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Chapter Text

She came with a warm wind from the South, on the early of the morrow.

A child on her hip. Auburn hair and blue eyes, a toothy grin and Sansa had never hated a woman so dearly.

Jeyne Westerling, chestnut curls and slender figure everything she brought with her, besides the covered man who stood slightly behind her. The woman for whom her brother lost the war. The woman whose honour Robb Stark had to protect above all others. The woman for whom he was brave enough to defy his lords. Never for his sisters. The woman for whom he had broken all oaths, forsaken all vows, stood before the women who had suffered because of it.

"I named him Eddard for... "

Sansa clenched her jaw and saw everything that could come of this moment. Of what could come of a child that looked so much like her brothers, like herself, like her mother. A child who could so easily be malleable and she imagined the most ambitious of her bannermen’s hungry glares though they had not yet been called forth from their keeps to witness her fall and another’s ascension.

For a moment – one small terrible moment – she looked upon her brother’s child and she wished he was Rickon. Baby Rickon. She wished the Bolton bastard had lied and that before her returned her baby brother. Him, she would have made King without a moment’s notice, without hesitation, without second-guessing.

The thought terrified her.

Sansa looked behind her. To Bran. To whatever Bran was now. Bran who showed no emotion at the sight of their brother’s child and yet gave her a solemn nod to confirm the child’s identity and once – she might have needed more – but he had spoken of secrets only Jeyne knew and Sansa would not doubt kin that spoke the truth to her, no matter how unkind.

She looked to Arya, who had a lovely smile on her face. Her eyes bright as she looked upon her brother’s child. Hope. There was hope in her eyes, to rebuild a family who seemed nothing more than ghosts now. It brought bile to her throat that she would not see what Sansa saw. That her sister could not see the consequences of this moment and side by side it reviled Sansa that she could think of nothing else.

And then to Jeyne. Her Jeyne. The Arya for whom Jon had sent Free Folk to deliver from Bolton hands. The Arya for whom Sansa had called forth the Knights of the Vale to deliver from Bolton grasp. Jeyne who cried in her arms in Castle Black and told her every awful thing that had come of her. Jeyne who begged her not to send her back when a letter from the Bolton dog came.

Jeyne who stood beside her as she rallied northern houses to take back Winterfell and the North. Jeyne who squeezed her hand when Jon was given the crown of Winter. Jeyne who squeezed her hand harder when Davos was named Hand of the King. Jeyne Poole, her truest advisor, her most loyal friend. Jeyne who had suffered the price for Northern Independence more than anyone, gave her a solemn nod.

They knew what had to be done.

"Little Lord, Eddard Stark, Winterfell is yours," she said to a child who could not understand the weight of her words, the heaviness on her tongue. She spoke solemn words to a child who could not understand the misery attached to them.

"Lady Jeyne, the North welcomes you, you shall always have a place within the halls of Winterfell." Sansa never felt as stupid as she did when she uttered those words, as she welcomed her brother’s widow into her own household. The rightful Lady of Winterfell.

There was a man behind her. Watching her carefully. Sansa had allowed him this. Had known who he was ever since he had crossed the gates of Winterfell, as soon as Brienne whispered it into her ear. Yet he seemed intent on watching her, so she allowed it. She had always deferred to the men of her family. So she allowed him to test her - them - if that was what he wished. Sansa had always been eager to please.

Still, she didn’t know why those were the words that rose him from his place of obscurity. Perhaps it was the solemnness of her tone. She had learned that from her mother. Perhaps it was the duty. Tully duty that rolled of her tongue as if she were more trout than direwolf. Perhaps she was. A Tully of Winterfell, for there was no honour to her. There was no honour to survivors, not when all the gods were dead. And from now on there was no place in Winterfell for her. A Tully indeed.

He removed his cloak and stepped forward, a grin on his face. And Sansa spared herself the indignity of having to pretend she knew not who he was.

“Ser Brynden,” she greeted him, forcing something on her face that could be considered a smile by someone who did not know her. Not as a girl. Not as a maiden. These were the smiles she spared now, as a woman. Grown. And flowered. And trueborn. Whatever that had achieved her.

“Little C-” he stopped himself and there was mercy to that.

There was mercy that shame coloured his features, that he clenched his jaw and that he cast his eyes down at the sight of the grace with which she held her chin to remind him of his failings.

She had heard so many tales of this man. Who was more beloved than a father. So much more than an Uncle. She had heard of his bravery, of his loyalty, of his resolve. Of the loyalty for which he left his brother to serve the niece who had been sold to a man old enough to be her grandsire. And then she had also heard from Lady Brienne of how he refused her call. His niece’s call.

Sansa understood so well now. The child made it so easy to understand now. And so much sharper the betrayal.

His eyes only left her face for a moment, his eyes filling with surprise at recognizing Stark and Tully faces beside her. Eyes who searched Arya’s, who only raised a brow to him and then Bran’s, yet he wouldn’t find any more warmth there.

“My Lady Stark,” he said now, as he bowed his head to her.

“Welcome to Winterfell Ser. I must write to my Lords of these good tidings. Lady Poole shall take you to your chambers,” she told them as she made her way out of the room, not sparing a moment to see them bow.

“He looks like him. Tully hair. Tully eyes,” Sansa confessed into the silence of her father’s chambers. Only the sound of her Lady Mother’s brush running through her hair fighting against the hollowness of what were once the liveliest chambers of the main keep.

“He does,” Jeyne agreed, her tone giving none of her thoughts away.

“She’s…” Sansa sighed “…pretty.”

“Not enough to lose a kingdom for,” Jeyne remarked rather bitterly. 

“Is there enough beauty to compensate such a loss?” Sansa wondered, turning slightly around to face her.

Jeyne’s nose was still healing from the frostbite, but she hadn’t lost it, Sansa had thanked the Gods for it, though she did not believe in them. Jeyne deserved whatever kindness they could still spare her.

“To a man?” she shrugged, but there was bite to her tone. “Jon Snow might be the only one with the answer.”

Sansa took a deep breath and straightened her spine like her mother taught her.

Jeyne winced and her arms fell to her sides, trembling. “F-Forgive me. Your Grace,” she staggered, her eyes firmly cast on the floor, her body perfectly still, waiting to be beaten.

Sansa breath caught in throat and she turned to her in her chair. Taking care not to touch her or make any sudden movements.

“You didn’t say anything wrong. You could never say anything wrong to me,” she assured her.

Jeyne nodded slightly and took a staggered breath. Opening and closing her hands to regain feeling, though she persisted with her eyes firmly on the floor.

“Jeyne, would you look at me, if it please you,” Sansa asked tenderly, giving her a chance to refuse her.

Jeyne obliged and Sansa saw the unshed tears in her eyes.

“You are my most trusted advisor. My dearest friend. I would never find fault in you for speaking the truth to me,” she promised her softly, the letter still burning on her pocket. “You are safe.” But that didn’t sound true to either of them, so she tried again, “wherever my words bear weight, you are safe.” And that sounded like a truthful vow to her, something steady Jeyne could hold onto.

Jeyne nodded and took a deep breath. “I know you would never… But sometimes…” she swallowed drily. “He need not say anything, and I knew… And I cannot forget that. No matter how dearly I wished I could.”

Sansa nodded and bit the inside of her cheek to keep her tears at bay. Only Jeyne was allowed to cry for this, she would not impose her own tears on her.

“I have watched him die. I have heard him scream and beg for my mercy. I have watched as the hounds who ate him were butchered. I have watched his bones being eaten by pigs. I have watched him fade into nothingness. And still…” She shook her head, took a deep breath again and brought her hands to her waist in an effort to steady herself. Her voice didn’t waiver when she said, “It doesn’t matter now. He is nothing. And I am alive.”

“You are more than that. You are Jeyne Poole, Lady of Whitefort, most beloved friend, most trusted counsel, family,” she reminded her evenly, slowly. “Shall I do your hair now, Jeyne?”

Jeyne had changed the Dreadfort’s name as soon as it had been decided she would keep it. Both of them knew she would never step foot in it, but together they had procured a worthy castellan. Winterfell was close enough that she could stay here as her advisor and control her holdings by ravens. She had ordered the kennels destroyed, whatever remains hidden in darkened rooms buried, whatever skeleton decorations burned. Most of the crops sent to Winterfell to help with the war effort.

They both understood of the likelihood Jeyne might never endure bearing children, should she make the decision to keep herself so, Whitefort would become property of Winterfell once again after her death. Sansa would not let her be concerned with the matter. Jeyne deserved nothing more than peace.

Jeyne nodded slowly and Sansa rose so they might switch places. Jeyne carefully sat where once had been Lady Catelyn’s seat. And Sansa took the brush to her brown hair, took care not to pull at any threads as she undid her tight braids.

There were words Sansa wanted to say. Plans she wanted to go over. Escape routes she wanted to dig with Jeyne. But that would not do today. Today was a day to mourn the past.

“I would go with you,” she told her suddenly, as she rubbed oils on her scalp to strengthen the hair made thin and frail by the hardships she had endured. “To the Vale. I would go with you, if you would allow it.”

Sansa’s hands stopped and for a second she closed her eyes in gratitude. Rested her hands on Jeyne’s shoulders, gave them a gentle squeeze. Nevertheless she shook her head.

“You have a seat here. Men who bow to you, whose sword you command. I won’t ask you to leave the security it provides. I cannot ask you to give it away. I won’t.”

Jeyne turned back to look at her and placed one of her hands above her own.

“I have a seat because you made it so. The men answer to me because you commanded them to, fought for my rights as a widow. Whatever security I have been provided, has been by your voice and presence alone. I belong wherever you are. I don’t want to be alone again,” she whispered.

Sansa took a hand to her cheek, offered her a smile and vowed once more, “You will never be alone again. We will never be parted again.” A promise that she wouldn’t dare to break.

"Why didn't you come sooner?" Sansa asked as they broke their fast together.

Bran barely bothered to eat, and Jeyne slept in the mornings as she was unable to do so at night. Arya and the Blackfish had taken to the trainyard most hours of the day, so it had been made common for the two women to share meals.

Lady Westerling had taken to placing the babe in her arms every chance she got, in Bran’s too when she found him in the room. She offered the little lord plenty to her sister, but though Arya’s eyes shone she did not allow herself to hold him.

Perhaps Lady Westerling did it to make them grow fond of the babe. A smart thing to do, Baelish might have whispered in her ear, if he hadn’t died choking on his dinner table.

Jon was King for almost half a year, a hostage of the Targaryen Queen for most of it, she wanted so dearly to believe. Sansa had been the Lady of Winterfell for six moons, ruling Princess for just as much. Only now had Jeyne Westerling come, with the Ser Blackfish leading the way.

When Winterfell was won and secure. While Sansa prepared for a war with an enemy she knew nothing about. When Jon was silent in the South. While she ruled the North she had freed, in the memory of her brother’s legacy. In the memory of the Young Wolf. In the face of Rickon’s death, of Jeyne’s fear, of Jon’s impatience.

"The matter of succession... "

Sansa only raised a brow.

"When you were married to Tyrion Lannister, when there was no word of your sister, Jon Snow was placed above you in the line of succession. To protect the North from Lannister hands," she explained, though she had the decency to look down in shame as she said it.

Sansa gave a hollow laugh, taking care not to upset the babe to whom she was giving pieces of bread softened in honeyed milk, her hands gentle, even if her smile was bitter.

Jeyne had feared what Jon Snow could do to the child of Robb Stark. A child who could take his place. She had no fear towards her. She was only a woman after all. Whose brother had sacrificed and pushed away from her rightful inheritance, that which was once the only thing keeping her alive.

"And who was witness to this? To my brother’s last will and testament?" she was eager to know, to make sense of it.

"Your Lady mother, Lady Maege Mormont, Lord Galbert, Lord Jason Mallister, and Greatjon Umber…”

Sansa nodded slowly. "All dead then." She shrugged and if Lady Jeyne was shocked by her cool demeanour she did not show it. "Not that it matters. Jon was made King without them to speak my brother’s will. Tell me Lady Westerling, did my mother rage, when my brother placed his father's bastard before his trueborn sisters? The sisters he had made vows to protect. One of them who was being beaten and humiliated for Northern Independence? Did my mother rage at this decision? Did the Riverlords that heard raged that a man without a drop of Tully blood would be given kingship over the Trident? I can only imagine-"

"He did not know..." Lady Jeyne tried to assure her softy, as if she were a child, though she desisted with it almost immediately. "Yes, your Lady mother was quite vexed."

Sansa gave her a tight smile. "Good. Someone who still cared about the pack. Robb was often forgetful," she pointed out, not intending to be unkind, it was simply the truth of it.

Sansa was old enough to accept that duty came over family often, moreover when one spoke of sisters and daughters.

Lady Jeyne took a deep breath and straightened in her seat. “There had always been rumours.” Sansa frowned. “In the Night’s Watch, he rose too high and far too quickly, there were many rumours he was Lannister bought,” Lady Jeyne mused, though she didn’t seem to give it much concern now, though Sansa could understand why she had then. Why she had not gone to the Night’s Watch with Robb’s heir, why she had kept to the Blackfish as he kept Riverrun in their name.

“They say he is the greatest swordsman in all of Westeros, Jon Snow, is that true?”

Sansa nodded slowing, refusing to picture him in her mind. “He is. As skilful with a sword as one can be.”

“They say… When news reached the Riverlands of the Battle of Bastards, they spoke of your brother drowning in a sea of men and there you were, ready to pull him ashore… Lady Stark, an image of red riding atop her white mare, with the strength of the Knights of the Vale at her back. Was that true?”

“Yes.”

She nodded gently. Her voice was no less soft as she said, “I was aware no one knew of the matter of succession. They were all dead…” She took a deep breath to keep her tears at bay and brought a hand to her throat. “They all died in the…So I couldn’t understand why he was King at first. I couldn’t understand, neither could Ser Blackfish, so I suppose I thought… that if I came here, with his child…” she looked towards the babe. “You, he couldn’t kill. The Vale supports you, you were – are – the Lady Stark. But I was alone, if I were to arrive with the babe and if he called me a liar… if he… I couldn’t imagine what he could do to little Ed.”

Sansa shook her head vehemently. “Jon would never do such a thing.” She tried to ease her mind, she didn’t know him like Sansa did. “He would never do anything to Robb’s heir.”

The girl looked up and her eyes went through her. “Only to you then?”

Sansa controlled her own face at her words. Jeyne shook her head to deliver them both from the bitterness of the matter.

“And then Dragons came to the West. The Second Field of Fire, they are calling it,” she informed her, though Sansa knew already. “I thought he would be safer North, once again. With you. The daughter of Lady Catelyn.”

Sansa softened at her words. She softened at the gentle tone with which she said her mother’s name. Yet she was not a girl, and her armour was rarely put aside in the presence of strangers.

Had Jon been here. Had Jeyne come to him with Robb’s child, he might have been pushed to marry her. They bore no love for her, the woman that had stolen the Young Wolf’s wits, the woman who had cost him everything, but she had been his wife. They would love the child, for it was Robb’s, plain as day. He was Robb’s child and her nephew. So they might have pushed for a marriage between them, to consolidate Jon’s crown atop his head. That would have kept little Eddard the heir, the tension from Jon’s unknown mother gone, for the line of Winter Kings would carry on through a trueborn Stark. But now Jon had bowed to a Targaryen Queen. And things could never be the same.

Sansa bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood and nodded all the same. Focused on little Eddard’s chubby hands to regain her focus.

“I’m afraid that it is not in my power anymore to do so. We’ll have to meet my Lords and Ladies soon enough. They shall tell us their minds on the matter. They shall pass our sentence.”

Lady Westerling nodded and offered her a tight smile.

Sansa could only taste blood.

She had done her best to keep from his sight. He had allowed her this.

There was no doubt he too, didn’t know what to say to her. He didn’t break his fast with them, having taken to training the farmers and villagers for the war that came. Took charge of organizing her northern armies the same way he took of the few dozen men he had brought with him from the riverlands, few as they may be, a welcomed addition. Though bitterly she was left to wonder how greater they might have been had he answered her call when she had sent for him.

The Blackfish had taken easily to Arya and her to him, Sansa was thankful for that. Even if some part of her was acutely aware of her incapacity to relate to most of her kin. Once, as a girl, she had entertained the thought that she might have been the Tully favourite, the same way Arya was the Stark one.

Aunt Lysa had shattered that dream.

Nevertheless, the Blackfish had not overstepped. And Sansa could find some relief in that. In truth, she was eager to find something that might make him favourable in her eyes once more, this man her mother had loved with all of her heart. This man her brother had trusted so dearly. He referred to her as Lady Stark. Every order he gave her men, little Eddard’s men… or were they still hers for a second longer? She could not tell.

Yet, every order he gave he ran over first with Lady Brienne who she made her commander in Jon’s absence, though now that he was here, no doubt was the Tully man best suited to the task. He eyed the Free Folk with suspicion built from years of tales and attacks and eagerly took to the table of Lord Royce and the Vale Lords that remained in Winterfell in anticipation for the war.

She could tell the exact moment he was made aware. The exact moment the Blackfish knew she was the one who killed Petyr Baelish. And from then forth she waited for the stream to come to a halt.

“I failed you.”

“Many have, Ser,” she whispered in a resigned tone, stopping in her steps to face him.

He clenched his jaw and nodded slowly taking care of his surroundings, allowing her a moment to do so as well.

Sansa understood he had chosen this place carefully. Not her chamber, nor her solar, nowhere she could not run. He chose the battlements, where he could watch both entrances and none who could see them could hear what they spoke. And nevertheless, she could choose to walk away.

It nearly made her smile. That the Tullys knew the game better than the Starks, even if, often, they had chosen not to play. Chosen family over the game

He did not wish to make himself a threat to her, when so many other men had been. He did not wish to trap her or force his company upon her, and Sansa felt a reluctant assurance in that. Mayhap even comfort if she allowed herself such. Or perhaps this was no game at all, perhaps this was simply family, what being kin and sharing bonds of blood meant. Making one at ease. Making one feel safe in another’s presence.

“I won’t fail you again,” he vowed in a serious manner. Not with the solemnness Lord Royce would have, or the gruffness a northern man might have attached to it. And Sansa couldn’t help but understand why this had been the man every Tully child had clung to.

He didn’t offer her excuses. Didn’t give her reasons why he did not answer her call, why he refused her aid, as if it would ease the burden. And Sansa respected that, had no reason not to, it was refreshing in truth. How it differed from the way Petyr liked to weave his net to explain away his wrongdoings. Or the neglectful manner with which her father had given her a doll after killing Lady. There was honour to the way with which the Blackfish accepted his choice as just that – a choice. And the consequences that came with it. The lack of trust that weighed upon it. But still…

“The Freys are dead, you are aware.”

No doubt he knew that, if not from word of mouth along the King’s road, then from Arya, stories she might have shared with him with much more ease than she might have shared them with her. Perhaps even with eagerness.

“Good riddance. May they make a steady home in the seven hells,” he growled under his breath.

“Lord Edmure-”

“Traitor,” he spat, viciousness heavy on his tone, though his face seemed saddened by the word. He spoke unkindly of his nephew, of the closest he had to a son, though he believed his words, they burned him to say.

“A hostage,” she corrected. “I was one for many years. To different captors. Sang whatever tunes were required of me. To keep my life. To argue for my father’s. Uncle Edmure did the same, I’m sure. His Frey wife was pregnant, was she not?” she tried to argue for him, like hopefully someone had done for her when they all lived in those halls of Riverrun she had never seen, nor likely ever would. “Would you call me a traitor – did you – with the same ease with which you call Lord Edmure thus?”

He shook his head vehemently, taking offence. “You were a child,” he excused in a fatherly tone. “You are a woman. You survived, that’s all that matters. What more could you do, my child? What more could be required of you?”

A man was still a man. Even if he was kin. A lesson harder to learn than others had been.

She wondered if he spoke this way to Arya. If Arya basked in the option to return to a simpler time when they were children and could only depend upon the words and sentences of their sires. Sansa wondered if it was different with Arya for she could carry a blade. Yet Catelyn Tully had carried no such thing, Sansa wondered how the Blackfish might have treated her when they reconnected. A place in time where she stood above him as Lady of a great house, and not only his child niece. 

Sansa took a deep breath and offered a tight smile. “Nothing at all. What more could my uncle do? Have you ever been a hostage, Ser? Have you ever had to choose? Between your family, your duty, your honour.”

He nodded slowly, taking in her features, those Tully features he shared with her.

“Aye, I have had to choose.” He watched her carefully before saying the words on his mind. “I chose not to marry, over my duty to my house, aye. I chose Lysa once, the poor girl she was, the miserable marriage chosen for her, the army that was bought with her. I chose my niece, over my brother as well.”

Sansa raised her chin and gripped her hands to keep her voice toneless – that he could understand a woman’s misfortune so well and yet having placed her where he did, left her feeling uncertain.

“And then you went to my Lady Mother, to my brother, left Lady Lysa in the Vale. Was it for honour, for duty, Ser?” When he did not answer she tilted her head to the side. “And then you choose Little Eddard.”

And refused me aid, was left unsaid.

He chuckled without mirth and stared her down with an intimacy they did not share. A familiarity on his eyes no one had taken to offer her for she had never allowed it. The Blackfish asked for no permission and stared her in the eyes, like any father or uncle would their child.

It unnerved her.

A younger Sansa would have eagerly leapt to his arms, called him Uncle and asked him for guidance. Asked for stories of both her mother and her brother. A Sansa she no longer was would have spoken of Petyr. Would have asked both absolution as well as protection from the memory of him. The Sansa that stood before the Blackfish was a woman grown and in charge of her household, she would do no such thing, no matter how the Tully blood in her wished to be held by him.

He eyed her appreciatively, though there was a sadness to it.

“You are just like her, you see. Your mother. It isn’t even how you look, though you are a Tully through and through,” he remarked with a bitter smirk. “It’s that measured way in which you speak. The chin held high. The steel on your spine. Those hands…” he smiled in thought looking at her, though he did not see her “… she gripped them just like that when she wanted to argue but couldn’t. It pains me to look at you. It pains me to have failed you. It pains me that by the look of you, I haven’t ceased doing so yet. So speak, my child, so I may be to you what I was gladly to you mother and would be so again for her children, each and every one.”

She was silent for a moment. Looked to him the same way he had looked upon her. His laughing eyes of deep blue, she wondered if her brother, any of them, might have grown to have those laughing lines had the Gods been kinder to Stark men.

“And what is that Ser?” she asked though she knew, she just wanted the words, the words of a blunt but kind man, that had delighted and comforted her mother, even her aunt, motherless girls, just like her and Arya were now.

“Kin. Father and uncle if you require so, if you accept it. Shield and councillor. Shoulder and ear, for one always has need of more of those, and I am a good listener, my lady. But kin most of all, I know well how to be kin,” he told her easily enough.

Sansa nodded slowly and took a measured breath, for she had made the decision of what he could be for her the moment he arrived at Winterfell’s gates with Robb’s wife and child.

“There are things I want to ask you, Ser Brynden. The same way I am sure you are eager to ask others of me. Yet I think we will harm one another, we will cause each other grief and I have no time to mourn as of yet. I have to prepare the North for winter, for war and I would gladly take your council for it, as it is only right. Still, I have to make my nephew my Lord. I am the Lady of Winterfell for a bit longer before no doubt having to sell myself once more, for my duty to my household. So forgive me, if I cannot be kin when I have to come to terms with relinquishing my place once more and holding it for another.”

She had imagined he would take a step back with the force of her words, and yet he did no such thing, taking her by surprise. He nodded slowly, hands crossed behind his back, and took a step forward in their small battle.

“Grief already surrounds us, my child, why not ask the things we must?” he countered with. “You won for yourself a crown and yet you crowned another.” He raised a brow and Sansa could tell he wished to speak more of it, other names he might have more eagerly called him. “Why is that, might you tell me? Why you chose him, who you and your sister call family, over honour and duty?”

Sansa narrowed her eyes but pushed back from the memory of Jon Snow.

“Northern men are still men. And Northern Queens are unheard of. I accepted Northern will, for peace, for duty, I accepted my father’s bastard as my King. He is a Stark, even if he is not a Tully. The same way I will accept my brother’s child as my Lord. It is no grave matter. I know my place, my lord, I am a Tully, if anything I am dutiful to the men who rule me, to the house I serve.”

She took great pleasure from the way her words soured his mood, from how uncomfortable his lack of knowledge from the things she had endured made him. All those stories from the Eyrie he wished to know, the stories from Kingslanding, Petyr and Lysa and everyone that had come before. Even Jon Snow.

“Riverrun is my home, the same way Winterfell is yours and I wanted it back, I was born there, and I would have gladly died there. Do you doubt me? That I would come here to take from you that which you won by right of conquest and blood? That I would raise men to rob you of your seat? Or that I would refuse you aid when I could freely give it? Tell me what betrayal you feel more keenly, and we shall go over it, make peace between us. Have I overstepped? Have I raised my voice louder than yours?” It was the knight that spoke to her now, not the uncle. A knight whose honour he believed had been questioned.

And yet when your quest to regain your home failed, you came to me for mine, she did not say it, though her blood screamed it, though she knew it was a lie planted there by Petyr from the place inside her mind.

“No, Ser, and yet you bring to me those who can. These are the truths of the world, Ser. My brother’s child will always come before me, with or without Riverrun, and so will come his mother.” She shrugged in spite of her courtesies. “Had you told me I fought for my nephew, no doubt the North would have rallied with a new strength for the Young Wolf’s child, in a way they did not rally for Ned Stark’s trueborn daughter,” she mused, more to herself for she could tell the Blackfish did not wish to argue with her, only make amends, it angered her further.

Inside her something raged, and she could not tell which offence was more grievous to her – that he had refused her aid or that he brought a woman to take the place she had so dearly wanted to make a home in.

Sansa would have prepared better had she known. Not been caught by surprise. Would not have allowed herself to become comfortable in the home of her youth, allowed herself to place roots once again upon the frozen grounds of Winterfell. Had Brynden Tully warned her of her nephew she would not have felt this uproot so much more keenly now that it came. She was a girl still, something easy to forget, when for so long she had been alone with only herself to contend with, even if surrounded.

Jon’s crown was easy to accept. No matter his title, Winterfell would always be hers as the trueborn daughter of Lady Catelyn and Lord Eddard Stark. Had Bran taken his place as Lord, Sansa would have remained his heir, her place firmly in Winterfell’s grounds as her children would inherit it, since he was unable to sire them. Had Rickon survived, he had been a child still and he would have had need of her, and she would have lovingly placed herself beside him for as long as he required it of her. 

A nephew, with a living mother was quite different. Sansa once again became a pawn for her house.

“Tell me if we had lost the battle? If now I was a Bolton prisoner? The same as Rickon was? Did you consider it?” she argued further, not that it mattered, not truly, the battle was won, she simply could not argue that which the both of them desired the most.

“The Knights of the Vale are mighty men, well rested men, hungry for glory. They would have won, I was sure, and I was right,” his voice was heavy with certainty.

“And yet, Rickon still died.”

He clenched his jaw. “I was with your mother when she knew of his death, while she mourned your brothers. I never considered him alive, to be truthful with you. I considered it a ruse. The same way that girl was made to be Arya. Even you, for a time, I considered you dead. I fought for the kin I had beside me.”

She smiled bitterly. “Yet here he was. All of us scattered and no home to come back to. I cleaned his body and wounds. I prepared him for burial. For a moment he was alive to me, and to Jon.” She shook her head to keep her tone softer when she reminded herself he had nothing to say to her, that neither of them could save him now or then, that they had never stood any chance. Neither could they save her now.

“I wanted a home for you all to come to, my child. I wanted Riverrun for my niece’s children, you know that to be true, no matter the anger you might feel for me this moment.” She could not deny it, could not call it a lie, when she saw truth in his eyes.

“Now Winterfell becomes the home I built for us all, no matter the short time it might be such…” she whispered as she shook her head. “I am glad you and Arya are getting along, I am glad you can offer her kinship and that she can accept it.” Sansa was disappointed that she could still hear the bitterness in her own words. “I am glad you are here, truly. You will always have a place in my halls, wherever those might be once this war is done and we survive the ones that will no doubt follow. Until then, may we be kin to one another in silence, Ser Uncle, for that is all I can bear this moment it seems.”

She turned from him and it took her by surprise how her anger for a man she wanted so eagerly to hold onto ached in her chest.

“Lord Royce,” she called for the taller man, who was quick to take her side.

She was griping her hands forcefully, a nervous tick easy enough to hide in wintertime, she had thought. Petyr would have scolded her for it. Petyr wasn’t here anymore to do so.

“It appears that with the arrival of my nephew, it would be wise of me to consider my future,” she prompted, her eyes focused on his stern face.

He understood her immediately and spared her the words. She couldn’t have been more grateful if she tried.

“Should you wish to consider Lord Arryn as a possible husband, my Lady, we would be honoured for you to resume your place as the Lady of the Eyrie in a more permanent capacity, my Lady,” he offered her, his voice soft and earnest, as much as a man made for war could be.

“You would intercede on my behalf then? Among your fellow Lords?” she asked for clarity’s sake.

She needed all the assurance she could get during these times, and though Lord Yohn was Lord Protector, his voice wasn’t the only one that echoed in the Eyrie.

“There should be no need, my Lady. You are well loved up the Mountain, as you were a diligent Lady as Alayne Stone. And the debt we owe you… will never be forgotten and could never be repaid,” he assured her. “Lord Robyn has always been very fond of you, I see no issue that could arise from the marriage.”

She nodded slowly and took a deep breath.

“Thank you, my Lord. Your friendship is most appreciated,” she said with a small smile she barely had the strength to summon.

He stopped for a moment in front of her and seemed troubled as he tried to find words.

“The Lord is young, and I believe with some guidance and time, he should grow into an agreeable husband, Lady Stark,” he told her, in what Sansa believed was an effort to comfort her. She could barely remember the last time a man had attempted to comfort her without second intentions.

She offered him a tight smile though it was earnest. “I have no doubt, my Lord. Under you tutelage he shall grow into a capable and formidable Lord.”

He had a pitying look on his face. Not for Robyn, but for her. Sansa Stark who had tasted freedom for a moment. Who, if only for a moment, was the reigning Lady of Winterfell, the head of her household. Once again only a girl to be sold as a wife. Selling herself away before another could. It was pitying indeed.

And yet there was safety to be had in the arrangements she made. A safe haven to offer Jeyne. A home for Bran and Arya to come to, even Jon, should they require it of her. The Bloody Gate should her uncle desire to return to his posting there, were Uncle Edmure to refuse him entry in Riverrun. Should they all survive long enough to need somewhere to go, Sansa would have the Eyrie for them and for now that assurance had to be enough.

He silently offered her his arm to lead her to the meeting that would follow. She easily took to his side and wondered what Aunt Lysa might have thought that she would indeed take end up taking her place.

Chapter Text

"You believe this woman?" It was Lyanna Mormont who spoke first. It was always Lyanna Mormont who spoke first. The confidence that only a child could have dripping from her, as it once dripped from Arya.

Jeyne Westerling presented her case beautifully. Called forth the Lords she remembered, the ones still alive to recognize her as a Stark widow. Cried at Robb’s name, at the memory of riding to him to go to the Red Wedding. Showed little Eddard in all his Tully splendour. Ser Blackfish had been called forth as well, to attest to the identity of the child and of his mother.

Then her Lords had asked Lady Westerling to leave the Great Hall for a bit, so they might converse. A strange request to make to the one who should now be the Lady of Winterfell. Still, Sansa said none of this.

Sansa leaned forth on her father’s seat. "The child has my brother's look. As for Jeyne Westerling, it was you, my lords, and not I, who knew her. Would she lie by claiming the child a Stark when he is not so?" she asked them, distancing herself from this decision as much as she could. “Would Ser Brynden Tully?”

"She was a sweet girl... " Lord Manderly contemplated in his gruff voice while shaking his head. "I don't believe she would. And we have no right to question the Blackfish,” he was quick to add, paying his respects to the man who stoically remained at her side. “Nevertheless she is a girl. A Westerlander at that and not a man in these halls will be ruled by one, no matter how sweet they might appear to be. She knows nothing of the North, much less of Winterfell, she knows nothing of us. She has not fought for us, delivered the North with us, bled with us,” he rallied, his voice increasingly louder before he turned to her. “Is the Lady Stark opposed to continuing her duties as Lady of Winterfell, with her nephew under her charge and tutelage, as it is only right?"

She could feel Jeyne Poole’s eyes on her. Knew the look they would share were she able to look at the Lady of Whitefort without drawing attention.

"I am not, my lords," she said with a slight bow of the head, the humble Lady of Winterfell.

Arya stood in the back of the room eyebrow raised and Sansa refused to meet her eye.

"Then I see no reason why this should be an issue. Lady Stark has been steadfast in her duties, unlike some. I won't gamble the peace we have achieved for a westerlander bride I know nothing about," young Lord Cerwyn was quick to say, bowing his head to her in an effort to please his liege Lady.

“What say our allies? What says the Vale?” Lord Locke asked, brow raised, a curious look on his features.

Sansa tilted her head. Both the question and its words posed doubts. What had the Vale to say about the choice of liege lord for North? Nothing at all, the same as none in the North could argue if perhaps Harry Harding was better suited as Lord of Arryn than Sweet Robin might be.

Yet it was the choice of wording that was interesting in truth. That spoke of his true question. Our allies. As if the Vale rode to deliver the North from Bolton hands out of their own accord. As if seasoned men, made for war and nothing else, rode to free other kingdoms in the hope of alliances yet to be made. No. The knights of the Vale rode for her, even if they had remained to fight a threat they deemed dangerous to them.

Still, while there were whispers, no one knew what had truly happened in the Eyrie, how deep their bonds were. And while the Vale’s presence was welcomed, in no manner had it been explained. Yet one thing was perfectly clear, made plainer still by the opportunity presented by Lord Locke’s question. Who would the knights of the Vale support if there was to be a conflict over the Eddard’s Stark’s regency?

Sansa supressed a smile as Lord Royce had no trouble voicing to her bannermen where the Vale stood on the matter. 

“We rode for the Lady Sansa Stark, my lords,” Lord Royce proclaimed, “we have remained in Winterfell for her and the threat we have been sworn resides North of the wall, a threat to all of these Seven Realms. We shall not break faith with the Lady of Winterfell.” He turned to her, with a slight bow of his head, to show his respect.

His meaning was clear. The Knights of the Vale stood for Sansa Stark, cousin of Lord Robyn Arryn, they stayed for the threat North, but they came and fought for her. There was no one who would fight for Jeyne Westerling. No other Stark they would prefer over her.

Perhaps it was the Knights of the Vale, Lord Royce’s confidant stance by her side. The way the Blackfish had surprised her by standing beside her even as he recounted the events in Riverrun for Lady Westerling.

Perhaps it was their disappointment in Jon, in his few words. Their confusion with Arya and her sharpness. The blank eyes of the three-eyed-raven, his disinterest in both the crown of winter and the seat of Winterfell. But they wanted her to keep her place. And perhaps she didn't have to run just now. Perhaps not at all.

In truth, with Lord Manderly and the Vale’s support, her position was made rather simple. Sansa exchanged a look with Lord Royce, a simple nod, and just like that their earlier conversation had been put to rest, if not forgotten.

“Why we are even arguing this is bloody beyond me. Robb Stark’s Seashell Queen has done her duty as a wife, keep her or send her away Lady Stark, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass. No Northmen worthy of the name answers to a Westerlander,” Mors Umber said between drags of his ale and the sneer etched onto his face. Even if it was the opinion of a drunken oaf it was met with approval from many.

Sansa considered his words for a moment. Lady Westerling. Westerlander bride. Robb’s Seashell Queen. While a Queen not taking the Crown’s name was the usual practise, the lack of other titles was telling. The northern lords had unmade her as a Stark widow. Lady Jeyne had never worn the Stark name. None of these men had met her as Lady Stark. While a small thing, it was meaningful. Sansa was the Lady Stark and Jeyne remained Lady Westerling, even if she were to take the regency of her boy. She would never be Lady Stark to these men, it suited Sansa’s predicament surprisingly well. It shamed Sansa most deeply that she could take joy from it.

"Certainly not now that the King Lady Mormont has chosen has betrayed us and once again we expect enemies at our doors," Lord Glover laughed scornfully, eager to bring the issue forth. “Stark men and their weakness for southern whores,” he spat.

Sansa raised from her seat for she knew her duty. “My Lord,” she growled, “you may call Daenerys Targaryen whatever you wish, but you will respect your Lord’s mother and your late King’s wife, since he died for northern independence no matter his shortcomings.”

He clenched his jaw and bawled is hands into fists at being reprimanded by a woman, but nevertheless bowed his head to the Lady of Winterfell. “Your forgiveness, my Lady.”

Lady Lyanna scoffed, still enraged at his earlier words. "I was not the only one who rose for Jon Snow, Lord Glover."

"Aye, fools of us all who raised swords for a bastard Turncloak while Ned's dutiful daughter stood not a foot away!" Lady Lyessa Flint was quick to add, receiving an approving nod from Lord Manderly.

Sansa could not be the one to disagree, not when the letter with the insulting command burned in her pocket, when he had left it to her to tell them he had bent the knee, to bear the blunt of his betrayal, truth or not.

Lord Manderly cleared his throat. “With both this news and your agreement, my lords, I see no reason to keep this farse any longer. To deny and make concessions of what is rightfully ours. We have fought before, we will fight again for our independence if we must. Robb Stark’s heir has come. Lady Stark has proven herself to be more than equipped to be his regent, to lead us against this threat. Jon Snow is nearly silent in the South, demanding us to bend the knee to a Targaryen, to fight a threat none of us have seen. The North cannot be given away after all that we have fought, after all that we have lost, as if this boy can give away what we fought for, what our heirs and brothers died for. The solution is clear. I say, long live the King in the North, and Gods old and new protect our Lady of Winterfell, his regent!”

“You would betray your King, Lord Manderly?” Lady Mormont was quick to accuse him, all of her sharp edges.

“King? How can you claim Jon Snow King, while Robb Stark’s heir lives?” Lord Cerwyn asked of Lady Mormont, though Lord Manderly’s voice was higher.

“A king who has given the North is no King at all, little Lady Mormont,” he was quick to answer her, reminding her of her youth. “And were it not you who said, “I know no King but the King in the North whose name is Stark”. There you have it. Eddard Stark. Or would you rather bend the knee to the Targaryen? Does your word mean that little?”

“We know not why he has bent the knee! If he was forced to write that letter!”

“Aye. I know nothing except the silence he gifts us with. Is that what you think a King does, my Lady? Leave the rule to another while going off to beg a Targaryen aid, while she burns her way across the East.”

“And are the tales of her true?” Lady Karstark asked, turning to Ser Brynden. “What say you Ser, who’ve come from the south and travelled the King’s road? Are the tales of this woman true?”

Brynden Tully’s voice was steady, but the danger of his words rang true, “I’ve heard of men burning inside their armour. I have heard of a Dragon crossing the skies burning what he found, men not expecting battle. I have heard of an Aegon the Conqueror come again that makes no offers of surrender first. Though I have also heard she gave some the chance to bend the knee or die by dragon fire, highborn and commoner alike. That is what I have heard, my lady.”

His words were swallowed by the unrest that followed. The shouts and growls echoed by her lords. The curses and vicious slander that while could not be clearly heard, were not hidden on their faces.

“How the North sacrificed to deliver the realm of that wretched house and yet the boy would have us offer our bended backs in submission to them once more, for what?! Better odds at defeating the dead? What do they matter if we are to be ruled by dragon fire?” Lord Locke followed with, exchanging a look with Lord Manderly, who once more nodded in approval catching Sansa’s eye

“A Targaryen comes to our door armed with three dragons, expecting subjugation for oaths Jon Snow has made in our name,” Lady Eddara pointed out with a courage she was not known for. “What can we do but bend, my lords?”

“She comes with more than Dragons. She comes with Unsullied and Dothraki. Have you heard stories of those Lady Eddara?” Jeyne Poole rose from her seat, surprising Sansa. “Dothraki who will expect treasure. Wives and slaves. How better to reward them than with highborn ladies such as yourself and the lands you come with. That’s what your bended knee means. Acceptance of her rulings. Are you prepared for that?”

Jeyne’s words brought fear to all unmarried women and rage to the men who had daughters and granddaughters to protect. To promise them to southern men and northern lords, for trade agreements, armies or lands was something they knew as the way of the world. But to be forced to give their precious girls to warlords, followed by vicious tales and terrifying customs, was something they could not accept while keeping their treasured honour.

“She also comes sided by both Jorah Mormont and Tyrion Lannister, doubtfully either of them would have assured her the North’s bended knee would be an easy task to accomplish,” Sansa was quick remind them all the kinslayer and northern traitor that accompanied her, which only served to strengthen their will.

“She would dare to bring the likes of that traitor North?!” Lyanna Mormont spat at the mention of her cousin’s name.

“Most likely, Lady Mormont, she’s a foreign girl, what does she know of our laws, of honour, of duty, of the Olds Gods or even the New? What does she know of the North? Of the offenses our memory does not forget. What does she care of the crime of slavery when she calls herself a Khaleesi? When Dothraki screamers make her army, men who destroy cities and take slaves. Those she holds closest are sinners to the Old Gods, to bend the knee to her would be an offence to the Gods we pray to and every Godswood we hold dear,” Lady Lyessa told the young girl. “If we bend to her, we might as well burn every heartree in our keeps and be done with customs we have upheld for thousands of years.”

“The debt I owe Jon Snow cannot be repaid,” Lady Alys Karstark started saying, glancing at her wilding husband who stood behind her, “he is a good man, and no doubt his decision did not come easily to him, nevertheless I am the Lady of Karhold and I cannot in good conscious say it was the right one. I know my duty and I know what my ancestors would have claimed had they stood in my place today. The North cannot be allowed to fall back in southern hands, much less without a fight, be it against dragons or lions,” she said, surprising Sansa. “Better to die free, by fire or ice, than to relinquish everything our kin died for.”

Sansa looked between them all. One thing was remarkably clear to her. Not one of them would easily bend the knee and offer swords to a Targaryen. Eagerly they preferred to fight the undead alone and leave their fate to the old gods than submit to either dragons or lions. So be it.

Sansa rose.

“I have heard you, my lords and ladies, and Northern will is clear. In the memory of those brave men and woman who died in the Red wedding, those brave people of ours who died in the Riverlands, who died in the West for Northern independence, for those of our kin who died to deliver the realm of Targaryen madmen, we shall not bend the knee to the Iron Throne or those you claim it.”

Her Lords clamoured in agreement, their desires emboldened by her words, branding swords in the air. Their wills might change, she knew. They might still stare upon the dragons and decide the risks were too great, burning a pitiful way to die, but these were the words they wanted to hear from her now.

“Nevertheless, this woman that comes, is no less Targaryen than her father and ancestors and antagonizing someone as temperamental as they have shown themselves to be is ill advised.” Those of her bannerman who did not wish for one more war eagerly agreed.

“She claims to be the Protector of the Realm, does she not? I propose, my lords, that we let her prove herself then. Let her come here and fight this threat to all of Westeros. And should she make demands of bended knees let us ask that she make them afterwards, dragons or not, Winter has come, and her army is made of southern slaves and warlords, let us see how they stand the cold first,” Sansa proposed, being met with enthusiasm from her bannermen. “The North is hard and cold, and has no mercy for dragons, should they decide to be a threat. She claims to be different than Cersei Lannister, she will have to prove it. Let us take opportunity in that.”

Sansa exchanged a nod with Lord Manderly, and a different kind of war began playing on her mind.

Long live King Eddard Stark, echoed through all of Winterfell, Gods Old and New protect our Lady of Winterfell, his regent, while silently was still heard clearly.

As soon as Sansa crossed the threshold Lady Jeyne quickly placed the child in her arms, little Eddard grabbing easily onto her neck, having taken a liking to playing with her hair.

“What says the North?” and when her voice shook, as she squeezed the thin fabric of her sleeve between her fingers, Sansa pretended not to notice.

“You son has been made King, my lady. And I am to be his regent,” she told her, taking care of her reaction. Sansa tilted her head to the side. “Did you expect differently?”

Had Jeyne Westerling expected her to step down. Argue to make her the Lady of her own household. Of the home she had bled and fought for. Had she thought that she would give it away to a stranger and a stranger’s child?

She didn't mean it. She didn't. Kissed the top of the child's head soothingly as his mother almost winced at her words. She looked at the child and saw Robb. Looked at the child and saw Rickon, his body pierced by Bolton arrows. Saw Bran. Or what he used to be. And she loved this child. She did. With all her heart. But there were betrayals that ran deep in her heart. And truths that could not be ignored.

Lady Westerling shook her head vehemently and Sansa believed her, she did. "I did not presume..."

“l understand you named him your Lord because you feared… I am not a fool. And I wouldn’t impose him upon you. He doesn’t have to be a King or a prince or anything else. I just want him to be safe, and I didn’t think I could do that alone,” she confessed.

Sansa frowned, though she smiled quickly to mask it. Could not understand if this woman was simply naïve or pretending to be such. "You presumed something. Else you would have come sooner, or you wouldn’t have come at all, perhaps a safer choice, since I see enemies of the North on every front and at least one war we can’t escape from. We are sisters now, you and I, are we not? Speak to me then, sister," she prompted her.

Lady Westerling shook her head. “I was Queen for I was married to my King. I was never meant to be such. I was raised to be a wife of a second son perhaps, a lower Lord. I was never made to be a Queen, much less of a realm such as the North. I understand that. I always understood that” she told her, as if it were a simple matter.

“No woman is,” Sansa confessed, a small smile on her lips that threatened to drain her whole.

Sansa was the Lady of Winterfell, not because she was Robb Stark's sister. She was Lady of Winterfell because she was Ned Stark and Catelyn Tully’s trueborn daughter. Fought for the North when no one had the will or strength to, freed Winterfell when no one did. Watched silently as they crowned her bastard brother instead and when they realized their mistake Sansa refused the crown when he showed himself incapable of holding it – for loyalty, whatever that meant in the Stark and Tully household.

For all their talk of the North Remembers, they were still men and remembered as much as Southern men did. When Jon Snow's hand shook in his absence, it was her they turned to, not because she was his sister, but because she was the North’s Lady, she did her duty and she did it well. Now, with her brother’s heir come alive, it was ever so easy to reject Jon Snow, to place a crown on an infant’s head and ask her to take his hand, to hold him and keep him and be Queen of Winter in everything but name. Their pride as northern men protected, but independence secure in the hands of a woman they could put their faith on.

It was surprising in truth. But then again…

Lady Jeyne held her stare for a moment. “You are. Even a blind man could see it. You were built to rule,” she said with certainty in her voice. “You know what to say to them. When to speak and when to stay silent. You are most beloved by the North, they whisper it in the halls. I was not. Could never be as a westerlander. Had no right to be, I suppose.” She shrugged. “Perhaps he would be alive had he understood that as well. And for that, I beg your forgiveness.”

Sansa pursed her lips and stretched out her hand to her, a need to smooth the grief in the room overwhelming her.

