs her from behind and tries to haul her up on his shoulders, causing her to drop the dagger. After that all she can do is flail and kick and scream at the man that holds her, trying to wrench herself free.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees two flashes of grey suddenly streak by, and she hears the sounds of the Lannister men screaming, though she can’t see what’s happening. Then, the man holding her screams too and drops her to the ground. She watches as a grey wolf almost as large as her jumps onto the man and tears at his throat til he ceases to scream.

She sits there on the ground still as calm water, watching the two giant wolves tear apart the men; mud and blood mixing together on the ground and in her skirts. In time, she looks up to see Arya standing wide-eyed and open mouthed, staring at the wolves before them.

“Nymeria,” she breathes, and the wolves move to stand before them. It’s as though the world around them has gone silent, all screams cease to reach her ears. The two wolves are massive and wild, muzzles covered in blood, but she recognizes them all the same. How could she not have seen it before, not have noticed it immediately? Only true direwolves could grow this large.

Soft yellow eyes fix on her, and it’s as though her body has grown past its confines, as though her heart is beating outside her own chest. She scrambles to her feet, slipping in the mud and blood on the ground, and runs towards Lady and Nymeria, all sense drowned out by the desire to hold Lady again, to nuzzle her face in her fur, to feel whole and complete like she hasn’t in nearly a year.

When she is less than three feet away, Nymeria growls and raises her hackles. Dimly, she can hear Arya and Hot Pie and Gendry calling to her, telling her to back away – but she knows they won’t hurt her, not even after all this time. She knows that they smell her and Arya – recognize them – though she can’t say how.

If direwolves belonged to the Old Gods like Old Nan always said, and the Old Gods were always watching, they could see her now. She lets her mind empty and thinks of them, saying a silent prayer.

Slowly, Lady pads up warily, sniffing the air, while Nymeria stays back, hackles still raised.

Then, she feels a tongue licking at her hands, rough and wet, and it tickles at her, making her laugh. She looks into those soft, yellow eyes, and lets her hands run through the matted grey coat.

Lady is so much bigger, but she also looks tired and thin, leaving her to wonder what she has suffered through in their time apart. When she wraps her arms round Lady, Lady whines softly, leaning in to lick the tears from her cheek.

Chapter Text

By the sound of Gendry and Hot Pie’s gasps, and Nymeria’s nervous whines – which are slowly turning into soft growls and rough, nervous scratches at the ground – Sansa knows that Arya is approaching her own direwolf.

Reluctantly, Sansa lifts her head from the soft, warm fur behind Lady’s ears, and looks over to Nymeria. She’s grown bigger than her sister, wilder too. Her eyes are not so soft as Lady’s – instead they are sharper, narrowed, endlessly aware. She is even leaner than her sister, only bones and fur and thin stripes of muscle.

Arya lifts her hand out to pat Nymeria’s snout, and she backs away, baring great yellow teeth. Sansa can see the pain in her sister’s eyes, can only imagine how much she longs for Nymeria. She had never told Arya about how often she had dreamed of Lady and wonders now if Arya had those dreams too. Had she dreamt she was with Nymeria, so close they nearly had the same thoughts, shared the same body?

Please make Nymeria forgive her, she thinks, hoping with all her heart that Lady will understand; but she gives no indication of understanding in those wide, hopeful eyes. Instead, she softly licks at Sansa’s face, til the cloth tied round her head falls away to the ground, revealing the hair that she has fought so hard to hide all these months. It’s grown dark from mud and dirt and grime, but the auburn catches in the light of the fire and sets her hair to flame.

“I’m sorry girl, please,” Arya begs, taking one more step forward. This time, Nymeria lets Arya touch her snout, but her face stays fixed on the hands, and she barely relents. “Please – please forgive me, I only tried to keep you safe.”

Nymeria stalks around Arya, pawing and sniffing at the ground. Eventually she lets out a quiet snort and moves to sit beside her sister. Sansa watches pain slide across Arya’s face before she quells it down deep with a quiet murmur that only Sansa understands; Calm as still water.

She stands, her skirts heavy with mud, and bends over to pick up Wolfsong from where she dropped it. It lays beside the Lannister man who had grabbed her, his body now devoid of life, his blood mixed into the mud on her skirts. Why had she hesitated and let him grab her? Why couldn’t she just push the blade through his mail, as she’d been taught? She bites at her lip and twirls the blade round in her hand, watching fire dance along it.

If my enemies show no mercy, then perhaps neither should I.

In that moment Lady begins to whine and growl, baring her teeth at the blade. Wherever Sansa moves the blade, yellow eyes follow, careful and wary. When she sheathes it under her skirts, Lady lets out a conciliatory grumble, and begins to stalk away. Sansa can feel the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end as the dragonbone hilt sits flush against her thigh, and her mind drifts back to how it had felt to touch Balerion’s skull in the dungeons of the Red Keep – to the power she had felt within it.

She is pulled from her thoughts by loud cries for help, coming from around the inn. Her and Arya look at each other, and Arya taps at her side. Sansa nods imperceptibly, and together they walk slowly, quietly to peek round the corner. She tells herself to be brave, even though her heart beats so loud she can hear its jackrabbit rhythm in her ears.

Around the corner, the three prisoners sit in their cage, nearly engulfed in flames. The two dangerous men are yelling, but the handsome man sits there, waiting, as though he knows they are watching him.

“Girls,” he says, his quiet voice slicing through the other men’s cries like a knife through silk. “Sweet girls, let a man be free. A man would do a great many things in return for his life.”

Nymeria keeps a wary distance, but Lady curls up close to Sansa, and she finds her fear melts away. Behind them, she imagines she can hear the sounds of Gendry’s mind churning. What must they think of two girls with wolves nearly the size of deer curled round them like pups?

Arya runs forward with Needle to pick the lock, rash as ever, before Sansa can stop her. With a jarring clink and the screeching of metal against metal, Arya opens the lock and the men clamour out. Only the man that Arya calls Jaqen stays to thank them, and he fixes them both with eyes that seem to see everything – black as the darkest night, as the hilt of her blade.

“Two wolfgirls and their wolves; a man owes them a favour.”

Sansa looks at him. She hates his cryptic words; they remind her of the woods witch, of the words in the seven-pointed star. “What favours can you give?”

He chuckles, and lays his arms out, palms facing up. “A man has many favours he can give. Perhaps a life for a life, to appease the gods?”

“Which one?” Sansa bites back, finding little patience for this game.

“All of them, none of them, it’s all the same.”

“I want you to take no lives in our names, enough have been lost tonight,” Sansa replies, but even as she says it, she can feel her sister lean forward on the tips of her feet, eyes open and searching.

“Any life? Any at all?”

“No Arya, don’t! You don’t know the cost,” Sansa bites back, but she sees the pain in Arya’s eyes, and knows the name that sits in her throat. It’s the name she’d give as well, if she trusted this man’s words.

“The cost has already been paid; a man simply settles the debt. Name three names, and a man will handle the rest.”

“There’s only one,” Arya whispers. “Joffrey – I want you to kill Joffrey Baratheon.”

His eyebrow arches in amusement, and his lips curl into the smallest smile, but no fear and no anger creep across his face. “A girl asks much of a man, but a name has been said all the same. It may take a month or a year, but it shall be done."

He turns and walks away into the forest, but looks back one final time, with eyes as green as summer grass. "A man suspects he will meet the wolfgirls again someday,”  he says with a thick Fleabottom accent, the Braavosi lilt abandoned, shed like summer skin. He disappears into the trees and leaves them alone in the smoking ruin of the inn, with Sansa's gut turning into knots, a dark foreboding in her bones.

She watches Arya’s gaze trail up the massive towers of Harrenhal, and her expression darkens. No one else would see it, but Sansa sees the tick in the corner of Arya’s mouth – the only sign she’s afraid. She finds a queer comfort in that notion, that they might be afraid together. Old Nan always told them Harrenhal was cursed, and though she should know better than to believe in magic or curses; her hairs still stand on edge, and her skin has turned to gooseflesh.

When Sansa and Arya turn back round, Gendry has that pained look he always does when he’s thinking hard. He sucks in a breath, holds it deep and long, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Slowly the words crystallize as frost grows along windowpanes, forcing the air from her lungs.

“I know who you are.”

“So,” Gendry says, with a wide, mischievous grin pulled across his face. “If your brother Robb is King in the North, does that make you two princesses?”

Arya scowls and glares back at Gendry, stomping off into the forest ahead of them all, Nymeria slinking after her, always five paces behind. They’ve been travelling now for weeks, without a wagon or mounts or even any water skins. Hard as the travel had been with Yoren, travel now made that seem a dream.

They had soon abandoned any hope of finding safety or food at Harrenhal when they had gotten closer and seen crimson cloaks and lion banners wherever they went, and had changed direction to Riverrun. It had been Arya’s idea to avoid the Kingsroad, that they would be safer in the woods away from anyone who could see them.

The forest had been frightening at first, but with Nymeria and Lady following their steps Sansa finds there little left to fear but Lannister men. Now, her concerns drift to food and shelter and her slippers that have nearly worn through. Soon she’ll be walking barefoot just like Arya, though she’s not certain that she’ll be able to, and wonders if if they'll be forced to leave her behind.

Every day is marked at the beginning by them waking to acorn paste and cold stream water that burns  their throats as they drink it. And it doesn’t matter how many rabbits Lady catches, Arya has told them they are to have no fires; so they have all slowly descended into a frozen hunger that pervades every step, every waking moment. Sansa’s mind feels as though it has turned to jelly, and she can think of nothing but Riverrun and Robb and her mother, and the promise she had made her father.

At night when they lay awake and look up at the stars, Sansa wishes upon each one that Robb will march south and kill every man that dons a crimson cloak. It’s a wicked thought – and she knows that – but there is power in her anger, and some days it’s the only thing that helps her keep walking.

Arya tells her it’s okay to be angry, that she is angry too. She tells Sansa that Jaqen will find and kill Joffrey, and then they’ll all be free. It’s a comforting thought, but it seems all too simple, and nothing in King’s Landing – nothing involving Cersei – was ever simple. Cersei is a snake coiled tight and ready to snap, fangs bared and glistening with poison, and Sansa has learned that she is as lethal as she is lovely.

“Shut up,” Arya calls back to Gendry. “I need to focus.”

“You spend all your time focusing on moss. I think there’s moss growing between your ears –” Gendry pauses, and the air grows thick with anticipation. Sansa can’t see Arya’s face, but the silence is sharp as the dagger hidden under her skirts. She looks over to Hot Pie, whose face is twisted into a grin that he is trying desperately to hide. “–m'lady.”

At that, Arya wheels around and stomps back to Gendry, Needle pulled from its sheath and placed menacingly, inches from his throat. Her face is red and Needle quavers in the air from her anger. “Stop calling me that.”

Perhaps it’s because Gendry is more than a head taller and near twice her weight, or perhaps it’s because he sees that glimmer of embarrassment tucked under her chin just below her anger, but he doesn’t fear her blade, and instead laughs. “Aye, not m'lady then.” Arya removes the blade from his neck.

“Princess Arya, lady of the moss.”

Arya’s face turns red as a pomegranate, and in a flash, she twirls Needle in her hands and shoves the hilt of it into Gendry’s stomach causing him to let out a groan of surprise, followed by a poorly hidden smirk.

“Moss tells us where north is, and we need to be heading northwest to get to Riverrun. Unless you’d like to starve out here?”

Gendry scowls and kicks at the leaves on the forest floor. “We wouldn’t starve if you let us have fires.”

“No fires! Do you want them to catch us?”

“How will they catch you with those great beasts trailing you wherever you go?”

Arya and Gendry continue on trading barbs, walking ahead of Sansa and Hot Pie, who share a knowing glance with each other. They have taken to bickering between themselves incessantly. It always begins with Gendry finding a new way to taunt and embarrass Arya; he has learned all the right places to push and prod, and seems to delight in watching her cheeks flush and her eyes grow sharp and narrow. But most of all, he seems to enjoy when she gets so close to him, Sansa isn’t sure if she means to kill him or kiss him. Sometimes when he smiles at Arya, she even smiles back, before catching her lip between her teeth and returning a scowl.

It’s strange to see her sister this way, in the midst of all this sadness and chaos, dancing round this boy with thick black hair and eyes blue as her own. The way they twist round each other brings a smile to her face; a solitary joy that she allows for herself.  

The day they left the inn, Hot Pie and Gendry had figured it out who they were. In the beginning, they had both been sure that Hot Pie and Gendry would abandon them, for fear of the wolves, or them; but they had stayed all the same.

It’s a gift from the Old Gods, because try as she might to hide it and pretend that she hates it, Sansa can see that Arya feels better with Gendry around. She wonders when Arya will realize it too.

Her and Hot Pie have grown close as well, though not in the same way. He is kind and good and would treat her well, but for him she feels only friendship – she thinks it a warning that she will never, can never feel love for a man, not after what she has seen in King’s Landing.

“I wish they’d stop fighting and just get on with it,” Hot Pie remarks, padding along the forest beside her and Lady.

She runs her hands through Lady’s soft grey fur, all tangles and mats combed out by her deft fingers, and smiles. “They will, in time.”

They walk the rest of the day in a comfortable silence, and Sansa reflects on how much her life has changed in just this one year. She wonders if she would even recognize herself in a looking glass, if this was always the course her life was meant to take. Has she fulfilled the fortune she was given, or changed it and molded it in her hands? After all, why would the Gods grant visions of the future, if not to give the chance to change it?

That night when she lays her head to sleep, she dreams she is back in Winterfell, walking the hallways alone. Ghost pads up silently behind her, and he’s grown bigger than Lady and Nymeria, taller than a stag. His fur is even whiter than she remembers, summer snows against black stone wall; and eyes red as Weirwood leaves stare into her own, seeing all the things she can’t even admit to herself.

He walks in front of her and leads her to the crypts, cold wind blowing her skirts round her in a flurry. They walk down the steps slowly, and she finds she must lean against him for balance; he takes all her pains and burdens silently, helping her down.

They stop in front of a statue of Father, and she kneels before it, looking up at him. She can barely recognize his likeness in the stone, he looks too old and tired here. At his feet lay a dozen winter roses, and the sweet scent hangs thick and heavy, clouding her head and making her feel dizzy. Ghost sits down beside Father, and together they seem to say without words what Father had told her all those weeks ago; They need to know the truth.

A long time ago, Sansa had dreamt of each nameday, had looked forward to lemoncakes piled high and presents from each of her siblings and her mother and father. She remembers the giddy excitement the night before, and how she could barely sleep. Now, she is sure that her nameday has passed since their journey began, but she can’t say when, and she finds she no longer cares.

Home is all she thinks of, all she dreams of now. She dreams of the godswood in Winterfell, and it’s weirwood face, she dreams of crows on the battlements, ready to take flight, but more than anything she dreams of the crypts, and her promise to her father.

It is a tiring thought, because even though they must be close, as soon as they get to Riverrun, she knows she must accompany her mother to Greywater Watch to see Lord Reed. They said the castle floated in the swamps of the crannogmen, and that no man could find it. How then were they supposed to do as father said? She prays that the ravens know the way and they can send word to him to help them find him.

Darkness begins to creep across the sky, and the air fills with the quiet, constant sounds of night. She knows that they must make camp soon – though to call what they did each night making camp was generous indeed. Arya still insisted on no fires, and the nights had begun to grow cold. The four of them had taken to curling up near the direwolves for warmth, though Nymeria still was wary of Arya, never turning her back to her.

In the distance, Arya sees a tall hill jutting out from the countryside and declares it to be where they will camp for the night. Lady and Nymeria seem to approve, as they both bound forward, climbing the tall hill with ease. Sansa looks back to see Hot Pie struggling and slows down to keep him company.

“Why must it be the top of a hill?” Hot Pie pants in exasperation.

“Atop the hill we can see for miles. There’s safety in height like this. Perhaps Arya will even let us have a fire?”

Sansa watches Hot Pie’s eyes light up at the notion, and she hears his stomach growl audibly. After weeks of only berries and nuts, she would give anything for a rabbit, or even a squirrel; though once she would have balked at the idea.

In the end, Arya does allow them a small fire. Lady catches two rabbits for them to share, while Nymeria catches a third and eats it all to herself, snapping at Gendry when he tries to grab it from her jaws.

They all sit together on weirwood stumps that encircle their meager camp, and Sansa relents her dagger to Hot Pie, as he shows her how to skin and gut the first rabbit. When he hands her back the blade to clean the second, she knows the rabbit is dead; yet somehow, she still fears that she is hurting it. Blood drips down onto the sharp steel blade as the fur separates from the flesh, and she tells herself that it is necessary, and prays that the Old Gods give it peace.

When the rabbits are cooked, they begin to pass them round to each other. Arya takes a haunch, while Sansa takes some meat from it’s middle. The meat is warm, and its juices run down her chin, and she pauses to lick it up, feeling as though this meal is better than any feast she’s ever had. She has now known what true hunger feels like; hunger so strong it aches and leaches life from your bones, and she’ll never waste a morsel of food again.

It is then that Nymeria lifts her head and sniffs the air, picking up a scent. She leaps to her feet and begins to pace their camp, stirring Lady to rise and follow as well. They both let out loud howls to the thin crescent moon, before they become silent again and slip behind the rows of trees. 

When they reappear from behind a grove of soldier pines, Sansa gasps as an old, grizzled woman hobbles forward between them, staying steady with a cane. She is so small and so slight, and her hair is shock-white, hanging down in thick knotted bunches to her waist.

Sansa feels a chill run through her, reminded of the woods witch from so long ago. It seems like that was a thousand years ago now, as if it happened to another person.

Arya has stood and has Needle brandished, and Hot Pie and Gendry quickly grab sticks.

“She won’t hurt us,” Sansa whispers. How could she? The woman is scarcely taller than three feet, and she hobbles so slowly and with so much pain in her eyes, that Sansa finds it hard to watch. The woman finally stops feet away from them, warming herself against the fire.

“How did you do that?” Arya demands, Needle still pointed at the woman. “How did you make Lady and Nymeria trust you?”

The woman looks up at Arya, a small smile on her face, black eyes twinkling in the dancing flames. “Direwolves are of the old gods, as am I. We are all ghosts here, floating through this world. They can see the truth, as I can too – though not as clearly as I once could. I have only come for some warmth and some bread and salt, in exchange for your fortune.”

Sansa bristles at the thought. “No, we don’t want your fortunes, they don’t do anyone any good.”

The woman fixes her gaze on Sansa, appraising her. “You wouldn’t say that, if you knew what could have been.”

Air leaves her lungs in a stilted shudder, and Sansa looks down at her fingers, wondering what to believe. She balls her hands into fists and holds them tight to her legs for comfort, trying hard not to think about what might have been, about all things she wishes she could change – about the sound that the crowd had made when they took her father’s head, and Tomard’s final smile.

Hot Pie offers the woman some rabbit, and she takes it, eating it slowly, chewing with ancient brown teeth.

“Will you tell me my fortune,” Arya says, resheathing Needle.

The woman scowls. “Aye, I’ve seen you before, in another life, in another time. Your hands were stained with death, and it clung to you like smoke. Tell me wolfgirls, do you know Jenny's song?”

Jenny of Oldstones had once been one of Sansa’s favourite songs, so sad and desperately romantic. Now she feels only sadness when she thinks of the words, as though the love has been drained from the song, or perhaps from her.

But she sings it all the same, and when she finishes, she looks over to see the old woman swaying cross-legged on the ground, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“If the song makes you sad, then why did you wish me sing it?”

The old woman looks up from the flames, coal-black eyes staring into her with sad resolution. “To remember. Even though it makes us sad, we must remember the past, or else we’re doomed to repeat it.” She wipes the tears from her face with the backs of her gnarled hands, and looks from Sansa to Arya, then onto Hot Pie and Gendry. “But enough of the past, I promised a fortune to the wolfgirls and their stag.”

“Two ghosts stand before me, spirit made flesh. The lions have proclaimed them dead, but they will rise again.” She pauses to sniff at the air. “Once, in another life, you smelled of death, little wolf, but now instead I smell brimstone and cold winds rising.”

Arya narrows her eyes. “The cold has no smell.”

The woman laughs a hollow bark that echoes through the shadows of trees that had been there long ago. “The cold has a smell, same as all things do. Queer and sharp as a knife, it cuts into your soul; but you’ll know that soon.”

Sansa begins to feel wary, and she reaches for the familiar, comforting coolness of her blade against her thigh. Slowly, she begins to pull out Wolfsong once more, and cleans the blade with her skirts, as Father once did with Ice, in front of the Heart Tree of Winterfell. She feels Lady creep closer, hackles raised, yellow eyes glaring at the blade.

The old woman takes no heed, and pulls at the rabbit leg she’s been given, taking strings of meat off the bone and depositing them in her mouth, watching Sansa cleans her dagger. “The lion cub has lost his rose, and it’ll be plucked by another; one younger still, but kinder too. An unbent spear, untried by battle – but that will not last long. The rivers will run red at the hand of a titan and a spider. They’ll say the lion cub mourns your death, wolfgirl, but I think no other bride will take him.”

She then turns slowly to Arya. “And you girl, the smell of death still sits about you, nestled in your reach. You have choices to make, and journeys you could take. But if you leave, you won’t come back the same.” She turns and looks to Sansa then. “They never do.”

They sit in silence while Sansa holds the dagger, warm to the touch as it always is. Lady crouches low beside her, the whisper of a growl on her tongue. She bites at her lip, and tries to push back a small seed of anger that sits heavy in her chest. She doesn't trust this woman, and as with so many others, her words seems to mean many things, or perhaps nothing at all. Her fingers curl tight round the hilt in anger, and before she can stop herself, the words tumble from her mouth.

“If you know so much, old woman, tell me why the wolves hate my dagger so much.”

The old woman takes a deep sniff, testing the air. “Dragonbone,” she says sharply.

“Yes,” Sansa says tentatively, “a dragonbone hilt.”

The old woman smiles and holds her hand out. Nymeria pads forward and nuzzles into it. “As I’ve said before, direwolves are of the old gods, they speak with them and do their bidding. But dragons, dragons don’t answer to gods or men. They are an affront to all gods, old and new. They are as different as steel and soil, as ice and fire; and they will always mistrust each other.”

She takes a stick from the ground and pokes it into the fire, sending embers floating into the dark sky. "You see, dragons have power, immense power. Like the greatest stars in the sky, they shine so bright. But power is temporary; it shoots across the sky in a blinding flash of light, and in another flash is gone. Power cannot be tamed or tempered, it burns and burns out like a flame.”

Arya screws up her face and bites at the inside of her cheek. “Then what of direwolves and the old gods, do they hold no power? Are they jealous of the dragons?”

A cackle of laughter comes from the old woman, discordant in the cool night air. "No, child, not jealous. What they lack in power they make up for in strength. We have been here for thousands of years and will be here for thousands more. We are not stars in the sky, or fires burning bright. We are the stone upon which you step, the roots of an unmoving tree. Power and strength are two sides of the same coin, like the night and the day. You must choose which side to wield.”

Sansa looks to the blade in her hand, then over to Lady, who lets out a quiet whine. There was something so tempting in power – in the idea of finally wielding it when for so long she has had none – and yet it seemed dangerous too.

Chapter Text

Riverrun stands before them, late afternoon sunlight casting shades of orange and red upon its sandstone walls. Though she has never seen it before, Sansa recognizes it from the stories that her mother told her, of how Riverrun sits between the Tumblestone and the Red Fork of the Trident. Stretching out ahead of them is a long, thin bridge; the only entrance to the castle she can see not surrounded by water.

There is a reason that Riverrun is said to be nearly as difficult to breach as Moat Cailin, and Sansa now understands it. With the drawbridge lifted, only a fish could swim up and gain entrance. She bites at her lip, feeling hesitation stall her from walking over, and turns to see the same hesitation in Hot Pie’s eyes.

“We’ll need them to drop the drawbridge,” Hot Pie remarks, scuffing at the ground. “And who’s going to do that when we look like this?”

“Their grandfather's the lord of this castle, didn’t you know that Hot Pie? I imagine anyone would give them anything they ask, wouldn’t they m’lady?”

Arya fixes Gendry with a withering look. “I told you to stop calling me that. I’m not a lady.”

“Who am I to tell you not to deny a simple truth,” Gendry replies lazily. “Just don’t understand why you’d deny one so sweet. It’s all cakes and castles and tourneys and knights in white cloaks when you’re a lady. You’d never go hungry again, never wonder where you’d sleep…” His voice trails off wistfully and this time both Arya and Sansa are staring at him.

Sansa wonders if he knows what else it means to be lady; to be bought and sold like a horse or prize cattle, to know that your only use is to make a man sons. Does he know what happens to ladies who make only daughters? Does he know that Joffrey promised to string her up like the castle cats if she gave him even one?

All of Joffrey’s words come back in torrents like the swollen river before them; and for a second they seem just as impassable, before she reminds herself that they are far away from King’s Landing, and safe in the Riverlands. Even though she worries still, that thought ignites something else within her heart. It is something quiet and small, and it flutters like a baby bird against the walls of her chest. She dares not give it a name, but she knows that it is hope.

She looks up at the towers, each one displaying a Tully banner – a leaping trout amidst a river of dark red and blue – and she conjures up a memory of the first time Mother taught her the house sigils, and how to embroider each one. Mother’s hands were always so careful and deft, tight stitches and never a prick of her finger. Sansa had always watched her mother’s movements, tried to make them her own, and she wishes with all her heart to watch her even just one more time.

I wasn’t done learning, you have so much more to teach me still.

Perhaps that one more time will be tonight, and together they will all sit in front of a fire. Mother will sew, and Arya will complain about sewing, and maybe she can pretend that this has all been just one terrible dream.

“It’s not like that,” Arya says in a voice so quiet that it seems almost more menacing than when she screams at Gendry, as she casts a small, wary glance towards Sansa. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Gendry’s face falters as he senses the severity in her tone, and he takes a small step backwards. “It was just a joke, didn’t mean nothing by it,” he grumbles.

Sansa clears her throat of the lump that sits within it, trying to quell half a hundred thoughts that rush through her mind. The travel north has been so lonely, and still she does not tell anyone the pain that sits in her heart, or how her nights are filled with dreams that had become darker and darker the closer they have gotten to Riverrun.

She tells herself that she does not believe in ill omens yet tempers the bird in her chest all the same. Hope is for the summer, and winter is coming.

I will tell Mother what Father told me, and I will tell her everything that has happened. She will know what to do, she will find the way to Greywater Watch and back north where we’re safe. And then, and then… Her mind drifts to a thousand kinds of revenge; to Cersei in fetters and chains, to Joffrey’s head on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, to all the Kingsguard stripped of their finery and sent to the dungeons to rot.

Septa Mordane once told her that it was a sin for a lady to wish someone dead, but all it reminds her of is what one of the townsfolk had said in that inn all those weeks ago, before they had left Yoren behind, before Lady and Nymeria had come back – a man has a right to revenge.

What of women then, did they not deserve revenge? Was justice not their right too?

“We’ll ask for guest right for the night,” Sansa says, biting at the inside of her cheek. Her thoughts are disarrayed by hunger and lack of sleep, but she remembers her father’s words of warning all the same. Words are wind, and they carry along it just as easily.

She closes her eyes tight, and tries to dispel the thought of Father, of him down in the crypts of Winterfell with Ghost standing vigil, of all her dreams that make no sense. It’s all dead crows and winter winds and Balerion’s massive skull, with flames where its eyes had once been –

“But no one can know who we are until we are standing before Mother or Robb. It’s too great a risk, and we don’t know who we can trust.”

“You’re lucky Lord Edmure Tully is letting all the townsfolk stay in the castle, else you’d be sleeping in the fields,” remarks one of the guards standing by the gate. He’s clad in mail and armour, with a leaping trout imprinted upon the breastplate. Sansa must tilt her head up to look at him, and finds his head covered in a half helm, through which she can see only cold eyes and the hard line of a mouth.

He reminds her of Ser Meryn, and she must suppress a shudder that sits squarely between her shoulders, threatening to belie the calm façade she has created. She pictures herself reaching out to Lady, chasing squirrels or rabbits somewhere in the woods, and she can almost feel how the tall grey-green blades of grass tickle her belly as she runs, feel the strength coiled tight in her limbs.

“Lord Edmure?” Sansa asks calmly, “I thought the Lord of Riverrun was Lord Hoster Tully.”

The man looks at her, and his eyes begin to narrow in contempt. “It was, and now it’s not. You don’t even know who your liege lord is, and yet you ask for his meat and mead, for his roof over your head?”

“I – I’m sorry ser,” Sansa manages, as they walk briskly through the gates. She doesn’t look back up until they are inside.

They look round and find themselves in a large courtyard in front of what must be the Great Hall. The yard is filled with other townsfolk; some are building makeshift homes along the sides of castle walls, while others move about carrying bushels of hay or bundles of wool.

Even though it's a surprise to see so many townsfolk about, and so few guards, her heart still swells at the sight of the Great Hall. After all these months it doesn’t feel real to be so close to freedom, so close to being home. Would Mother and Robb be sitting inside the Great Hall, her uncle sat upon the throne? She wonders if it’ll be like the throne at Winterfell, if the Hall will be filled with townsfolk too. Will Robb wear a crown like the Kings of Winter once did? Will he have finally grown a beard and look a man grown? Would his easy, carefree smiles have given way to the rolling calm of Father’s face; to hard windworn edges, or a long, solemn face?

She squeezes Arya’s hand tight and looks to her, seeing her smiling back. Arya bites at her lip to try to quell the wide smile that crosses her face, and Sansa can feel her cheeks begin to wet with tears of joy.

“You’re crying,” Arya says softly, “you always cry so easy.”

Sansa bites back a laugh of her own, and wipes the tears from her eyes, finding the world clear as she does. Together, they walk to the massive ironwood doors, and the two guards stationed outside.

“We wish to gain audience with Lord Tully, is he holding court today?” Sansa asks the smaller guard, in her most honeyed voice – though she wonders the effect it will truly have when she hasn’t bathed in three moons, and every piece of clothing on her body has turned the same dull shade of brown.

The guard looks at them with a sad but curious look on his face. Unlike the guards at the gate, he does not wear a helm at all, and his blonde hair hangs down half across his face, giving a bashful cast to him. His eyes are kind and a deep emerald green, and she knows that long ago she would have found this man so handsome that she would have run off with Jeyne to whisper about who he liked more. But now, now she doesn’t even know if Jeyne is still alive.

“Haven’t you heard? Lord Tully has travelled to the Twins to marry a Frey girl.”

“No.” The word slips from her mouth as slow as a stream, stretching out to drown the hope she knows she shouldn’t have even had. “Please – please tell me that Lord Robb Stark and Lady Catelyn Stark are still here.” Her voice is a squeak, as though she is a mouse or a small child again.

He hasn’t said the words, but she knows that they are coming, she should have known better. There were too few guards, too few men at arms. A castle filled with townsfolk and not a lord or lady to be seen. How could she have been so naïve?

The man’s eyes look into hers, and there is a sad sort of pity there. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid they’ve all gone north. You’re welcome to wait here til Lord Tully gets back. Shouldn’t be more than a moon’s turn now.”

Ice water leaks into her veins, and there is an ache in her chest as though it has been cut open and laid bare, as though the strength has left her body, and no matter how hard she tries she cannot feel Lady anymore. 

“We can’t wait that long,” Arya pipes in, her voice tipped with anger, “We need to see them now.”

The other guard now looks at them, a darker cast to his face. “He said they aren’t here, now piss off.”

“You’re welcome to a bath and to eat at the mess hall,” the first man says, “it seems you’ve come a long way. The Blackfish will hold court in a week’s time.”

“It’s going to be okay,” Arya says, biting at the blunt stubs of her nails. In another life, Sansa would have told her it’s a terrible habit to bite your nails, but now she wishes she could sink her own teeth into something and feel what it’s like to not be so weak. “Maybe we can trust great uncle Brynden?”

She straightens her spine and takes a deep breath to slow down her heart and think clearly. She tries to picture this man who is her great uncle that she does not know, and it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. How can she trust a man she’s never met; how can she know that he is who he says he is? And even if he is, she still needs to travel north, to her mother and to Greywater Watch. Staying here solves no problems, and only creates more.

She steels herself, pulling the pain from her face as though she's smoothing wrinkles from her shift, and tells herself that she will not cry and will not be afraid, even though she feels ready to retch.

I am a wolf, she thinks, and wolves do not cry.

“We’ll stay for the night, and head out tomorrow,” she says with a steadfast determination, turning so quick towards the bathhouse that her skirts twirl round her legs in a flurry. For an instant she feels as though she is a girl again in the courtyard of Winterfell, twirling and spinning round as they all played monsters and maidens; Robb, Bran, Arya, little Rickon, and even Jon. She remembers how it felt to twirl out of his grasp as though she were silk running through his fingers.

Strange now that she must do the chasing, and it’s Robb and Mother that keep slipping from her grasp.

The lady’s bathhouse sits near the kitchens for the Great Hall, in a small stone building covered with moss and ivy. Even though it is much smaller than the one at Winterfell, it is a welcome sight.

When Sansa sinks herself down into one of several stone baths, it’s as though the warm water lifts her, carrying her away and up to the Twins. She sees the path ahead very clearly now, has long ago memorized the maps and each house’s lands they will cross through. These were her mother’s lands, Tully lands.

Five days by horse to Oldstones, and another sennight to the Twins. By horse, she thinks, pinching the bridge of her nose as she tries to stomach the idea of making the journey afoot. Her eyes blink open in irritation to find Arya staring at her.

“The dirt’s coming from your hair,” she whispers softly, “I forgot how much like Mother’s it was.”

Sansa’s heart skips a beat and for an instant her mind whirs to images of them being caught and sold back to the Lannisters; but when she looks around, she sees only two old crones in another bath, laughing to each other and paying them no mind. Arya looks at her with a concerned silence, throwing her a towel to wrap round her head.

How could she have forgotten; how could she have been so careless?

She sinks deeper into the warm soapy water, trying to hide herself away, to dispel all the thoughts that plague her; yet the deeper she sinks, the louder they become.

Less than a fortnight to the Twins, to Mother and Robb – if we only had horses. Without them, it could be more than a moon’s turn.

In the other bath, the two old crones continue to laugh and speak with one another. She sinks down even lower til her head sits below the level of the stone floors and less than an inch from the soapy water, as she idly listens to them speak for a time. Soon she realizes that they're speaking of the Lannisters, and raptly tries to focus on every word.

“They say he mourns the death of Sansa Stark, and that’s why he takes no wife.”

Sansa’s eyes blink open once more and she looks over to Arya, whose face is placid and calm, as though the women have not just uttered her name, but that of someone else entirely. The only thing that gives it away is the way she bites at her lip. 

“Aye, and I’m a blushing maiden.” The old woman lets out a cackle of laughter. “I thought the Stark girls died when their father was beheaded anyways, can’t see how they can die twice.”

“Isn’t that what they say of that lightning lord? Dead twice by the Mountain’s hand, yet rose again? Doesn’t anyone stay dead anymore?”

“Would that King Robert would come back too and rid the city of lions for good.”

“I s’pect that’ll happen soon enough one way or another. I heard talk of mothers that can’t even feed their babes, much less themselves. It's a sorry state indeed when a mother can't feed her own child.”

Their voices fade away as they lift themselves from the soapy water and exit the bathhouse, speaking in low, hushed tones of packages of food placed delicately outside the gates of King's Landing, a single red rose in each one.

Arya sidles in close to Sansa, dark eyes fixing her in place. “It’s true then, what the woman on the hill said, isn’t it?” Her voice is low and level, but Sansa can hear the fear that lies in the corners of her words. “If everyone says we’re dead, does that mean everything she said is true? About the rose and the spear? About dragons and wolves? Will my future really be brimstone and cold wind?”

Sansa’s mind drifts to her dreams, to the woods witch from so long ago and all her talk of destiny and fortune, how she’d grow up to be queen. But she would never be queen now, not after leaving King’s Landing as they had; dead girls didn’t marry princes or kings.

“Just because one thing she said was true, doesn’t mean it all is. It seems to me that anyone can say anything, and we have to decide whether to believe it or not.”

Arya screws up her face, considering the words. “Then how do we know what to believe?”

“I don’t know that we ever truly do. I think we just try to do our best.” She adjusts the towel wrapped round her head, hiding her hair from sight. “Father made mistakes too, you know.”

Arya cocks her head to the side, eyes narrowed. “Truly?”

“Truly.” Sansa drops her voice down to a whisper, so quiet Arya must lean in close to hear over the water. “He told me that long ago he made a mistake, that there was something he never told Mother, something he should’ve told her long ago. He told me to tell no one, but that she must seek out Howland Reed, and he’d tell her the truth.”

“What truth could Howland Reed have that Mother needs to know?” 

She had been giving that a lot of thought as well lately. Howland Reed had been their father’s greatest ally during Robert’s rebellion. He and Father alone had survived the journey down south to try to rescue aunt Lyanna. Sansa knows it had to have been something that happened then. And in her dreams, it is always Ghost who leads her down to the crypts and stands before Father with her, watching, waiting.