“You are not to blame for the oaths my brother broke. He made that decision himself and his own actions were his downfall. Not yours. I don’t blame you, Lady Jeyne. Yet, I won’t pretend that I am not hurt by his choices, he was my dearest brother in whom I placed all my faith of being rescued. I cannot pretend that I found his judgment to not trade the Kingslayer for me right and true, though I understand it. So I suppose you must forgive me as well, for my bitterness.”

Lady Westerling nodded when she found nothing to answer her with. Instead she rose and got something from across the chamber. Her Lady mother’s chambers that she had offered them, while she kept to her father’s.

She placed on the table something wrapped in linen but did not uncover it.

“I fought my mother for it,” she told her with a heavy smile, her eyes upon it. “I wanted little Ed to have something of his father. Robb had it made for me, but it will fit a King.”

Sansa tensed at her words and switched little Eddard to her left side. Taking her right hand to push the linen away.

“The Crown of Winter,” she whispered as her hand trembled slightly.

While Joffrey’s crown had been an ostentatious thing, this one resembled the crowns of old winter kings. A heavy crown. For no crown should be light, might the kings who wore it grow too sure in their steps. It was a Queen’s crown, but it was the North’s either way.

“Thank you,” Sansa told her sincerely, “for returning it to the North.”

She did not miss the way Jeyne Westerling’s eyes saddened at her words.

"Why didn't you defend him? In the council, why did you not speak for him?"

Sansa shut her eyes more forcefully if only for a moment of peace. If only for a second of not having to be second guessed in her own home. Sansa wondered how Arya might have reacted to Brynden Tully’s thoughts on Jon Snow, to Jeyne Westerling’s fears of Jon Snow. She wondered if Arya would have been this confrontational with either of them, of if her bare anger was something she reserved for her sister.

Then she took a deep breath and faced her, not bothering to give her the benefit of doubt considering her question, much the same as she did to her.

"Defend him from the truth you mean?"

Arya clenched her jaw but remained calm. Remained steady, it reminded Sansa of their lord father, it made her heart clench.

"He is our brother, " she settled with, focusing on simplifying the matter. As if the world was black and white and both of them hadn’t survived in the shades in between. As if Arya Stark, any Stark at all, could afford to be naïve.

"And they are our bannermen. And this is the North." Sansa raised her hands to illustrate her point, her mannerisms more provocative than she normally would have, but they were alone in her chambers with only Ghost laying on her bed to bear witness that, to each other, they behaved like children still. "And it is their freedom. It is ours. What would you have me do? Look into the child of our dead brother and say Northern Independence doesn't matter? That those lives that were lost don't matter? That Rickard and Brandon Stark are forgotten? That Mother, Robb and Rickon's deaths mean nothing? That independence means nothing and can be easily put aside?" she asked her truthfully wanting an answer.

"You have kept your position though," she drawled with a shrug, disappointment evident in her features.

Sansa titled her head to the side. "Should I have relinquished it? Claimed Jeyne Westerling who we know not as Lady of Winterfell, would that have pleased you better, sister?"

"As Robb's widow it was her right. Was it not? To be regent to her own son," she addressed the issue that had plagued Sansa ever since Lady Westerling had arrived, not hiding her smirk though she tried, eager to remember succession rights when it suited her, as if it were a game and not their lives.

Sansa nodded slowly, following a different approach than she might have chosen, had she been a girl.

“It’s true. Shall I offer it, to her? I can still summon the lords. Request that the lordship and regency be given to our brother’s westerlander widow. Of course, as Lady of our household she will be in charge of marriage arrangements," she was quick to point out, because it seemed to be an issue that slipped easily from her sister's mind in a way Sansa could never manage to forget. "Who do you think she will marry you to? Had Robb not been slayed we had been promised to Freys. Can you imagine?" Sansa made an effort to laugh, giving her ample time to regret her insinuation. “Of course Jeyne Westerling needs an army since she has none to protect her little King with once the Dragon Queen comes. Marrying me to the Vale would be the wisest decision, securing an alliance there and hoping to keep my favour. But what about you? A northern house perhaps… but then your children would threaten his claim, and bring no more men to aid, so perhaps not. A house from the riverlands would be more preferable, but few still have the military strength she requires… What do you think?” Sansa goaded her shamelessly.

Arya only raised a brow, refusing to engage with her bait, which Sansa commanded her for.

"You were always the lady, not I," she pointed out. “You always wanted to be a wife, it should prove to be no hardship to you, if that’s what you're so concerned about. And if it is little Eddard’s safety you fear, as Lady of the Vale you could easily be of assistance in that matter, perhaps more securely than as Lady of Winterfell. And I can always stay here and protect him.” She shrugged, playfully slipping the blade she carried at her waist between her fingers, as she took a seat on her bed near Ghost who did not bother to lift his head.

Sansa might have argued with her another day on her beliefs about her, yet it did not concern her this moment.

"Indeed, we were raised to be such wives, ladies of great houses. Do you believe that your disinterest in those skills in our youth make you any less a woman, with a woman's duty? Do you think anyone would have cared about those breeches you wear? That your skill with that blade will be of more use to this house than your ability to bear children?" Sansa was eager to know how their father had indulged Arya’s childhood dreams and neglected to inform her of the real world against her mother’s every attempt.

"I wouldn't have given them the choice," her voice was dangerous, but not enough to pose a threat to any Lord that took to mind having her as wife.

Sansa narrowed her eyes and gave her a careful look. She wondered all of the sudden if she had flowered already. She wouldn’t dare to ask. She acutely remembered all the blood that greeted her one dreadful morning in Kingslanding and how dearly she had wished for her mother. Sansa wondered who Arya would wish for. If Sansa could be that for her… she shook her head, knowing their grievances ran to deep this moment to even consider it.

"You wouldn't have been the first woman to have been dragged into her marriage chamber. The fact that you think it matters is concerning to me. Don’t you know what happened in these walls? Do you think it would have been different had Jeyne known how to fight? It made no more difference to Theon."

While Arya flinched at Jeyne’s name she did not answer her, and Sansa refused to use more of Jeyne’s misery as a lesson to her sister.

"Tell me, have I been neglectful of my duties? Have I been failing my lords? The people? I have heard no complains. But if you have, please, bring them to me. Say what you wish, I beg of you, so I can rectify it," she tried again.

Arya rolled her eyes, but put the blade away, bored at her own antics, it seemed.

"You are a perfect lady, no one would argue otherwise. You know that is not what I mean."

“Then what is it that you mean? My position protects yours and there is no denying that. And I will not step down, nor will I be made to feel ashamed that I am not eager to do so. It is no shame that I do not want to leave my home. Tell me. What is it that you want from me, Arya?” she asked wearily once more, her voice softer.

Arya frowned at her change of tone, clearly uncomfortable.

"I want you to be loyal," she threw plainly at her, in way of an answer that would never come.

Sansa nodded slowly, suppressed a laugh and raised a brow. "Loyal? To whom Arya?"

"To this family, " she told her, not unkindly, but not warmly either. The blank face of a perpetually angry Stark. The sentiment seemed preposterous to her.

"The same way you are loyal to me? By all accounts I am the head of this household since Bran relinquished his rights and yet are you loyal to me?" she wondered softly. "You come here waiting to see him upon a throne, I won. You came for a brother who wished to save you, when it was I who rallied the men. You mistrust me though I am the one who keeps this house standing. Though I am the reason you have a home to come back to. Where is your loyalty to me then? Am I not a Stark? Am I lesser than Jon in your heart?"

She didn't need to hear the words to know the truth of her sister's heart. It did not matter, she told herself. She had Jeyne. And she had Bran, in a way, though silently he stood with her, or at least not against her. A small family but better than she had had for years.

"Had father been in my place, had Robb, you would have been wedded or at least promised to a lord of their choosing, no matter how much wolf blood there is in you," she didn't allow her to argue, "and yet I have done no such thing. I have neither asked nor demanded anything of you and still you persist with this never-ending suspicion. It is not my loyalty which hangs in the balance it is yours. And you do not see it. "

Arya clenched her jaw but held her chin high, refusing to step down in her indignation.

"Why did you kill Littlefinger?" her voice was solemn as if this was her trial.

Sansa wondered almost amusedly if it could end in an execution.

She refused to allow it. She placed her hands upon the table and became the Lady of Winterfell all at once.

“That you would want to know what came of me in the years we were parted is one thing. To demand seeing and poking at my scars is quite another. Something I would never demand from you, though I have seen the bloody clothes you brought with you and heard you whisper names in your sleep. We will be kind to one another Arya, and if we cannot be so today, then I advise that you return to your training, while I return to my ledgers.”

Her little sister seemed chastised, but there was a fire in her that would not mellow this day. Nevertheless she was not a fool and knew she could not goad her into answering.

“Very well, I shall join our uncle in the training yard then,” she informed her with a smirk, knowing perfectly how sharply it would land.

“A good day to you, sister,” she wished her with a sour smile.

"You and Arya have quarrelled again," Jeyne noted as she entered the chamber.

"How can you tell," Sansa asked almost amused, though she felt exhausted.

"She looked chastised leaving your chambers and you look regretful. And after the disavowing of Jon Snow, it was to be expected, I suppose." She shrugged as she sat at the table.

"We see each other as children still. It's hard. And I suppose it's harder for her. I have you here and something to do, a task and purpose. And for the first time she finds herself in Winterfell without Jon, or those who always showed her favour. Bran is far too deep into his mind to offer her comfort. But there's always the Blackfish I suppose."

Jeyne frowned. "She seems perfectly at ease in the training yard..."

Sansa shook her head. "She's uneasy. She wants to know what happened in the Eyrie, in Kingslanding, the same as Brynden Tully. They itch to know how I survived and what I had to sacrifice for it. They want to know everything."

"And might you not share it with them? You shared it with me," she spoke softly, offering her hand for Sansa to hold.

And how easy it had been. How easy spilling all those secrets, all those tragedies and shortcomings had been to Jeyne. How they held each other and whispered all their terrible stories. How there was not a drop of judgment, an inkling of shame towards one another. How they absolved each other, cleaned each other’s tears, how they became those young, innocent girls they had been at Winterfell once again in their embrace.

"It's different. Stark and Tully and their honour. Whatever honour I had left I lost in the Eyrie and I do not have the will to be judged by those who did not share those trials with me. Arya was always..." Sansa sighed. "So certain. Of what was right and what was wrong. No matter the consequences. But I always payed the consequences, I was always made aware of them, my wolf died for what Arya deemed right and she was... Right, I mean. Joffrey was cruel, but he was crown prince and... " Sansa shook her head. "It doesn't matter now. Lady is dead. But the issue remains that I do not know Arya's mind, even if she stands as my sister, even as I love her, I won't throw myself at her judgment, nor the Blackfish’s. Bran knows. You know. Jon... Understands. It's enough for now," Sansa assured her.

It wasn’t that she didn’t crave for the rest of her kin’s understanding, she did. It was that it reviled her that she would have to ask for it. She would have to lay herself bare once more, show her bruises and aches and ask for forgiveness. And Sansa feared she would not receive it.

With Jon it had been different. They had been the only Starks alive then. It had been easy to tell him, not as much as it had been to Jeyne and not nearly as detailed, but she had told him what happened, watched as angered filled his features, as he cursed their names and promised no one would ever harm her again. An empty promise, she knew, but it had been so good to hear it from a Stark face. So lovely to hear it from his lips. Then Bran knew without being told and she had been content to bury the subject. It seemed almost impossible now.

“It doesn’t matter this moment Jeyne. We have more important subjects to discuss.”

Jeyne smiled then. “Yes. It appears the North was wise in their ruling, righting a wrong by giving you your rightful place.”

“We mustn’t get too comfortable. I have no doubt if it comes to a war against these southern threats my lack of battle experience will come into question by my senior lords, perhaps Mors Umber and Lord Glover,” Sansa mused.

“A drunken fool and a bitter man, unliked by all,” Jeyne noted, her head tilted to the sight in thought. “And those who stand for you now, far surpass those made uncomfortable by your sex,” she reminded her.

It wasn’t so much those who were against her that concerned her, while they would prefer a man over her, they wanted independence just as much and with Jon’s decision she was the Stark able to protect it. It was those who would rather kneel and avoid even a hint of a fight that could become a problem.

“Indeed, nevertheless, I will ask for my Uncle Bryden to stand as commander of my troops, since we can no longer count on Jon’s position. He’s well-liked by them all. You did well to remind them of the Dothraki, let no one forget that while she claims to free slaves, the other half of her army is made by slavers,” Sansa pointed out, trying to recall in her mind all of the unmarried highborn ladies in the North that would fear those marriages the Dragon Queen would no doubt propose to stabilize her rule. Or Tyrion if she wasn’t clever enough to do so on her own.

“It’s best not to let them forget that what they allowed to be done to me can very easily come to their daughters and themselves,” her tone was grave, and Sansa nodded solemnly. “It is amusing though…” she tried to jest, “how they all become silent when I speak.”

Sansa smiled at the hint of pride in her voice. “They fear you, Jeyne dearest, the Lady of Whitefort and the Regent’s favourite. They are aware of their misgivings, even if they like to ignore them.” Sansa squeezed her hand gently. "I’ll have to invite at least one of the Manderly sisters to join you as my ladies in waiting now."

As Regent of the North, as Lady of Winterfell, she had to form a court. And ladies in waiting made marvellous spies. She wished for Myranda Royce. If only she could have her here, she would have been a welcomed addition. But the Manderly girls would do well to show Lord Manderly her favour for his loyalty.

"Wynafred is the calmer one," Jeyne recalled.

"Wynafred will most likely be the heir. Wylla, however louder, is a loyal one, to her core. And she'll stay with us after the war. Wynafred would have to return to White Harbor."

There was no need to express that these plans only mattered if they lived. If they survived the war. Both Jeyne and Sansa were clearly aware of the odds they faced. Nevertheless plans had to be made for every outcome. Petyr had taught her that and failed doing so.

"Lord Royce will have to be thanked of course, for his loyalty to you."

Sansa nodded. "Eddara Tallhart will need a husband, a second son of House Royce will do very well. They are comely. And without a father to guide her, the duty to arrange for suitable marriage candidates will fall to me as her liege lady."

"The Royces are a great house, she will be honoured, it will suit her better than a northern Lord."

A northern lord would more easily take her place, as ruling Lady of her own house. Sansa agreed. But only after the war. However loyal Lord Royce was, Sansa would like all his bonds to the North to fall solely with the Starks for the time being. It would not do them well to divide their loyalties when war came and an alliance between the North and the Vale might once again be needed against a Targaryen.

"He has betrayed you then," his words bore no judgment, a simple statement. She raised a brow though she did not turn to him as he took his place walking beside her at a distance beyond what courtesy demanded.

"Jon did what he thought best. Though misguided. Stark men usually are. Good intentions rule them, both my father and brother are proof of that. He wished to save the North, he bent to someone he thought worthy of it, or was forced to, which seems more likely to me, but alas. Either way, we will be prepared." Her tone was even, she had no anger to spare.

Until further notice she would take his every actions from besides the Targaryen Queen as those of a hostage. There was no need to pass judgment while the crime was still undecided. And he was her family, he deserved from her the benefit of her doubt, though she could only spare him from so much of the North's judgment.

“Yet,” she sighed. “On the chance that he has, and once again the North fights for independence, would you take on the role of my commander? Like you did with Robb?” She did not think he would deny it of her, not Brynden Tully who had fought the Lannisters even without a King.

The Blackfish had a smirk on his face. "You will not bend." It was not a question.

"I am the Lady of Winterfell, I am the princess regent of King Eddard Stark. I have no authority to bend," she reminded him though she doubted his forgetfulness.

But she would not. Lyanna Stark was taken from her kin to die alone in Dorne, because of Targaryen lunacy. Brandon and Rickard Stark died demanding justice from a Targaryen mad man. Mother had her throat slashed on her brother’s wedding feast, her naked body thrown into a river, for Northern Independence. Robb had his wolf’s head sewed into his neck, for Northern Independence. She was beaten and undressed in Kingslanding for Northern Independence. Jeyne was brutalized, Rickon bled to death on northern soil in front of her eyes. No. Sansa Stark would not be the one to bend. Would not allow for Stark deaths to be meaningless. Northern people’s suffering to have been without purpose.

Sansa had been prepared to die many times before. In Kingslanding. In the Eyrie. If she were to die for this it would be a welcomed death and she would meet them in the afterlife, having fulfilled both her duty and kept her honour. Whatever was left of it.

He scoffed, amused at her choice of words perhaps. "Even if you weren't, you would not bend, would you? Rather die than kneel."

There was a smile playing on his lips as he spoke, something alike pride in his voice, the sound seemed foreign to her. Reminded her only of her days with her mother. Of playing the harp, of embroidering wolves and dragonflies. She wondered why no one ever asked her to embroider trouts.

She turned to him because of it.

"The North knows no King but the King in the North whose name is Stark. And I am it's keeper. I know my duty, I know the will of my people. Better to die than kneel, yes, I know northern men. I am a Northern woman, though no doubt some might disagree."

He scoffed but didn't argue with her. “I once told the Kingslayer that while I lived the war wasn’t over. We are the same,” he noted with a laugh and Sansa refused to let herself enjoy it, to be claimed by kin. "The riverlands will turn to you, once this war passes, I’m sure."

Sansa shook her head. "If, it passes. The riverlands are far too weak to take sides. And the riverlands have a Lord of their own. Uncle Edmure is alive at Riverrun, even if he is silent."

"Aye, it's true. But they would gladly turn to you, silently as it may be. They bear no love towards Lannisters and the memory of dragon fire never fades. She comes prepared for war. What say you of the imp? Can he lead her war?"

"Anyone can lead a war fought with fire. She will have plenty of ash to rule over. And no men that would bend to an Aegon the conqueror come again with a kinslayer by her side. She brings Dothraki as well, unsullied. All unprepared for winter, a sure part of them will die on their journey here no doubt."

"You think the boy counts on it?" he wondered, in thought.

In truth she could not say, only hope.

"Perhaps. It's the dragon glass what was always needed, as far as he and the free folk have made me aware."

"He has not spoken to you of this?" he inquired, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

She did not answer but he heard her all the same. Stark men saw Tully women as frail little things. What do you see uncle? She wished to ask.

"What of Cersei Lannister? She claims to the winds your hand in her child's slaying. Will she come for you, you think?" he asked simply, but there was a question there he itched to know but would not ask. It amused her, how different it was from Arya’s earlier tactics.

Sansa had decided not to send Brienne to the meeting, whatever knowledge having her there might accomplish would be made null and void should the Dragon Queen decide not to come North now they had a new King, keep Jon to herself as hostage a while longer. Sansa had to protect him, in the ways she could. Besides, the element of surprise could be helpful to learn further of the woman’s character.

"The Queen is far too clever to invade the North in winter. She did summon me to a meeting in Kingslanding, one can only wonder what Jon and the Dragon Queen think that particular affair with Cersei might accomplish.” Sansa rolled her eyes, eager to change the subject. "Do you have a better cloak uncle?" she wondered, taking a look at the thin cloth upon his shoulders.

He frowned at her question and took a glance at himself, chuckling. "I had little time to arrange for supplies, much else clothes, leaving Riverrun. Worry not, my armour is warm enough, I shan't fail you on account of my frail old body against the cold," he laughed to himself, but took a step closer to her as they walked, emboldened by her concern.

Sansa would have to make him a cloak, her mother would have done the same, and she could not bear to think of him being cold as he led her men. She would embroider a trout or another if she had some spare time. Like she had done the Stark direwolf to Jon.

"What do you think of Lady Westerling, truly?" she asked, as they passed an empty corridor.

"A simple girl from a smaller house, whose biggest accomplishment was to tend to a King made blind by grief. She's a sweet thing. Her mother was shrewd, though. That one would have been a bigger concern. Jeyne will behave," he assured her.

Sansa took a deep breath. "We hope."

"These are your men, your people, they answer to you. She has no one to support her, should she challenge you for regency. Not when they were the ones that argued for you. Not when the Vale makes clear their favour. It’s a hard thing to be liked, more so when one is liked by more than one realm. Only a blind man would think better to trade a well-loved Tully and Stark, by a Westerling with nothing to her name," he argued. “Besides-” he smirked rather proudly “- Manderly, and all those who come with him, are in your pocket.”

She neither denied nor agreed to his keen assessment of the loyalties she had acquired during these moons alone she had spent in Winterfell, lordless lands she had given, disputes she had resolved in favour of those she found more amenable. Loyalties that had been made clear this day. Though she was not a fool to count on them everlastingly. She could not make the mistakes of those who came before her.

"Perhaps. Or perhaps they will disagree with me and she will become more agreeable with time, the sweet girl. The Boltons were loyal too once," she remarked.

"She's from the West still. Not one of them could forget, not when their kin died for the mistake of it. Yet, us Tullys are a sour, suspicious lot, “he remarked with a smirk. “Trusting a stranger has never done anyone good.”

"Indeed," she answered with a small smile, emboldened by his approval.

Chapter Text

Sansa kneeled in front of him on the snow. Kneeled in front of her brother, Brandon Stark with whom she had shared all those songs and tales of knightly valour. Tales of conquest. Tales of defeat. He had dreamed of being a knight and she had dreamed of…. She could barely remember anymore. Perhaps being saved by one. Yes. She had dreamed of being saved most of all.

Sansa Stark kneeled for her brother, knowing that she kneeled in front of the three-eyed-raven.

She looked over him carefully, like she so often did. Looking for a crack. Searching for the sweet and well-loved boy she remembered from her youth, the one that had been replaced by this creature of tales. And still, knowing this, knowing that he was only half of her brother, half of Bran, when she looked upon his thick auburn hair and deep eyes of Tully blue, she could only wonder how one could love and treasure so keenly someone they barely knew anymore. She loved him so dearly, this man she knew not at all. This creature that had taken part of his soul.

“If you are under the impression I can read your thoughts, you find yourself mistaken,” Bran told her, after a great deal of silence.

Sansa smiled softly and looked away at the face carved upon the tree, placed her hands above her dark blue skirts that once belonged to her mother, smoothing them down for a moment.

“You and I are so often in silence,” she countered with.

Sansa had learned to treasure it. The comfortable silence. Knowing someone would not leave just because she no longer had the capacity in herself to entertain. No harp to play, or poems to read. No songs to sing, or jests to tell.

He nodded solemnly. “Yes, and yet you have never kneeled to me, Lady of the North, keeper of Winterfell,” he called her with an amused tone. “You want to ask something. So ask, sister.”

“Has the Blackfish come to you? Offered familiar bonds and oaths of protection and so forth?” she asked for curiosity’s sake, an effort to ignore the names he had called her.

Sansa wondered if all the Tully children would find a home with the Blackfish except for her. She wished to know why it bothered her still, why deep within her she wanted to be forgiven and claimed as a daughter by those who would want nothing more from her than keep to her.

Though she had wanted to know this, it was not truly what she wished to ask. Bran was no doubt aware of this and yet indulged her all the same which she took as a good sign.

“Indeed he has tried, and the black goat of House Tully is a man with resolve,” he laughed at his own jape, “but I have no need of oaths of protection from him and not many can stand that which I am.”

“You’re Bran, still,” she argued, leaning forward and taking his cold hand in hers.

He focused his eyes on her this time, it chilled her bones.

“It’s sweet indeed, how hard you try to convince yourself of this. How you cling to whatever is left, how you look at something broken and do not refuse to love it. How dearly you wish to make a home to us all, to tend to all these bruises and hold all the pieces that remain of us together. How, wherever you go, you try to build what was Winterfell to us from snow, and rubble and perhaps one day ash. And yet you, as well as I, cannot. Can you? For while war rages on, you become what you were taught to be, fight with the weapons seared into you, all those weapons that only seem to draw you away from what you crave the most…” He sighed and shook his head while her throat filled with an agony she had no place to put down as his voice turned grave. “While war rages on, each and every one of us will be what the Gods command of us, require of us, force onto us. Starks of Winterfell that we are and all those who serve us, are ruined by us, die for us and will continue to do so. Starks and the loyalty we inspire.”

“Have many died for you Bran?” she asked but she knew the answer. She knew the broken look of Lady Meera Reed as he sent her away from Winterfell, brotherless. As Bran stood there, wolf less, just like her. The lost stare, she wondered just how many people had died in front of his eyes and whose faces he saw when he closed them. “To bring you here, to Winterfell, to me.”

“You once told me the demons in the dark couldn’t touch me if I hid under my blanket,” and his voice sounded so much like Bran that she wanted to hold him close to her and never let go, “how wrong we both found that to be. Did we not, sister? The demons are everywhere and the people who died to keep them away from us are summoned every time we close our eyes. How many more will die for us, do you think? How many more until we can’t survive their loss? How many more until they find we are not worth dying for? It shan’t be anytime soon I assure you. We shall drink their sacrifices like honey while we hide our own so no one can pity us. What do you think is better? Dying or living like this? Can you carry the burden of being the Stark of Winterfell, Sansa? That’s what you are now. After you shall tell me if it was worse being the key to the North, we shall grieve those stories together, I hope. I hope we live to grieve together, that we one day might have the time. If only for a moment. I should like to share this weight, sister.”

Sansa took care not to blink so she wouldn’t shed any tears. She had not the time for it, he spoke true.

Eddard Stark. Catelyn Tully. Robb Stark. Rickon Stark. Dead. Buried. Lost.

Septa Mordane. Jory Cassel. Joffrey Baratheon. Ser Dontos. Shae. Lysa Tully. Petyr Baelish. Jeyne Poole. And all the ones whose names she did not even know, who had died for her, for knowing her, for being jealous of her, for wanting to protect her, for wanting to harm her.

Bran only smiled for a moment as she took her hands away from him, that eerie smile of his that made his face unrecognizable to her. She wondered what bothered her more, among so many things she could choose from. The cold wetness of the snow on her skirts. The never-ending trail of fear, always thumping. Once, twice, once again, on the back of her throat, on the hollow of her chest. One threat resolved. Another on its way. Another threat disappearing. Another creating itself from the ash.

Or maybe it was the hunger. The hunger that never left. For freedom. For safety. For honour. For love. Or was it to be known by this strange creature with her brother’s face? That called forth her fears and regrets, that told her more suffering was to come and yet would not allow her to prepare for it.

“You are afraid,” he noticed. “Good. Many have been those who fell for not noticing how swift the fall could be. Chaos is not a pit. Chaos is a ladder.” He sounded so much like Petyr, Sansa held herself tighter.

“And should I fall?” she wondered who, if any, would fall with her. What would be the price of her failings this time. If it could be bearable.

“Winterfell will fall with you.”

“That does not bring me comfort,” she told him, even if it did not matter.

“Why should it not? How many times have you readied yourself to fall alone, why shall it not bring you comfort that others would take the fall with you? For you. You are a Queen now, in everything but name, sister. There are those who carry your banners for the shade you provide them. Those who carry them for the honour you bring them. You fight better when you have something to protect. When you have something to lose. So be it, the North is yours to protect. Our family, both living and dead, yours, Sansa Tully Stark.”

“All this weight Bran? You place it upon my back and expect it not to crush me.”

He laughed then. Hollow and terrible, it echoed in the Godswood.

“I? I place nothing that was not already there. You raised an army, now it serves you. You served a realm, now it depends on you. It was not placed on your back, you were chosen to carry it. They could have chosen others. They could have kept those they had chosen before you.” He shrugged. “You can refuse them still. If you wish. If you think someone else more suited to the burden. More able to the task. Point them and we shall see what comes of it if you wish it so. Yet, you know your duty, Tully that you are, do you wish to refuse it? Will you stray from me sister, from the duties we share? I, that have been swallowed by mine. Would you leave me all alone? Would you abandon me, Sansa? My sister.”

She took to heart his words, his mournful tone, raised her chin in way of answer and he smiled, almost proudly.

“There will come a great many deal of people to these halls of ours. Traitors and Kinslayers. Conquerors, survivors and players. I have no need to warn you of this, for I know of your heart and your fears, your skills and your weapons. Already you armour yourself so well against the coming storms… strengthen those bindings of yours, my sister. For when the Dragons come only those made for winter and by them beloved survive.”

Sansa straightened her spine at last. "Dragons come. And no courtesies of mine will deliver us from them."

He shrugged, unconcerned, it did not ease her mind. "Perhaps not. But lies? Lies have held these seven realms together. Lies have made peace a tangible thing. Lies have secured and endured weights that honour never could bear."

She clenched her jaw and shook her head, though she did not doubt his words, nor could she disagree with the use of them, not when lies had saved her. Not when a liar was what she had been turned into for survival.

“I need you Bran. Do you understand? I need you. I can play the game with all my might, but dragons are still dragons and I have only my words. One slip and Winterfell can become ash. One slip and we're dead. I can deal with men if luck is on our side, I cannot deal with three dragons alone.” Not alive at least.

“Two,” he corrected, making Sansa take a deep breath with the amount of weight that lifted from her chest.

“Truly?” Sansa asked him with a smile she could not hide, he nodded solemnly. “How? When? I know there are things you cannot tell me. Stories you cannot share. But there is more than one threat coming to Winterfell and whatever information you can spare me, whatever stories you might share with your sister…. It already happened, surely there could be no issue if you told me,” she almost pleaded, though she knew it would not make a difference if he decided he could not say.

“A wight hunt. To bring Cersei proof of the threat, or so it was told.”

Stupid. Reckless. Useless. He could have died. And for what? Trying to argue for an alliance that would never come. She had warned him, she had warned him of Cersei, she had warned him of Stark mistakes, she had warned him of the game.

“The Targaryen queen lost a dragon to the Night King to save his life. Rather romantic, one could say. Now the wall will melt, Uncle Benjen is dead and should the North fall, there will be no place to hide from the dangers that come.”

Sansa jaw clenched and she swallowed harshly.

Another Stark death. Another Stark foolishness. She could barely remember Uncle Benjen. In truth, she hadn’t even considered him. How shameful. She had not the time to cast him a thought, much less mourn him as kin should be mourned. How shameful indeed that she could barely be concerned with it at all.

“Does she love him?”

The knowledge of the Dragon Queen’s heart was what truly concerned her, what truly made thoughts overwhelm her mind and push her forward. That was what told her that whatever dignity she had left was lost in the Eyrie and she could not hope to regain it, least of all now. What would her father think? Would he have been able to look upon her? Would he have been able to love her, as she was now… this cold woman whose purpose was to play the game forced onto her. A game where he had made her a pawn, once upon a time in Kingslanding, whether he knew it or not.

He shrugged. “As much as a dragon knows how to love.”

Prince Rhaegar wanted Lady Lyanna and how the seven realms had bled for it. Dragons and what they deemed theirs. What they would lose for it. What they would risk for it. Two living children and a perfect wife. Seven Realms. One dragon. She could use this knowledge. She could wage war with it.

“Does he love her?”

All this time she had convinced herself he was a hostage. All this time she had trusted he would not make the mistakes of those who came before him. All this time she had lied to herself. She had protected her heart. Her heart didn’t matter now, not when her duty was elsewhere.

He looked at her then and smirked, in that strange way of his, she had taught herself not to fear.

“Were I to tell you yes, would it make a difference? Would your need to make all those plans of yours cease all together?” he tilted his head to the side, Tully-blue eyes piercing her soul. “Would you risk the North to protect Jon Snow’s heart? Mother’s sacrifice? Robb’s legacy? Stark deaths?”

“No.”

Was Jon’s heart more important than the North’s freedom? Mother, Robb, Rickon’s deaths? Rickard and Brandon Stark? No. Would she risk losing Jon for the North’s freedom? That question haunted her. That she kept hoping she wouldn’t have to ask, that she risked this unanswered question, that she refused to consider it, the alternatives, that she refused to plan for his actions told her what she needed to know of her heart. Let him hate her if he must. She would make sure he lived for it, even if against his will.

“Then you have your answer,” he told her simply.

Sansa gave him a solemn nod, taking a hand to her throat. “When they come, I will become a liar, once more. I will give away whatever of my honour is left to appease the mortal enemies my words can conquer or harm. I will play my part in these wars. Fulfil my duty to the North and my kin, putting aside every shred of honour and dignity. Is that suitable, brother?”

“Aye, and the mummers farce carries on. We must all do our duty.”

Sansa had a bitter taste on her tongue, but she pushed herself to smile all the same. “And what is your part, brother, if I may know?”

“I'll concern myself with the dragon of ice and you shall concern yourself with those of fire, for the time being.”

She took a deep breath and nodded.

"What is the three eyed raven, tell me Bran," she almost demanded. Almost.

"A greenseer and a skinchanger. A storyteller, a dreamer. A keeper of tales, of prophecies. One who knows secrets. One who is buried beneath them." He smiled. “We are not so different you and I, we never were.”

A story. A prophecy. A secret. Prophecies were meaningless, secrets she had enough of her own. Stories… so often were they lies.

"Might you tell me of your dreams then?" she hoped for.

"Little bird. Little dove,” it wasn’t Bran who spoke, not really, it was another voice all together, as he called her what some of her nightmares once had. “In my dreams I fly."

Sansa’s eyes narrowed, plans itching in her mind. "And could you fly a dragon?"

Brandon Tully Stark smiled.

“Lord Manderly,” she welcomed him offering him her hand.

“My Lady Stark,” he bowed to kiss it before taking the seat across from her.

“As my nephew’s Regent, and with the wars that come, nothing seems as important to me as to take experienced and intelligent men such as yourself as my councillors,” Sansa prompted, offering the position he coveted as he argued for her regency.

“It would be my honour to serve the North and its ruler,” he told her, his inflection calling to question whom he was referring to. She found it most interesting.

“I have no doubt if it comes to a war against these southern threats my lack of battle experience will come into question by my senior lords, Mors Umber and Lord Glover…” she mused as she traced her fingers over one of the pieces used to symbolize the Dragon Queen’s forces on the board.

“Your brother Robb had no battle experience as well, yet he sure had no issue beating seasoned commanders on the battlefield,” he argued for her easily enough.

The thing about House Manderly was that they were still southern at heart and Sansa was so much more accustomed to it. It made Lord Manderly almost a comfortable figure to have at her side. Almost. She knew what he wished for, she knew how to reward his loyalty. She knew about his ambitions and what to expect from him.

“Indeed, nevertheless, I have called for my uncle, Ser Bryden, to stand as commander of my troops, since we can no longer count on Jon’s position, once he returns. And my great uncle is a far more seasoned commander than Lady Brienne, though we appreciate her service most dearly.”

Lord Wyman gave her a tight smile, the dig at his lack of action towards Jeyne Poole, while she was believed to be Arya, landing easily enough.

Brienne would take on the role of commander of the guard of the royal household. Sansa would not have a Kingsguard in the North. Blind men to follow the whims of a child, for that was what little Eddard still was. Sansa would not have men sworn to protect the King and only him, ignoring whatever harm came of it. She would not endorse men to stand still while a King beat a Queen, like the Kingsguard were known to have done time and time again over the ages. No. While the regency was hers, Royal Household Guard sounded much better to her. Much safer.

“Very wise, my Lady, the Blackfish is well seen by the North.” He nodded solemnly. “Would you say the Riverlands and the Vale would join us, should a war against this Dragon Queen come to be?”

The Vale and the Riverlands that were tied to her. By blood and oaths. By secrets that would never be shared. To keep them by the North’s side would always mean to keep faith with her. While the Riverlands might yet choose to follow Robb Stark’s child, Catelyn Tully’s grandchild, the Vale was not so. The Vale was bound to her and she would keep it so.

She would not have Lord Manderly – nor any northern lord – believe the Vale to be a force that could be detached from her. She had suffered for it. Their loyalty. Had been humiliated in her service to them as acting Lady of the Eyrie while disguising as a bastard. Sansa Stark would be damned if the North presumed the Vale would side with them should they turn from her. She would not leave her position no matter how secure, her safety, to chance again. Never again.

“The Riverlands have been ravaged by wars on all fronts, my Lord, they will argue their impartiality until their last breath, as it is wise of them to do. The Vale is not known for taking sides, but they can be swayed. As they have been before. Nevertheless I suppose it depends on the kind of threat Daenerys Targaryen presents herself as – a madwoman or a conqueror. They shall consider their options and act accordingly, I trust.” She took a moment to consider her next words. “My brother Bran has informed me that the Dragon Queen lost one of her dragons to the Night King.”

“I see.” He raised a brow in thought. “If we were to make weapons against the ice dragon it could not be called an act of war,” he contemplated, sharp in his assessment.

Sansa offered him a smile. “Indeed, my Lord. We could even destroy them once the war against the undead is hopefully won, as an act of trust. A gracious show of goodwill.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Not all I trust?”

She nodded slowly. “This, of course, would take a great deal a secrecy, I have already begun constructions under the directions of my brother Bran, nevertheless it seems wise that the Scorpions, as he calls them, be built elsewhere, far from the stare of those who will come to be our guests, yet close enough to Winterfell so they might be called upon, need be.”

“Castle Cerwyn is the closest to Winterfell.”

“Yes. Followed by Hornwood.” Lands Sansa had gifted Lord Manderly, in the absence of heirs from Lord Hornwood and Lady Donella Manderly, his sister.

“You do not trust-”

Sansa shook her head, she did not wish to have him believe he knew her mind. Not on this.

Yet Lord Cerwyn had proposed marriage to her, not long after Jon had left for Dragonstone. A marriage she had delicately pushed aside. While the head of her household, she could have brokered the marriage herself, but with Jon, her kin, as her King, it would have been disrespectful of her not to ask his blessing beforehand, so she had eagerly used his absence as an excuse to refuse him. Now she had no such thing, once again she had her own hand to give away and so easily could he become an enemy for his wounded pride once she refused him once more. While not a Lord with the most significant holdings, he was still a Lord and he could still become a threat. She would not depend upon him. Not him, who was still young and eager to prove himself to the more seasoned lords that made her bannermen.

“Not at all, Lord Cerwyn is a fine young man. I simply place my faith more comfortably on you, my Lord Manderly,” she praised him easily enough.

Lord Manderly had no sons or grandsons to bind her with, no men to offer in marriage. No northern Lord he would like best to have by her side. To own her, lead her, force her. Having her unmarried suited him just fine. Having her unmarried and with him as trusted council was most favourable towards his interests, towards the prosperity of his house. 

He swelled like a peacock but cleared his throat to regain his composure. “While a good plan my Lady, it rests on the Dragon Queen not considering us a threat while she remains here. To believe our good intentions.”

“Yes. I would think that the North is patient enough to indulge her for the duration of her stay in Winterfell. To show her the courtesies befit a Queen, although a foreign one. We shall be attentive hosts to her needs. Of course she should be more concerned with taking care of the threat Cersei Lannister poses before wasting even more men here, and if she isn’t, our display of good faith will not be necessary and the Scorpions that we have here will be put to good use. Make no mistake, my lord, our response to her shall be brutal, need be.”

The pleasure on his face was clear. Lord Manderly was tired of pleasantries, bored with pretending to serve southern Kings, Bolton Lords, bastards… Lord Manderly, and many of her bannermen, wanted an independent North. Wanted to pay no taxes that would be sent to Kingslanding. Wanted to fight no wars unless they served to free the North or avenge it. They did not want war, but they were not against fighting one. They wanted honour and glory, and most of all, they wanted freedom. And they respected strength.

Sansa Stark could be strong. And if not, she could pretend to be.

“No southerner ever managed to conquer the North in a thousand years. And it was well recorded how ill-at-ease Queen Alysanne’s dragon was,” he informed her. “Perhaps we shall have the same luck with her beasts.”

“Yes, it would serve us very well indeed. Would you gather all the information you could about the subject? About Daenerys Targaryen and her journeys in the south as well?” she requested of him.

“I already am my Lady, I shall bring the information to you at once.”

Sansa smiled, pleased with his preparation.

“Of course there is the matter of Jon Snow,” he prompted her, his tone grave and his eyes searching. “He will have to be dealt with, most urgently. Put in his place if you will.”

She lost her smile immediately and her face turned regal. She could not have him presume to command her.

“Jon Snow remains my kin and as the head of my household he will be dealt with by me. Though no doubt his mistake was serious, he had not the authority to make it. His words empty, as he no doubt knew. His power was contingent to Northern will, he was aware.” She spoke words she was not sure of. “He is not a fool, the man my lords hailed as King. Until we know the true circumstances of his choice, we will reserve punishment,” she decreed, leaving no room for argument. Reminding them, who was it that chose him. That rose him above the trueborn child of Ned Stark and Catelyn Tully.

Perhaps not Manderly, neither Locke nor Flint that followed his lead. Yet when little Lyanna Mormont hailed Jon Snow King in the North while she stood beside him, they had stayed silent. And that was enough of a betrayal to hold over Lord Manderly’s head.

“Nevertheless -” she sighed, aware of the circumstances “- by bending the knee to her, whatever authority the North had over him has been made null and void. He’s her subject now.” It was what scared her the most in truth. He unmade himself. Pushed aside whatever protection she could afford him. Placed himself perhaps too far from her grasp and yet she could not lose him. Would not.

“By your will, my Lady.” He bowed his head recognizing a command when he heard one.

She was far too eager to change the subject and there was no hiding that.

“I wish for you to call for your granddaughters to court, they will be safer here either way and I would like Wylla to grow accustomed to Winterfell,” she asked softly, her meaning clear.

He grinned. “My Wylla shall be honoured to serve as your lady-in-waiting.”

“I shall be honoured to have her in my service as well. I have heard how bravely she made her loyalty to House Stark known in those troubled times before we took back our seat. A girl so alike her grandfather will be a welcomed addition to my household. House Manderly has always been most loyal to us, I will not overlook such a precious thing as that, my lord,” Sansa promised him.

He smiled but understood her meaning. Understood that she did not ignore his failings, the same way she hadn’t and would not ignore others. Kin or not. She simply choose to overlook them, for the time being, to give them a chance to redeem themselves in service to her and house Stark.

“It’s truly a marvellous thing, to have a Stark of Winterfell once more to rule us. May your rule be long, my Lady,” his tone was solemn, and Sansa remembered Bran’s words.

The Queen in the North in everything but name.

They all joined in Lady Westerling’s solar that evening, the former rooms of her Lady Mother were the warmest in the keep and spending time all together sounded lovely when one considered they might not have much of it left.

The Blackfish stayed drinking ale in the Great Hall with the Vale Lords, his voice purposefully loud as he recalled tales of war against the Mad King Aerys, about his lunacy, about Targaryen rule, fire and blood and madness.

Sansa and Ser Brynden Tully had shared a look before she left the hall. They were in agreement. They would be allies in all the wars to come, be it dragons, lions or wights. They shared between them the desire to keep Robb Stark’s legacy alive. Catelyn Tully’s death meaningful. Protect Eddard Stark and everything he meant. They would be allies even if she couldn’t afford for them to be kin. He knew what he had to do, which lords he had to rally, which ones she already had, without her needing to ask, without her needing to explain. It was a comfort to not have to play the game alone.

“I’ve heard the rumours,” Lady Westerling began with, making Sansa look up from the leather strap she was using for her Uncle’s cloak. “That Daenerys Targaryen comes here, expecting the North’s bended knee.”

“Treachery is a coin Targaryens know well,” Bran choose to say, his eyes vagrant, which made her believe those words were not his own.

“They meet it with Fire and Blood, do they not?” Lady Westerling recalled, concern thick on her voice, as if any in the room could forget the burning of kin, even if they had never met them, the stories old Nan had told them all in their youth present in their memories. “And with three dragons at that… what can we expect but-”

“Two,” he corrected, making Sansa turn to him at once, interested that he was sharing this information with Jeyne Westerling as well. “She lost a dragon to the Night King on a wight hunt to save Jon, bitter tears she cried as her monster fell.”

“That was unreasonably stupid of them,” Arya said with a puff, shaking her head in disapproval.

“If she cares for Jon Snow perhaps she cannot be that unreasonable. To lose one of those she calls her children to save him… perhaps she’s not as cruel as we first assumed.”

“The men who burned alive in the Reach would disagree,” Arya was quick to tell her with an eyebrow raised as she leaned back on her chair. “And you don’t know Jon. He’s no doubt her hostage, he would never bend the knee to a Targaryen, she most likely forced him. He did what he had to do to come back home, to us,” she defended him, confident in her beliefs.

Such devotion to Jon Snow, such trust in a man she had not seen in years. And yet she offered not a shred of it to her sister, to the woman she had shared halls with for moons, the woman who sewed her shifts and hemmed her trousers and offered her freedom, offered her safety. How dearly Arya held own to the beliefs of her childhood.

Sansa almost admired it, how dearly she held on to that childhood. Jon was good, there was no doubt, deserving of this love her sister gave without second guessing, but was Sansa not deserving of at least a drop of it? A moment of hesitation before doubting her intentions. A question before raising an accusing brow. How dearly she wished for it.

“I only meant-” she sighed “- Torrhen Stark bent the knee, did he not? To avoid Dragonfire, to save the North from dragons. As you say Jon Snow did,” she tried again.

Sansa watched the exchange curiously and planned accordingly, only sharing a look with Jeyne Poole who was sewing as well in the chair across from her.

As the King’s mother, Lady Westerling would require ladies-in-waiting as well. Sending Jeyne would have been an easy choice, but Lady Westerling would never have trusted her with any careful information if she was a clever woman. Everyone knew Jeyne’s loyalties were solely to her, and Sansa herself wouldn’t bear to be parted from Jeyne, not when so many enemies were closing in.

Sansa would send Wylla instead. Wynafryd would stay with her and Wylla would be Lady Westerling’s companion, her boisterous nature would make Lady Westerling leave her shell, hopefully. Confide in her. Whispers that would reach Sansa as soon as she made them. Wylla was a Stark loyalist, of that there was no doubt and she would be put to good use.

Arya nodded slowly. “I never said he was right to do so. And Starks burned all the same,” she countered with and Sansa was glad to know this would not be an issue she and Arya would clash over.

“No harm will come to your son, my Lady,” Sansa assured her, finally choosing to intervene, “Little Eddard is the North, surely, a symbol of independence, but he is still a child, a babe. No one would confuse the banners others carry for him for his true intent,” she spoke gently trying to sooth a mother’s fears, if that were all they were.

While little Eddard was the North’s symbol, Sansa was its hands. They would come for her first. Him they could yet mould to their liking. To their purposes, as they once did her. A Stark pawn was always needed. A key to the North was a good thing to have. One of the reasons she had been kept alive. Had Robb’s will been known… she wondered if she would have been kept alive at all.

“That mattered little when they killed Elia Martell’s children,” Lady Westerling’s voice was sharp and true.

Not a sound was heard in the room.

“Lannisters. Lannister orders killed those babes and their mother. Baratheons didn’t see fit to punish them for the brutal slaying of dragonspawn. And both an Arryn and a Stark looked away. All dead they are now,” the three-eyed-raven spoke, breaking the silence. “Perhaps because of it. The Gods and their irony.”

“Bran!” Arya called out in defence of their father. In defence of the dead, but Bran did not lie, and it was difficult to argue for their father in the face of children’s deaths.

He turned his eyes to her and waited for her to argue with him, almost in challenge.

“The North has decided. They will not bend, Lady Westerling. And whatever I could do to sway them to do so would be an insult to your late husband, my brother, and my mother. Wouldn’t you agree?” Sansa asked, an effort to put an end to the subject, hoping for it to be enough.

Lady Westerling’s face fell at the mention of Robb. “I’m only concerned…”

“I understand, I do. And I share your concerns, I share your fear. We will keep peace with Daenerys Targaryen as long as we are able. Worry not. We will do our best to avoid yet another war.” But we shall not bend, was left unsaid but no less heard.

“And if the choice is to bend or burn?” she asked, chin held high in something almost alike defiance. “He is my son. My only son, can you understand? Can you truly understand my fear?”

Sansa tilted her head to the side considering this sudden bravery in Lady Westerling, this courage built from fear.

He was Robb’s son. And as such Lady Westerling’s will no longer mattered. Because little Eddard was the son of the North now. Much more than he was hers and they would fight her for him, should the need arise. They would dispose of her if she became bothersome and Sansa would not have that. She had to protect her, for Robb’s sake, for little Eddard’s. Even if her protection sounded like a threat. Lady Westerling had to understand before she made a mistake Sansa would not be able to deliver her from.

“I cannot ask them to bend,” she told her simply. “I cannot ask men who have lost sons and fathers, brothers and cousins fighting for freedom from the Iron Throne, for justice against Targaryens, and Baratheons, and Lannisters to fight for a chair. I cannot ask them to fight for another when all they have ever wanted was to have an independent North. A North who doesn’t bend to an outsider’s will. I cannot ask for bended knees when all they have ever fought for was to stand. I cannot and I will not,” her word was final, though her tone was light.

And if she did – if Sansa Stark asked the North to bend – they would replace her with someone clever enough not to. The same they had done to Jon. There was no question to that. Stark or otherwise, they would find another to lead them and that could not be. They could not lose Winterfell, not again. They were stronger within the walls of Winterfell and Sansa would fight for them never to lose it again. Never again.

“If the choice is to bend or burn then we shall burn.” The true answer came from Jeyne Poole. Who only lifted her eyes for a moment to stare at the King’s mother. “And there will be honour to burning when the alternative is to fight for someone who would give us such choice. Better to die with dignity than to serve in shame to the likes of such monsters once again.”

The silence was heavy, while their hearts beat loudly to the memories Jeyne evoked. Lady Westerling was not brave enough to defy the steel in her words. Not the Lady of Whitefort that had survived the unimaginable. She, Jeyne Poole, that would rather die free than suffer worse horrors. Sometimes death was kinder. Life could be crueller. And many times it was. Many times it had been.

“Sansa,” Bran called for her attention drawing out the rest of the conversation. “A man will come to Winterfell. A broken man who has sinned time and time again for what he knows as love will swear himself to fight the dead. You will argue for him to keep his life, for you will have use for him later on.”

Sansa nodded, knowing she would never deny him anything. Not him who knew all that was and would come to be.

“Might you tell me which sins, brother?”

“Sins you cannot forgive and yet must put aside. I will not burden you with their knowledge.”

She supposed there was mercy in that. Sansa took a deep breath and looked to Arya for a moment, her sister who was staring right back at her.

"It's late, we should all retire and leave Lady Westerling to her rest. Jeyne, would you take the babe to the nursery and ask Lady Brienne to take Bran to his chambers?" Sansa asked her softly.

Jeyne nodded, understanding crossing her features. Sansa took Arya’s hands and pulled her slightly for her to follow, "Come, I'll tend to your hair."

She had expected more of a fight, but Arya went willingly, sitting on their mother's vanity that she had changed from Lady Westerling’s room along with most of her mother's remaining possessions.

Sansa stood behind her. Undid the manly knot she carried around with that reminded her so much of Jon. Took her mother's ivory brush and carefully started untangling the knots just like she used to do to her when Sansa was a child. Arya was uncommonly silent as she did this. Dutifully sitting and avoiding her stare from the mirror.

Sansa took a deep breath then, in preparation.

"When the dragon queen comes, you will be careful around her Arya, do you hear?" It was not a request. And it did not surprise her just how much her voice sounded like her mother as she kept running the brush down her hair.

It wasn’t that Sansa believed Arya would openly challenge the woman, like she had once done to Joffrey, raise sword and strike without thinking. It was simply that Arya was wild where Sansa was contained. It was that her fierce loyalty made her rash. That her desire to protect her family, to protect Jon and those she deemed deserving of it, made her dangerous. Made her unpredictable most of all and Sansa could not afford such gambles at this moment in time.

"Does the Lady Stark command me?" she mocked with a smirk, staring at her from the mirror unabashedly now.

Sansa simply nodded, not wanting to turn this into a fight but needing Arya to understand the severity of her words. The true command they were, just this once. Not the request of a sister but the command of the Lady of the household.

Arya scoffed, but remained amused. "Afraid she'll like me more than you perhaps? The She-wolf of Winterfell above the Lady of the North. They call us that have you heard?"

She had. She-wolf was a perfect description for Arya. Lady of the North was one step away from queen, it did not escape anyone’s notice, it would not escape the Dragon Queen’s council either when they came.

"Afraid she'll burn you alive."

Arya’s head snapped around to face her.

"Would you let her?" her voice was small as she wondered. As if she was unsure of her answer. Sansa gently pushed her chin forward so she would face the mirror once more. She couldn't bare those grey eyes of hers. What they reminded her of. Dying and knowing life again. Ned and Jon Stark.

"Don't be silly. No dragon of hers will come near you. Jon would not allow it, I have no doubt. That does not mean I give you leave to give her cause," she cautioned her again.

"But what about you, what can you do against dragons though?" she pushed on.

"I have armies to protect you with. My own body need be," Sansa shrugged.

Arya seemed to hold her breath for a moment. "You don't mean that... "

Sansa frowned but did not take her eyes from the task at hand. "I've died and killed for you Arya. What makes you think I wouldn't do so again?” Arya remained impossibly still and so she felt the need to carry on. “Lady died in Nymeria’s place. I came down the mountain for you, I revealed myself a Stark to get you back. There's no need to doubt my love for you Arya, my commitment to your safety-"

"More than Jeyne?" A question a little girl might have asked, and Arya sounded so young as she did.

Sansa frowned and shook her head. "It's different, Arya."

She nodded slowly. "Yes. You wanted her as a sister. And you never wanted me at all." Sansa could almost hear the tremble in her voice surprising both of them with the burst of emotion.

Sansa gave her a sad smile. She might have hugged her, had she believed she would accept it.

There was truth in her words. She had wanted a different sister once. Someone she could embroider with, share dreams and tales. Someone more similar to her. Someone like Jeyne, or Beth Cassel, or Margaery Tyrell. Shae. How dearly she missed Shae. Someone like Myranda Royce or even Mya Stone. Someone whose behaviours not allowed in Sansa wouldn’t be rewarded in a sister, like they were with Arya by their Lord father.

"She was cruel to me when we were children, do you deny it?"

Horseface. Sansa remembered.

"No. I do not. And I am sorry she hurt you. I am sorry I did not stop her, I am," she assured her, placing her hands on her shoulders for a moment, and staring back at the reflexion of her eyes in the mirror. "But Jeyne has been through so much strife and I won't call upon her to ask forgiveness for things she said in her youth.”

“We have all suffered,” Arya whispered, looking away.

Not like Jeyne. Never like Jeyne. Scars that would never fade and memories she could only hope to replace with kinder ones. Nightmares that she would carry with her until her death. Fears that would never subside, only be managed. Jeyne had suffered most of all and Sansa would protect her like she had been unable to before. She would spare her from whatever hurt and humiliation she could. She owed her this kindness and much more. Her dear Jeyne. Her most darling friend. An innocent girl caught up in the game of thrones. How much she could have been spared from if she hadn’t gone to Kingslanding with her.  

“Yes. We have. And yet Jeyne suffered more than us and had none of the advantages our blood could provide, and nevertheless it were her bonds to this house that made for the reason of much of her pain. She has been through unimaginable trials and you will show her every respect, the same she does to you, no matter the strife of your youth. She has been forced to do things long enough, she will ask your forgiveness if she wants to. And that is something you will have to accept. None of us get the apologies we want or deserve. Nevertheless I am sorry, that I never stopped her from doing so. I hope that eases some of your pain," Sansa made her voice very tender as she said so, since she did not have the courage to hold her.

Arya looked into her eyes for a long while before giving her a nod and standing up to leave, a new braid pulling her hair from her face.

"Will you apologize to me?" Sansa asked with a surge of bravery as Arya turned for the door.

Arya turned back, a frown on her face, unsure of what she was referring to. Sansa didn’t know if it made worse or better that she did not recall.

"For all the times you called me stupid," she reminded her. All the times she had called her so, all the years Sansa had believed her.

"Oh." It took her by surprised, either that she remembered or that she cared. "Yes. Hum... I'm sorry." She was silent for a little while before she carried on, “It was not true. You were not stupid. You never were, I was just…” she did not finish, and Sansa did not need her to. It was enough.

Sansa smiled sweetly. “Thank you, Arya. Truly.”

“Lord Tarly,” Sansa greeted from behind the table. “Please, sit.”

“Lady Stark.” He bowed to her before taking the chair.

“I did not expect your arrival. You were at the Citadel, were you not?” Nor had she been informed of it.

As the son of a house from the Reach it would have been expected of him to ask for shelter from her before settling here, especially considering the war they were facing.

The Lady of Winterfell had no use for a man with not even half of his studies complete at the Citadel. Much less three more mouths to feed. It was unkind of her to think, but no less truthful. He and his family would have been safer if they had remained where they were. Where neither dragons of ice nor fire had interest in reaching. At least for now.

He seemed uncomfortable, but not grieving. Sansa wondered if he had been made aware of what happened in the Reach. She wondered if she would have to be the one to tell him.

“I was. But there was something I learned during my time there… something I had to come tell Jon.”

Yes. Jon. Jon with whom he had served in the Night’s Watch. Jon who was nowhere to greet him. Jon from whom he had expected hospitality, instead being met with her, the cold Lady of Winterfell. Jon who would have to explain to him why he had bent the knee to the woman who most likely had burned some of his kin alive.

Sansa narrowed her eyes on the man. “And might you share it with me? If it concerns the battle ahead, if it led you to abandon your studies I’m sure it must be of great importance. I would urge you to confide in me, Lord Tarly.” He shuddered under the title, Sansa could only wonder why. Perhaps he did know what had become of his kin.

She might have been subtler had this been another man. And yet Samwell Tarly had a woman and child, another on the way, pursued a path in which he would never be able to marry her, honour her as he should, only keep her as a whore and showed not a hint of shame. Had not seen fit to ask Sansa for bread and salt before entering Winterfell. She had no true reason to show many courtesies to this man to which she was already extending a hospitality she had no duty to offer except for the friendship he shared with Jon. Something she wasn’t sure would be everlasting after the news she would be forced to share with him.

“Well, hum…” he stammered, and Sansa bit her tongue to keep her face emotionless. She had not the time for this and yet no doubt this was information he felt important enough not to share. “I told your brother- I mean, I told Lord Stark.”

Sansa smiled then but kept the laughter to herself, she had no true desire for it, if not to shame him a little.

 “I quite doubt the three-eyed-raven did not know already. Am I mistaken?”

He shook his head and took a deep breath, finding it hard to be under her stare.

“It isn’t that I find you to be untrustworthy, my Lady-” Sansa raised her brows at that.

“And yet you would hide from me information you believe vital to the enemy we face?” She tilted her head to the side.

“Not the enemy we face, but perhaps… the future we hope to build,” he carried on, causing her to frown. “This concerns Jon far more than it would make me comfortable to share without his consent.” And yet he had gone to Bran.

Sansa bit her tongue, she could not demand this information from the man.

“Your loyalty to my – to Jon – is admirable, no doubt. And I shall respect it.” For the time being. “Yet there are other issues we must discuss.”

He frowned. "There are?"

Sansa took a deep breath. "Have you heard of Daenerys Targaryen? Of her conquest." He nodded. “It falls to me to inform you, Lord Samwell Tarly, that while there can be no guarantee, I have been told every lord, high and low who refused to knell burned, in the second field of fire."

He shook his head vehemently. "You cannot mean -"

But she did. She meant it. Every unspoken word.

"My father, he...he was a great lord...how could... No. It cannot be." He chuckled nervously, unsure of his words, of hers.

"Perhaps it is not. He could have bent the knee, forsaken his oaths to Cersei Lannister, to the Iron Throne," she offered kindly, knowing how strong hope could be. Not seeking to take any more from him than she was forced to.

"He would have not.” He looked away for a moment, the information finally settling in his mind. “You are sure? All burnt?"

Sansa nodded.

Lord Tarly raised himself from his seat, all propriety lost to him. “I must… will you forgive me… I must…Gilly…”

“Of course. You have my offer of bread and salt, no harm shall befall you from the men sworn to me,” Sansa promised, reminding him of the old ways, as Samwell Tarly scurried to leave her presence.

He turned to her at once, bowed deeply then, remembering his courtesies, what was expected of him. What he hadn’t until then bothered to concern himself with.

“Thank you, my Lady, for… Forgive me for…”

“Worry not, Lord Tarly, go to your wife and seek her comfort. We shall not intrude on a man’s mourning,” she waved his concerns away, and yet saw an opportunity. “I have wars to prepare for as well, knowledge I need to gather, if there is to be hope for a future at all…” she threw back at him as gently as she was able, hoping he would have a change of heart once he had time to gather his thoughts and consider her words.

He nodded slowly, tears heavy on his eyes as he tried his best to keep himself from showing any more emotion in her presence.

“Will you forgive me, my Lady, if I…” he struggled to speak and Sansa took pity on the man made orphan, like she had been not that long ago, though it seemed like a lifetime.

“Of course, you may leave us. You might come to my Maester if you wish to send word to your kin in Hornhill,” she offered, knowing how dearly she had wished to do so. To hear of the family she had left once some of it had been lost to her, hoping to gain his gratitude as well, for she was not a fool.

“Thank you,” he spoke sincerely before hurriedly taking his leave, bowing all the way to the door.

Sansa was left wondering what was it that had brought him in the first place. She imagined she would know it as soon as the man was made aware how his dearest friend had bent the knee to the woman who killed his kin. Until then, she had to trust Bran would share the knowledge with her, should it be vital to the war ahead.

As soon as Bran had first told her of the Wall she had called all of the bannermen to retreat to Winterfell, they stood with her, analysing this new queen, whose appearance seemed faded against the northern background.

Sansa stared at her unabashedly. She was beautiful no doubt. The way only a Targaryen, a dragon, could be beautiful, from a safe distance.

Her hair the colour of snow, how it might have been impressive in another scenery.

Sansa considered what her life might have become if she had been given dragons on her wedding day to Tyrion Lannister. Would she have burned anyone? She would have flown away no doubt. Far, far away, to the comfort only the cold provided her. She would have given a dragon to Jeyne, so she might use it upon the Bolton bastard. That would have been fair and just. But no. She wouldn't have burned anyone. What a terrible way to die.

She wondered what it took for it. What did it take for someone to burn armies alive. Burns cities to ash. Was it pain? Unimaginable pain that consumes you whole? Makes your legs too weak to stand, too frail to walk, sadness that demands to be felt, sadness that asks for relief, be it death or sleep. No. It couldn't be. No one who smiled like that as the people shuddered over her dragons’ growls could be in that degree of pain.

Sansa knew what it took to kill one man. She knew and it was quite simple. An emotion she had felt hundreds of times only that time it was echoed a thousand fold. Fear. Sansa had known fear. For years she knew fear stronger than she knew any other emotion. Sansa feared and so she killed. It was a quick death, not like Rickon’s death – no. A quick death in comparison to what it must feel like burning alive. Quicker than being fed to one's dogs. Much quicker than dying from hunger, than dying from grief. Yes – Petyr's death was quick. She had looked into his eyes through it all and she couldn't quite remember if she blinked, but the feeling of cleaning the tears that strayed from her eyes would never leave her. To this day she knew not if she cried for him or for herself, but it had felt like a waste.

Perhaps it was rage. Rage had been what led Cersei to... No. No. It had been fear as well. A walk of shame, a public trial, the Sept she burned, she had burned for fear. Of what else could come. Perhaps there was rage there too, the feelings were easy to confuse, but Cersei Lannister had known rage all her life and she never acted before. She had been beaten and humiliated by her husband for all to see. In front of her father. In front of Sansa herself. She hadn't killed anyone then.

What could Daenerys Targaryen fear that would make her burn thousands alive? Nothing at all. She had burned them because she wanted to. She wanted fire and blood. Like Joffrey, she killed for enjoyment. Because she felt like it.

Sansa looked at her people then. Southern folk clearly underdressed for winter. Horses not ready to face ground covered in ice. People who did not know Westeros, neither their customs nor language. And no women. Had they been left to their own fate in Essos? Alone and unprotected, their temples burned, because they could not further this woman’s conquest? Her quest for a foreign throne. Why did these people follow her… How far did their fear go?

Jon’s eyes were focused on her, confused and questioning. He had smiled at Bran who stood beside her, his face unreadable and eyes empty. The Blackfish stood at her side, his face hard and defiant in posture, Jon did not know who he was, this man who so confidently was her right hand and no doubt did this lack of knowledge trouble him.

Arya stood not beside her. Hidden away in the crowd, inspecting this Queen of his from the obscurity their people provided, like Sansa had her swear to do. She wanted her as hidden as possible from the likes of Varys and Tyrion Lannister. Sansa wanted her safe. No doubt Jon wanted to ask of her, yet he knew what duty demanded of this moment. No familiarity, no warmth, courtesies and titles was what mattered now.

“Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen,” Jon presented, though his voice seemed uneasy to those who knew him best, it gave her some hope. “Lady Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell.” Sansa and Jon exchanged a look for a moment, and she hoped he could see, all that she could not warn him of.

Sansa smiled and gave the Queen a slight bow of the head, which was telling in and of itself and made Jon frown in corner of her eye, while the people behind her, who had only bowed as low as could be required to a foreign ruler.

“Thank you for inviting us into your home, Lady Stark. The North is as beautiful as your brother claimed, as are you,” she flattered her with a pleasant smile, though it lacked true warmth.

Sansa wondered if she smiled like this before asking people to burn or kneel for her. It reminded her of Joffrey’s smile. It reminded her of cruelty on the tip of the tongue, hidden by bright smiles and beautiful faces.

Her lord father might have said “Winterfell is yours”, the same as Torrhen Stark to Aegon Targaryen, the same way Sansa Stark had said to little Eddard Stark. Daenerys Targaryen was neither and Winterfell was hers, for the time being.

Sansa might have called her Queen, but of what? Dragonstone? Meeren was no longer hers, rebellions still burning across those lands. Yunkai, Slaver’s Bay… abandoned, forgotten.

“The hospitality of Winterfell is yours, Mother of Dragons,” Sansa welcomed her, as she had so many others.

 It seemed more honest of a beginning, and the allusion to her dragons seemed to please her, as she did not understand the meaning, though the ones in her council of Westerosi education surely did. They would have to be placated.

Sansa wanted to hold Jon in her arms, to feel his woody scent, to taste home once more. Greet him and offer whispers of comfort in his ear to prepare him for what came next. And yet she could not, and so she turned to Jeyne Westerling behind her who offered her little Eddard who suckled on his thumb wrapped up in furs but easily came to her arms. She turned to Jon first who frowned.

“He’s Robb’s,” she told him, ignoring the woman for a moment.

It spilled out of her mouth like a lie, she was much better at telling lies than she was at speaking the truth now, no matter how Petyr liked to say otherwise to keep her pliant. Jon believed her, nonetheless.

Gaped at the child in her arms. Went over each inch of him and the smile on his face was… breath-taking. She had never seen him quite like this… happy and sad. It warmed her heart. It broke it.

“Your Grace, may I present to you Eddard Stark, our little King in the North,” she said with a smile, not a vicious smile, just a smile of a woman who was happy to have her nephew in her arms, though the distinction didn’t seem to matter much to the woman.

Daenerys looked to Jon expectantly, and when he didn’t look back at her, too enwrapped in the child, in his lost brother by her side, she looked to Tyrion who although not as confused as her, had little in a way of explanation.

“I was under the impression that Jon…”

She was not good with her words this Queen. It served Sansa well.

“While Jon remained in the south my brother's heir, King Robb Stark’s heir came to us. I sent a raven, but the previous ones seemed to have become lost, so I suppose the same thing happened to this one," she mused, feigned a naivete she did not possess.

Yet to deny her words they would have to agree that they were not delivering the North’s ravens to North’s once King. And that, they could not do.

“Perhaps hampered with, by Cersei Lannister,” Sansa offered in way of a cease-fire.

They turned to Varys who did not meet their stare, keeping his eyes firmly on her, like Littlefinger might have done had he been in his position. She would have to be careful about him. He would have to be careful about her.

"Your brother bent the knee to me..." Daenerys Targaryen drawled out, her attempt to keep her emotions tamed hardly achieved.

"The North did not, I'm afraid. A terrible misunderstanding, nevertheless, it seems to have worked for both our benefit. This threat against Westeros resolved, the war that truly matters-”

Both her tone as the carefully impassive features of hers changed all at once and her voice became dangerous as she said, “Lady Stark-”

“We don't have time for all this.” Bran’s voice drowned out all the others, delivering them all from the tiresome courtesies and explanations that would never be sufficient. And Sansa was thankful that Bran knew to take his cues from her. She wanted this spar to take place with a different audience. “The Night King has taken your dragon and with it, the Wall has fallen, the dead march south.”

And so, it began.

Chapter Text

“Your travels have surely been harsh, and with this unwelcomed news of your dragon, the North would be a terrible host if it did not offer Her Grace a chance to bathe and rest before the small feats we have prepared in honour of your arrival. With your permission, my Lord Commander would guide your troops where they might settle,” Sansa proposed, her voice soft and accommodating to the grief of the other woman.

Jon’s head perked at the mention of another Lord Commander, one she herself had appointed. He clenched his jaw once he realized the man she meant. No doubt the Tully armour betraying the identity of her uncle.

The Mother of Dragons nodded to Jorah Mormont and the Unsullied man behind her who followed Uncle Bryden and Marlon Manderly out of the courtyard, out of castle walls where the woman’s armies would be less likely to frighten her people. Both men were eager to take a look over her troops, to take number of them and their condition. Their supplies and equipment. Sansa was no less eager to have the knowledge brought to her.

“Walk with me, Lady Stark,” she no less than commanded her, the same as she waved everyone that remained away, both her court and Sansa’s. “Leave us.”

While her Lady’s maid remained, it gave Sansa cause to keep Jeyne Poole with her as well. As she nodded her lords and ladies away, though they clenched their hands and raised their brows at being commanded by a foreign Queen, they faded away from the courtyard as Sansa gave them leave with the nod of her head.

Lord Tyrion and Varys seemed uncomfortable to be left out of this moment, whatever might come of it, and yet seemed unable to do anything to remain with them and far too uneasy to even attempt to do so. It interested Sansa most deeply that they feared their Queen. Lord Varys who had served all kinds of mad kings. Lord Tyrion who was both kin and blood of one, if not two.

Jon was treated no better than them. The Queen seemed to regard him with a new coldness as of the moment Sansa presented them with the North’s new King. He seemed uneasy as well, looking between both Sansa and Daenerys with barely hidden concern and longing towards the babe that had just been taken away by its mother to warmer rooms in the most private parts of the keep.

Nevertheless he refused to leave until Daenerys gave him a sharp wave of the hand that gravely enraged the Northern Lords that took notice of it, no less than it enraged Sansa herself.

Daenerys’ anger had been shortly tempered by Tyrion’s whispers in her ear before taking his leave but nevertheless her eyes were sharp and words sharper still as she took Sansa’s arm as she led them into her halls, towards her chambers.

“You have a beautiful home Lady Stark,” she commented under gritted lips, her eyes taking in the stone walls covered in whatever tapestries the Bolton’s hadn’t burned for their imagery of wolves.

Sansa quite doubted her words. The woman’s hands were cold even against Sansa’s clothed arm, her lips having taken a purple tint to them. It was understandable that she wouldn’t be used to cold weather, that it wouldn’t suit a Queen used to deserts and never-ending summers. Nevertheless Sansa smiled at the compliment even if she knew it to be untrue, it was only polite of her to do so, would have done the same in her place.

“Jon Snow came to us under the guise of its master. Should I assume he led us astray, Lady Stark?”

It did not escape her notice how her handmaiden shuddered at the use of the word.

Sansa refrained from correcting her. Jon had never been the Lord of Winterfell, a well-known fact for all those of Westerosi education, yet Sansa would not fault the Queen for not having had one, though it confused her that she would not attempt to educate herself even on these most simple of matters. 

“Jon Snow left the North a King, Your Grace.” And returned as nothing at all. “But Robb Stark was King long before Jon left the Night’s Watch. My brother’s heir of course takes precedence above him to the Crown of Winter, according to the laws of the land.”

“And wasn’t it law that House Stark would bend the knee in perpetuity to House Targaryen? Are laws only abided in the North when it suits them?” She regarded herself as very clever as she said those words, Sansa could tell.

She took care of her tone, the gentleness of it, before she spoke her next words.

“It was, Your Grace, we were House Targaryen’s faithful subjects until your ancestors broke faith. Your brother by stealing my aunt and your father by burning my grandfather and uncle alive for demanding her safe return.”

It had been a risk to answer her thus, but Sansa could not allow her to claim such things in front of the Northern Council, their answers would have been in a harsher tone entirely.

The Queen ceased in her steps, though her hand still gripped Sansa’s arm. She had not expected those words to be sure, by the way her eyes widened, and she took a sharp breath before smiling tightly and answering her.

 “I would ask you not to fault me for the crimes of my kin,” her voice was softer now, though it seemed to come at a great cost. “I was a babe still in the womb and already I was running from the weight of them.”

Sansa too had once paid simply for the blood she carried. She still did.

“Of course. We are glad to have you with us. No one should be at fault for the crimes of their elders, Your Grace. Nor their vows,” Sansa added, a small smile in way of a cease-fire.

Daenerys Targaryen hummed and looked over her features for a minute before resuming their path.

"Once-" she stopped herself for a moment and smiled in thought. "There was a time where I didn't want to be a queen at all. All that I wished for was to go home." Her face softened then, and she almost looked beautiful. She almost looked like a girl instead of a dragon. It didn't last for long.

"Yet I knew I had a higher purpose. That the blood in my veins, my heritage, called for greater achievements. That I should regain the throne that belonged to my ancestors. For my name to be known across these seven realms as it was with Aegon the Conqueror, the same way it is in Essos."

“Your accomplishments must be great and plenty across Essos. But they are not know in Westeros, not by the smallfolk. Not by the lords, high or low. This victory, however? In this land. It could not be ignored nor forgotten. Songs will be written of it, no doubt. Tales of you and your dragons. What better way to vanquish Cersei Lannister than to be loved by her own subjects. To be wanted when she is despised. Allow for the crimes of your kin be forgotten in the shadow of your achievements here.”

Cersei Lannister couldn’t care less of course. She had never wished to be loved. Not when love provided no safety at all. Not when her father had kept his place and gathered his glory by fear and blood alone.

“And why shouldn’t the North want me as well, Lady Stark? Once this war passes. I, that have provided the North with all aid required. I, that have given without receiving anything in return. Jon Snow brought me here. Your brother, who bent the knee to me. I proved how different I was from Cersei Lannister and he made the right choice, I assure you.” She tilted her head.

“Can I count on you to do the same? To have you by my side. I do not know you, Lady Stark. I was told what a sweet thing you were by my Lord Hand. Too often caught up in these wars. I protect my own, I could protect you. I came to deliver all of Westeros from these terrible rulers after all, to break the wheel, to bring peace and justice. Last Targaryen that I am and rightful ruler to the Iron Throne.”

Claimant, Sansa thought but did not say.

Was the Lady of Winterfell simply a sweet lamb to this woman? A sweet, stupid little thing, like she had been to Joffrey and Tyrion. Only fit to adorn her husband’s side. That could prove to be useful.

“I wish for nothing more Your Grace, than peace and justice to reign over Westeros. The North would receive it with open arms,” Sansa spoke softly, like the sweet little thing she could be.

A little bird repeating empty words, meaningless words, but they seemed to be just enough for now.

Daenerys let go of the arm she held entering the chambers Sansa had readied for her, meeting them with a grimace. Most likely used to finer things, rooms built for summer, rooms built for wonder and futility, not safety against the elements, not protection from the cold and the monsters that hid beneath the snow.

Sansa looked over her clothes for a moment while she inspected her quarters better.

What could the coat be made of? White rabbits, perhaps. That would have taken the longest of times to sew and she had no seamstress in her retinue. White wolves were not easily found south of the wall. A white tiger perhaps? Bought in Essos. That would have cost her enough to feed her armies for a year at least. It stroke Sansa as very wasteful in these uncertain times.

“These rooms have been filled with furs, for your comfort. I will send my Ladies to tend to you, in the lack of your own. Lady Poole, the Lady of Whitefort.” Sansa nodded to Jeyne who had silently stood behind her all this time. “And Lady Wynafryd Manderly, the heir to White Harbor.”

Her own ladies, her own spies, some of the most high ranking ladies at court as well should serve to show deference to this Queen. No matter how feigned.

“I would receive them. Missandei already does so much,” she answered with a smile to the beautiful girl behind her, whose face showed nothing but youth and suffering.

“I will leave you to your rest then.”

Daenerys Targaryen smiled and spoke with an authority she had not earned. “You may leave us, Lady Stark.”

Sansa limited herself to a smile and the slight bow of her head. It wouldn’t be the first time she had been forced to bow and surely this wouldn’t be the last. It barely made a difference to her if it meant she could stand more firmly latter on.

It would be far too unseemly if the Lady of Winterfell were made barren of ladies-in-waiting all at once. It would show far too much deference to the Dragon Queen on the one hand, and far too suspicious on the other.

"My darling girl."

She kissed the hand offered to her in a motherly manner that caused Sansa to swallow harshly. Lyessa had been her lady mother's lady-in-waiting before Bran's birth, before she had been called back to Widow's Watch, after her only brother's passing. Sansa had fond memories of her in her youth. She had been the one who taught her the woven wheel stitch. Sansa had been delighted with that. Cried fat tears as she left Winterfell to take her place as liege Lady of her own household.

"Lady Flint," she met her with. “We are pleased to have you with us.”

Lady Lyessa had just given birth to her new heir. A strong baby boy, whom she named Robb in her brother's honour. He would be raised at Winterfell with little Eddard. They were close enough in age. Nursery brothers they would be, an honour not given to many vassals. Along with Alyssane Mormont's orphans, they would be raised under Winterfell’s watch.

Lady Lyessa took no offense at her coolness. Only smiled.

"My Lady Stark." She bowed deeply, as gracefully as ever, the weight from her pregnancy nearly vanished under her heavy blue gowns.

 It would not have been proper to call on a ruling Lady to act as a lady-in-waiting if she weren’t already at Winterfell, forced to relocate given the circumstances the North faced. As it were, being called to be a lady to the highest authority in the North could be considered an honour. Sansa hoped she would consider it thus.

"It would be my honour to be my lady's companion while her young birds tend to more dangerous nests," she told her easily enough before she had to ask it of her. Clever woman. "And it is only right that after the mother I should tend to the daughter." She smiled warmly, gently tapping the hand she still held.

"I wish to speak to you about Lady Dustin."

Lady Lyessa lost her smile all at once and arched a brow.

Sansa would have preferred to have this conversation much earlier and yet since they had taken Winterfell time ran in a way she could never have imagined.

"You will not want Barbrey as an enemy, do not make her so." Her tone was more pleading than it was threatening, making it much more unbearable. Reminding her of being on her knees in the throne room if only for a moment, if only for the lack of control.

"And yet she is not my friend."

Sansa took her hand from hers.

"She could be,” she offered, nodding her head. “Barbrey lost her husband to the Targaryens, she will never break faith with you over them. She could be an ally. A powerful one. Her dim-witted brothers know better than to challenge her now her father has passed. She commands both houses, Ryswell and Dustin. She would offer you their swords, gladly, for a pardon."

"One of the first to bend to the Boltons," Sansa pointed out, her voice still even.

"We all bowed to the Boltons, if only for show," Lady Lyessa was brave enough to admit where others would have pushed the issue away from sight as if it could be forgotten. "Barbrey was the first to stand down once she knew you rode North. Her betrayal the one Roose felt most keenly. He was fond of her, did you know? And the bastard knew better than to cross her."

"The reason she has not be tried and executed. I won't be so merciful a second time."

"She knows," Lady Lyessa assured her, taking a step closer to her. "She loved your uncle Brandon, dearly. And then, when he was taken from her, she did her duty and loved her husband. And then when he was taken from her, your father not bothering to bring his body North, her love turned into rage and she has carried it for very long…"

"Must the remains of my kin pay for my father's misgivings? Who will pay for the ones done to us? Robb’s body was not returned North, shall I carry that rage against Lady Dustin?"

She shook her head and offered her hand for Sansa to take, once more.

"No, dearest. The north remembers and they loved darling Ned, they were loyal, but they did not forget his failings." She looked over her for a moment her hand hanging between them, Sansa gave hers in return. "Neither do you, I'm sure."

Sansa sighed and took her hand away an instant too late. Such dangerous games were played in this chambers. Such tender feelings were used.

"Give Barbrey a voice in your council and she won't forget your generosity," Lady Lyessa advised.

"You would give friendship to Lady Dustin when Lord Manderly would offer her a chopping block?"

Others had been offered the same. Lady Karstark’s uncles who had delivered Rickon were beheaded by Jon not a moment after Winterfell was taken, flayed men banners replaced by wolves. She could still see their blood on the ground outside of Winterfell’s main gate though it had been washed away.

Lady Flint’s lips tightened before she forced them into a smile.

"My house has always known which to follow. It has served us well to take our queues from Manderly. Wyman is a good and clever man and I owe him a great many deal of things. But I was a Lady to your aunt Lyanna with Barbrey, with Donella Manderly. I know what it means to be a Northern woman, a ruling lady, I know the cost. I know how higher the duty is. Barbrey was a friend to me. I have seen her mourn, I have seen her survive. I speak for her for she would speak for me were the circumstances different."

Sansa's voice was entirely different when she said, "Lady Dustin knew about Jeyne. My Jeyne. What you claim and no doubt have with Lady Dustin, had with Lady Donella and my aunt, I have with Jeyne. Do you ask me to forsake her when you will not do the same to Lady Dustin?"

Lyessa was silent for a moment, her eyes bearing into hers for the longest while deciding whether to speak. What to say. What words to use that could salvage the position of the Lady of Barrowtown.

"And the rest of us knew about Arya Stark."

There it was. The underlying issue.

Lady Barbrey had known what was done to the daughter of the steward of Winterfell. Her punishment could never be compared to the ones that should befall those that believed that what was done, was done against a daughter of Winterfell.

They all knew what the Bolton bastard took pleasure in doing. No matter to whom. And they had all stood by, even enraged - they stood by and listened to the screams, heard the stories. They all deserved punishment for breaking their oaths, each in their own way. And at the same time Sansa could not fault them for not taking the risk of taking on those beasts whose name she would erase from Northern history. Much less could she punish them for having feared a similar fate of those who had tried and failed.

"For you, I will give her the benefit of my doubt."

Should Lady Dustin fail so too would Lady Lyessa. A test to the loyalty they shared. A test to whatever Flint loyalty Sansa could depend upon.

“Your mercy shall not be forgotten, my lady.”

She bowed her head ever so gracefully where others would have bowed deeply to portray a thankfulness they would not have found her worthy of. It made Sansa feel safer in her decision.

"Shall I tend to your hair? I remember how carefully your lady mother did it. I never had a daughter to care for but let me attempt at the same gentle hand."

That left her breathless. That the memory wasn’t hers alone to bear. That she would remember how her lady mother would send the maids away to tend to her hair. That she would look upon it fondly as well.

Sansa was grateful that she avoided her eyes in the mirror while she had her sit. That she hummed softly when she undid her braids to distract from the lump in her throat. That she made no further comment until Sansa was able to regain her composure. Shae had been the last to touch her hair in this matter. This motherly manner. She hadn't known what it meant, but Lady Lyessa did. She did and Sansa couldn't find any cruelty in it. Any ill intentions though she tried to find them against her slender fingers running through her strands. One didn't keep memories like that for years on the off chance they might be used like bargaining chips, as flattery. No one was quite like Petyr. Quite like her.

"Perhaps a hairnet from now on, don't you agree? More practical and it would distinguish you even further from the Dragon Queen and her never ending roll of braids. Her headaches must never cease, the poor woman," she laughed, and Sansa nodded relieved by her jest.

It was suffocating to be remembered of her childhood home. A childness she had lost. A softness she had forsaken for survival.

“Nevertheless, she is beautiful.”

Cersei Lannister was beautiful. From looking at her no one would imagine the terrible things she was capable of. Daenerys was not beautiful in the way Cersei was. Daenerys had an eerie look about her. Something seemed displaced. Perhaps the haunting purple eyes. Perhaps the sharp cheekbones. Cersei's beauty was her weapon. Daenerys' was a warning of things to come.

Sansa arched a brow yet nodded all the same.

“Tittles don’t matter,” Jon tried to say, he really did try once the Great Hall was filled by Lords both high and low who looked to him over mead and meat for explanations. “Not while we prepare to face this threat.”

Gruff laughter was echoed over the room. The flexing of armour. The change in position. Arya’s narrowed eyes hidden in the back of the room. Samwell Tarly’s mournful expression. The clench in the Dragon Queen’s jaw, though her back was to the room while she stared into the fire.

She seemed more subdued now. Perhaps because Jorah Mormont had whispered soothing things in her ear on their way to the Great Hall. He appeared to have a way with her. It was interesting, no doubt – the Slaver and the Breaker of Chains.

“I’m glad you believe so,” Lady Lyanna Mormont eagerly spoke, rising from her seat, her hopes that his submission had been coerced shattered. “Since I’m not sure what you are now, Jon Snow.” The sentiment was echoed across the room. “You left Winterfell a King and came back a... lord? Nothing at all?” Her eyes were sharper than any blade and Sansa would not be a shield to them.

It was a valid question. Since he left the Night’s Watch whatever title he might have claimed there as Lord Commander ceased. He had been King in the North but with Eddard here… He could claim to be Warden of the North if he were to side with the Dragon Queen but that came with no lordship, no lands, no respect from the North. Nothing at all. Whatever title he might be given depended upon Sansa and what she could allow. But for now he was simply Jon Snow, her bastard brother, the Dragon Queen’s lover.

Then, there were the Free Folk. They had been extended hospitality by the King in the North. They remained here by hers. Though some of them were tied to Lady Karstark by marriage, making them her men in truth. Could Jon call himself in charge of those who remained? Could he perhaps derive some strength from there? Despite how few they were, they could still provide some stability to his position… or add to the North’s distrust of him. No matter if they had fought for Winterfell when not even most of the Lords did, their raids would not be forgotten nor forgiven, by neither the lords nor the gentry.

“It was the honour of my life, to be named the North’s King.” Jon turned slightly to Sansa as he spoke, his eyes searching for support.

She was not at liberty to offer it, not until their anger subsided and their point was made. Until then she could not intervene. Could not tip the scales neither for nor against him. Would not. Not when he purposefully made himself scarce before this makeshift feast.

“An honour you cast to the wind as if meaningless words,” Lord Glover growled under his breath.

Jon cleared his throat. “I'll always be grateful for your faith, my lords. Yet I left Winterfell with the purpose of finding us allies. Allies that could get us through this war. That could vanquish this threat. I have brought those allies to fight alongside us. I did my duty to the North,” he swore to them. “I did it for the North.”

Sansa took a deep breath in preparation for what she knew would come.

“Allies?” Lady Flint scoffed, but her voice was more tempered than most of her bannermen might have managed. Showing disappointment where others would have shown rage. "The Vale stands with us, as allies. Brothers in arms, fighting alongside us. Some Riverlords as well join us, for duty, for honour, for family.” She tilted her hand to Brynden Tully who nodded his head solemnly. “One does not bend the knee for allies, Jon Snow. If you were not aware of this perhaps our mistake in making you King was even greater than we believed.”

“We cannot let pride rule us now, survival must be our utmost concern, my lords. Trust me when I say-”

“Pride?!” Lord Glover snarled his accent growing thicker due to his rage. “You foolish boy. You think your trueborn brother died for pride?! Eddard Stark slayed in Kingslanding on false charges. Sansa and Arya Stark kept as hostages. That was why the North and the Riverlands rose against the Iron Throne. Most certainly not for pride.”

“And yet we stand here, today, because of Jon Snow. You chose him as your King because you believed in him, did you not? Why not believe his judgement now? He has not bowed to the King you rebelled from, that cruel and foolish boy.” Lord Tyrion had decided this was the moment to speak. To draw attention to himself in a room where all those who stood despised him for both his kin, his sin of kinslaying and the marriage she had been forced into. That he believed he could temper the North’s rage spoke only of his arrogance and lack of judgement. “Why not trust in his decision to bend the knee to Daenerys Targaryen, the rightful Queen of these seven kingdoms.”

It wasn’t surprising that Tyrion would defend Jon to this degree. The Targaryen woman’s only bond to the North rested solely on his shoulders. She had no friends here. No allies. With the disavowing of Jon Snow she had nothing at all here. No loyalty. No respect. Only the fear her dragons brought. Not a good way to start her reign, much less gather support.

A scoff was heard. “And with which authority did he bend the knee?”

“My Lord?”

“Jon Snow was elected King by the lords of the North. The same as Robb Stark, the Young Wolf before him. We made him King and only we can unmake him, as we did, the moment King Robb’s rightful heir came to us,” Lord Manderly had no qualms to explain.

Sansa had asked Lady Westerling and the babe to forgo this meeting for the safety of their chambers. Protected from whatever could come of this council. Whatever enemies could create themselves from this exchange of bread and salt.

And yet another fool stepped forward.

“A divided North won't stand a chance against the Night King, I’ve told you once before my lady,” Lord Davos Seaworth’s gruff voice was heard, as he raised from his seat in the crowd and spoke to Lady Mormont, the only one with whom he might still have some sway. “We have to fight. And we need to do it together, else there is no chance at survival. You believed in him once, you believed in Jon Snow to unite the houses, why not-"

“The North is united,” Lord Manderly spoke louder. “The North is united behind Eddard Stark, the rightful King in the North. And while some of us believed in Jon Snow, we didn’t sit and wait for his return during all those silent moons you all spent in the South. The North prepared under the steady hand of Lady Stark for the war that comes. And we surely do not require southern men, such as yourself to tells us what we need, Onion Knight, so refrain yourself from doing so.”

Lord Davos was not Jon Snow’s Hand any longer. And whatever respect he might have gathered then was easily replaced by displeasure that a southern man had been chosen before a northern one. A dead southern King’s former Hand at that.

“Three kingdoms gathered here to fight this threat, not for their belief in Jon Snow, but because it is only right that we put aside everything else that divides us to fight this war for survival,” Lord Royce rose to say, his voice steady.

“And we are here as well, are we not? To save the Realm. Daenerys Targaryen has brought the greatest army the world has ever seen to the North. Two full-grown dragons, creatures from tales to vanquish this threat,” Tyrion was quick to add, no doubt sensing the shift in the tide. “And soon, the Lannister army will ride North to join our cause.”

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from smiling and looked for the eyes of Brynden Tully in the crowd who met hers with disbelief, amongst the scoffs of northern men who all seemed to understand the stupidity of the Lannister Imp better than he did.

“It is true our people have not been friends in the past, and I understand your uneasiness, my lords. But we must fight together now or die,” Lord Tyrion tried again, misunderstanding the cause for unrest.

Sansa would indulge this fantasy of theirs. They all would. That Cersei Lannister, of all people, would send her paid army North, during winter to fight alongside both the North and the Dragon Queen’s army, when she could just wait out the war, her army untouched. This delusion was most helpful to their goal.

Sansa weighed her odds and chose this moment to interrupt when she sensed an opportunity.

“While I ensured our stores would last through winter, I didn't account for Dothraki, Unsullied and two full-grown dragons. When shall we expect your supplies to arrive?" Sansa asked, eager to know if the woman had brought food to feed her beasts or her armies.

If she had any of it at all, by the carriages of food Sansa had been told had not arrived, by the warm clothes her army was not seen wearing. If she was even aware at all of how lacking her armies truly were.

It was then Daenerys Targaryen finally turned from the flames.

“Is the North so lacking that they cannot even feed their own guests? I did not expect -”

Had she expected the North to feed them all out of the goodness of their hearts? Out of thankfulness for aid given, free of charge and thought. She seemed very used to slavery for someone who distinguished herself as a breaker of chains.

"I see. There’s no need to fear." Sansa feigned concern and the Dragon Queen frowned at her change of tone.

The Lady of Winterfell nodded in thought as she prepared what she would say, plans forming almost effortlessly. Far more effortlessly than she had expected when she had heard of his bended knee, which only made Sansa question Jon’s decision further.

Sansa’s voice was so very attentive as she proclaimed quickly and for all to hear, "Be not concerned, Queen Daenerys. In exchange for the aid your dragons provide in the fight against the common threat we shall tend to your needs of food and clothing as best as we can. The North shall be a gracious host to Your Grace and her armies in the lack of your supplies to survive this winter. No ally of the North shall perish under our protection."

It was not a question and the Dragon Queen frowned at her assertion of reality. Under her assertion of their need of the North.

Sansa delighted in the way her white eyebrows rose, and she quickly looked to Tyrion. Challenging him to disagree with the Lady of Winterfell’s assessment of the situation, challenging him to do anything at all in the face of the circumstances Daenerys Targaryen had not the skill to argue with or even disguise. No grain to feed her army and no furs to keep it warm. An army that could not survive winter in the south without them, much less in the north.

Tyrion swallowed drily under the weight of her glare.

"We are glad for your generosity, Lady Stark. The might of dragons for supplies…" he drawled for lack of better things to say, making Sansa much more aware of how in need of them they truly were.

"Yes, Lord Tyrion. This alliance will be most agreeable. Our little King cannot be here to accept to the terms, as he is taking his nap,” she added, almost playfully, which made some chuckle at her attempt at lightness. “As his regent, my word is his,” she surmised, ignoring Jon’s eyes, and carried on with the mummer’s farse.

The Lady of Winterfell raised from her chair, goblet in hand.

“It’s truly a testament to us all, Targaryen, Lannister, Stark, Tully and Arryn and all our bannermen, that we gather here to fight this common threat to all of Westeros. That we unite, like in the days of old-” those days of old that never existed “- and deliver the realm of such beasts. Songs will be sung of this moment, of this fight between the living and the dead and for that I would raise a glass, Your Grace.” Sansa turned to Daenerys Targaryen that was forced to offer her a bitter smile. “That you would put aside your war with Cersei Lannister so that you could join the battle that truly matters, speaks of the Queen you will be.” Sansa indeed raised her cup, as did the men and women who followed her and understood what she did, as did the ones who didn’t and yet were met with silent threats from those above them.

“I’ve lost a child to this enemy. To save your King. I will have fire and blood for what was taken from me, my lords. Viserion shall be avenged.” No one could doubt the honesty of her words then. “I shall grant you all victory against the undead, rid the world of this threat, I swear it to you.”

Sansa watched almost in wonder as the Queen chose a different path. A more clever one.

“To our victory against the dead!”

And Daenerys Targaryen raised her cup.

Sansa knew she would find him here eventually.