The old crones are long since gone, and it is now just her and Arya amidst the rushing water, but still she cannot give voice to it. It’s not my secret to tell, she thinks.

She remembers those storm grey eyes and they way they used to follow her everywhere she went, and the boy that saw everything and said almost nothing. She can’t help but wonder if it’s not Mother’s secret to know either, but his, and his alone.

They had walked out of the gates of Riverrun and down another long drawbridge, crossing the Red Fork the next morning. Their pockets had been lined with apples, oatcakes, and a wheel of cheese, and Sansa had been given new slippers by some lordling’s daughter who had taken pity on her. Her chestnut hair had swung round her shoulders as she had thrust them into Sansa’s arms, and her eyes had been a soft golden brown that held so much warmth within them it had been impossible to resist the kind gesture.

On the second day, while making their way along the borders of the Whispering Wood, Lady and Nymeria had found them again, though Sansa had never doubted they would. Arya had been so glad to see Nymeria that she had bounded forward and wrapped her arms round her before the wolf could even growl. She had let out a begrudging grumble and accepted the hug. It had been a small step forward but had done much to improve Arya’s mood, which had been solemn since their baths.

But with each day that passed, Sansa had only become more and more anxious. By foot their travel was so slow, and she knew that by now they should have been at Fairmarket or Oldstones, yet they were still meandering through the Whispering Woods.

What if they got there and the wedding was already over, and Robb and Mother had already turned back for Riverrun? Or even worse, what if they decided to head back North? She was no longer certain how much further she could walk, and walking to Winterfell would be impossible.

So when they came across an old camp with Lannister men so long ago slain that their bodies were nearly unrecognizable, her heart had surged in the most sinful way for there were saddles on the ground near them, and where there were saddles there were horses. Hot Pie and Gendry had each armed themselves with a Lannister sword, and Lady and Nymeria had padded off in search of the horses’ scent.

Nymeria had caught the scent first, and together with Lady the wolves had cornered two white-grey geldings, eyes white with fear. Sansa had walked slowly forward until her hands had reached the bridles, and she found that all they needed was a piece of apple and some sweet words to calm them. Her fingers had combed slowly through their tangled manes, and their loud whinnies of fear had slowly become soft whickers for more apple.

From then on, the way had been much easier, though the heavy rains had flooded out the roads close to the Blue Fork and forced them to take back roads up past Seagard. Sansa rode along with Hot Pie, and Arya with Gendry, though they often squabbled over who should hold the reins. 

None of that mattered anymore though, she was so close she could almost feel it. They would be together again, safe, and so close to the North that they could journey to Greywater Watch, then onto Winterfell, where she would never need to see another Lannister again.

Every night when she would fall asleep, she would say a silent prayer to the old gods, for the strength to keep going, for Robb, for Mother, for Arya, for Hot Pie and Gendry, for Bran and Rickon, and for Jon at the Wall. She would hold each name tight to her heart as she said it, and then let the prayer float out to be carried in the wind.

Yet each night, her dreams were always the same, and when she’d wake the next morning, she’d feel even less rested than when she fell asleep.

It is another sennight before she sees the two ruddy stone towers in the distance, and it is a welcome sight after nearly half a moon of long travel. Even after darkness falls, she begs them all to keep riding. It is dangerous to ride after dark, where one misstep could mean a broken or twisted ankle for the horses, but they are so close and she feels so anxious that she cannot wait another night.

The closer they get, the more the horses begin to whinny and pull at the reins, and no amount of apple seems to appease them. Lady and Nymeria too begin to act strange, growling and raising their hackles. Soon, Arya taps at her side, and they all slow their horses down to a trot.

Even though it should be the black of night, the castle ahead of them seems to glow bright, and the air hangs heavy with smoke, as though a thousand cookfires have been lit. Every hair on her body stands on edge and a slow sense of dread creeps up inside her. 

Arya pulls up on her horse’s reins, and she jumps down from the horse, graceful as a cat. Gendry lumbers down as well, pulling his sword from its belt.

“Something’s wrong,” he says, pushing his thick black hair from his face, and tilting his head up to the sky. “The smoke doesn’t smell right, doesn’t look right.”

She and Hot Pie dismount next, and they leave the geldings tacked to a couple trees by the side of the road, walking closer to the castle in the shelter of the trees. The only light in the trees comes from the fires, and it sets the shadows to flicker and play tricks on her eyes; tree branches become a hundred dancing spectres with thin long arms that threaten to grab her, yet never reach. 

They fall into silence, save for the soft crackle of leaves beneath their feet, and the sounds of Lady and Nymeria growling as they pad forward, crouched so low to the ground that their bellies nearly touch it. There is something more in the air than just the smoke, something like metal or rust, and it hangs so heavy it makes her dizzy.

Suddenly, a long, loud howl pierces the silence, cutting the air in two, sending a shiver coursing through her body. Lady and Nymeria freeze, ears pricked up to the sound, before it is replaced by sharp yelp, and after that the world is silent once more. Terrible as that howl had been, the silence is so much worse – it is an aching emptiness that rips into her heart.

“We should leave,” Hot Pie whispers, his hands shaking so bad he can barely hold his sword level. “We need to leave.”

“We can’t,” Arya responds, then quieter, “we won’t.”

Sansa pulls Wolfsong from under her skirts, and lets her fingers curl round the hilt, watching it catch the light of the fire on its blade. She tempers herself, imagining the ball of anger tied up within herself slowly unfurling. “Not until we find Robb, not until we find Mother.”

Not until we know for certain. But she had known as soon as she had heard her brother’s howl, and now, now she just wants to say goodbye – surely the gods owe her that much.

She knows that tears are running down her cheeks; salt streaks make her cheeks feel cracked and swollen, her eyes stinging and puffy. Through the darkness, she feels a hand grope for her own, and she grabs a hold of it. Arya squeezes her hand with her own, but neither of them find any words.

When they finally leave the trees, they come out to a large clearing, to massive tents engulfed in flames that seem to lick the very stars from existence. The smoke is thick and acrid and fills her lungs, and she begins to cough.

“Breathe through your nose, it’ll make it easier,” Gendry mumbles, eyes wide as he looks upon the scene before them. Hundreds of men lay dead on the ground, dozens more run screaming into the waters of the fork to douse the flames.  

Her feet carry her ever forward, even though her mind screams to run, to leave, to go anywhere else. But she knows what she needs to find, needs to see. Lady matches her stride, and together they walk deeper into the camp, where the screams and shouts are even louder.

I promised Father, I promised. It’s all she can think. repeating in her mind unbidden.

Finally, she sees what she had known would be true, and in some way it is a strange relief. It would have been worse to not say goodbye.

He is lying on the ground next to Grey Wind, both of them broken and bloody. He looks different now, older, and his hair falls nearly down to his shoulders, a mess of bloody auburn curls. Blood has stained his grey doublet red, and he looks leaner than she remembers. She chokes on her tears as she finds his eyes still open – fixed on Grey Wind – no longer that bright, brilliant blue, but dull and dark and lifeless.

She reaches out to close Robb's eyes, and her hand lingers on his chest, failing to find a heartbeat. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Lady pad up softly and lick at the blood round the arrow jutting from Greywind’s chest, and feels Arya's hand on her back.

Dimly, she becomes aware of her body being lifted up as though she is a puppet on strings, and she hears words that make no sense. She growls and tries to scrabble her way back to her brother, her nails tear into the soft mud, and she thrusts the dagger down deep into the earth and feels it take root.

“No, Sansa we need to go, we need to run,” Arya says, trying with Gendry to pull Sansa away from Robb’s body. “They’re coming, we need to go.”

“Not without Robb,” she cries out, clinging to his body. "Not without Mother."

“Oy, what’re you doing there!” A man’s voice calls out. Sansa’s head snaps up to see a man in armour walking towards them, the twin towers of Frey upon his chest. Five other men follow behind him, and she knows she should be afraid, but instead she feels nothing at all.

She looks down to see Robb’s blood on her hands, thick and sticky like sap from a Weirwood tree. It's the same blood that runs through her veins, the blood of the First Men, of every Stark that has lived before them. 

Let the old gods have their justice, and maybe I’ll have mine too, she thinks, as Lady and Nymeria burst forward onto the men, ripping them apart in seconds, so fast they can barely scream. Had they been as merciful to Robb, had they given him a quick, clean death? Somehow, she thinks they didn't.

“We need to get his bones to the crypts of Winterfell,” she whispers to Arya, whose eyes are wide and dark as slate, her head shaking slowly from side to side.

“No, we’ll never carry him that far.”

“We have to try.”

Together they haul the body up and begin to carry him away. His body is so limp that it feels twice as heavy as it should, and she is shaking so violently that each step is a struggle. Soon Gendry and Hot Pie take over, and Arya comes to help her stay steady.

She begins to think that this can't be real, not after all this time, not after everything they’ve been through. This is a dream, or else this can’t be Robb; this is some other man that just looks like him is all. Robb was still a boy the last time she saw him, all easy smiles and bright blue eyes. She tells herself that tomorrow morning when they wake, they’ll look upon the body and find that it is not him, and they’ll find him and Mother in an inn or tavern, safe and sound.

They make it as far as the woods once more, before Gendry and Hot Pie can no longer carry the body, and Hot Pie collapses to the ground.

Arya is crying now too, holding Nymeria as close to herself as she can, tears coming in slow, choked waves that rock through her thin frame. 

Lady looks to Sansa, soft yellow eyes filled with a thousand years of pain. She sits back on her haunches and lets out a mournful howl for her brother, and it echoes so loud through the trees that Gendry and Hot Pie must cover their ears.

In front of them, they begin to hear the crunching of leaves, slowly growing louder. In the dim light she can see the shadows of shapes creeping behind the trees, and she wonders if these shadows are tricks of the light too, until she looks over to see Arya with Needle pointed out to face the darkness, and Nymeria by her side with her teeth bared in a snarl.

One of the shadows steps forward slowly from the darkness, arms raised in peace. He brandishes no weapon, but wears a dented breastplate, and round his shoulders is a ragged black cloak. At first her heart jumps at the thought that it might be Yoren, or another black brother come to save them, but as he walks closer, she recognizes him as another man, one she hasn’t seen in so much longer.

He is a walking skeleton made flesh – thin and gaunt, his red-gold hair dulled to brown – but still she knows him, remembers the faded outline of a lightning bolt upon his chest.

His face pulls into a sad smile, and for an instant he looks as handsome as he did that day during Father’s tourney, when Jeyne had fallen in love with him, before the light shifts and casts a shadow that looks like death across his face.

Chapter Text

"Lady Sansa." Lord Beric Dondarrion looks at Sansa with dark curiousity, a singular eye peering back at her as though to ask how and why she came to be here. She finds herself wondering the same of him; of when he lost his other eye, when his breastplate was smashed in, how that dark line around his neck came to be.

“It seems we both have managed to cheat death, though I wonder how that victory must feel right now,” he mutters as he gazes down at Robb’s body, and places his sword back in its sheath.

Sansa had heard the tales of the lightning lord who cannot die – or seems to come back – and the longer she looks at the walking skeleton standing before her, the more she wants to believe it is true. Her eyes stutter away from Lord Beric and down to the broken body of Robb, to Arya’s eyes that meet her own.

When she looks back up, she sees his expression has changed, wiped away to something taut as a bowstring, pulling at the jagged skin around where his eye had once been. There is an uncomfortable resignation there, as he watches her gaze fall back upon Robb.

"Thoros," he calls out to the woods behind him, and a tall man in red robes comes forward out of the shadows. Everything around them is so dark, yet somehow the red fabric seems to capture and drink in all the sparse tendrils of firelight. "Go on, ask him your question then."

Sansa turns her eyes to the man named Thoros, to his red robes and long grey hair, as he walks forward and gives her a perfunctory bow. "It is good to meet you Lady Sansa, though I wish the circumstances were different."

She feels a thousands miles away from the lady she once was, and it takes everything she has to remember her courtesies and respond in kind, but she does so all the same.

When she returns Thoros’ gaze, she sees that his eyes are kind – but something in the way those robes drink the fire makes her reticent. There is darkness in magic, in things that are that shouldn't be; she knows that now, can feel it in the dagger in her hands.

So she knows she should not ask it of him – whatever it is that he has done for Lord Beric. For every gift given of magic, it seems there is always a cost; but Sansa would pay any cost to have Robb back, to find her mother, to bring back her father too.

Father once told her that there is nothing more dangerous than a desperate man. It leaves her to think that he had never met a desperate woman with the blood of a loved one on her hands, because in this moment she would kneel before the Stranger himself and beg for Robb’s life.

Behind her, Arya stands wary, Needle in hand. She looks strong and fierce, as though she is afraid of nothing – but Sansa can see the tears shining on her cheeks, and wants to take that pain away too.

She takes a deep breath, letting air fill her lungs, waiting for something to stop her from saying the words. Nothing ever does.

"What you did for Lord Beric – whatever it is – can you do it for my brother? Please, can you bring him back?" Her voice stalls out on her last words, leaving them as a whisper of breath. She coughs to clear her throat. "Please, he's –" she winces at the thought of what she is about to say, but it tumbles out heedlessly anyway, "– he's still warm."

Bile creeps up her throat at the thought of her brother as dead or alive, as warm or cold – as though he is a rabbit to be skinned. Thoros stands in front of her, robes of crimson filling her vision. What god would use blood as their emblem, she thinks. What god can give life so freely, when the others only offer death?

"Are you sure you wish this, my lady? Perhaps it's better to leave the dead as they are."

Sansa bristles at the words. "Why does Lord Beric get to live then? Why should it be you who chooses who lives and who dies?” She snaps out bitterly, moving back to Robb’s body. She falls to her knees amidst the fallen leaves and lifts his head to cradle it in her lap, trying to make sense of everything that has happened.

He always said that he would be Lord of Winterfell, that he would protect us all. It can’t end like this, I can’t let it end like this.

“It’s not me who chooses, it is R’hllor, my lady. I am merely the vessel through which R’hllor gives life,” Thoros concedes, sadness tinging his words.

“Then let R’hllor decide if Robb should live or die.” Sansa replies.

Thoros glances up quickly at the towers, then gives her one last resigned look. "Very well. I should warn you, each time Beric comes back he's a little less than he was, and he's never been dead this long."

More men step out from the bushes and soon they're surrounded. A few step forward to lift the body that once was Robb – and her heart aches at the thought that it could be him again, no matter the cost.

"I don't care," she replies curtly, tucking Wolfsong into her skirts. She kneels down to Lady, who gives her hand a tentative lick, cleaning the blood away.  

"Find her, find Mother. Find her please," she whispers in her ear, letting her head dip down to Lady’s, feeling the soft fur against her face, breathing in the reassuring smell of the forest and damp musk. She lifts her face back up and nods to Arya, whose face is a quiet mask.

She cannot tell if Arya approves of what they are about to do, and some selfish part of her does not care.

Lady and Nymeria let out soft whines before bounding off into the woods back towards the twin towers.

It's better this way, she thinks. The old gods have no place in what we're about to do.

Lord Beric and his men lead them to a small cave, where a fire can be lit. It’s a small thing, barely more than an outcropping of rock under which they can sit, but there are signs of inhabitance all the same; ashes of an old fire, armfuls of hay in the corner, a sleeping roll or two near the back.

“How long have you been here?” Arya asks.

“As long as we needed to be,” Thoros replies distantly. “The fires tell us where to go, but the when – that is harder to see.”

A man in a yellow cloak adds kindling above the ashes, striking flint against steel to send it alight. Dried moss catches the sparks on his third strike, and soon a small fire is churning out smoke as it eats up the kindling and begins to lick eagerly at newly added logs.

“Aren’t you worried of the smoke?” Hot Pie asks, fumbling with his swordbelt nervously. “What if they come for us?”

“I ‘spect they’ve gotten what they came for,” rasps the man in the yellow cloak, nodding to Robb’s body, which has been deposited on a sleeping roll one of the other men brought near to the fire. “Never could trust the Freys.”

“They’ll pay,” says Arya, voice full of a venom almost unrecognizable to Sansa.

“And how will you make them pay, little girl?”

Thoros looks over to them from where he kneels above Robb, cutting open his doublet to reveal an angry, open wound over his heart. Blackened blood stains the jagged edges, and Sansa has to look away as she feels a lurch in her stomach and begins to heave.

“In fire and blood Lem – it’s the only way we all pay, in the end,” Thoros says quietly, as he looks sadly down at the body before him. He brushes the hair from Robb’s face almost gently. Mother had said so long ago that the living should never touch the dead, that it was not for the living to gaze into the eyes of death. That was why the Silent Sisters tended to the dead – it was ill luck for anyone else.

Was the Seven-pointed star so wrong to fear death? Or did Thoros not fear it enough?

“I must ask you one more time, my lady. Are you sure you wish me to do this? Once I bring him back, it cannot be undone. The will of R’hllor must be followed.”

Or what? She wants to say, but she catches the words on her tongue, and sends them back down. “I’m sure,” she replies resolutely, even though her stomach is tied in knots.

Thoros turns to Beric, who nods briskly, before shaking his head and walking from the cave.

“It’ll be okay, it’s going to be okay,” Arya mumbles, and from the corner of her eye, Sansa sees fists tucked so tight that they are bone white.

Thoros gestures for the man named Lem to leave the cave with the others, until it is just them and the body. The world seems to grow quieter as he looks intently into the flames, muttering something low and slow under his breath.

Slowly, he dips his face into the flames, so close his face should be burning. It doesn’t though, the flames simply lick at his skin like water bubbling from a stream, as he breathes it into his lungs with a sound like wind coursing through branches full of dried leaves. She hears a loud gasp and turns to see a look of fear on Hot Pie and Gendry’s faces.

It’s a fear she once knew and remembers well; the fear she first felt so long ago in Winterfell when the woods witch touched her arm. It had been like lightning cutting through her body; the knowledge that there was more to the world than anything she’d ever seen, that there were things she did not understand.

When she peers back to the fire, it has nearly doubled in size, flames reaching up to the stone above them, heat so unbearable that sweat drips down her spine.

For an instant, Sansa’s eyes see the shadow of something dance in the flames.

She leans in closer and in the tangle of reds and whites and yellows, she sees something else; something dark as night. At first, she thinks that it is merely the coals beneath the fire, but the longer she looks the more it takes shape, and she realizes with a dull horror that two dark eyes are peering back at her through the flames.

Something is wrong, this isn’t right, she thinks, feeling her body shudder under its constant gaze.

In the distance, she can hear Lady and Nymeria howl, so loud and so shattering that Sansa feels as though her blood has curdled in her veins. She scrambles back and trips over a rock, falling backwards and cutting her hands on the tiny stones that break her fall.

She looks to Arya, who looks to her, which is the only indication of fear on her stone blank face. She mouths the words that Sansa now knows by heart;

Fear cuts deeper than swords.

Does anything cut deeper than fear?

Thoros pays her no mind as though he is in a trance, and bends down over the body, breathing fire into Robb’s mouth. He lays one hand over the wound on his chest, over the heart that must be torn to shreds.

He stands up slowly, old bones creaking as he does, and walks to the edge of the cave, looking up into the night sky. “It is done,” he says wearily. “Now, we wait, and see what the will of R’hllor may be.”

Arya joins Sansa on the ground, helping her back up to sitting, wiping small stains of blood from Sansa’s hands. “It’s going to be okay,” she mutters again softly, trying to gently wipe the small stones from out of the wound so as to not hurt her.

But Sansa can scarcely feel anything at all; all her attention is on Robb, on a blood-stained hand that has begun to twitch, on a chest that has begun to slowly expand and contract with a sound like wind drawing through rushes, like the beat of hundreds of crows taking flight.

She looks to Lord Beric and Thoros who stand sentry at the mouth of the cave, but they both only look to the flames, unfazed by the scene before them.

Sansa looks into the fire and once more she sees those empty, almost familiar eyes looking back at her, watching, judging. She finds she must look away.

A rattling sound comes from Robb’s mouth, hollow as death itself. Tears begin to stream down her cheeks as the words of the old woman on the hill come back to her;

“–if you leave, you won’t come back the same. They never do.”

When Sansa was younger, her brothers and sister would all gather round to listen to Old Nan’s stories. Arya’s favourites had always been about Nymeria the warrior princess, and Robb and Jon had loved the story of the Last Hero, who ventured into the Lands of Always Winter to defeat the Others.

Bran had always loved the scary stories, and one of his favourites had been about the prince who thought he was a dragon.

He had called himself Aerion Brightflame, and lived and died long before Father or Mother were ever born. He believed himself to be the dragon reborn, that he could drink fire and would awaken as a dragon. Instead, he had poured wildfire down his throat and burst into flames.

The first time she heard the tale she had shrieked at the thought and refused to join in the stories for a week. Jon had eventually convinced her to come back, promising her that Old Nan would tell no more gruesome tales, and if she tried, he would stop her.

Now she sits beside two men that have drunken in flames that have brought them to life, and she can’t help but wonder if Aerion Brightflame hadn’t been as mad as everyone thought he was, if perhaps there was some truth to all the tales that Old Nan told.

When Robb had sat up, no blood had oozed from his wound, and he could breathe – yet the hole in his chest has not healed, at least not properly, not fully. She wonders how his heart could be healed and yet the skin over it is still angry and black. If she were to put her hand on his chest, she suspects she would not feel a heartbeat, even though it cannot be possible.

The man who sits before her looks like Robb and sounds like Robb, he even smells as she remembers Robb to smell. And if she could just forget what she has seen tonight, maybe it would be easier to believe that it truly is him, and that he is alive.

“What did you see, when you were…gone?” Arya asks, tracing her fingers along Mikken’s mark on Needle as she polishes the sword.

Robb looks to Lord Beric, who raises an eyebrow at him. In the short few hours she has known him, Sansa has found that Lord Beric asks much, and gives few answers.

“Nothing,” Robb replies distantly, eyes staring into the fire, hands clasped around a mug of ale that he doesn’t drink. “Nothing at all.”

Sansa decides that even if it is a lie, it is one she chooses to believe.

Arya chews at her lip and looks to Gendry, whose face has become severe. He shakes his head and puts his hand on her shoulder, but she shoves it off and clenches her jaw. “What about Mother? Where is Mother?”

Robb pauses and looks at Arya, eyes growing wide and sad with sudden realization, as though he had forgotten what had happened. “Gods,” he breathes. His head falls into his hands, the mug falling to the ground, ale spilling onto the rocky earth. He lets out a shaking groan that rocks his whole body. “No, no, no.” His voice is muffled by his hands, and thick with grief and pain.

“She’s dead,” Sansa whispers, though some part of her had known already, ever since she saw Robb dead on the ground. Her whole body feels numb, cold and detached from herself, and still some voice in her head repeats again and again; this can’t be real.

She finds herself wishing that they’d never left Riverrun, cursing herself for what she’s done.

“We have to go back for her,” Arya insists, her voice growing louder. “We can – we can bring her back too.”

Robb lifts his head from his hands, and a dark shadow hangs over his face. He stands to his full height for the first time, and though he is shaky on his legs he stands tall with the light of the flames at his back.

The light of the fire behind him casts his body into shadows, making him look gaunt and dark as a statue, like one of the Kings of Winter standing vigil in the crypts of Winterfell.

“You will not. I forbid it. This –“ he pauses to look at his hands, turning them over and back. “- Whatever this is, Whatever I am now, she wouldn’t want this. No one would.”

Arya stands and runs to him, punching into his chest with tightly curled fists. He lets her scream and punch until she is so tired that her swings become lazy and uncoordinated, and still there is no indication of pain on his face.

“Why do you get to choose?” She cries in between pants for air, desperation clinging to her voice.

“Why did you get to choose for me?” It is hard to read the expression on his face, half-covered in shadows, but she senses resentment in his voice.

“You’re the King in the North, Robb, we need you,” Sansa replies, her voice barely above a whisper. It had seemed so clear hours ago, but she’s no longer certain.

He gives a dry, foreign bark of a laugh. “Do you know what happened in there Sansa? My own men –“ He pauses to grimace, as though he is about to be sick. “– My own men murdered me, they murdered our mother, slaughtered my troops like dogs. My own men…”

He shakes his head and turns away to look into the flames. “The worst part is it’s my fault. I made a botch of everything. I spread my forces out too thin, went too far west, made too many mistakes. Never should have trusted Bolton, never should have trusted the Freys. Mother warned me and I didn’t listen. And – and –“

He seems to be grasping at something that is just beyond his memory, as though he’s reaching blindly into darkness.

“ –They told us you both were dead, they told us you died at the Battle of Blackwater Bay.” He gulps and swallows and his voice cracks. “The Silent Sisters brought us your bones.”

“Not our bones, Robb,” Sansa says softly, placing her hand on his shoulder. “We’re here, we’re alive.”

“Aye,” he says slowly. “And what would you have me do then? My men are all dead or scattered, the Boltons and the Freys hold the Neck, the Ironborn hold Winterfell and Deepwood Motte and even Moat Cailin, and I should be dead; everyone will believe that I’m dead.”

Sansa feels the blood in her veins stop, and a cold dread overcomes her. The Ironborn hold Winterfell?

“Robb, what happened at Winterfell?” she croaks, as tears begin to fill her eyes. She looks to Arya, but Arya has turned away, and all she can see is the way her shoulders slightly shake as she breathes. She wants to reach out and console her sister, but it’s as though she has forgotten how.

“Theon.” The name sounds more a serpent’s hiss than a man’s words. “Theon betrayed me, betrayed us all. He took Winterfell for the Ironborn, for a father who’s now dead too.” Robb swallows and looks down into Sansa’s eyes. “Theon killed Bran and Rickon, and set it all to torch.”

She pictures her chambers in ash, the proud direwolf banners swept up in hungry flames; but more clearly than anything she sees the faces of Bran and Rickon, hears the echo of distant howls dark and low and deep.

All of a sudden, her body feels too heavy to hold up. Hot Pie helps her sit down, and he seems ready to say a hundred things, but she shakes her head and he stays silent.

Bran and Rickon were barely more than babes, what kind of monster kills a babe?

The last day they had been in Winterfell, Bran still had not woken, they had left him broken in bed under a mess of furs, with his wolf pacing outside below him. She remembers holding baby Rickon and telling him that he could come to King’s Landing to visit whenever he liked. He had begged her to stay, Shaggydog running circles around them both like the wild thing he was. Would that she would have listened to her heart that day and stayed.

“Did they send you their bones too? They belong in the crypts, with Father. Shaggydog and Bran’s direwolf too.” If that is all we can give them, at least we can give them that.

Robb shakes his head, face contorted to disgust, and fists balled tight. “Theon took everything and gave us nothing. I was stupid enough to trust him, and now, it’s because of me that Mother, Bran, and Rickon are dead.”

He takes another shaky breath and Sansa watches his chest expand and contract sluggishly. “I’m glad to see you and Arya alive, believe me I am… but I failed my people; I’m not their king anymore.”

There is resignation in his voice, as though he is giving up, and it makes her angry - for everything they have sacrificed, and everything they have lost, they cannot give up now. She wants to lay her fists into him as Arya has just done, wants to make him see what is so clear to her. Why doesn’t he see that they need to take back their home, why doesn't he care?

“You don’t need to be a king to do what is right,” Sansa replies, forcing strength into her voice where all she feels is weakness. She wants to believe that it is enough to pretend that she is strong; and prays the strength will find her later. They will need it for what is to come.

Chapter Text

Robb had decided they would head deep into the Crannogs, in search of Lord Howland Reed and a small group of men Robb had sent to find him before the wedding. The Crannogmen were not numerous, but they had always been Father's bannermen, and they held hope that Lord Reed would help them gain back the North for him – or at least Sansa does. She is no longer certain at all that it is what Robb wants.

The brotherhood of men led by Lord Beric had stayed behind, promising vengeance on the Freys, promising to help their Lord Uncle Brynden hold Riverrun from the Freys and the Boltons and the Lannisters.

They had made a lot of promises, but the only one that Sansa cared about was their promise to send Mother’s bones back to Winterfell as soon as they retake it. Mother deserved to lie beside Father. Something deep inside her told her it would be what she wanted, for even though Riverrun had been her childhood home, her heart had resided in Winterfell, with Father.

But after weeks of travel through the swamps and low-lying lands of the Neck, they had not found a single Crannogman, much less the floating castle of Greywater Watch. Sansa has begun to wonder if it even exists at all, or if it was another tall tale told to them when they were children. 

Arya spends most of her time with Gendry and Hot Pie and refuses to speak with Robb. She is angry that Robb refused Mother to be brought back too, angry that he gets to live, and she doesn’t. She is angry with him for losing the North, for what happened to Bran and Rickon, and for a hundred other things that he can't seem to control. 

There is so much anger that sits inside of Arya, and it seems to grow each day, and with it she feels her sister slipping away from her, no longer able to reach out.

Sansa is angry too, at Robb, at the Freys and the Boltons and the Lannisters; and more than anything at Theon. But she remembers the way that Cersei had acted when she was angry, remembers her rapid slashes of haphazard wrath, and though they were dangerous, they often failed to succeed.

They cannot afford to fail, not now when they have lost so much, when the North sits so close to Lannister hands. Instead, Sansa holds her anger tight within, honing it like a weapon.

Sometimes it seems that Robb almost falters under the weight of her stare, and some part of her relishes it, because at least then she knows that he feels something at all, even if it is only guilt.

Robb sits atop an old courser provided by Lord Beric now, dressed in a shabby, old tunic and cloak from another member of the brotherhood. But then they’ve all been given cloaks to protect them from the cold, and she suspects she looks just as shabby and haphazard as he.

He looks tired and hungry too, but he never seems to eat or sleep; instead choosing to keep watch over them all. Sometimes he will light a fire and spend hours looking at the dancing flames. Does he see what she saw that night, or does he see something else?

Robb makes Gendry and Hot Pie nervous, and Sansa has to tell herself to not be wary of him, that he is the same Robb she has always known. But he’s not, not really.

Had it been the war that changed him? Had it been what happened at the Twins, or what happened for that hour he was gone? She sits on her pale palfrey and canters along beside him each day, trying to glean from him everything he knows, trying to make sense of a world that seems to have crumpled around her.

Septa Mordane had always told Sansa that a good ruler understands their people, and she needs to understand how everything went so wrong since she left Winterfell, to know how they can make it right again, how she can give Robb back his crown. The Iron Throne doesn’t matter anymore, nor being a queen or anything else. All that matters is making sure that they can reunite the North before it is too late.

They learn in time from passing villagers that Roose Bolton has been named Warden of the North, that he has married a Frey and his bastard holds what is left of Winterfell. He holds the North hostage for King Joffrey, and the longer they wait the more he will solidify his hold.

Robb turns in his saddle to Sansa, his expression severe. “I understand now, Sansa, and you should too. All the men in the realm will not matter if you do not have a home, if you do not hold a seat. Its why Tywin Lannister left the Westerlands and headed south, why our uncle holds so tight on to Riverrun, and why we must get Winterfell back. If not for me, then for you and for Arya.”

His words make her angry, that he could be so flippant over his own crown, over the North and all those over whom he is rightfully king. Winterfell is important, but aren't their people even more so? She wants to shake him, to make him see that they need him, that no one else could bring the North back together – if for nothing else than for vengeance.

“And what of the lands and our people? Would you leave them to the Boltons and the Freys then?” She asks, anger tipping her words with sharp points. “You told me what Ramsay did to Lady Hornwood; you would have that happen to the rest of the North as well?”

Robb’s face pulls, and he restrains anger within himself. “I would string up every last Bolton man myself if I had the men, if any chose to follow me. But we have no men, and we can’t even find Howland Reed. First, we need men, and then we take back Winterfell. Only after that can we take back the lands, and protect our people."

They have each been given a mount and provisions by the brotherhood, but the longer they spend in the Neck trying to track down Lord Reed and Robb’s wayward men, the more their supplies dwindle. 

Even if they do find Lord Reed, there is no guarantee that he will help them retake Winterfell, or that he will tell her the secret that Father needed Mother to know, and the more she thinks of it, the more she believes that it is not her secret to know. She wishes that Father had just told her what he had known, instead of sending her on this chase. How can a secret be so dangerous that uttering it aloud even once could be worth all this trouble? 

Her dreams are more vivid now too, and when she isn't in the crypts of Winterfell staring guiltily up at Father, she can see and smell and taste everything that Lady can. At night she glides freely through the swamps and crannogs searching for Greywater Watch, tucked somewhere within Lady, as though for a time they share the same skin.

When she is Lady, the world is simple, and all she needs to know is the strength in her bones, and sharpness of her teeth, and nothing else matters. Sansa knows now that these dreams are as real as the life she leads in her own body during the day – after seeing Robb brought back to life, after watching the gaping wound in his chest expand and contract as he breathes, it doesn't seem so strange.

Some nights Lady and Nymeria hunt together, taking down a small deer or baby boar. When they finish their meal, they sit back on their haunches and howl to the moon. They sing for the brother they have lost, and they yearn to find their other brother – the quiet one who doesn't speak.

When she is awake, Sansa thinks it too; that it is the only place they will be safe, that the best way to honour Father’s vow now is to tell Jon, and let him decide what he wishes to do. It feels like there is nothing to be gained in staying here. If the Crannogmen had wished to be found, they would have found them by now. And once they are there safe, perhaps Robb can entreat Northmen back to his side from the safety of the Wall.

The Night’s Watch holds no loyalties and no allegiances, but Lord Commander Mormont and Father had been close, and Uncle Benjen and Jon will keep them safe; she knows that they will. Why else would she see Ghost in her dreams most every night?

That night, Sansa curls up close in her bedroll next to Arya and tells her of her plan. She knows the travel north will be treacherous, but she has to cling to the smallest final pieces of hope that she can muster from deep within herself. It is all that is left that keeps her moving forward.

Arya squeezes her hand and gives her a wistful smile – the first smile she has given Sansa in weeks.

“I want to go North too,” Arya whispers. “Jon will protect us all – even Robb.”

It has been so long since Sansa has felt safe or protected that the thought takes root within her, as though the bud of a flower sits deep within her chest, unfurling whenever she thinks of Jon and the Wall.

The journey North is long and dangerous, taking more than two moons. If all the realm believes that all Starks are dead, then they must remain as such, and they cannot be seen. It is the only upper hand that they have, and Robb is desperate for them to retain it. They find their way north out of the Neck by the lead of Lady and Nymeria, and then Robb leads them through the Barrowlands and the Wolfswood.

The way is marred by dozens of burntdown holdfasts, by flayed men and Kraken banners. Even if we get the North back, what will there be left to rule over, Sansa finds herself thinking dismally, the image of Bran and Rickon always in the back of her mind.

They have joined a long list in her mind of all the people she has lost, and she remembers each name at night to remind herself why they must keep going. Arya has a list of her own, but she won't tell Sansa the names that reside upon it.

They move carefully and slowly in the dark of night through burnt fields and forest, never coming too close to the King’s road, steering clear of Winterfell. It is strange to think of home as no longer being home, and so painful that she finds it hard to look at Robb, and harder still not to blame him.

Death has changed him, and he seems a shell of what he once was. He looks pale and drawn, but not nearly so deathly as Lord Beric; yet inside she wonders if it’s the opposite, for he is so often quiet and withdrawn. Sometimes it is as though he doesn't even remember his life before, as though the edges of his memory have faded, illuminating only the darkest parts.

Like Arya, he seems resolute only in revenge against all who have wronged their family, and there is something in his single-mindedness that makes her nervous, as though he is a caged dog, pacing around hungrily.

The Wall has begun to loom before them in the distance, a great mountain of ice that blocks out everything before them. Though it is colder up North, the sun still shines bright, and it gleams against the Wall so strongly that it almost sets the horizon to bright, shimmering flame.

They pause for lunch in an abandoned field in Brandon’s gift. Carrots still grow in the ground in some places, and Hot Pie sets himself to work picking some for them to eat, while Sansa unfastens her long, grey cloak and places it upon the ground to sit on.

Hot Pie carefully cleans them in a stream and cooks them over a small fire until they are soft and sweet. She eats them slowly, cherishing the reprieve from oat cakes and dried meat.

“Just you wait, my lady,” Hot Pie remarks, as he eats his own with a wide smile on his face. “When we get to the Wall, I will make you sweet bread with carrots baked right into it, and we’ll slather butter on it so thick you can’t even see the bread.”

She feels her stomach growl at the thought, and looks over to Robb, who still does not eat, and just stares forward at the Wall. She doesn’t need to ask him anymore what he is thinking of – after weeks of listening, she now knows.

“What will be the first thing you’ll do when we reach Castle Black?” Arya asks Sansa excitedly, eating extra carrots that Gendry has given her from his own makeshift plate. It is the first time in weeks that Arya has not seemed preoccupied, that she has allowed herself to smile and plan for seeing Jon. She wonders if maybe Arya had lost hope, but quells that thought before it darkens her mood.

“I should like to take a bath,” Sansa replies. The thought of being warm and clean again, even temporarily, is more than she could ask or even dream of these days. It’s been months since she has removed the makeshift wimple from her hair and even tried to brush it, and she knows that she looks even worse than she ever had in the streets of Flea Bottom.

“I’m going to have Jon show me the training yard. Do you think he’s learned a lot while he’s been there? I bet they made him a ranger.” 

Sansa tries to picture Jon, but it’s been so long that her mind struggles to fill in all the details. She sees parts of Jon so clearly, yet other parts have faded, so that in her mind all she sees are smoke-dark eyes and a kind smile that reminds her of home.

He had always been good with a sword, as good as Robb or perhaps even better, judging by the times she had watched them in the yards. There was something beautiful in the way that he moved, as though swordplay were a sort of dance for him.

Would he continue the lessons that Arya had been giving her, when they reached him? She feels her cheeks warm at the thought, before remembering that rangers spent little time at Castle Black itself, and most of their time on the other side of the Wall. It makes her think of all the terrible things that Old Nan once told her that lived on the other side of the Wall.

“Maybe they made him a builder, or a steward?” She replies hopefully, watching Arya’s face turn dark.

“Why would you wish that for him?” Arya spits out angrily, as though the idea has offended her. "Why did you always hate Jon so much?" 

The words are a poison-tipped dagger in her heart, and she feels them stinging through her body. She opens her mouth to explain, but the words will not form – how can she allow them to? 

Arya stands up suddenly, and walks away in a huff. Gendry gives her a small, apologetic look, before running off after Arya.

She sighs deeply, pushing her plate away, finding she has lost her hunger. Hot Pie looks over to her, concern knitting his eyebrows together. “I’d rather be a steward than a ranger,” he says softly, trying to console her. She smiles despite herself.

“Would you say their vows too?” She asks.

His cheeks turn red, and he seems ready to speak, but as his mouth begins to open, Robb stands up abruptly and readies his courser. “If we leave now, we’ll make it to Castle Black by evenfall.”

Castle Black is less of a castle, and more a group of rundown towers and buildings clustered together, surrounded by a palisade. As they approach, she can see the disappointment on Robb and Arya’s faces. In a strange way though she finds it reassuring. If there were ever a place that cared less about ruling, and more about simple survival, Sansa could not picture it. It gives her hope that Lord Commander Mormont will shelter them despite everything that has happened in King’s Landing; that the concerns of the south will not sway him.

The small gate opens slowly to allow them entry, letting out a loud groan as a man on the other side cranks it open. She can see through the thick iron bars dozens of men all in black, standing still in the dark courtyard, and for the first time she understands why Old Nan called them crows.

In the middle of them stands a small group around which the men have given a wide berth; two older men – one nearly bald with only a crown of hair around his head, and one with a grey beard, a woman dressed in red robes as Thoros had been, and a man in black britches and black boiled leather. Around his neck is a thick black cloak, and on his hip is a sword with a pommel in the shape of something she cannot discern.

As they walk closer, she sees it to be a wolf’s head pommel, and realizes with a thrill of excitement that it is Jon that stands before them. After all this time and so long without safety, the sight of him, of knowing that they are finally safe, fills her with so much joy and relief that she begins to cry despite herself.

Jon’s hair is wilder, and his face has grown long and lean. A close-cropped beard covers part of his face, and an angry, still-red scar cuts down the rest, passing over his left eye.

He is taller than he used to be, and more tired too – as though even seeing her is a strain. Her heart stalls at the thought, and she wonders if Lord Commander Mormont will truly be as accommodating as she had believed.

It is then that his gaze switches to her, confusion marring his face as slate-grey eyes flit over her just as they used to – as though he's looking through her, into her – and she feels warm under his gaze, suddenly aware of how she must look after all this time.

Arya dismounts first and runs full tilt towards him, jumping into his arms. The strained confusion in his face melts away to joy as his arms lift her up and spin her round as though she is a child again. She cries thick tears that shake through her whole body and doesn't let go of him for minutes while he spins her round almost endlessly.

He approaches Robb next, and gives him a great bear hug, and the ghost of a smile passes by Robb’s face.

“They told me you were dead,” Jon says, his voice thick with sadness and joy in turn. “They told me you were all dead.”

“They were wrong,” Robb replies simply. Sansa wonders if Jon catches the discomfort in Robb’s face, before she sees a twitch in the corner of Jon’s mouth, and knows he has.

Next, Jon walks towards her, and it feels as though her legs are frozen to the ground, as though his eyes are fixing her into place.

She has to lift her head up slightly now to look at him. Everything about him looks so much older, and the angry scar over his eye makes his face look almost foreign to her.

She traces the length of it with her gaze, daring to look longer at his face than she ever has before. What battles has he fought since they’ve parted, has he suffered as she has? She imagines counting up each scar and tallying them against her own, of hearing the story behind each one.

Jon doesn’t smile or laugh or tell her how much he missed her – those words have already been said to Arya and Robb. She isn’t sure what words he holds for her, if any at all, and finds her mind filled to burst with a thousand things she wants to say, and yet none that she needs to.

“Your cloak,” he murmurs softly, “it’s grey.”

It is her turn now to look at him in confusion, but before she can ask him what he means by that, he pulls her in, warm arms circling round her waist. It's hard to hug him over the thick black cloak he wears, and her arms slip beneath it and around his shoulders. Her fingers splay outwards against warm leather and even warmer skin, while his hand pulls her in by the small of her back.

Her cheeks redden with embarrassment at the awkwardness of it all, yet there is something that sparks within her; for despite everything she's seen, he still feels like home.

"I'm glad to see you," she says softly.

"They told me you were dead," Jon repeats once more, though his voice is so low she knows no one else can hear. "But I knew you weren't."

He draws her even tighter to him, just as she is captured by the thought that they are holding each other too long, that she can feel the warmth of his fingertips against her back.

When she pulls away, she sees a strain tugging at the corners of his face, but she cannot read this face before her, cannot figure out what he has meant by his words. 

He is the same as before, but different too. He's a man grown now, no longer her bastard brother, but a man of the Night’s Watch, and she doesn't know him at all. Does he still know her, or is she just as foreign to him?

She turns at the sound of raucous howls and yelps to see Lady running full tilt out of the gate towards a streak of silent white approaching just as fast. In a second they collapse into a tangled mess of grey and white, of fur and teeth and claws, and she can't help but smile. 

Jon returns the smile, as she watches the way his face creases now when he does. Over his shoulder, she sees Nymeria bounding over to join the fray.

When she looks out to the black brothers around them, most of them look shocked or scared, or perhaps both. She imagines it's rare to see a direwolf such as Ghost, and now there are three of them, growling and yelping and playing outside the gate.

The woman in red catches Sansa's eyes though, red hair and red eyes burning in the darkness around them, drinking in the firelight just as Thoros had. There is something there that makes her uncomfortable, yet it is something familiar too.

A cold gust of wind catches her robes and sends embers flying into the air from all the braziers around them, but still the woman stands, watching, waiting.

Chapter Text

Flames flicker and dance, sending shadows round the makeshift castle that Sansa has now found herself within. She tries to tell herself that it is just the wind that makes them dance, but something else gnaws at her, an uncomfortable truth she has come to know all too well.

“Who is that woman?” She whispers, as she disentangles herself from Jon, tries to focus on his face instead of the woman behind him. But she recognizes the red robes, and her mind races to a hundred possible reasons that another red priest would be in Westeros – none of them ease the gnawing feeling in her chest.

“Melisandre of Asshai.” Jon’s eyebrows furrow, as he pauses seemingly to collect his thoughts. “She is–“

“–She’s a red priest, or priestess, I suppose.” Sansa finishes for him.

His eyebrows only furrow further as he looks down at her with mild confusion. “Yes, only – how do you know of red priests?”

Sansa’s eyes trail over to Robb, who stands tall and proud as the Wall behind him, his face drawn and almost sickly pale. Yet, he’d have to be alive to be sick, and she is no longer certain that he is. He is paying none of them any attention, simply watching Lady and Nymeria reacquaint with Ghost, with sadness in his eyes.

She snaps her gaze back to Jon as quickly as she can, hoping he hasn’t noticed. “We met another red priest, Thoros of Myr at Riverrun, after the…” Wedding? Massacre? There are no words to describe what happened that night, and even as she mentions it, she watches Jon’s face darken, his nostrils flare, and his eyes follow over to Robb as well.

Does he know what these red priests do?  Sansa thinks. Has he seen shadows in the flames too?

Jon’s jaw clenches and he gestures Sansa and Robb to walk with him, towards Melisandre and the two men that stand apart from the other Black Brothers. She assumes that one must be Lord Commander Mormont, but neither of these men have Northern features, as a Mormont should, and neither are dressed all in black.

“Sansa, Robb, this is Lord Stannis Baratheon,” Jon declares. Sansa’s eyes widen with recognition and fear at the man before her, at the thin crown of grey hair about his head, at a hard, gaunt face with dark blue eyes. He is so unlike his brother, King Robert, yet still she should have recognized him from what she had been taught by Septa Mordane on their travel from Winterfell to King’s Landing.

Instantly, she drops into a low curtsy, not daring to look him in the eyes again.

“Pardons, Lord Commander, you mean to say King Stannis Baratheon,” pipes in the man with the beard that stands beside Stannis.

Sansa stands back up in confusion, looking around for Lord Commander Mormont, and still seeing only Jon. The muscles of his jaw are working now under his beard, and the smallest twitch of his eye are all that serve to give away his frustration, but Sansa can see it bubbling deep within him, like when Theon would tease him when they were boys.

“Yes. King Stannis,” he corrects curtly, flexing his thickly-gloved sword hand. Sansa watches the way it clenches and unclenches like the beating of a heart.

“This is my hand, Lord Davos Seaworth and the red priestess, Melisandre of Asshai,” Stannis says, addressing them. His voice is tired and worn, as though he has not slept in a moon.

Robb gives Stannis a withering look, but bows his head in deference all the same. He does not call him king though; in fact, he says nothing at all. She can’t help but think that it is preferable to him opening his mouth and giving away what he is really thinking, what he has been telling her for months now. The North does not recognize southron kings, not anymore.

The look that Stannis gives back to Robb as Jon introduces him is filled with confusion and some sort of anger; and it does nothing to garner her trust.

“They told me you died at the Twins, at the hands of Freys and Boltons,” Stannis says evenly. He casts a weary sideways glance at Melisandre, and suddenly it becomes clear whom she serves. “A ghastly business by what I’ve been told, and they will pay for their crimes, rest assured. I am glad though to see not all of the tales are true.”

Yet the way that he grinds his teeth, and the way a vein on his painfully smooth forehead pulses tells Sansa otherwise.

The exchange is so tense that she nearly forgets that Ser Davos has called Jon Lord Commander - but that must be a mistake. How could he possibly be Lord Commander? Where has Mormont has gone? And why is Stannis Baratheon here with him, calling himself King?

“Jon –“ Sansa begins, before the sentence dies on her lips, air pulled from her lungs by the red woman that has stepped so close to her she can see that her eyes are like two dark rubies. They too seem to drink up the flames.

Melisandre reaches forward quickly and grabs Sansa’s hand, pulling her even closer. She is young and almost painfully beautiful; a beauty meant to conceal everything that lies beneath. Sansa wonders if this woman has ever met a man she cannot bewitch. She breathes deep and smells only smoke and blood.

“The flames told me of your arrival, of a girl in grey,” Melisandre says, with a voice like softspun silk, like fine Dornish wine. “But they chose not to show me the whole picture I see,” she continues, casting a glance over at Robb.

Or maybe you don’t know how to see what they show you, Sansa thinks, feeling something angry and painful itching underneath her skin the longer the woman holds onto her hand.

Melisandre’s eyes pass over her to behind them where Hot Pie and Gendry are tacking up the horses and unloading the meager goods they have left. Sansa knows that they have no taste for this, that they only wish to be safe and warm with a roof over their heads.

She knows the Night’s Watch will provide them that – even if they never choose to say their vows. But the way that Melisandre is looking at them makes her worry that she has only taken them all this way to put them in more danger.

“Who is that?” She asks, pointing to Gendry.

“That’s Gendry,” Sansa replies carefully.

“Gendry,” Melisandre calls out, her voice floating like leaves in the wind. “Come here, boy.”

Gendry steps forward until the light of the fires illuminates his face in full.

“Who are you, boy?” Stannis barks out, stepping forward to get a better look at Gendry. Melisandre steps forward too, grabbing his chin, pulling his face forward and peering into his eyes. Sansa looks round, but cannot see Arya anywhere.

“Gendry, my lord – I mean, my king,” Gendry stammers.

“Your Grace,” Sansa hisses under her breath to him.

“I mean, my Grace,” Gendry tries to correct, but Stannis is already looking impatient.

“Your family name Gendry, and where you’re from,” Stannis gruffs, his face pulled even tighter than before.

“I – I don’t have one your Grace, though I guess it would be Waters. I was born in Flea Bottom.”

“Seven hells,” Stannis mutters, while Melisandre continues to watch him. Her eyes seem to shimmer brighter for just a second, while Stannis’ only darken.

Jon looks at Gendry now too, his face marred by a jagged frown that tugs at the scar on his face. “Sansa, how are you here?” He swallows, and she watches the muscles of his throat tighten and loosen. “How is Robb here?”

She glances at the red woman, at a ruby that sits at her throat, and the fire in her eyes. “I think that is a story for another day,” She replies, slowly gazing back to Jon, following the trail of his scar once more.

Her eyes are drawn to it like her tongue had been drawn to a loose tooth when she was a little girl. It is different and discordant, and she wishes she could pull it from his face like her tongue had pushed the tooth from her mouth.

“For now, I wish to have a bath, and I believe that Arya is waiting for you in the training yards.”

Jon’s face is contorted by discomfort once more, and she can see the muscles of his jaw working as he tries to say something, or perhaps stop himself from saying something – she cannot be certain.

“Unless it’s too much trouble –“

“No,” Jon interrupts. “It’s fine, Sansa.”

He waves over to a slight man with fine black curls that almost remind her of Jon’s. 

“Satin, this is my half-sister Sansa,” Jon says plainly. After all this time, he never forgets to call her what she is, and it tears a small hole within her. He is the only family they have left now, and still he places himself apart.

“Well met, my lady,” Satin drawls, and now that he is close, she can’t help but notice his fine features, can’t help but blush when he kisses her hand.

Jon coughs loudly, and once more the muscles in his jaw work as he grinds his teeth, and flexes his sword hand at his side. “Satin, please fill a bath for Sansa, I will have them all settled in the Silent tower.”

“Aye, Lord Commander,” Satin replies, giving Sansa a small smile.

“And please have Val see to Sansa; she’ll be needing new clothing.” Jon now looks even more uncomfortable, and his cheeks have tinged with the slightest pink. How terrible must she look for Jon to be speaking to her as such?

“I’ll go get her now.” Satin runs off in the direction of a round tower over a hundred feet tall, that stands across the courtyard from them.

“Jon,” Sansa tries to start once more, before he turns to walk away. She reaches out and grabs his hand to stop him, finding the leather glove warm and supple in her fingers. “Jon, are you Lord Commander?”

He looks down at her hand and swallows hard. “Aye,” he says finally. “Now I need to see to everyone else. Val and Satin will make sure you have every comfort.”

He turns away before she can tell him that they need to speak privately, before she can tell him of Father's secret, and what she suspects. He walks briskly past King Stannis and his Hand towards Robb. She tries not to focus on why Robb should capture all of Jon’s attention, and why he has assigned others to take care of her. She tries to remind herself that they were never close – not truly.

The red woman’s eyes track from Sansa to Robb as he stalks across the courtyard towards the Wall, and to Jon who follows close on his heels. The ruby at her throat seems to glow even brighter as the night falls deeper and heavier around them, drinking all the light from the world.

Sansa wonders if Melisandre can see the shadow of death hanging off Robb’s shoulders the way that she does now.

Sunlight is streaming through the window, sending bright white rays along the furs of the bed that Sansa and Arya are sharing. The light doesn’t bother Arya though; she merely rolls over away from the window to sleep some more. Sansa can’t blame her sister, it is their first night in a proper bed since before Father died.

As soon as that thought passes through her mind, Father’s sad smile is conjured up too, and she is thrust fully into wakefulness. 

She sighs resignedly and draws the furs away from her, climbing off the bed. A shiver runs through her from the cold morning air, and she notices that the fire in the hearth has fallen to mere embers overnight.

She retrieves Wolfsong from beneath the bed, and shaves bark from the logs for kindling. As they catch, she slowly adds logs to the embers and fans them to catch the flame.

The whole process is done without a thought, almost automatically. It is a stark reminder of how different things are now, to how they were before.

Sansa had only seen sixteen namedays when she left Winterfell for King’s Landing, and in that time she had never lit a fire, would not have even known how. Now it is almost second nature to her.

In the corner of the chambers sits a small desk, and draped upon the chair is a dress that Val had given to her the night before. It is a dull white, made of roughspun sheep’s wool, and trimmed with ermine at the sleeves. It is finer than anything she has worn in months – or has it been years? She is no longer certain how long they have been travelling.

Old Nan used to tell them stories about the Wildlings; about their vicious nature, about how they stole women away from their homes and never returned them. She had always pictured in her mind men with dark, shaggy hair, wearing threadbare rags that smelled like the kennels of Winterfell.

But Val had been none of those things.

She was beautiful, with long golden hair and light grey eyes that had stood bright against the firelight as she had shown Sansa the dress, and her smile had been kind and warm. But more than that, she had been gracious, had even offered to help Sansa bathe – though Sansa could not accept the offer, not after finding out Val’s true station.

Jon’s steward Satin told her that Val was a princess on the other side of the Wall, that her sister had been Mance Rayder’s wife, and that he had been the King Beyond the Wall. It all had seemed so strange to her – how could men who were more beast than human follow a King? How could they have a princess that looked like Val? Those thoughts had troubled her the rest of the night.

A great many other things had troubled Sansa; though she dared not voice them to Val. She knows now that there is no one she can trust, save for her family.

Sansa begins to pull the roughspun dress up her body, struggling to tie the ribbons of the bodice behind her. When she is finished, she sits at the desk and brushes her hair slowly, relishing in this simple joy that she has been denied for so long.

Her hair is so long now that it curtains round her shoulders and halfway down her back, and it seems to have only grown a brighter shade of auburn in it’s time away from the sunlight.

Val had told her the night before that the Wildlings revered red hair, even called it kissed by fire. Sansa holds her hair in her hands trying to find the flame within it; but it is only smooth and cool to the touch. It's nothing like fire, save for the colour, she thinks to her relief.

Last night, Val had also told Sansa of everything that had brought her to this side of the Wall; of how Jon had held the Wall against Mance Rayder, and been sent to treat with him after. She told Sansa too of how Stannis Baratheon had butchered thousands of Wildlings, and nearly butchered Mance's wife Dala’s new babe too. Mance himself still sits in the ice cells, and has not been allowed to see his babe.

Val had not told Sansa what had happened to her sister, but she knew by the sadness in her voice that Dala is dead. It had left Sansa thinking that there is nothing sadder in the world than a babe without a mother.

She had fallen asleep dreaming of the Wall, and despite the exhaustion in her bones, and the joy at finally having a warm, soft bed, she had slept restlessly the whole night.

It had been something Val had said, about why the Wildlings wanted to pass the Wall, about what hid in the shadows of the night and brought the cold with them wherever they went.

Old Nan had only told Sansa the story of the Others once, before she had begged to never hear it again for it had made her so frightened; but as she lay awake staring at the stone ceiling, she found herself wishing that she had paid more attention.

Whenever she would fall asleep, she would dream of eyes that watched her in the darkness; first grey, then red, then blue. They had changed colour again and again, faster and faster, until all she could see were the outlines of the irises, and pupils staring at her, black as the darkest night.

And when she had stepped back to get away from them, she had realized with horror that she was in the crypts of Winterfell once more, and the eyes belonged to the statue of her father.

By the time that Sansa has finished brushing her hair out, Arya has begun to stir, and the castle courtyard has begun to fill with the sounds of men going about their days. 

She leaves Arya to rise slowly, finding small blacks outside the door that someone has found for Arya, as though she herself is a black brother. The thought pulls at something inside her, reminds her of how easily Arya had become Arry when they had travelled with Yoren. She wishes that Arya would wear anything else, something that reminds her of who she is, who she was when they were in Flea Bottom and kept each other safe.

It’s selfish, she knows, but she feels like her sister is slipping away from her like sand through her fingers; like she is desperately clinging to haphazard grains while the rest flies away on the wind.

The Silent tower has thick stone walls, and a thin winding staircase leading to the chambers where Arya and Sansa had slept. Below them are other chambers, which Robb, Hot Pie, and Gendry had been given to sleep. Jon had not wished for them to sleep in the King’s Tower where Stannis and the red woman sleep.

When she peeks her head into each chamber though, she sees that they are all empty. What irritates her most though is when she sees the furs on Robb’s bed undisturbed, knowing he has not slept again.

She heads out from the tower and into the courtyard in search of Robb, finding him leaning against a battlement looking down at the training yards as Jon runs his men through drills. His eyes turn away from the ground below as she approaches, and the light shining down on them from the Wall makes them shine a brilliant blue.

“You didn’t sleep in your bed last night,” Sansa remarks, as she moves to stand next to him, watching men duck and parry with clumsy sleep-addled movements. Jon barks out orders as he walks the lines, each yell louder than the last.

“I wasn’t tired,” Robb replies, his thickly gloved hands gripping the stone tight. She looks him up and down to see him dressed all in black as well.

“Black doesn’t suit you.”

Robb lets out a dry laugh. “Aye, but it’s all they have. Where did you get that dress?”

Sansa looks down at it and is surprised by how white it appears in the early morning sun, by the contrast between her clothes and everyone else’s. “Val gave it to me to wear, until I can make us some new clothes.”

“Val,” Robb says, the name lingering on his tongue just a little too long for Sansa’s comfort. “Jon told me last night about her. Some men call her a princess, others a Wildling. Tell me which is true.”

“Both, I think. She is beautiful, but not frail. She is kind and generous, but she is cautious too – she carries a knife under her skirts.”

“Like you then,” Robb retorts, looking at her with a small smile.

“It doesn’t matter though,” he continues, the smile eroding to one of dismayed concentration. “We can’t stay here long, not with Stannis here too.”

“No,” Sansa says firmly, “we just arrived here, we aren’t leaving.”

Down below them, Jon has taken a practice sword from another black brother and is fighting against 6 men, coming at him from all directions. It seems impossible to Sansa that he could win this battle, yet he continues, doggedly blocking thrusts from every direction.

“We can’t stay, Sansa. You heard Stannis proclaim himself King. How can he be our King, when the North is free?”

Sansa can feel her jaw clench at Robb’s words, and her bare fingers reach out from the long ermine-tipped sleeves to grasp the stone battlement as well. It is so bracingly cold that her fingers immediately feel frozen to the stone, melded to it with ice.

“Is the North truly free? Is it free when it is held by the Boltons, controlled by the Lannisters? If not the Boltons, then who will rule it? You told me you didn’t want to be King; let Stannis be King then, and we will be his allies, and he could help us take back the North.”

Robb’s nostrils flare, and she can see anger on his face. “Stannis will never be King – not of any Kingdoms. Have you seen the woman that he worships? Did you see the pyre he lit last night? He prays to R’hllor, to the black magic that–” He shakes his head and runs his hands through his ragged hair.

She can see now that he still has not bathed, and knows why he hesitates, lest anyone see the open scars. “Do you really, truly believe that we are safe as long as we are here, with him and that red priestess?”

She peers down to see that Jon has disarmed all 6 men, and they have fallen back as a group. His whole body is heaving with the effort of breathing, but the sword sits still as calm water in his hand, pointed towards their throats. One of the brothers yells out Yield, and Jon lowers the sword.

“We are safe as long as we are with Jon,” Sansa replies simply. She walks away from Robb before he can say anything more.

Sansa finds Hot Pie in the kitchens of the common hall, kneading a great pile of dough. He gives her a great wide smile when he sees her, and runs forward to give her a hug that covers her in flour. He apologizes profusely, but she finds she doesn’t mind, and merely teases that in blends in well with her dress.

He leads her through the kitchens to a large dining hall where brothers have already gathered at the long tables to break their fast. She still is not used to seeing so many men all dressed in black, and finds it jarring to walk through the room with their eyes upon her.

“Here, my lady, this is the table for the Lord Commander,” Hot Pie says, as he leads her to a great oak table in the front of the hall. Chairs line only one side, such that they must all eat facing the other men. He gestures for her to sit in the middle, and when she tries to correct him, he only tuts and pulls out the chair.

How can she tell him how improper it is for her to be the first to sit, to sit in the middle of the table at all? This seat should belong to Robb or Jon or Stannis, not her. The words die on her tongue though as she takes in his smile – his first genuine smile she has seen in a long time, and she relents.

Hot Pie runs back into the kitchens and appears a minute later with a tray laden with all manner of breads and butter. He places it in front of her, beaming with pride.

“As I promised my lady, all the breads you could hope for and more.”

“Thank you,” she replies softly, grabbing for a dense bread that he points out as the carrot bread he had promised her. She lathers butter over it, and tears a small piece off, placing in her mouth. She is certain that it is the best thing she has ever tasted. "It's delicious."

Hot Pie beams once more, before they hear the sound of metal clanging against the floor in the kitchens, and his face contorts into one of disgust. “I’m sorry, my lady, I must go. They need me.” His voice sounds tired, but underneath she hears a sort of pride too.

It must be good to feel needed, she thinks, and it leaves her chest feeling tight. The only thing anyone will ever need from me is my name. 

Robb had told her he doesn't mean to be king, that the North will remain independent. He has rejected the notion of joining with Stannis, leaving her to dread heading back to Winterfell, at the thought of what his words imply. 

It makes her angry to think that Robb sees her this way, as a means to hold and unite the North. Will he choose her husband without even telling her? Will she find herself draped in another house's cloak before she even realizes what is happening? Would it be a merman or a giant, a sunburst or a silver fist?

What if she tells Robb she wants none of them?

A few minutes later, everyone else enters from the training yards, and Sansa stands to await her brothers and King Stannis. Jon takes the seat beside her, while Robb takes the other. Arya sits on the other side of Jon, and Gendry sits beside her, busy telling her about the castle armoury. She is surprised to see that King Stannis and Ser Davos never appear, nor does Val or her sister’s baby.

“You look well, Sansa,” Jon says as he sits. “I’m glad Val found you something to wear.”

Sansa looks down at the fine white dress and smiles. “Thank you, Lord Comm–“

“Jon,” he interjects with a pained expression on his face, “please, just Jon.”

Satin comes round and pours them all a thick breakfast ale, and Sansa takes a long sip to clear her mouth. “Thank you, Jon.”

They all pass around the bread and butter, as plates of bacon, sausages, and eggs are brought out from the kitchen.

“Is it common for King Stannis not to break his fast with your men?” Sansa asks Jon, placing another small piece of bread in her mouth.

Jon turns to her. His eyes flit down to her plate, to the bread and the butter that still coats her knife. He smiles warmly. “I’m afraid he still does not feel comfortable with my men, he is a… difficult man. I’m glad to see you are not suffering the same discomfort.”

Sansa’s cheeks flare red as she thinks what a sight she must make, sitting in a lord’s chair, eating his bread and butter before he does, all while his men watch.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, unable to look up from her bread. “I was just so hungry, and it’s all so good. I can move.”

“No,” Jon says with an air of mirth. “Though I wish Maester Aemon were still here to see to you after breakfast; you may be the first person to think our food good.”

“It is good though,” Arya interjects, “Hot Pie has been busy baking since before the sun rose.”

The corner of Jon’s lip twitches in amusement. “Hot Pie?”

“He is our friend. He travelled with us all the way here,” Sansa replies.

“A boy named Hot Pie is your friend?” Jon asks her, the amusement in his tone only growing.

She can feel the hair on the back of her neck rise, defiance rising to a crest within her, combining with her anger from Robb's words earlier. “Is that so hard to believe?”

She stabs bacon off the plate with her fork, and tears into it in a way that she knows is unladylike, but something in Jon’s tone makes her not care. Her mouth fills with the taste of smoke and salt, and she feels victory as his mouth hangs slightly agape at the sight.

His brow furrows before he bites at his lip and takes a long draught from his ale. When he puts the mug back down, he wipes the foam from his face with his arm, and flexes his sword hand. It is a habit he seems to have picked up, that he falls to when he is angry or frustrated. 

Giving his emotions away so clearly will have himself killed someday, she thinks.

Jon's eyes track over to Robb, whose plate is still empty, and Sansa wishes he’d at least fill it for show, if for nothing else. Jon swallows hard, the apple of his throat bobbing up and down. “No, I suppose we’ve all changed, haven’t we?”

She looks from Jon to Robb, who is now sharing his gaze, something unspoken passing between them.

“You spoke without me last night,” Sansa says. It could have been a question, but she already knows the answer.

She should have gone after them last night, when they’d both stalked off towards the Wall. Now she can only guess what they’ve spoken of atop the Wall, and if that is what has made Robb so determined to leave.

“Aye,” Jon says slowly. He dips the bread into liquid egg yolk that now covers his plate. “We didn’t want to bother you, you needed to rest.”

Sansa purses her lips and puts down the bacon. “It is my decision what I need and don’t need. I had a right to be there – Arya did too.”

The muscle in Jon’s jaw twitches in annoyance. “Robb is King in the North, and he did not wish to disturb you.”

Anger bubbles up thick and hot within her, and she finds she cannot contain it - it has been too long since she practiced such courtesy.

Robb has spent months proclaiming that he is no longer King in the North, that the North belongs to her and Arya; yet now he presumes to know what is best for all of them, and Jon seems all too happy to oblige.

She stands up so quickly that the metal legs of her chair scrape loud against the stone floor, causing most of the hall to pause and look up at her.

“Sansa,” Jon hisses, his hand reaching out to grab her wrist. The skin of his palm feels strangely smooth and scarred. “Where are you going?”

She shakes his hand from her wrist. “Don’t worry, my lord, I wouldn’t wish to disturb you.”

As she walks from the hall, she still feels the ghost of his skin against her wrist. She tries to forget the feel of it, and focuses instead on the pain in her heart.

Chapter Text

Sansa makes sure to walk carefully from the hall, trying to move through the quiet tables with some semblance of dignity. She does not look back at Jon or Robb or even Arya, does not wish to give the men the satisfaction to watch her make a further scene than she already has.

As soon as she has left the hall and is back out in the courtyard though, she allows herself to run. Thick grey clouds have gathered since earlier when the sun was rising, and no sun glints off the Wall now. The whole world has been reduced to greys and blacks and whites.

Stark colours, Sansa thinks. The colours of winter.

She slows down when she reaches the far eastern side of the courtyard, her mind moving so fast she cannot keep up. Ahead of her now appears to be a lichyard; neatly lined rows and columns of headstones, spotted with decades of lichen and moss.

In Winterfell, all the bodies of the Starks were buried in the crypts, but the servants and household guard were buried in a lichyard that looked similar to this one, not that Sansa would often go. She had been so afraid of ghosts, of things that lurked in the night to snatch her up and steal her away.

Snow is beginning to fall now, coating her world in a thin film of white. She turns her face up to let the snowflakes fall and melt quickly against her face, like frozen dewdrops that tickle lightly against her skin. It reminds her of her childhood even more, reminds her of all the good memories of home – but memories are all she has left now.

Would Winterfell’s lichyard still be there now, after Theon put it all to the torch? Would the crypts have survived as well? They would need to put Mother’s bones to rest there, and Bran and Rickon, if their bones are ever found. Robb would come to rest there too, in time, and Arya as well, she is certain.

And me – when I die, where will my body lay to rest?  Winterfell belongs to Robb, though he may claim it doesn’t, and it doesn’t belong to her. No, her bones will go to rest beside her husband, whoever he will be, in whatever place will become her home.

Even if Winterfell were hers though, some part of her is afraid of going back now, of seeing the blackened ruins of it, of being haunted by the ghosts of everyone she has loved and lost that used to roam the halls - Mother and Father, Bran and Rickon, Jeyne and even old Tommard. She is afraid too of what hides in the darkness of those crypts, because she knows now that men don’t always stay dead.

Old Nan had told her once that the crypts were older than Winterfell itself; that the first tunnels had been built around the ancient hot springs and Weirwood tree by the children of the forest. They had been claimed by Brandon Stark when he set to building Winterfell, and some even say the children of the forest helped build Winterfell itself, that magic resides in those old stone walls.

No one she knows has ever seen the end of the tunnels, not even Arya – and she was always the bravest of all of them.

“Sansa!”

Jon’s voice carries from twenty feet away, loud and clear through the eerie silence that snow always brings. He has not put on a cloak, and is only wearing his training leathers; thin, shabby things that they are.

His voice brings Lady and Ghost, who follow behind him slowly, and against the snow-covered world, Ghost’s red eyes are all the more jarring. It’s a different red to that of Melisandre and her R’hllor though. Their red is that of fire and flame, bright and sharp; but Ghost’s eyes are the dark red of a Weirwood, ancient as the stones below them, older than the Wall itself. He belongs to the old gods, the ones who never speak and only listen.

She wonders if R’hllor is old too.

“Sansa!” Jon calls once more, this time only a few feet away. “Sansa, come back and finish your breakfast.”

He comes to a stop one row of headstones away from her. Fresh snow has begun to collect on the tops of his head and shoulders, and he shakes his head, sending flakes floating around about them.

“I’m not going back to Winterfell – not without you and Arya and Robb.” Her words come out sounding flat and petulant, and she does not try to hide her anger. Inside her mind is screaming what she wishes she can say – we’re only safe when we’re together. Something deeper still is so terribly afraid of being alone, that it is too painful to even think of.

“Sansa,” Jon says again, as an ungloved hand reaches out to grasp her arm again. She pulls away from it’s reach before it can grab her. She is still distracted by the memory of his skin upon her, cannot afford to be distracted further by a fresh reminder. Frustration and pain wash over Jon’s face as he watches her recoil. “I’m sorry that Robb and I spoke without you, but I truly didn’t think that you would care to hear what we talked about.”

She bristles against his words. “What is it that you spoke of, Lord Snow?”

Jon clenches his sword hand tight, seems ready to tell her not to call him a lord once more, before he thinks better of it and closes his mouth, jaw grinding as he does. It is a wicked thing to take such pleasure in his frustration, but she does so all the same.

He looks around now to be sure that no one is around, and speaks in a low, hushed tone. “We spoke of what happened at that wedding, of how you all came to be here now. He showed me his–“ Jon pauses to gesture at his chest, and Sansa chews at the inside of her cheek. “We spoke of how to get back the North, of politics and who we can and can’t trust. But more than anything, we spoke of how dangerous it is for you to be here at the Wall, and how we must take back Winterfell and send you there as soon as possible.”

Sansa catches the anger before it betrays itself in her face, relaxing each muscle slowly so as to give no emotion away. “You spoke of where to send me, of where I am safe, and you didn’t think I would care?”

“I – I’m sorry,” Jon says slowly, taking another step forward. She tries to step back in turn, but the headstone behind her prevents it. He is so close now that her world has shrunken to salt-sweat and leather and Jon’s face pulled tight once more with concern. 

“I wasn’t thinking, I suppose. Or thinking too much of how you were back in Winterfell, how little you cared of politics back then. But it’s not safe here at the Wall; there are a hundred dangers here that you don’t know of. Stannis has already threatened to have my head once – it’s only a matter of time before he asks again. I would not have you here when he does.”

Stannis seems to be a difficult man, and his allegiance with R'hllor concerns Sansa greatly, but he has yet to give her the impression that he is unreasonable. It may be time to rethink that impression, she thinks gravely as she weighs Jon's words, surprised to find that they don't make her fearful, but angry instead. Once more she finds herself repeating that they are safer together, that Jon may need her as much as she needs him.

“There is danger everywhere, and I’m not a child anymore - I’m not who I was in Winterfell,” Sansa replies bitterly, pulling Wolfsong from underneath her skirts. Jon’s eyes track to the lifted hem as it catches in the cold wind before falling back to the snow. She can see that the wind has whipped his cheeks bright red, but his face gives nothing else away.

“Where did you get this?” Jon reaches out for the blade, and Sansa hands it to him hilt-first, the way that Syrio Forel had taught her.

“Father gave it to me, just before Arya and I escaped.”

“This is Valyrian steel,” Jon says breathlessly, tilting the dagger to see the ripples of metal. He rotates the knife in his hand once more, fingers dipping into the fine cracks in the dragonbone hilt, before handing it back to Sansa. “Why did Father give this to you?”

Sansa tries to bite down tears as the memory of Father invades her mind - of his last sad smile on the steps of the Sept of Baelor. “This is the blade that nearly ended Bran’s life, the blade that tore into Mother’s palms when she protected him. Father said that it would protect me now, that after the pain it had caused us, from now on it would keep Starks safe. He knew that I would need to protect myself.”

In the distance she can hear the caw of ravens in the Rookery, can hear the sound of wind whipping through the cracks in the ancient stone towers, whistling to some old song that the rest of the realm has long forgotten. 