Jon was standing on the threshold of the nursery, Manderly guards staring him down, while he ignored them, his eyes far too focused on something else. She knew they would not permit him passage, should he try no matter if his wolf was inside the room. She took pity on him and joined at his side.

“My Lady,” they bowed, and she asked them to step further away from the room.

Jon took notice of her and spoke.

"He looks like Robb. What Robb’s child was supposed to look like..." there was a broken tone about him, that made Sansa ache.

She wanted to know everything. Everything that befell him since he stepped on the sands of Dragonstone, every word spoken to him and by him. Every action he took and the ones he chose not to. She wanted to hear his reasons and she wished she could be convinced by his explanations.

“You may go take your supper, Sarra,” Sansa spoke to the woman that looked over little Eddard. “I’ll stay here,” she added, certain in her assessment that no Lord or Lady in this keep would be comfortable with the knowledge that Jon Snow had been left alone with their King. A sad truth, but a truth they had to contend with all the same.

“My Lady,” the old woman bowed to her before taking her leave, ignoring Jon all together. Sansa wondered if he noticed her dismissal at all, so enwrapped he was, staring at the boy.

Little Eddard was sitting on the floor, playing with his carved wooden figures, Ghost laying around him, surrounding him on all sides. It had made Lady Westerling nervous at first. How eager the great direwolf was to be close to the child. The first time the boy pulled on its tail the former queen had almost fainted in anticipation for the worst, which was fully understandable, Sansa herself had instinctively pulled the child to her arms as she was closer. A direwolf was still a beast, no matter how tamed. Ghost hadn’t even made a sound, only turning around to Sansa expectantly. After that, Lady Westerling felt more comfortable having the wolf in the child’s presence.

“He’s a sweet boy,” she felt the need to say to fill the silence.

At the sound of her voice the child looked up and gave her a toothy grin.

“Up,” he demanded of her, her little King, offering her his harms, making his intentions clear.

Sansa smiled as she walked into the room and leaned down.

At times, when she took the babe in her arms, when she stared down at those blue eyes of him, the auburn curls, her own copper strands that he took in his chubby hands, she was overwhelmed with the notion of how easily he could be mistaken for her own child. It made it incredibly hard to swallow.

“Why did Lady Westerling not come sooner?” he asked, his voice strained as he knew the answer already.

She looked at him for a long while, preparing herself to give him the last blow that would shatter his heart.

“Because you were King.”

Sansa could have lied. She could have spoken of Boltons. Of threats and fears that could still, and most likely did exist in Lady Westerling’s heart. But now… now that she had spoken with this new Queen of his. Her chin ever held high, the cruelty in her smirk, the assurance in her own self-importance. All the destruction she left in her path. The rumours she knew to be certain that they shared a bed. Sansa no longer wished to spare him. He had spared her nothing when he had bowed to this Queen. This Queen that brought nothing more than ashes and fear wherever she walked. This Queen he had brought to her home. This Queen he had risked his life to show a threat she had only made greater. This Queen he would make hers.

“I see.” He swallowed harshly. “Did they make him King right away? Or did they wait for the news of my bended knee?”

It stroke her as the wrong question to ask. Bran had come first. Sansa herself had been here the longest. When did they turn away from me, should have been what he asked. Not when a replacement was found since there had always been one. At every corner.

“Does it matter?”

He took an uneasy step into the room before settling on the rocking chair with a dry chuckle. “I suppose it does not. He is the rightful heir, of course.”

“Of course,” she repeated, her eyes losing focus.

Sansa herself had been as well. Oldest trueborn daughter of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully. It hadn’t mattered then.

“It changes little though. What you did in there, the toast it was clever, to exchange the food, but it changes little. She will have what she wants.” He ran his fingers through his hair, undoing his bun. His eyes were sunken, and he looked exhausted. But so was she. Of his silence, of his expectance of her compliance most of all. “The North must still bend.”

“Must we?” she hid her grimace on little Eddard curls and took a deep breath of his childlike scent, that reminded her so much of Rickon. That made everything so clear to her. So certain. What they had all lost, what they could still lose. What they could never lose again.

Winterfell.

“You have spoken with her. Do you think it makes a difference it was I, the bastard of Winterfell, that bent the knee? She came for all of Westeros. That is what she’ll fight for. Do you think you can deny her? We needed allies, and that is what I have brought, whatever the cost may be. Be that the North’s independence or…” He shook his head. “She’ll be a good Queen,” he promised her, with a tired voice, before she even had the time to chastise him. “Better than Cersei Lannister.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes. “Do you hope?”

He scratched his beard. “With good guidance…”

Sansa smiled sourly. “Tyrion Lannister’s, the kinslayer? Jorah Mormont’s, the slaver? Yours, perhaps?”

Jon sighed. “That was not what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean? She burned her way across the Reach, food, and men alike. What do you mean a good Queen?” she demanded an answer from him.

“We prepare to face an enemy the likes of which none of these Lords have ever seen. These are not men, that grow tired and hungry and weak. This is a threat of ice. A force of nature prepared to destroy us without any chance of mercy! And if only all of you could understand that, then these talks of titles wouldn’t matter half a damn to anyone here!” he argued, raising himself from the chair.

“And yet they told me they would rather fight alone than bend to a Targaryen. That they would rather die than bend the knee and I believed them, Jon. And so should you,” she advised him.

“Because they are fools!” he yelled, taking a step back when she flinched and the babe on her arms yelped at the sound of his voice. Ghost himself raised from his place on the floor and showed his teeth to Jon, no more disappointed in his master than Sansa herself. How quaint.

She soothed little Eddard for a moment, running her hand up and down his back as Jon looked away in shame.

“I didn’t mean to scare-”

She ignored him and placed her hand on Ghost’ snout when offered to her, smoothing it down absentmindedly.

“So be it Jon. They are fools you have to please as well. And how eager they were to call you traitor and choose another. How eager they are still to see you punished for giving away something they chose you to protect.”

“And I am. I am protecting their lives,” he tried again, his tone much softer.

She shook her head. “That was not what they asked you to protect. They gave you a crown, called you King and asked you to finish what Robb started and you went ahead and gave away their independence. What did you think would happen? That they would accept it? You can promise to all the Gods the woman she is and Queen she can be, but the North tells you she will not be the North’s Queen. That I can assure you.”

“That is not your decision to make-”

“Neither was it yours. And yet you decided you could make it. There will be consequences for that. They’ll never forgive you for that.”

Jon would never again lead northern troops. Jon would never again regain trust from the Northern Lords while he served at a Targaryen’s side. Jon would never be Little Eddard’s regent, no matter how Daenerys Targaryen wished him to be.

He sighed and he looked so tired she was almost regretful she could not let this be. Almost.

"This is not the time Sansa... Not when the Wall has fallen-"

"The time. This is not the time is it?" she asked the most bitter smile on her lips.

Showed him one of her hands, palm up, fingers red from all the times she had thread her needle sewing the clothes she could for her armies, spattered with ink from writing letters upon letters. To Houses from the Riverlands who might still show their favour to the children of Catelyn Tully. To Houses from the Mountains who had not yet followed the Knights of the Vale.

"Do you believe time stops when you hold a sword in your hands? When you face the enemy in front of you do you think the others, at your back, stop and wait for you to have time? Did the Lannisters wait for Robb to make his amends to house Frey before they moved? Do you think Littlefinger waited for Joffrey to take his last breath before he whisked me away? Do you think I waited for Petyr to rape me before I acted? The game of thrones does not care for your convenience. It does not care about time or the lack thereof. And you will either learn that to your sorrow or my advice. But don't speak to me of time, Jon. Not when you think that Cersei Lannister will send her armies to fight this threat. Not when you were foolish enough to go on a wight hunt that achieved you nothing more than giving the Night King a dragon. Though I suppose that is one less dragon for Daenerys Targaryen to burn people and storages with. If one had to choose, I would rather die by ice than fire."

He took a deep breath and looked at her with those pained eyes of his. For a moment, his hands moved up and she thought he would grab her arms. They fell at his side just as quickly.

"I want to protect you. Do you doubt me?" And he sounded so sincere… but the weight of the child in her arms grounded her. Pulled her away from him and his promises.

She shook her head slightly, perhaps in pity, perhaps in sorrow. She herself could not tell.

"You can't even protect yourself, Jon. Certainly you cannot protect me."

“I have to try…” he whispered, and she almost missed it.

“Did you bend the knee because you love her?” He only looked at her. “I need to know Jon,” she begged for an answer.

Had he been her hostage or her guest. Was he devoted to this queen or a skilful liar. Were his loyalties still her own. Their side and secrets still the same.

His eyes searched hers for something. Something she could not tell.

“What would my love for her cost you?” It was a good question. At last, a good question from the former King of the North.

“You.” She told him simply, but as his eyes shot open in surprise she felt the need to carry on. “The North will never bend. That has its consequences. It won’t stop being so if you love her. The North will not stand down because you love her.”

He nodded slowly, hid a hollow laugh with the hands he ran over his face.

“You’re right. The North won’t bend. And that has its consequences.”

He took one last look at her and the child in her arms and he left the room.

As soon as her Uncle saw her in the battlements he hurried his step to join her, barking the last orders to the men and women he was training on his way up.

"She is disappointed by him," he said lowly, leaning his weight on the rails.

The woman looked unimpressed around the courtyard to the work of her people to prepare the castle for a siege. Strolling around hanging from Jon’s arm as if simply a walk through destroyed gardens, she reminded her of Margaery for a moment.

Sansa tilted her head to the side. "Many are. Northern men and women don't even wait for him to turn before speaking against him. He is utterly alone, and she is aware of it. He has become... Perhaps useless to her now."

"I believe he still keeps his place as her lover."

Her eye twitched, she tilted her head further away in an effort to hide it better from her Uncle.

"I've been made aware."

If her uncle had spies in her keep, hers were greater in number and skill.

"Stark men and their-" she couldn't help the giggle that escaped her, covering her mouth with her hand. She was so very tired, Petyr would have scolded her for this outburst. And her Uncle didn't find it half as amusing as she did and carried on. "Have you spoken? Has he made his position clear? She shan't want him as a husband now. Not when he has nothing more to his name than a Valyrian sword. He shall find whatever ambitions he has entertained entirely devoid of reality with your nephew here."

Ambition… was that what it came down to. His every mistake, wrapped up in the guise of ambition for those who witnessed it. But did Sansa believe it? Did she agree? Was it ambition that moved Jon.

"She seemed much too fond of him when we shared words. She might keep him.”

Not for a husband, for there was little to be achieved there. If anything at all. But there was little in the way of keeping him as a lover while she was unmarried.

"And Jon Snow?" he pressed forward.

"He argues for our bended knee if nothing more than for the coming war. He has plans he does not share.” She was certain of it. “It is clear enough he does not trust me with them. He cares for the war and nothing else it seems, but then again if it is not so, he would not have divulged it to me either way." She fisted her hands in her skirts.

"With your sister perhaps?"

Arya had asked for a role. Needed one and Sansa was glad for the aid. Asked Arya to take notice of whispers. Keep her eyes open for dissatisfaction. Dissent. Both from home and foreign. Since she spoke Valyrian she had her tail the unsullied second commander, find his grievances. They needed to know if her armies had doubts about her. And Sansa needed to know if their people had doubts about her.

Varys would seek to gather little birds, yet northern children were distrustful of outsiders. Sansa wanted her family far away from him. He was a piece unknown to her. A dangerous one. A foe to Petyr. To play with him could lead to mistakes impossible to rectify.

Sansa shook her head. "He avoids speaking with her at all costs on the subject. Perhaps he is ashamed."

Ser Blackfish scoffed. "Shame would be wise of such a boy."

Sansa turned to him. "I too argued my loyalty to Joffrey Baratheon to my dying breath. It was the only thing keeping me alive, that and my name." And she had been a child. As a woman more than oaths would have been required of her, she had no doubt. He had alluded of such enough as it was back then. "Perhaps that is what he does. He was her hostage after all. The same as I once was."

"Not anymore." His voice was stern.

She looked up for a moment.

"While her dragons fly across the sky I'm afraid we're all her hostages, Ser Uncle."

"Then why does he not share his troubles with you when you are hidden from her eyes?" Her silence was deafening, and he shook his head disapprovingly. "You are far too forgiving of him."

She turned to him at once.

"It has served you well. That I am so forgiving of my kin."

Before he could answer her, Sansa nodded her head towards the man coming their way.

“My Lady,” Tyrion greeted her with a wicked smile. “Blackfish, if I may have a moment with my former wife,” he asked playfully, Sansa suppressed a shudder.

The sneer on her Uncle’s face almost made her smile.

 “You would do well to watch your words Kinslayer,” he spat. “Your sins have not been forgotten just because they are being ignored,” he assured him, his voice both a threat and a warning of things to come.

“Please, Ser Uncle,” she asked him softly, her voice almost childish, not in an effort to protect Lord Tyrion from the truth, or because she disagreed with his words. Sansa wanted him comfortable in these halls. She wanted him unassuming of the danger he was truly under. She wanted him unassuming of her.

Sansa nodded to her uncle, granting her permission to the audience with the Dragon Queen’s Hand.

“I won’t be far,” he assured the both of them, before taking heavy and deliberate steps away from them.

Tyrion smiled, doing his best to ignore the amount of people eager to kill a Lannister all around him. It was interesting that Sansa could see it now. His uneasiness. The way he swayed from one foot to another, the way he straightened his spine when the Blackish crossed by him. It was interesting that all her years with Petyr truly had a purpose. That none of these men were foreign to her any longer, she could understand their desires, she would see their fears. She knew how to play.

“The Lady of Winterfell,” he proclaimed, nodding in feigned approval. “I’m sure it feels good, to be surrounded by kin once more. You had been all alone in the world for so long,” he noted warmly, softly.

Sansa used to think this was the cleverest man alive. Such a foolish little girl she had been. Not only a kinslayer, a traitor to the whole of his House, to the West. An army and three dragons he had brought to Westeros, just to kill his sister and now he regretted it, if only just a bit, by the look of him. The darkness under his eyes, the uneasiness of his step.

Tyrion Lannister who craved to be right in his assessment that Cersei would deliver an army, when everyone who knew of her could tell she would not. How pitiful indeed. However the desire to believe kin could overwhelm someone, Sansa understood. She almost pitied him.

“A balm to the soul, Lord Tyrion.” All this kin that had survived his house and stood here today, making him nervous. Making him frightened for who would be the one to take revenge for things he had done to her, for the things his kin had done to them all and only him stood here to pay for. “And here you stand as well. Hand to a Queen. A well-earned position, if I must say,” she said, feeding into his desire to be his father’s heir.

Ever since she knew what he did to Shae. What Petyr had delighted in describing what he did to her only friend in Kingslanding. She wished this man’s death, but it was easy to pretend not to. Especially when he wanted so dearly to believe his former child bride. To believe her admiration.

“We both survived.” He smiled widely, chin held high. “Many underestimated you. Most of them are dead now.” He wanted to know what happened to Littlefinger, she would not be the one to indulge him.

Sansa smiled, perhaps more mischievously than she should have, but it was good to let him believe they shared some kind of bond, of kinship. She had survived his family. He had killed his kin. But Sansa was sure those were merely details in his mind. She would use this familiarity he wished to have with her well. They would be the greatest of friends. For a while.

Tyrion took a deep breath, done with pleasantries.

"My Queen is not used to such welcomes, Sansa," he tried to jest once they were left truly alone by the Blackfish, his steps no longer heard. "She came in good faith to aid the North."

How much good faith could a woman who possessed dragons have? Sansa could only wonder. And Lord Manderly had made it his mission to become knowledgeable of all things concerning the voyages of Daenerys Targaryen. Sansa had to disagree with Tyrion’s assessment, no sword had been raised, it seemed quite a feat against all the times Daenerys Targaryen was met with armies at her arrival, or simple dismissal. Sansa had prepared a modest feast, comfortable quarters, everything befitting the arrival of a foreign queen under the circumstances.

"You've been North before, I have no doubt that in your wisdom, and Jorah Mormont beside you, you prepared her for this outcome. Northern men are set in their ways. And we all believed house Targaryen and dragons to be a thing of the past. The whole of Westeros fought for it not so long ago. You, of course, need no reminding of this, my lord. Daenerys Targaryen could not have expected toasts and songs to celebrate her arrival. Nevertheless I beg her forgiveness for this welcome most unkind.”

"Perhaps not, but some gratitude... or warning, could have been appreciated. Between allies, no less."

"Gratitude always comes after a victory, not before. I remember the battle of Blackwater, they did not cheer you before it was won," she reminded him.

"Neither did they afterwards." He chuckled for a moment, before taking her gloved hand. She allowed it though it irked her. "She's a good woman, Sansa. She'll be a good queen. She freed slaves all across Essos. In Meeren, in Slaver's Bay, in Yunkai. She's called Mhysa and could gladly be so here, in Westeros. A mother to us all. Different from my sister," he spoke softly as if she were a child in need of convincing to take a bath before supper.

Sansa hummed. She wondered whom Daenerys Targaryen placed above in her motherly duties, her people, or her dragons. But then again, she need not wonder.

Sansa was but a child in his eyes, was she not? She had been portrayed as such to his queen. A beautiful maiden caught up in the game of thrones. His former bride. She was no threat to him. No threat to the great Tyrion Lannister. Just a poor girl, fulfilling the duties placed upon her. In need of his counsel.

"Your brother bent the knee to her, he believed in her, do you doubt his judgment?" He narrowed his eyes, looking for a crack he could take advantage of.

"And yet the North knows no King but the King in the North, whose name is Stark. You know this, Tyrion. It's simply the will of this land. A will that has persisted since long before either your queen, or her house, arrived at these shores. What can I do against my lords’ will? Those elders lords, comfortable in their positions, accustomed to war. "

"Jon was not surrounded by those angry and loud northern men whose kin was killed by a war your Queen's brother started. And I don’t need to remind you the opinion the North holds about Lannisters, no matter what distinguishes them. Much less Jorah Mormont…” Sansa sighed in defeat. “I am in a conflicting position Tyrion. Adding that to your lack of supplies... It's difficult to argue for Daenerys Targaryen. No matter how much I might wish to."

He raised a brow in challenge and let go of her hand.

"And were the will of the Queen to leave the North to its war?"

A protector of the realm who does not protect the realm, that would be the words she would be met with to whichever lord Tyrion might try and sway to her side if they were not burnt first. But that needed no saying.

“If the dead conquer the North the whole continent will be lost. Your Queen may fly away in her dragons, return to Essos, but what about you and her armies? Water freezes and so can the sea if winter comes to rule us all. I do not wish to be unkind Tyrion, as you have always been kind to me -" she squeezed her hand as hard as she could to make the lie bearable,"- this is simply the truth we must face if we wish to survive. And I wish to survive, don’t you, my lord?"

He flinched, perhaps not having expected the true danger they were in. Not having considered it a reality long enough.

"Though I do not doubt your judgment of her character, the stories that have reached the North tell of a Queen as cruel as Cersei, if not more. If she were to prove herself as the woman you claim she is, that she was in Essos, then perhaps she would be met with joy instead of apprehension.”

“What happened in the East is known then,” he surmised. "And once she proves herself thus? Would you reconsider your stance? Let go of that northern pride? Sway your Lords? While that attempt at peace you did in the Great Hall was commendable it will only last you until the war is won. And I would not enjoy us to be enemies afterwards, Sansa. I truly would not. You were always such a sweet girl."

He had as much chance of swaying Daenerys Targaryen towards goodness as he had had Joffrey Baratheon.

"It would be a pity no doubt, Lord Lannister. I do not wish it either."

She might have not wished it once, long ago, as a child. Now, it was simply the truth of the matter.

Chapter Text

“When I was a child, my brother would tell me a bedtime story-”

Sansa lost focus as the Dragon Queen described the mad ramblings of her brother. Her recollections of him reminded her very much of Joffrey, so much so that Sansa felt some manner of pity for the woman.

As Daenerys described her father as if an innocent man who had not burned the ancestors of her hosts for demanding justice for the woman her brother had stolen, Sansa tried her very best to keep silent and let the Targaryen woman burn what little doubt of the nature of her character remained amongst her people, amongst even herself.

If the woman had this little self-awareness Sansa could only wonder how she could have convinced this great deal of men of the goodness of her heart. She supposed Dragons were beasts capable of marvellous feats. Faced with one, perhaps a man could truly believe in anything.

Sansa tried to exchange a look with Jon, but he seemed focused on showing no emotion to what happened in front of them. She could imagine the sneer on Uncle Bryden’s face though he stood behind her. The same one that was shared by every man who had fought against the Targaryens, though the woman seemed not to notice the ill-will she gathered.

“Your sister pledged to send her army North, to fight alongside us all for the good of the realm. For the survival of Westeros.” Jaime Lannister gave a solemn nod. “I don't see an army. I see one man, with one hand. It appears your sister has lied to me.”

“She never had any intention of sending her army North.” Sansa rolled her eyes and Uncle Brynden scoffed. “I, however, promised to fight for the living and I intend to keep that promise, whatever the cost.”

Brynden Tully laughed this time. Heartily and everyone’s eyes turned to him, even Jaime Lannister’s who had done his best to avoid his stare.

“Is that so Kingslayer? So many promises you’ve made, only to break them just as quickly. How fortunate to all of us in this castle, in these lands, that you decide to keep this one. One more man against the dead, how the Night King must be shaking now the Kingslayer has come,” he mocked him with a tone so serious none in the room knew whether to laugh or keep silent. Yet they could tell how painful the words were to the man and not even Daenerys Targaryen dared to interrupt the scorn the Blackfish so generously offered.

“Kingslayer,” Jaime Lannister laughed and bravely turned to the woman. “You all say it as a curse when it was the most honourable thing I did. Burn them all your father said, again, and again and again, burn them in their homes, burn them in their beds. And I shoved that sword through his back, and all of you should have fallen to your knees thanking me then. Your dear mother surely must have when she heard the news, how her brute of a husband fell on a Kingsguard sword. She must have rejoiced, good Queen Rhaella.”

There were gasps and whispers as he made his confession of what had happen in the throne room so many years ago. What had led a Kingsguard to kill the one he was charged to protect above all others, above honour and reason. And it had not been for the ambitious reasons they had all placed on his shoulders – no – it had been an effort to save Kingslanding from a dragon’s madness. And now he stood in front of another.

Tyrion was fidgeting from his place, trying to gather how to save his brother from the Queen he chose, the Queen who sat fuming at his words and yet unable to argue with him.

How the tables kept on turning in the halls of Winterfell by the weight of confessions so easily shared in the face of death and rightful rage.

“Your Grace, I know my brother...He came here alone, knowing the welcome he'd be received with. Why would he do that if he weren’t telling the truth? If he wasn’t honest in his intent to join us in fighting this threat,” he argued for him desperately.

There was something to be said that Daenerys Targaryen would attempt to hold a trial for the only man that had kept his word. Yet this was not a battle Sansa would enter willingly for Jaime Lannister. Not when her own people wished for his blood. Even if they were most curious about what had happened in that throne room.

All Sansa was interested in was how pointedly Jaime Lannister refused to face his brother. She could only hope to know the cause of this strife. That his kin would now serve the family Ser Jaime had fought to deliver the realm of, could cause irreparable damage, even more than a dead father.

“It doesn’t matter if he is telling the truth,” Sansa spoke instead. “Jaime Lannister cannot be trusted. He has no honour to depend upon. No oath made he has not broken. He attacked Eddard Stark in the streets, on false charges. He threatened my uncle’s -”

“We were at war!” The man was quick to argue as whispers took over the room.

He had stood silently and unbothered for all of the Dragon Queen’s speech and yet it were these accusations that he could not stand. These accusations that pushed him to argue. His shame clear for all to see, that he was aware of his sins. That there was still a conscience to him.

“It might have taken a long while, but neither gods nor men will ever forget House Lannister.”

Sansa held her breath for she knew what the Blackfish would say. The sins against the Gods he could list for all of House Lannister, both old and new. Kingslayer. Kinslayer. Breaking guest right. The anger he could call upon from each and every man in the room. She could not have it, not now.

“You think that being at war undoes all the terrible things you have done. But the Gods see you Jaime Lannister, and your house. The sins you have committed, the vows you have broken, the innocent blood you all have shed,” the Blackfish eagerly spoke. “There has come a time for retribution. Be it now or in the seven hells. You will pay your debts, Lannister.”

The Blackfish smiled and Sansa never saw a man crumble so clearly under another’s stare.

Jaime Lannister took a deep, pained breath.

“Everything I did, I did for my house and family.” And though those words ached him to say, he seemed sure of them. “Much the same as everyone in this room did for theirs. I won’t be tried for crimes none here would be tried of, were they in my place.”

“The things we do for love,” Bran mused, drawing Sansa attention with whom he shared a look that had her hands tremble. “The crimes and sins that make us unworthy of that same love.”

Bran wanted him to live. This was the man he wanted her to keep alive. However was she going to do that?

“Then why have you abandoned your house and family now?” Daenerys wondered, ignoring Bran’s words, eyes narrowed on the Kingslayer. “You rest all of your sins on your desire to protect your family. Then why have you abandoned them? I find myself utterly curious Jaime Lannister.”

He frowned at her.

“Because this goes beyond loyalty. This is about survival,” he explained. “This is about all of Westeros and its future. I understand that. Do you? Or is all you care about Fire and Blood? That bloody Iron Throne. Just like your father. How unimpressive of the… Breaker of Chains, was it?” He laughed loudly, unafraid of the fire-breathing monster.

Sansa raised a brow, unimpressed by his change of heart, however appreciative of his courage.

This man had killed Jory Cassel. Harmed her father. Threatened her Uncle’s child. She had no time for Jaime Lannister, not when everyone here wanted him dead and there was no reason other than Bran to keep him alive. And yet, for Bran, she had to. For his plans, for his dreams. For their future.

And for all his faults, Jaime Lannister was a living, breathing reminder of Targaryen madness. A thorn on the Dragon Queen’s side. Further doubt that grew between Daenerys and her Hand. Jaime Lannister could serve her well.

Sansa needed to turn the tide.

“There are matters that concern me far more than your life, Jaime Lannister. Where is the sword?" Sansa asked of him instead.

He raised a brow, with a smirk far too similar to his sister's for comfort. He nodded towards one of her guards who had unarmed him at arrival.

"The sword your family stole from my father, from House Stark. Ice, was reforged into two. Your son named his share Widow's Wail.” She grimaced at the name. What an awful boy Joffrey Baratheon had been. And yet, he was just a boy. He had seemed like a giant then. Unkillable. He had made her kiss it once, before a battle, the cold of its steel and the threat that came with it were still clear in her mind. “It will be returned to its rightful place at once."

It could be heard as nothing less than a command and the guard who had it was quick to cross the room to reach her. Took great care as he unshed it and kneeled to her, offering the once ancestral blade holding it to her with both hands. Sansa looked back and nodded to the Blackfish who stood behind her and took great pride to take the sword in her place.

Brynden Tully was her chosen Hand, though it was Lord Manderly who held the title. The thought took her by surprise and for that she knew it to be the truth.

“And is that honour to you, Lady Stark, to take a man’s sword?” he wondered with more bite than he should have under the circumstances. “To unarm a man who comes in good faith to your halls?” he challenged, very much amused, though he did not reserve the same scorn to her as he did the Dragon Queen.

Brienne rose then and Sansa’s eyes narrowed.

“I know Ser Jaime. I was his captor once. When we were both taken prisoner and the men holding us tried to force themselves on me, Ser Jaime defended me. Lost his hand because of it. He armed me, armoured me, and sent me to find you, my Lady, and bring you home because he'd sworn an oath to your mother,” Brienne tried to argue for him, presenting her with an opportunity.

The Blackfish scoffed.

"A man unable to fulfil oaths passes them along. Jaime Lannister made an oath to a woman his father had killed under guest right, to return her daughters and did the very least he could to fulfil that oath. Did he not stand besides Lady Stark in that damned Red Keep? Did he make any effort to deliver her from the claws of his family? No. He armoured you instead to do what he was not capable of. That is no great feat, Lady Brienne. It’s no more than cowardice. The hand he lost was no doubt the will of the gods for all the vows he has sworn and broken. He should only go near this sword if he is to be pierced by it."

Sansa raised a hand to Brienne to keep her from speaking further.

"Both that sword and yours belong to House Stark, and they will be wielded by either Stark or those who are sworn to it. The sword you wield was not his to offer. It is a Stark sword we allow you to keep. This is not a matter to be discussed." Brienne nodded, understanding an order when she heard one. It was not Sansa she was addressing, it was the Lady Stark. "I do not rob you of your sword Ser, I take back what was stolen from me and mine by your kin. This is simply the righting of a wrong. A knight such as yourself must have no trouble fighting with a common sword."

Sansa looked to the Blackfish and then to both Arya and Bran who nodded at her intentions. Jon had a Valyrian sword already and Arya would not be able to handle the weight of a long sword. Lannister red could so easily become Tully red. And the pommel would be fixed once these wars passed.

She looked up at her uncle.

"Rename the sword Ser Brynden, it is yours till death."

"Red wolf," he claimed, taking her by surprise, "It shall be called, both for the colour and for the house it serves. It shall know duty and honour once more."

She nodded solemnly and took a deep breath, looking away from him in fear she would shed tears.

“One good deed, Lady Brienne, does not erase all the crimes Ser Jaime is guilty of. Nevertheless, if you vouch for him, if you would fight alongside him-” Brienne nodded solemnly, “- if you trust him with your life, l will decree that he live long enough to join the fight against the undead,” Sansa granted, aware of the gratitude she owed Brienne for protecting Jeyne when she could not, hoping this humiliation of the great lion was enough to settle her lords. “He will be under your responsibility.”

“Perhaps you shall keep a promise before meeting your end, Kingslayer,” the Blackfish told him with his ever mocking smile and Jaime Lannister shrank in his shame, how curious it left her.

“May the Gods judge your endeavours wisely, Ser Jaime.”

“Jon?” Daenerys prompted in a grip tone, seeing how the decision was not left to her. But why should it, when the North was a foreign kingdom, and its rule was not hers.

Jon took a deep breath, seeming to wake at her call. Sansa wondered if he had slept at all.

“We need every man we can get against the Night King and the Kingslayer is known for being a good swordsman. At least he will have a use,” Jon tried to appease her.

The woman could do little more than nod. She was restless, Sansa could tell. Something would have to be done about that.

“You receive Lannisters in these halls. Men who killed my husband. Your brother. The father of my child. Of your nephew. You receive them with warm furs and your face does not fall, not one bit. Did you despise him so much? Your brother. Were his offenses to you so egregious that you would welcome his murderers into his own home?!”

Sansa took a deep breath and straightened her back while she gave the time for Lady Westerling’s ladies-in-waiting who had followed her here to leave Sansa’s solar and her Uncle to close the chamber doors.

She wondered if once the mummer’s farse was done there would be nothing more to her that she might call her own. That she might call truth without doubting even herself. Even if others believed it. If lies and compromises were all she was now, all there was to her. If she was even capable of holding rage, disappointment, anything at all even if it was ugly and sinful against her chest and hold on to it.

If to win the game one had to let go of everything, even one’s sense of self.

“I receive Targaryens as well. I receive a husband forced on me when I was but a child. These matters do not bring me joy, nor do they offer me the chance to show my revolt to those who wronged me. They are simply a duty placed upon me. They are simply something we must bear before we can answer to. I cannot show my dislike for those I have not yet the choice to present justice to.”

“Why not? Why have you not the choice?” she questioned her. “You are Lady of these halls. Your voice the only one that matters.”

How naïve of her to believe so. The former Queen of the North. A dead husband. A year on the run. And still… she did not understand where the true power laid.

“You are welcome to doubt me, Lady Westerling. But do not mistake the options in front of me for freedom of choice. Do not overestimate the power of a House that has only just returned to its feet,” she advised.

“Jeyne.”

There was a warning in the Blackfish’ tone that made her silent. That made her bow her head to the Lady of Winterfell before she left her presence. This man had been a protector to Jeyne and her son most of all. He was not to be crossed by those he had placed above himself and as closer kin.

Sansa had placed a Valyrian sword on his hands. A Stark sword. She had bound him to them. To the Starks of Winterfell. Not that she needed to. Tully duty bound him all the same. And yet, by all accounts, by all the eyes in that great hall, she had elevated him with the highest regard she could.

Brynden Tully was Stark sworn now.

"While I do not doubt your judgment, might you tell me why? Such great risk taken for such a sinful man. Why fight to keep him alive?"

"The three-eyed-raven asked it of me. I could not refuse Bran. I would not when he asks for so little,” she explained.

"And is that all it takes to move the Lady of Winterfell? The will of the old gods? I didn't take you for a believer." There was no judgment in it, only curiosity, perhaps surprise.

“We are in the North now. Fighting beasts only the Old Gods have a recollection of. I should not think it wise to alienate those who offer me advice when they have only seen fit to gift my ancestors with silence.”

“Blessed be he who hears the call of the Gods and answers.”

She nodded silently.

“Besides -”

Sansa walked over to her window. Looked for Jaime Lannister in the crown. So easy he was to spot in the middle of her people, who opened his path just so they wouldn’t have to cross ways with him. No one would harm him here, no man of hers. Not when Robb had slayed Karstarks in attempt. Not when she had defied the Dragon Queen’s will in such a public way. Not when Brienne loved him, the poor woman.

"There is no one, nothing besides the throne that Cersei Lannister holds dearer than Jaime Lannister. To kill him would gather further wrath from her, but to keep him... She will know it to be me. No one else other than me. The child she kept on a leash, the child she so easily confided in with their love. Not the Dragon Queen. Not her despised brother. She will know it to be me, and she will remember."

"You hope to gather her gratitude? Do you think her capable of such?" he sounded doubtful, but she paid his displeasure no mind, he did not know Cersei Lannister. Not like she did.

"No. But her acknowledgement. That the North is not ruled by Daenerys Targaryen. That her enemy is clear cut and gathers no more allies in her path. That the North will not march its force down south, that I will not allow it."

"You are her enemy as well. She has searched Westeros for you. Offered rewards for you. To bring you to her. There is no knight that hasn't heard of the gold price of your delivery to her. No southern tavern that doesn't know you are to be given to her. She wants no one more than she wants you," he reminded her, as if he had the need to. As if she could forget. 

"Yet she would want me delivered alive and Tyrion she would accept dead. Her own brother, her flesh and blood. The Queen is cruel and without mercy, but she is not mad, and she is not unreasonable."

"You would rather a lioness than a dragon?"

"I would rather an enemy I know than an enemy who knows not who she is," she answered easily enough.

"You believe her to be mad then? The same as her forefathers," he gathered.

"I believe her to be a Targaryen and Jaime Lannister has killed Targaryens before. He might serve us well."

He smiled. That cunning smile he reserved for her presence.

"Very well, my lady. Very well. "

"Have you mercy towards your captors? Perhaps pity or understanding built from years spent inside the same walls. Under the same sieges. Being fed at the same table. Wearing the same colours."

Sansa took a deep breath and turned to her, clasping her hands in front of her. An effort to ground herself, as her lady mother would have done.

Yes. Sansa had a sense of understanding.

She understood Cersei Lannister's fear. Her weary eyes. The reason why her hands shook at times. She understood why she was so cruel to her. She understood it was hard to see oneself in another, in an enemy. That there was nothing easier than to poke and prod at that bruised fruit that offered some distance from one's own failures, from one’s recollection of a lost innocence that could never be regained. She understood that sometimes one wants to protect their own above anything else. Anyone else.

And yet - just because she understood it, did not mean she followed in her footsteps.

"You are bold, Lady Dustin."

Yesterday she had been an enemy and today she spoke freely to a woman whose family she betrayed. In her quarters. Looking over the battle plans displayed.

Lady Barbrey Dustin was a hard woman. Her stern demeanour, her long neck, her mourning blacks. A family that kept on dying. One would have to be a fool not to fear her. One would have to be a fool not to hear her. No matter how offensive it might be, how demeaning. To dismiss Lady Dustin’s words, her candour, could be a great mistake.

"I have pledged to carry your banners. I did so with honesty. I speak to you under that same promise. Do you not owe that which you have asked for, Lady Stark?"

And yet to show her weakness would be a fatal one.

"I will owe what I am given. No more could be asked of me from those who have offered me nothing more than what they took from me and mine."

"Very well,” she conceded. “The Lannisters took great lengths to make you into one. You were called Lady Lannister across the realms, you know this."

Sansa gave a curt nod.

"Could you give loyalty to those who took your name from you? Your house from you?"

"Didn't you?" she asked sharply in return.

Ryswell men that died by Frey hands, swords, knives. Dustin men who died by Bolton treachery. The mention of it made Lady Barbrey straighten her back.

"My, you are a clever one. Aren't you."

She smiled viciously and reminded her of Cersei Lannister all at once.

"I should hope so. But on the off chance that I am not. That I am only a foolish little girl playing at war, I have a Lannister hostage now. The only one that matters, at least."

Barbrey raised a brow appreciatively and just like that - they shared an understanding.

"Such a wilting flower you appear to be in those high tables. In those perfectly tailored dresses. Not a hair out of place. The sharpness of your claws comes as a delightful surprise.” She hummed appreciatively. “That's your mother in you, for certain. But then again it were those sharp claws of hers that took the chains from Jaime Lannister’s neck. For you. Such love a mother bears for her children. It can blind even the sharpest tool. You should take that into mind," Lady Dustin advised, making Sansa frown in thought. "Many plans have crumbled in the face of a mother's love. Specially those who do not account for its weight."

“Do you wish to share something with me, Lady Dustin?”

Her concern grew with every second she spent in silence. Every second she spent looking over her features and deciding her next few words. Her next step.

The loud and sudden opening of the doors claimed their attention and Sansa couldn’t help but sigh in defeat.

"Oh, forgive me, I... " He cleared his throat while gathering his thoughts. "I had the chance to watch the new recruits. Ser Bryden has made many improvements during his time in Winterfell. Lady Mormont shows much promise."

Sansa frowned that he would think to bring this up to her. But she supposed something else brought him here. Something he did not want to share in Lady Dustin's presence. It was understandable given the circumstances of her position, of Jon’s own position.

Before, he came and went from these chambers at will. Sat impossibly straight in her chairs as if he did not belong here. As if at any moment he would be sent away. Once, he would have. Her father’s bastard, her mother’s humiliation, Robb’s rival, and most beloved brother. He would have not been welcomed in these chambers where she had been free to look for kin and warmth and he had not. A difference he must have felt most keenly. And yet, he always came here looking for her, for her comfort, even if not her opinion.

"Will you fight with us as well, Lady Dustin?" he asked all of the sudden, turning to the elder Lady.

Barbrey gave him a low chuckle that sounded much more like a growl. She would have made a marvellous Stark bride, one could not deny.

"While I am not an old crone, I am much less a foot soldier, boy."

The word as clear an insult as ever could be. It rolled Jon's back easily enough though.

"Any set of hands could be valuable."

"You really believe so, don't you? Shall I tell you what will happen if I go on to fight? I do not doubt a couple of wights might still perish at my hand, but so will Dustin soldiers. Ryswell soldiers that will place themselves in front of me. That will take more risks to keep their lady safe. They know their place is to fight and mine is to rule. And I respect them enough to know my place and not go on galivanting where I don't belong. I respect their lives and sacrifices in this way. By not making them have to choose between protecting me and fighting who is in front of them. By not giving them even more unfair choices they could not possibly make under duress."

He sighed. "If every lady thought that way-"

"They most likely should. I assure you that if Lady Mormont dies Bear Island, her family, will pay the price. Winterfell will pay the price, fostering what remains of her kin. Lady Lyanna’s place is behind a desk with quilt in hand, though she might think fighting achieves more. She's young, she might still learn should she survive and be given the chance to grow.

Lord Manderly instead is too prideful to know when to lay down his sword. An old man with so many plans that will die in this battle, no one to carry them out if he is left to rot in the ground. Whatever wights they might kill won't change the outcome of this war. But it will change the outcome of survival later on.

Ladies such as I and Lady Stark understand that. We understand what is asked of us. Which one is the higher duty. Not everyone is built for war. And much can be achieved by learning one's own limitations. It avoids unwanted casualties. Every man that aims too high will surely find himself falling down the deep end. You might still learn that as well, Lord Snow.”

Lady Barbrey then turned to her and bowed lowly, “With your leave, Lady Stark."

Sansa didn't quite remember her father's bannerman’s bowing quite this much when he was Lord of Winterfell. But then again she was the regent as well. And they bowed to the northern crown, not only to their liege Lady.

Yet, as Lady Dustin reached for the door she turned to face them once more.

“A final piece of advice to the former king in the north. At times one might be inclined to believe that a warrior is preferable to a diplomat. Yet I have found that leaders made for war tend to search for it in every corner. To create what they cannot find in their boredom. As for diplomats… well, they aim for spring, but they prepare for winter. Remember that child, it might serve you well.”

There was a heavy silence in the room created by the soft tone Lady Barbrey had chosen instead of her usual one.

"I was not aware that you were on good terms with her. That she would be allowed in your quarters, free to speak her mind. Has she made amends? Offered gifts and tribute,” he wondered, feigning a disinterest that did not suit him.

“Others have taken her case with me. And I have need of her, even if lesser than she has of me. Lady Dustin is a wise woman, respected even if not wanted, with a firm grasp on what is hers and on what was her father’s. I should be so lucky to count her as an ally. To be offered her council, instead of her indifference.”

“She sided with those who betrayed Robb. Betrayed us. Betrayed Winterfell.”

“If I started punishing everyone who betrayed Winterfell for one reason or the other, I would find myself without courtiers. Winterfell without bannermen. And you without armies. Bards sing for their bread. So do I. So do you,” she wagered, she hoped.

“Is that why you keep Jaime Lannister alive? After what he did to father?!”

He averted her eyes as soon as he said it, cheeks deep red that he would strike against her. Sansa could easily forgive him for that. Words spoken in anger on behalf of a beloved father he had just now learned the truth about. She could forgive him for that.

“I did what Bran asked of me. No more and no less than what I was ordered to do from those who knew better than me what is to come.”

He nodded slowly, understandingly.

"Forgive me. I... I... " He grimaced and shook his head, his voice was very grave when he asked, "What is Bran?"

Sansa took a deep breath.

"Do you remember old nan's tales? Of greenseers and skinchangers? From beyond the wall?" He nodded. "Bran is all and he is everything. The three-eyed-raven."

He nodded slowly. "Does he know? About... You."

The stories she had told him. That she had confided in Jon. Kingslanding and the Eyrie. Cersei, Joffrey, Tyrion, Sandor, Petyr. And all those whose names did not even matter anymore. All those she had survived.

"He knows all. Things that I have told him, things I have not. He knows other things as well. Things I have yet to know."

"Has he told you what happened to him? How he became this being," he asked with a grimace.

"I do not ask questions I would not want to be asked. If he wishes to share his trials, he knows I would be glad to hear them. As it is, I am unaware of what he has faced. I know his challenges are no fewer than ours. No less bloody. He has lost his wolf, felt the grief of Summer being taken from him.” Just as Lady was taken from me. “He has lost friends and companions. Men have died to save him, and he carries those ghosts with him. He has turned a girl - Lady Meera Reed - away in an effort to protect her with words I imagine cannot be unsaid.

But he is not... If you can only see this war, well... Bran can only see bits and pieces of times gone by and times yet to come. He is lost in the in-between and I worry - I worry if we will ever get him back once these wars have passed."

If he would want to return at all. Sansa could understand the allure of remaining lost. Of not having to face the light, or darkness, whatever it was that awaited them all in the end of this.

"And is he always right?" His voice was heavy with grief he could not keep from her, not from her. "In his prophecies, is he always right?"

Sansa could only nod when his eyes were so focused on her. Her interest quickly turning into concern.

"Has he told you something? Something important. Something I should know?" she urged him to tell.

He shook his head vehemently. “Worry not, sweetling."

Sansa wondered if he knew how that made her even more worried. Even more frightened.

Another part of her though… another gentler, younger, more foolish part of her, wondered if he called her that as well. She shook the thought away as if it burned her.

"Bran will return to you. After these wars. You will nurse him back to himself and you will be as one. He will be what you need of him. The brother you mourn for. You will not lose him like you did Rickon," he promised her, mistaking her grief.

It soothed something in her. That he would know how piercing Rickon’s loss had been. Her mother's final babe. The one Sansa had sang to sleep. The one who ran to her and was murdered in his path. The one she had wished to see in little Eddard’s place.

Yet Bran had been the closest brother to her in likeness. He wanted to be a knight, that much was true, but not because he wanted to hold a sword, to slay down enemies and best foes. He wanted to be a knight for the stories, for the songs, the same as her. They were both ghosts of themselves now. And they dreamed about songs no more.

He looked at her for a long while before speaking again.

"Do you think if it had been Robb instead of me. Would it have been easier? For you."

She shook her head and swallowed her sorrow.

Robb had failed her in so many other ways.

"Things would have been very different with Robb. I don't believe they would have been easier. Only different. The hope that Robb would save me, kept me standing for a very long while. It made the notion that he chose not to that much harsher. While I understand his reasons, I'm not naive enough to believe it would have been easy to forgive him. That he would have bothered to try. I was promised to a Frey after years of captivity for his broken promises. He would have made me fulfil his oath, that much I am certain. So no, I don't think it would have been any easier. But it would have been clearer."

He frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“I would have known where I stood with Robb. I would have known my place, just as he would have known his. You and me? We never stand still, do we? It’s always changing. Muddy waters between us. Lies and secrets. Why is that? Do you know? Do you notice? It’s all I think about,” she confessed.

And it was. It kept her from sleep at night. The uncertainty between them. The heavy silences. The doubt.

“Sansa… I never... There are simply burdens I must carry alone. My duty is to protect this family and I shall do what it requires of me.”

By keeping secrets from the head of his own household. By keeping from her things she asked of him. Those which she was certain she should know.

“Share them. Share those burdens with me,” she pleaded.

“When the time is right and the war-” he began once again.

“The war will never be won, Jon. Can’t you see?” she laid a hand on his arm so she might urge him to consider her words seriously, with the weight they were owed. “After this one will come the next, and then the next and we shall never be free. We shall never be truly at peace. This knowledge… it’s the price of our position. The certainty that there will always be games at play, and one must never grow comfortable in their absence.”

His excuses were always lacking in reason she should not subject herself to repetition again and again to deaf ears, but Jon… it wasn’t only understanding he robbed her of. If only she knew the extent of his plans – if he had any at all – if only she could prepare for the falling out.

“And yet you carry on alone. Only tangling yourself further. Tying my hands so I cannot offer you aid. Have you seen yourself in the mirror? Have you slept at all?”

“Have you?!” he threw back, silencing her easily. Taking the hand on his arm with enough strength she could not release it. His thumb pressing against her palm. “Have you seen how exhausted you look? So hungry you bend over yourself. Do you think I do not notice how this costs you? How all this planning costs you? How it haunts you. How it keeps you from sleep, how it prevents you from eating. Do you think I do not see you?!”

She paid his words no mind though they burned her.

“I tie your hands to prevent them from becoming bloody. I tie your hands so you will remain unscathed, as much as it is possible. So that there is some part of you that remains innocent. So that this war does not take anything more from you than it already has. Must you make this so difficult? Must you further the distance between us even more?”