“You say it isn’t safe for me here,” Sansa continues. “How safe do you think it was to live in the Red Keep with Joffrey and his mother? How safe was it for me and Arya to live in the streets of Flea Bottom for weeks, to travel north with prisoners bound for the Wall? How safe was it for us at the Twins, with Robb’s blood on my hands and skirts, knowing that Mother’s body lay broken somewhere we couldn’t reach? There is no danger here that I have not seen before.”

Lady lets out a loud howl that echoes against the Wall. Far off in the distance, the answering call of Nymeria cuts through the silence of the snow. Ghost’s ears perk up and he lets out a quiet whine.

“Sansa.” Her name is like a brand on his tongue, pleading and admonishing in turn. “You don’t understand–“

She shakes her head in defiance, and her other hand falls to the headstone to steady herself. All the anger and pain that she has caged within - tied tight as sinew to her bones - is now bursting from within her; red-hot and narrowing her vision until all she can see is Jon, and everything else blurs to dim greys and whites.

“–I understand that there are Wildlings on the other side of the Wall, that Stannis Baratheon is the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms, and means to use us to help secure his seat. I know that there are Others marching closer each week, that they too will try to breach the Wall. But do you understand that the North belongs to the Boltons and the Lannisters? That I am not safe in Winterfell as long as they live - no matter how many men you send to hold it?”

Jon gives her a weary smile then. “I see you and Val have spoken at length without me as well.” Sansa opens her mouth to retaliate, but before she can Jon begins to speak again. “But she doesn’t know the whole truth of it all. She doesn’t know that King Joffrey is dead.”

Relief washes over her so powerfully that all the anger and hurt of seconds before flows from her like snow-melt down a mountain. It is only now that she can feel how hungry and tired she really is, and her muscles begin to slack with exhaustion and relief despite every attempt within her to gain control.

Jon’s eyes widen in alarm as the snow rushes up to meet her; her world collapsing to only snow and sky and the black of Jon’s clothes.

She wants to tell Jon that she is fine - she is finally, blessedly fine - but it feels like she is in a cloud, disconnected from her body. Warm arms clad only in thin patchwork leather lift her up, and absurdly all she can think is that she will mend them when she has time.

Her head lolls weakly to fall against his chest and her eyes close of their own accord. As she is carried off, her world shrinks further to only the constant sound of Jon’s heart beating, to a memory of when she was a little girl and Father would pick her up when she was hurt and carry her back to safety.

In her sleep, Sansa dreams that she lives in a castle made of snow - a memory from some other life. Great turrets of ice extend from the ground to the sky above, and the thickly packed snow walls keep her safe from the world; but she is lonely too.

One day a giant attacks her castle, tearing down her snow walls, and smashing every turret. He tells her that she belongs to him, that she always has and always will. His face shifts in dark shadows and all at once his hair is blonde and black and silver-grey, and his eyes seem ready to devour her.

Just when she is sure that she will die – that there is no escape – a knight appears atop a fine, black courser, and slays the giant. When he dismounts and removes his helm, she is surprised to find that it is Jon that has saved her life. Jon bends a knee to her, proclaiming her the queen of love and beauty, and hands her a single winter rose.

Sansa wakes to the sound of quiet snores, in the bed that she and Arya share in the Silent tower. It is nearly dark, and she slowly realizes that she has slept the day away.

She sits up slightly, expecting to see the source of the snores to be Arya, but instead there is a man sitting in a chair beside the bed, head tilted back and eyes closed. At first, she thinks it might be Robb, but Robb's hair is not so dark. Instead, she is surprised to find that it is Jon, that he is here watching over her, still, after so many hours.

Lady sits peacefully by the hearth, and in the corner of the room on the dressing table is a plate of fruits and cheese, and Val's dress neatly laid out over the chair. She looks down to see herself dressed only in a woolen shift, and her face turns scarlet as she scrambles to cover herself with the bedfurs.

“You’re awake,” Jon murmurs sleepily, head tilting forward, and a small smile upon his face. He looks younger like this, still drowsy and covered in sleep. Like this, he reminds her of the same boy who would lie on the grass in Winterfell and listen to her tell him what she saw in the clouds.

“Did you – how am I –“ Her face only reddens further as she gestures to the shift.

“Gods, no, Sansa,” Jon stammers, his eyes trailing to the furs then quickly away. “Arya did that, she said you’d be more comfortable. I just – I just came to check on you.”

“I’m sorry I made a scene,” she replies, biting at her lip. She tries to remember what they were talking about before she fainted, but all she can remember is her dream, and Jon on his knee, giving her a single winter rose. She forces the strange vision from her mind.

“I should have been more tactful,” Jon admits. “I should have told you after you had broken your fast.” He swallows thickly, and his fist curls tight and unfurls. “I know that Joffrey must have meant a lot to you once, before all this happened, before he had Father killed.”

He turns his back to her and brings the plate of food to her, depositing it on the bed.

It comes back to her slowly; the lichyard, Jon’s face, placid and calm. Wind whistling and snow blowing, and words that she has waited to hear since they last saw Jaqen H’ghar – King Joffrey is dead.

Sansa can’t help but laugh, can’t stop the smile that strikes across her face, no matter how hysterical it makes her seem. “No, you misunderstand me, Jon. Joffrey was a monster.” She bites at her lip but cannot fight the words from bursting forth. “Tell me, how did he die?”

Jon looks at her incredulously, sitting back down in the chair beside her. “Are you sure you wish to know? It’s not a pleasant tale, I’m sorry to say.”

“I’m not,” she replies simply, grabbing a grape and popping it into her mouth. 

“Very well," Jon replies, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion at her mirth. "Cersei found her son in his bed chambers one morning when he failed to wake. There was an axe planted squarely in his skull.”

Sansa tries to stifle a smile, tries to admonish herself for taking such joy in Joffrey’s death. “Do they know who did it?”

“The axe belonged to his uncle, Tyrion Lannister. He was found guilty of the murder. I thought it impossible when I first heard – I met Tyrion long ago when he travelled to the Wall. He seemed a decent man.”

“I’m not certain there is such a thing as a decent Lannister,” Sansa retorts.

Jon gives her a hard look. “A man is not defined by his name, but by his actions. Tyrion was the first nobleman to visit the Wall in years, and he has sent us more recruits than any other Lord.”

“So you believe he didn’t do it?” Sansa asks, taking another grape. It is both sweet and tart on her tongue.

“I don't know what to believe. Kinslaying is one of the greatest sins, by both the old gods and the new. I never would have thought him capable, but he escaped shortly after he was found guilty, and his own father was then found dead too. Tyrion has fled King’s Landing and no one has seen him since.”

Was that Jaqen too? Sansa wonders. Or were they both Lord Tyrion, and this is simply good luck?  She isn't sure that they will ever know the truth it, not unless she can ask Jaqen himself. She suspects she will never get that chance.

“I am sorry to hear this,” Sansa replies automatically while stifling another smile - remembering a courtesy from a thousand years ago.

“Yet you’re smiling,” Jon counters, with a grin of his own. “Tell me truly, is this really good news for you?”

Sansa bites at her lip once more. How can she make Jon understand her relief, her joy at this smallest piece of freedom he has granted her? “Joffrey once told me that if I gave him a daughter, he’d string me up like he strung up the castle cats. He once told me that he had sent men into the Kingswood to kill Lady. He had said a hundred other horrible things and warned me of what he would do to me once I was his wife. I know it is terrible, that perhaps it makes me a terrible person, but yes, his death brings me relief.”

“I don’t think you’re a terrible person, Sansa,” Jon replies sternly. “I think that in the end we all reap what we sow.”

He stands abruptly and turns to the windows. She hears the sound of scrabbling claws against the panes of glass, before Jon pushes the window open and an old, large raven swoops in to land beside the plate of food. “Seven hells. That bird has a mind of his own.”

“Corn! Corn!” The raven caws, its beak tapping gently against her hand, so lightly it tickles.

“There is one thing that bothers me though,” Sansa says, ripping off small pieces of bread and cheese and feeding them to the bird. “Who is King now?”

Jon closes the window just as the air has become so cold she can almost see her own breath, and comes to sit at the chair beside her once more.

“Snow! Snow!” The raven caws this time. Once more, Sansa dutifully feeds it more bread.

“That is what Robb and I spoke of, what we will now all need to discuss. By all rights, the throne belongs to Stannis. Joffrey was a bastard, and Tommen and Myrcella are too. None of them have any right to the throne; the whole realm knows that now.”

His voice dips down lower, and he leans slightly forward, so close that Sansa can trace the pale, jagged scar that runs down his face. “The Tyrells and the Martells have married off their children, and I believe they mean for Trystane Martell and Margaery Tyrell to take the throne from Cersei. They have closed down the Rose Road and blocked off all supplies. The citizens of King’s Landing are starving, and beginning to revolt. I believe they mean to save the city from disaster within a few moon’s turns; and will ask for the Iron Throne in return.”

"But they have no right to it," Sansa exclaims.

"Aye, and what right do the Lannisters have? Besides, it seems to me that birthright counts for little during a war."

A wash of relief floods through Sansa at the thought that the Lannisters may lose the Iron Throne, but just as it does, she notices Jon’s eyebrows furrow, and the relief stalls within her. “Will Dorne and the Reach not support Robb to take back the North from the Boltons?”

“That is the problem,” Jon replies. “Not as long as you all are here, with Stannis. Having Stannis here makes us all traitors to their throne.”

“Throne! Throne!” the raven caws, bouncing from one claw to the other. Jon shoos him from the bed, and it comes to perch atop a bedpost, looking intently at them both.

“And even if we can somehow gain the favour of Dorne and the Reach, Stannis will–"

“–He will see it as a betrayal by all of us, even me. He will kill me, and you, and Robb, and Arya. He will kill my men and defend the Wall himself, as best he can, until it falls. That is why you must leave as soon as possible.”

"There must be another choice," Sansa insists, her mind trying to fit the pieces together in a way that does not end with them apart and fractured, with any of them dead. It's like a game of Cyvasse, each piece is one of them. She finds herself wishing she had paid more attention to how it was played.

Jon frowns and stands to walk to the chamber door. “Aye, there must be, though none have appeared to me yet. I will let you sleep now; we’ll speak of it more tomorrow. I just wanted to be here when you woke to tell you that I am sorry I did not think to include you." He comes to pause at the door, teeth sinking briefly into the fullness of his lip. "I will be sure it does not happen again.”

“Jon, wait,” Sansa calls out, while his hand is still on the door. Without thinking, she pulls the covers from atop her and runs to him so she can speak in hushed tones, forgetting her state of dress. 

The cold air has set her skin to gooseflesh and she can feel herself begin to shiver. But she’s already waited too long to tell him of what Father told her, and she needs to tell him now – before she loses the courage.

“Go back to bed now, Sansa,” Jon breathes, “or you’ll catch a cold.” His voice is strained and hoarse now for some reason, as though he himself has caught a cold. “I promise, we’ll speak of everything tomorrow."

He reaches out, and the tips of his fingers track lightly along the gooseflesh on her arms, sending a shiver down her spine. Suddenly she is too aware of how thin her shift is, how close she is standing to him, how much older he looks now. The image of him on his knee before her flashes by once more, powerful in some curious way.

His hands pull back quickly from her arms. “I’m sorry, I should go,” he murmurs softly, his eyes meeting hers only for a second, before they flit away again.

He walks from the room, the raven’s calls for corn echoing down the stone corridor. Sansa's fingers linger on the skin that he has just touched.

Arya has taken to practicing in the training yards every morning with Jon and his men. She blends right in and looks just like them in her ragged blacks cinched tight round her thin waist. Though many of the men refuse to spar with her, and a few even begrudge her very presence as a lordling’s daughter playing at swords, several will train with her all the same.

In the thin morning shadows provided by the battlements, Sansa stands beside Gendry, watching the training unfold.

Sansa is learning the names of the men of the Night’s Watch – learning who they can trust and whom they can’t. The man that Arya spars with now is named Pypar, and he is one of Jon’s oldest  and truest friends. He is small and slight like Arya, but where she moves swift as a deer through a forest, his moves are slow and given away by the strain in his face just before he lifts his sword.

Arya lunges forward with Needle, and sends his sword spinning across the training yard.

“Why don’t you train with them?” Sansa asks, watching Arya return the sword to Pypar, and challenge Jon in turn. Since their arrival at Castle Black, Arya has challenged Jon nearly two score times, yet she has not disarmed him once. Sansa doesn’t think that Arya will stop until she does.

“I don’t want to be a Black Brother, I don’t want to say their vows,” Gendry replies stubbornly, crossing thick arms across his chest. He’s covered in soot from the armoury, where he now spends most of his days.

Arya dances quickly around Jon, around a hundred sharp thrusts that could gut a man twice her size, if Jon ever followed through. He is careful though never to make a man bleed in the training yard, and doubly so with Arya.

The way he looks after her makes Sansa jealous, for a reason she cannot quite discern. She finds it hard to believe that Jon would ever be as kind to her as he is with Arya, and has not yet built the courage to ask Jon to help her train.

“What do you want then?” She asks.

Gendry shifts on his feet, eyes fixed on Arya. “You may have only lived in Flea Bottom for a few weeks, but I lived there for years. I grew up on bowls of brown, or some nights nothing at all, and never thought I’d grow up to be anything at all. But when I am at a forge, I’m making something real, something powerful, and I feel like I matter.”

Arya spins around suddenly, flashing Sansa and Gendry a wide grin, before she tumbles backwards to Jon’s surprise.

“King Stannis has begun sending shipments from Dragonstone of this rock called Dragonglass,” Gendry continues. “Lord Snow says it kills them, says that if I can fashion it to spears and arrowheads and knives, that we could win the war. I want to help us win this war.”

Jon lunges forward now to get closer to Arya, but in doing so he throws himself off balance, so that when Arya slashes at him he cannot block her blade in time. She taps the flat of it against his calf and smiles once more. Jon only grunts, and jumps backward, regaining control. He is deft and strong, but still unaccustomed to the speed of the waterdance. Sansa thinks though that he might be learning.

In a split second his eyes darken, and anger takes over within him. His movements become heavier, more focused; faster too. The flat of his sword, Longclaw, taps against Arya's arm, her thigh, her gut, before he drops it to the ground, breathing heavily.

It’s as though he loses himself in battle, Sansa thinks, seeing guilt pass across his face as the anger fades away. 

“We could have kept going!” Arya calls out as Sansa watches Jon bend to pick up the blade, watches the Valyrian steel ripple and shimmer in the morning light. He resheathes it in its scabbard, and in its absence his sword hand flexes tight once more.

Satin has told her already that King Stannis had visited Jon’s chambers again last night, with Melisandre in tow. She always follows him wherever he goes, like a shadow on the wall. Whatever they spoke of cannot be good, for Jon is wound up tighter than she has scarcely ever seen him.

“What do you think of King Stannis? Why do he and the red priestess seem so interested in you?” Sansa asks Gendry carefully, as Arya and Jon begin to walk towards them.

“I don’t know,” Gendry replies, his forehead furrowing as he tries to think. “He just wanted to know who  trained me at the forge and was very interested when I told him it was the master armourer Tobho Mott.” He scratches at his beard that has grown in thick and dark as his hair. “I think he just wants to be sure I can rework the Dragonglass properly.”

“Perhaps,” she concedes, though it does nothing to relieve her of the tightened knot in her stomach, of the voice in her head that reminds her of the way that Stannis had looked at Gendry the night they arrived in Castle Black, long before any talk of the armoury.

Jon ruffles Arya’s hair and gives Sansa and Gendry a nod, before he turns away to break his fast with his men. After, they will all sit down and decide together with whom they should pledge fealty to, of whether the North will remain independent, of whether Robb will be its King. Then, she will finally tell Jon of Lord Howland Reed, and release herself from one of her many burdens.

Sansa cannot help but wonder what it is that Jon wants, if he is even capable of allowing himself to dream past the Wall and dark stone of Castle Black anymore. She wants to believe that if he could, he would want what she wants; to finally be free.

Chapter Text

When she was a girl in Winterfell, Sansa was always made to break her fast in the hall with Mother and Father. She had never even seen the kitchens until her tenth nameday, when Arya had convinced her to sneak in for more lemoncakes.

The extra plate of cakes shared with her sister on the floor in her chambers had been worth the scolding the next day, but not worth the punishment of spending the next week in the kitchens scrubbing pots and cleaning chickens.

Here in Castle Black though, there is no one to punish her for being in the kitchens, or anywhere at all. It is a strange, heady feeling to be trapped with no home, and yet suddenly have this small freedom thrust upon her.

She knows that it is temporary, some part of her knows that Jon is right, that it isn’t safe here – but it is hard to think that when she is sitting at a counter and Hot Pie is kneading out dough for buns, and she can eat her favourite sweetmeats straight from the bowl.

She is careful to leave the raisins and instead munches on pieces of blood orange peel, candied from boiling for hours in sugar syrup. Fresh fruit is a rarity at the Wall, so Hot Pie is careful to make use of every piece. He pinches off balls of dough and forms a divot, putting a scoop of sweetmeat in each one, before rolling them closed and placing them on a tray.

“You could help, my lady,” Hot Pie calls over his shoulder, as he places the first tray in the oven.

Sansa bites back a smile. “I fear I’d make a botch of it all, and wouldn't want to waste the dough.”

Hot Pie shoots her a cheeky grin, just as Satin walks in with an empty tray, and begins filling it with food and drink for the Lord Commander – for Jon.

“Good morning, my lady,” Satin nearly purrs, eyes warm with his customary mischief. He pulls a draught of ale from a large keg in the corner and places it on the tray, before coming over to sneak a few raisins from Sansa’s bowl. “If you take all the candied peel and I take all the raisins, I daresay we’ll make a perfect pair.”

She can feel her cheeks flush at his forwardness, yet another part of her loves how at ease he is with everyone he knows, and she is beginning to understand why Jon has made Satin his steward.

“A perfect pair of thieves,” Hot Pie retorts, taking the bowl away from them both to fill the remaining buns.

Satin flashes her another grin, before leaning in close to whisper in her ear. “The Lord Commander has requested that you join him and your brother and sister atop the Wall after breakfast. Castle Black has ears and eyes, but none atop the Wall.”

He stands and floats away from her, gathering rashers of bacon, boiled eggs, and a thick heel of bread for his tray, before winking at her and leaving for the hall. 

When breakfast is done, Sansa walks towards the winch cage as slowly as she can, her stomach twisted to knots. She can see the fine cord that runs up parallel to the Wall; a thin line between life and death, and it swings wickedly back and forth in the wind. Her mind drifts to the vision of it snapping while she is in the cage, halfway up the Wall, and she shudders involuntarily.

Across the courtyard, Arya is sitting with Nymeria and Lady. It is hard to miss them now, with how large they both have grown, with their shaggy grey coats standing out against the white of freshly fallen snow. They are each larger than ponies now, though Nymeria is taller and more wiry than her sister. Arya sits atop a barrel, feeding rashers of bacon to Nymeria, while Lady looks on, eyes hungry and full of longing.

Arya’s gaze darts up to Sansa as she approaches, and Sansa can see the dark circles under her sister’s eyes. She hadn’t come to sleep until late last night, long after Jon had left.

Sansa pushes the memory of Jon’s fingers skating down her bare arm away just as quickly as it appears, forcing a curious shiver to stall midway down her spine. It reminds her of something Jeyne had said once about how it made her feel to watch the boys train with swords in the courtyards of Winterfell; hot and cold at the same time.

“Why does she still hate me,” Arya grumbles as Nymeria takes the pieces of bacon, but still shies away from Arya’s hands once they are empty. “Lady has forgiven you.”

Arya’s shoulders slope down, and her expression is hard, fixed as the Wall in front of them. It would be so easy to reach out, and yet she feels miles away. Her sister is like an oak tree, strong and sure and unwavering; so unlike her that it is hard to understand.

She thinks that Arya blames her for what happened that night at the Twins, that she made a wrong decision in having Thoros bring Robb back. She has wondered that too, more times than she can count.

Or maybe Arya has taken on all their burdens, made them entirely her own. The way Arya clings to revenge makes her think that it could be so.

“I think that Nymeria may have had a harder time than her sister, out there in the woods together. Perhaps she cared for Lady so well that now she is just tired and needs to rest. It isn’t easy to carry the weight of the realm on one’s shoulders alone.”

Arya bites at her lip and pushes her growing hair from her brow. “She’s stubborn is all,” Arya spits out, as she runs out of bacon and Nymeria pads softly away.

Sansa’s face breaks into a small smile, which Arya slowly reciprocates. “That too, yes.”

They walk to the old iron winch cage in silence, and the closer they get, the taller the Wall seems to grow. She tells herself that there is nothing to be afraid of, that she has faced far more dangerous things – it does nothing to quell the fear that grows inside her like a seed.

The cage groans to life as the winch cable begins to tighten, pulling them up with jerking, stalling movements as the gear grinds slowly round and round. In the distance, a raven floats along in the morning breeze.

“What happens next?” Arya asks, fingers playing along the hilt of Needle. 

From halfway up the wall, Castle Black looks even smaller than it already is; a black smear in a world of white and grey.

She swallows down something that sticks inside her throat – words or thoughts that she can’t say aloud, doubts and indecision that do no good to dwell on. Instead, she says what she knows she must.

“We’ll take back Winterfell and the North; for Robb, for Father and Mother and Bran and Rickon. We’ll take back our home, and lay their bones to rest together. We’ll take back our lands for all the people that once served us, and we will serve them in turn. We will rebuild their villages and holdfasts, and see them safely through winter.”

“And what of the Freys? What of Theon? What do we do when the North is Robb’s to rule? He says he doesn’t even want it.”

Sansa takes a deep breath, tries desperately to find peace and calm in the shaking cage. She imagines herself within Lady, sprawled out in the snow, safe on the ground below. The air is full of man smells; some rich with fat and smoke, others acrid from soda and lye. There is something else in the air, something cold, and it grows closer every day.

“We don’t get to choose the cup we drink from; we must simply drink,” Sansa replies. “We will do as we were always meant to do – we will marry lords from old houses and broker goodwill  to reunite the kingdoms. And Robb will rule the North – he is the Lord of Winterfell.”

She hates that it is true, hates that she is a piece for Robb to manoeuvre. She wants to stay at Castle Black as long as she can, until the North is free. Long ago in Winterfell, the old woods witch had told her that she saw Ghost in Sansa’s future; and she thinks now that it was for a reason, though it isn’t clear to her yet. All that she is certain of is that she feels drawn to the Wall, to Ghost, and to Jon.

But it doesn’t matter, because Jon wants her gone from Castle Black, and Robb wants her in Winterfell – so that is what she must do.

“That’s stupid,” Arya replies. “We always have a choice.”

The raven flies closer to the winch cage, and Sansa can see now that it is larger than the other ravens, older too. Silver-grey feathers sprout forth from beneath black plumage, and she recognizes it as Mormont’s old raven, the one from her chambers last night.

“Yes, we can choose between doing what we wish, and doing what is right. But there is a cost to doing what you wish - to not doing your duty. If we do not unite the North, we will all suffer for it when winter comes.” And when the Others come with it.

The cage lets out a sickening groan, every iron bar of it shaking in the wind and from the effort of being pulled upwards. She cannot force the image of it falling from her mind, cannot stop the terror from showing on her face.

“Fear cuts deeper than swords,” Arya reminds her, grabbing Sansa’s hand tightly.

“If it cuts deeper than swords, then that must mean it is truly dangerous.”

“In a way,” Arya replies. “But the fear is often bigger than the danger, sharper and more insistent. It sits within us and slices away until there is nothing left, until we cannot move or act at all. Fear only cuts deeper because we let it.”

“I miss Syrio,” Sansa mumbles. She wishes that she had had more time with Syrio Forel, to learn all the lessons he taught Arya. Arya tries to teach Sansa some of them, but lately there has been no time, and Arya has been in no mood. She hopes that soon she will find the courage to ask Jon to help her train.

“I miss him too.”

“And Mother and Father, and Bran and Rickon,” she whispers, her voice betraying her and cracking halfway through, as tears begin to well up in her eyes.

“Me too,” Arya says solemnly, her eyebrows furrowed as though she is in thought. Her fingers grip around the hilt of Needle for just a second, before she relaxes them and lets go.

Sansa looks at Arya, trying to will the tears from the corner of her eyes, and the sharp, angry pain in her gut to subside. “I’m afraid that the worst is yet to come,” she whispers, reaching out for her sister’s hand. “Please don’t leave me too.”

“Leave, leave!” The raven caws as the cage reaches the top of the Wall. The bird floats along in the breeze with her words, making a great swooping arch, before coming to rest upon a parapet high above them.

Robb and Jon are already standing atop the Wall when the winch cage groans and shakes as it lands upon the massive ice ledge. The top of the Wall must be nearly fifteen feet across, with ice and wood parapets running along each of its massive sides. It is so immense that it is difficult to conceive of how the Wall was ever completed.

Jon opens the cage door and helps Sansa from it, thick gloved hands wrapping around her own. She is wearing the ermine-trimmed dress that Val gave her again, with grey fur gloves – those too gifted by Val. A lifetime ago, the thought of wearing another’s clothes would have been abhorrent to her, but it almost comes as second nature now. Besides, it is a far cry from the woolen dress and wimple she had worn for months on end.

“You’re shaking,” Jon murmurs softly, pulling his arm round her waist to lead her into a wooden alcove built to protect from the wind. It is so much colder this high up that she finds herself leaning into the warmth of him, still half-dazed with fear from the winch cage.

It is only when Robb and Arya come to sit on small three-legged stools beside them that she realizes Jon’s arm is still around her, his fingers still resting on the swell of her hip. She sits down as quickly as she can, joining her brother and sister.

Jon’s mouth forms a hard line as he hunkers himself down, black furs and cloak billowing out round the stool he perches on, leather straps of his cloak tight round his chest. His hair hangs haphazardly across his face, tossed about by the wind outside.

“I’ve spoken to each of you alone, but we must speak together now,” Jon begins, his voice loud and deep as it had been in the training yards. “You must come to an agreement on what you do next.”

Her gaze drifts to his face, and she follows the jagged scar from charcoal eyes to the top of his thick beard. It’s as though he’s wearing a different face today, one of Lord Commander Jon – not Jon the bastard brother that she grew up with, played monsters and maidens with, not the Jon who sat by her bedside last night until she woke.

“We will go to Winterfell,” Arya announces with an absolute clarity that Sansa envies. “And then we will kill every last Frey and Bolton.”

“And we’ll do that with what army?” Robb replies dryly. He runs his hands through his hair in exasperation as Arya gives him a withering look.

“If we bend the knee to Stannis, he must help us take back the North. He’s the King, isn’t he, Jon?”

“He is a King,” Jon clarifies before Robb can respond. “It is not for me to say who is the rightful King, or to support any claim at all. The Watch takes no sides.”

“It’s a little late for that,” Robb scoffs. “Stannis has made himself comfortable here, hasn’t he? His wife and daughter sit safe at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, while he and that red woman are here, everywhere, all at once.” A muscle twitches in his jaw as he speaks of the red woman. It seems strange to Sansa how much he has come to loathe the very thing that brought him back from death.

“He saved my life, cut down the bulk of the Wildling host – I have no choice. His men could be the difference between life and death when the Others come.”

“Seems to me you’ve taken a side then.”

Jon stands suddenly, the stool tipping over as he does. His sword hand flexes and releases methodically at his side, and for a second the anger within him shows itself, before he tampers it down. “Aye, I’ve given him shelter and food, but he has given me men in return, and his ships are bringing me Dragonglass as we speak. I am doing what we must to survive.”

“And you would have me do the same?” Robb’s voice is full of contempt as he speaks, as he comes to stand too, facing Jon. “You all would give up the North to a man who calls himself King when he holds no kingdoms, and relies on you for food and shelter? Why should we give him a thing?”

“Because he is here and he has men, and we do not,” Sansa replies quietly, her hand tugging at Jon’s, urging him to sit back down. Robb seems so eager to condemn Jon for supporting Stannis, and Jon so eager to take offense. They had always been so close in Winterfell, that it’s as though they are different people now; but then she is too, as the cold flash of metal against her thigh reminds her. But there is something else about Robb that bothers her, something that makes her worry for them all. 

“You are so eager to take back the North, but you will not reveal yourself to what loyal men there could be remaining; you will not even call yourself King–“

“–There’s already enough kings here,” Robb interjects. “The realm is crowded with self-styled kings; Stannis, Mance Rayder, Tommen Baratheon, and now this Trystane Martell who’s marching up the Rose Road as we speak, with all the might of Highgarden and Dorne behind him.”

“I wasn’t finished.” Her voice sounds like ice when she speaks again, surprising even her. “Why are you so afraid to reveal yourself, to take back the North in your name? If you do not wish to be king, why not bend the knee?”

Robb’s nostrils flare as he takes a heavy breath. He is quiet for a minute, while Sansa and Arya share looks of their own. She thinks she knows why Robb refuses to call himself King, why he refuses to reveal himself to his leal men. Something tells her that Jon knows too, that he gleaned it from his time alone with Robb.

She has seen glimpses of it when they spoke on the way north to Castle Black – a blankness to his expression when she speaks of what happened at the Twins, what brought him and Mother and Lord Edmure there. He is singularly focused on taking back something that he barely remembers having, angry at a betrayal that he doesn’t quite seem to understand.

The alcove is silent except for the sound of wind whistling through the cracks in the wood, and for the rustle of the raven’s feathers as it preens itself beside Sansa. She realizes that her gloved fingers are still sitting upon Jon’s wrist, and snaps them away as quickly as she can, not missing the curious look he gives her.

“He doesn’t remember,” Arya says plainly, words cutting through the silence like a blade. “Lord Beric and Thoros warned you, told us there was a cost. Beric said each time he came back he was a little bit less than he was before.”

Robb’s eyebrows are knit together tighter than she could scarcely stitch, and he has that pained look upon his face that Gendry often gets when he tries too hard to think. “How long have you known?”

“Syrio Forel taught me to see the world as it truly is, not as we present it to be,” Arya explains. “Every person has a tell, a thing they do when they lie, that you did that night when you came back. You’ve forgotten your life, but you remember what you saw in death, as Lord Beric does too.”

“You said you saw nothing,” Sansa exclaims, as Robb turns around, shame hanging off his shoulders like a cloak.

“Nothing, nothing!” The raven caws, and scrabbles along the parapet to the open air, swooping once, grudgingly, around Robb as it takes flight.

“I saw a fire,” Robb begins, still turned away from them. “Bigger than any I’ve ever seen in life. Its flames licked the stars from the sky, its smoke burned my eyes til they watered. And the closer I looked, the more certain I was that there were two eyes in the fire, looking back at me; waiting, watching. But I couldn’t walk away, because it surrounded me on all sides, inching in closer until I too was the flame, the smoke, the sky.”

His words so remind Sansa of what she saw in the flames that night, that she feels herself begin to shake. How is it possible that he saw what she saw too, when he was on the other side of death?

“And when I felt myself being brought back; those eyes kept trying to pull me back down. I think that part of me never left those flames.” Robb turns to them now, eyes wide and sad, fingers grasped around the sword hilt that sits at his hip; a shabby thing borrowed from the armoury. It should be Ice that he wields now – it is his by rights, just as the North is too. “And I don’t know how, but the red woman knows. She can see right through me; she knows that I am not whole.”

Thoros had warned her, and what Robb is saying now worries her, yet Sansa still cannot bring herself to be afraid of Robb. She needs to believe that he can become who he once was, or maybe even more.

“Robb, what do you remember from before you died?” She asks carefully.

“There was the battle of the Whispering Wood. Then I sent Theon to his father. After that most of my host headed west, to Oxcross. Mother was sent to treat with Stannis and Renly, then came back when that failed. There was a battle at Duskendale…” he grimaces, lost in thought. “I – I know that after that I came back to Riverrun, sent men to treat with Howland Reed, and we headed to the Twins, for Edmure to marry a Frey.”

Jon gives Robb a curious look. “Why was Edmure to marry a Frey?”

“I don’t remember,” Robb admits in confusion. It’s as though he’s grasping at fog, and it slips away before he can reach it. He sits back down upon his stool, resting his head in his hands. 

“We thought you were all dead; Bran and Rickon, and you both. They told us you all died. We went from victory against the Lannisters to loss in a matter of weeks. I don’t remember what happened, but I know it was my fault.”

Jon’s face forms into a tight line. “Do you know which of your men you can trust, and which betrayed you?”

Robb grimaces once more. “I cannot be certain. Only Lord Edmure could tell me the truth of it all, and he is likely held by the Lannisters and the Freys.”

“Then we must support Stannis, have his men help us take back the North,” Arya says, watching Robb with wary eyes.

“No,” Robb replies curtly. “Thousands of my men died for me, bled for me, and Mother did too. I will not disgrace their memory by giving Stannis what was so wrongly taken from us. I will not bend the knee.”

“You are acting the boy,” Jon snaps, clenching both fists tight. “You are placing pride over the lives of the North.”

“And you care too little for our freedom; for our revenge.”

Sansa remembers a burnt-down village they passed on their way North, a child's doll abandoned in the mud. Where is their revenge?

“Do you think the lesser houses care how hard you fought when their crops are burnt, and their children are dead? Do you think that they care if you are a King or a Warden?” Sansa asks. “I know the smallfolk are angry that father is dead – he was good and honourable, and he cared for his people – but what you suggest now will only cause more pain for those people he always protected.”

Robb takes a ragged, shaky breath, and once more the alcove grows silent. “You would all have me bend the knee to him then? Is that your wish?”

“I believe that it will save the most lives,” Sansa replies carefully. “But if we do this, we will need allies. We cannot fight battles on every side alone; against the Wildlings and the Others, against the Freys and Boltons, against the Lannisters and whoever holds the Iron Throne.”

Robb considers her words for a time. “Jon, you said that Stannis has a shipment of Dragonglass coming into Eastwatch in a moon’s turn. What would it take for him to give me passage, to lend me some men to get to the Vale, and on to Riverrun?”

“I imagine he’d give you passage, once you’d bent the knee.”

The words hang heavy in the air as each of them look at the other in turn. There is no right choice here, Sansa thinks, only the one that least offends him.

“So be it,” Robb says gruffly, with an air of finality. “Just tell me one thing, Jon; do you believe that Stannis will make a good and just King? Will he protect the North and our people?”

Sansa watches her sister and the way that Arya watches Jon. She is calculating him, weighing him, watching every movement, slight as it may be. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other as his fingers play along the scabbard of Longclaw. Arya taps almost imperceptibly at her side – but Sansa remembers their code.

“Stannis is the most just person I have ever met,” Jon replies slowly, with words too careful to put Sansa at ease. “He believes in the Others, he knows the importance of defending the Wall, of this war to come. Once he is back in King’s Landing though, he will hold little sway here. If you come to find him objectionable, when it comes time to crown him, you could always choose not to."

"Aye, and make myself a turncloak too," Robb replies curtly, distaste and doubt cross his face. Yet he nods all the same when he speaks again. "Very well, if this is your counsel, I shall take it under advisement."

Sansa cannot help but think that he is too much like Father; that he cannot play Stannis false, cannot play anyone at all. But that is what they must do in order to survive.

He and Arya stand to walk towards the winch cage together, but Sansa grabs Jon’s arm before he can leave. “There is something we must speak of, in private, before you go.”

Jon’s eyes narrow in interest, and he waves Robb and Arya on ahead. Mormont’s raven is jarred from its perch atop the cage as it groans back to life, and the bird comes to rest on the parapet between them.

“Corn! Corn!” It cries. Jon closes his eyes and lets out a heavy sigh, and all of a sudden it’s as though the mask has fallen, and he is her Jon again, the Jon that she remembers from Winterfell.

She gathers up all the courage she can find within herself and tries to imagine how he will react to what she is about to tell him. A hundred possibilities fill her mind, and she cannot be sure which one will be true.

“Before we escaped King’s Landing, Father told me something that I think you deserve to know,” she begins.

Jon raises an eyebrow at her. “Father gave you a message to give to me?”

Sansa considers what she will say carefully. She knows she must use tact in her words, that Jon’s feelings towards Lady Catelyn are complicated at best. “He told me to seek out Lord Howland Reed, to right a mistake he made a long time ago, to finally set free a truth he kept secret for far too long.”

The apple of his throat bobs up and down as he swallows, muscles and sinew bunching under taut skin, but he does not speak. She thinks that he is connecting the pieces that she has connected too.

“I’ve given it a lot of thought, of a mistake that Father could have made, of a secret that only Lord Reed could set free. I cannot be certain, but I think that he knows who your mother was.”

Jon gives her a pitiful, strangled laugh, skin crinkling around the corners of his eyes in a grimace of a smile. She can’t be sure if he means to laugh or cry. “Father always told me he’d tell me when I was ready. I suppose it only makes sense that I’d learn now, when it no longer matters.”

Sansa’s hand reaches out to his forearm to give him comfort. “Of course it matters, Jon. You’d have a mother; you’d know her name.”

“I’d be a Snow either way, and my family is the Night’s Watch now. I said that in my vows.”

“Snow! Snow!” The raven caws, beady eyes fixed on the two of them, before Jon swats it away.

“So you do not wish to travel south and find out the truth from Lord Howland Reed?”

His face pulls into a full grimace this time, and all pretense of a smile washes away. “I’m not sure I wish to know, Sansa. Even if I did, I cannot leave the Wall,” Jon maintains. “I am the Lord Commander and it is my duty to hold it.”

The words sting deep within her, that he would call the Watch his family, that he cares so little to know of who he truly is. Has he shed himself as easily as Arya can? But when Arya does it, it's only pretend – with Jon, she can't be certain how tight he holds onto his black cloak.

“Am I no longer your family then either? Does who you are truly matter so little to you?”

For a time, he says nothing at all, eyebrows pulled tight in concentration. Sansa wants to believe that she sees indecision there; in the curve of his brow and the strain of muscles in his neck. 

He considers her hand on his arm, before pulling it down to join his own hand. When he looks up, his eyes are dark as raven’s feathers, and he looks so certain that she almost misses the tightness in his jaw. “The Watch may be my family, but you are too, Sansa. I will always remember that I am Lord Stark’s son, and that it is just as much my duty to keep you safe. That is all I need to know of who I am.”

She wants to ask him what he wishes he could do, what he would do if duty did not compel him. But it is a silly notion, for she has duties as well, and she knows she will follow through same as he.

“And as Lord Stark’s daughter I have a duty to marry some Northern lord and broker an alliance.” Her voice is strained as she tries to stifle the lump in her throat. “But if I am truthful, I want to stay here.”

“Sansa,” the words come out in a hiss of sorts, long and slow on his tongue as though her name is twined into his breath, as he drops her hand from his. “You can’t stay here.”

She traces the scar on his face with her eyes for the hundredth time. She wonders if perhaps all of him is the loose tooth that she wants to push back against, to pull from within her because he is not who he once was, because he says that the Watch is his family as much as her, and yet he keeps pushing her away. 

Her mind drifts to her dreams; to Jon on his knee with a winter rose, to the winter roses that lay at Father’s feet, and Ghost who sits there beside him. And even though Jon has told her why she cannot stay, she is surprised to find that she does not care, for everything beyond Castle Black seems far more dangerous than anything they could face here, together. 

“I know,” she bites back. “I know what I must do, just as you know what you must do. But that doesn’t mean I’m not afraid. What if we die trying to take back Winterfell? What if we take it back and I am haunted by its ghosts?”

She looks down at her dress, bone-white as the bark of a Weirwood tree. Father once told her that back when Northerners married before the old gods, the bride would dress in white herself, pure as the tree in front of which they would marry.

When she looks back up at Jon, he is watery and blurred, and she knows that tears are falling from her cheeks, and that he sees them too. “What if my husband is cruel and hurts me just as Joffrey did?”

Jon’s expression softens, and he wraps her up in his arms, burying her face in his chest. Her nostrils fill with the scent of well-worn leather and the salt of sweat, and his hold upon her is so tight that when he speaks, she can feel his breath hot against her neck, sending that same shiver of earlier down her spine.

“You will stay here until the North is secured, until it is safe to go. You will choose the man that you marry, and Robb will have no say in it,” Jon breathes.

“And if the man you marry ever so much as touches you when you do not wish it, I vow I will kill him myself.”

Chapter Text

It is the scent of a small deer that catches her attention; sweet and musky in the air. She tilts her head up from where it sits curled underneath her tail for warmth, watches her brother and sister do the same. The moon hangs low in the distance, but soon it will come to crest again, as it always does. For now though, it offers little light, and there can be danger in hunting in the dark so far North.

She takes in another deep breath of air – smells the lone deer and the pines and the growing cold. But that is still far away, and she smells no other dangers nearby. Besides, there is safety in her pack; in her brother and sister.

Her sister jumps to her haunches and lets out a howl, which she reciprocates. Their quiet brother says nothing, but stands as well, and she knows this is as close to acquiescence as she will get with him. Even as a cub he never let out more than a quiet whine, and he has never joined them to howl.

Sometimes when she looks at her brother, she thinks she sees something else in him, lingering just below the surface – another’s eyes looking back. She sees them now, a shadow hiding in plain view.

Tonight, her pack lets her lead this hunt. They run through dark woods, past the scraping bite of low-flung branches, the snap of twigs and dry leaves underfoot, until they corner the deer against the strange ice mountain, her brother and sister flanking it on either side.

She lets out a howl to the Gods, to thank them for this gift, for every life that they have let her take. Every squirrel and every rabbit, every fox and every fish, comes from them and goes back to them in the end. Her sister joins in, and soon it is a call for their brother that has died, and for the other two that are so far away – a wish for them to return.

Her brother turns to her with eyes like two blood-red stones, and in them she can see the day they were torn forth into the world, and every day since. She knows why he does not call to the Gods and why he stays silent, and yet still she longs to hear his voice, to hear him call for their brothers; as though his voice alone would be enough to bring them back.

Sansa wakes with a start, a metallic taste hot on her tongue. It is not quite light yet, and the sky is still more black than blue. She can hear the sounds of men bustling about outside, preparing for the day.

She lies there for a time, trying to shrug her dream off her like shedding the furs from her bed. When she stands, she has almost forgotten the deer, the chase, and the old, waning moon. But something else floats inside her, something she cannot quite remember, but something important all the same. The harder she tries to remember, the more it recedes, until it has disappeared and the sun has begun to rise.

Arya is curled up under the furs, one leg stuck out and hanging carefree over the bed. For a minute, Sansa pauses to listen to the rhythm of Arya’s breathing; constant and deep. She leaves the tower hoping that her sister dreams of Nymeria the way she dreams of Lady – that it brings her the same comfort she has come to crave.

Sansa makes her way to the King’s Tower to see Val, the wildling princess that Stannis keeps under close watch. Val seems lovely and kind, with hair like the sun, braided tight and slung over her shoulder; but she is strong and lithe, and like Sansa, she carries a dagger under her skirts. If the stories are to be believed, Val has used hers many times, but Sansa still isn’t sure she could bloody her own.  Syrio’s words always hang heavy in her mind, even after all this time. You’ll find blood much harder to wipe away.

Sometimes when she dreams, she sees Father’s guard Tomard’s blood pooled on the ground, or Robb’s blood stained into her palms. It pools and wicks along her skin until she is covered in it, and no matter how hard she tries it will not wash away. On those nights she wakes with a start in a cold sweat that will not abate.

When Sansa knocks at the chamber door, the little babe with no name begins to cry great wails that seem impossible for a babe so young to make. The chamber door opens slowly, and Val appears from behind it, the babe curled in her arms in thick woolen blankets. At the sight of her, the babe coos and reaches to her with tiny, chubby arms.

“I’m sorry to come so early, but I couldn’t sleep,” Sansa whispers, as her fingers reach out to the babe, who clings to one with his entire, small hand. She cannot hide the smile that warms her face.

Val gives her a tired smile of her own. “Tis no trouble. He doesn’t sleep much anyways – not without his mother and only goat’s milk for food.”

She opens the door all the way, and relents the babe to Sansa’s arms, where it buries its face into her hair and falls asleep. The boy reminds her so much of baby Rickon that it nearly sets her heart to break. The Wildlings never name their babes before their second nameday, but Sansa already knows that she would name hers Rickon and Bran, for the two brothers she has lost.

“He likes you,” Val says, “he can see that you have a kind heart.”

Sansa blushes at the words, but underneath there is a current of something else; a warning of sorts. A long time ago, Cersei told her that love and kindness were a weakness, something to be carved away to make way for a heart of stone and ice. She wonders if Val thinks so too.

As soon as they had arrived, Jon had sent word to Eastwatch for bolts of fabric to be sent to Castle Black from the merchant ships that docked there, and they were delivered late last night. That is why Sansa has come to Val this morning; she has offered to help sew clothes, in exchange for new fabrics of her own.

The fabrics had been purchased with coin from Stannis, which leaves a sour taste in Sansa’s mouth; yet when she sees the great bolts of leather and linen and wool lined against the wall of the solar, her heart soars all the same. If they are beggars, then beggars they will be – but they will beg as Starks, dressed in the colours of Mother and Father, with a direwolf upon their chests. It would not do for Robb to set sail in the blacks of the Night’s Watch – they’ll have enough questions as it is.

Sansa swallows hard and tries to quell the ill feeling in her gut, the fear she feels at him setting sail without her or Arya. What if their Aunt and Uncle reject him? For all the realm knows, Robb Stark is dead. What if Stannis’ men sink him to the bottom of the sea? Would he even fight them if they tried? She bites at her lip, a dull pain that keeps such terrible thoughts at bay.

She moves closer to the fabrics, and her fingers brush over black and grey wool, over rich brown leather, faded grey sheepskin and lush sable furs. There are several other pelts stacked high, and she can already picture them at the cowl and cuffs of a cloak, on the hood of another. When the winter winds come in full force, fur will be the only thing that keeps them all warm.

Val digs underneath for a smaller bolt of fabric, that Sansa is surprised to see is soft, cream-coloured silk – a luxury she had once taken for granted, but had not dreamed to find here. “Lord Snow said this was just for you.”

A strange flutter takes root in her stomach to know that he thought to give her this small gift. Her mind drifts to that night atop the Wall when he had said that it mattered not who his mother was, that he would not seek out Howland Reed. It still pulls and twists within her to picture his hardened jaw as he spoke those words, and she wishes she knew for once what he truly was thinking.

He had also told her that night that he could be loyal to the Watch and to his family; yet she cannot help but wonder what would happen if he were forced to choose. Some selfish part of her looks at the silk running through her fingers and wants to believe he’d choose her. That too is a wicked thought, and she finds herself biting her lip again.

Sansa turns away to place the babe back in his crib and sits down in a soft chair by the hearth. Val hands her scissors and pins, and half a dozen sewing needles of different sizes. Her mind whirrs as she dreams of moleskin gloves, of a thick fur cloak over her shoulders, and a silken shift just for her – but first she must make clothes for Robb. He must come to their Lady Aunt and Lord Uncle as a Stark, dressed in Stark colours; he must be more than he thinks that he is, and he cannot do that in those shabby blacks.

The last time that she saw her sigil it had been half alight in flames at the Twins, but she remembers every stitch of the direwolf that represents their house, and her fingers itch to trace the pattern. She is too old now to think that there is any strength in a sigil, yet when she pictures the snarling direwolf, something flows through her all the same. It’s not as urgent or insistent as the blade at her thigh; it’s something slower, like a glacier melting in the spring, and the inevitable way that it carves out the mountain below.

Sansa sets herself to work making Robb a greatcloak like Father’s; a lambswool lining with sable fur all around. It is daunting to think of all they must do, and that there is no one to help. Jon has been careful to remind Sansa that the Watch takes no sides, not even to clothe them.

His words burn away within her like envious flames, consuming all that they can touch. Yet when her eyes trail back to the bolt of silk in the corner, once more that flutter in her chest springs forth, until she can barely concentrate on each stitch that she makes.

“Is he a good man?” Val asks after a time, “Your brother; the Lord Crow, I mean.”

Sansa can feel her throat dry, and she swallows involuntarily. She tries to focus instead on running thick thread through the lambswool and pelt beneath. “Why do you ask?”

Val looks up at her, pale grey eyes full of a cunning sort of mischief. “Do you not think he is, then? I know little of kneelers, and littler still of you lords and ladies, but your brother seems true to me.”

She wants to tell Val that he is good and strong and as constant as a Weirwood tree. That he is the truest man that she has ever met, that he has saved them all no matter the cost to himself. She wants to say that he has given up all hope of wife and family for his duty to the Watch and knowing that makes her heart hurt in the queerest way. Good is a word that fails to capture even the smallest piece of who he is.

“I – He is my half-brother,” is all Sansa manages to stutter out, and she curses herself thrice over.

It’s as though Jon will not leave her mind lately, and he is scarcely ever so far away that she cannot smell the leather and salt and woodsmoke of him lingering in the air. It is enough to drive her half-mad.

“Aye,” Val replies. This time when she speaks there is fire in her voice. “I know your kind calls men like him bastards and say they are worth less than other men, but on our side of the Wall, it’s the deeds that make the man, not his name. Your Jon Snow saved the life of Dalla’s babe and mine own, but he’s turned his cloak on us too.”

Val’s expression is strained, as though she is struggling with a difficult choice of her own. “I need to know if the Freefolk can trust him, if he will help to save us, or serve to condemn us, as all other crows before him have.”

“Jon is a good man,” Sansa replies simply. “He will do what is right.”

Truthfully though, this Jon before her now is so different to who he once was, and she is only beginning to relearn him. She wants to believe that he can play the game better than Father ever could, wants to believe that he can play some sleight of hand and do the impossible; appease King Stannis and his black brothers, appease Val and her Wildlings, appease a throne upon which boy after boy has been seated.

“Right for whom?” Val asks pointedly. “What’s right for one is not right for all. King Stannis means to let any Freefolk through the Wall that bend the knee to him and swear to that fire god of his. Would your Jon allow that to happen?”

The image of thousands of wild men streaming forth runs through her mind, and Sansa must fight to keep her face calm. Would they raze what was left of the Gift, and leave nothing left? Would they steal girls away from their homes like Old Nan said? What if one stole her? How could that be the right thing, to let these people through, and destroy what was left of the North?

“But the Watch was made to protect us from the Wildlings,” she blurts out.

Val pauses, and gives her a scornful look. “You know ‘bout as much as Jon did when he first came to us. You have a lot to learn of us Freefolk, little kneeler.”

Sansa is ready to protest the name before Val begins to speak again. “The Wall was made to protect all men from the Others, and the Watch was made to protect the Wall. We’re the same as you; flesh and blood and bone – we just got stuck on the wrong side. Somewhere along the way, you all forgot that, but we didn’t. We’ve been here all along, watching, waiting.” Val picks back up her needle and sends thin black thread through its eye. There is rhythm and purpose to each movement that she makes, and in some way, like swordplay, it too is a dance.

“What would your people do on this side of the Wall?” Sansa asks.

Val gives her an appraising look, her mouth pulled into a small smile that almost hides the sadness in her eyes. “My sister died bringing her babe into this world, and all she wanted was for him to be safe.”

She stands and walks to the crib, picking up the babe all swaddled up in lambswool. She places the babe in Sansa’s arms, and it looks up at her with wide, brown eyes. Sansa rocks the babe slowly back and forth in her arms and can feel tears welling in her eyes, at the memory of baby Rickon in her arms, of how she and Jon and Robb would fight over who could hold him next. That had been so long ago now, it felt like another life, and now she is not certain if any of them will survive this winter, let alone have a babe of their own.

“That’s all anyone wants, in the end,” Val continues, looking out the small window to the courtyard below, “to be safe. Once we were safe, we would live and love and raise our families, same as you.”

But would you follow our King and our laws and our rule? Sansa thinks. Would you even know how?

She knows now what it means to fear for her life, to be certain that she is dead. She knows what it is like to watch someone die in front of her, and to watch them come back. But more than anything she knows now what it feels like to be safe, here with Jon and Arya, with Lady and Nymeria and Ghost; and she’s not sure she could stand to see it end.

Val must see the doubt in Sansa’s eyes, for she gives her another hard look. Sansa finds her arms wrapping tighter around the babe, a protectiveness for the little thing in her arms.

“If you don’t make your people understand what’s coming, if you can’t make them open that gate – then we’ll burn your wall down, and see who can run faster when the Others come.”

The stone stairs of the Silent Tower are old and worn, with thin divots in the center of each step from centuries of leaden footsteps. Sansa climbs carefully up each step, feeling her way for the next as she goes. Her arms are laden with clothes for Robb, for his journey south, for however long he will be gone.

She enters the solar in which Robb spends many of his days staring at old maps, depositing the clothes carefully onto a settee, and keeping the greatcloak in her hands to give to him. She thinks that it looks like Father’s had, or near as she could remember it, and hopes that it may remind him of all that is at stake.

It almost seems as though for him it is easier to be stubborn and insist that the North is free, rather than bend the knee and face what comes after they take back the North. Robb wants the battle, wants Frey and Bolton blood on his sword, but he doesn’t want what comes after.

He and Arya are hunched over a large table in the corner, a map curled open across it, weights in each corner holding it flat. There are tall, thin pieces of ivory and obsidian on opposite corners of it, and as she draws closer, she sees the map is of the North, stretching from the Wall down south to the Neck. There are other pieces on the map too, made of jade and quartz, strewn about the North. In the corner of the table, there is a piece of parchment, and an envelope with a seal; a sunburst with a spear through its heart.

Sansa feels her heart skip into her throat at the seal, and the house to which that sigil belongs.

Arya looks up first from the table, dark flint eyes regarding her sister carefully, but underneath Sansa can see concern mapped out upon her brow.

“Robb?” She says, trying to keep her voice steady.

He looks up from the table, auburn hair askew, eyes tired with dark half-rings set heavy beneath them. “That red woman will damn us all,” he spits out, before looking back down at the table, his hand curling around the parchment, and breaking the wax seal to pieces.

Arya gives Sansa a furtive glance before taking a step away from the table and towards her. “What is he speaking of?” Sansa asks, fearing she will get no answer from Robb.

“He thinks that Melisandre is playing him and playing Stannis; he thinks she’s playing us all.” Arya’s eyes dart back to the letter, then to the cloak in Sansa’s hands. “I’ve been watching her too. She’s always planning something.”

Melisandre has been on Sansa’s mind too lately. The way her eyes follow Robb and Gendry, the way they follow Jon and Val too. Long ago, the gods and their will seemed an abstract thought, but Melisandre is a dark reminder of just how close her lord of light is, the hand it seems to play in everything that is happening, and what is coming next.

“I can’t kneel to a man who’s under her – her thrall,” Robb barks out, looking back up. “There must be another way.”

Something hot and angry flashes in Arya’s eyes. “How can you say that, now, after what I’ve told you? If you don’t give Stannis what he wants, he’ll let her burn you, just as she plans to burn the King beyond the Wall. King’s blood Robb – that’s what she wants.” Her nostrils flare in disgust. “I won’t have you die, not after you got brought back, and Mother didn’t.”

Sansa tries to reach out to comfort her sister, offer her some sort of solace; but how can she, when it was her choice to bring Robb back in the first place? Her guilt is a seed that has taken root within her gut and each day it grows within her.

Arya storms past them both and out the door, grabbing Needle from where it hangs in it’s scabbard by the door as she goes.

“Seven hells, she’s more wild now than she ever was when we were younger,” Robb gruffs, wiping one hand across a dark, almost brown beard that has grown in.

“She’s right.” Sansa thrusts the cloak into his arms almost angrily.

He lifts it up to inspect it, eyes falling on the direwolves stitched into the leather straps. “This is why I can’t,” he says solemnly, his fingers tracing the sigil.

“No,” she replies in exasperation. “It’s why you must. The Kings of Winter bent their knee to save their people three hundred years ago, and you must now too. How can we fight what comes next, when we are all divided?”

If Melisandre wants King’s blood, it is safer not to be King, Sansa thinks. But it is a queer thought, that speaking words can give a man power, and just as easily give it away. What makes a King’s blood better than anyone else’s, and how can words alone take that away?

Robb takes one more pained look at the map, at the pieces of jade and quartz that seem to haunt him, and he takes a heavy sigh. He places the cloak down on the table and lifts up the parchment.

“Whatever I decide, I must do so soon. The red woman gave me this parchment that came for Stannis today, asking for him to kneel to the throne. The Martells have taken King’s Landing, with the aid of Highgarden and the Reach. They’ve married Margaery Tyrell to Trystane Martell, and claimed the throne as their own, saying that as Elia’s nephew, Trystane has more right to it than the bastard whelp of Cersei Lannister – though I imagine the food they brought with them from the Reach helps as well.”

It should bring her some sort of joy, she supposes, to know that Cersei has lost the throne, but instead it brings her only sadness, at the thought of what will happen to poor Tommen and Myrcella. “Where have they gone; Cersei and her children?”

“The parchment doesn’t say,” Robb says, with a look of disdain. “But that’s not important. What’s important is that it means the siege at Riverrun is over, that all the Lannister soldiers have fled back to Casterly Rock. We must act now, or never at all. If I don’t get to them first, the Vale and Riverrun will declare for the Martells. For all we know, it may already be too late.”

He scrubs once more at the beard, his hands moving to trace the direwolves on the cloak she worked so hard to sew. She remembers every single stitch, had said a quiet prayer with each one.

Finally something slips, and in his eyes she sees a glimmer of fear – of something real and tangible as the beating of her own heart. He lets out another heavy sigh, and within it she can hear the echo of the brother he once was, the man he must become.

“What if I’m condemning our people to die at the hands of the Martells and the Tyrells by siding with Stannis?” He asks. “How do I know the right choice?”

Val’s words from weeks ago are still echoing in her mind, and the babe’s innocent, wide eyes seem to look within her too. What’s right for one is not right for all.

She sees so much of Father in Robb; in his honour and duty, as though they are a funeral pyre upon which to burn.

What if there is no right choice, no choice that saves them all?

Robb leaves for Eastwatch-by-the-sea the next morning with a retinue of Stannis’ men. Melisandre stands beside Stannis as Robb kneels, and both men’s jaws seem liable to grind stone to dust as they share quiet words Sansa cannot hear.

He mounts his horse, and beside him rides the onion knight, Ser Davos. At least him Sansa believes she can trust, for his dislike of the red woman is so strong, and his words are good and true. It gives her some hope to believe that she will see Robb again.

The wind whips his cloak into the bitter cold air as he gallops off, and snow begins to lightly fall. Jon told her once that snow was a bad omen, but she thinks that in this at least, Jon is wrong. Snow is of the north, and for them there is no better sign.

Jon often insists that his quarters behind the armoury are sufficient, but with Gendry now working the forges night and day with the recent shipment of obsidian, it seems scarcely the place for a Lord Commander to sleep.

Arya has already told him that the quarters should go to Gendry; but Sansa suspects that Arya has a hidden motive to that request. It seems as though these days Arya is often looking for places to be alone with Gendry. Sansa bites her lip to stifle the laugh that threatens to burst forth and knocks on the ironwood door.

Jon opens it slowly, giving her a questioning look at the mirth that is spread across her face.

“Am I a jape to you too?” He asks wryly, a smile building to match her own. She likes the way his face pulls up when he smiles, the way his eyes seem to catch the shine of the waning sun, colour glinting in the near black grey of them. Like this he looks as young as he truly is, and handsome too. She wishes his life gave him more reason to smile, and fewer to frown.

“Who finds you a jape?” She answers, as she walks past him into the modest sitting room, and the table that he has set out for them. In the corner of the room is his desk, piled high with old half-rotted tomes from the library.

“All my men, when they think I’m not looking.” Jon sighs as he closes the door, his face falling long and solemn once more. “You’re wearing a new dress,” he remarks when his eyes fall upon her once more, standing before him in the room.

It is one that she has put a great deal of work into, and she finds herself glad that he has noticed. Though the exterior is a simple grey wool, the interior is lined with soft white lambswool, and she has spent many hours on intricate patterns along the sleeves and neckline, on getting the boning of the bodice, and the ties that bind it just right.

When his eyes linger upon the embroidery, her confidence begins to stutter though. “I only did the embroidery once I was done with everything else, when I had free time,” she reasons, watching his face carefully.

“It’s beautiful, Sansa, you look–“ He pauses to pull out her chair for her to sit to dinner, but then his jaw clenches and his fists open and close, and he never bothers to finish the sentence.

Sansa wonders why she wants so much for him to finish, and that queer feeling in her chest begins again, as though there is a bird flying around inside. Would it be so wrong for him to say that she looks beautiful?

“Is Arya joining us as well?” She asks, trying to ease her quickly fraying nerves.

“She said she needed to train. She’s moved on from Pyp to Grenn now – she doesn’t take a single day off.” He gives her a tentative smile that she returns, as she reaches for bread to mop up the bowl of stew Satin no doubt placed down minutes ago.

Neither do you, she thinks, but does not dare to say aloud.

She moves the stew slowly around in the bowl. It is still piping hot, and smells good enough, but the serving is noticeably smaller than in weeks before. Jon notices, and gives her an uneasy grimace.

“It’s meager food for a lady I know, but we have had begun our winter rations early. I have asked Robb to appeal to your Lady Aunt for food stuffs from the Vale, if she can spare it. We have little coin, but–“

Jon grimaces once more, as Sansa finishes his sentence in her head, but it’s the best hope we have.

She bites at her lip and tries to change the subject. “Why did you ask to sup in your quarters this evening? Why not with your men?”

Jon gives her another uneasy look, and she begins to feel rather as though her only skill is in making Jon cross. “I am their leader now, their Lord Commander – I cannot be their friend. How can I make them respect me if they see me as their equal?”

“Father would seat men at his table with him each day and listen to their concerns. It made his men trust and respect him even more.”

“That’s different,” Jon replies brusquely. “Father was always their Lord – I have to work twice as hard now to earn their trust, and thrice as hard for respect.”

She wants to remind him that Father was not always meant to be the Lord of Winterfell, that that title was meant to go to their uncle, but she bites it back, and takes a small spoonful of stew.

“They only see the boy, not the man,” he continues. “They must respect me; they must trust me completely if I am to do what must be done. If I must, I will send Pyp, Grenn, and Edd to the other towers.”

“I don’t think it wise to be alone here,” Sansa tries to reason.

Jon gives her another rare smile, and again that angry bird in her chest begins to flutter against the boning of her bodice, and she thinks once more that she is going mad.

“I’m not alone,” Jon replies, “I have you.” He takes a long draught of ale, and she watches the muscles of his throat tighten and loosen as he swallows. “And Arya, and Robb,” he finishes, and for some reason that quells the flutter in her chest, and replaces it with an empty ache.

Her eyes move to the fire, where Ghost and Lady are curled up tight together. She remembers the way they chased after each other in Winterfell, and the way Jon always walked two steps behind her, as was only fitting. She likes that he walks beside her now, likes that he cares for her input, and sups with her.

He saved them all when no one else could, and in doing so he has sacrificed everything that he has worked so hard to build here in the Night’s Watch. It is time that she begins to pay back that debt.

“It’s not enough, we’re not enough,” Sansa replies. “The way the red woman looks at you, the way those older men look at you – you need every man you have. I beg you, do not send loyal men away.”

Jon takes another deep draught of his ale, and Sansa notices he has not touched his food. “More men or fewer men, it won’t matter if I let the Wildlings through.”

Sansa swallows, Val’s words still heavy in her mind. “You must let them through.”

“Must I?” He asks with a small grin, eyes narrowed in amusement. “Are you the new Lord Commander now? Shall I give my cloak over to you, too?”

Sansa feels her cheeks flush at her own forwardness, then doubly so at the image of his cloak wrapped round her shoulders. “I – I merely meant–“ she stutters, before Jon interjects.

“I like when you give me honest council, my lady,” he replies. “I’d prefer the truth to a perfurmed lie any day.”

They are quiet for a time, eating in silence, though Sansa can see him thinking. He is always thinking, always watching, calculating a hundred sums at once.

When he speaks again, he leans forward, his eyes capturing hers. Within them she forgets the food upon the table, the fire in the hearth, everything except Jon. “Do you know what my men call me, behind my back?”

Sansa can see how tired Jon looks now, this close. It seems to only make the pale scar angry against his  skin.

She takes a small sip of the wine he has served her, and though it is sour, it is potent enough to give her the courage to hear his answer. “What do they call you?”

“They call me a rebel and a turncloak, a bastard and a –” He cuts off abruptly, and gives a dry bark of laughter, fixing her with a dark stare. “I suppose they’re not wrong though, I am all those things and more.”

“You are not a rebel or a turncloak–” Sansa tries to counter, before Jon interjects.

“–But I am, to them – to Bowen Marsh and Alliser Thorne. To Janos Slynt too, before I cut him down. And all the realm knows I’m a bastard; why deny a truth as simple as that?”

She doesn’t recognize the first two names, but the final one jolts her forward in her chair at the old, painful memory of her last day in the Red Keep. She can still picture the face so well; slaggy jowls and droopy eyes, and a jeering grin just for her, as Ser Janos escorted Father away for the last time.

“Ser Janos Slynt?” Sansa asks, her hand reaching out to grab Jon's as she speaks. It is warm and smooth from long-healed burns.

Jon raises an eyebrow at her, but does not move his hand away from hers. “Aye, Ser Janos Slynt. He disobeyed a direct order. I did as Father always taught us; I gave him justice by mine own hand.”

Flame swirls and burns throughout her veins as she looks back at Jon and watches the firelight glint off eyes.

She remembers the wishes she made in the back of that cart with Yoren and the recruits for the Wall. She had thought that there were no true knights and no true justice – for Ser Janos and Joffrey both lived, and Father had died.

But now they both are dead, and something in her heart sings that there may be justice after all, and that somehow it is because of Jon.

Chapter Text

The first barrier that guards the Wall is a heavy oak door that takes a dozen men to wrench open. As they walk through the winding passage carved into the unyielding ice of the Wall, Sansa counts two more gates through which they pass. It is so cold and so dark that her lungs burn and her eyes begin to squint and play tricks on her. Scant light from their torches dances across the tunnel walls like shadow puppets playing out one of Old Nan’s tales.

“We tempt the Gods by coming at night,” Val whispers, when they are halfway through the tunnel. Her voice seems to echo in Sansa’s mind, filling the silence as they pass through. They are the last words that anyone speaks before they come out the other side.  

Sansa feels it too; a hard weight in her gut, and a fear that creeps slowly down her neck like melting ice. There is something on the other side of the Wall, waiting, hidden by the dark shadow of night; they all know it, even if they pretend it isn’t so.

Unlike her, Arya is not afraid. She walks in front with Jon and King Stannis and Melisandre, their wolves following closely, while Sansa walks in the back with Val, escorted by Stannis’ and Jon’s men. The babe is swaddled tight in Val’s arms, but she barely seems to pay it any mind.

When they pass through the last and final gate to the other side, they are greeted by the sight of a vast circle of unlit night fires. In the center, there is a wooden cage suspended above a pit filled with kindling. With a sick clarity, she realizes that they mean to place a man in the cage, and that it must be meant for the King-Beyond-the-Wall. Val begins to shake and waver at the sight, but Sansa can only stand and watch, as though the blistering cold has frozen her in place.

Beyond the din of their group, and the quiet roar of the Free Folk, she thinks she can hear the quiet sound of a lone wolf howl far in the distance. Somehow, it calms the fear inside of her and allows her to walk on, further into the bleak unknown of this land, when all she wants to do is run back through the Wall.

Stannis’ men walk forward with a shackled man in their arms, grey-brown hair hanging long and limp across a wind-worn face. Sansa recognizes the man as Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall. Yet he does not look a king now. Instead, he looks like Father had when he had been paraded in front of the Sept of Baelor - tired and old and defeated. It causes an old ache in her chest to flare, stretching painfully against the walls of her ribs.

Melisandre moves to light the night fires all around them, her dark crimson robes swirling in the wind. Each new fire dances and licks at the night sky, combining its light to its brother’s until together they become so bright they seem to eat the very stars from the sky.

“Seven hells, did it have to be at night?” Edd Tollett rasps from beside Sansa. “I’ve half a mind to walk into the flames myself, if only to remember what it’s like to be warm.”

Edd is a thin, grey-haired steward, and one of Jon’s closest friends. Although Jon had recently thought to send him away to another castle, in the past week he has taken instead to trailing Sansa. She had realized by the second day that Jon must have asked Edd to keep watch over her. She doesn't mind however, as she rather enjoys his dark humour and blunt manner. 

She gives him a small smile that he returns, before her eyes scan the scene before them. She finally finds Jon, standing close to a grove of trees with Ghost on his haunches beside him, blood-red eyes trained on Sansa, watching, waiting.

Old Nan once told her that the Old Gods presided over the North, and the further North you went, the stronger they became. She had said that on the other side of the Wall, the only Gods that existed were the old ones, older than man and beast alike. It seems wrong that they should do this here, in the Kingdom of the Old Gods, on their hallowed ground.

Or perhaps that is the purpose, Sansa thinks darkly. Perhaps she is trying to tempt the Gods. But to what end? Melisandre continues to walk slowly from fire to fire with a torch in her hand. The flame casts dark shadows that dance across her face, turning her red eyes black as pitch. For a second, she sees something familiar in the dark edges that cut across Melisandre’s face, before the embers consume the darkness once more.

King Stannis’ men push Mance Rayder into the wooden cage like an animal, and to them perhaps he is. He does not say a word, though anguish pulls at the corners of his eyes and mouth as he sees Val in the crowd. There is something noble about the way he holds himself, in the way he does not flinch or drop his chin. Every muscle in her body tightens as her mind screams to move forward and stop this before it starts, yet she still does not move.

Val begins to sway like a sapling in a winter wind, and she murmurs quiet words under her breath, harsh and foreign to Sansa’s ears. She thrusts the babe into Sansa’s arms, and holds herself instead, trying to quell whatever is rising up within her. In only a minute’s time, she is still once more, a statue of cream-coloured furs and roughspun wool, standing vigil like the brave warriors in the songs that Sansa used to sing. 

“What language were you speaking, my lady?” Sansa asks softly, wrapping the babe up even tighter to protect it from the frigid night air. It is so much colder this side of the Wall, colder than anything Sansa has ever felt, yet the babe seems undisturbed in its slumber.

“‘Tis the Old Tongue, little kneeler,” she replies distantly. “‘Tis a prayer a giant once taught me.”

Sansa fights to hold back a small laugh at what must be a jape. “Giants aren’t real, they’re only stories.”

“Say that again after tonight and I’ll call you a liar. Don’t you know who built the walls of the very castle you were born in? Who toiled away to build that damned Wall in the first place?” 

They do not know how many Free Folk remain here, how many have not abandoned the Wall and run back to their new leader – a man Jon calls Tormund Giantsbane – but whatever remain in the woods and stockades, Stannis means to let through the Wall tonight. First though, they must watch their King burn. It seems a terrible price to pay; freedom, at the feet of another man’s body.

Across the fires, she spots Arya running towards them, with Nymeria and Lady in tow. “Jon wants you closer,” Arya says when she arrives, “for what’s happening next.” They walk in silence towards Jon, Lady winding round Sansa’s legs like a pup. She seems wary and nervous here too, hackles raised and teeth half-bared.

Up close, half of Jon’s face is shrouded in dark, and half lit by the flames around them. He fixes her with a hard look, and she feels shame for her insistence that they let the Free Folk through; but Sansa had not known the cost then, had not known what Melisandre would ask for in return.

Jon’s eyes flick slowly down to the babe, and for a moment they soften, before Melisandre begins to speak.

There are a hundred things that Sansa has wanted to ask Jon since that evening in his quarters, after he had told her that he had taken Janos Slynt’s head, and she had revealed to him what had transpired in King’s Landing.

She had told him how she would hide in narrow passageways of the Red Keep, stealing herself away from Joffrey. She had told him of Queen Cersei’s machinations, and the blood-red rose that she had found on the ground – the rose had been given to her by Ser Loras, when she had thought that all knights were true. She had told him of how Ser Janos Slynt had been vicious and cruel to her, and had found glee in taking Father away, and of how Ser Meryn Trant had slain Tomard in front of her, how she had slipped in his blood, and that sometimes it stills stains her skin.

When she had finished, his eyes had been black as pitch, and his face drawn tight. He had not said a word the entire time, and he still has not spoken of her confession, leaving her uncertain of his feelings on the matter, or whether she should have told him at all. 

It has left her unsure in his presence, her stomach jumping into her throat whenever they speak. She has grown so accustomed to their closeness that she only wishes it to continue, could not bear to break that tie between them. It is strange to think how easy it is to feel safe when he is near, how often she wishes him close by, as though she is Jeyne chasing after boys in the courtyard of Winterfell 

Sansa can feel her cheeks redden under his gaze, and she looks away, embarrassed by the improper thought. She tries to focus on the babe in her arms, and not the way that Jon’s gaze makes her feel so warm she cannot concentrate.

Melisandre holds the torch up high and it seems to spark the ruby at her throat to flame. As she begins to speak, men and women and children begin to walk slowly out from the shadows. Some are tall, and others small, but they all look tired and dirty, and so very human that it causes Sansa’s heart to ache. She clutches the babe tighter to her breast, and Arya taps at her side in quiet reassurance, though her expression belies her uncertainty.

“Freefolk, it is time to make your choice,” Melisandre cries out in a thick voice that reminds Sansa of smoke and honey. “You must choose between dark and light, between your false Gods, and the one true God, R’hllor. Where your Gods never answer, you will find that R’hllor does.” 

She gestures to two men holding a large, ancient-looking horn up high in the air, and Val lets out a quiet gasp as Melisandre beckons them to throw it into the pit. “I have seen in the flames that the Wall will never fall, that we will triumph over darkness. Denounce your Gods, and find safety in R'hllor.” She lights the kindling, and with it the horn. It burns and crackles, sending angry white embers high into the sky.