Sansa laughed. Lowly. A sad laugh one must partake in at the end of a road. If she did not laugh she would cry. And that would be entirely unsuited to her role. To the responsibilities she had been trusted with. The lives she was expected to protect. The banners she was expected to carry. No.

The Lady of Winterfell mustn’t cry.

He closed his eyes and sighed, letting go of her. “I do not wish for us to quarrel all the time, Sansa. Not when…"

When they could be dead tomorrow. Or the day after that. Or after that. And on and on it went.

"Why have you come then?"

He sat down like a chastised child, swallowed harshly and Sansa felt regret at having hurt him. But quarrel was what they did. What they were good at. What they seemed to crave above all things, such was the frequency they partook in it

And she could have forgiven him anything, anything at all, if it weren’t always empty words. Dead ends. How easily things could become between them if only he spoke to her and they ceased being lone wolves.

“Arya intends to fight. You must dissuade her from these... notions."

Sansa muffled a laugh, and they were kin once more.

"What of the advantages of having young ladies fight," she reminded him of.

He rolled his eyes. "She's just a small thing Sansa. Be reasonable."

"So is Lady Mormont. Far younger too. And just now you spoke of her skill. I have not seen her fight, but I can assure you she is no match for her. Arya and I have reached some semblance of peace after some very troubled months. I will not jeopardize that. You may request that she do not fight yourself, Jon. She might be more understanding of your motives. You were always her favourite, she might take your concern into better account than she would mine.”

“You were at odds with one another? When she arrived.”

She wondered why he would show surprise.

It was to be expected, of course. Sansa had been the obedient child and Arya had been the rebellious one. Arya misbehaved and Sansa took the brunt of it. They had been no less than rivals during youth, just like Robb and Jon. But while they shared deep bonds of love, built by shared experience and trust, Arya and Sansa shared no such thing. Very different things had been expected of both of them, and those differences did not give way for understanding, only grievances built by their elders, nurtured by themselves. They had been separated too young to have been able to rectify them.

For Arya to come back home and see it ruled by the sister she had considered no more than a stupid girl, with stupid interests… well. It must not have been easy for her. Perhaps just as hard as it was for Jon. Though he showed it in a different way.

“She expected you.” But it wasn’t that, not truly. “She expected her childhood home back. That was not what she found, nor was offered. What any of us found. Give her that and you might find peace with one another.”

"There is a haunted look in Arya's eyes. I used to be half of her and now... I do not see myself in her eyes. I do not recognize the sister I love, nor do I find that she recognizes me. I used to be her home... I'm only a stranger now."

"Her love for you runs just as deeply as it used to. She missed you so very dearly, your sister."

Sansa felt the need to sooth. To ensure this bond, that had kept them both standing for so many years did not break under the pressure of growth. Of forced estrangement. Of war.

"I thought... Since I came back from... you know. I thought that if I saw Arya again I would come back to myself. But that man is dead. The brother she loved is gone. And I am a lacking substitute." He laughed sourly, shaking his head.

"Jon-"

She had no comfort to offer him. No wisdom. Sansa felt the same. She had been a lacking substitute all her life. A lacking substitute to Arya when she had reunited with Jon. A lacking substitute for Robb to the North. A lacking substitute for Catelyn to all the others.

So she reached for his hand instead, interlocked their fingers and he smiled at the gesture, looking up at her, grey eyes on blue. And the warmth there… she had missed it.

He took the back of her hand to his lips.

There was some gratitude in Sansa that he did not offer these moments of tenderness to the Dragon Queen where they might be seen by the North. Of course Sansa was his blood, and it was entirely different. And yet she appreciated that she did not have to bear witness to them all the same.

“And you? Where might you find your peace, sweetling?”

But there was no answer she could give him. None she knew. None she could put to words. She could only look away from him.

“Only time will tell.”

"I would not question her ladyship-"

"Jeyne-" she interrupted intent on correcting her subservience.

"I would not question her ladyship's decision on matters I do not understand, nor do I find the need to know the reasons of. I find your judgment ever right and worthy of my whole trust, as my liege lady, as my dearest friend," she said, eyes pierced on her, awaiting some sort of reaction.

"However?" Sansa prompted, aware this candour of Jeyne was painful to her, how she must have rehearsed it.

"Is it not a knight's duty to protect women and children? Is it not a knight's duty to look at a scared child, a bleeding woman and rescue her from her woes?"

"Yes," she spoke into the cold silence that built in the room.

"Then Jaime Lannister is no knight at all," she spoke with certainty.

When was it that Jaime Lannister had failed Jeyne Poole? Perhaps he was there when Petyr took her, saw her screaming and crying for her dead father, the father he had killed. Perhaps he had seen her in one of Baelish’s brothels, perhaps there and she had begged for aid. Perhaps he was there when she was sold to the Boltons, perhaps there and she told him she was not Arya Stark. Just a girl, caught in the crossfire of the game of thrones.

Tell me his crimes and I will avenge you. Tell me his sins and I shall give you justice, is what Sansa Stark should have said. What she would have liked to say. What Arya would have done. What Jon would have promised. What Bran wouldn't have had the need to ask at all.

"No. He is no knight at all," was what the Lady of Winterfell spoke.

Such heavy and cold silence in these haunted halls. That filled these impossible decisions. These unfair trades for survival. Or at least a chance for it.

"I see your pain and I know it to be justified. There will be no honours given to Jaime Lannister. No absolution offered for his crimes."

"The only reassurance I require is your acknowledgement, my lady."

"It is yours, Lady Poole," she swore.

Though her hands, she had tied herself for the will of the gods.

There was a knock on the door, Maester Wolkan entering the room.

“My apologies, Lady Stark. Your presence has been requested in the Great Hall, yours as well, Lady Poole.”

"Theon," Sansa welcomed.

"I came to fight for Winterfell, Lady Stark, if you would have me."

His eyes firmly cast to the ground. The same as Jeyne. The fear built into him, that made him tremble.

"You are welcome here, Theon Greyjoy. To the halls of your youth. To Stark halls. You will always be welcomed here, to whichever comforts we can provide."

And when his eyes watered and his hands shook, Sansa took a step forward to hold his hands in hers. She knew what he had suffered. What he had endured. Jeyne had told her everything. Sansa would not be scarce in showing her appreciation for what he had risked, for the pains he had suffered. He had paid a high enough price for his mistakes. He had paid for them tenfold. He deserved no more punishment.

"What you did for Jeyne," she whispered as he shook, crying silent tears, Sansa exchanged a look with her, who was holding herself in the back of the room, tears rolling down her cheeks at the sight of him. "Will never be forgotten and for that you'll always have a place here. You will always have my protection. I swear that to you."

"I'm so sorry, so sorry for- for Rickon, for Bran. For not having protected them as I should. For Jeyne. I’m so sorry for Jeyne."

Sansa understood him better now. Now that she had been a hostage as well.

While father had hardly the same cruelty Joffrey transpired from every pore. There was no doubt that had Lord Greyjoy overstepped, Theon would have paid the price. The blood price. Living with that fear for so many years, that one’s only family could just as easily turn to one’s executioner must have haunted him in ways not even she could understand. After all, Cersei had been many things, but their circumstances were very clear-cut. No doubt to be had over where she stood in her affections, over what one mistake might cost her.

“I do not doubt the hardship of your choices, nor will I pretend they have not brought us some sorrow. But it is not for me to judge them, nor will I. I will only offer my gratitude for protecting those I love when you could. The rest only others can offer you. Bran is in the godswood if you would see him. And Rickon is buried in the crypts. Come and go from these halls at your pleasure, Theon Greyjoy,” she told him, knowing he had never been allowed that freedom as hostage, as a prisoner.

“I will leave you to Jeyne. No doubt you must have words to share.” Sansa gave a gentle squeeze to his hands before giving her place for Jeyne to take.

And as she looked upon them, survivors – and there were none to whom the word was more deserved, more fitted – words from other gods came to her mind.

What is dead may never die. But rises again, harder, and stronger.

Sansa stood in the platform that overlooked the smiths, since her presence there would be questioned. Her interest second-guessed by those more well-versed in hidden schemes.

They had been working day and night with the dragonglass. Arrows, knives, and short swords were being made without rest, now that the men from White Harbor had arrived, their secret task there complete. The Scorpions ready to be used, though kept from the elements in storages. While not hidden, to cause suspicion should they be found by unwanted eyes, they were not left in the open for their use to be freely questioned.

She had grown accustomed to look for her sister's presence in dark corners and the smith’s provided just that. Perhaps the reason she spent so much time there, though Sansa doubted it.

Ser Davos had had the good sense to inform her of the presence of Robert Baratheon’s bastard in Winterfell. Having witnessed her lack of will to bend the knee to the Dragon Queen, a fool he was not, and promptly informed her of this new guest who laboured away in Winterfell’s smiths. A friend of Arya’s it seemed.

A friend who made her smile so sweetly.

Sansa walked away from her place by the rails.

Her people bowing their head as she passed them by, guards following her hastily. Having seen from the corner of her eye that which she assumed no sane man would ever have the courage to do. Jorah Mormont did his best to speak to the little Lady Mormont. Her, in turn, seemed so surprised by this that she could hardly answer him as she should. As she would in the right circumstances.

"Jorah Mormont," Sansa addressed him flatly.

He was neither ser nor lord, simply a man who avoided his rightful punishment. Who returned to the place whose sentence he had evaded. A traitor, honourless, houseless, disgraced. Who should have never presumed to speak to the head of his former household if not to seek repentance.

He had the decency to bow his head, his eyes firmly on the ground.

"Lady Stark."

"You will understand, of course, the reason why you were not offered quarters in Winterfell."

He had the good sense to nod though he seemed slightly taken aback by the acknowledgement of his past. As if he had expected to be forgiven, pardoned, forgotten. Anything but held accountable for his crimes. And he seemed like such a reasonable man… temperate even. One could hardly connect him to his sins. But then again, she was used to disappointment. In fact, she expected it as a rule. It left her with less time to waste on mourning.

"It's only as courtesy to Daenerys Targaryen that we do not ask for you to answer for your crimes against the realms and fulfil the rightful punishment my lord father passed onto you. The one you fled. This is all the leniency we will allow, due to our great regard for your Queen."

Beautiful words they were.

"No more could be asked of us.” Her meaning was clear, and Lady Brienne stepped closer. “You may leave our presence, Ser."

“I wish you good fortune on the wars to come, cousin,” Lady Lyanna spoke and it had the contempt expected from a daughter of Bear Island towards the wayward son who had betrayed it.

He bowed his head again. "May the Warrior give strength to your sword arm, my Lady."

The Lady Mormont cleared her throat as he walked away to the comfort the Dothraki provided him. Fellow slavers that they were. Brothers in arms.

"Lady Stark.” She turned to her. “I had been meaning to seek you. If anything should happen to me during this battle, I would request that you would foster my nieces and sister. I wouldn’t want them to be all alone in Bear Island. Only courtiers around them, waiting for their chance to take advantage of their innocence," she explained. Making an effort to thicken her voice in an attempt to not show emotions expected from one so young at the prospect of death.

"No one would fault you for not taking arms, Lady Lyanna. For choosing to protect Mormont legacy," Sansa felt the need to remind her of.

Lyanna Mormont was younger than Rickon would have been. A child herself, not much older than her sister, Jorelle, not much older than her nieces. She had no place at war. Lady Dustin had been right about this, her words resounding in her mind. This weight did not belong on her shoulders, neither did this fear etched clearly on her face though she tried to hide it to the best of her abilities.

"I am, my lady. To fight is the only way I know to keep the Mormont legacy alive. It is what my mother and older sisters would have done."

To live might teach you a new one, Sansa did not say.

"Winterfell shall tend to your nieces and Lady Jorelle. Fight with a clear mind."

But none did, she believed. There was always something else to lose other than simply one’s life.

“They're coming. We have dragonglass and Valyrian steel. But there are too many of them. Far too many. Our enemy doesn't tire. Doesn't stop. Doesn't feel. We can't beat them in a straight fight,” Jon mused above the battle plans.

It was interesting that he was still allowed a say in these battle plans. Surely one could explain it by the role he had taken as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, the fact that some of the wildings answered to him still. But no more than that. It was amusingly clear by the positions that had been taken around the table the loyalties ensured.

The Dragon Queen and her merry band of traitors, slavers, and slaves on one side. Sansa opposing her, the Blackfish on her right side as her first commander, Lord Manderly at his side and Lord Royce on her left. Jon had a side to himself, Arya standing by him like the loyal sister she always was to him. Bran stood against him as well, his place as the three-eyed-raven giving him a sort of impartiality the Dragon Queen would do well not to count on but served Sansa most wonderfully.

“What can be done then, boy?” the Blackfish asked, in that bored manner of his he reserved for Jon.

Sansa would have asked him to be kinder, if only his disfavour didn’t make Jon’s loyalty to the Dragon Queen seem more believable. Since he was a traitor where the North was concerned, Sansa supposed there was something to be gained if he was beloved by the North’s enemy. If only so he wouldn’t have to face the two.

And there was a softness to Daenerys where he was concerned. It was hard to ignore. Sansa could only wonder what platitudes Jon offered her. What more promises he gave her while they strolled Winterfell arm in arm. What words he used so she wouldn’t burn them alive for the crime of not adoring her.

“The Night King. They charge where he commands them, do his bidding and nothing more. They are nothing without him. Mindless bodies. Aiming our forces at him may prove to be our best chance at a victory.”

“Why would he show himself then? Why appear in battle at all if one well aimed arrow might put an end to him and all the forces he leads?” Uncle Brynden was quick to ask.

“He will be coming for me, he will be coming for Winterfell,” Bran spoke, all eyes turning to him. “I am what stands in his way. We are what stands in the way, he has always wanted to return home.”

“Are you saying he was a Stark?!” Arya asked.

“Aye. A Stark of old. He will be coming for what was taken from him,” he told them almost in a disinterested manner that made Sansa clench her hand and her uncle grind his teeth. “His mark is on me, he will know where I am. He will know where to find me.”

“We’ll protect you. Keep you in the crypts with the women and children. You’ll be safe there,” Jon promised.

Sansa had considered sending the women and children to the Vale so they could be protected before the Wall had been broken, but Bran had assured her it wouldn’t have made a difference. If the North fell, every realm would as well. It would only delay a certain end.

“Those plans have been changed. The Great Hall will be barricaded with the women and children inside,” Sansa informed him. “If he can raise a dead dragon, he can surely raise dead Starks. The crypts will be locked. There’s no need to take the chance.”

There was no need to see Rickon’s face. To see the babe she had cleaned of blood, sewed the wounds, clothed, wrapped and prepared for burial. There was no need for her to see her sweet brother wanting to kill her. There was no need for Jeyne to see her son’s headless father trying to kill him. There was no need to take the risk at all.

Jon nodded in agreement.

“I'll wait for him in the Godswood. It is only right. You will have a free path to him there.”

“You will not be left alone out there,” Arya intervened.

“I'll stay with him,” Theon’s voice was low but confident. “With the Ironborn. I took Winterfell from you, I placed you in danger, I betrayed you.... when I should have defended you, kept you and Rickon safe… Let me attempt to do so now. Or die trying, Lord Stark.”

Bran nodded solemnly and no one dared to interrupt those solemn vows.

“When the time comes, Ser Davos and I will be on the walls, to give you the signal to light the trench,” Tyrion informed, military mastermind that he was. Accustomed to lighting things on fire to win his battles or watching others do.

It brought Sansa a great amount of comfort that her feelings were etched on the Blackfish’s face. While she had to remain the passive and emotionless Lady of Winterfell, her Uncle was at liberty to sneer, scoff and roll his eyes to his heart’s content, his reactions a mirror of her true feelings.

“You’re hardly needed to aid Ser Davos at waiving a torch. You'll be in the Great Hall,” his queen commanded him in a bored tone at his attempt to impress her with his courage and self-sacrifice.

“I have fought before, Your Grace, I have won a war before. I would fight alongside those men and women, risking their lives.”

“I will not have you risking your life simply to wave a torch. I have not brought you here for your military skills. I have brought you here for you to act as my Hand. That is what I require of you, Lord Tyrion. You will be in the Great Hall, with the women and children,” she repeated for a final time.

Sansa watched the exchanged with the utmost curiosity.

“And why is it, that my Dothraki will go first?” Daenerys wondered, surprising them with a good question Sansa had hoped she was not smart enough or advised to ask.

“We are using each armies strengths, Your Grace,” Lord Royce explained most patiently, a politeness to him the Blackfish would have never bothered with and Lord Manderly would have made sound like an insult. “The Dothraki are used to riding out onto the open field, correct me at your pleasure -” he gave her ample time to do so, forcing her to nod in agreement once she looked to Jorah Mormont for confirmation, “- having them manning a castle, such as Winterfell no less, something they are not used to seems like a waste of their abilities, Your Grace. And something that would require a strenuous amount of training which we do not have time to give.”

He explained it so gracefully Daenerys had to believe him. It was a risk, in truth. Men with summer horses, leathers not made for winter, unaccustomed to the cold. They would die rather easily no matter which furs Sansa found them, turning into part of the Night King’s army. Yet it was a risk Sansa had to take. It would be much easier to have them die now than having to fight them later on. A risk the North, the Vale and the Riverlands had decided to take.

These decisions were not easy to make. It did not bring Sansa joy to plan men’s deaths, to count on them. And yet she had to place her men above hers. And so she would.

“We shall need the dragons near Bran then if the Night King comes for him. Not close enough so he might be dissuaded, but near enough so we might pursue him when he does-” Sansa tuned out their hypotheticals.

Lady Dustin’s words kept ringing in her ear.

Sansa knew she was watched on all sides by both gentry and nobility. Varys’ keen eyes, though he avoided her presence as much as she avoided his. Tyrion’s confusion. Ser Davos’ doubt. Lady Westerling’s mistrust. The Blackfish’ pride. Ser Jaime’s curiosity.

If Lord Manderly should fall on the wars to come she would lose her greatest northern supporter. If she should lose both Lord Manderly and Lord Royce she would become without firm foundations. And that could not be.

What they must think of her. This creature that does not want, or crave, or desire anything else but a stability of their power. A semblance of balance. Even if it is rotten. Even if it rests on the carcasses of their dignity, of the pride of their elders, the words of their house. Filled with compromises she can hardly bear thought of, much less put into word.

All those Lannisters in her home. Her keep. Her lands. All those traitors, backstabbers, betrayers, and monsters. People she cannot endure the presence of and yet offers bread and salt – and mercy. Things they did not considered them worthy of when they slayed, beaten and betrayed House Stark. Offers warmth and smiles and lies as long as they can hear them and not doubt their honesty.

Winter is coming and winter did arrive, yet no elder Stark prepared them for the cold. For the exchanges that must be made for survival. The revolting things one must bear. Bards sing for their bread and so must she. Their singing bird. The little bird of House Stark. For this was what they had raised her for. To be decoration. Reliable council once she matured. Dutiful wife. Loving mother. For this she had been made.

And now... She sang, and she aimed to please, but that was only the beginning of her duty.

There was nothing to her that was not thoughtfully crafted and tended to. A perfect embroidery that one only had to turn upside down to see all those mistakes. All those lost threads. All those unforgivable mistakes in judgment. In preparation. In anticipation. All those who had been unaccounted for and still were. There was only so much she could see ahead. There would always be some lost thread. And if that one might be her undoing there was nothing that could be done if she could not see it. If Lady Dustin did not share what she saw that she didn’t.

The knowledge that she might miss something burned away at her. Left her feeling powerless once more. At the gods’ mercy. Made her restless.

Consumed her.

On all sides she saw betrayal. But she need only look towards a mother’s love to find the courage to plot.

Chapter Text

“Forgive me," the man pleaded, as he fell to his knees in front of her for all to see.

Sansa took a step back.

Not even the ones who owed her apologies had offered them. Why was this man...

"The Riverlands are ravaged, I could not bring... nor could I demand more from my people. But no less could I desert you and your siblings. If you would have your uncle, my lady… and the Riverlords that have chosen to join me, I would be honoured to -"

Recognition dawned on her, and she smiled kindly to the man who shared her brother’s Tully blue eyes, offering him her hands, ignoring the woman who had just arrived behind her.

"Welcome to Winterfell, Uncle Edmure. We are glad to have you. That you are safe and with us now," she told him softly, a small though reassuring smile on her lips.

Sansa understood how she hungered for this. How she hungered to touch them all. To smooth down Arya's hair. To feel Jeyne Poole beside her. To lay a comforting hand on her uncle's harm. To unburden Jon. To hear Bran speak. To tell them all she cared. That she wanted them nearby. Safe and cared for – in her reach.

She understood why she could not.

Why as a lady, as the Lady of Winterfell at that, she could not. But as he stood there, kneeling to her when he did not have to, when she could see how close he was to tears, the strength of it overwhelmed her. She was eager to fall to her knees with him, to take his hands and offer more than kind smiles. Offer small, but gentle lies that could soothe his soul. I live, dear uncle, therefor your Cat lives within me and for the first time since Petyr, her mother's face could once again be a source of comfort instead of only just her misery.

"The hospitality of Winterfell is yours, and whatever men you have brought my Lord Uncle. You are most welcomed here. Now and always,” she more than offered, she promised.

Because this is what she had wanted more than anything once. When she had arrived at the Eyrie, when Aunt Lysa had taken her face between her hands, this was the comfort she had wanted, desired, even expected from Tully kin. She had wanted to be offered a home. Now that she had the means to, she could offer it to others.

"You dear, dear girl," he cried as he kissed her hands and she rejoiced silently how much he welcomed the comfort she was so eager to give. Her mother’s brother.

“Nephew.”

His back straightened immediately at Uncle Bryden’s voice, though he did not leave the ground in which he kneeled.

“Uncle,” he greeted back.

“I am glad to see you live and be free to meet us here.” And he was, though he could not so plainly show it, so thick and heavy had been his expectations of Edmure Tully.

“And I you.”

He offered him a hand so he might rise, and Sansa smiled at the gesture. At the offer of a cease-fire.

"Lord Tully, I take it you are prepared to bend the knee to the rightful Queen of these Seven Kingdoms," she commenced with. 

Lord Edmure narrowed his eyes to the woman who so rudely interrupted a happy reunion, voice thick with boredom from having to witness it and Sansa bit her tongue.

"Daenerys Targaryen," he recognized her, and Sansa commended him for his diplomacy, for his soft touch. "I will not fight against you, nor will I fight for you. The Riverlands are ravaged. My people are hungry and tired and cold. That I am here is only because I owed that much to my sister's children. That I wish for my own girl to grow and prosper in a land that is not covered by ice. That I wish to have her grow enough to call me papa. Anything else would be an empty promise and false words. I would not offend you by offering those."

“You had a girl?” the Blackfish found himself asking, surprising even himself.

“Aye. I named her Catelyn. Only if you do not find it insulting, of course,” he added, turning to her.

“I’m honoured,” she assured him. “May she grow strong, and Lady Roslyn recover soon from her labour.”

Sansa found it so very lovely how he smiled at the mention of his lady wife. She would have hoped someone would smile like that at the mention of her own name, but those had been the dreams of a young girl. She knew better now. No one would ever care for anything more than her claim.

"I do not ask for your men. Of them I have plenty. I only require your allegiance to the rightful heir to Iron Throne," she pressed, taking a step further, annoyed at the interruption.

"At what cost?" he asked instead, focusing on her once more. "Were I to bend the knee to you I would be in open defiance of the Iron Throne. While I am away from Riverrun, my wife and child are not. My people are not. Defenceless from an attack from Cersei Lannister should I make a foolish and prideful show of loyalty to you. I will not condemn them to that indignity. I will not put them in danger for pride."

Her eyes widened in surprise. 

"Pride, my lord?"

And Sansa wondered if she knew his name. If anyone in her council had bothered to tell it to her. If anyone considered him more than a hostage, if they had considered him at all.

The Tullys of Riverrun that had never been kings. The Tullys of Riverrun, the faithful lords. Edmure Tully, her superior in every way that truly mattered. And yet she might even not know his name.

"What else? What cause is there to make me bend when I can offer you nothing nor cost you anything," he persisted righteously.

Sansa took careful notice of the confusion of the Dragon Queen’s courtiers. Who could not understand why she would command a man to his knees when he had never raised a sword against her. It was time they understood.

"To show your loyalty. I have come to unite the realms under the only true and worthy ruler. I only ask for what I am owed in my sacrifice for Westeros. I could have led a comfortable life on the other side of the sea. I chose to come here, to deliver all of you from this tyrant’s rule and yet-"

Which tyrant was that? Hadn’t she left Essos when Tommen still sat upon the Iron Throne? Sweet boy that he was, not a drop of viciousness to him. So many lies she spoke to a never-ending roll of people that already had no predisposition to believe her. That already knew better.

They were not moved by inspirational speeches, by tempting offers, they had been at war for years, they knew the cost and they knew the outcome. No one ever won the game of thrones. They all simply endured different kinds of losses.

"Loyalty… And what is there to be had in this show of loyalty? My people's death in exchange for what?"

She frowned, lost for words.

"Beg pardon?"

"Have you food to offer the Riverlands? Wheat, corn, barley. Have you wool? Leathers?" Anything at all.

"I have armies to protect you with. Whatever suffering Cersei inflicts upon your people, I will inflict upon her tenfold," she vowed. But vows of destruction came easily to her and that was not what Westeros required to heal.

"Here. In Winterfell. What good are they to the Riverlands should they suffer an attack this moment were I to bend? What good are your armies to the dead? What do they stand to gain with revenge?"

"You would rather stand in defiance of me? See injustice go unpunished." But what did a conqueror know of justice. What did a dragon rider know of mercy. “What keeps her from abandoning the Red Keep this moment and laying waste to your people, destroying your castle?”

"Why would she? She would stand to gain nothing from abandoning her keep and conquering mine. Only more mouths to feed. Should you conquer the Iron Throne I shall promptly bend my knee to your crown. Until then my people's safety is my only concern. We will remain neutral in your war. You may cross your armies through the Riverlands freely, but no more can I offer than that."

How furious she was. How unhinged. Her mouth opening and closing, no words to dispute him coming to mind, lips pursed in anger, no wise council to turn to, though so many eyes witnessed this defeat, having chosen a public setting to do this. Hoping that might persuade him more easily to bend the knee. Hoping to intimidate him more easily surrounded by her loyal courtiers. As if a disgraced Lannister would dare to speak to a Tully Lord. As if an exiled Northman would call attention to himself in a lost battle.

There was no threat Daenerys Targaryen could make without putting herself in the same grounds as Cersei. Without showing herself no less than her equal. Though she lacked all of Cersei’s wit.

How humiliated she must have been. To have been beaten by what she perceived as such a weakling of a lord, his clothes worn out, his eyes heavy. A lord without great armies, without dragons. Just a man, truly concerned for his people's safety, for their survival. Exactly what she prided herself to be.

"I shall eagerly await your visit to Kingslanding upon my victory then, Lord Tully," she managed to say and there was some measure of exhaustion to her. This was not what she was used to. This was not what she enjoyed. What she was good at. What came naturally to her. “You might then make your vows to me.”

"I shall await the day, Lady Targaryen."

The woman took a deep breath to temper her worst impulses.

"Daenerys Targaryen is to be addressed as Queen of Meeren, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Mother of Dragons, The Unburnt, Breaker of Chains, Lady of Dragonstone," Missandei interjected on cue, stepping away from her queen's shadow.

Sansa noticed she did not add Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, perhaps having understood that it was only a claim. That she most certainly wasn’t a protector. That she had yet to prove herself a queen.

"Oh?" He sounded genuinely remorseful, which only made it that much more insulting towards the kingdom less Queen. "I wasn't aware. I was in captivity for some years. Forgive my lack of knowledge of your triumphs overseas." And it must have burned her most terribly, almost as much as Uncle Bryden swelled with pride at his lord nephew.

"Fear not, Lord Tully. An honest mistake, easily rectified," she offered. But not the injury. The injury to her pride would be long lasting.

The Blackfish stepped closer beside her, as Daenerys Targaryen took her hasty leave in an effort to prevent the arrival of more people to witness her evident displeasure while Lord Edmure left to instruct his men where they might settle themselves.

"Cat was the only mother he ever knew. He wants to make her proud. He wants your favour. Edmure always aims too high, and most often does he disappoint," he said it with a sorrow most heavy while he shook his head. “He has a much too gentle heart.”

"He wants yours as well, more than mine, I believe."

"Aye." His laughing eyes of Tully blue were sad and sorrowful.

"He has suffered enough, Ser Uncle. Give him this mercy, if only so no regret follows either of you if death takes one or the other."

“Do you command it, Lady Stark?” he wondered amused.

“I only ask. Make of it what you will. But once again I will remind you of the position he was in and what he chose to protect. Not himself but his child. And that should be all the incentive you require. All the incentive my lady mother would have deemed necessary,” she reminded him of.

He nodded slowly.

“Aye. She would.”

“She asked Lord Tully to bend the knee upon arrival. Poor man hadn’t even taken refreshments. It Is only out of her own negligence that she hasn’t asked the same of you, as Lord Protector. As soon as this war is done you must hurry back to the Vale, my lord,” Sansa advised. “She won’t give you the same reprieve she was forced to by Lord Tully.”

He grimaced. “I do not feel at ease to leave you here, alone, to tend to the wreckage of her frustrations.”

“And risk two kingdoms? We cannot. The Vale has thrived under the rule of the Iron Throne. Better yet the lack of it. To persuade them to risk so much…”

“Worse battles have been fought. More senseless ones at that. I fought the Mad King. I have heard this woman speak, I have heard of her accomplishments. A Targaryen cannot be trusted, the Vale knows that as well as the North,” he argued. “In our absence they have been building scorpions for just as long. She won’t find us so ill-prepared like her ancestors did Sharra Arryn.”

In truth, they would find it easier to aim than the North would, given their higher position. If every castle in the Vale had half a dozen scorpions, if every tower in the Eyrie had one… Robin would be safe as long as he did not leave the security of his nest. He would not be Ronnel Arryn come again.

Sansa shook her head. It wouldn’t come to that. She hoped it wouldn’t, at least.

“If she should burn us all-” he tried to interrupt “- my Lord, if she should burn us all, she will require food. She will need the Vale for that. There would be no other option, I would urge you to take advantage of it, should the time come. My lord cousin should be safe and detached from my own actions.”

He sneered. “And forsake our honour? Our vows to you?”

Sansa smiled kindly. He was a good man, Lord Royce. She didn’t claim to know many, but she was certain of his character.

“I have nothing to offer you, my Lord. No way to repay your loyalty to me, your service. No familiar bond to call upon to keep you here once this war is done.”

She did not wish to deceive him. She did not want him here under false guises. She had nothing to offer him. She would not lie and say she did. She had nothing to offer the Vale for all their aid.

And sometimes… sometimes one had to make moves to baffle one’s opponents. Even moves that did not serve their purposes, their cause. Not having Lord Royce by her side certainly was a loss. Would certainly confuse those who presumed she was gathering opposition against the Dragon Queen. Would certainly create doubts of her own character.

“All I have done, I have not done for reward. None of us have. What we do, here, today, and tomorrow after that. What we did, all those moons ago when we fought for Winterfell, we did for duty. We did for honour. And permit me to say my Lady, much the same way the North remembers, We Remember.” The words of House Royce. “I said it before and I say it again, the Vale and the Mountains shall not break faith with you, Lady Stark.”

He took a deep breath and looked at her for a long while in thought.

“I should have known,” he whispered, looking away from her.

Sansa furrowed. “My Lord?”

“I should have known,” he repeated more firmly. “When you arrived, I knew your face. I should have realized… If I had, how much suffering I could have spared us all. My liege lady’s life, perhaps.” He looked at her once more. “I am indebted to you, my lady. The Vale will always be indebted to you.”

“The Vale should not have to fall for me.”

“What danger is there if you do not fall at all?” he attempted, good-heartedly. “It would be a worthy end no matter the outcome.”

He honoured her. He did. He always did.

Daenerys would use him against her. She would claim that Sansa would raise three kingdoms against her. She would gather whatever excuses necessary to make away with her. With them. With all those who would stand against her, who would be able to. Sansa wished to take from her all reasons, all pretext. All justifications to burn the North to the ground. So that she would leave and battle Cersei instead. So that she would die in that fight instead.

Someone knocked on the doors and both their heads turned.

“Daenerys Targaryen wishes to see you, Lady Stark.”

Sansa nodded and they rose from their chairs, waiting patiently for the Dragon Queen to be allowed entrance.

She wore a heavy black gown, a slit on the front that showed her high leather boots. There was red embroidery around the shoulders that resembled scales. Dragon scales, Sansa could only assume. She had never ventured to look upon the creatures.

“Lady Sansa, I was hoping we could speak alone,” she proposed softly with a smile Sansa had no doubt was her best effort at her courtesies.

Sansa exchanged a look with Lord Royce who nodded solemnly to her, before leaving the room not sparing the Targaryen more than a glance and a polite bow of the head. The woman clenched her left hand but seemed subdued for some reason, there was a newfound joy to her that left Sansa ill at ease.

“We seemed on the verge of agreement before. About Jaime Lannister,” she prompted.

Sansa nodded, pointing them to the chairs, so they might sit together and feign mutual respect more ably.

“Lady Brienne has been loyal to me, to my House and those it serves, I trust her. And we require all the men we can spare to fight against the undead. Nevertheless, I share your desire to see Jaime Lannister punished for his crimes. If he dies fighting this threat, it will be a far more honourable death than the one I believe him deserving of,” she added, to show agreement with her judgement.

Though the man should have been celebrated for killing the Mad King, Sansa understood the benefits of agreeing with this woman on the small instances where she could, especially when they found themselves alone.

“All my life, I've known one goal – the Iron Throne. To regain what was stolen from my family, to avenge them. Had Viserys been alive it would have been his right and his task. And yet my brother was no true dragon. I am, and so the right to these Seven Realms rightfully falls to me. Seven kingdoms, not six. Taking them back from the people who destroyed my house, who exiled and hunted us down. My war was against them. Until I met Jon. Now I'm here, separated from my purpose, fighting Jon's war alongside him, alongside you…To protect the North. And yet, with every waking moment I find myself more lost in this war. The counsel offered to me lacking. I asked Lord Tyrion to be my Hand because he was wise and sharp, and ruthless when it was necessary of him, and yet he trusted his sister, when he shouldn’t have.”

You never should have either, Sansa thought but did not say.

There was just something about Daenerys Targaryen that irked her.

She felt pity for the suffering she had endured running from Robert Baratheon’s rath. However there was an entitlement to her that while not uncommon for those highborn was entirely unchecked. She had great armies no doubt, dragons that commanded fear, if not respect. Yet it were her speeches regarding her claim, her rights to the Iron Throne, her virtues as a Breaker of Chains that made her sound utterly ignorant once one took a closer look at those she surrounded herself with.

She seemed unprepared for the tasks in front of her. That she would conquer the Iron Throne was almost a certainty, but what she would do once she achieved it was entirely unknown. She knew nothing of Westeros, their customs, their laws. She knew nothing of the enemies she faced. Cersei was not an enemy one took on lightly, her actions were not easy to anticipate. Her reactions to being cornered less so. Cersei Lannister had survived the game for thirty years, she wasn’t about to be beaten by foreign a girl who had just now arrived at these shores.

Sansa waited for her to carry on. Daenerys Targaryen seemed like a woman who was very fond of her own voice and Sansa did not wish to rob her of whatever pleasures she did not find a reason to take from her.

“Jorah Mormont, however loyal, has not been to Westeros in far too long. He has forgotten, what it is like, I believe. How he would be received.” She pursed her lips in a tight smile for a moment. “And here I am. Losing men, exhausting my children, and what do I stand to gain? Nothing. Isn’t that unfair? What would you advise, were you in their place, Lady Stark?”

Sansa raised a brow and pretended to think for a moment. Pretended that she had not envisioned the moment she would come to her and ask for retribution in such a way that she could not be disregarded so easily as she was in the Great Hall.

“Seven Kingdoms ravaged by war are quite a feat to look over. Seven Kingdoms the ruler on the Iron Throne will have to bring back to their glory. Wouldn’t having the largest of these kingdoms away from your responsibilities as a ruler prove to be a relief? And some years after, once you have your own children, so easily could a betrothal with little Eddard be arranged and your daughter made Queen in North, your line carrying on as rulers here as well. Without bloodshed, without conflict, a peaceful transition of power once more to the Targaryen line,” Sansa offered in way of appeasement.

She had given it careful thought. Dorne had resolved matters like this many a time. If Daenerys survived the war with Cersei it would be a compromise she would be able to convince her lords to agree to.

“Of course, a fine proposal, uniting our great houses. You are a smart girl.” Yet it sounded so demeaning when she noticed it. “But what role will you have in this, Lady Stark?” she wondered, clasping her hands together.

“Role, Your Grace?”

"I understand Lady Westerling, your brother's widow, is still with us."

That infuriating smirk on her face.

"She is, Your Grace."

"Lady Westerling should be more than capable of being her son's regent, Lady Stark. I understand this is how these things are managed in Westeros. It seems awfully unfair that she isn’t already. That you are wasting away serving your nephew when you can be put to better service. You have such a gentle beauty, it would be a shame that you would become a spinster when there is no need. No need at all.”

Sansa took a deep, deep breath to keep herself from clawing away at her own skin. Painfully aware of where she intended to go with this. Painfully aware of the pounding in her chest.

“And yet it presents us with an opportunity. I am not blind. The daughter of the North, with bindings to both the Riverlands and the Vale. You are a threat to me,” she told her, with none of the subtlety a politician might have had, none of the grace. "I bear you no ill-will, of course. It's just that you are not a risk I am willing to take. It's by no achievement of your own, or threat you have made me, worry not. It's simply the expectations placed upon you, they will lead you astray. Your Stark, Tully blood. I cannot fault you for it – of course – you are only a girl with far too great of a weight placed on your shoulders. I will protect you from being used against me. It's a kindness, you see."

She could only nod. There was nothing else to be said. Nothing here that could be done.

"Before we reached these shores Tyrion said to me... What was it that he said... Oh yes." She smiled. "We are in the great game now. And I plan to win. I plan to bring about a new world. A fair and peaceful world. That cannot be while all these houses fight each other. Lannister, Stark, Baratheon… on and on it goes, no end in sight. I will bring about the end of this game. And you can either accept that and stand by my side or suffer the consequences. You understand that don't you? He assured me you would understand, having spent so long under his sister’s tutelage in Kingslanding."

Sansa wondered why was it that Cersei Lannister’s tutelage only mattered when others saw fit. Where others were concerned. When it benefited them and not her.

"Do you understand the cost, though?" she asked in a moment of unbridled candour in the face of… death. Or at the very least death’s bride.

She raised a pale brow.

"The cost?"

Sansa understood her confusion… it wasn’t usual that she paid the cost, was it?

"One slip and you're dead, Your Grace. I didn't choose to play, others made that choice for me, my own blood, as you say. Cersei Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon most of all I think. But you… You have chosen to play. You had kingdoms to rule on the other side of the sea. You abandoned them. You have lost them. You chose to play,” she repeated.

For a chance at the Iron Throne. At a metal chair that only ever offered misery.

She nodded slowly and it did not cross her mind to contradict her. Perhaps she had made her peace with it. Perhaps she had never cared at all.

"Dragons plant no trees, Lady Sansa. A lesson I took a long while to learn. One more sacrifice I would have made gladly to free Westeros," she simply said.

Free them from what? From whom? Sansa would gladly sacrifice to free them from her.

The people she had left there, on the other side of the sea, had not chosen to take on this sacrifice. Not them. Not the people who were being forced back into chains, no doubt. Not the people she had abandoned. The people who died while their husbands, their sons stood half a world away fighting for a hollow throne while they perished. Not them. They hadn’t had the choice.

“It is your turn.”

“What do you propose, Your Grace?” Sansa was forced to ask but she ceased to hear her.

She ceased to hear anything at all.

There was no need. She knew what she would say.

“I require capable counsel. I find you worthy, I would have you, Lady Stark.”

Sansa wondered what would happen if she were to scream. Who would come first. She wondered if they would raise swords. If they would point them at this monster. If there was enough time for them to kill her before Daenerys' own men showed up at the doors. But then what could be done about the dragons – no, it could not be. Her own family would die, her people… because of her. She could not.

It was a deranged thought to begin with.

She looked at the window for a moment. It was large enough for Sansa to throw herself from it. But the fall would not be great enough for her to perish. She could go headfirst… that might do the trick. If she were lucky there would be some manner of artillery at the bottom that would take care of the chance of survival. She couldn’t take the chance. She wasn’t lucky by nature. Had never been. She would land in a fresh pile of straw most certainly.

She couldn’t take the chance.

She remembered they had brought her midday meal to this room. There was a bread knife around, somewhere… She just had to find it. She didn’t remember where the tray was. She just had to look around… oh, there – just above the fireplace. Would she wait for the woman to leave her chambers? Could she? It would be better. She would not call for help then. She could wait for her to leave.

Sansa was very good at waiting. She had waited most of her life for rescue. She never found any. She could wait. Cut both her wrists… No… Slit her neck, one quick motion, and it would all be over. Her misery. It would be faster. It would be easy. It might even feel good. To get rid of this lump in her throat that was always there. Yes. She would wait.

Maybe it would make it easier to breathe.

She just wanted to breathe.

Why couldn’t she breathe.

Mother. Where are you.

Mother. I’m afraid.

Mother. Please.

“Lady Stark?” she tried to call for her attention. Sansa forced herself to take a deep breath before meeting her eyes.

“Resuming your marriage to Tyrion, to become a lady of mine, taking away the one three kingdoms could rally behind, would leave me much more at ease, for peace. Don’t you agree?” She edged her on with a vicious smile. “A sacrifice you can make for the North, for their freedom. Lady Westerling can take your place, she’s better suited to the task, as the child’s mother, her temperament more amiable.”

What freedom?

What greater show of obedience could it be to step away from her position and be forced into marriage with those considered the sworn enemies of her house. To resume her place as a hostage. The regent of the North. What greater show of lack of freedom. What greater sign of chains.

And Lady Westerling, the King’s mother… soon to be the Lord’s mother. It would not last… the kingship, it would not last. Daenerys would wait until she sat upon the Iron Throne, and she would summon Lady Westerling to bend the knee in the place of her son and of course she would. She had no reason not to.

Of course she was more amiable. Of course she could take her place. Lady Westerling had no concerns of Northern Independence. No loyalties to keep to that would threaten the Dragon Queen.

Had she volunteered? Had Jeyne left her rooms in the cover of night and offered allegiance to this woman? Had she offered her on a silver platter? Had she offered it or just accepted it as its price? The price for her son’s peaceful life. As if any rule marred by a Targaryen’s shadow could be peaceful.

“Don’t you agree?”

Sansa only nodded but didn’t bother to look back at her once more. There were tears running down her face that she couldn’t be bothered to hide. Let her think she had lost. Spirit broken and mind deranged. Let her see it all. She was sure it would even give her some pleasure.

Let her have it.

A final courtesy.

If only she could push herself to breathe.

“I understand Lannisters are much hated North. I understand it might be an insult. I’ll give you time to convince them. Until after the war. I can be merciful too,” she added. “It’s only a small price, isn’t it, for what you stand to gain? This matter resolved between the both of us, instead of our forces. It will be good for us all. For the realm.”

She kept on talking. Why did she keep on talking…

Sansa couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t she see that she couldn’t breathe?

“You would not be alone in Kingslanding, worry not. Jon would be there with you. Think of how your relationship with him might flourish if it is no longer inconvenienced by these fantasies of power. These responsibilities that you had no place to shoulder. The opportunity it presents for you to offer him the kinship you have robbed him of, all these years. You’ll have a man of your own blood to lead you down the Sept this time, instead of that wretched Lannister bastard.” There was joy in her voice. As if it mattered who led down the path to slaughter. As if it made it easier.

Sansa had robbed him? What had she robbed him of?

She loved him. He was her kin, no matter his mistakes or betrayals. No matter which ones she knew now and which ones she would discover. No matter how bitter his acceptance of what was hers had felt. How disappointing his abdication had been.

No matter the title given to Jon, Winterfell was always hers. By law and blood and men. She had been Jon’s most trusted and important vassal, had she not? Her keep the one he rested on, in lack of his own. The greatest stronghold of the North. If she had wanted to turn away from him, she could have. She had the right and the means to do so. She had not. She had been loyal to her kin. Always was.

 The North’s heir came to Winterfell, and she had known her duty to her brother’s trueborn heir. Jon would have expected nothing else from her. Would have fought for nothing else. Robb was his beloved brother as well. What had she robbed him of?

Jon… did he know. Did he know? Did he know?

Of course he did. Of course he knew. How could he not know. It was why he found it so very hard to look at her.

Because he had broken his oath. He had forsaken her.

“I had a marriage forced on me as well, Lady Stark. I made myself from it. So shall you. You will thank me, one day. I’m sure. You’ll stand beside me as I end the game once and for all. You’ll see peace being achieved. True greatness. Rest now,” she commanded.

Women like Sansa, they were not supposed to rise above their station. They were not supposed to rule without any man by their side, be it their father, husband, or son. They were meant to follow. They were meant to bow and endure. Abide. Withstand. Sustain all matters of injury. Until there was nothing more to them than whatever they had been required to become.

Sansa had forgotten her use in the world and the Gods reminded her of it.

Just like they had done to Cersei Lannister in her walk of shame. Women did not lead. Women did not rule. Women were to be seen and not heard. Women were to follow. The gods would teach this lesson to Daenerys Targaryen as well one day. By then Sansa would be long dead.

She had considered this course of action, but she never thought the woman this callous. She had considered it, but never had she expected it. The nerve. With this degree of unmistakable pleasure to her. With this unbridled ruthlessness. This amount of risk. To threaten the North’s Lady in her own home. To command those who had nothing but contempt for her.

They would demand Tyrion’s head for Kinslaying, the North, the South even. He was hated across Westeros. He had not an ally in the world except this Dragon Queen. She would bind Sansa to him. She would seek to unbind her of her family ties. Bury her under the weight of Kingslanding. Of Lannister blood. A hostage once again.

Still they might not. They might accept the indignity of it all. They might consider it a fair price for peace. A price she would have to be the one to pay. As always. It came natural to her of course, Sansa Stark, eldest daughter of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully, paying the blood price.

It was almost clever. Almost, if Sansa had intended to survive. Sansa had always done her duty. This time, she simply could not. It was too high a price.

She would die first.

She would.

She would make a point of it.

Sansa walked hurriedly, fearing she would fall to the floor if she had even a moment to let herself feel anything at all.

She could hear Ghost’s footsteps beside her, though she could not take the time to look at him. It wasn’t this the chamber he wanted to lead her to, but nevertheless he offered her a place where she might rest some of her weight, where she might lean should her legs give out on her. If only his master could do the same.

She nearly ran until she found the door she was looking for. Walked in without time to consider or take care for the lack of property.

"Cersei Lannister woke me up one day with a new dress. A beautiful ivory thing and she told me that though I might scream and kick, as she would have in my place, I would be married to Tyrion Lannister that day, by her father's order. I was taken to the Great Sept by the Kingsguard. I was walked along the aisle by Joffrey Lannister, who had my father executed in front of my eyes, who had me undressed and beaten in the throne room in front of the whole court to witness every time Robb won a battle. And I did not kneel for Lord Tyrion to cloak me, no matter how much he tugged at my dress, how humiliated he was. I did not kneel for a Lannister. On our wedding night he touched me and for the mercy of all the gods old and new he ceased for I could not hide my repulsion and he was used to poor women who endured it. I heard of my mother's death and brother's when Joffrey promised to serve me Grey Wind’s head as a gift on his wedding day."

She refused to cry and was thankful that he did not speak.

“I was unknowingly made to wear a hairnet with the poison Petyr and Olenna Tyrell would use to kill him. That same day, Petyr whisked me away and took me to aunt Lysa. She was mad with jealousy because I had the face of the woman her dearest Petyr loved. He took to forcing kisses on me and one day, after witnessing it, Lady Lysa held me over the moon gate ready to see me fall. He killed her then and there. He called me Cat and asked me for kisses and asked me for more... " Her voice broke but she carried on"... Sweet Robin was very weak. Petyr had a plan to marry me to Harry Harding, get me with child to pass off as his and then kill both of them, after retaking Winterfell in my name, he was never this forthcoming, but I knew. He would then marry his Cat."

He nodded slowly, willing and patient to listen to her, but when she took a moment to breathe he edged her further.

"What made you kill him, my child?"

"One of the Vale Lords came with news. Spoke of Arya married to the Bolton bastard. I heard it. I begged him to move the plan along, that I could marry Harry right away and reveal myself a Stark, get Winterfell back. He said I had to be with child first. That I had to be patient. That I had to trust him. That we had to wait. But there were awful, awful rumours about what the Bolton dog was doing. Awful things. The lords declarant were growing restless, any day they would depose him themselves, I... I could have waited. I suppose. I could have. But I… I had to be there.” She looked to him, pleading so that he might understand that she had to. She just had to. “I had to hear his last words, I owed him as much. I had to see him die. I spiked his wine with poison I got from Lothor Brune, he was one of his men, but... It doesn't matter, he was always kind to me. He wasn't one to drink so he did not find the taste strange. And I stood in the chair in front of him, as he choked and begged for Cat to have mercy on him. For me to have mercy on him. Then I washed my hair, donned the most Tully of aunt Lysa's dresses and I called for Lord Royce and told them how the wine was for Sweet Robin, and I had changed the cups. From then forth it was easy to rally the Knights of the Vale to fight for Winterfell, for me. It was the easiest thing I have ever done. "

It was the first time… It was the first time she had ever had control. Over others, over herself most of all.

Sansa allowed herself some silent tears as she waited for his judgment, but there was more to be said. And she no longer had the strength to carry it all silently inside herself. She couldn’t bear the secrets. She couldn’t bear the hidden plans.

She needed…. She needed comfort. And support. And most of all she needed to let it all go.

"She will make me marry him now. Again. And the lords will not fight against it if they think independence is assured if I do. If they can make them believe... I cannot." She shook her head, swallowed in fear. "I cannot. I cannot. I will not. I will die before I let that man touch me. Any of them touch me. I cannot. I will die," she kept on repeating.

She could not have expected how gentle his arms would be when he wrapped them around her.

How he ran a hand over her unbound hair, her back, how he did not speak as her tears became stronger and louder and she could barely breathe once more.

And then he began to speak softly to her. Not demeaning in any way. Not unbothered by her concerns. Judgmental of her actions. Of her words. Of her thoughts. Not dismissive of her fears, not taking her bruises for lesser than they were.

"He will not. He could not. Not while I live. I shall kill Tyrion Lannister. If it is the last thing I do. He shall drink himself to his death and none will be the wiser. Worry not, my child. I would never allow him to place a hand on you. By the old gods and the new, I swear that to you. He and her will die need be, no offer and bread and salt shall stop me. This keep is not my own. I will kill them, and you might judge me afterwards so no blame can be placed on you for breaking guest right. I'm an old man, I do not fear death, I fear only to fail my duty towards my kin. He shall not touch you, this I swear to you, my child, my sweet and gentle child. Not a finger. On my word as a Tully, on my blood as your kin. None of them shall touch you while I live," he whispered soothingly, chin resting on the top of her head.

She cried harder.

“I took care of that boy once. I should have killed him. I should have beaten that boy to a bloody pulp. And if he were alive I would. But it was the Gods' will that it had to be you. That it had to be those Tully features to destroy him. He will never know peace in the Seven Hells, my child. He will never know rest. I will make sure,” he spoke almost absentmindedly, a rage so thick that it made his voice numb, while he never stopped running his fingers down her hair.

"You are what remains of old promises, my girl. So many oaths were sworn over you. So many promises unmade. Remember it well. How little they mean. How little they served you. How much strength it takes to keep them. Not one of us had it."

She stepped away so she might have the space to look up at him.

"You will live. Swear it to me."

He could keep her safe. He could. If only he would keep her safe…

"My child... "

"You have not been released of your vow, swear it to me Ser. I have need of you yet and you promised not to fail me again," she pleaded, her voice as small as a child’s.

He smiled at that, and she could see the tears on his face, as he cleaned her own.

"Aye. I did. My sweet girl, I shall see you again, I shall kill for you again, worry not. I refuse to die without this blade having tasted either Targaryen or Lannister blood. The gods are true," he swore.

Once the tremors ceased, and they took hours to do so after Uncle Brynden had left her in her chambers to rest. Had her laying in her bed, clothes creased and dishevelled, holding her knees to her chest. Ghost laid on the other side of her bed, red eyes intently on her face, keeping a silent vigil, until her heartbeat evened out and Sansa found her voice strong enough to call for a maid.

She should send him away. He was not her wolf. She should send him away. And yet she wouldn’t. Simply couldn’t, not when he was so decided in keeping watch over her. Not when it offered her such comfort. Not when he seemed to know just how in need she was of it. 

Lady Flint was the one that came, as if she had been waiting at the door to be called. She undid the fastenings of her heavy black gown, let it pool at her feet and covered her with heavy furs before leaving her for a moment to fetch another gown.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa whispered, noticing she had teared out the eyelets, such was the strength she had used to free herself from the gown.

“It’s no trouble. I’ll fix it myself,” she lied with an accommodating and gentle tone. Sansa knew it would be quite a trouble to rearrange it, but she had no desire to use it ever again either way.

She returned to her with a green damask gown of velvet that had belonged to her lady mother.

Sansa sat on the edge of the bed, discarding the furs and raising her arms, so the Lady might slip it over her. She laced it tightly, her mother had been larger than her, given the five living children she had birthed. She wrapped a woven leather belt around her that covered much of her waist and allowed her to adjust the ornate golden buckle to her comfort.

Lady Lyessa cleaned her cheeks of tears, asked nothing then but took her face in her hands and placed a soft, motherly kiss in her brow, that made Sansa have to hold her breath to keep from beginning to shed tears again. She braided her hair from her face, a thick braid that reached the end of her back, with none of the delicate twists and twirls she had been so fond of. That she wouldn’t bear to sit in her chair long enough to have done.

“Do you have need for anything else, my Lady?” she asked, placing a bowl of ice on her dressing table, for her to take care of her swollen face. To become the ever composed Lady of Winterfell. To become what was expected of her. “Do you wish to unburden yourself?” she tried once again.

Sansa only shook her head and looked away from her, far away.

I wouldn’t know where to begin.

"Lord Tarly, do join us," she edged him on to the room with a weak voice. "What seems to be the matter?”

He had summoned all three of them. All three trueborn Starks. Each one more broken than the other.

She did not wish to be here. She wished to be alone. In a dark room. Where she did not need to be the Lady Stark. Where she did not need to be ever so composed. Ever so unfeeling. And yet she had forced herself to dress for this. For whatever this was. This – her duty.

Arya kept looking at her, trying to decipher what was it that was so, so very wrong.

“Lady Stark, you urged me to confide in you, once when I arrived. The reason I left the Citadel.”

Sansa remembered. She remembered Bran had known already. She remembered how concerned she had been, how frustrated. She remembered how confident she was that if it were important Bran would share it with her. How trusting. Perhaps she had been wrong. Her trust once again misplaced. Perhaps she had been wrong about everything. Foolish girl.

Sansa pointed to the chair in front of her, so he might take a seat.

"I wish to speak about Daenerys Targaryen. And the Iron Throne."

Sansa nodded and urged him to carry on, faced with his silence. He swallowed harshly.

“Jon is the trueborn son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Lady Lyanna Stark. The rightful heir to the Iron Throne.”

There was a piercing silence.

A silence during which once could only hear the thumping of one’s heart.

The hollow of one’s chest.

And then…

Sansa Stark laughed.

She would have liked to say it was the shock. The culminal of every ridiculous thing that had happened till that point since she had left Winterfell. Her slayed wolf. Her slayed father. Her slayed mother and brother. Her beatings, her forced marriage. The fear. The hiding. The fear. Petyr. The fear. Rickon Stark. Jeyne Westerling. The fear. Daenerys Targaryen. The fear.

The never-ending fear that haunted every second of her life. The terror of it all.

And there he was.

Jon Snow, a Targaryen prince. The best kept secret of these Seven Realms. A secret her father of all people, of all loyal and honourable men had managed to keep until his dying day. The father that hadn’t been able to keep his intentions from Cersei Lannister for threat of life and yet kept a secret from her lady mother for fourteen years that would have eased her shame.

Jon Snow, the Targaryen Prince. The rightful heir to the iron throne.

Sansa laughed.

She laughed so hard her stomach burned and there was no more air in her lungs. She finally managed to stop and take a deep breath, composing herself to the best of her abilities. She hadn’t laughed this hard in years, if ever.

Arya was shocked but slightly amused, how could she not, this was the least ladylike thing Sansa had done in all her life. She had borne scars with more decorum. Taken whippings with less emotion. Bran seemingly found her reaction perfectly understandable, and Lord Tarly was beyond words. Why shouldn’t he be, he knew her not.

“What do you mean rightful?” Sansa asked him once she could breathe deeply.

Least she heard Rhaegar Targaryen was married to Princess Elia Martell, having been given by her two healthy children, a boy, and a girl. Marriages between more than two people had been prohibited by the Faith of the Seven centuries before. Wars had been fought over it. Wars had been won by the Faith and every noble house that feared for their name and honour, if their daughters could be cast aside for younger brides. Their trueborn children ignored in favour of dearer bastards.

He shook his head and played with his hands in a nerve-wracking way that threatened her never ending patience.

“His marriage with Princess Elia was annulled,” he finally said.

Sansa suppressed the need to laugh once more. She had not the strength for it. She had not eaten in two days.

“His marriage that had already produced two living heirs? No maester or septon worthy of the name would ever permit nor attempt such a thing. And even if they did, no Lord on this land would recognize it as truth. Such a thing is not done, or allowed, not even to a mad Prince. To the eyes of the world he would be a bastard still and a stupid one at that. You are of noble birth yourself, you are not ignorant to this. And Dorne, why would he anger Dorne by declaring himself Rhaegar's rightful heir? And the kingdoms? No one wants a Targaryen ruler. But very well, he’s the bastard son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, have you told him?” she asked with an acidity she no longer forced herself to hide with pleasantries and courtesy – she had endured too much already.

“I have. I promised Jon I wouldn't tell, but he seems unwilling to take action. So I came to you, so you might advise him on how to proceed," he explained.

Of course he did.

Of course he expected Sansa to get Jon the Iron Throne. She had gained him the Northern one already, not so long ago.

His face was very red, when faced with her silence, he said, "You would bow to Daenerys-"

There was no reason for him to presume such a thing. She had been the one to tell him of his dead family. The one that continuously, publicly, defied the Dragon Queen, no matter how much pleasantries she wrapped it in. It was still clear for all to see her position. Why would he assume she would bow to the woman was unknown. And yet… it would hardly be the first time. Or the last.

The world had the unpleasant habit of doubting her. Her own family too. Most of all, at times.

"The North knows no King but the King in the North whose name is Stark, " Arya proclaimed firmly, almost dangerously. "And my sister has not bowed to the Dragon Queen in my nephew’s name, even if Jon has. You believe he hasn’t shared this news with her?"

"Oh, I see," Samwell Tarly staggered. “No, he seemed unwilling to disclose the subject.”

There was some mercy to that, Sansa thought. But she couldn’t be sure.

Faced with Sansa’s silence Arya spoke further, “I cannot put to words how important it is that you keep this a secret while we decide on the course of action. How life threatening this information is in the wrong hands. How any word of this would mean Jon’s blood on your hands.”

“Of course. Of course. I wouldn’t want Jon to be harmed.” And the concern was clear on his face.

It was clear how much he loved Jon. How much he cared for him. Even when he followed the woman who burned his family alive. And Sansa was continuously surprised with how Jon could achieve this continued devotion. The Gods knew how she too had offered it to him as well, against sense and judgement. How she had followed her heart.

“I’m glad to hear. If you would be so kind as to give us the room,” Arya prompted, waving her hand towards the door.

“Of course, my lady,” he answered, bowing his head while walking backwards to the door. Such a silly man.

Sansa counted in her head. She counted how much time it would take him to close the chamber doors. How much time it would take him to walk over the corridor. She counted how much time it would take him to be far enough that he would not hear what went on in the room.

In any other moment in time what Samwell Tarly had revealed in these chambers would have taken precedence above any other thing. But this moment… Sansa was bloody and bruised and terrified. And if she allowed herself to think too much about it, about what it meant, what it took from her, what it offered her, what it explained…she could not give it a moment’s thought or else she would crumble.

"Did you know?” He only looked at her. “What she would demand of me, did you know?" her voice was rough from the grief of it. Dry from all the tears she had spent. All the meals she had not consumed.

It was the only thing she could think of. The only thing she saw in front of her. She could barely function, such was the weight of it. Her impending marriage and its culprits.

"Yes."

Was this what a knife wound felt like?

The tears ran down her face, but she smiled. How she should have expected anything and everything. Even from her kin. Especially from her kin. Father had done the same thing, of course, her brother too. Robb hadn’t deigned to exchange the Kingslayer for her but had been ready to promise her hand in marriage to a twelfth born Frey should he ever get her back. Father had bound her to Joffrey for his own purposes and then had left her to fend for herself in a foreign court, with a foreign family. Had killed her wolf. Had killed a part of herself.

They would kill the rest now.

"You promised. You promised we would fight together. You promised I wouldn't have to do it all alone," she reminded him.

"What do you speak of?" Arya tried to understand her disarray.

"There was nothing that could have been done. Nothing that you could have done to change it. Nothing else you would have done had you known it sooner. There were too many choices involved. Too much settled. It wouldn't have made a difference. I spared you the pain of anticipation. All my promises still stand, Sansa. The vows I made to you – unbroken."

And yet he admitted to her betrayal.

"You spared me nothing. The gods spare me from nothing."

"What has she demanded of you?" Arya asked again, grabbing her arm more forcefully to get her attention, Sansa shook her grip away, her eyes too focused on Bran.

"It isn't that the gods are cruel, Sansa. It's only that they're indifferent to our suffering. Once we realize that, we can be free," and the hopeful, pitiful tone of his voice made Sansa laugh.

"And about Jon. You knew that as well didn't you? That was the reason he came to me. Why he asked what you were. You told him, with Lord Tarly. You told him."

"I did," he confessed.

"How good it must be. To be a man. With only a man's fear."

What wicked delight she felt at bearing witness to the fall of his face. That he understood what she meant. That he saw what she feared.

"Sansa! Tell me. Tell me at once!" Arya kept screeching and Sansa had enough.

"Daenerys Targaryen has demanded that I resume my marriage to Tyrion Lannister. She has demanded that I should return with them South and remain a part of her council as the Lady Lannister. Jeyne Westerling will take my place. For peace. For obedience."

Lady Westerling was to be exactly what Sansa had feared she would become the moment of her arrival – her replacement.

"Does Jon know? He would not allow it if he knew," Arya assured her but there was no strength to it. No conviction that these long days hadn’t shaken. That this news didn’t give way for doubt.

"She wished me to rejoice for I would not be alone, Jon would be with me, he would lead me down the Sept," Sansa said viciously, blinded by a fear she could not put to rest. That she could not replace.

A fear that clawed at her neck. That made her hands tremble. Her legs shake from standing alone. A fear that made her frail and worn when she had not the time to raise her shields. To rebuild her foundations. To make herself whole.

Did he know? Did he know? Did he hate her so.

As a Stark bastard he would only ever rise as high as her lover. As a Targaryen bastard he might achieve to be the father of her children. Continue on the pure Targaryen line – Daenerys Targaryen would be most pleased. If only she did not see him as a threat because of it. And she would… of course she would. What she had done to Sansa so easily could be done to her now that another Targaryen heir appeared.

At least it would be Jon doing it. There could be some justice to be had there. Some irony as well.

"Sansa... Don't say that" Arya begged of her. "Does he know Bran?"

"No." There was a beat of silence. “I think not, at least.”

"Why would you believe him. He might just be sparing you some pain," Sansa wagered, leaning back in her chair - unchallenged.

And yet she wanted to believe so just as much.

"Sansa, I..."

And Sansa delighted that he looked like a child, like the child he was supposed to be when he looked upon her. As his face fell when he took on the consequences of his choices. Her misery. Her disappointment. Her mother’s face.

She delighted that he hurt when he looked upon her pain. That he felt something while she felt everything and was paralyzed by it.

"I think I shall end the mummer’s farce, Bran. I will let you have it. Have it all and see what you can do with it. I refuse to be the only one to pay the price for peace. I have paid too many times the price for war. And that I would have done gladly. Better to pay the price for defiance than the one for obedience. Maybe that will make them call me a Stark for it, instead of a dove. Maybe I’ll die a Stark. Maybe that will be enough for all of you. For me to prove my loyalty in terms you can understand."

“No matter what you might think, I am not all-knowing. I see paths, I see choices. Sometimes I only see figures. Sometimes I only see words. I see things that might come to be. I see warnings. I see things that were – I see much of the past, that is true – much clearer than anything else. I fill in all the empty spaces with what I know. And I hardly see the motives in someone’s mind. I have never questioned yours,” he almost seethed and Sansa welcomed it. She welcomed all the emotions they had all hidden for years. She welcomed at long last the brutal honesty they all clearly had been lacking. She welcomed anything but their indifference. “What I do know is that you would not let us burn for your defiance," he said with conviction. With knowledge. With some measure of regret.

And she smiled but it was all teeth. It was all despair.

For Bran was right, and she wanted it so desperately for him not to be. For herself to be as wicked as some claimed her to be. How easier her life would have been. She would have been safer in the Vale now had she followed her earlier plans concerning Jeyne Westerling. Safer and alone. As she was always meant to be.

"And how you all depend upon it. How you all depend upon my good conscience and never admit to my worth. Sell the girl and let another take her place. A man would have been given the honour to die, but not a girl. A girl is to be sold. Father would be proud of you, Bran. Robb too. They would have found this a fair price for peace.” She rolled her eyes. “Whatever that means."

"Sansa," Arya called to her firmly. Raised from her seat and quickly took her face in her hands and forced her to face her. "Men do stupid things when they are in love. You know this to be true. We'll put some sense into him. He'll convince her to change her mind. We have only to trust him and lead him towards the right path. He's still Jon... He’s still our brother, no matter his blood."

Sansa took the time to look upon her with the utmost focus. Took notice of the grey in her eyes. The tired lines on such a young face.

She covered her hands with her own before saying, "You would not be so understanding were I in his place. You were not, when I was sold to the crown, a girl of twelve. You seemed to think I should have known better than my own elders, that I should have raged against my intended. And I only ever did my duty. Does he? Having her hanging from his arm? Should a man grown not know any better, Arya?" And she pushed her hands away once more. "You would not plead with him to trust me, were I the one running after her like a lost dog. Had it been me lusting now over an Aegon the Conqueror come again, riding dragons by his side. You would not trust me so, you would not plead with anyone to trust me either."

Not all sisters got along. She would have accepted that easily enough. She already had. What she would not endure was any more hypocrisy from her own kin.

Arya took a step back, chin trembling in the face of her bluntness. In the face of her honesty.

Sansa would no longer spear blows no one would have protected her from.

"I do not deny... I mistrusted you. I did not gift you the loyalty I should. The one you deserved of me, as your kin, as your only sister. I regret the words I spoke to you before... After the council. I know what you hold dearest. I know how much you care about the North. About our people. About their freedom, about yours. I ask you to fight for it. Forget Jon. Forget his blood.” And she waved it away, as if it were an easy task, as if she could do it herself. As if this secret did not threaten the foundations of what Arya held dearest as well. “Whatever is to be done about Jon can wait a few days longer, it has waited years. I ask that you fight for yourself now."

Sansa shook her head.

"To fight for my freedom would mean to endanger northern lives. She will promise that my marriage will settle Northern Independence, she will name it its price. And once she has her throne and me as her hostage, she will take it back. What she cannot achieve by threats, she will take by force and most of all dragon fire. Every choice in front of me, every choice that might deliver me from this fate presents casualties. How can I choose others instead of my own?" she asked Arya instead.

"How noble…to choose your own death. As father did. How noble of you to leave us alone – “and when Arya’s voice broke, Sansa had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep her tears at bay. “If you will not fight for yourself, I ask you to fight for Jeyne. For Wynafryd. For Wylla. And Lyanna, Eddara, Lyra, Jorelle, all the ones she would use, just as she is willing to use you," she pleaded, with enough humility Sansa took to mind her words.

"What are you saying?"

"She has promised the Dothraki land, gold, riches. Where is the gold? Where are the riches? Westeros has nothing to offer except debts to the Iron bank. What can she give them but your ladies? What can she offer them for their swords if not their bodies? They grow restless, Sansa. I have heard them speak as you bid me so. They lose patience and hunger for what she has promised. They have left their wives, sisters, and children across the sea, they are not fools, they know them dead or enslaved. They will have their payment. They will have their reward. They will demand them from her, and you know she will oblige. She cares not for her own people, why would she care for ours?"

Sansa took a deep breath.

"Everything you warned them of in that council meeting, every fear has come to be. It will come to be. So I ask, what will you do to protect your people, to protect the North," she demanded of her.

If Sansa had to die to avoid this fate, she would. She would be glad to die and for it to be the end of it. But she would not leave her ladies to this misery, could not. She could not leave Jeyne alone. The North might not fight for her, but for them? For their own girls, daughters, sisters, liege ladies? They might.  The price would be too high not to.

That would only be so if they considered it a possibility. More than that, a certainty. But hadn’t Sansa been spreading those seeds ever since she heard of Jon’s bended knee?

"My people are against me," Sansa found herself whispering.

"They are not! They praise your name louder than they did father, Lady of the North. You are seen as higher than the King. It’s why she fears you. Why she is right to do so. Use it. Be the King."

When was I not? The thought consumed her.

She wondered if this was what Cersei had felt, every time they had looked towards her children instead of her. Always coupled with the never ending fear they would replace her. Just as they did to her.

"And yet, it is to be believed they would accept my replacement. Why, if Jeyne does not have the support?"

"We do not even know if Jeyne has pushed for the role, she might as well not even know. But even if she does, a lord or two do not make the North. Have you spoken with her?"

“To what purpose? If she does know she has betrayed me. There is nothing I could offer her that might change her course. Everything I had, I gave to her. And what I kept to myself she stands to gain with my forced marriage.”

Sansa had decided rather quickly Jeyne had known. Daenerys had presented her acceptance as certain knowledge. And it wasn’t that Sansa did not consider the woman rash enough to do so without Lady Westerling’s agreement, it was simply that Tyrion and Varys would have persuaded her not to. It was far too great of a threat to be made without cause.

Lady Dustin had warned her. Did she not? Many plans have crumbled in the face of a mother’s love – Barbrey knew. Or at least she suspected, anticipated, a betrayal from Robb’s Stark’s young widow.

Arya was quiet in thought for a moment.

"We could kill Jeyne Westerling." There was silence. A deafening silence that startled Arya. “I could make it look like an accident.” Arya swallowed harshly. “This way she could not take your place. We would be safe. Who else has the connections required? The bonds of marriage, if not of blood.”

Was it a test? Sansa was used to being tested. But no.

There was no question in her words, no doubt in her assumptions.

The answer was always on the tip of her tongue – of course – readied by all the fights she had had with her sister. The councils with the Northern Lords. With herself. Others, left and right had asked the same question, with other words, by actions, by odd stares. When Jeyne Westerling had arrived, they had all wondered if she wished to be rid of her.

She was still their nephew’s mother. Robb’s widow. Even if she was a traitor, Robb had made her kin, she was Sansa’s responsibility as the head of their household. She should have kept her from being led astray. She should have… she wasn’t quite sure what else she could have done. But it had to be her fault certainly? It always was.

Sansa didn’t fault Arya for it though, for having it crossed her mind. Everything crossed hers. It was why she had kept so many plans from Jeyne Westerling. Because she had envisioned this possibility. Maybe that was it. She had envisioned it, and so it came true… a self-fulfilling prophecy. A curse she had placed on herself.

“It could not truly be called kinslaying, she’s not my -” Arya started to ramble, their silence distressing her.

Sansa looked to Bran who already stared back at her. Neither of them faulted Arya. They had considered the same, silently. How could they not. When they knew what they did. When they had faced what they had.

“We would like to think we are still innocents. We are not. I have blood on my hands. So do the both of you. To pretend we would not sacrifice one person to save the ones we care for is much beyond us now. We do not judge you, Arya. Nor are we ashamed of you. Truly, we are not,” he assured her so sweetly that Sansa recognized her brother.

Yet Arya’s eyes were on her elder sister, awaiting her reaction.

Sansa found herself reaching for her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"I am afraid, that is true. I am… heartbroken, that is true as well. Even desperate. And I have… I have spilled blood to protect myself. To protect my family,” she found herself confessing what Arya had wished to know since she had arrived at Winterfell. “To take that step, however, would be our undoing. Would be something none of us could ever let go of. That we would never be able to forgive ourselves for, recover from. My answer is no, and it is final," Sansa settled.

Even if she were to die, it would not put an end to it. It wouldn’t even grant them a reprieve. They would come to Bran, and then to Arya. Then to whatever lord they found that could be bought. Winterfell would still be lost, their house, the North. Their conscience most of all. How would they live through it even if they survived? No.

They were Starks of Winterfell they could not. Would not. What would distinguish them from the Lannisters if they were to make away with her?

Sansa still had some say. She was still lady of these halls. She was still the head of the family, and she would not have Arya carry that weight on her shoulders for the rest of her life. However would they look at him? However, would they look at little Eddard knowing they had killed his mother in a half thought-out attempt at keeping the North free – they would not.

It was too heavy a price.

"You have a plan then?" And the hope and trust in Arya’s voice softened her temper, if only a bit.

"The outcome of the war will change everything. Will decide everything. The loss of her men will make her antsy. The possible loss of a dragon will make her volatile. And if she knows about Jon... If she knows there is another claim to the throne that has kept her standing all these years... Whatever is left of her sense will leave her. There isn’t so much planning ahead that can be done."

There were so few choices in front of her, and all of them were independent of her own will and preparation.

“The dead. They are almost here and with their arrival the time for the mummers farce to be over has come. Lay down your shield, Sansa and take up your sword. Look to the sun for aid,” Bran advised. “And if we all die… then there will be no need for it at all and we shall have peace.”

Did she want to? Fight? No. She did not.

Sansa would welcome a quick death. An everlasting sleep from all her troubles. But what would it all mean then? All the sacrifices. All the deaths. All the wars fought for the North. By the North. All the people who died for it. Who willingly or not placed those banners in her hands. How could she abandon their efforts? How could she say she was too tired when any one of them wished to be alive to fight in her place.

What would her mother say?

She lost two sons, a husband. Her girls were taken from her for Northern Independence, for Northern rebellion against the mercilessness of the Iron Throne. She and her sister were sold to win a war against Targaryen rule. It isn't that you have to fight, Sansa, my darling girl, it's that there is no other option. For they would die either she fought or didn’t. They would thank her for neither.

If the dead won none of this would matter. If the dead won Sansa would know rest. 

A sort of peace had been formed between the Blackfish and Lord Tully.

Uncle Edmure had been made aware. Sansa could see it because every time Tyrion Lannister trotted beside him his hand shook for his sword. And there was such gentleness in his eyes when he looked upon her. Such care.

There were always Tully men beside her now, at her chamber doors, always. And there was rage to them. There was purpose in their steps. They aimed to be given a chance to kill. And Sansa appreciated that she was Tully enough to be given this degree of consideration. That no matter her name, she would always be her mother’s daughter, for more than simply her looks.

She found him in the Godswood which took her by surprise. She wondered if all hostages turned to the gods in their times of captivity – whichever might hear them – and found themselves unwilling to let them go once they were free.

"Lord Uncle."

He turned to her with a smile as tender as her mother’s.

"My Lady niece." An icy draft blew through them, almost making him lose his balance. “Winter truly has come,” he commented amused.

“Winter never ceases for the likes of us,” she noted, and he offered her a compassionate nod. "I require counsel."

It wasn’t that there were no choices in front of her, that there was nothing that she could do. There was. She could.

It was simply that she did not want to. She shouldn't have to. She wasn't supposed to be the Stark of Winterfell. She wasn't even supposed to be a Stark for long at all, that was not what she was born to do, to be. She was born to marry, to change her name and serve other’s interests. Bear children. Keep a household. Hold court. Settle land disputes. Prepare for winter. Write ledgers upon ledgers, upon ledgers. She wasn't supposed to fight dragons. She wasn't supposed to mistrust kin. She was not supposed to lead House Stark. She wasn't supposed to be a player instead of a pawn.

Lord Edmure shook his head slowly though his eyes shone, he found himself unworthy.

"I'm not quite sure I am fit..."

"If I were to become a hostage of Daenerys Targaryen, the North would be free of a threat of fire."

His back straightened and his eyes darkened. He understood why she had come to him now. Because only him would understand. Only him would understand what it would entail to become a hostage once more when she had just regained freedom. Only him would understand how high the price was.

If she would force herself to endure another marriage with Tyrion she would have some position as Lady of Casterly Rock. She might persuade him not to consummate it, remind him of what he did to Shae, what he did to his father, what he did to her, what he did to the realm. That might keep him from her bed, the shame of it all.  Daenerys might seek a public bedding to ensure the impossibility for an annulment, or only in the interest of humiliating her. Sansa might still take the opportunity to ill-advise her. Do everything in her power to lead her to failure. She would eventually realize and kill her but by then it most certainly would be a welcomed death. By then the damage would have most certainly been done.

"Very well." He took a moment to think. "Would it protect the lives of your people? "

"If they chose to forsake Northern Independence. If they followed Jeyne Westerling as their Lord’s mother, instead of their King’s Aunt."

"A southerner despised for her role, no matter how meaningless, in the Red Wedding. You know the names she was called back then? How she was and still is despised for Robb’s choices concerning her?" Sansa nodded. "Why would Daenerys keep her word even if they did?"

"There's little profit to come from burning Winterfell to the ground."

Sansa might deny her. Daenerys might threaten the North with fire, her own lords turn against her and offer her to the enemy camp naked, gagged and chained like the Stormlands had done to Argella Durrandon.

They might also support Sansa.

Under certain circumstances. If she took certain steps to ensure it. Sansa hadn't always counted on Jeyne Westerling's loyalty after all. Few did. Those plans, to deal with her, to protect herself from her, Sansa had never unmade them. Never ridded herself of them. They were still there. Waiting for her to put them to use.

"Was there any profit to the second field of fire? No. She does it because she enjoys it. Diplomacy comes hard to her and it's by fire she finds her calling. I heard songs about you. On the road here. The winged wolf who killed king Joff with a spell - but the norther I went the more it changed to a cheery tune, and they added - came back to deliver her home from flayed men. You know how songs last. How important they are. They might forget independence for a year or two, that’s true. While they eat and recover from the war. But the song will still be sung, and she will still come to hear of them. And the food? As her own kingdom she will demand it as tribute, and they will starve. Your people will starve, and they will remember they ate under your rule."

They might all die. Daenerys might still choose to fight the North, in deep winter, with two dragons who felt uncomfortable in the cold. Two armies that have only ever fought in warm weather, or at least in places not covered in snow, badly dressed to endure the cold and summer horses. The woman had no food, she had no furs, other than the ones the North provided.

"I don't have enough strength to take her armies."

"You are in deep winter Sansa, you know this better than I. You only need to take her dragons. And then remind her why was it she came to Westeros and ask why is it she's wasting all her forces here and who she'd rather fight. You are not her true enemy. You are not the one she envisioned fighting."

Yes, she could burn the North, what would that achieve her? To burn Winterfell she would have to burn all the food in the storages, all the furs, destroy all shelter from the cold for Sansa would have them barricade in Winterfell, they could endure a siege for longer than Daenerys could survive in tents during winter. She would have to burn everything if she wished to burn them. How would she return South then? Even if they left for another Northern keep, they would take at the very least a week to get to the closest one – Castle Cerwyn, a week without food at the mercy of the elements. Her armies couldn’t march hungry, her dragons had to eat and if they couldn’t find food they would start eating her own men.

For argument's sake, if she managed to go back South by some miracle with at least half her forces... everyone would have heard what happened in the North. They would already have heard about what happened in the Second Field of Fire, they would already know her as her father’s daughter, worse even. That might make them unite under Cersei, the optics were on her side, Sansa did not deny. Against this foreign Targaryen who burned everyone she crossed paths with, offered no mercy, Cersei would be the better ruler to unite under. They wouldn't even attempt a parley, they would shoot at the dragons and starve out her armies.

While she did not consider Daenerys Targaryen a brilliant woman she did not consider her a fool. Varys and Tyrion no matter how little sway they appeared to have with her would argue strongly against it.

"What would have my Lady mother done?" she asked instead.

"She would have demanded Tyrion's trial for kinslaying. And if he were found not guilty, she would have killed him herself," he said without hesitation, without pretending he did not know the terms of her departure from the North.

"She wouldn't have cared about the North?"

"She would. Of course she would. She just would have cared about you more, sweet girl." 

There was a lump in her throat. There was guilt to Sansa that had rattled her ever since she had laid eyes on him.

“Jaime Lannister.” Her uncle’s face fell. “I kept him alive, while I knew what he did to you, what he threatened to do to Catelyn, to your babe. I kept him from dragon fire,” she confessed. “He’s here in Winterfell, to fight the dead.”

She wasn’t sure if they had already crossed paths or not, given the amount of time she had locked herself in her chambers.

“For mercy or for strategy, niece?”

He chose not to doubt her first. He chose to give her the benefit of doubt. He chose to trust kin. Because she was her mother’s daughter. Because she was his niece. And she would always be grateful for that.

“To use against Cersei Lannister. But I would understand if you found it an insult greater than you could bear. I would understand if you would not wish to be in my presence because of it,” she assured him in a small voice. A child’s voice. Full of uncertainty and fear.

“I find your presence a great comfort, Sansa. And there is very little I could not forgive someone in your position, my kin at that. Your weight is heavy, my niece. I will seek never to add to it,” he vowed.

He took an awkward step forward and tentatively opened his arms, waiting for her reaction.

Sansa took only a moment to join him and let herself be embraced by kin that had never failed her. Kin that she had failed instead and yet eagerly forgave her. And she knew some measure of peace in his arms.

She had learned through Theon that the Dornish traitors that had supported Daenerys were imprisoned by Cersei. With them gone, Dorne was ruled by a Martell once more – Arianne Martell.

Look to the sun for aid, Bran had advised. And so she did.

Sansa tried to find which fewer words could be placed on parchment that could describe Daenerys Targaryen. She would have to send it now. Before the war, when they were too preoccupied to look for ravens flying from Winterfell under the cover of night. And when Sansa might give them a chance to prepare. To survive. To fight where Sansa could not. Where Cersei could not.

And she remembered Daenerys’ own words, and so she wrote:

Dragons plant no trees. Aegon the Conqueror has come again, there will be no mercy.

Sansa hoped it would be enough.

She signed her own name all the same. If caught it would be her own death sentence and at least one matter would be resolved either way. If it weren’t, it would further add to the verity of her message, that such high stakes were taken. Such dangers ignored in favour of sharing the truth with those who might listen. Who might be able to still fight.

And if she was found and burnt, well… Her death would lead the way to the Targaryen’s destruction.

And all would be well once more.

They had supper in the Great Hall. Perhaps for a final time. The dead nearing Winterfell at a rapid pace.

Sansa took careful notice of the seating arrangements. She took careful notice of whom exactly Lady Westerling sat next to. Lord Cerwyn. Young Lord Cerwyn who sat beside her and almost whispered in her ear. And hadn't Sansa taken care that he would know too much of her plans as well? Even if his castle proved to be in a more advantageous distance, it was to Lord Manderly and Jeyne Poole she had requested to build and store scorpions. Hadn't she expected a bruised ego from her rejection of his marriage offer? Hadn't he been dissuaded of it so easily. Too easily perhaps.  

“Lord Manderly,” she summoned him closer to her side, having chosen to take supper at his table.

By now she was most likely being watched. Any private contact with the most powerful of her lords would draw suspicion of a greater defiance than simply displeasure at her circumstances. Supper was a necessity, and it wouldn’t be the first time she chose one of her lords’ tables instead of sharing her own with the Dragon Queen’s smirk and Jon’s sunken eyes. He seemed lost in thought. He always did, these days.

Did he know?

Daenerys was cruel, to be certain. But there was no cruelty to Jon.

Did he know?

Perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps he did not know. Perhaps Bran was right, and it was only his newly discovered heritage that troubled his thoughts. It should be troubling hers as well. And yet… why was she relieved? She wasn’t. Was she? She couldn’t be. The news only pushed him further away from them.

What did it mean if he did know. Did his bond to the Starks – to her – cease when he learned of this new one with the Targaryen woman – with his aunt? Would he forsake Sansa for her? Had he not spoken of his duty to protect them not so long ago? No. He had spoken of protecting his family. Had Daenerys replaced them thus?

Was he redefining himself right this moment? Jon. Her Jon. No. Arya's Jon. For he was still her brother at heart. Her truest brother. The connection that grounded him to his childhood. To his moments of loss and grief. Was he shedding the Stark colours? The coat of Grey? Was he exchanging banners? Was he misplacing blood?

Was he misremembering truths to make this choice bearable? She ran to him the first time she saw him again. She did. She didn't quite remember ever being as happy as she was when she saw him alive. Did he imagine her now cold and frigid. Unfeeling. Unattached to his approval. Undeserving of his protection. Was he attempting to come to terms with sacrificing her?

“My Lady Stark,” he edged closer to her in his seat, releasing her from her thoughts.

“My assumptions about the plans for the North have been confirmed,” she told him without any degree of emotion to her voice. She had spent it all. Was made hollow from it.  

“I see,” he seethed, but kept his eyes on his plate to not draw any further attention.

“Not only my marriage to the imp has been proposed, but others as well. Perhaps even more egregious offers than that of the imp.” Lies as of yet but lies that had been constructed in his mind for far too long to not be given credibility this moment. Ever since the arrival of a foreign army led by a Targaryen Queen.

He stilled and she could see the force with which he clenched his jaw threatened to break his teeth if it went on for much longer.

She did not spare his imagination. Could not, in the face of the danger that threatened them all. They had been promised riches, those Dothraki warlords. Wives and slaves, horses, and gold. They would have it, be it given to them, or taken with force, Arya had assured her of this and there was no reason for Sansa to doubt the concern in her voice. Daenerys Targaryen had offered them their weight in gold and what better way to give it than with noble brides, since she had nothing else to spare.

“I would detest to imagine your granddaughters, those lovely ladies, sought out brides of the highest order, forced into marriage with brute warlords,” she spoke slowly, giving him time to feel his rage and grow his resolve. “The House of Manderly’s blood being soiled with that of slavers… Such a gentle lady, Wynafryd. Such a brave one, Wylla. I can hardly bear the thought of it. Of how they would crush their will.”

He took a deep breath to steady himself. He would be as able to achieve it as she had been.

Sansa needed this news to be known and shared across the Northern Lord’s table.

“What the Lady of the North commands, we will obey,” he assured her, his voice no more than a whisper but as stern as one could be in the face of a threat.

“All of you?” she asked of him.

Because some wouldn’t, such had been the confidence of the Dragon Queen proposing the course of action. Sansa had to assume that there was more to her plan than simply Lady Westerling’s agreement to the new order. That there was some more support to it.

“Those who don’t can die by their sword, before having a chance to raise it against our Lady,” he had no qualms to say.

Sansa let go of the breath she was holding.

“I am glad we agree.”

She heard the commotion before she saw it. The pitiful show.

“You wretched boy.”

Clang.

“How shameful.”

Clang.

“How disgraceful.”

They spared like mad men. With Valyrian steel and burning rage. They called attention to themselves in such a way she feared some greater disaster would come of it, other than cuts and bruises.

Sansa could tell the men around them had orders to circle them. To bar the view of those who might come closer to watch and gape at. Tully men that covered the entrances of the platforms so no one could attempt to take a look from above. Sansa could have appreciated that her uncle had been clear-headed enough to arrange it, if only it mattered. If only it made a difference. If only this wouldn't be whispered about all the same.

The Blackfish against the White Wolf. The vicious duel.

The growls could be heard either way. It had been why Jeyne had a maid summon her here, while she kept the Dragon Queen away from the training yard, not that she made a habit of spending much of her time there. Some of her Unsullied did and if they found it odd, they would surely report it.

"I don't wish to harm you!" Jon insisted, only placating his blows skilfully.

Clang.

"You would sell your half-sister to your lover!"

Clang.

Jon fell to the floor from the brunt of the blow.

Without further knowledge of who it was that had conspired against her and by association her house, her uncle had been left to guess the culprit. Carelessness on her part – most assuredly – having wished to protect him from the knowledge of Jeyne Westerling's role, the extent of it yet to be measured. It was to be expected that the Blackfish’s prejudices against the former Stark bastard would lead him here. Not former yet but someday, some frightfully dangerous day to come.

She had considered it too after all. Jon’s role. Couldn't put the thought to rest. Was too frightened of what she might find if she were to come to him. What it would mean if he knew. If he had heard from Daenerys' lips what she had. If he had agreed If he had considered it a fair trade, a worthy price. A bearable one. If he had not.

Sansa should have prepared for it. She should have prepared for many things. It had led them here.

And yet she waited. Because she wanted to hear his answer. Because she wanted to know and couldn't make herself ask.

"Are you mad old man?!" he growled, backing away.

Clang.

"Rotten bastard blood!"

"Enough!"

Her voice steeled the movement of her uncle's arm. It steeled every movement in the courtyard, and they looked to her. Winterfell had never heard her speak like this before. With this much thunder.

The Blackfish took a moment to catch his breath. While all the murmuring around them ceased. Sansa was aware of how much she had sounded like her Lord father in that moment.

He wouldn't have aimed to kill or maim, she knew that. Not someone she held dear. She knew him. Brynden Tully was not a fool, he was just… furious. Furious on her behalf. No one had ever been before, she would admit to that. And he did what men did when they were filled with anger and no place to put it down – he reached for his sword.

No matter if there was fault to him, Jon was not his to punish by actions or words. And on that account the Blackfish should have known better.

"Do not overestimate her love for you. Do not overestimate her indulgence of your betrayals. Family first, most assuredly, but that too knows its limits and duty always comes next, boy," he spat, before taking a deep bow to her and leaving the site, his men opening the way for him.

Jon followed his line of sight and looked up at her from his place in the dirt. She allowed him to stare at her face while she accessed his frame, looking for any wounds, any cuts that needed tending to. She found none.

And when she met his eyes… the confusion there. The concern. The frantic way with which his eyes ran over her face, trying to understand. To gather some kind of knowledge over the position of her brow, the tightening of her lips, her clenched hands…

"Sansa, what is-"

"Get the Lord Commander up," she ordered the Tully men that kept him from view and took her leave before having to witness a moment longer the pained look upon his eyes.

If there was disappointment, if there was grief to him, if there was uncertainty – hers was greater and she had nowhere to lay it down.

Chapter Text

"Don't run from me!"

Jon shouted from behind her.

His boots barely crashed against the floor, such was his desire to reach her. Sansa could hear servants and lords alike swerving from his path and her fury grew for they would not soon forget the former King in the North running after the Lady of Winterfell.

How dared he draw further attention to himself.

How dared he impose himself upon her.

And how dared he be cross with her. To raise his voice to her. To presume he still had a place by her side. That she would keep saving it in the hopes that one day he would return to her, against her own sense and judgement. How dared he presume to still hold sway over her and her actions. That he could still demand explanations from her after what he had done.

"Sansa!" he growled, and he was never such a Stark as when he did. "Tell them to stand down."

She turned back to him.

Rage filling her chest up to her neck.

Tully men stood between them. A barrier he couldn't cross over without drawing blade and blood. These were not Stark men that remembered calling him King. Who saw her father when they looked at him. These were Tully men, and it was to that blood and authority they answered to.

"Where is your strength when you stand next to your Queen? Do you lose it, all of the sudden? Or do you only have it when you face me?" she wondered with a newfound curiosity.

Her chest fluttered with the exaltation of finally allowing herself to speak this plainly. To exert this much command unabashedly. To demand this modicum of an explanation for his disrespect.

Jon took a deep exasperated breath which only served to aggravate her.

Why was it that he reserved this strength for her? Was it Sansa’s doing? Had she built him up with such secure foundations that he only found himself when facing her? Was Jon beaten down and defeated, courage failing him when Sansa was not in a room to be channelled from. Or was it derived from comfort? From the knowledge that she would never strike back. He would find that comfort no longer.

"We are not having this conversation with an audience," he told her.

Sansa feigned confusion. "Why not, Jon? These are Tully men. They won't find it so odd for a Stark to disrespect their lady. They are quite used to it, I assure you."

That took him aback. His eyes bulged from the brazen way with which she spoke of her father – he was only her father now, wasn’t he? The way she baited him with Lord Stark’s crimes against her mother. The one that was known. The one that would hurt him. But then again, these were Tully men who heard them. They had most likely heard their fathers speak of him in worse ways. Eddard Stark, the second son that had most grievously disrespected their beloved Lady Catelyn Tully. Eldest, most cherished daughter, prized bride.

"Do not speak to me as if I am your enemy," he asked of her, eyes narrowed.

"I will speak the way I am spoken to," she had no qualms to answer.

His face grew serious, and he straightened his shoulders. Readied himself for a fight and Sansa could have smiled if she wasn’t always his preferred opponent.

"Send them away this moment. This moment, Sansa." He pushed against their armour, though his eyes, he kept locked on hers. And she had never seen him quite this feral, barely concealed anger. She had never seen him quite this honest as well and she welcomed it. The same she had with Bran.

"Or what?" Sansa baited him viciously, his rage emboldening hers.

She felt herself growing in strength. That she could provoke this reaction. That she meant enough to Jon to deliver him of his apathy. Of his disinterest. Of this pliant self he presented ever since he came back from Dragonstone.

"Or I will cut them down!"

And from his eyes, she knew he would. To reach for her, he would. The Blackfish was one thing, his men were quite another. He would pick a fight this moment, no matter the wreckage it would cause. For the both of them.

The man closest to her placed a hand on his sword and addressed her. "My lady?"

Sansa was overwhelmed with the notion that they as well would not stand down in their duty to protect her. There would be death here – today – if she did not put an end to it.