Stannis walks stiffly to Melisandre and unsheathes his blade for all to see, jaw set and grinding in time to her words. As it leaves the leather scabbard, a thousand colours that Sansa has never seen before burst forth into the dark world. The light bathes them all in its glow, but she cannot help glancing beside her at Jon, at the way the light catches on his tangled dark hair, and the long planes of his jaw covered in a coarse scrub of beard.

It dances blues and purples down his face, making it look bruised and simultaneously beautiful with that quiet, sullen nature he’s always had. Tonight he wears the face of Lord Commander Snow, and yet the light softens him somehow, pulls away the mask of a man who has killed the boy within.

When she looks at him like this, she remembers the boy who would lay beside her in the grass and ask her what she saw in the clouds, and the boy who called every mare sweet lady. She remembers the way his eyes had glistened when he first held Rickon in his arms, and the pain he had felt when Bran fell from the Broken Tower. She wants to tell him that she can help shoulder his burdens, that if he speaks she will listen, that they are stronger together than apart, that he is not alone and she will never leave him.

He’s all we have left now, Sansa tries to reason, that’s why he makes me feel this way.

Jon’s eyes flicker over to Sansa for a fraction of a second, meeting her gaze, before they snap back to the mummer’s farce before them, where Mance sits in the cage, unmoving.

“How long will this last?” Sansa whispers, immediately regretting the words.

Val gives her an angry look, admonishing her. She wishes she could reach out and pull the words back into her mouth, knowing how much they’ve hurt Val to hear. “Death is never as quick as we wish it to be. You’d know that if you ever used that dagger you hide in your skirts. I wonder if you’d have the strength to do what needed to be done, if you could even watch a man die.”

The flames rise higher until they begin to lick at Mance’s feet, but still he doesn’t make a sound. He struggles at wooden bars, but it does no good. Beside her, Val stands stock still, as silent as her King.

Selfishly, Sansa finds herself wanting to tell Val that she has already seen men die, and watched them be brought back...that she can be strong too. But the thin stream of tears winding down her cheeks betrays that thought before it leaves her lips.

It doesn’t take long before the babe begins to wail, and half a hundred eyes shift to her and the babe. The hair on the back of her neck bristles, and she begins to softly sing an old song Mother used to sing to her before bed. It is an old song of flowers and spring, and all of the hope that she once held within her heart.

Her voice does not waver, and her eyes do not wander while she watches Mance try to dance away from the flames. It does no good, and the flames grow ever higher, rising in time to Val’s ragged breaths. Sansa begins to sing louder for the babe, yet her eyes remain fixed on Mance, on the King-Beyond-the-Wall as he endures his judgement. It’s as though if she looks away, she will only prove how weak she is, and she wishes to be strong, to be brave just this once.

It is only when the flames reach his middle that he can no longer keep from screaming, ugly shrieks that cut through the air like knives through flesh. They reverberate off of the Wall, echoing again and again until his voice is a continual, unending scream, and Sansa is singing, must keep singing, must sing right into the babe’s ear so he does not hear the terrible sound.

Jon turns to watch her sing, and she doesn’t know what he sees when he looks at her; if he sees the tears that she has been too weak to stop, or the fear that makes her tremble. She doesn’t know if he understands why she is watching this, or if she even understands herself – yet she cannot look away.

He clenches his fists open and closed, and makes a gesture. Pyp and Grenn nock arrows into their bows and let loose until they hit Mance and end the sound, and finally Jon’s fists come to rest by his side. 

Sansa watches Stannis regard Jon with anger, grinding his teeth, jaw muscles clenching under his thin crop of beard. He turns away, and raises a hand to his men, walking back towards the Wall.

The gate of the Wall opens once more, as well as the stockades, and small streams of Freefolk begin to pass quietly through. As each one does, they must first kneel to Stannis, and throw a small bone-white branch into the flames. After watching Mance burn, it is a final affront that Sansa cannot bear. Each time another piece of Weirwood catches to light, something small within her breaks and snaps.

This is wrong, she thinks, this is all wrong. One God does not have the right to destroy another. It is not the first time that she has felt this feeling in her bones, deep down and cold, sending all her skin to gooseflesh. The Gods should take no part in the wars, they should have no right to grant life as R’hllor does, no right to consume each other as R’hllor does.

Jon told her once that Stannis is a just man, but as cold and unyielding as iron. It seems to her now that justice serves no purpose without mercy too. 

Wind whips through the trees, tossing their cloaks madly in the wind. It is a bitter, cold wind that tears the air from her lungs, and she must gasp to catch her breath. It pulls so strong that the night fire closest to them blows out, and Jon casts a wary glance at the sky before turning to Sansa. 

“We’d best get you back to Castle Black,” Jon murmurs, his throat hoarse from disuse and the late hour. His eyes search hers carefully before his arm wraps around her shoulders to lead her to the gate, Val and Arya by their side. As they walk, he leans down slightly, his breath hot against her ear. “You should’ve closed your eyes,” he whispers softly, and it is almost enough to melt the angry sorrow that swims in her veins.

She tries instead to ignore the way her skin drinks in his touch, in that way it always seems to only for him. “No, I needed to see.”

When they reach Castle Black and she finally lays her head to her pillow, she can still hear the sound of Mance screaming, and behind the lids of her eyes she can see the fear and sadness twisting to fury on his face, because she watched, and did nothing at all.

Since the Freefolk were allowed through the Wall, most of them have made camp in Mole’s Town, though some have stayed behind, filling the buildings of Castle Black, helping with chores in exchange for food and shelter. She suspects that Jon does not trust them, for Edd has doubled his efforts and now follows her wherever she goes. There could be worse companions, she supposes.

And yet Arya may do as she pleases, Sansa thinks darkly, another reminder of her station here at Castle Black. In some strange way, she misses their travel north, how they had all been equal, and she had felt needed. The only times she has felt truly useful lately have been when Jon asks for her counsel, often with food and supply ledgers, and she suspects today will be no different.

As they reach Jon’s quarters, Edd opens the door and lets Sansa through, exchanging a quick greeting with Jon and then leaving them alone. Jon is leaning over his desk, staring down at parchment and books strewn about so wildly that not a scrap of the desk beneath can be seen. His hair is wild and untamed, and his breathing is ragged underneath the black leathers that cover his chest. 

He looks up after a moment, and she can see the dark circles under his eyes and knows that he has not slept. It seems that lately he sleeps as little as Robb, and it is no wonder with so many mouths to feed, and so much chaos around them.

Lord Mormont’s raven sits perched upon the desk, cawing at her intrusion, before taking off to circle around her and land on her shoulder to beg for corn. She pulls a small handful from her pocket, and it pecks gently at the kernels, giving her an appreciative look.

“You called for me?” She asks, slowly crossing the room towards him.

He fixes his jaw in place and gives a heavy sigh, handing Sansa a piece of parchment from the desk. “Read this,” he half-growls, nostrils flaring.

She looks down to the parchment, but her eyes only see the signature. “This is signed by Trystane Martell.” Below his name is his title, written in elegant cursive hand. King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. Her heart sinks like a stone flung into the sea, as her mind whirrs with a hundred possibilities of what the parchment may say.

Before she can read it though, Jon continues, fists clenched tight against the desk. “The crown demands I stop giving food and shelter to Stannis, that I stop harbouring an illegitimate king.”

“Do they say anything of Robb?” She asks tremulously, fearing the answer. 

He gives another weary sigh, this time tinged with exasperation. “No. I don’t believe that they know of you or Robb or Arya yet, but that too is only a matter of time.”

“How will you respond?”

“I don’t know, but I would make common cause with anyone who would help us in what is to come. And the Martells and the Tyrells have more men than Stannis–”

“–But they are halfway across the realm,” Sansa counters.

“Aye,” Jon says slowly. “The truth is I need Stannis and the Freefolk, I need Robb and the North, and Gods help me, I need those Southron lords as well. We need every man and woman in Westeros, no matter which king they serve. I did not ask to be part of their war, and I do not know how to make them all happy.”

What’s right for one is not right for all – Val’s words repeat once more in her mind. It will not be possible to make them all happy. She wonders if Jon has come to that same conclusion as well, or why he has called upon her at all, for the last time that she gave him counsel it led to Mance being killed, and a Weirwood destroyed.

As though conjured by the mere thought, the sounds of Mance Rayder screaming and Weirwood branches burning and crackling fill her mind once more, and she fights off a shudder. “And the red woman? Must you make her happy as well? Does she wish for more King’s blood? Or perhaps another Weirwood sacrificed to her God?”

Jon’s eyes flash with anger, as he steps around the desk, closing the space between them. “They were only branches, Sansa; the tree will grow back.” Her name is a brand on his tongue, a burning hiss like flame being quenched by water. She hates that he says her name like that, letting it sit in his mouth as though he enjoys the taste.

“And what of Mance, will he grow back too?" She replies archly. "You know what it means, what she is trying to say. Will all the North need to cast aside the Old Gods too? Those were Father’s gods, Jon, have you forgotten–”

“–I’ve forgotten nothing,” he interjects angrily. “I’m learning. I’m doing what must be done to prepare the Wall. I tried to petition for Mance’s life, but neither she nor Stannis would listen. He was a deserter to the Night’s Watch, and the punishment is death. I had no other choice.”

“I don’t trust her,” Sansa replies. “I don’t trust what she says or what she sees in those fires. I don’t trust any man who follows her God.”

“Neither do I. But I think you’ll find that scraps of wood do not make a God. She could burn every Weirwood in Westeros and that would not change a thing. There is strength in those trees, aye, but they do not make our belief. The Freefolk do not give up their beliefs so easily, and neither do I.”

“And yet they kneeled and watched their King burn.”

“Wouldn’t you, to save your life? And now there are two hundred men, women, and children on this side of the Wall, two hundred more to help our cause.” Jon paces, his face a hard line once more. “And two hundred more mouths to feed,” he adds as an afterthought.

Would she kneel to save her people? Would she kill a man if it meant saving her life? What if it meant saving all the lives of the North? It becomes difficult to maintain her anger the longer she considers Jon’s words. 

“Corn,” caws the raven softly, flying over to the desk, and landing upon a thick, old tome open on Jon’s desk, pages old and worn from use. It scratches softly at the page, and regards her with dark, beady eyes.

Sansa watches the bird with curiosity, trying to read the pages upon which it stands. She succeeds in deciphering only the words sword and blood from upside down, before she looks up to see Jon’s searching gaze. “Then what will you do? How will you respond to this letter?”

Jon runs his hands through his hair, and pulls the letter back from her hands, depositing it on the desk. “How would you respond? I asked you here for your counsel.”

“Robb knelt to Stannis, so Stannis is my King,” Sansa begins carefully, hiding the small tinge of pride she feels at his words. “He is the King by all rights of succession, and not Trystane Martell.” It is true she does not trust Melisandre, and trusts Stannis even less because he follows Melisandre’s counsel, yet it would be wrong to denounce him now after Robb has knelt, now when they rely upon him so greatly.

“You would have me rebel against the Iron Throne then? You would have me abandon my vows?” Jon challenges.

“No, but I would not send Stannis away.”

“Aye, Stannis has vowed to help gain back the North, and aid in the war to come. And whatever darkness the red woman weaves in his mind, she wants to defeat the Others too. In that alone, I think we can trust, and perhaps it will be enough when the time comes. I do not have the men to force Stannis to leave besides – he outnumbers the Night’s Watch by twentyfold.”

The thought of trusting Melisandre with anything leaves a bitter taste in Sansa’s mind, yet she too cannot see another way.

Jon pauses to think, shooing Mormont’s raven away from the old book. “All I can say to the Martells is that my men do not fight for him, that though we feed and shelter his men, we do not support his claim. I fear it is a distinction they will not appreciate.”

“As long as Stannis is here, he is alive, and a threat to their throne,” Sansa agrees. “They will require more than a promise of passivity on your part.” 

“Aye, but a letter may buy us time.” Jon’s face looks grave as he gazes down at the parchment.

Time enough for Robb to regain the North, time for the Vale and Riverrun to turn to Stannis, she thinks. It is a half measure in truth, and only delays the inevitable. Jon is playing a dangerous game in housing one King and trying to appeal to another, when it would be easier just to support Stannis, as he implored Robb to do. 

She wonders if he does not yield because of his vows, or because of his duty to the men that serve him, but no matter what he says there will be another war; a war the realm cannot afford. Though she cannot bear the thought, some dark part of her mind thinks that when that war is done, whoever wins will find cause to condemn him for his indifference, and so he is damned either way by not choosing a side.

“When we hold the North once more, Robb will make certain the throne cannot reach you. We will protect you, as you have protected us.” No matter who sits upon the throne, she adds in her mind. Her hand reaches out to hold his, the smooth skin of his palm contrasting the calluses on his fingers. Jon’s gaze cuts sharply to hers, and he takes a step towards her.

“I will not allow you to become involved in this, in what is to come,” he replies, his hands reciprocating, fingers tracing the scar on her own palm from where she had cut herself on Needle years ago, sending a tickle down her arm so that she must bite her lip to hold back a shiver. “You’ve known enough suffering as it is.”

Jon’s words find root within her, and before she can think better of what she is doing, Sansa closes the distance between them, her arms wrapping round his neck. His own arms twine round her waist, and he leans his head into the crook of her neck, fitting his body fast to hers. His breath warms the sensitive skin beneath her ear, and sends that now familiar feeling melting down her spine; except this time it is tinged with guilt and shame - for the way that he makes her feel, and the way she wishes he feels too. 

A hundred wicked thoughts pass through her mind as she leans into Jon; of being carried in his arms from the lichyard and laid down into her bed, of him down on one knee with a winter rose in his hand, truer than all the knights from the old tales. 

She finally understands, with dizzying clarity why she does not wish to leave the Wall, why she cannot bear the thought of leaving him. And it is a terrible secret she can never give voice to, can never allow anyone to know. 

With a start, she pulls away from Jon, hiding her thoughts behind a placid expression, immediately moving to put the distance of the desk between them. It’s just an embrace, she scolds herself, and nothing more.  

Arya is fighting with Gendry in the training yard, teaching him to parry with a sword. She has been at it with him for over a moon’s turn, yet he has made little progress. He is strong enough to wield any weapon – his hours toiling away in the armoury have built more muscle than perhaps even Jon possesses. Yet his movements are still slow and laboured; to him battle is much the same as casting a sword upon an anvil, a game of brute force rather than cunning.

She dances around him like a skipping stone across water, smooth and never ceasing. She tells him to parry this move or that, to cut fast and true, and yet he never learns. But even she cannot seem to best him when he lifts the blunted battleaxe that belonged to Donal Noye long years before he passed. Jon told them that Donal brought the axe with him to Castle Black from Storm’s End back when he joined the Night’s Watch.

Though it is nearing midday, cold autumn wind whips at them as it worms in from the other side of the Wall. It has not relented in weeks. If this is only autumn wind, I shudder to think what winter will bring .

“Gendry!” Sansa calls out, and he turns his head just in time for Arya to ring him in the ears with the blunt of her sword. He staggers forward and waves, holding his head as an afterthought. “May I borrow my sister from you, if you please?”

Gendry looks to Arya and his cheeks flush pink, before he turns back to Sansa. “Aye, m’lady, if Lady Arya is done ringing my head in.”

Arya gives him a dismissive glare, before placing Needle back in its scabbard. “I told you not to call me a lady,” she shouts out as she begins to walk away from him.

“Aye m’lady,” he retorts with a wide grin, and Sansa watches with amusement as Arya’s face turns red as a beet.

“He does it just to tease me,” Arya remarks as soon as she is close.

“He does it because he fancies you,” Sansa counters, smiling.

“And what would you know of fancy ? You barely talk to anyone besides me, Val, Hot Pie, and Jon.”

Sansa can feel her own cheeks redden at the words and tries to change the subject. “What is it you wanted to speak of with me?”

Arya grabs her arm and begins to lead her down into the tunnels beneath Castle Black. The men of the Night’s Watch call them the wormways, and though they are dark and smell vaguely of mildew and rot, they provide some relief from the icy wind.

She leads Sansa through the maze of winding tunnels, up and down narrow half-flights of stairs, until the air begins to feel cold once more. “Where are you taking me?”

Arya bites at her lip, before deciding on another right, pulling Sansa with her. “Did you know that some of the tunnels go underneath the Wall? It’s where all the food is kept, and the ice cells too.”

Sansa had heard that Mance Rayder had been kept in the ice cells but had not known until now where they were. “You’re taking me to the ice cells?”

“No, I’m taking us where we can speak freely,” Arya replies with a grin.

The tunnel leads them to a small room where the walls are painted in ice, and Sansa must be careful not to slip on the frozen floor. In one corner are kegs covered in frost, and in the other rests haunches of venison and goat. Arya hoists herself to sit upon a keg and gestures for Sansa to do the same. She looks down at the fine wool dress she is wearing, at the boning of her bodice, and suffices to stand. Arya seems unbothered by the action; her mind is taken up in other thoughts that cast curious edges along her long face.

“I wanted to speak with you of dreams,” she begins, shifting in her seat uncomfortably. “A long time ago you told me that you saw Lady and Nymeria, and Ghost, in your dreams. Do you still have those dreams?”

“Why do you ask?” Sansa counters, unsure how much she can say without her sister thinking her mad. How can she say that in her dreams she doesn’t just see Lady, but becomes her, breathes with her, eats with her, smells and sees what she sees too?

Arya fidgets in her spot in the keg, scratching at an old scab on the backside of her hand. “Lately when I dream, I dream that I am a wolf; that I am Nymeria. I know that dreams mean nothing, and it's probably a silly notion, but sometimes when I am within those dreams, I am certain that Bran and Rickon’s wolves are alive.”

With a rush, Sansa’s dreams come back half-fluid in her mind. There is always something she needs to remember when she wakes up, but she never quite can. Now it is vivid as the frozen haunches of meat before her. She is Lady streaming through dry, wind-whipped forest beside her brother and sister, supping upon a fresh deer. She calls out to the moon, giving thanks to the Gods for their gift, and listens for her lost brothers’ answers. Sansa moves with a start, and her eyes grow wide.

“You think me mad,” Arya says irritably, kicking at the keg below her with her heels.

“I – Old Nan once told me that the Old Gods send messages through our dreams, that there is truth within each one.”

Arya licks her lips and chews at the inside of her mouth, quiet for a time. “Do you think that Shaggydog and Bran’s wolf could be alive? Do you think it could mean they are alive too?”

“We were told that their bodies hang upon the ramparts at Winterfell long ago,” Sansa tries to reason, though her heart is beating out of her chest. Is it possible that Arya dreams as she does too, that they are as real as she wishes them to be?

“And all the realm believes us dead as well,” Arya counters.

Sansa wants to believe that Rickon and Bran are alive, wants it more than anything she can name, yet it is precisely because she wants to believe it that she fears it must not be true.

“Even if their wolves were alive, that is no guarantee that Bran and Rickon are. I don’t think it wise to get our hopes up so high.” She watches as Arya’s face falls, but because she cannot bear to dash her hopes completely, she confides in Arya as well. “I’ve dreamt the same dreams as you though. Except in my dreams I am Lady, and it feels so real that I can smell the forest around me, feel the leaves below my feet, taste blood in my mouth from a fresh kill. It is more real than any dream I’ve ever had before.”

Arya gives her a wide, disbelieving grin. “You? You tasted blood and you did not retch?”

She returns her sister’s smile, and lets her heart swell with the thought that perhaps, somewhere Bran and Rickon are alive. Even if it isn’t true, it hurts a little less to believe.

Chapter Text

Sansa and Arya climb the tall steps of the King’s Tower, ascending nearly a hundred feet to the apartments that King Stannis has claimed as his own. He’s asked them both to his solar to speak with them alone, though she is certain the red woman will be there too. Melisandre is his shadow, or maybe he is hers in truth, for it seems sometimes that he follows her and not the other way round.

They wait outside the door to his solar, and Sansa raps gently against it. “Come in,” Stannis says sharply, Melisandre opening the door for them.

Sansa gives a small curtsy that Stannis barely cares to notice. Instead, he gestures to chairs set around the hearth, and Sansa and Arya oblige. It is an uncomfortable thing in truth – to sit in council with King Stannis – but there is scarcely anything about him that does not strike her as difficult and uncomfortable.

Melisandre takes her seat by the hearth, hands folded neatly in her lap. “I’m glad that you came,” she breathes out, eyes never once leaving the flames. “I was not certain you would.”

“Could you not see it in your flames, my lady?” Sansa replies smoothly, only half-hiding her disdain for Melisandre and the will of her god.

“The flames only show us what we need to see, not everything we wish. I’m certain they have reason to hide your face from me.”

Melisandre’s words make Sansa aware of the cold in the room, and she looks to see Stannis standing by an open window, eyes fixed on the Wall before them, stretching out impressively in all directions. He does not seem to notice the cold, nor the stray flakes of snow that wind their way in and melt before they hit the floor. It is a strange thing; to have the heat from the fire and the cold from outside battling here between them.

He leaves the window open and walks closer to the hearth, but he does not sit down. His eyes are sharp and calculating – a dark blue so unlike his brothers – while he seems to gauge herself and Arya. Arya gives him an impudent look, and Sansa must fight to bite down a smile.

Her head turns at the sound of scraping talons on glass and hard rock, and the sight of Mormont’s raven saddling its way through the open window.

“That wretched bird will not leave me alone,” Stannis spits out, fixing it with a glare.

It comes to rest upon the hearth, eyes dark and searching. “Corn, corn,” it caws out, as it scrambles along the stone ledge. 

“I have no corn for you, now begone,” Stannis mutters, before turning back to watch Sansa and Arya. “I called upon you today to speak of several matters. First, I have received letters of support from Arnolf Karstark and Mors Umber – even without word from your brother – and they have pledged to help rid the North of both the Ironborn and the Boltons. I want to know whether you believe I can trust them.”

Sansa weighs her words carefully. "The Umbers were always steadfastly loyal to Robb, but the Greatjon and Smalljon had been with Robb at the Twins – I do not know if they still live, and I know little of Mors Umber, and whether his word is as true as the Greatjons. Of the Karstarks I know only what Robb has told me; that they swore they would never trust him again, that they said his execution of Rickard Karstark was akin to kinslaying. It is hard to imagine that there is trust to be found in the hands of Arnolf Karstark; but perhaps time has healed those wounds.”

She does not know why she says those last words though, perhaps out of some sort of hope that Stannis has swayed the Karstarks to their cause, that their pledge is good and true. But she knows that if she were in front of Cersei today, her wounds would open up again as red and angry as before, and there would be no forgiveness. Her hands fist the smoothed out wool of her dress, leaving wrinkles in the fabric.

Melisandre looks away from the flames and at Sansa. “So much has changed, and yet we remain the same. Honour and duty pass down from man to man, just as grudges do the same. Thank you for your counsel, Lady Sansa. I will ask the flames of what you speak and see if they reveal the truth to me.”

“Is there any word from Robb?” Arya spits out impatiently, not waiting for King Stannis’ other matters to be brought up.

A small muscle jumps in his jaw, as he moves to look at Arya. “I suspect we’ll hear nothing until he receives guest right in the Vale. It’s a dangerous time to be a dead man come back to life.”

The words ring harshly in her ear, and Sansa cannot help but think that they are some dark reminder of the truth of what Robb has become. She can only hope that Robb has found some peace or solace in his travels south, or that he has at least found a way to finally sleep.

“What if something has happened to him?” Arya persists, and Sansa taps at her sister’s thigh. It may feel strange to call the man before them king, to treat him with all the dignities that come with it, but they must do so all the same.

Melisandre gives Stannis a calm smile and turns to Arya. “He is safe and well for now, young one. I’ve seen it in the flames.”

“As soon as we receive word from your brother that he has gained the support of the Vale and the Riverlands, he will send word from Riverrun to all his leal bannermen, to anyone we can trust,” Stannis says, continuing with his plans. “Then we will move south with my men and his, with the Karstarks and the Umbers, and the Mountain Clans if Jon’s word can be trusted. We will take back Deepwood Motte and Torrhen’s Square and force the Ironborn back to the seabed where they belong. Robb’s army will approach from the south, and we’ll converge at Winterfell.”

Stannis pauses then. “I am a man of my word, Lady Sansa and Lady Arya; Winterfell will be returned to you, and to Robb. He will act as Lord of Winterfell, and my Warden of the North.  You will have your revenge – against the Boltons and the Freys, even Theon Greyjoy if he remains alive.”

“What if we do not wish to go?” It is not the first time she has said these words, and each time she says them they feel smaller and more hollow in her throat – it aches with the echo of them once they leave her mouth.

“Where else would you imagine yourself to go, Lady Sansa? You cannot stay here, not with winter nearly upon us,” Stannis replies with a tone that begs no debate.

“What if Robb needs our help?” Arya contests. “I would ride down and help seek revenge against the  Freys.” Her fingers play at the hilt of Needle, stretching and bending round the handle.

Stannis gives a snort of laughter that sends Arya’s cheeks to redden in contempt. “I think it’s high time you stop thinking of cutting throats, and think instead of maiden’s cloaks, my lady. We will need to solidify our hold in the North when all this is done, and you both will do your part through marriage.”

Arya’s eyes flash with anger, and with a great lurch she rises, storming off out the door and down the stairs of the tower before Sansa can contain her.

Maiden’s cloaks, she thinks wearily, it always comes to maiden’s cloaks.

She could be the most accomplished fighter in the seven kingdoms, could be the most skilled diplomat or strategist the realm had ever known, and still the only question would be whom she was destined to marry. It is maddening, overwhelming – as though the corners of the room are closing in on her.

“I’m sorry for her, your grace,” Sansa tries to demure, though her limbs feel leaden and her mouth feels sluggish. I’m sorry that I cannot leave too.

She had been taught her duty long before she knew what it meant, raised to desire her own captivity, to dream of the confines of marriage to a man she has never met. Joffrey had seen to the dashing of those dreams.

Now, the thought of a bride’s cloak adorned with a sunburst or a roaring giant looms in her mind – sits heavy on her shoulders – and it seems to her like just another cage. She feels as though she is drowning, what little pride she has left in her torn away, leaving a gaping wound.

“I am not a cruel man, Lady Sansa,” Stannis says. “You will both choose your husbands as you wish, so long as they strengthen ties to the North. Not even my brother offered you such favourable terms.”

His words seem meant to sway the fear that must show upon her face, though they provide no solace, and instead only act as salt ground into the open wound. She cannot reveal it though, and schools her face until it is pleasant and deferential, wills her cheeks not to redden and her chin to stay high. She grinds her nails into the scar in her palm, finding calm within the stinging pain.

Melisandre frowns then, staring at the flames. The longer she looks, the hotter the flames seem to grow, rising and dancing from the confines of the hearth. It is a queer thing to watch, so unnatural Sansa can feel discomfort teasing its way down her spine, making her shudder slightly.

“There is something else my King,” Melisandre says, the fire dancing in her eyes. “Something the flames have only chosen to show me now. I see Krakens making landfall in the Reach, raping and reaving as they go. They seek to conquer, to destroy, to take that which does not belong to them.”

Stannis’ jaw is a hard line; stone and iron and ice. “Is this where the Ironborn will go when we drive them from the North? So be it then. Perhaps when they’re done, the Tyrells will find common cause with their rightful king.”

Melisandre seems to have barely heard him, eyes fixed on the flickering light. “I cannot see who leads them, for he is covered in darkness, shadowed by the night. He seeks to sow chaos, to sit high upon his throne. I see dark stone, burnt black, and ashes all around – perhaps it is the Seastone chair.”

The muscles of his jaw are working harder now, his eyes fixed on the flame. “It matters not to me who rules the Ironborn, and they are welcome to sit upon their gods forsaken chair, so long as they bend the knee. Tell me, Melisandre, why do the flames show you this now? Where are the stone dragons you promised me?”

“They are coming soon my King, I have seen it in the flames. When the snows of winter abate, the Iron Throne will be yours to take.”

“Stone,” the raven caws. “Snow. King.”

Melisandre looks carefully at the raven, before she speaks. “See, my King? Ravens carry the words of men; they speak no lies.”

“I’d sooner see that bird roast on a spit than listen to more of it’s nonsense. Now pray excuse me – my men need me in the training yard.” Before he leaves the solar, Stannis looks back one more time at Sansa. “You will follow me to Winterfell when the time comes to march; you and your sister both. And when the time comes you will both marry, to help heal the fractures this war has caused.”

Sansa rises from the chair, her head filled with images of stone and snow and the Iron Throne. When she tries to imagine Stannis sitting upon the ghastly thing, all she can imagine are the crypts of Winterfell, and the stone statues of the Kings of Winter. They always sat vigil in neat rows, down corridors and stairs that seemed to descend further than she thought the earth extended, tunnels deeper than any man dared to go.

Upon each King’s lap sat an iron sword, some so old and brittle that they had begun to disintegrate. Jon once told her that Stannis was like iron – she hopes now that it isn’t true, for he means to tie their fates to his.

Melisandre’s hand catches her arm before she can turn to leave, hot fingers wrapping firmly around her wrist. It is strange that despite the chill from the open window her skin is so warm; as though she has drunk fire into herself much as Robb did so long ago now.

“Lady Sansa,” she begins, “I fear for your half-brother, Lord Snow. I have seen things in my dreams, enemies all around him.”

Sansa feels fear coil in her belly, her mind dwelling on the angry looks in the dining hall at their meager rations, on how the men speak about the Free Folk and the way they have invaded Mole’s Town, on the parchment from the Martells. “What have your dreams shown you, my lady?”

“The Lord of Light has shown me that he is important in the war to come. I have seen his face in the flames many times. But now when I see him, I see only danger. It comes in the shadows, hidden from our sight, but it is coming all the same. Tell me, do you know what this danger may be?”

“He has had to make difficult decisions,” Sansa says carefully, “but he is the Lord Commander. He has no one to fear.” The lie tastes sickly sweet on her tongue, like a pomegranate left to the sun for far too long.

Melisandre’s face turns down slightly, searching Sansa’s face for answers. “I saw wind so cold that it shattered steel into a thousand shards. I saw him lying in the snow. I saw blood in the flames, my lady, more than I’ve ever seen. There is something coming for him; blood seeking blood, until the whole realm runs red.”

“Blood,” the raven caws, “blood, blood, blood.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Sansa asks, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Trust no one but those you love, love no one but your family and your kin,” Melisandre replies with a dangerous smile. The words seem familiar to her, but Sansa does not recognize from whom or where. “I thought that perhaps you could think of a way to protect your half-brother. Think on it, my lady, and let me know if I can help.”

Melisandre releases Sansa from her grip and dismisses her, a smile still set upon her ruby red lips.

Sansa feels numb as she walks down the steps of the King’s Tower, Lord Mormont’s raven following her down. She mulls the words slowly in her mind, blood in the flames, and Jon lying in the snow. Trust no one but those you love.

Suddenly, she remembers where she heard those words. Years ago now, back in Winterfell, the wood’s witch had said those exact words when she had given Sansa her fortune. But how could Melisandre have known what she was told that day? Could R’hllor have been watching and listening even then?

Apprehension creeps up within her as she considers the thought, and the warning from Melisandre. With her and Arya and Robb back at Winterfell, Jon will have scarcely anyone to protect him; no family, no kin, no–

“Blood,” screeches the raven, as it takes off for the rookery from the open door of the Tower.

Her legs shift direction, and instead of the Silent Tower, she follows the bird. It is a terrible thing that she is about to do – Jon himself has asked her not to do it – and yet she knows she must do it all the same. She does not trust Melisandre or her visions, but she too has seen the danger lurking around Jon. She is more certain than ever before that Father told her this secret for a reason, and she cannot allow Jon to deny any information that might help them. If it has the chance of saving his life, it will be worth the cost. 

She slips quietly into the Rookery, sneaking up the stairs past Clydas who is asleep upon a scroll at his desk. When she reaches the wide dome-like room, covered in windows that have long ago forgotten how to close, she must wrap her cloak tight around herself to keep warm. There must be half a hundred ravens perched upon wooden rafters, in the sills of the windows, or on the tables that line the room.

In the corner she spots thin scraps of parchment for messages, and quill and ink to write with, and she sits to write the message. It takes her a long time to craft one that only he will understand, should the bird be intercepted – if it can even find Greywater Watch at all. None of Robb’s ravens had ever found it.

When she looks up to find a raven to attach the parchment to, Lord Mormont’s raven is beside her on the table, clear black eyes on the parchment, head tilted to the side. The bird is older than all the other Ravens, and larger too, though it has not carried a letter as long as Sansa has been as Castle Black. “Do you know where Greywater Watch is?” she asks, not sure if she expects an answer.

“Watch, watch,” the bird caws back, taking another step forward.

It is a risk that she is taking now, but if no other ravens have yet to find Greywater Watch, then perhaps this one can. "If you deliver this message, I'll give you all the corn you could wish for," she whispers, tying the parchment to the old bird.

"Corn, corn," it caws out, great black wings stretching out as it takes off.

As the bird flies into the distance, guilt swells up inside her like a raging tide. Part of her hopes that the parchment finds its way to who it needs to find, and another part of her hopes it never makes it there – for if Jon finds out what she has done against his wishes, she knows he will never forgive her.

The smell of freshly baked bread hangs heavy in the early morning air outside the kitchens, steam rising quickly only to freeze and fall back down to the earth, giving the air a mist-like quality. Sansa takes advantage of the cover it provides and ducks into the kitchens to break her fast.

Hot Pie is there with several stewards, all hard at work preparing the day’s meals. He looks up from the dough he is kneading at the sound of the door clicking shut and flashes her a big grin.

“Early morning again, m’lady?” he asks, voice tinged with a hint of mirth. She rarely breaks her fast in the hall anymore, and though Hot Pie seems to understand that her goal is to avoid someone, he has yet to find out who. At least for now, her shame is her own terrible secret, though she is not certain for how much longer she can maintain it.

“Yes,” she replies, pinching a bread roll from a basket, along with a couple rashers of bacon. “With all the training lately, there are more clothes than ever to repair, and I feel I must do my part.”

Hot Pie’s eyes narrow slightly, and she can feel herself shrinking under his gaze. “There are stewards for that, m’lady. Surely Lord Snow would not wish you to wear yourself so thin as you do.”

Her throat tightens at his name. It is a strange thing; she had thought that time away from Jon would help alleviate the guilt she feels for the message she sent to Lord Reed, would help free her of her peculiar growing fondness for him as well. Instead it has done the opposite, and all she can think of is how cross he will be when he finds out, though she cannot understand why it worries her so, why she is so terrified by the thought of him never speaking to her again.

She tells herself that it is only because he has saved their lives, because he is so kind and so steadfast that she feels as she does; though she is not certain either exactly how she feels. She dares not dwell on it, give the feeling any name other than fondness and gratitude. Jon is her half-brother, anything else would be–

“It is only fair that I help the Watch, as it helps me in return. The Watch takes no sides, after all.” The words are acidic and thick, sticking to the back of her throat. “How is the Watch treating you? Have you reconsidered taking their vows?” She asks, changing the subject.

“They treat me well enough I suppose, but Arya says Stannis means to take you south to Winterfell when he marches,” Hot Pie replies. “I would go with you too.”

“I can’t let you do that, you’re finally safe here,” Sansa says, taken aback. She had been certain that Hot Pie would not want to travel anymore. “What if we do not succeed? And even if we do, Winterfell is a ruin; it will take years to be brought back to life.”

“With all due respect, m’lady, since I have not made a vow to stay here, where I go is my choice, and I do not wish to freeze here for the rest of my life. There’s nothing for me here but this kitchen. There’s no future here, and as for safety – we all know it’s only temporary.”

Sansa considers his words. “I’m afraid to go south,” she says quietly, picking at the crust of her roll to avoid his gaze. 

I’m afraid of leaving Jon. I’m afraid of what comes next. Melisandre’s words come back to her, unbidden. Blood in the flames, and Jon lying in the snow.

“You are stronger than you know, m’lady, and I’ll be there to keep you safe,” Hot Pie replies with a cheerful grin.

Sansa bites at her lip, wishing the words were enough to ease all the apprehension within her. She feigns a smile for him all the same. “Thank you, Hot Pie. Truly. I’ll see you again tomorrow,” she says, opening the door to leave before breakfast begins.

“Aye, m’lady,” he replies, giving her a small wave.

Outside, the grounds are filled with men bustling about, going about their morning chores. Sansa considers taking the worm ways to the Silent Tower, but the sun is bright today, and she wants to soak up the rare warmth that it provides. She walks above ground to the Silent Tower, eating her bacon roll as she goes.

Most of the men have already finished their training by now and the grounds are nearly empty as they make their way to the hall to break their fast. Only a scant dozen men remain, training with polearms that shine as stars in the black of night.

She is crossing the edges of the training yard when the sounds of an argument waft by. She hears the sharp, bitter voices of Ser Alliser Thorne and Bowen Marsh, and the stern admonition they are giving someone under the shade provided by the ramparts that surround the grounds.

“You will not send me out there to die, pup, I will not have it,” Ser Alliser Thorne snarls.