She shook her head. Took a deep breath and ran her hands through the creases of the sleeves of her gown, if only to have something her eyes could focus on for a moment to ground herself, before looking up once more.

"You may leave us."

The man’s eyes narrowed. "Lady Stark, you are quite certain?"

Sansa nodded. "Leave us," she repeated a bit more forcefully, regaining her bearings. “You are owed this night to yourselves before tomorrow’s battle. I thank you all for your service and am honoured by it,” she added.

There was still some reticence, but they left at last, their eyes locked on Jon awaiting any reaction that would give them cause to step back. He gave them none, though his hands he kept clenched.

"Are you proud of yourself? Of this show? Threatening to cut down my men?" she asked, returning her pace, walking further into the hallway, far away from wandering eyes.

"They are not your men,” he said, taking her by surprise, pulling her by the waist down a darkened hall. Her heart leaped as he pushed her against the wall. Hidden from view by his body. “They are Tully men. You’re a Stark. Stark men guard you!" And he took a hand to his own sword as if he could have ever called himself hers.

"And what a fine job they have accomplished, my lord." Sansa smiled sourly.

It was not her guards fault, of course. Not any man or woman Stark-sworn. But Jon would have understood her meaning all the same. He almost always did. Which made it ever so much more infuriating when he did not.

“I’ve been deemed my mother’s daughter all my life, Jon. It’s high time I bear the fruits and not only the damage.”

He grinded his teeth and shook his head.

"The Blackfish wasn't here. Do you remember? He wasn't here! I was! He was the one that didn't answer your call. Not I. I was right there with you. I took Winterfell with you. I rode beside you. I rallied the men with you. I was right there by your side every step of the way." He slammed his fist against his chest with such force it was Sansa the one who faltered. "And you allowed him to..." He stopped himself and looked at her. Simply looked at her. Expecting her to know. To understand. To listen to what was not spoken between them. All those words not spoken between them.

Sansa wanted to remind him she was right by his side as they made him King in her place. She wanted to remind him how she smiled. She wanted to remind him how she stood aside and allowed him to lead in the hopes it would be enough to prevent him from abandoning her. And still… he left. Returned with another to take her place.

“You were here by my side until you weren’t.” Sansa shook her head. "And it isn't the Blackfish that stands between us, Jon."

Jon rolled his eyes and looked away from her.

If the Blackfish took his place beside her, it was because Jon had abandoned it. If he had her ear, it was because Jon no longer spoke to her. If Brynden Tully carried her banners, it was because Jon no longer wished to, because he carried Targaryen ones instead. Sansa had spent so much time trying to excuse his actions, to give them other meanings – she could no longer. This was a betrayal she could not forgive.

Sansa reached for his beard and pulled him to face her with a boldness foreign to both herself and the man in front of her.

"It isn't. It isn't him. And it wasn't I that allowed for this space between us, that allowed for strangers to take your place. It was you and it is her," she said before letting go of him once more.

Jon took an exasperated breath and pinched the bridge of his nose in a weak attempt at regaining some sort of composure. Not that she found herself plentiful of it.

"Might you end whatever this is and tell me what is wrong at once, Sansa?" he demanded.

"Oh Jon," she cooed, her voice taking a sickening sweetness to it that reminded her of Cersei. "Am I to believe you do not know the plans of the woman with whom you share a bed? What do you two speak of while prancing around Winterfell, while riding her dragons? Pray, tell."

He grimaced. "I most certainly do not-"

Sansa rolled her eyes. "Whatever it is you do. Or do not is none of m-"

"You either care about who I bed, or you do not, Sansa. Make up your mind."

She gasped at his lack of propriety.

"I most certainly do not!"

Sansa refused to be ashamed of it.

She refused being ashamed of wanting Jon as far away from the Targaryen woman as possible. There was nothing to feel shamed about. Jon had despised Joffrey as well, all those years ago, Arya had said so herself. And by then Joffrey had been nothing more than a spoiled child. Not a dangerous enemy like Daenerys presented herself as, for all the world to see.

"Might have fooled me with how often it has been alluded to."

She was furious. That he would pretend still this ignorance. That he could pretend still to care for her. To want to take his place by her side. To not understand her rage. Her fear. That he could feign this light-heartedness when their lives hung in the balance. That this could mean this little to him…

"Perhaps because while you have chosen that fate, it did not give you the right of selling me into it!"

That ceased whatever humour could have been found in his face and his eyes focused solely on hers, a darkness taking over them. His attention solely focused on her.

"What do you mean with that? Be very clear, Sansa."

“You knew. You knew what they did to me, in Kingslanding. What Tyrion did. You knew it all. I told you everything! I told you everything, I told no one but you. You knew what they did to me. Father sold me. Robb sold me. Had you so much need to emulate them you would take a chance to do it yourself," she sneered, holding on to her corset, unable to breathe.

Jon furrowed like there was anything more left unanswered.

"I did no such thing." He shook his head in disbelief. "You don't believe that.” He cradled her face in his hands ever so gently. Ever so carefully, ever so afraid this might lead her to finally deny him. Ever so kind and she wanted to know where was that kindness, where was that kindness when he allowed her to be traded for an impossible truce.

She shook her head furiously.

“I earned my place here, Jon. I earned it. And that you would stand by and allow me to be dragged away from it… I...”

Sansa closed her eyes forcefully, she couldn’t stand the sight of his pain.

“Sans… You don't… You don't believe that, that I would ever do that to you. You know I wouldn't. Tell me you know," he pleaded with her.

And he was desperate for her to believe him, she could hear it in his voice. The roughness of it. The way he was breathless in anticipation. He was desperate to be believed. To be heard, like she had been so desperate to be heard by him time and time again before. Sansa told him who Daenerys was and he did not believe her. The consequences of that would be plain for all to see when she threw herself from a tower before being forced into a marriage once more.

"When have you ever done anything to warrant my trust? All I have been doing ever since I left Winterfell is cling to bits and pieces. Memories I'm not even sure were ever the truth. I've forgiven slights against my honour, offenses against my self-respect in the name of this family. And now your chosen Queen promises me you will take Joffrey's place and lead me down the Sept. And some part of me... Gods..." Sansa laughed miserably at herself. "Every bit of me cannot imagine you being so cruel. But then again I also never imagined you bending the knee to a Targaryen. So you see, I don't think I know you at all, Jon. And I can't bear to look at what you have become."

Sansa pushed his stiff body away from her and rushed away to her rooms.

Sansa took the furs from her shoulders, discarded her heavy cloak at the feet of her dead parents’ bed, unfasted the laces of her dress to give herself some more room to breathe deeply and sat by the fire. The pleasant warmth of it on the most freezing night. Still, it was too much.

A heat that overwhelmed. She was much too used to the cold now.

She undid her hair then, let the ringlets fall down her back and massaged her scalp for a moment. Let herself close her eyes as she heard the soft rumbling of people saying their goodbyes. Fathers kissing their children one last time. Brothers making amends knowing that the end for quarrels was here. Mothers singing lullabies.

She imagined Jeyne and Theon sharing a peaceful moment at last. A moment where they were both safe, no matter how brief. Edmure and Brynden Tully forgiving each other's misgivings. Jeyne Westerling... With her child in her arms, making promises to him she would not be the one forced to keep.

Sansa opened her eyes to a knock on the door.

She watched silently as Bran was wheeled into the place beside her. Nodded to the soldier who bowed after getting him here. Her brother said nothing for a long while, but eventually reached for her hand, pulled it to his lap and intertwined their fingers. And he seemed so young. He seemed so much like Rickon she could not bear to look at him. Just as he could not bear to look at her.

"Jaime Lannister -" his voice failed him and so he took a deep breath, eyes never leaving the fire "- Jaime Lannister was the one who pushed me from the tower. For having borne witness to him and the Queen."

Sins you cannot forgive and yet must put aside. I will not burden you with their knowledge, she remembered his words while they stood in these same chambers sharing supper, when he had told her of the man who came. The man she had to keep in the realm of the living.

"Why did you not tell me?" she asked softly.

"You would have had a trial. Executed him for it. So I might know justice. When I look at you, I only see our mother. And when you speak... It's both of them. Father, and mother in equal measure and sometimes it is hard to stand in your presence, Sansa. It is hard. I cannot accept what you are eager to offer. I cannot take comfort from you when I cannot offer you any. To have asked you to spare him for the game and tell you of his crimes? To harden your duty? I could not. Family, duty, honour. I would do anything to spare you these choices. I would. To be able to turn to you when you call my name. I need you to know that I would if I could. I need you to know that I cannot," he breathed the words out as if they would grant him absolution from his Gods, from her own.

Sansa understood. She did. It was only that it hurt. So much. It hurt.

She nodded all the same. For it was not his fault. It was not his fault the responsibilities placed upon him. The ones she did not quite understand but felt the need to respect.

“Bran,” she whispered, calling for his attention though she did not search for his eyes. “If I am… if I am lost to this marriage -” and he would know what she meant by that “- you will take on the regency. As the eldest trueborn son of Eddard Stark it would be harder for her to challenge you. Swear to me. Swear to me that you will take your rightful place as Lord Regent and keep the North free.”

“I swear that should you fall, I will take on your legacy,” he spoke solemnly.

Her legacy.

If she died it would become her legacy as well. She would go on to the afterlife as a true Stark. And no one would ever again dare to question her name.

They returned to their silence. Hands still held. As if it would save them. And maybe it would.

There was a hollow in her stomach. She had been nauseous ever since the Targaryen woman gave Sansa her sentence. She hadn't eaten in days, and she knew that by now she should hunger for at least the smallest amount of bread. But every time she considered getting up and asking one of the maids for some manner of sustenance a weight overwhelmed her. A heaviness in her hands, her arms, her legs, and most of all her throat. Her jaw felt stuck and detached all the same.

Sansa felt as if she would go mad every second now. But she remembered she had felt like this in the Kingslanding. That she had survived it. She was never hungry there. Only once. When Joffrey had jilted her in favour of Margaery Tyrell. No food had ever tasted as sweet as then.

She didn't want to eat now. She considered that she might not want to eat ever again. A slow death, but an honourable one. Father might have gathered some small crumbles of pride if he found it within himself to do so. If he found it within himself to look at her. She was cruel to his memory. She knew. She did the same to Robb though not so often, she had his child to look after. For her father she only had herself to do so, and he never did a grand task of it, so why should she. It wasn’t that he was a cruel father, not really, it was just that he was always absent to her. And only her.

Eddard Stark, who had forsaken his honour in the service of his duty to his sister. And Robb, who had forsaken his duty to her and Arya in favour of his honour. There was something to be said about that, though she could not attempt to muster the words.

Arya looked over her after entering the room. Finding it strange how undone she was but said nothing of it. Sansa only noticed she had been crying when she felt her neck wet. Cold and moist, an uncomfortable feeling. She let it stand. It was the least of her concerns.

Her sister carried a tray of watery broth for all of them and some stale bread that she sat on the table.

“Where’s Jeyne?” Arya wondered, her tone confused.

“With Theon.”

Sansa would have wanted her here as well. She felt like herself around Jeyne. Softer. Kinder. Less bruised. Less brutal. Jeyne welcomed her care. She welcomed her attention and her love, and she appreciated her as she was. And Sansa would never manage to be as grateful to her as she should, there was simply not enough time or words for her to do so. And yet Jeyne deserved the same as well. And if Theon could gift it, Sansa could only thank him in return and urge them to enjoy these small moments of tranquillity in a way Sansa could not.

Arya nodded to herself, as if she should have known the answer already.

“I called for Lady Westerling and little Eddard to join us,” Sansa informed them.

“You can’t seriously expect us to endure her presence,” Arya was quick to object.

Sansa sighed.

She was exhausted from having to explain herself.

Had it been Robb, had it been Father, an explanation wouldn’t have been offered at all, though Arya might have inquired about it. She would have been obliged to accept whatever it was they commanded.

And it wasn’t that Sansa found herself above questioning, it was simply that at this moment in time her mouth was dry, her hands were shaking and if she could sleep instead of enduring a moment more of chatter, she would choose it without second thought. And she wished that would be explanation enough.

“It is only right that she should be here. More than right, it is expected of us to invite her to do so. There is a modicum of a farce we must still keep.” Sansa swallowed harshly. It was no easier to endure for her than it was for Arya or Bran. But it was their duty, and they must fulfil it, if the tides were ever to change. “Besides, I should like to see my nephew. Wouldn’t you?”

There must have been something in her tone of voice that gave something away. At a later date she would go over and rectify it. There was no time for such mistakes. No more of them. Or perhaps… perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps it was simply that Arya knew her better by now.

“You wouldn’t harm the child. You would never do that. I know you. And even if I didn’t, no one would find you able of such a thing. You are much too kind.” It wasn’t a compliment, it wasn’t an insult either.

Sansa shook her head. No. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.

He was Robb’s child. He was her mother’s grandchild. In a certain light he looked just like what she would have expected a child of hers to look like. Sansa would never move against him.

“Lady Westerling would have agreed entirely, once. Now that she has moved against me, she must be rattled with some degree of guilt. She’s not…cruel. And all I need is her doubt. Doubt commands mistakes, I should know.”

The keep still answered to her and that was plain to see. Lady Westerling did not see her son without Sansa’s knowledge, without her permission, though it had never been denied. And Sansa would never hurt the child. But that was not to say that she could not. That if she wanted to, truly wanted to, it would be impossible for her to achieve it. She would never. Never. But Jeyne should be aware that she could. That she chose not to. That might still make her question her decisions. That might still save her – save both of them.

Sansa was disgusted with herself. It made no difference. It was what needed to be done. What was already being done.

They returned to their silence and Sansa was grateful for that.

“What does it want?" Arya asked Bran curiously. "The Night King."

"An endless sleep. He wants the world to forget, just as he was forgotten. And he will build a peaceful world, just his own." In the face of their silence, of their loud thoughts, he carried on. "It doesn't sound so bad, does it?"

Arya chuckled then, just for a moment. "I suppose it isn’t so terrible. To sleep and never wake again."

"A perfect world covered in snow," Sansa whispered more to herself than to any one of them. "But then the pain..."

"It would end," Bran mused.

She nodded but turned to him fully. "Yes. But it would have been meaningless... All you went through... Our family. All the pain and death, it has to have a purpose, does it not? It has to have been for something... Anything at all."

"We can only hope, Sansa."

And the heaviness of that statement, that Bran too could never be sure, it soothed something in her.

Sansa had heard Jon striding up and down the hall for the longest of times. They all had. Arya kept looking at her sideways, most likely hoping she would just let him in. She did not fault her for it. It was to be expected that her love for him would not waver, despite whatever circumstances separated them.

Yet Sansa couldn’t.

Was unable to.

Her leg kept shaking and she was once again unable to breathe deeply.

She so dearly wished she could let him in as well.

Finally there was a thump. She was almost sure he had leaned against the door.

"Her ladyship -" Brienne commenced from the other side of the door, though even she sounded pained after surely bearing witness to his back and forth.

"Sansa -" Arya began saying but gave up at once when she spared her a look. Sansa was not quite sure what she saw but whatever it was, it was enough, for she didn’t say another word at all.

"Sans... " he murmured against the door. He had always been the only one to call her that. The intimacy of it once had warmed her heart. Now it threatened it. "My lady," he corrected, "if you wish me to leave, say it and I will. But please, say it. I can't leave unless you say it... I'll just think that... Please send me away or let me in, just let me hear it from you."

He had gifted her nothing but silence for such a long time. She should want to gift it in return. That those were the words that made it unbearable for her to carry this on was nothing short of irony to her. Yet she knew how painful it had been to be ignored by him and she found that she could not do the same.

She couldn't allow him to be left alone and forgotten at the door of her father's chambers. She simply couldn’t.

She only nodded and Arya sprinted to her feet, quick to cross the chambers and open the doors.

Jon fell to his knees at her side. Sansa closed her eyes forcefully to avoid the image.

"I wish that you could be certain that I would never do that to you... I do so wish that you could trust me. But I know that it is entirely my fault that you cannot. I... I have neglected you and pushed you away and... But I would never-" he stopped himself for a moment "- I wish I could put into words how much I care for you. How much I love you. How much I could bear in the name of your safety. But I cannot. I'm not good at that. I'm not like you. So if you...” He took a shaky breath. “If you could wait a moment longer and let my actions speak for themselves. I'll win us this war, Sans. I will."

But it was not enough, was it? It was not enough. She had been waiting for so long. So long. And he could see that. He knew her, he could see that. That this was not nearly enough.

"I sang for my supper, Sansa. Like you said. That so like bards we too must sing for our bread, do you remember saying that? I did. I promise you, I did just that. All along. It was only that."

Those words made her turn her head so fast, it made her dizzy.

"Only that?" Sansa repeated, frightfully aware of how hoarse her voice sounded, how marred with tears.

He nodded vehemently, perking up at her attention.

The eagerness to reach for her.

Jon had always been eager to reach for her. He had done it ever since they reunited. She couldn't for the life of her remember them touching as children. Robb had always been the one to hold her hand, to help her climb the stairs, take her arm into the Great Hall. Never Jon. But ever since they reunited, he made a point of it. The hand on her forearm to call for her attention. The kiss on the forehead to beg her understanding. She would never bear his touch again.

Would it always taste of betrayal? It had been so comforting once. What a great loss that would be.

"So you did know?" And her voice was so small, so small that she felt herself back in Eyrie, when Aunt Lysa was prodding into her.

"No," he answered back so quickly, too quickly for it to be a lie, surely. "I could never sing so well to mask that rage, Sansa. I would never be able to entertain that fate for you, much less accept it. Please believe that" he pleaded. “If nothing less, then at least that.”

And there were tears in his eyes. And...

And she found herself nodding. She found herself taking her hand to his bearded cheek and nodding. He covered her hand with his and there was something that she wanted to say to him, something she so desperately needed him to understand but no words came out.

If he lied to her at this moment she would never forgive him. Nothing would ever be enough for her to forgive him.

Did he know that?

There was a knock on the door. The one Sansa had been expecting all evening. The one she had been agonizing over. She commended Brienne for having timed it so well. That she wouldn't have intruded upon this moment. That Lady Westerling would not bear witness to this kind of fragility. She was owed no more of it.

Sansa dismissed Brienne so she could be with her own as well. Everyone was owed as much this night.

Sansa was aware of her appearance. She was glad of it even, as Lady Westerling crossed the threshold and was taken off balance by it, by her laid down hair, her half unfastened dress and Jon kneeling at the side of her chair, his appearance much the same as Sansa’s, now that she took notice of it.

And Sansa opened her arms to receive the babe that leaned to her. And Jeyne could not refuse her. She had trained the boy to do so, to call for her attention, knowingly or not.

“My sweet boy,” Sansa welcomed with a smile. She never feigned her smiles for him.

Little Eddard marvelled at her unbound hair.

“Sit,” Arya commanded no one in particular. Though both Jon and Jeyne made way to pull chairs.

"Are you well?" Lady Westerling finally turned to her and asked once she was settled in her chair.

Sansa never took her eyes from little Eddard as Arya answered, "She's exhausted. Hard work it entails, being the ruling lady of a great house, ruling the North. We should all count ourselves fortunate that we have her to carry the weight of our obligations. She'll make a grand example for our little king to follow one day."

Lady Westerling only nodded and if she heard the acidity masked by Arya's gentle tone she did not make a show of it.

"Lord Commander?" Jeyne turned to Jon. And what a kind title she used. Not many bothered. The men of the Night's Watch. The younger servants. Sansa herself when the moment demanded it.

"The Blackfish and I spared for a great part of the evening. He wore me out such was his skill," Jon answered simply. Not a lie to be found there. No trust either.

Lady Westerling only hummed.

"What are you doing?" Arya asked curiously, which prompted Sansa to look up from the sleeping babe in her arms.

She had never seen Jeyne embroidering. She sewed at times, clothes for Little Eddard, her own clothes when they needed mending to, but not embroidery. Never embroidery, perhaps having never been taught the skill, being the daughter of a minor, impoverished lord. Sansa had also never seen her do whatever it was that she was doing.

"A prayer wheel. Your Lady mother taught me."

Arya raised a brow, uncertain. "Did she?"

Their Lady mother was a kind and devoted mother to them. But she was distrustful of outsiders. Mindful of propriety. And Arya, like Sansa, could not manage to envision them with such close intimacies after such a scandalous marriage.

Jeyne nodded, never taking her eyes from her task. "She had only ever done so thrice. Once for Jon. Once for Bran. And the one she was making then, for Bran and Rickon." It irked Sansa that she would even dare say his name.

"For me?" Jon questioned, having her words demanded his attention.

"Oh yes, you had the pox, and she stayed all night with you, there was some fear that you would not survive. The maester – I don't remember his name – he said that if you made it through the night you might live. And so she stayed and made the wheel until your fever broke."

Jon was silent for a very long time, there were unshed tears in his eyes.

"That was very kind of Lady Stark. I never knew," he croaked.

It was also a very convenient information to be known at this moment, Sansa couldn’t help but notice.

"Do you want to hold Eddard, Jon?" It had crossed Sansa’s mind that no one had ever offered the babe to him. It crossed her mind that he would not have dared to ask nor presume to either. "While I eat," she added to keep him from saying no.

Jeyne wouldn't mind. It suited her predicament most favourably indeed. He was no longer a threat to her son like he had been before. He was the lover of the woman to whom she had betrayed the North.

The babe slept soundly and did not notice the change of arrangements. Jon held him very well, like he knew what he was doing. As if he had done it a thousand times. Maybe he had wanted to. He looked like a father. Sansa smiled when he looked up at her for reassurance.

She stopped herself then. How easily they entered this rhythm of theirs. How easily she went back to smoothing down his path. Soften his blows. How easily he went back to searching her eyes first in a room.

"And what do you pray for, Jeyne?" Sansa managed to startle the both of them by asking, her back still turned to her. "With your prayer wheel."

Jeyne took a moment to gather her thoughts before answering her. "For an end to all these wars."

"Such a lovely sentiment.” For that was all it was. “Perhaps we should emulate you in your piety."

“Only a mother can do them,” Lady Westerling was quick to say, forgetting herself. “That was what Lady Catelyn said.”

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek in way of a smile.

“Yes, we wouldn’t want to anger the Gods this night any further, would we? Neither the Gods, nor the dead. We might find ourselves among them very soon.” It wasn’t a threat in any way, her tone was soft and pliant, if a bit disinterested. But it wasn’t a gentle reminder when one knew Catelyn Tully and her fierce devotion to her children. And Jeyne Westerling knew and so she flinched.

Sansa Stark smoothed things over, it was what she did, what she was raised to do – her duty. Not this time. She looked away from Lady Westerling and allowed her to tend to her own sorrow. To her own regrets. Sansa had plenty of her own to tend to.

The horn blew, pulling each and every one of them from their thoughts.

It was time.

They stood in the battlements facing the troops from the North, the Vale and the Riverlands. Daenerys Targaryen, thankfully, was far away from them, speaking to her own men, one last time.

"We stand on the brink of a war with an enemy we believed nothing more than tales,” Jon began from his place in the battlements. “We stand against those who wish to take our homes from us, our kin, our stories. This is an enemy that makes no hostages, that leaves no survivors. That offers no mercy,” he continued louder, trying to rouse them from a deep slumber. “We fight for -” and then he stopped himself, faced with their indifference to his voice.

Jon sighed in resignation, nodded slowly to himself, and turned to her.

"Sansa, you must address them. It is you they want to hear from. It is for you, their lords have made them come. It was you they were bound to trust and obey," Jon asked of her.

There was something broken in him.

A disappointment to him that was almost palpable.

She understood how much those words cost him. How much it might have pained him that after all that he had done. All the effort he had put into this war, he would be denied of trust, of faith, of loyalty. This was his life’s work. What he should have been remembered for. This battle. And yet he understood, perhaps in that moment, that it was not. Perhaps it would never be. That his link to the Dragon Queen spoke louder to these men and women and perhaps always would.

Still there was a humility to him as he surrendered his place. As he made way for her, that spoke of his character. That soothed her mind. That reminded her that the Jon she knew in Castle Black was still him. Still her Jon. That perhaps he wasn’t so far out of reach.

Sansa turned to them. To those tired, exhausted people who had not known peace since Robb Stark had raised his banners and marched them south. How could she ask them to fight once more…

“My lords, my people,” Sansa called to them in a voice she was not familiar with. “Today, you do not only fight for me and Winterfell. For your liege lords, whomever they might be. You do not fight for land, glory, or gold you will never set eyes on. You fight for your children, so they might see spring, so they might grow and bear children of their own for you to pass down your name. You fight for your neighbour, and you fight for the friend you might have not yet met. You fight for your elders, your forefathers, the ones who fought these beasts before and won. You stand in their shoes now. You are the last line of defence for these realms. You are the last line of defence for our Gods, both old and new. For our way of life.

For, do not be deceived, my good, faithful people, you fight for life. For the comfort of a warm soup after a tiresome day, for the warmth of your hearth. For the warmth of mine. For if we should die, we shall all die together and be welcomed by our Gods for they know the trials we intend to face, and they will remember the sacrifices made, here, today. I will meet you all there but let us know a bit more of life that is yet to be lived. Let us live to see Spring.

For the North! For the Vale! For the Riverlands! For Westeros!"

And while the people cheered, she turned to the captain of the archers, to the men and women who had been tasked with firing the scorpions. Though her face was stained with tears, her voice was dangerous when she said, "During battle, aim for all the dragons. Both dead and alive. And may your aim be true, Ser."

"By your will, Lady Stark," he answered proudly, chin held high.

Sansa would not put them through another war when there was a chance to end them all today.

By night-time all dragon coats looked the same. No one would fault them for that. No one could. And if they did, so be it. She would bear the brunt of Daenerys Targaryen’s rage with honour.

And when she turned to Jon, prepared to be scolded or something the like, she only found his eyes firmly on hers and the only thing he offered were his lips upon her forehead and the gentle way he took hold of her shoulders.

"Do not take chances. Do not take risks. I will keep Arya safe," he promised. “Ghost will stay with you.” It was no less than a command and Sansa found no reason to fight him on it.

“Leave the dragon’s back as soon as you are able. They won’t take care it’s you who is on it,” she asked of him.

She felt him nod though she did not see it.

“Sansa?”

She put some distance between them so she might look at him. But Jon simply stared at her. Seemingly putting her face to memory. Sansa found herself nodding to whatever it was that was left unsaid between them.

Arya cleared her throat calling for her attention, her eyes inspecting both of them quizzically.

Sansa understood given that just now they had been at odds, yet with death at ends door she did not wish to waste time on her anger. Sansa raised a brow at Arya in question, urging her to say it, whatever it was on her mind, but Arya only shook her head dismissively.

“Bran is in the Godswood. Theon too,” Arya informed them.

"My Lady Stark," the Blackfish called for her from below the staircase. "It is time."

Sansa nodded a final time to Jon and kissed Arya's brow taking her by surprise, though her little sister let herself be held by her most willingly.

"We'll see each other again," Sansa promised.

If not in this life then in the next was left unsaid.

And it wasn’t that Sansa didn’t fear death. It was simply that she did not know how to prepare for it. She had known the likelihood of Rickon’s death and yet when she looked at his body… It couldn’t have come as a greater shock. How could she prepare herself to see Jon, or Arya, or Bran. How could she fathom the look of their lifeless eyes, still and emotionless.

How could she imagine herself surviving them?

The Blackfish took her by the arm and led her through a sea of men and women preparing themselves for their last stand. Sansa felt Ghost trail behind her.

"If... If I should fall, Edmure will do his duty as your uncle and Lord of Riverrun," he spoke as they walked.

What that entailed exactly, Sansa did not know, but she was sure it soothed his mind. She had forced the Blackfish into a promise he had no way of keeping, it weighed heavy on his mind for he did not make them lightly. She shouldn't have done so. Cursed herself for it. For the selfishness of it.

"I was just… scared,” she excused herself, as a child would. “It wasn't fair of me to force that burden on you."

Brynden Tully shook his head dismissively.

"You should not have to carry any of it alone either." He squeezed her hand in a fatherly way. "More than one battle is fought in Winterfell, my child, and the Gods know that. There should be no need, but if there ever is-" he placed a small blade on that same hand "- you take advantage of your height and you go from ear to ear, do you understand? No one survives that. And if you're in a position where you can't do that, you must aim lower than the ribs. Any place with bones is far too risky. And if anyone is ever closer than propriety demands, go for the inside of the thigh and you always, always, pull the blade out so they can bleed as they should. Do you hear?"

Sansa could only nod given how serious his voice was.

He took a deep shaky breath and then he said, "And if the dead breach the gates of the Great Hall… It's going to take a lot of strength but less than you imagine. Do you understand what I am saying, Sansa?"

“I already made all the arrangements needed, Uncle.”

He smiled. A sad sort of smile that could only be expected when one spoke of death and dying.

“Of course you would have,” he agreed proudly.

Cersei Lannister had been wrong about many things, but a quick death was preferable to lay in wait watching all those around them die or worse, waiting for one’s turn. Poison was a woman’s weapon, and there was a barrel of it marked in the Great Hall need be. There were things Sansa could not leave to chance. Some things that were her duty as Lady Stark, as it had been Cersei Lannister’s as Queen.

"May the Warrior give you strength, Uncle. And the Father recognize himself in you. May they know your worth, as I do," she whispered with tears in her eyes.

Brynden Tully smiled and pulled her near so he might kiss her forehead.

"May the Old Gods and the New bless you, and those your harbour, child of snow and stream. Child of my own blood," he prayed softly, his eyes of Tully blue piercing her own.

"Keep to Bran. He was her favourite," Sansa croaked. For Jon would keep to Arya first.

The Blackfish nodded, for he knew, everyone did. There was an odd sort of fairness to that.

Sansa thought she heard him whisper, "And you are mine," but he was already walking away from her, and he could not turn back.

Sansa breathed deeply until no more air could be allowed inside of her lungs and then turned to the doors of the Great Hall. There was nothing else to be done. All the cards were played, the end had begun.

Lady Mormont should be long gone by now.

The Great Hall should have been sealed already, the same as the Great Keep where the elderly had stayed. Though the walls of it had not the same thickness, the only point of entry was through the staircase, and they would be more comfortable there. With beds where they could lay down and no children whose cries rose them from sleep.

And yet Lyanna Mormont lingered. Said her last goodbyes to her sisters. And how they cried. The poor children. How they despaired for another sister and aunt they would lose. Sansa had come back to take the girls herself.

Bear Island hadn’t retrieved to Winterfell. The elderly, women and children stayed there, made safe by the water that separated them from the continent. If winter came to rule them all it wouldn't make a difference. But for now it was enough. House Mormont though, they were here, for Lady Mormont would die in this war and Winterfell would keep the remains of it to foster.

"Go along children,” Sansa told the little girls pointing them towards Jeyne Poole who was ready to receive them in her arms. She waited a moment before speaking once again, “I would urge you again not to fight, Lady Mormont."

"I have to."

How she trembled as she said it. How she shook without control, looking at her men sideways. How she would die as soon as the dead breached the outer castle's walls.

Sansa nodded. "I understand, I do."

There was nothing here to lose. Not really. Nothing but her conscience and Lady Mormont's life. Sansa exchanged a look with the little Lady's men, and then she made a rash decision.

In a quick movement she grabbed the little lady's arm and pulled her further inside.

"Bar the doors," she ordered Mormont men, who hurried, understanding her intentions.

Hastily closing the doors and barring them. The women who had come with her, echoing their motions on the inside. Pulling on sacks of stones to act as further barriers.

Lyanna struggled against her. But her armour was heavy and prevented many of her movements, Sansa only held her tighter and pulled her against her chest, wrapping her arms around her shoulders, waiting for the women to be done. She only had to have strength to hold her for a little longer.

"Let me go! Let me go," she yelled and yelled until she could only cry with relief, slumping on to her liege lady.

"You may be cross with me now, as it is your right. And I don't expect you to thank me for it, not now and not after. But know that I thought only of you, your family, and Bear Island," Sansa whispered in her ear, not letting her go, pulling her more forcefully to her. “Now we must go.”

Lyanna muffled her cries on her dress and held on to her, as if Sansa was her mother. She was only a child after all. Younger than Bran, Rickon’s age had he survived.

Sansa held on tightly and began to lead her down the corridors to reach the Great Hall, so they might seal themselves once more. Ghost pushing his snout against her legs to hurry them both along, somehow sensing the danger in the air.

"I don't want to die. I don't want to die," she repeated over and over again, hiding her face in Sansa’s chest.

"Breathe, Lyanna. Breathe. You're only a child, sweet girl," she whispered softly as Lyanna kept holding on to her, perhaps fearing someone would force her out of the doors if Sansa did not hold her closely.

As they reached the entrance of the Hall, Sansa stopped them and made Lyanna take notice of her surroundings. The girl finally took a deep breath and put some space between them, only small enough so that she might look up at her face.

"Mother would be ashamed of me," she spoke so faintly Sansa almost missed it.

"She wouldn't. You were very brave. It was my choice, not yours. She knows that, wherever she is, she knows that the order was mine," Sansa soothed. “You obeyed your liege lady. You did your duty. That would have made her proud.”

Lyanna looked into her eyes, took a deep, deep breath, trying to stop her hiccups and prepared to let go of Sansa at last.

"I'm so very sorry, Lady Stark. So very sorry," she said as she furiously wiped her face of tears.

Sansa took a hand to cradle a side of her face.

"You're only a child, nothing more could have been expected of you. Go to your sisters, Lady Mormont. All is well," she promised her.

Lyanna crossed the doors and hastily walked to the crying girls who must have anxiously heard her struggle and they embraced in their relief. Sansa smiled as she looked upon them.

They barred the doors for a third or fourth time. Sansa began to lose count.

As she caught Lady Dustin’s glance, the old woman gave her a solemn nod.

Only the lands norther than Winterfell had sought rescue here. They would never reach any southern castle quickly enough and no other keep was better equipped for this threat. They stood on a fortress now. One that had been built exactly for this. The last holdfast of the North.

On joyous days, during generous feasts the Great Hall of Winterfell could comfortably sit five hundred people with ample space for music and dance. This night, all huddled together like children prepared to sleep, two thousand people waited and prayed in whispers.

Lady Westerling spoke to Little Eddard in a gentle tone. We are going to play a little game, she told the child who began to fret at all these people surrounding them. All the strange noises and heavy silences. She was a good mother, Jeyne Westerling, a good mother. She would have been a great one if only her son was anything less than a King.

Sansa had to put space between them both. There was only so much she could endure.

Besides, Lady Lyessa was next to her with her own child. Lady Flint would know what to do in a crisis. Either way, Sansa exchanged a look with Ghost, leading his eyes to little Eddard. The great direwolf thankfully took her queue easily enough and trotted towards him. Taking his well-earned rest surrounded by children that were eager to pet him.

She searched for her own place besides Jeyne Poole on the far end of the room, so far that she could not make up Lady Westerling’s face no matter how hard she might squint.

When Sansa finally settled within herself, leaned almost comfortably against the wall, laced her fingers with Jeyne Poole, ceased from taking number of the people around her. Those sitting, those standing. If there were too many people in the south side of the hall, if she should urge them to that vacant spot she saw just above the platform where the northern throne usually was, where they most likely wouldn't go without her offer.

Sansa stopped to notice just how quiet they all were.

There were some whispers, of course, soundless conversations being carried out. The quiet humming of women that had brought wool and knitting needles and became lost in thought. Teaching their younglings how to do the same to keep their thoughts occupied. To work. To prepare for a tomorrow, should it come. There was no screeching. No crying. There wasn't even much emotion to them all.

They weren't afraid, the thought overwhelmed her, but it wasn't quite right.

They were afraid. But their fear, although palpable, was... quiet. Their hands fidgeted, just like hers. Some had restless legs and tapped them softly against the floor. Their teeth chattered endlessly no matter how warm the room was, trembled and lightly shook, rubbing their hands over their arms in an effort to comfort themselves.

It hadn't been like this in Kingslanding.

It hadn't been quiet at all. The chatter was endless and the lack of leadership from Cersei Lannister mortifying. Impossible to ignore. Impossible not to draw conclusions from. They had prayed loudly with Sansa. They sang hymns like it mattered. Like the Gods would pay them any mind. They drank wine as if it would deliver them from the fear. They shook and cried, and Sansa had pitied them. Those who had seen her beaten and disrobed in the throne room. Those who had giggled. Sansa had pitied them and offered her comfort, just as she had been trained to do. She had felt so old then, older than them. And it had felt right then. With Shae standing quiet vigil over Sansa, it had felt right.

But her people, Winterfell’s people, these northern folk that lived in Stark lands and lands norther still. They were settled in this state of affairs. They were used to this. To Ironman invasions. To Bolton rule. They were used to being afraid. They were used to seeing their loved ones for the last time. They were used to loss. And tears. And blood. And misery. An overwhelming pain that crippled every inch of one's body. They were used to war.

And so was she.

Sansa didn’t feel old here. Among these people. She felt incredibly young. And soft. Pliable to their wills. Wanting of their comforts.

Sansa had been trying to wrap her head around why was it that she wasn't terrified of the outcome of this war. Of being locked in this room. With nothing to do but wait. She knew why she was not afraid of dying, that she feared more what would happen if she didn't. But watching them not fear it either, brought some comfort to her as well. They knew exactly who awaited them on the other side. Their loved ones. The ones they had lost. There would be someone to welcome them all. It wouldn’t be lonely. She understood now.

There was nothing else she could do. That any of them could do.

And there was some measure of freedom in that. In letting go of the weight. Of sitting and waiting and knowing nothing, absolutely nothing from her would grant them a different outcome. Her duty was done the moment those doors closed. And it would only begin again when they opened.

Sansa could say empty words of comfort, promise things she had no way of keeping and she would, should they require it of her. Offer bread if their stay here prolonged for enough time. Share stories though she wasn't quite sure she remembered many to take the mind from any noise heard from outside the walls. But it would change so very little. Her duty would only begin again when those doors opened or not at all.

Sansa took a deep breath, nestled against Jeyne Poole, and joined in on the humming.

“Do you remember the strawberry pie we stole from the kitchens? All those years ago. I felt so wicked then,” Jeyne Poole giggled next to her.

Sansa smiled at the memory.

“Once this war has passed. And the one after that. Once this winter breaks, I shall give you all the strawberry pies your heart desires, darling Jeyne,” Sansa promised though there wasn’t much strength to it, nor much truth. It was only an empty promise she had no means to keep. But kindness… Sansa could still give that, to the ones that had only gifted her the same in return. It was only fair. It was only right.

“But you can’t. Can you? Not anymore,” she whispered softly, but there was a hidden rage in her. “Why didn’t you tell me? Last time… when the King’s mother arrived, we made plans together, escape routes. You promised we would never be apart again.”

Sansa couldn’t bear her gaze, her disappointment.

“There are places I could never allow you to follow me into.”

“I should be the judge of that,” Jeyne told boldly.

Sansa smiled and reached for her hand to give it a gentle squeeze.

“You ought to be,” she agreed. “Had it been any other place you would be. Not where I am going. I have to protect you, Jeyne, as I was unable to do last time. And as your liege lady I will ensure it. I will be unmade, and you must… you must hold on to every drop of power you have achieved until it is a second skin none would ever dare to touch. Bran will… he will carry on where I have failed, he will take care of you.”

“And who shall protect you?” Jeyne demanded to know.

There was a beat of silence and then Sansa whispered, “Myself, I gather.”

A vicious dragon’s roar caught all of their attention then. Silenced whatever murmurs there were in the room. A screeching sound of a living beast made to be in pain, that made everyone who heard it shudder.

Mother’s mercy, save us all from dragon fire.

Sansa couldn’t dare to hope it to be enough for it to die, but she thanked the Gods all the same for a good shot.

“May the Old Gods strike her and her beasts down with her,” she heard an old woman, Della, muttering under her breath.

There was a heavy silence, only broken by hums in agreement.

"Without her we would all be dead already," came a sharp answer from a most beloved subject.

A hollow laugh broke the silence.

"How so?" Jeyne asked Missandei, rising from her place so she could be heard better. For the woman who spoke had cleaned and tended to Jeyne’s wounds at times, for she had shown her kindness, for she knew beasts of the same kind as those dragons, and she had not wavered. "Without those dragons the Wall would not have fallen. It has stood for thousands of years. Long before your queen's ancestors burned their way across the land. It were her so-called children that removed a barrier that had kept the threat away. That had kept us all safe."

"Jeyne, dearest," Sansa called to her softly, mindful of how dangerous this could become. How this speech would no doubt fall on the dragon queen's ears. How she would see Jeyne as a threat. "There's no need Jeyne, please, come here," she pleaded. 

"Do you see? Even now she cares for me, places my life above her discomfort. Is frightened over what your queen might do to me. Would place herself in front of me in the face of her wrath and I do not question it, I do not doubt it. Would your queen place herself in front of you? Because that is all she is to you. I have seen how she treats you. Like a foolish child awaiting instruction. As if you could not live without her merciful direction. Have you ever called her by name? She calls you her greatest friend, her closest advisor when it suits her. When have you ever advised her of anything – anything at all. Those names are only shackles she places upon you, that she binds you with. But what do you call her? Your Grace?" She tilted her head to the side. "It is so warm to be loved by Sansa Stark. What would you say it is like to serve Daenerys Targaryen?"

"I was in shackles before. And she freed me. It is marvellous to be loved by Mhysa," Missandei answered her proudly, back straightened.

Jeyne smiled sadly while shaking her head.

"You wear shackles still, though you do not see them. Everyone else does. What does it feel like? To call your master mother? I know I called mine husband. So I should know. Do you sleep well with those Dothraki so close to you? They are slavers aren't they? And Jorah Mormont, of all people, proudly by her side. How do you stand it? The indignity of it all? How do you bear it? So many slavers that serve your queen. Why do you suppose that is?" Jeyne prodded without relent.

The people grew restless as they heard this speech.

Northern women who sneered at the name with babes on their breast. Northern women who knew what Jeyne went through, who heard her screams and could do nothing to help. Northern women who recognized Daenerys Targaryen for what she was.

"She freed me – Sansa Stark. She gave me my torturer to kill so I might know rest. So I might sleep. She gave me his lands so I would have justice. She offered choices to me when I never had any. She was prepared to let me go, should I desire it. Would Daenerys Targaryen ever let you go?” Jeyne did not wait for an answer. “She wants to take her from all of us, Sansa. She wants to take her. She wants to sell her, like you were sold, like I was sold, so that in the love she inspires she might no longer be a threat to the fear your queen does. Aren't you ashamed? Does it not sicken you that you would serve someone like that and call it love? And call it freedom? Call it a choice?"

Sansa knew this was no longer about Daenerys, this was about Jeyne’s pain and suffering that spilled from her from having to stand so near to a person she saw as another. It was Sansa’s fault, of course. That she had asked Jeyne to spy on her. That she had not predicted this. That she had underestimated who Daenerys Targaryen chose to be.

And her people grew furious. They heard of her plans. They heard that Sansa was to be taken away and their rage grew. Sansa was Winterfell’s daughter to these women. She was the Stark who gave bread to their children, furs to their elders. She was the one that expelled the Boltons from these lands. Sansa was theirs.

"Jeyne," Sansa called, pulling her arm so she might face her, taking her face in her hands, making her absent eyes stare back at hers. "I am here. Jeyne, look at me. I am here. Sweetling, look at me." Jeyne blinked furiously, bringing her face into focus once more.

"I'm so sorry Sansa, I… I didn't mean to... I'm so sorry... "

Sansa shook her head and kissed her cheek.

"No need, sweetling. No need. You need to sleep, you haven't slept."

She called Wylla forth so she might take Jeyne in her arms for a moment. And then Sansa turned to Missandei whose brown almond eyes stared into her.

Sansa was dead but not Jeyne. She had to protect Jeyne. Like she hadn’t been able to do before. If she could do nothing else on this earth she had to protect Jeyne. She had to.

"Jeyne was sold to the man that held Winterfell, before we took it back. He killed my brother as well. But I can say that would have been kinder than what he did to Jeyne. What he did to Theon Greyjoy. She is not herself right now, so I would ask-" Sansa shook her head, "- I would beg that you would not share this with your Queen. Jeyne has been through enough. I would be indebted to you, were you to show me this mercy."

Missandei let go of the rigid way she was holding her shoulders and frowned.

"You... You would beg? For your..." She seemed startled. Unsure.

"My friend? Her life. To not be burned alive by dragonfire?” Sansa nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes, I would. How many times you would wish me to."

Missandei shook her head vehemently and Sansa’s heartbeat quickened.

Sansa remembered the blade her uncle gifted her.

The weight of it on the inside of her boot. Sansa would kill for Jeyne, she knew that. She would kill for Jeyne before she would kill for herself. To protect her dearest friend, she would do whatever was necessary. No matter the cost. And who would see if she used it. Who would not look away for love of Jeyne. For love of her. For hate of Daenerys Targaryen.

"My Queen would not burn her." But Missandei lacked the certainty and so Sansa’s bloody thoughts faded away and she focused on her words – her greatest weapon.

"What she did in Highgarden says differently. And I will not jeopardise Jeyne’s life on blind hope towards a woman all evidence show to be her father’s trueborn daughter."

Missandei bit her lower lip in thought for a long while before speaking again.

"You are a Queen, are you not? Even if not in name? I see. Lady of the North, I have heard those whispers. My Queen as well. They treat you as a queen and yet you would beg for your lady. For your friend," Missandei corrected.

The concept seemed foreign to her.

"My pride means nothing against Jeyne’s life."

"And yet you will not kneel to Daenerys Targaryen. It could have been avoided -" she looked down in shame “- the marriage. If only you bent the knee to my Queen.”

Sansa swallowed harshly, her hands trembling as she clasped them in front of her, hoping it would make it stop.

"It's not my pride your queen asks for. It is -" Sansa corrected,"- but not only, she asks for me to relinquish my people's freedom, my own, the battles my elders fought and died for, and that I cannot do. My duty is to protect it. Me and my family have lost too much in its service. Far too much. So many people have died for it… so many people have died so that the North would be free. I cannot take their pain away, my own, give them their dead back, but I can show them it has the same value for me as it does for them. I can honour them like this. To not hold my freedom higher above theirs."

“You wish for them to keep their dignity,” Missandei surmised, nodding slowly in understanding. "I did not speak to Lady Jeyne this night, Lady Stark."

Sansa bowed her head deeply.

"Thank you, Lady Missandei."

There was a humming that increased in strength. One voice joined, and then another, and another, until all the sounds of war were muted by those of prayer.

"Lady Stark." Varys bowed his head, before sitting by her side.

She raised a brow, she had been expecting this, sooner or later.

Never like this, though. Never with a battle hanging above their heads. While Lord Tyrion had had the good sense of bringing a pitcher of whatever watered wine or ale was to be found and stolen from Winterfell’s kitchens and elected to stay as far away from her as he could, Lord Varys had most certainly heard the commotion with Lady Missandei.

He waited for a moment, of course. He waited for the prayers to begin. A moment where the fighting was at its thickest, the noise almost overbearing to come to her. To mask the words they would speak to one another.

"Lord Varys."

"I was glad to know of your survival."

Sansa hummed without interest. "Is that so?"