“There is no one more qualified to lead the party,” Jon replies darkly.

Sansa hides behind a corner in the ramparts, craning her head to hear what they say without being seen. It is unladylike to eavesdrop, and Septa Mordane would have been cross with her for doing so, but she can see no other way – she wants to know what is happening, if perhaps this is the start of the danger that Melisandre spoke of – and speaking with Jon lately has been difficult to say the least.

“Send someone from Eastwatch in my stead,” Ser Alliser Thorne insists.

“Cotter Pyke has no men to spare,” Bowen Marsh replies.

She strains to hear more hushed, angry words, but catches only every few sentences.

Ser Alliser speaks once more, “you better hope when I come back it’s not as a Wight, or I’ll come to tear your head off.”

“I hope you do come back, and I hope that was not a threat,” Jon counters in a level tone.

With that, Ser Alliser leaves in a huff, crossing the training yard briskly. Sansa pushes herself tighter against the wall, praying that the shadows will hide her from his gaze should he turn around.

“Was that wise my lord?” Bowen Marsh says dryly.

“Nothing was ever wiser,” Jon replies. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s the food stores, my lord. Lady Sansa and I have been through them thrice over. Even with rations, if we must continue to feed the Wildlings, we won’t make it more than two years, and the letter from the Citadel–“

“–I know what the letter from the Citadel said, and I know it’s not enough. When Robb lands in the Vale, he assured me he would set up trade for food.”

“With what gold? Will you take gold from Stannis now too?”

“Aye, if he will offer it then I will take it. I am not so proud as to deny any help we are offered.”

“Then the crown will name you traitor,” Bowen Marsh spits out, and before Jon can reply, he too walks away.

The words echo in her mind, insistent and foreboding. They meld with Melisandre’s grim warning – blood in the flames – until she feels sick. 

“Sansa?” Jon’s voice breaks her from her thoughts, and she looks up in shock to see him in front of her. His expression is drawn and tight, and she can see the residual frustration from his conversation with Ser Alliser and Bowen Marsh in the deep furrow of his brow, as well as something resembling hurt. “Were you spying on me?”

Her cheeks flush at the words, but she pauses before she can deny them, because how can she when that is exactly what she was doing? Perhaps she is as wicked as Septa Mordane surely would say. “I – I didn’t mean to.”

Jon looks at the half-eaten roll in her hand, and his fists curl tight and unfurl in turn. “Have I done something to offend you, for you to avoid me for more than a fortnight, and then to spy on me as well? Is this about what Lord Stannis spoke with you about?”

“King Stannis,” Sansa corrects.

“Your King, aye, but not mine.”

Sansa considers his words - words he has said a dozen times now, all with the same forced expression upon his face. Whether it is the weeks she has spent away from him that have clarified her certainty, or Stannis’ words, or even Melisandre’s, she cannot be sure.

She has tried to be understanding, to put herself in Jon’s position and understand the duty and honor that drives him, but she finds she cannot swallow down her thoughts any longer, cannot fight the swell of irritation in her gut.

“The Martells and the Tyrells cannot reach you here. By the time they try, if they even do try, Robb will have the Vale and the Riverlands on his side. You may find King Stannis more helpful to the Watch, and to us, if you declared him King.”

Jon swallows then, his jaw a hard line beneath his beard. “Did you not hear Bowen Marsh? Half my men already think I give Stannis too much, and you would have me give him even more? No, I cannot take any sides, my men–“

She knows that she should stop and consider his words, but when she looks at him and looks at the old, angry scar that runs down his face, she is filled with fear; fear for his life, for losing him. What if what Melisandre said was not a warning, but a threat?

“–You are their Lord Commander,” Sansa interjects. “Your men will follow you; they trust you to make the right decisions. You are not ruled by them.”

Jon gives her a weary smile. “No Sansa, you have the wrong of it all. We are all ruled by duty, no one is truly free,” Jon grinds out. “I have a responsibility to every man under my rule, from Ser Alliser to Satin, and to the Seven Kingdoms, from Stannis to bloody Trystane Martell. Whenever I make a choice, I make that choice for my men too, and I cannot let them suffer for my indiscretions.”

Sansa bites at her lip. “What if they suffer for your inaction?” Jon’s nostrils flare, and his fists tuck tight, but he does not answer her. “I’m afraid for you Jon, I’m afraid for what will happen to you,” she continues.

Melisandre and Stannis’ words are a knife in her gut, a throbbing pain between her eyes, and Jon’s dark eyes on her do nothing for her temperament, as she thinks of being dragged to Winterfell in fetters, and leaving Jon here alone. “We will – I will always need you; Winterfell needs you too,” she says with a voice that sounds weak and childish, and she hates herself for needing him, for wanting him, for asking him to put himself before his duty, all for her.  

He pulls away suddenly at the words, and the mask of Lord Commander Snow falls over his face – she knows what his answer will be before he even speaks. “Winterfell was never truly my home, and it does not need me now. I have never been a Stark and I will never be one. Besides, I am a man of the Night’s Watch now,” Jon says, anger and restraint hiding just under the surface of his skin. She wants to rip it away and see what hides underneath.

“I am the sword in the darkness, the shield that guards the realms of men.” His voice is dark and though it wavers, every word is a needle prick, deeper and deeper until it hits bone, and something within her fractures.

She wants to tell him that he can be both, that he can be a Stark and a black brother, that words are wind and vows can be broken. She wants to wrap her arms around him and breathe him in and tell him that he belongs in Winterfell with her, where he is safe from whatever danger seeks him out here at the Wall.

“You are not a sword or a shield, Jon; you are a man,” she implores him, knowing that her voice sounds high and desperate, that she is making a fool of herself to him.

“Men are men, but they are weapons too,” Jon replies with a sort of finality, his eyes drifting over to the training yard where black brothers practice with polearms tipped with obsidian. He picks up a polearm from the stack, inspecting Gendry’s craftsmanship, and the tip glints in the bright morning sun.

Sansa watches the men dance forward and back in drills; weapons holding weapons to fight the dead. And what will I do when the Others come?

It is not the first time she has had the thought, but the sickening reality of it is too much to bear. Arya will fight alongside Jon, she knows now, and Robb will too. Stannis and his men will rush forward, and Gendry and Pyp and Grenn as well. And she? She cannot fight, cannot wield a weapon save for the dagger at her thigh. And besides, that dagger has never been wetted by her own hand.

They will lock her in a tower, and she will have to sit there and do nothing while everyone she loves dies. The thought is more than she can bear any longer.

Sansa grabs the polearm from Jon’s hand before he can protest, her hands wrapping around the coarse wood base. “Then you will teach me to fight, and I will be a weapon too,” she spits out, walking forward towards the black brothers and refusing to look back, taking an open space beside them.

Wind whips Sansa’s braid into her face, making it hard to focus on Val, who stands before her with a blunted knife. Her thrusts are slower than Sansa knows they can be – a kindness, she thinks – as she ducks away from each one, using a polearm to deflect the movements. Jon won’t let her train with a sword yet as he says they are too heavy, but slowly she is learning the way of daggers and polearms, and more slowly with bow and arrow.

She has been given several teachers so that she may learn many styles, but she finds she likes lessons best with Val, save for the scarce few with Jon, resigned as he is to teach her arms. When they train, she can feel restraint pull up within him, his words tight and formal, and his fists pulled tight.

It is dangerous to stand so close to him, to have him face her head on with angry eyes that seem to swallow her whole; but it is thrilling too. And when he must come even closer and help to adjust her grip or her stance...it makes her gut feel empty and hollow and hungry all at once, like her organs have shifted upwards and she is falling from a great height.

“Focus Sansa!” cries Val, who manages to land a glancing blow along her shoulder. Though the blade is dull, it still stings through the wool of her dress. Sansa stumbles backwards, hair caught in her eyes, and nearly falls. Val holds out a hand and rights her, giving her a dangerous smile. “Where were your thoughts, my lady?”

Before she must come up with a lie, the air begins to ring with the sound of a single horn, causing her heart to beat wildly in her chest. Could Ser Alliser be back already?

The men are not running to the gate at the Wall though, but rather the gate to the castle – the one through which she had come so long ago now.

The old iron gate protests the winch that rises it, loud screeching echoing off the Wall as it rises. Jon runs out from his quarters in the armoury, thick black cloak whipping upwards in the wind. Stannis and Melisandre appear too, after a time.

Once the gate is up, a single rider comes through on a fine black steed. He looks tired and dishevelled from his ride, grey beard tangled from weeks ahorse. Though his clothes are dirty and wind-worn, Sansa can see by the stitching that they were once fine, and he dismounts the steed with a certain grace. She does not know from which Lord he comes, but she is certain that he comes from one.

“I have orders to speak to Lord Commander Snow and Lord Stannis, alone,” the man says. His words are gruff, and his tone suggests that no argument will sway him.

“Very well,” Jon says, flashing his eyes quickly over to Stannis, whose jaw is clenched tight in concentration. Jon turns to Satin, “Satin, ready my quarters to receive our guest.” 

Once Satin has rushed off to the armoury, Jon turns back to the mysterious man before them. “What is your name, and who has sent you?” His tone is civil, but Sansa can hear the wary tone, can see the way that his hand moves almost imperceptibly closer to Longclaw, slung at his hip.

“Begging your pardon, my lords, but I have been instructed to tell that to no one but you.”

Jon and Stannis walk off with the man, Melisandre floating slowly behind them, followed by a half dozen black brothers

Worry and guilt twist within her gut at the thought that the rider has come by the words of Lord Mormont’s raven, with word from Lord Reed. In her mind, Jon lashes out with a thousand terrible words, and all of them are deserved. It is a small price, she thinks, for the knowledge that it could bring.

The night wears on though without any interruption, and she is no longer certain who the man is, or why he has arrived.

Arya sits with her in their solar, sharpening Needle as Sansa distractedly hems her new cloak. It is three layers thick, and heavy furs cover the shoulders of it; a true winter’s cloak.

As she works, she cannot help but think of the shabby cloak that Jon calls his own and wishes that she could make him one too. It would look as Robb’s and Father’s had, direwolves stitched into the breast. A reminder of who he truly is, of what he means to me.

That is a dangerous thought though, for what Jon means to her lately has been like a moving target, arrows shooting a hundred ways that she dare not look.

It is nearly the hour of the wolf when they both hear a knock at the door to their apartments and Arya moves to open it. Jon stands on the other side, tired but relieved. The fine furrows that have begun to etch deep between his eyes have lessened slightly, and Sansa takes a deep breath, allowing herself to relax.

He sits down by the hearth and Sansa hands him a cup of ale, which he drinks down in one gulp, a strange smile building on his face.

“Who was that man?” Arya asks finally, when Jon does not fill the silence.

“His name is Ser Marlon Manderly, and he was carrying a personal message from his cousin Lord Wyman,” Jon replies. “Robb is safe, and under the protection of Lord Wyman. He says that the North remembers, that they will avenge their king. White Harbour has declared for Robb.”

Sansa feels her heart leap into her chest with a flutter, that small hopeful bird of so long ago uncaged and flying desperately against her ribs. White Harbor is the key to the North; with it comes the allegiance of all lands east of the knife. Losing White Harbor from the thrall of the Boltons means that the Iron Throne will find it near impossible to breach the North.

She bursts to her feet, pulling Arya tight into an embrace, feeling tears running down her cheeks. For once, Arya does not object, but burrows tightly into her sister’s arms.

“There is something else,” Jon says slowly, measuring his words. Sansa and Arya look up at his change of tone. “There is no certainty to the claims of course...but a mute boy was found in the ruins of Winterfell, and the words he writes tell a very different story than the one we’ve all been told. He – He saw Bran and Rickon leave the ruins of Winterfell with their direwolves. He says they’re both alive.”

Chapter Text

At Jon’s words, Sansa and Arya half-fall from their embrace in surprise. At first, Sansa is certain that she must have heard Jon wrong, but she can feel Arya trembling in her grasp and Jon’s eyes are wild, searching her own for recognition.

“Bran and Rickon?” She repeats numbly. It is too much to hope, too much to believe, and yet hadn’t she and Arya both dreamed as much? It is a bewildering thought – dreams are dreams and nothing else – but the wolfdreams have always felt different, more real than any other.

She feels behind her for the arm of the settee in which she was sitting and lowers herself down slowly. Her limbs feel limp and sluggish, as though she is a puppet with strings that are too loose, and she collapses into the soft cushion while Arya rushes forward to embrace Jon.

She knocks the wind out of him, but he merely laughs and spins her round just as the first day they were reunited at Castle Black. The smile that cracks across his face smooths out a decade of worry lines and furrows and makes him young once more, as though they are children again at Winterfell – as though she is on the outside looking in, knowing he will never smile like that for her.

“How?” Sansa breathes, as she fumbles for the half-finished cloak that has fallen to the ground, placing it over the arm of the settee.

Jon puts Arya down and she settles into her own chair, hair askew and a wild smile upon her face. He takes his seat beside Sansa, so close she can feel the heat of him against her thigh. Guilt builds uncomfortably within her, for the way his closeness reminds her of being in his embrace. She shifts herself further from him on the settee, but somehow she still feels just as warm.

She forces herself to focus instead on Jon’s words, on Rickon and Bran, and Arya mere feet away from her, a witness to every move that she makes.

“The boy – he named himself Wex to the Manderlys – he climbed the heart tree in the godswood during the sack of Winterfell. Bolton’s men and dogs couldn’t find him, they all lost the scent. He stayed in the ruins of Winterfell for three days, for as long as he could, and on the third day he watched six people and two direwolves head forth into the Wolfswood. They split paths, one group heading north, while the other headed east. He followed the group heading east.”

“Why did they split up?” Arya asks harshly, “they’d have been safer together.”

Jon’s smile fades, replaced by a clenched jaw and grim tone. “To confuse the hounds should they return. Force them to choose one trail and not the other.”

It is a terrible thought, that their brothers had to make such a choice; to split to save one of them, and possibly sacrifice the other. Sansa feels her body shudder uncontrollably and wraps her arms round her middle. She can feel Jon’s gaze turn to her, yet she cannot meet his eye.

“Does he know where they went?” Arya continues with her interrogation, standing to pace the chamber in agitation, fingers dancing along the hilt of Needle in its scabbard.

“He could only follow one trail, so he followed the boy who could walk. He followed them until he could not follow them anymore. He heard the woman leading them say that they were setting sail for Skagos.”

“Skagos?” Sansa whispers incredulously, as she finally turns to face him. All that she knows of the island are from tales that Old Nan used to tell them; of unicorns and cannibals and volcanic rocks that would dash sailor’s ships to pieces before they landed ashore. “Has anyone ever survived a journey to Skagos?”

Jon’s face tightens, and he pauses long before answering. “I was not certain if I should tell you at all, the chances are so slim for–”

“He’s alive!” Arya cries out angrily, standing. “Rickon is alive, and Bran is too. I’ve known it since I came here to the Wall, and Sansa has too.” 

Jon looks to Sansa questioningly, but once more she determinedly avoids his gaze. After a moment, he sighs and turns back to Arya.

“All we know is that they survived Winterfell, and Rickon was headed for Skagos; we do not know anything more. We do not know where Bran was headed, or whether Rickon ever left the shores of the North at all,” Jon says wearily. “Even so, Lord Davos is leading a ship to Skagos from White Harbour as we speak. In another life he was once a smuggler – he has the best chance of any man to make it ashore and see if the claims are true.”

Arya’s face falls further as she begins to understand Jon’s meaning. “You won’t be sending any men to Skagos? You won’t be going yourself to see if the tale is true?”

Though Arya may not, Sansa already knows what Jon will say next. They’ve had this conversation half a hundred times before, and every time he has chosen duty over their family – over her. He will hold her and protect her while she is here and tell her that she will never suffer again; but they both know that soon she and Arya will head south with King Stannis, and when they do, his words will be wind once more.

Each time he says this, it is a painful, twisting feeling, as though something she had not known was necessary is being ripped from within her, and in its wake she is left hollow, echoes left to ring against her like the walls of an empty room.

“Arya,” he begins tiredly, “would you have me sail a ship off to Skagos myself? I am the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. I have a duty–“

“And what of your duty to your family? Rickon was your brother once, and I was your sister, and Sansa too. You gave me Needle, and you told me that different roads sometimes lead to the same castle, and you–“ she stutters as a sob threatens to burst from her, chin trembling with the effort to hide it. “You made me believe that we were the same, that we were a family and that you loved us, and I always believed that when we got here we’d be safe because we would be with you. But that’s not true, is it?” 

Jon’s fists begin to clench, tightening and loosening to that old, unknown rhythm. Sansa wants to clasp his hands in hers so tight that he forgets this habit he’s taken to since coming here. She wants to cut the ties that bind him to this gods-forsaken place and take him back to Winterfell where they can pretend that none of this has ever happened. Let the Others come, and let Stannis and his red woman deal with it all.

But as soon as she has thought it, she knows it impossible; Winterfell has been torched by the Boltons, and that the North still lies in the hands of the Boltons and Ironborn alike. They have no home, no safety – right now Castle Black is all they have.

“You don’t love us anymore; you only love your duty,” Arya spits out, with words like venom. “I am tired of waiting for you to do what is right. I’m tired of doing nothing.”

Jon stands from the settee and reaches an arm out to Arya, but she swats it away and runs out of the room as quickly as her legs will take her. Sansa listens to the sounds of her boots cracking against the stone stairs as she rushes down the tower, watching the way that Jon’s shoulders slump with shame.

When he looks back to Sansa, his face is more aggrieved than she has ever seen it. “Sansa,” he pleads. “If they were here, I would do all in my power to keep them safe, but you know I cannot leave Castle Black. What would you have me do?”

I would have you take a moment to weigh your options before deciding on inaction; I would have you at least pretend that we matter as much as your duty.

She stands carefully from the settee and distances herself from Jon. The memory of standing over Robb’s broken body comes unbidden, of his still chest and his blood on her hands, of how in that moment she had risked everything to bring him back without a second thought.

She stops at the door, teetering between holding it open and forcing it closed. She wants to understand his precarious position, yet in the end she keeps coming back to her last memories of Bran and Rickon. She remembers their chubby cheeks and the wide grin that would plaster Bran’s face when he found a new wall to climb, and it feels impossible to know that they are alive, and yet do nothing – reckless as it may be.

Danger all around, blood in the flames, and Jon lying in the snow, echo the red woman’s words in her mind.

“No matter what vows you took, we are your true family,” she says finally. “No matter what happens, we will do anything to protect you, and I want to believe that you’d do the same – yet you continue to choose the Watch over us. Would your black brothers be so loyal when they are tested? Would they die for you, as I would?”

She hadn’t known it until the words tumbled from her mouth, but now that they are spoken, she knows them to be true. 

That night, running as Lady once more, there is no battle between family or duty; here they are one in the same.

The scent of a hare draws her attention, and she delves deeper into the woods, away from the Wall, into forest so dense that the light of the moon can scarcely break through.

Her snout lifts to breathe in all the scents of the wood, and within it she can smell something of a memory as old as time, yet still warm, untouched by winter. It reminds her of home, of a godswood surrounded by castle walls where she used to play.

As though conjured by that thought, she finds herself in a clearing, moonlight streaming down through bright red leaves and bone white bark. The limbs of the tree seem to reach out in all directions; to the ink-black sky and the moon, and outwards to her, beckoning her closer. She cannot help but think that if she could climb those limbs, she could touch the stars themselves.

It is strange though, because she has travelled these woods a hundred times by now, and never seen a weirwood before – yet here it is, standing tall and proud, larger than any weirwood she has ever seen.

The closer she gets, the more certain she is that she has seen it before. The carved face of the weirwood watches her, blood red eyes seeming to cry tears of happiness, instead of the sorrowful ones she had always imagined. The face looks familiar too, though older now than long ago. It rests on the edge of her memory like a hangnail, like a loose banner swirling around on the wind.

“Who are you?” she asks in a voice like a howl.

The tree answers in the shiver of a thousand blood red leaves blowing in a wind that brings with it a cold fiercer than any she has ever known. She smells a darkness coming, but also the bittersweet scent of the weirwood, and it seems to carry a call from the true North, beyond all the man scents to a place older than man himself.

Sansa wakes with a cold shiver, eyes tracking with dismay to Arya’s empty side of the bed. She lays there for a time, poised between wakefulness and sleep, trying to remember her dream. There is something comforting within it; it reminds her of home, of the warm stone walls of Winterfell, and sitting by the hearth listening to Old Nan’s tales until she could scarcely keep her eyes open from sleep.

She is pulled from her thoughts by an abrupt knock upon her door.

Hurriedly, she wraps a thick woolen robe around her new silk nightrail, and rushes to open the door, finding Satin on the other side, face flush with exertion.

“My lady,” he pants, “You are needed in the Lord Commander’s chambers. There is an urgent matter to discuss.”

“May I dress myself first, or must I go as I am?”

Sansa does not intend it as a taunt, more as a weary complaint, though it sends splotches of red across Satin’s cheeks all the same.

She finds herself ill-rested and still irritated with Jon – that he knows Bran and Rickon are alive and does nothing grates upon her still. Yet she is unable to picture in her mind exactly what it is she wants Jon to do, and that only frustrates her more.

“I will wait outside until you are ready,” Satin replies, with a hollow sort of smile upon his face. It strikes her as curious; normally by now he’d have made a quip or two.

She swallows thickly, and dresses as quickly as she can with fingers that feel numb with cold. Today, she pulls on heavy stockings and a simple woolen dress with black embroidery. A somber dress for a somber mood, she thinks to herself sullenly as Satin walks her to the armoury behind which Jon has made his chambers.

King Stannis and Lady Melisandre stand at the doors too, and as always it only serves to stoke her apprehension. Their faces are grave, and Stannis’ mouth is pinched so tight his lips form a thin, tight line more like a fissure than a mouth.

“Lady Sansa,” Melisandre nods deferentially, as they enter through the door. She is dressed today in a rich crimson robe that fits tightly around her body, no cloak or gloves in sight despite the bracing cold.

Inside, Jon is leaning over his desk, the now familiar stacks of papers piled high, mingled with ancient books, pages torn and overcome with mildew. When he looks up to her, his hair is in disarray and dark circles sit under his eyes, making her wonder if he has slept at all the whole night through. 

She finds herself holding her breath, for she can see the apprehension in his face.

“Arya is gone.”

He says the words so simply, but it takes her time to process them. She had imagined that Arya had spent the night hacking apart half a hundred strawmen – it had not occurred to her that Arya would simply leave her, without saying a word. .

“Gone?”

“I’ve had Satin check the stables and the kitchens. Two palfreys are missing, as well as several loaves of bread and a wheel of cheese. Gendry and Nymeria are nowhere to be found either, and Donal Noye’s axe has been taken from the armoury.”

Stannis’ eyes flash with anger at that, and Sansa watches him curiously.

“Brimstone,” Melisandre breathes out quietly, with a look of bemusement painted upon her face. The ruby at her throat glows bright red, catching the rays of morning light. “And cold winds are now rising. She’s gone to find her brother.”

“And taken that blacksmith’s apprentice with her,” Stannis interjects through a jaw clenched as hard as stone.

Not for the first time, Sansa notes the attention that the King affords Gendry, but before she can think on it more, Jon has placed his hands roughly against the desk, causing one of the ancient books to topple to the ground with a thud.

She takes a careful step forward and picks the book up from the ground. It is a ponderous tome that she has seen on Jon’s desk many times before.

“I will go after her; she can’t have gotten far,” Jon says. “It’s my fault she’s gone at all.”

Stannis lets out a mirthless laugh that sounds more like a wheeze. “You will not. It seems these days you’re the only one keeping the peace amongst the Wildlings; I’ll not have you gone when they disturb the peace once more.”

“I told you that they would not listen to Rattleshirt, and I warned you not to burn Mance Rayder,” Jon bites back.

“And you offered me no other solutions. Mance was a deserter to the Night’s Watch, and the punishment for desertion is death – or need I remind you of that?”

Sansa must fight to stifle a sharp intake of breath at his words, her fingers clenched tight into the leather of the book’s binding.

King Stannis’ words hang heavy in the air, and the implication is clear. She knows that Stannis has threatened Jon’s life before, but he has never done so in front of her before; she finds it gives her only more reason to resent him.

“Your Grace,” Jon replies deferentially, though she can feel the cool bite of his words as he speaks, “I have given you another solution. We must treat with Tormund Giantsbane and come to a truce. He could bring peace to the Wildlings.”

“Enough,” Stannis replies irritably. “As I’ve said before, any Wildling is free to pass through the Wall, so long as they swear fealty to me. There will be no truces. Your Tormund can come to us when he is ready to bend the knee.”

Jon looks ready to speak again, but Stannis continues on. “As for your sister and the blacksmith boy – I will have my men at Eastwatch look out for them and send them back when they are located. My lady wife has sent word that she grows weary of Eastwatch and means to travel here with Shireen; they will all travel back here together.”

Jon’s face downturns only further at that news. She has no doubt he is contemplating how much more this will upset the delicate balance that exists around them, how many more concessions he must barter to Bowen Marsh or the Wildlings to keep the tenuous peace.

“I thank you for this kindness, Your Grace,” Sansa replies, though everything in his expression tells her this is not being done for her, but rather for himself. “But I fear your men will be travelling to Castle Black alone,” she finishes, fighting back a sad smile. “If Arya does not wish to be found, you will not find her.”

There are few things left that she is truly certain of, but this is one of them.

Perhaps some part of her had known that Arya would leave as soon as Jon spoke those words last night and gave hope to the dreams that they both had. She recalls that day in the winch cage when she had asked Arya not to leave her, and Arya had been silent as Ghost. 

“What happens next?” The memory asks in her mind, “we can’t stay here forever.”

“Sansa,” Jon says, moving so close that his bare hand touches her own. She recoils from his touch, taking a step backwards away from the desk and from him, the book held tight to her chest as though for some sort of protection. She must keep her mind clear, especially under the watchful eye of the red woman, and his touch is far too distracting. “I’m sorry, I should have listened–”

Jon’s words are interrupted by the sounds of squabbling and flapping wings, and Lord Mormont’s raven flies in through the door, depositing itself upon Jon’s shoulder.

Sansa watches with mild relief to see that her parchment is no longer tied to its foot, that there is no proof of her betrayal of Jon’s wishes to be found. Yet there is no reply tied to the bird either. Was her message received? If so, why has no answer been given? A more terrible possibility grips at her; that the bird never reached its destination and lost the parchment along the way.

It seems that lately all they do is trespass against each other, and she fears that she has dealt the final blow – the thought that it all may have been done in vain is almost too much to bear.

“It’s been awhile since I last saw you, old friend,” Jon says with vague curiousity, “where have you been?”

The raven merely pecks at Jon’s cheek until he reaches into his pocket and produces a few kernels of dried corn. The bird hungrily snaps them up and turns its dark, beady gaze to the rest of the room.

“Corn!” it caws. “King! Snow!”

The sun is still rising over Castle Black, but here atop the Wall the morning light covers everything in a golden cast, filling Sansa with a warmth rarely found this far north. It is a hollow warmth though; she has not slept well since Arya has left, staying up late many nights reading the book she took from Jon’s chambers. 

She knows that she should feel guilty for taking the book without his leave, but she had walked off with it unknowingly still clutched in her fingers, in such a hurry to escape the raven’s judging eyes. Besides, there is a certain thrill to it; to have something of Jon's, to glean some sort of insight into what he thinks, and so rarely says. So far the book seems to only contain queer stories from Essos, and she is left baffled by the hallowed position it had been given upon his desk.

She steps cautiously from the winch cage to the massive corridor that snakes along the entire length of the Wall, making certain that each foot sits securely before moving the other. Even though she has made the journey several times now, it does not get any easier.

Jon has opted to take the new switchback stairs to inspect the handiwork himself. The winch cage is terrible enough on its own that she can scarcely conceive of what it would be like to walk all those steps to the top.

She finds herself gazing south beneath the Wall, eyes tracking over miles and miles of dark green forest. Even dusted in snow as they are, she can spy the soldier pines and evergreens standing stoically beside each other. Yet no matter where she looks, she cannot spy the blood red leaves of the weirwood tree that she sees in her dreams.

“Sansa?” Jon’s voice rings out, surprising her and nearly causing her to lose her footing. She shoots him an irritated look as he ascends the final step.

“You nearly scared me to death,” she mutters crossly, resting her thickly gloved hand upon the Wall for support. Even through the leather and fur, the ice chills her to the bone.

Jon’s face looks a little brighter in the morning sun, and his cheeks are rosy from the exertion of the climb, but she can tell by the furrow of his brow that his mood is still sullen; he cannot forgive himself for Arya leaving, and for not being able to go after her. She can only wonder how much guilt he harbours over his inaction to Bran and Rickon as well, for it is not something they discuss. They have discussed little at all of late, in truth.

“I half expected you not to be here,” he puffs out, still winded from climbing the steep steps. “You’ve been avoiding me again.”

Sansa can feel her own cheeks redden at the accusation, true as it may be. She still finds it difficult to face him, for it dredges up feelings that she cannot put a name to, blended with so much frustration and guilt that she cannot be certain at all where exactly her mind and heart lie. Perhaps that is for the better. 

“Val has needed more help with Dalla’s babe; he’s begun to teethe and scarcely seems to stop crying.”

“Hmm,” Jon hums dismissively in response, taking a place beside her on the Wall. “And what has captured your attention this morning?” He asks, gesturing with a tilt of his head to the forest below them.  

“It’s silly,” she replies, eyes still searching for red leaves amongst all the green. “It’s just – I had a dream that there was a weirwood tree in the woods near Castle Black.”

Jon shoots her an interested look, and puts his own hand upon the Wall, gazing out with her. “The only weirwood trees lie in a grove just north of the Wall. It’s where I said my vows, and more men will say their vows tonight. If there were a tree on this side of the Wall, we wouldn’t dare make such a journey, especially so close to nightfall.” He seems lost in thought now too, and she is certain that he is planning out the route they will take as he speaks. Lately, his mind seems to be planning a dozen things at once. “Sometimes dreams are just dreams.”

“Of course,” Sansa says absently. How can she defend the truth of her wolfdreams without him thinking her mad? “Could you take me with you to the grove tonight? I would wish to say a prayer.”

“Sansa, it’s too dangerous for you to go.”

“You say that I am avoiding you, yet here I am asking to accompany you, and you refuse me,” she replies archly.

“Sansa,” he says warningly, before she continues her persuasion.

“I need to say a prayer to the Old Gods for Bran and Rickon.”

At that, Jon nods stiffly, and pulls a letter from his cloak, holding it out for her inspection. “So be it. Now for the matter at hand; I thought you'd want to read this yourself.”

Upon it, imprinted in rich, blue wax is the sigil of House Arryn; a falcon against a moon, proud wings ready to catch the wind and soar away. Her heart beats immeasurably faster at the sight of her aunt Lysa’s sigil, at the hope of what it could mean.

He hands the letter to Sansa to read, and she receives it gingerly in her palms, cradling it.

“I had sent so many letters, and never received a reply,” Jon remarks darkly – his words seem distant, detached from the excitement that is rising within her.

She carefully lifts the broken seal and unfurls the parchment. “It’s from Robb,” she gasps, looking up to catch the somber expression upon Jon’s face. It is not the joy she would have expected, but instead something rather more aggrieved.

Though he does not sign his name, she recognizes Robb’s handwriting, and the message intended, despite the cryptic words scrawled upon the parchment. “He’s reached the Vale.”

“Aye,” Jon replies stiffly. His tone gives her pause once more, and a small lump begins to grow in her throat at his tone and his expression. She hurriedly reads on.

As she does, her heart sinks low in her chest. “Lord Baelish has married my aunt Lysa.”

She remembers Lord Baelish and his clever tongue and sharp wit from King’s Landing. More than anything, she remembers Arya’s mistrust of the man, and she can feel that same, old wariness climb up her spine like a spider as she continues to read.

Though the entire letter is carefully written, she understands very well what it means; the Vale is under Lord Baelish’s thumb.

It is only when she reaches the final lines that she truly understands the graveness upon Jon’s face.

“Lord Baelish regrets to inform you that the Vale has few men and fewer supplies to offer, and that their allegiance must remain to the Iron Throne,” she reads aloud. “However, Lord Robert Arryn wishes desperately to see his cousin, the Lady Sansa, whom we have come to understand currently resides at Castle Black. Should she wish to come visit, they may find it possible to send some supplies north in return for this kindness. After all, there are no bonds greater than that of family, save for those obtained through marriage.”

As she reads the words, it is as though her dagger begins to burn against her thigh, red hot with anger and indignation. Long ago, it had been in Lord Baelish’s possession, but it was never truly his; just as the Vale was never his to claim.

Her mind spins as she weighs her scant options, but as she does, the words of the letter ring in her mind warningly; there are no bonds greater than that of family, save for those obtained through marriage . A roiling in her gut tells her that she cannot go, that it is not safe. Yet how can she deny Jon the supplies he so desperately needs? How can she deny Robb the allegiance and men he needs, just because of a feeling?

Her chest begins to tighten and she can feel her fingers trembling. It’s as though she is trapped and there is no escape – not from Lord Baelish, not from King Stannis, not from all the prophecies that she has been told, for each one seems to come true, one after another. 

Brimstone, and cold winds rising.

Lady Melisandre’s words had seemed familiar, though she only placed them later that night as being from the old crone atop the high hill, who’d given Arya her fortune. Sansa mislikes that the red woman knew those words, and mislikes even more what it implies – that what is to come has already been laid out in stone, that their lives are not their own.

Before the feeling consumes her entirely, Sansa looks up from the parchment and out over the Wall, to the north this time.

It is a world where shadowcats and direwolves reign, and a hundred other terrible things that she now knows are real. Yet there is something serene and beautiful about it too, something that seems to call out from the ice-covered mountains far in the distance. Val told her once that there is a freedom in knowing that your life rests in your own hands, and she finds herself longing to know what that feels like.

Jon’s gloved hand reaches out to take hers, drawing her gaze to him. His eyes are squinted in the bright morning sun, crow’s feet forming in the corners. Even now, it is impossible to miss how earnest his expression is towards her, and she is torn between guilt and what her own heart tells her.

“He’s holding the promise of food for your men and the Vale’s allegiance hostage,” she says quietly, the words sticking to the back of her mouth like sap.

Jon’s thumb brushes slowly over her gloved hand in an almost possessive way, and it sets her mind to thoughts she knows she cannot have. If she does not set sail for the Vale, then sooner or later she will head south with King Stannis – her place is not here with him, and it is foolish and wrong to even dream so.

“Aye,” Jon affirms quietly, words tipped with thinly veiled anger, “and the ransom is you.”

Chapter Text

Though the white raven has not yet arrived from the Citadel, winter winds blow in full force north of the Wall. Sansa tightens her new cloak, pulling the heavy, fox fur-lined hood up over her head. In the distance, she can hear the whinnies of horses that flank their party, riders ready to sound the alarm should any danger arise. Ahead of them, the north lies vast and wild and free. 

Lady speeds by her grey palfrey, jolting the poor horse and causing it to bray. Ghost follows tight on her heels, and Sansa must softly stroke the horse’s mane until the direwolves are out of sight once more.

Two lengths ahead of her, Jon rides atop a midnight black garron. His black cloak whips and snaps in the bracing wind, but he does not raise his hood. She knows he cannot sacrifice obstructing his view, and he bears it without so much as a grimace.

Sansa coaxes her palfrey to match his pace, and draws her hood back down to meet his gaze.

“I am travelling south to the Vale,” she says when he finally turns to look upon her, determined to continue their argument from earlier. “I cannot allow you to sacrifice the supplies you require, and Robb the men that he needs too.”

He does not look at her, but she hears the sound of a heavy exhale. “You will not. You’ve said yourself that Baelish is not to be trusted, and you must know what those words in the letter meant. Robb could not have been more clear.”

Sansa smiles humourlessly. “I’ve known for a long time that I must marry to broker ties to the North; at least this way I would know the boy before he becomes the man I am to marry.” At least this way I can avoid being betrothed to another Joffrey, she thinks, biting at her lip.

“Sansa,” Jon implores, “I told you long ago that you would not marry against your wish, and I told you that I would always protect you–“

“As you protected Arya?” She cannot help the words slipping through, for though she does not blame Jon for Arya’s leaving any longer, it remains a slow, searching ache within her heart, as though it’s no longer whole. Sometimes a voice within her wishes that Arya had asked her to come with, and sometimes she dreams that she’d been strong enough to go.

His face tightens as he turns to face her. Worry has pulled wrinkles across his forehead, and his beard is covered in hoar frost. “That’s different, Arya is–“

“Capable of protecting herself?” Sansa interjects. “And I am not?”

Instinctively, her thumb brushes along her thigh, feeling for the raised edge of the scabbard where her dagger sits. The only times that she has ever felt strong, ever felt half as certain as Arya is about everything in her life, is when she can feel the dragonbone hilt warm against the flesh of her palm. Sometimes she wonders whether there is magic in the blade that gives her strength, or just strength in steel itself – in knowing that life and death sits balanced in her hands. 

In those moments she understands why he spends so much time in the training yards, and why she must too.

“That’s not it.” Jon scowls, redness colouring the tips of his ears as the wind bites harder at them both. She aches to pull up her hood and find comfort in it’s warmth once more, but it seems now an indulgence she cannot allow in front of him. 

“Then what is it? What is so different between Arya and me? We both survived King’s Landing, we both survived the journey north. Why does she get to leave, and I must stay? Do you believe me so weak?”

“No Sansa," he replies. A flash of anger passes just behind the dark expanse of his eyes before he continues. "It has simply been my hope that you never feel you must do anything you do not wish to again – and I do not believe that you truly wish to go to the Vale.”

“It doesn’t matter what I wish, for we are all bound by duty, aren’t we?” Her words echo the conversation they have had a thousand times since her arrival here, and his hands tighten around his reins in response. 

Jon opens his mouth as though to meet her challenge, but then he visibly deflates. “Sansa, just...just promise me you will not leave. I mistrust this Baelish; no goodwill was ever brokered by ransom.”

“And yet I see no other options,” she replies. “You have scarce enough supplies to last the next six months –  less if Stannis keeps his men camped here much longer. Would you let your men starve?” 

“That’s not a fair argument. Baelish has no intention of sending me supplies, nor Robb any men, and the words of that letter all but confirm it,” Jon bites back. He runs one gloved hand through his tangled mess of hair in frustration, pushing it back behind his ears. “We will find another way.”

Lady Melisandre’s words echo in her mind; I saw him lying in the snow. I saw blood in the flames, my lady, more than I’ve ever seen. There is something coming for him.

There is a prickle of worry at the base of her skull, and it tingles and stabs within her, growing each time she thinks of Melisandre’s vision. Yet no matter how hard she tries, she cannot banish the words from her mind, cannot help but try to ensure they do not come to pass. 

It seems to her the strange irony of prophecy; how can she be certain that their actions will be enough to change the future, or if they have merely sealed Jon’s fate?

“You would do all this? You would gamble with your men’s lives that Lord Baelish’s words are not true, that he means me some sort of harm?”

“It’s not a gamble.” His face is a mask of ice and stone that she cannot read as he speaks, “and I would.”

“Why?” 

She knows now that she is tearing at the corners of what they have been circling around for weeks, but she cannot stop. There are things he keeps hidden from her; words he does not say that hang between them, just outside her grasp. She is weary of his dark eyes and lingering looks, of his long silences and heavy frowns. 

“Everyone sees something when they look at me,” she says when he does not answer. “Queen Cersei saw me as the key to controlling the North, Stannis sees a marriage to bring union to his kingdoms, and Lord Baelish sees me as something to bargain with, though for what purpose I cannot say. What did you see when you used to watch me at Winterfell? What do you see now?”

Jon’s eyes turn away from hers, watching the sway of the palfrey upon which she rides, watching her boots in the stirrups of the saddle. His eyes trail up slowly past the frayed edges of her skirts, past where they've ridden up to reveal the thick woolen stockings beneath.

A thousand years ago, she’d have been embarrassed by her disheveled state, but she finds she is no longer afraid of his appraisal - of anyone’s appraisal in truth. Whatever they may be, she knows she is strong enough to weather his words. 

His eyes continue their journey upwards for a time, but still he does not speak.

She wants to reach out and rip the words from his tongue, to finally see the truth of it all - but instead she sits frozen under his dark gaze, while he remains frustratingly, maddeningly silent.

“Sansa,” he finally says, voice hoarse from the cold. “It does not matter what I see, only what you see when you look at yourself. Do you truly wish to go to the Vale?”

“No, I do not. But–”

“Then it is settled, you will not go,” he replies with an air of finality. At that, he kicks at his garron’s sides and races ahead, finishing the conversation before she has a chance to press any more from him. 

It’s like milking a stone, Sansa thinks, driving her horse to match his pace. When she catches up, there is an air of surprise and something strangely close to self-reproach upon his face.

He will not meet her eye, but she continues regardless. If he is a stone, then she will be one too, insistent upon him as a pebble trapped inside his boot. “I would have you answer my question. What do you see when you look at me, Jon?”

His throat muscles clench and soften as he swallows, and the wind drives his curls to dance about his face, obscuring it from view. When he speaks, it’s as though the world around her silences; as though the thin, reedy stalks of trees bend in to listen too. 

“I see someone who is kind and gentle, who is stronger than she knows."

Her heart quickens in her chest, and she tries to still it as he speaks, but it beats only faster.

Jon pauses then, taking a shaking breath as though it is a heavy burden he is unloading. “When I look at you, I see one of the bravest people I have ever met. Now pray excuse me - my men need me at the front."

She does not have time to react when he digs in harder at his garron’s sides and races past her with graceful ease. Her palfrey cannot keep step with his garron at full tilt, and instead she is left in his wake, his words a ringing thrill in her ears.

How can he think her brave when he has known so many men and women of action, and all she has ever done is run away? 

The sun begins to tip over the horizon as they reach the edge of the Haunted Forest, where the grove of weirwood trees sits. She has never seen more than a single weirwood in one place before, much less nine.

Old Nan told her that the children of the forest planted weirwood trees all over Westeros thousands of years ago, but Sansa had always thought it all to be a children’s tale. She had said that the children were put upon Westeros long before man was even dreamt of by the other gods; whose jealousy of the Old Gods and their children knew no bounds.

The Old Gods loved their children and treated them well, and in turn they planted weirwood trees all over Westeros so that the Old Gods would thrive as well. For thousands and thousands of years they lived in peace and harmony, until the First Men came to Westeros and brought their own gods with them too.

It had all seemed a silly tale, meant to remind them that the gods were always watching, lest Arya pilfer one too many sweet buns from the kitchens, or Robb and Theon roughhouse and wander too far from the castle grounds.

Now though – looking at the vast bone-white trunks arranged in a neat circle and extending high into the sky, at the bright red leaves bursting out in all directions – she finds herself thinking that she has witnessed stranger, darker things. 

Ahead of her, Jon is already dismounting, tying his garron to a crop of trees near the grove. Other men are doing the same, so she carefully lifts her leg up and over the side of the horse, feeling her body melt down to the ground, hands still holding the reins tight.

There is always a sobering feeling when she dismounts, as though she has returned to the earth smaller than she ought to have been. She feels shrunken and awestruck, standing before the majesty of the Weirwoods, their shadows falling heavy upon her.

“It’s breathtaking, isn’t it?” Jon says quietly, coming to stand beside her. His eyes look dark and glassy in the waning light, pupils catching the last red rays of sun before it falls behind the snow.

“It is,” she breathes out distractedly. She places her hand upon the bark of the nearest trunk, feeling the rough, white ridges that catch and pull at her fingertips even through her thick gloves. Something runs through her then, heavy and thick like mead; dizzy waves melting slowly against the confines of her head like ripples in a pond pushing against the mud that contains them. In a daze, she turns to Jon. “Do you really think me brave?” 

Jon’s eyes flick over to where his men are gathered, then trail off into the horizon, where the sun is quickly disappearing. Sansa knows that with the darkness comes the Others, and that now their time here is borrowed. 

“Maester Aemon once told me that it is easy to be brave when there is nothing at stake, when there is no cost to an action.” He looks repentant then, and his own hand touches the bark of the tree beside her. She wonders if he can feel it’s pull too; that slow, quiet strength that seeps through the fabric of her gloves. “I watch all the things you do, all the sacrifices that you make. It would be easier to hide yourself away, yet you remain, trying to protect everyone around you. There is no braver thing that anyone can do.”

As he speaks, Sansa wants to tell him that he has the wrong of it - that all she does is run. She wants to tell him that Arya is brave and he is brave, and she is not - for surely bravery cannot be so terrifying. Yet a small part of her wants to believe what he says, and cherishes every word. If he thinks her brave, then maybe she can be when it matters.

These are things she cannot say aloud though; instead she places her free hand upon his arm, taking a small thrill in his nearness, in the warmth that radiates through his cloak and leathers.

He turns his gaze down to watch her hand upon his arm for a time, and she can tell he is calculating, gauging something once more; though she can’t be certain of what.

“I am sorry that I could not go find Rickon, and that Arya left,” Jon says finally. “I need you to know that it weighs on me every day, and that I regret my inaction, but – do you really believe in what your dreams tell you? Is it possible that Bran and Rickon are alive, after all this time?”

Sansa looks at the sadness and weariness in his eyes, and weighs her words carefully. She wishes she could tell him of when she dreams she is Lady, and how those dreams seem more real than when she is awake lately. “I think that some dreams are just dreams, and some dreams try to tell us things. It’s up to us to go and find the truth of it all.” 

Jon nods at that, lips pressed tightly together. He always becomes silent when she wishes him to speak most – it is one of his most infuriating qualities, she finds.

He leaves her then to her prayers, walking to the center of the grove where all the other men stand. They are all clad in their blacks, standing clustered together as each man takes a knee in turn, matted cloaks blowing in the brisk air. It’s getting even colder now, and she can see her breath forming white puffs of cloud in front of her face.

As Jon resides over his new brothers, she watches how easily his mask falls over his face. It is easy to believe that he was raised for this; to be commander of an army, to lead men so effortlessly.

Some of the men are old and haggard, faces wind-worn and hair grey. Others are young, thin wisps of beard only just beginning to show. As they take their vows, it occurs to her that they are Free Folk no longer, for in this vow of duty there can be no freedom; a fact Jon has made abundantly clear. 

It seems to her a sad thing, that they should have to sacrifice so much for a warm bed and hot meal, and the promise of waking up alive the next morning; yet they came here willingly enough .

There is something else to it , she thinks, that thing that each person strives for – a meaning, a purpose.

An uncomfortable question sits there at the periphery of her mind, of what her purpose may be – for the first time she chooses not to try and answer it.

Sansa is walking slowly round the outer edge of the grove when Lady and Ghost appear from the dark depths of the forest before them. There are bits of leaves caught in their tails and their breaths come heavy and laboured, tongues lolling lazily from their mouth. She pulls her glove off and reaches down to pet Lady, picking the bits of leaf from her tail. They take to trailing her on either side, silent spectres following along.

Finally, she comes to the largest tree, wider across than she is tall. She circles the massive trunk until her face meets its own, ancient and gnarled. The eyes carved into this tree are as large as her palm and cut wide open, watching. They bleed thick red tears of sap that slowly wind down through deep crevices in the bark; some drops are trapped frozen half-way down the trunk, while others have fallen upon the heavily-packed snow that covers it’s ancient roots.

Curious, her bare fingers reach out to touch the sap. She gathers a few drops upon her index finger, pulling it back to press against her thumb. It warms quickly on her fingers, sticking to her thumb and releasing a heady, familiar scent. It is something bittersweet, something that dances about in the back of her memory. She finds herself closing her eyes to better focus upon it, and without thinking she reaches out her ungloved hand, leaning against the tree for support.

As though conjured, the massive weirwood tree appears again behind her eyelids, and she realizes that she recognizes the scent from her dreams. The weirwood stands above all the surrounding forest, taller than the soldier pines and ironwood trees. Past miles and miles of thick, dark woods and over a hill in a clearing, it waits patiently, the last rays of sun stretching over it, reaching out like fine fingers to set its leaves aflame.

Its face is thrice as large as the one before her, older and younger in turn; as though another  hides beneath the wooden one she sees. It seems to cry the tears of summer, flowing freely to form a garish red pool at her feet. As she gazes into the dull wooden eyes, they seem to shift and change before her, turning from white to red to deep blue.

She knows these eyes, has seen them a thousand times before; filled with joy and sorrow, laughter and pain, and everything in-between.

The leaves shiver above her as they always have in her dreams; except this time it is a cacophony of millions of leaves, each a tiny voice of it’s own, and every single one saying the same thing; It’s time to go home.

“Bran,” Sansa cries out, collapsing to the ground. 

In the distance a lone wolf howls, and Lady takes up the call. The two calls blend into one, rising high into the twilight air.

“I heard you took quite the tumble north of the Wall,” Val remarks as they walk the empty roads of Molestown. Now that there is snow always upon the ground, many of the Free Folk spend their time underground in the passageways beneath the buildings, having abandoned their tents on the edge of town. It is a labyrinth near larger than the wormways of Castle Black, filled with women and children huddled close to thin fires that warm the winding tunnels.

Some of the men and women have left the town and chosen to garrison the other towers along the Wall. A few have taken vows, but most have not. So long as they can loose an arrow and take his orders, Jon says they could be the difference between life and death.

“I barely fell at all,” Sansa replies as her cheeks redden despite herself. 

In truth, she had fainted and woke up on the ground, Jon kneeling over her, and all his men standing around. The most embarrassing part of it all had been that Jon would not allow her to return to her palfrey the whole ride home. She had been forced to sit with her back angled tightly against his chest, feeling his breath hot along the side of her neck. It is a thought that her mind returns to quite often, despite every attempt to forget it. 

“S’not what I heard from Errok. He watched you faint with his own eyes. I always knew southron girls couldn’t take the true cold.”

The heat in Sansa’s cheeks rises in indignation at Val’s words. “I’m not a southron girl, and that’s not what it was.”

“What was it then?” Val wraps her arm around Sansa’s arm, holding her close. A small smile plays upon her face, and Sansa can see that she has been well played.

“It’s difficult to explain, you will find me mad.”

“I assure you I will not,” Val replies, flashing her bright teeth, her golden braid flicking neatly from side to side as they walk.

“I had a – a vision of sorts. Like a dream, except I was awake,” Sansa replies hesitantly. “Of a weirwood tree larger than any could ever grow. Its trunk was wider than a giant is tall, and it sat atop a hill beyond the Haunted Forest. This is the part that you will find mad though; I am certain that Bran was there.”

“Your brother?” Val murmurs, as she winds them closer still to the tents. Wun Wun’s tent looms high above the others, visible even from afar. He would not fit in the passages below Molestown, though she suspects even if he could, he would prefer life out here. “The one who fell from the tower? The one who is dead?”

“He’s alive,” Sansa says defensively. She is certain of it now, certain that he is calling to her, that she will find some sort of truth at that weirwood tree, wherever it may be.

Val leads her to the center of the camp where a tall fire has been set up. Round the fire the Free Folk sit upon stumps of trees. Some are eating, some are drinking, some whittling arrow shafts that will soon be tipped with obsidian. Where the men of the Night’s Watch forgot how to fight the Others, the Free Folk never did.

Val hands Sansa a mug of something warm that she gratefully accepts. She takes a sip, finding it to be warm fermented goat’s milk, watered down and filled with spices to cover the flavour. The attempts have been in vain, and she must fight to swallow it. 

“Magic flows freer on the other side of the Wall,” Val says, taking a long gulp of her fermented milk. “And freer still close to weirwood trees. It was said that long ago when the children walked the realm freely that they would speak to the Old Gods through the trees. It would seem the Old Gods have heard your prayers, and given you an answer.”

“Do you know of any such tree, of a weirwood so large?”

“I do not, sadly. But you said it was far north, past the Haunted Forest – that is near the land of the Thenns. Perhaps Errok could tell you what I cannot.”

“Perhaps,” Sansa breathes, eyes drifting to the fire. If the Old Gods send messages even half as mysterious as the Red God, she is not certain at all what will be waiting there.

She is pulled from her thoughts by a commotion in one of the tents, men spilling out from behind the hides, brawling and spitting insults at each other. They are of two rival clans; the Hornfoots and another she cannot discern, but their voices grow only louder, and more men begin to pack the clearing.

Val pulls at her arm to raise her, flagging one of Stannis’ men, who are never far away when she is around Val. He rushes forward, live steel in his hand to escort them away just as one Free Folk man draws a blade upon another. Sansa gasps as he leaps forward slashing and cutting the air, the other falling backward just in time.

“Where is Rattleshirt?” She manages to cry out, watching with horror as the next blow lands, and blood covers the snow below. 

They run for a hundred feet until they are safely away from the fight, but Sansa’s eyes never leave the puddle of blood that forms in the snow, growing impossibly larger with each passing second.

“Rattleshirt,” Val echoes disdainfully, spitting on the ground. “He’s worth less than the bones he carries.”

“But he is your leader.” Her voice is distant, eyes still locked on the scene in half-horror, half-awe. Another man has pulled the injured man away, and begun tending to his wounds. There is more blood staining the snow than she’d ever thought possible for one man to possess, and she feels dizzy at the sight, the fermented milk buzzing its way uncomfortably through her body.

“Stannis says he’s our leader, but that doesn’t make him our leader.” Val pulls her arm once more, beckoning her to their horses that await on the other side of town. Still, Sansa resists, frozen watching other men spill out of the tents, listening as voices turn into shouts. “Come now,” Val says then, with a tone that brooks no argument. “You’ve grown stubborn as a Free Folk.” 

When they are safely from the scene, Val’s face softens, and she wraps her arm through Sansa’s once more.

“Do you wish to know how we really choose our leaders, little kneeler?” She says in a playful tone, as though they have not just watched a man be half-gutted. Before Sansa can reply, she continues. “We choose them like we choose our husbands. If a man is strong enough to lead us then he will lead; and if he is not, then he is dead - rather like that poor soul.” 

Her words are simple, but there is a harshness in their simplicity that Sansa mislikes. “But how can the strongest man be the best leader?” 

“How can a man whose only quality is that he came from the seed of a king be the best leader?” 

For an instant, Sansa thinks of Prince Joffrey and his wormy lips, of his dangerous smile and all the dead cats strung up round the Red Keep, and the warning for her that she had seen in each one.

Princes don’t make good kings, an old voice reminds her, and while she sees the wisdom in Val’s words, she cannot help but believe that strength alone is not enough either to make a good king, much less a good husband. 

She frowns at that thought, tries her best not to picture her future husband, for whenever she tries of late, another image invades her mind, and it takes longer and longer each time to force it away.

“You don’t understand because you’ve been kneeling so long my lady,” Val says, reading her frown as disapproval. “A good leader is one who knows the value of their position, and what it will cost to lose it. A good leader is one who is chosen, allowed to lead, one who’s time is temporary, and at the mercy of those they serve.”

“Who would you choose as your king, then?”

“We already have chosen, and we chose Tormund Giantsbane.”

Sansa’s eyebrows furrow as she recognizes the name. “The man Stannis refuses to treat with?”

“Aye,” Val replies. Her voice turns low and quiet then, as she makes sure the guards are out of earshot. “But your Lord Snow means to send a party of Free Folk north on the new moon to find and treat with him anyway. Perhaps they can keep an eye out for your tree while they’re there.”

She is stunned for a time by Val’s words, by how Jon means to defy Stannis’ wishes and further endanger his own position, both with Stannis and his own men. But more than that, she cannot stop the hope that crawls up within her at the prospect of finally being reunited with Bran once more. She tries to temper her excitement, rational thought tearing at the seams of this plan.

“How do you even know they will find Tormund?” Sansa says. “What if it is all in vain? The north is vast and none of the rangings have as yet returned with any sight of Free Folk – if they’ve returned at all.” The last part of her sentence is the most sobering of all.

Val gives her a mischievous smile then, teeth biting at her lower lip, as she pulls Sansa further away from the guards. “Come, Sansa. I think it’s time I tell you the tale of Gendel and Gorne.”

Chapter Text

In the days that follow, Sansa visits Errok of the Thenn. She finds him in the wormways beneath Castle Black, fletching arrows and filling empty casks with pitch. 

He is an old man, back bent with age and hair speckled white and grey; yet his fingers are still deft, and his mind is sharp as the dragonglass arrows he fletches.

She comes to him uncertain whether he will even speak to her, for many of the Free Folk keep a wide berth around her in deference to Jon. But he greets her with kind words, and tells her an old tale; one told by his father, and his father’s father before him. It speaks of an ancient weirwood that sits in the farthest reaches of the Haunted Forest. His people kept the Old Gods, and this was said to be the first weirwood ever planted in Westeros; but it had been cursed long ago, and now no one dared venture near it. 

His words hang in the back of her mind, clouding each day and each night. She has since approached each man of the party, and none have offered to travel further than the caves beneath the forest, where Tormund and his Free Folk reside.

These men are her best hope – her only hope in truth – at finding the weirwood, yet none of them will help her.

Sansa gazes nervously outside her chamber window, searching and failing to find that last waning crescent of moon in the sky. The moon has come and gone, and taken with it her chance to find Bran, for at twilight tonight, the small Free Folk ranging will pass through the gates and venture north to treat with Tormund. 

In the corner of the chambers, Lady lets out a soft, soothing whimper, but it only serves to increase her guilt. 

She had meant to ask Jon to send his own men, or go himself. He is the Lord Commander, and he may go ranging beyond the Wall if he wishes. Yet somehow each time she has tried to ask him, all she can think of is his earnestness as they spoke north of the Wall, and how each move he makes could be another step closer to what Melisandre saw in the flames. If she were the reason for harm to befall him, she could not bear it.

Sansa sighs and stands from her desk to pace away the frenetic energy that runs through her weary body, yet as she does her eyes continue to fall back to her desk, to the book that lays open upon it. It sits there, spine bent half-way, open to a page that has caught her interest of late.

There is something in it’s words that only serve to heighten her agitation, and her mistrust of Stannis and Melisandre; for it speaks of the legend of Azor Ahai, of how Lightbringer was tempered by his own wife’s blood – forged by his own pain and suffering – and made forever hot to the touch. 

Hadn’t Melisandre named Stannis’ sword as Lightbringer the night they let the Free Folk through the Wall?

“Lady Sansa,” calls the voice of Clydas through the thick ironwood door of her chambers, interrupting her from her thoughts. She closes the old tome, and unlatches the door.

Clydas stands on the other side, hunched and round shouldered, fingering a thick roll of parchment in his fingers. “This just came by raven, milady. Fastest, strongest bird I’ve ever seen, too.”

“A letter for me?” She asks, half incredulous and half nervous. The only people in the realm that truly know of her whereabouts are the men of Castle Black, Robb, and Lord Baelish. Only the last two would have reason to contact her, and she is more than wary of the latter.

But when Clydas thrusts it into her hands, her eyes drop to the seal on the parchment. It has no sigil to give a clue as to whom it comes from, but she recognizes the simple grey wax all the same. When she opens it and reads the first line, her heart skips a beat.  

“Go get Jon,” she says quickly, unable to contain the excitement in her voice.

Clydas nods perfunctorily, and makes his way down the winding steps of the tower, as Sansa reads the first line over and over once more; Dearest Sansa, I have made it to Riverrun.

Her eyes rush forward, greedily absorbing the next words of the letter. 

Riverrun has declared for the North, and our uncles vow to ride with me to take it back.

Her eyes close for a minute, and she pictures her brother tall and proud upon the greatest garron anyone has ever seen. She imagines him riding north with a host ten thousand strong, Uncle Edmure and Uncle Brynden by his side. In her mind’s eye, Robb’s face still has that same pallor she has come to expect, but there is a smile upon it, and he doesn’t look quite so weary anymore. It is as though taking back the North is slowly returning him to who he once was.

She imagines the Tully banner replacing the Frey’s at the Twins, and the direwolf returning to where it belongs, upon the castle walls of Winterfell. The walls will be rebuilt where needed, and scrubbed clean of soot otherwise. And when she’ll walk down those long steps to the crypts, Father’s statue will be there to greet her, that last sad smile upon his stony face.

“Sansa, what is it?” Jon’s voice calls out from halfway up the tower steps. 

“Robb made it to Riverrun,” she cries out, her voice cracking as she does. When she sees his face in the doorway, all the emotion inside of her feels doubled, swelling as though to encompass the entire room. She runs towards him and pulls him into her arms, feeling tears of happiness stain his bare neck. He must have forgotten his cloak in his hurry, for he’s dressed only in his leathers. 

“We’re safe,” she breathes, “you’re safe.”

Jon swallows hard, pushing her away gently at the shoulders to break away from her embrace. “That’s it then,” he says, nodding tightly. “You will go home soon.” His voice seems to waver slightly as he speaks, and his smile seems strained. His eyes trail down then to the letter in her hands, as his face fades into a frown. “May I read it? Does it say anything more?”

She thrusts the letter into his hands with nervous excitement.

His eyes scan the paper, pausing halfway down the page, eyes tracing words over and over again. She watches his eyes narrow, and his face draws to a hard expression; of something stone and ice and steel. She finds herself leaning over his arm to read what has caused him so much concern.

The journey here was hard as we took only a small guard and kept to the marshes and swamps. Despite that, we were overrun by Martell men, who seemed to know exactly where we’d be and when. I am certain that I’d be dead if not for the help of Lord Howland Reed, who rode out and saved me and my men. He rides north with us now, with all the power of the Neck and the crannogmen. He wishes to know what befell his children, who were present for the burning of Winterfell. I fear when we arrive he will find only bad news, but I find I do not have the heart to tell him so yet.

Her heart sinks low; a heavy weight set to make her chest ache. Lord Howland Reed has joined Robb, at her behest. Lord Howland Reed is on his way north, at her behest. It is too much of a coincidence that he should finally answer the call to arms after silence for so long, and Jon must know that.

Jon’s hands begin to tremble as he holds the parchment tight in his fists, and Sansa cannot stop tears from welling in the corners of her eyes. It’s as though she is a child again, preparing for whatever punishment she knows is coming. 

“Howland Reed,” he says finally, letting each syllable fall slowly from his tongue. His face begins to contort, angry lines forming between his brows like cracks in his stone facade. 

Slow dread creeps down her neck to blend with the guilt that has settled in her stomach; a constant dragging pain that has plagued her in the weeks since Lord Mormont’s raven’s return.

“Sansa,” he says with a voice that is far too level, and it only makes her heart pound harder until her ribs sting from the effort. “For years now, Lord Reed has ignored every bird we’ve tried to send to the Neck. He has ignored all the war and bloodshed, even ignored the murder of our father. Now, he joins Robb, and is headed this way.”

Her mind reels as Jon speaks, and she moves to take a step backward, but lands squarely against the back of the settee, trapped in as Jon advances. He is so close now she can smell the old worn leather of his clothes, could count every thin line of worry upon his face if her mind would stop spinning. 

Jon continues, when she does not speak. “Sansa, is this why Lord Mormont’s raven was missing those weeks ago?”

Colour rises high on her cheekbones as she meets his gaze, and she knows he has already seen the truth of it. Denying it now will only cause him more hurt, and she has already done enough of that. “Yes,” she replies simply, “I sent the raven asking for him to come North.”

Jon clenches his teeth behind his closed mouth, jaw working beneath the scrub of dark beard. She watches muscles jump up to his temples, as though fighting for restraint. “I asked you not to contact him. I told you that I do not wish to know who my mother is.”

“Then you may tell him that yourself,” Sansa replies defensively, “but I was tired of keeping your secret for you, of defying Father’s wishes. I was tired of doing nothing, and watching you make enemy after enemy. I thought–“

“You thought what?” Jon cries out suddenly, his decorum momentarily gone. “You thought you knew better than me? You thought that it should not be my decision?”

She can feel the press of the settee against the small of her back, and the harsh heat of Jon’s breath against her cheek.

“I thought that you could use every ally you could, I thought that maybe once you met Lord Howland that you’d change your mind, I thought–“ her voice catches, and she can feel her chin tremble from the force of holding in her tears. Jon has never raised his voice at her before, and she finds that it hurts twice as much as any scolding she has ever received, and even more so for the hurt in his eyes caused by her own hand. “I’m sorry, I just needed to do this – for you, and for Father.”

Jon pinches his brow with his free hand, parchment trembling still in his other. “I know Sansa, Gods, I know. I just – this was not your decision to make.”

“If not for Howland’s men, Robb may be dead right now,” she counters quietly, watching the muscles of Jon’s jaw grind tightly together at that.

“That isn’t fair and you know it – you did not know the danger to Robb when you sent the letter.” 

“I didn’t, but I knew you were in danger, and it was the only thing I could do,” she replies with conviction. These months at the Wall have left her feeling weaker than she has in years, left her feeling trapped and useless as a wolf in a cage. Robb has gone, and Arya too, and now it is only her and Jon, and he would have had her do nothing once more. “Melisandre told me that your life is in danger, and surely you must see it too. Half your men call you a Wildling behind your back, and half the Free Folk are near so wild that they’d kill you in your sleep. If we knew who your mother was, who her family is, then–“

“I have no mother,” he bites back angrily, words hot like venom while the paper crumples into a ball in his hand.

There is so much anger to his words that it gives Sansa pause. Small fragments of memories from the back of her mind lurch forward; of Jon’s eyes upon her from the back of the Great Hall in Winterfell, of how carefully he made certain to always walk a step behind her, never betraying his stature. 

She recalls the painful care with which he calls her half-sister, but the pride he quietly takes in being Father’s son, and realizes how that must feel like a war within himself, as though he is trapped halfway between one life and another.

I have never been a Stark and I will never be one. 

Jon’s words from long before echo in her mind, and the sudden truth of it all is more painful than she can bear. He had not refused to send word to Lord Reed out of duty, or because he did not care – it had been an action made out of his darkest insecurities. And she had gone behind his back and sent word anyway.

“Jon,” she says carefully, reaching out her hand to touch his. The first time she tries, he pulls away, but the second time he does not, and she clutches his clenched fist, easing his hand open to rest in hers. "I'm so sorry."

His eyes drift downwards to their hands, and for a time he does not speak. When finally he does, his eyes meet hers. They remind her of charcoal straight from a kiln – freshly cooled, and shimmering dark as night. 

“If she were alive, or if her family wanted to know me at all, why did they not come to Winterfell years ago?” His voice breaks as he speaks, soft and brash in rapid turn. "What good does a name do for a bastard, after all these years?"

She swallows slowly, hoping to think up a reason, any reason for why he’d been left to wonder so long. There is no reason that does not taste like ash upon her tongue.

“She abandoned me, Sansa, they all did. They didn’t want me,” he mutters, holding her hand tighter and tighter within his own, until it seems as though he is no longer speaking of just his mother, but of the entire world.

Something heavy inside of her breaks as she thinks of every angry glance her mother shot Jon when they were children, every time he had to drop his blunted sword and let Robb strike the winning cut. Of how Lady Catelyn had screamed at Jon when Bran fell from the Broken Tower, every long glance that he gave her, and every time he would sulk in the shadows and watch, and never speak.

The fingers of her other hand reach out then and cup his cheek, his coarse beard abrasive against her palm. 

“Is that what you thought, what you’ve believed all this time?” Her heart aches again inside her chest, and she wants to cut it open and give it to him, that it could be enough to erase his pain. “Is that why you joined the Night’s Watch?”

She does not see the first teardrops leave the wells of his eyes, but she feels them wet the tips of her fingers as she traces the end of the scar that cuts down his eye.

“It’s all I have,” he manages to whisper, “and this was all I could offer, all I could do to protect you and Arya, and everyone, and it’s not enough.”

“It’s enough,” she whispers softly, taking his face in both hands. His gaze slowly comes to meet hers, and the grief in his eyes bores into her, setting root within. “You’re enough.”

Jon’s forehead comes to rest against hers, and she can feel his breath against her cheek, coming in rapid, hot pants that tickle her skin. She lets her head rest there against his, feeling his breaths come slower and deeper, until his fist relaxes and the parchment drops to the floor, forgotten. 

Her fingers dance with his, feeling the smooth, burned skin of his palm, wishing that her touch could heal it, and all the damage that has been done. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs softly against his cheek. “I have asked too much of you, and I acted rashly and without thought. I should have honoured your decision.”

“It was a foolish decision,” Jon huffs out then dismissively, but there is still the shadow of hurt and vulnerability hiding behind his words. “I was playing the boy, afraid of being hurt. We cannot afford such mistakes anymore; we need every bit of help we can get.” His head lifts from hers, coming to pause inches from her face. 

“I am sorry all the same. I only ever wish to help you, and somehow I seem to always be your burden.” 

His eyes track slowly down her face, watching her lips as she speaks. “You are not my burden,” he intones softly. The fingers of his free hand reach out to gently push strands of her hair from her face, tucking them neatly behind her ear.

Then what am I, she thinks, the words sitting upon her tongue like late summer fruit, overripe and liable to fall at any moment. She schools her tongue – she cannot be to him what he is to her. Guilt sweeps over her then and finally she shifts, her face turning away from his. 

That one small movement is like a tile falling though, crashing into another and another, as he suddenly realizes how close they are standing, and the impropriety of it all. He untangles their limbs from each other, and his eyes dart down her face one final time, adam’s apple bouncing as he swallows thickly.

“I should go," he says abruptly. "I shouldn’t be here so late. We’ll speak more of this tomorrow.”

He turns to leave, but as he does, she remembers what she had meant to ask him, of begging him to risk himself once more for a family in which he never felt accepted. She will not ask that of him now. Instead, the way forward is suddenly blindingly clear - it must be her who travels north.

"Jon,” she says softly, trying to hide the sadness from her voice. He turns at the threshold, and gives her a searching look. Any words that she has melt away, so she rushes forward instead to embrace him. She lingers in his arms for a moment, before pulling away. “Goodnight,” she whispers. 

Goodbye, she thinks, I will try to be back soon.

“Goodnight, Sansa. We will speak more in the morning,” he breathes.

It is strange, for though venturing north of the Wall should terrify her, instead the thought only thrills her. It is as though a thousand pieces have finally come together, and now that they have, she cannot go back – not without Bran.

He turns once more and closes the door of her chamber behind him. She listens as his footfalls grow quieter and quieter, trying to stifle the tears that threaten to burst forth.

After Jon is gone, she moves to pack all her warmest clothes tight into a pack. She pulls on a pair of Arya’s leather breeches below the skirt of her dress, and ties Wolfsong in its scabbard to her thigh over the cool leather.

Her heart begins to pound as the reality of what she is about to do crashes against her. It is stupid and brash, and she knows the dangers that lie north of the Wall. But there is something else too that buzzes in her muscles, making them tight with anticipation. 

There are no suitors or politics where she is going, no silver tongues like serpents, or Melisandre and her watching eye. There is only life, and death, and the chance to prove her worth.

When she arrives at the heavy iron gate, the dozen Free Folk have already assembled, and Val stands there beside them, babe bundled tightly in her arms.

“I had a feeling you would come,” she says. “It’s as I said, you’re half a Free Folk now – not even the Wall will stop you.”

Sansa cannot help but smile at Val’s words. “I am the only one who knows where the weirwood is, the only one who will go find the truth of it all,” she replies. “I need to bring Bran home.”

“You will treat her as you treat me,” Val says then to the group of men. “You will bring her back safe, or that wolf right there will have all your heads.” Val gives Sansa a hug then, holding the babe with one arm as she does. “You better come back alive; I cannot care for this little monster on my own.” 

Soon after, Dolorous Edd and Satin arrive, along with several other Black Brothers needed to push the great wheel and open the gate. They both give her wearisome looks, passing from her to each other, and she knows that they mean to stop her. At that moment though, a commotion is heard from the kitchens, and smoke billows high and thick into the dark sky. 

“You best have Jon see to that,” Sansa says with a sad smile, and Satin frowns, running off towards the armoury. She says a silent thanks to Hot Pie, patting the bundle of breads and cheeses tacked to her palfrey.

“I cannot let you go milady,” Dolorous Edd manages to stammer out, once his confusion passes. “Jon will have my head, and there’s already enough headless men walking about this close to the Wall.”

She gives him a quick hug that serves to quiet his disapproval. “Best see that he doesn’t know it was you then.”

The iron gate screeches open, ancient metal heaving and groaning beneath its own weight. Her heart leaps into her chest with anticipation and fear as she begins to walk through the winding passage. Parts of her war within her, telling her this is a mistake and that she will not last past nightfall – but whenever those thoughts come she remembers the vision of Bran’s eyes in the weirwood tree, of it’s call to her, and the feel of Jon’s cheek cradled in her hand.

As soon as they reach the other side, Sansa kneels down in the frigid snow. It wets the wool of her skirts, but does not pass through her breeches underneath. Though the sun has not risen above the horizon, the world is bathed in cool blue, almost silent with the weight of the impending light. At least until it falls once more she knows they are safe from the Others.

Lady comes to her then, nuzzling her forehead to hers, licking half-frozen tears from her cheeks that she didn’t even know were there. She should feel weaker for crying, she knows, but instead they make her feel strong, as though they’ve frozen her skin hard as hide, and she can no longer be harmed. 

She wants to believe that there is strength in her fear, and it is a weapon she can wield.

“I am brave,” she whispers, the words finding purchase in the thick shag of Lady’s fur. “I am a Stark, and the same blood runs through me as through all of us. I will find Bran, and you will lead me to him.”

She stands up shakily, looking out over the Haunted Forest, looming dark and deep in front of her. She can feel the Valyrian steel dagger warm against her thigh, and the eyes of the men upon her back. The palfrey, laden with supplies, lets out a gentle whinny.

A dozen men come to pause beside her – Hornfoots and Thenn, even a man of the Ice-River clans – yet they all stand together now. 

Ahead of her, she sees Lady begin to stalk silently towards the Haunted Forest, her shadow stretching faint but endlessly tall in the early morning light.