"Of course,” he assured her, his features taking on a kinder expression. “You were a gentle lady. You deserved none of the evils that befell you. If Littlefinger hadn't interfered… perhaps it could have all been different. You would be the Lady of Highgarden now and on our side."

Dead already, like all the Tyrells were.

"A prison is still a prison, even if the cage is golden and wrapped in vines. Of all people, I would have expected you to know this. And last I heard the Reach was taken by force and most of all dragon fire. It seems you went back to your old Targaryen masters.” Sansa took her time to look him up and down. “Tell me, Lord Varys, does one get used to the smell of burned flesh? Or does it always come as a surprise? I have wondered… It appears I will soon find out."

He paled at her words, and she was pleased to see the shame he bore very easily across his face.

Sansa could almost appreciate this new state of affairs. The worse thing that could happen to her already had. And the honesty that came with it… The unbridled honesty she could display came as a relief. She was dead either way and so she could finally speak all that she had kept to herself for so many years. Now she understood Cersei Lannister all those years ago during the siege of Blackwater. She had nothing to lose there either.

"My Lady, I..."

She shook her head at his mumblings.

"No need to explain yourself, Lord Varys. Truly. I wouldn't believe you even if you did."

The Spider smiled at the insult.

Petyr would have smiled as well.

"Littlefinger taught you well. What happened to my old friend, might you share it with me, good lady?"

"Petyr Baelish has stood trial and was executed for his many crimes against the realm, in the name of Lord Robert Arryn. Justice comes even to the most clever. Don't you find?"

How she had prayed for it. Relentlessly.

"I should hope so, my lady. Yet most seldomly do I get to witness it. However, I have seen many a good man in the service of bad causes and I find them worthy of my mercy," he confided in her, as if they were old friends.

Sansa could tell he had used those words often to excuse himself of his own actions.

"I see you for what you are, my Lady Stark. A good woman, a gentle lady, a capable leader,” he praised, as if his opinion of her mattered. “Much good you could do to the realm. Like your father, had he been given the proper chance."

Sansa suppressed a chuckle.

"And are you offering me the chance, Lord Varys?"

"I already have."

And it dawned on her.

Whose idea the marriage had been. Not Tyrion, though he must have certainly accepted it without much fight, if any. The Spider had been the one to bring it up. Sansa kept herself quiet. Suppressed her need to scream. And wretch. And rage.

"It's not the proper solution, of course. Rather insulting, I wager, for such a sought out bride. Such a noble and accomplished lady. But Tyrion is a good man, though his appearance is lacking. He could make you a good husband and it would appease the Queen,” he told her in a soothing tone which she found to be the greater insult amongst so many.

Sansa narrowed her eyes and she seethed, “How would you know?”

He frowned. “My lady?”

“How would you know he would make a good husband? I have been forced into marriage with him once before. I did not find it to be a good experience. I did not wish to see it repeated. I did not find him to be a good husband then. Nor do I find him to have been made a better man by his experiences after our separation. So I ask again, how would you know?”

Varys sighed. Perhaps having expected this to be an easier conversation than it would ever be.

“You would have Casterly Rock through him. You could beat Cersei Lannister in this manner, your former captor, wouldn't that bring you some peace? To beat the woman who killed your father at the game?"

Did he truly believe that to move her? An ambition to beat Cersei in a game with whom she did not even share a board with, such was the distance that parted them.

"Even Cersei Lannister found my marriage to her brother a graver insult than what I was owed. And it was Joffrey’s order that killed my father. Try again, Lord Varys."

"Very well," he conceded with another sigh. "Tyrion’s efforts to reel in Her Grace's worst impulses have failed. Jon Snow... Well, he has failed as well. I was never trusted enough for my advice to be properly taken into account. But you..."

Sansa shook her head.

"I will never be trusted. Traitor's daughter that I am. Daenerys Targaryen is her father's daughter in every way, and his memory the one she clings to with fondness. Though she tries to hide it, at times, she is clear that she finds the Rebellion to be unjustified. Do you deny it?"

Lord Varys did not and yet he served her.

"You are envied, Lady Stark. The loyalty you command. The love three kingdoms hold for you. You are envied. And in that envy you can be respected and therefore heard. You could serve the realm most ably in Kingslanding, at her side. You could save the realm from her," he urged her, all pretence lost.

Such dangerous words from the Spider.

Sansa understood this conversation with the secrecy it was owed. And as such she spoke with the same candour she was offered. Since he wouldn't be able to use this to his profit, given she was already lost to this threat.

"How difficult it must be for you, Lord Varys. To fail again and again your service to the realm. All your plans and hopes to turn to ash for choices your own. You served her father and you despaired in his madness. Your served Robert Baratheon and you despaired in his incompetence. You served Joffrey and you despaired in his cruelty. But you served them all and profited from each and every single one. And then to have hoped in Daenerys Targaryen…”

Sansa laughed though it sounded miserable even to her own ears.

“To have placed all your hopes on her, that she would deliver the realm of all these wicked men and their weakness. You believed in her, you brought her here, to these shores. To burn these people. These people you claim to serve above all other rulers. Your people. I'm sure now you find that service to Cersei Lannister would have profited the realm more than it does the Dragon Queen. For all her misgivings Cersei’s worst act – she has already committed. And she did so when she had nowhere else to turn to. Now your queen... She burns even when she is surrounded by other choices. She burns because she enjoys it. That must hang heavily on your conscience. Those lives that you helped end. How desperate you must be, to resort to me. The girl you helped torment, who you were and are so very glad to use for your convenience, for your purposes. What misery you could have prevented if only you had stopped playing the game. But you, just like Petyr, you live for it, you live to play with people’s lives. You take joy from it. From ruining people. From building up others. And in the end, that same game, it is what will kill you, but not before killing everyone you tried to protect."

Varys trembled by the time she was done. From what she could not know but hoped was guilt.

"I... I... " he struggled to find words.

“Leave me be. I am owed at least silence at this forsaken hour,” she asked of him.

"Daenerys is barren. I know what you offered her. It was a fine proposition, Lady Stark. I would have had her accept, it might have solved much. But she is barren," he informed her.

Sansa narrowed her eyes. "Why are you telling me this?"

"You should have every information if you are to win the game. You must know it all."

She tilted her head to the side with a newfound curiosity. "Tell me more then."

"Lady Westerling is promised to marry Lord Cerwyn, if he offers support to her regency. He has promised to sway the other lords. She promised your hand in marriage to Tyrion, as well, should you oppose it, she has promised Her Grace means to force you to. Something about a will, Robb Stark’s will.”

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek with as much strength as it would require to drown out her need to scream.

It would always come to that. That godforsaken will. Sansa wondered what the North would say about the will if it was to be known that a Targaryen had been made the heir to the North before her.

“And Lady Arya."

That snapped Sansa awake from her thoughts. "What of her?"

"Engaged to Lord Ryswell."

Marriage, of course. It would always come down to marriage.

Lady Westerling would sell herself as well as every single woman she had at her disposal. She had seen this coming. When Jeyne had arrived. Sansa had seen all of this coming. Had warned Arya of it herself. But never had she expected such cruelty. Such misguided cruelty.

"Does Jon know?" She simply had to be sure… or it would always hang between them.

"No. He was not trusted with the plot."

Sansa nodded slowly and took a deep breath.

“We will speak again, Lord Varys, leave now before anyone confuses you as a friend of mine.”

“As you command,” he whispered, rising, and returning to the shadows he belonged to.

Sansa didn’t know how long they were there. It seemed nothing more than a moment and yet it could have been days. The swords clashing, the groans and shouts in both foreign and common tongue. The roars of dragons, shrieks of horses and dead beasts faded deeper and deeper into the background the longer they remained locked in these rooms. Children slept soundly in their mothers, sisters, grandmother’s arms against the faint thunder of war.

Sansa was startled when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

She looked up to see Della, the woman for whom Jeyne had spoken, who offered her a small smile and sat beside her.

"That girl there-" she side-eyed Missandei who drifted off into sleep, not with malice, but with pity "- she doesn't understand. And perhaps she never will, for no fault of her own, poor child. To a thirsty man a drop of rain can seem plenty. You know better, don't you Lady Stark?"

Sansa could do little more than nod.

"It was said that during the times a Stark ruled the north from Winterfell a maiden could walk in her name's day clothes along the King's road and no harm would come to her.” She took a deep breath and fidgeted with her hands for a bit before carrying on. “I can tell you that is not true. Do you know that too?" she asked, her voice becoming lower, softer, raw with grief.

Sansa nodded once more, casting her eyes upon Jeyne for good measure.

"I lost three boys to all these wars and a husband.” She shrugged. “He wasn't much but he was mine. I won't ask if you understand that because it wouldn't be proper." The woman cast her eyes down to ease her words. "I have two daughters, still. One out there fighting. And I... I wouldn't dare to say any of these things if not... If you weren't spoken of as you are... But I cannot lose any more of them. I cannot have my girls buried where our gods won't reach. I bore them during heavy snows, the both of them. It's only proper that if I have to bury them that they are buried here, isn't it milady? Isn't it?" she urged her to answer. "Isn't that why you travelled all this way? Didn't you want to be buried here?"

Sansa nodded.

"Yes. I want to be buried here. I hope I will be."

Lady had been buried here. It was only proper that she would as well.

"Will you pray with me, Lady Stark? So this might be the last war we bleed in?" Della asked, offering her hands to her, calloused and rugged from a life of hard work.

Sansa looked at her for the longest of times.

To this woman who knew what might come next. Who knew danger. Who understood death. Who was familiar with war. Who asked Sansa for protection, the only way she knew how.

Comforted by the humming of women whose faces had coloured her childhood, whose hands had welcomed her home, Sansa placed her hands above the old woman’s, palms up so she might better feel the call of the wind, as for the old way and customs. And she did what she remembered not doing for far too long.

Sansa Stark prayed.

Chapter Text

His eyes.

It was how she knew something was wrong.

Jon just looked at her and didn't dare draw breath, waiting for her to guess whatever it was that he could not bring himself to say. It was the same every time.

Half of his face was covered in blood. A ghastly cut above his eye, caught his eyelid all the way down to his cheekbone. It swelled with every second they spent in this damned interlude.

An ocean of people separated them.

Wives running towards their husbands, towards their children. Waves of people crashing around them and yet she could not bear to look away from his grey eyes.

"Tell me," she whispered, having finally reached him. Running her eyes over him, looking for any more cuts, any more bruises. Any burned or mangled flesh. Taking notice of the deep cut on his thigh that kept him from placing his full weight upon both legs.

It could not be Arya, or Bran, she kept repeating to herself.

It couldn’t.

Jon wouldn't be able to look at her if it were either of them. He would blame himself so deeply, so fully, that he would withdraw from Sansa and never bear her presence again. He would have punished the both of them this way - it would have been well earned.

"Ser Brynden Tully."

Yes.

Of course.

Of course it would be.

"You're hurt," she mumbled.

She took a hand to her own face, as if she were his mirror. She wasn't quite sure if Jon felt anything at all. But he most certainly could not see from his left eye.

A sharp wail caught Sansa’s attention.

A hollow, wretched wail of someone who had lost part of themselves. A wail that made her chest burn. She tried to find the woman, searched the room with her eyes, but there were so many people, she could not find her face. Sansa wished she could join her. That she might find her, so they might wail together.

There was some story old Nan used to tell them. Of women who wailed by the river over their lost kin.

No.

It wasn't by the river, it was to the river. So the water might take away their grief, wash them of their sorrow. Carry the strength of their love to the dead.

Mother always told it best. She gave the women names and stories, lovers, and brothers they cried over. Sansa just couldn't remember it very clearly. Bran would have, he always paid more attention to these ones, to the sad ones. Sansa would have to ask him when she saw him again.

"Sansa, did you hear me?" Jon called for her attention once more.

Sansa wondered if it was necessary for it to be a river.

She wondered if the hot springs would do. If the trick was in the amount of water or in the current. If any body of water would do or just the river. Would it make a difference to Brynden Tully if she mourned him properly, as a Tully would? Would it make it better? Would it make his death less permanent? Would it make her pain less palpable? Would it make her tears fall freely?

Would it make him any less dead?

Her grand-uncle should be buried in the Tully fashion. She knew that much. His ashes had to return to the water, or he would not know rest. Neither would she.

Sansa would be allowed to weep unabashedly this time, unlike in Kingslanding. She would be allowed to wear mourning colours. She would be allowed to grieve. She would take the time to.

Did she have the time?

"I have to clean it. It might become infected. You might lose-"

He might lose it anyway.

Jon cradled her face in his bloody hands, as if she could pay him more attention than she already was. As if she could ever be more focused on him than she already was.

"Sweetling, he is dead. The Blackfish is dead. Your great-uncle is dead," he repeated over and over again, each time more softly.

"I heard you the first time," Sansa told him sharply and still he didn't let go, her harshness making his hands no less kind. "But you are not. You are not dead,” she reiterated. “You're bleeding though, you're aware?"

Jon nodded. Letting go of her face at the same time she reached for his burned hand. Pulled him with her to the makeshift infirmary they had set for the after.

They had needed to consider an after. Sansa had considered an after, though she had not wanted to face it at all.

Jon went with her without a fight, and she was so thankful for that. So very grateful that she did not have to drag him with her. She had not the strength for it.

Any maester would by now be occupied with mangled limbs and vital wounds. Any wound that required stitching would be being attended to by women such as herself. Seamstresses and the like.

Sansa would have made for a skilled seamstress, somewhere across the red sea. Perhaps even a tailor. She might have run a little shop, her husband might have tended to the books, while heaps of auburn haired children ran around them.

Jon sat where she pointed him to sit.

Leaned back when she requested.

And his stare never left her at any point. She would have found it disconcerting. If only it wasn't so pleasant to know he was next to her. That he was alive. That he seemed so interested in her movements. So keen to keep watch over her. Such a lonely thing she was.

Sansa took a wet cloth to his eye, hoping to clean away enough blood and dirt so she could access the wound.

He winced at her ministrations but tried his best at keeping still.

Maester Wolkan had taught them all how to disinfect wounds. How to cover them and bandage them away. Sansa could not stitch such thin skin, but she could make sure it was clean and ready to heal. She would call for Maester Wolkan as soon as she could for him to take a better look. Jon would have to sleep first. He wouldn’t let anyone attend to him before everyone else was looked after.

"Arya and Bran are fine, no serious injuries to them," he told her, no judgement in his voice.

Sansa looked back at him.

"Oh, I know, I would have -" she stopped herself, cleansing her bloody hands on the water basin. She wasn't naive enough to say she would have felt it, if they had been harmed. "It would have been clear on your face, if they were not."

"Even with a mangled eye?" Jon attempted to jest but it fell flat with the screams in the background that made the both of them shudder.

"I know you."

His face fell at her words.

She presumed too much. Perhaps it was what disappointed him. Yet of this Sansa was sure. He wouldn't have been able to hold her gaze had Arya or Bran perished or even been harmed.

"Arya killed him. The Night King," Jon managed to say with a small smile and a hint of pride in his voice.

Sansa commended him for it.

"Were you very disappointed?" Sansa asked without looking up, she found it easier to answer truthfully when people weren't looking at her. She afforded him the same privacy.

Jon was silent and so she continued.

She wouldn't want it to become a burden he would have to carry. There were enough of those all around them.

"I would be. If I had been fighting the same enemy for so many years and he met his end by a stranger's hand, so to speak. I would be... At least a bit envious," she mused, hoping it made it easier. Though envy wasn’t quite the right word. It wouldn’t be envy she would come to feel when Cersei Lannister burned alive by whatever crimes Daenerys Targaryen deemed her guilty of. "It's natural, we are only frail creatures. Bleeding hearts and bruised egos. We can both be relieved and disappointed all at once. There's no shame in that."

Jon looked intently at her for a very long time. So much so that she became self-conscious of her own movements. Of the tip of her chin. Her cheekbones. The bridge of her freckled nose.

"You’re right.” Jon nodded slowly. “I think you would be able to tell, no matter how mangled the eye," he said at last.

His features had such gratitude in them Sansa couldn't help but offer him a smile.

"How bad is it?" Jon asked at last.

"I don’t know if you’ll be able to… I don’t know, Jon.” It was too large of a cut, covering much of the left side of his face. Too deep. Too raw. “I don't know how you aren't in dire pain."

"Give it some time, I'll be wanting to scream, eventually. It's only the rush. You will too. You’ll howl from the grief of it."

His lips tightened in a sad smile.

Sansa shook her head. "I'm not harmed."

"You loved the Blackfish dearly. As one would a father. You looked for his approval, for his eyes in every room you entered. I've never seen you try so hard to put distance between yourself and someone, like you did him. Not even me. And yet he never relented. He never gave up, which is more than I can say. You trusted him and he was taken from you. I would have spared you that, were I able. I hope you know that."

Sansa took a deep wavering breath.

"Did you see him die?" she found herself asking despite the lump in her throat. Despite the fact that… she wasn't quite sure she wanted to know.

"He pushed Lord Tully away from a bear. Ser Brynden was a brave man. He will be remembered as such."

Sansa nodded slowly.

"He would have found that a worthy end."

To die for one's family, for one’s cause – family, duty, honour.

"Uncle Edmure?"

"Lord Tully lives."

She let go of the breath she didn’t know she was holding. And tears began falling down her face. Sansa kept wiping her cheeks but to no avail. She was just so boundlessly relieved. That her uncle should live.

"He has a girl, a babe still nursing," she said between hiccups.

Uncle Edmure should be able to go home to little Catelyn. To hold her in his arms. To whisper promises in her ear that she wouldn’t be able to understand, nor he keep.

"Lord Tully is a lucky man."

Sansa laughed, which made her tears subside, finally regaining some hold over herself.

Lucky wouldn't be the word she would use to describe Edmure Tully, nor his life. But he was owed some luck from the Gods. He was very brave too.

She made decent work of stitching the wound on Jon’s leg since there was nothing else she could do for his eye. And when she looked up, Sansa was met with bright red eyes that stared back at her pleadingly. Ghost had a muzzle darkened by blood which she took her time to clean. She was thankful he had stayed behind with them.

No more wolves should be lost, she thought, as she scratched below his right ear. Ghost’s vigil began at the foot of Jon’s makeshift bed which left her at ease to leave him.

"You should drink some poppy’s milk."

Sansa had already seen it from the corner of her eye, rushing to get some of it, leaving it by his side.

"And where will you go?" Jon wondered, his eyes already heavy.

"There are some wounds that require stitching, I will lend my hand. And I would like to see Arya and Bran," she answered already turning from him.

Eager to leave his presence before her mourning took its full hold over her.

He was dead.

He was dead.

Brynden Tully was dead.

It shouldn't surprise her that her uncle was dead. She could have almost counted on it.

Everyone who ever tried to protect her ended up dead. To be in her service was a death sentence. Sansa couldn’t quite remember how Jon had told her. She couldn’t remember which words Jon had used.

Her uncle was dead ever since the beginning. Ever since he took that Stark sword and swore himself to her. Was it a curse? That everyone who should try to protect her ended up dead. Would it ever know an end?

Sansa walked aimlessly down the courtyard. What remained of it. Taking notice of all the damages that would have to be repaired. How could she repair it, if Brynden Tully was dead.

Some loyal soldier had retrieved his sword – House Stark's sword – Red Wolf.

Sansa remembered him. The captain of her archers.

She had told him to aim for the dragons. She was glad he was alive. Had he gone looking for the sword when he heard the Blackfish died? Had he? Did he expect a boon? She had nothing to offer him. If only she did… Perhaps more rations but that was all.

He kneeled for her.

They kneeled so often to her these days, Sansa could barely stand it now. The weight of their expectations. The hope she could free them. Poor fools. She couldn't even free herself.

"Please, rise," she pleaded, tears in her eyes.

He did. Stepped closer to her but she did not fear him. It did not cross her mind to step back. He would not harm her. The comfort of that certainty... It was the thing she would miss the most from Winterfell. That she was surrounded by her people.

"We got it. The big one. A spear in the belly and an arrow shot right through his wing. The beast took a great fall, and she with it, milady." And he bore such pride as he said it, Sansa could almost weep from the joy of it.

"Thank you for your bravery, Ser. Forgive me, I do not know your name." She knew it was a kindness she offered him, an honour she would gladly give, for it was the one thing she could.

"Ondrew Norrey, from Stone Edge." He straightened his back and held his chin high.

From her uncle’s retinue.

"All my men have been sworn to secrecy, milady. Worry not, they took immense pride in having served you thus. And the North. May the Gods, old and new, keep you, milady."

"May they bless you and your men, good Ser. For your labours."

“They are your men now, milady.” He nodded mournfully along as he said it. “They carry out your labours.”

She did not know how to answer that. And for that reason the words stayed with her.

“Are you hurt, Ser?”

That took him by surprise. That she asked. That she wanted to know.

Ser Ondrew looked at his bloody arm. “Nothing much, milady.”

“Come, I’ll tend to it.”

His cheeks deepened three shades in colour. “I c-c… I could never accept such honour.”

“The honour is mine. Come,” Sansa asked again, glad to be of service.

Sansa simply looked at the Lady of Widow’s Watch for the longest of times.

She hoped Lyessa was uncomfortable, but she knew that she was not.

Lady Flint was always at ease in her presence. She fluttered and fretted and didn't fear to touch. She moved effortlessly, gracefully and she reminded Sansa so much of her mother that sometimes it made her ache. She was strong and composed and she would never flinch. Not under Bolton stare. Not under Stark disappointment either.

"You might simply ask, Lady Stark," she proposed, not yet finished with putting her pins and needles away, another wounded man tended to.

"I wouldn't presume to demand your honesty, Lady Flint."

The older lady raised a sharp brow as she turned to face her. As if she, herself, was disappointed.

"I might take offense that you would deem me capable of raising a finger against you, much less my whole hand, Sansa." Her tone eerily similar to her mother’s.

"I know you to be a capable woman. I know you to be a clever lady. Am I to believe you did not know what those you have spoken for, do in your shadow?"

"I know,” she admitted to. “I have known ever since Lady Westerling started her inquiries. You will have the truth from me, whenever it is asked."

And not a moment sooner.

"Why didn't you say?"

"Risk my life by speaking out against the King's mother?” Lyessa shook her head. “It was your error by giving her a position. Not mine by respecting it.”

Lady Flint took a deep breath, stopping herself from achieving a higher degree of impertinence.

“You are all so young. We are inclined to forget that, as we know your hardships. I should have given you counsel then, before I was asked. Before you presented her to those lords who didn't give you a crown and asked them to decide your fate once more. I did not. That is my failure, I will rise up to it. It wouldn't have been right and proper of you to send her back to her father's house. Keep the babe for yourself – but it would have been understood. A man in your place would have had the duty to marry her, but as a woman, you would have had the right to send her away. You would have been owed the right. I would have ensured you the right."

"My sister by marriage," Sansa solemnly spoke.

"Your rival by blood." And such a thick northern accent came with those words.

Sansa straightened her spine and lifted her chin.

"A westerlander. You could have sent her away. But you have a gentle heart, it will be your undoing."

"It is already."

Lady Flint shook her head and sat beside her, presumed to take her hands in hers.

"Lord Ryswell is your man still, for he is Barbrey's brother. Barbrey is Stark sworn because I made it so. We made it so, because you have a gentle heart. Because you forgave when you had the right to demand blade to be drawn." Sansa leaned further towards her as she understood. "Rickard did as he was asked. Nothing more than that. If it is Ryswell and Dustin loyalty that Lady Westerling attempts to buy with Lady Arya's hand, and she believes it to be sold, then she can barter it with no one else."

"You'll have me believe that you smooth down my path."

For all Sansa knew they could be playing both sides. And rather well at that.   

"I do my duty. Barbrey does her duty. Rickard does his duty. You must do your own and put your heart aside. You have skill, which cannot be doubted, and it hardly could have been taught if you didn't possess it already. But you bind yourself to your father's honour. We are at war, Lady Stark. There is no honour to be found here. There is no honour to be found anywhere. Do you hear me?"

And the expression on her face changed. She was no longer that composed lady, defending herself from betrayal. Her face gained lines of worry, signs of aging and Sansa saw Catelyn Tully in her eyes.

"You must save yourself now, dear one. No one can do it for you. I can only move so much before it is noticed. And Barbrey can only reach for a few bridges not yet burned. You must act. You can't leave Winterfell. Our influence will not reach outside of the North. None of us can protect you outside of the North. And we cannot call for a war to bring you back. Not in winter. Not against dragons."

And was that desperation that Sansa heard? Was that concern?

"And why would you be loyal to me? Against dragons. Against Robb Stark’s heir and widow," Sansa asked at last.

"The North remembers. But only acts when able. You made it able. You went down that mountain. You stood before keeps that were closed to you. You stood. A woman-child. You stood and shamed grown men and women without saying an unkind word. I have seen your scars. The scars on your back from Kingslanding. I have seen you dismissed. I have seen you betrayed. I have seen you labour. Relentlessly, I have seen you labour. I know your worth."

Sansa nodded slowly.

"I presume there were many horses that perished against the Night King's army," Sansa mused.

Lady Lyessa hummed in question.

"A worthy feast for the dragons that remain. Wounded as they are and unable to hunt their own game."

“Her Dothraki feed the dragons, which you know."

The Dothraki forces had been ravaged in the first line of defence, as it had been expected. They had taken care of their own injured. Taking them swiftly out of their misery one by one. Their leader had taken Lady Missandei by the hand and had her ask Sansa if she wished they did the same to her forces. Sansa knew what they offered to be a kindness in their world, and so she had refused in a gentle manner. For a warrior nomad people, death was to be kinder than impairment, Sansa could understand it to a degree.

"There are few Dothraki left. Maybe your men should ease their burden," Sansa proposed.

Someone as loyal as Lady Flint claimed to be, would see no burden in aiding her in her task. Even if it meant being tied to Sansa, should its aim be discovered.

"And if they don't take to the meat?" the lady wondered.

“Lord Brandon will ensure it.” They had spoken of it already, in whispers by the heartree. “They will no longer be a strain on our resources. They are our allies no longer. They will cease being treated as such, grain by grain.”

“As my lady wishes,” Lady Lyessa agreed with a small smile and a respectful curtsy. “What Gods would hold bread and salt against you, in the face of so much injustice," she added.

Sansa understood that they all feared that lack of absolution would ender her from what needed to be done.

Before she could say anything else, Jeyne Poole entered her chambers. Though her face was red and swollen from tears spent over Theon’s death, her eyes shone bright as she handed Sansa a letter that would decide all things.

The Martell sun over red wax.

Sansa’s eyes perused it quickly and then she nodded to herself and the women before her.

“The wheels must never cease, my ladies.”

As Sansa lighted the pyre of her chosen Hand, Brynden Tully, the faithful protector of House Tully, she couldn’t help but notice how Lord Royce, Lady Flint and Lady Dustin stepped closer to her.

There could have been some comfort to that, once.

There could have been, but there wasn’t. As Lady Wynafryd Manderly lighted her grandfather’s pyre, Sansa couldn’t ignore how her hopes were placed entirely on her now.

Sansa had expected that it would take longer. For the fire to catch on. Though the ice thawed it was still freezing, she had expected it would have taken much longer for the bodies to begin to burn.

“I spared him the knowledge,” Sansa said, as much to herself as it was for Lady Westerling who stood beside her.

The woman turned to her, wiping a stray tear. “Sansa?”

With Brynden Tully dead whatever remained of Lady Westerling’s discretion would abandon her.

Sansa did not wait for privacy to be given, for secrecy to be observed. She did not attempt to protect Lady Westerling from the North’s judgement, from their scorn. Her duties to her had ceased.

“I spared Brynden Tully the knowledge of how deep your betrayal went. I did not want him to battle with a heavy conscience from having brought you here. I did not want him to feel guilty for your sins. For having brought a traitor to my table. To his niece’s former halls. I wanted him to fight without the weight of knowing just how close our enemies were,” Sansa told her, without care for who might hear. Sansa was only obliging the Dragon Queen, by disclosing her fate. “That he had taken such proper care of them.”

There were so many dead, so much crackling noise from the straw and wood that burned around them. So many of them that she could not even see where the Dothraki losses began.

Sansa was surrounded by her losses.

“I wonder… what did she promise you? She has little to give, so I can only assume she took back a threat of dragon fire. Offered a regency that is not hers to gift and peace from her own rage. No matter that she can always turn back, and roast Winterfell should you or your son displease her. I suppose that doesn’t bother you so much, your liege Lord was Tywin Lannister, the West is used to living under threats of carnage. But I wonder… how will you impose it, once she demands it of you, that bended knee of yours? How do you expect to gain loyalty from this act of betrayal?”

Sansa was curious, truly. To know if she would tell her the truth.

“I have to protect my child, Sansa. I wish that you could forgive me for it. But I know that you cannot,” she agreed, her chin held higher than she had ever dared before her. “The North’s loyalty is achievable with marriages. You know this as well as I. The North is not so different from the South, you know that too.”

Sansa offered an understanding smile that had none of the warmth she once might have given it.

“I will no longer ask for forgiveness for doing my duty as well, Lady Westerling,” her tone was resigned but no less sure. Her duty to the North, her duty to her family, her duty to herself most of all – at long last.

This would never get back to the Dragon Queen. Her defiance. Jeyne had promised the woman a willing and subdued Stark bride. To admit she could not deliver to her what was promised would be dangerous. To promise that which one could not offer a Dragon.

Jeyne lips tightened and she opened and closed her hands for a moment as Sansa turned her eyes from her back to the fire.

“And your duty to your nephew?” she asked in a high, desperate pitch that told Sansa much of the confidence she had in her own plans. “Your brother’s child. Robb’s child, what of your duty to him, sister?”

Sansa wasn’t quick enough to cover her mouth before the hollow laugh of hers escaped.

It scared Lady Jeyne to see her so uncomposed, she had no doubt.

It scared many.

It was bound to scare even more in the weeks that were to come.

“Little Eddard has his mother. I quite doubt he will have need of me.” She looked back at her for a moment. “But even if he did, you have made that entirely impossible, have you not? You allow others to pursue steps to unmake me. Forsake your boy to an unknown fate, dangerous foes, and no shield but your own. You weaken his allies, make him barren of supporters.”

Sansa did not wait for an answer as she shook her head slowly.

“I wish you good fortune on the wars to come, Lady Westerling.”

She needed her afraid. As afraid as Sansa herself was.

She turned back to the pyre and did not spare the woman another look. Sansa sincerely hoped Lady Westerling took her time to grieve Brynden Tully. He would be the last person of consequence Lady Jeyne would ever disappoint.

"Lady Manderly."

And the young woman trembled, for it was the first time she was called that. The first of many. And it must have taken her by the same shock that Sansa had been when Yohn Royce took her hand in the Vale of Arryn and called her Lady Stark. The Lady Stark, for the very first time, for all to hear and bear witness to.

Wynafryd curtsied deeply, her teal skirts ruffling under the new weight of the expectations placed upon her.

"My Lady Stark."

Sansa didn’t quite know how to put it to words. Didn’t quite know how to call upon her loyalty when it had been promised by another.

“My Lord Grandfather informed me, of course. Of what could come to be, should he die and be reunited with my father. Fear not from House Manderly, my Queen,” she whispered the title taking her by that same surprise. “We remember our oaths, our swords are yours till death. We remember,” she assured her, with the grace expected of a liege lady.

Sansa nodded solemnly.

"Could it be possible that while all your forces were here, in Winterfell, the ships of White Harbor unattended to, that perhaps a third of the Dragon Queen's fleet would have… drifted away?" Sansa proposed.

She frowned for a moment and then it dawned on her. It dawned on her what her grandfather might have left arranged. What would have been expected.

"I wager, at the very least, a half, Lady Stark. The Targaryen fleet would have been kept in the outer Harbor, not taking precedence above our own ships, of course. And unattended to as they were, they might have even crashed against the Seal Rock. Such accidents happen often and with the dangerous storms caused by the Night King… Nothing else could have been expected."

"Some of your own boats suffered, did they not? A dozen?" Sansa proposed in the interest of ensuring belief in no wrong-doing.

"Yes, about that."

"And if part of your forces left at dawn for White Harbor that is what they would find and report to, isn't it? Or would they take a longer while to reach it?"

"If they left now, desirous to meet their wives and children, to take a look at their own fishing boats, they would hastily look upon the wreckage, five days at most, the currents willing to… wash away the waste."

"I wouldn't wish to keep them from their kin," Sansa agreed.

"Neither would I, my lady. Loyal men that they are."

Sansa nodded slowly.

“And these men would be enough to manage the ships and the cargo?” Sansa asked, intent on leaving nothing to chance.

“Indeed.”

Sansa would make a gift of them. This act could not be misconstrued. If found before the time was right… there would be consequences. For both of them.

"They would be thankful for such a kind liege Lady. As would I," Sansa assured her.

"I only aim to keep to the oaths my house has sworn and the loyalty I owe, personally. And of course House Manderly would keep whatever… came ashore. From the wreckage."

“That, and more to come, when the time is right,” Sansa conceded generously.

“And one more favour, Lady Wynafryd,” she began.

"I would stay with you. As long as you have need of me, niece."

Her uncle Edmure was the only one who stood beside her now. After all remaining Tully had said their last goodbye to the Blackfish, his ashes spread in the Hot Springs.

Arya was still mostly abed from her wounds, and Bran wouldn’t allow anyone to move him from the Godswood, seemingly at communion with the Gods. Sansa had thrown furs upon furs atop him but left him to his duties.

She had communion of her own to tend to.

They had prepared Brynden Tully for his funeral rites together – the Tully way – before he had to be cremated with the other fallen. Tended to his wounds, cleaned away the blood. Lord Edmure had collected the ashes himself under her mournful gaze.

Sansa appreciated the sentiment. She did. She held on to this familiarity with all her might. This man's desire to keep to her, to them, because they were his sister's children. Because they were his to keep. Because family came first. Because they were Tully as much as they were Stark. Because they lived on. Their dead lived on in them.

But Sansa did not need any other life for the Dragon Queen to hold over her head. And she would not bear the weight of the death of any other member of her kin.

"I treasure you greatly, uncle. I wish that you will always be certain of it," she told him softly. "But I would have you return to the Riverlands. To your lady wife and darling Catelyn. To the safety of Riverrun. There’s rebuilding to be done."

While he still could.

"You could come to the Riverlands with me. Disappear for a bit. Let Daenerys Targaryen run herself ragged before facing her once more. Let Lady Westerling deal with the fall out. It might be the thing that makes her come to her senses, little trout," he advised.

Or the thing that killed her.

Sansa treasured the escape he provided her with. That he had considered the danger that she was under. That he would shelter her from it. No matter the cost.

"Winterfell needs me. I could not leave Bran and Arya alone to this wreckage."

"Her eye is not so keenly on them. Your sister has managed to evade all sorts of attention and it would take far too much of it to ever understand Brandon. They are safe in a way that you are not, Sansa. I cannot abandon you to this fate. I shall not," he promised.

“I belong here, uncle. The same way you belong to Riverrun. It is our duty. You are the only one who understands that as well as I. It is as much my duty as it is my birth right. And I treasure it, as much as I feel it’s weight.”

Lord Tully agreed with a sigh, though it pained him.

“His men will stay with you. They would accept nothing else, Uncle Brynden bequeathed you their service. They will keep to you faithfully, you must allow them to.”

Sansa had come to the same conclusion after her exchange of words with Ser Ondrew Norrey.

"There is a favour I would ask of you. Though I wouldn’t fault you if you denied me."

"Anything that is in my grasp to give is yours to keep," he reassured her.

"I have some missives I would ask you to send for me. When you reach Riverrun. I have signed my name, and Lord Royce has signed his, as Lord Protector of the Vale. I would send them here, from Winterfell, but with the war ended I can no longer hope for lack of attention towards my correspondence," she explained.

She removed the scrolls from her sleeve and handed them to him. Lord Edmure read the first one with a keen eye and nodded along to it, before saving them on the inside pocket of his vest.

"I will add my seal to them."

"I could not ask that of you."

And yet she wished for it all the same.

Sansa hoped for it, and she expected it from him. Because he was a Tully, and he was brave. And he loved his people, as much as she loved hers. And he understood the danger they were in. But more than that… he trusted her.

"You are not. We must all come together at this time. I cannot offer my people's swords, but I can offer my own. I can offer my name, whatever it still means. And I can offer Riverrun, which is what you need, if this plan is to succeed."

"It means a great deal to me, uncle. And I…” Sansa swallowed harshly. “I understand what I am asking, I understand the danger it will bring to the Riverlands. And trust that if it comes to it, I will rise to the guilt of it, and claim you ignorant in the plot. I will do all that I can, to ensure the Riverlands suffer no more in the crossfire."

He chuckled and ran a hand down his hair, still growing from being shaved in captivity.

"The thing about the Riverlands, Sansa, is that we stand in the middle. We summon it as much as we are summoned. The Trident will always call for blood, as long as it isn't nourished. It wishes for peace but will always answer to the call for war. The trout will always understand a price has to be paid for safe harbour to be reached." He nodded along to himself. “All manner of wars have been fought in the riverbanks of my lands, it stands to reason all calls for peace should be made there as well.”

That was what she prayed for.

"But there are things that must be solved in the North before it reaches its hands out to other kingdoms. Your house is fractured, your position made frail by those whose backs you cover. They will call you out on it. Nothing will be forgiven to the one who rings the bells."

Sansa agreed entirely. "Lady Westerling-"

He grimaced.

"It isn't Jeyne I'm referring to, I'm afraid. Though she most certainly must be dealt with." 

"Jon is my family and he had his reasons. And he did not know about-" 

"A choice will have to be made soon. About the nature of them. And it will be made by you. You must hold your kin to the same standards as your people or you will be met with dissent. You cannot fight for freedom and forgive submission. It will not mean you love him any less," he offered gently, taking pity on her burdens.

"Family, duty, honour," Sansa recited. “I am as much a Tully as I am a Stark.”

"That you are, and The North remembers," Lord Edmure answered in the same spirit. “If you went back with me to Riverrun, a Tully could be all that you would need to be, for the rest of your days. But you have chosen your duty and for that, you are of Winterfell. There is a line that must never be crossed, surely. But Jon Snow accepted the crown of winter and relinquished it so he could bring dragons to your halls. He understood there would be consequences, he's no fool. No matter how just his reasons, no matter how much was gained or lost from them, the sting of them is what will linger, you must feel it still." 

There was something rattling in her chest that she had to share with him. If Jon's position would be brought up against her, so would Robb's choices, if they were to become known. And she did not want her uncle to be caught unexpectedly by them, as she had been. 

"Robb placed Jon above me. In the line of succession to the northern throne. After my marriage to Tyrion Lannister. Lady Jeyne intends it to be known, to deliver me from the houses sworn to me.”

More than anything she wished to know his thoughts on the matter, as his face darkened in light of the news.

Robb had been Edmure Tully's King, more than he had been his kin. Sansa could tell as much. Lord Edmure did not mention his name with the devotion he mentioned their mother’s. If he mentioned Robb at all.

"I hope that eases your burden, Sansa."

She furrowed. "I do not understand." 

"Robb chose the North's freedom above your rights. Above your life, when he didn't trade the Lannister for you and your sister. I hope it eases your guilt about having to place your own claim before his son's. Your brother could not fault you for that which he did. The North must come first for the Starks."

His honesty took the air from her lungs. His understanding of what would have to be done relieved her. That he saw the same path as her. The same options. 

"You are always of great comfort to me, uncle," Sansa whispered softly against his doublet, as Lord Edmure wrapped his arms around her, in a comforting familiar embrace. 

"I endeavour to always achieve just that, little trout.”

He kissed the top of her head, as a father would have done.

“I will gather a council in the Riverlands, and you must gather your own here. We must all be invited to the table, to be sure none turn against it for lack of knowledge."

"How are you?"

Jon offered her a half smile, trying to keep the left side of his face immovable and patted the spot by the side of his bed, so she might sit where he could better face her.

His eye was swollen shut around the stitched wound covered in shades of red, purple, and green.

Sansa could not imagine how it would ever see light again. She would have cried for him once, his tale of woe remarkably similar to one of songs. She might still cry at the thought of the pain he was under and forced himself not to show.

"I'm better. Maester Wolkan is hopeful I won't lose all of my sight. We can only be sure in a couple of weeks. After the swelling goes away and he can better inspect it."

Bleak sort of news but it appeased something in her. Besides, Jon didn’t seem too cross with it, not when so many had lost limbs they could barely do without.

“And Daenerys would wish you to go with her still, in your condition?”

Jon became serious all at once. Swallowed harshly which prompted Sansa to reach for the water on his bedside table to offer him.

"Sansa, there is something you must know. I am not..."

Jon took a deep breath, preparing himself.

"I am not your father's child."

Sansa had forgotten it – truly. That he didn't know she did.

It wasn’t that she found it meaningless, much to the contrary. It was only that it changed nothing in his nature. He was no more of a dragon today than he had been before the knowledge of it. He had a direwolf laying his head on his legs to claim him a Stark for all to see. He had been raised in Winterfell, played in the snow, and witnessed every First Harvest Festival for years and years.

Jon was a Stark. And it was Sansa’s duty to put him out of his misery.

"Lord Tarly told me. And Arya. Of course Bran already knew. Lord Samwell was concerned with your lack of action."

Sansa found it warranted. Not because she believed Jon had not acted, but because she was quite sure he had.

Jon frowned and looked at her for the longest of times, all range of emotions crossing his face.

“Sam had no right to do so. It was not his secret to tell.” She nodded but said nothing of it. "But it's done now. What have you to say?"

And he looked at her expectantly.

“It doesn’t have to change anything. If you don’t want it to,” Sansa offered. “You’re still a Stark, no matter the branch. And a Stark can be all that you are.”

It would be safer if that were all that he was.

Jon laughed, but there was no mirth to it.

“Does this make me a Sand, do you think?” Jon laughed some more. “I was born in Dorne, if the Citadel’s records are to be believed, if father-” his voice broke, and he looked desperately at her.

Sansa reached for his hand, but he placed it far from her grasp.

“I always wished that she would be a highborn lady. I just never considered… how highborn.” Jon shook his head. "I don't even know how Lord Eddard could look at me. Everyone always said I had the Stark look. That I looked like him. I wonder if he only ever saw her when he looked at me. His dead sister."

"Father loved you very much Jon. He risked so much for you. Maybe it began for love of her, but…He loved you very much, no matter if he saw her in your eyes."

“I was only a burden, Sansa. If Lord Eddard loved me so very much, he wouldn’t have allowed me to go to the Wall. He wouldn’t have allowed a child to give himself to that fate so carelessly. He would have made me see sense. Uncle Benjen tried to dissuade me, but I wouldn’t hear of it. He knew better and I wouldn’t listen. If Lord Eddard loved me, he wouldn’t have…” Jon took a deep breath. “It makes it so apparent now. How quickly it was all decided, how easily… Your Lord father must have lived in fear. That King Robert would discover the truth. That he would kill me and punish you all in his rage. In the Wall, I was a danger to no one.”

What words could she use to refute his claims…

Men in her lord father’s position had their male bastards fostered – her lady mother’s desire all along. The proper solution to the predicament of a recognized bastard. The expected course of action. But how Eddard Stark clang to his bastard son. How that had only made way for more rumours about the identity of his beloved mother.

Jon would have been made a knight, had he been fostered. A gift of land might even have been bestowed upon him when the time was right. He might have lived a comfortable life as a recognized bastard of Eddard Stark far from Winterfell. Instead he had been encouraged to go to the Wall and all that came of it.

"Father should have told you. He should have told my lady mother as well,” Sansa said at last.

The only currency a woman had in the world was the love of her father, the loyalty of her brother and the respect of her husband. Those were the only things that she could use as shield and ladder in the world.

Her mother had lacked the third.

“I would still be a threat to Lady Catelyn. To all of you. Only then the fear I would overthrow her children would be replaced by the fear I would cause their death.”

“It might have eased the strain,” Sansa offered.

Jon only hummed and finally focused his eyes on her once again.

“Lady Catelyn was right, though. I did accept what was rightfully yours. I am sorry, Sansa, that I took that from you.”

Sansa’s heart missed a beat with his admission, and she wouldn’t dare refute the truth she had so longed to hear from his lips.

“Don’t you want to rage against me? I was even less deserving of it than we thought at the time,” Jon pushed, almost demanding anger from her – almost wishing she would afford him the honesty of showing herself cross.

What could be gained? She was at a loss for words. She had so much to say that she had buried for so long… she had barely managed to have a proper reaction towards his true paternity. What was the purpose in having an opinion about the truth now.

“Have you nothing to say?” he pushed again.

“What do you want from me, Jon?” Sansa asked of him instead. “What would grant you solace?”

Jon frowned as if she had offended gravely against him.

“I don’t want solace from you, Sansa. I want no comforting words, nor platitudes. Comforting me should not be another one of your duties. I don’t want to be someone else you have to deal with. To pity. To bolster. To raise up. To raise defence against. I don’t want to be another piece of the game to you. I want to be....” He stopped himself and simply looked at her at a loss for words.

“What?” she asked breathlessly. “What do you want to be, Jon?”

“Your equal,” Jon decided. “I want to be your equal.”

Sansa had nothing more to do than laugh. Which took him by surprise almost as much as the truth.

“Robb legitimized you, in the line of succession. Placed you above me, after I was married to Tyrion. You should know that. Lady Westerling told me, when she arrived, and I couldn’t… I couldn’t tell you. I should have told you. That he trusted you so. That in some way, unknowingly, you fulfilled his desires when you accepted it.”

Jon’s face fell with the shock of it.

“I’m so sorry, Sansa,” he whispered.

And Jon would understand. What it meant. How frailer her position became in Kingslanding had it been known. He understood these things because he paid attention, in a way Robb had never needed to. Which was why it hurt when Jon… when he had accepted it. Because Jon had known why it was offered to him.

"Some time ago, you asked me if it would have been easier, if you were Robb. I should have asked you the same. Would it have been easier for you, having Robb as head of this household instead of me? Would have been easier for you to respect him? Follow him." Sansa was hungry to know.

There was a moment of silence while he considered his next few words. Sansa could see that he did not wish to be misunderstood.

"I left for the Wall hoping I wouldn't always have to live in Robb's shadow. That I wouldn't always have to see the disappointment in your lady mother's eyes, the fear. The pity in Lord Eddard's."

Sansa respected that he did not attempt to deny it. That he did not offer her platitudes.

"It came with its own challenges. Everything does. So the answer is – no. It would not have been easier. I gather it would have been harder still. That we would never be equals. That Robb would never attempt us to be such. I doubt he would have endured what you did. There would never have been a chance for it, either way. I know it was only so because I was a man.” Jon smiled sadly. “I should have never accepted it. The crown. And Robb should have never…” Jon sighed and shook his head. “But I couldn't bear to deny it, in that moment. And then I couldn't bear to admit that I was the reason for the disappointment in your eyes. I wanted to be your champion, you see. And then I thought I…”

Jon stopped himself and Sansa couldn’t allow it. Not when truth was within reach. When they could finally understand each other, once more. Sansa placed her hand on his.

"Will you tell me now? Will you tell me all of it now? Like you promised."

He nodded slowly, covering her hand with his own.

"When I went to Dragonstone... When I first saw Daenerys... She was just a girl. Not much older than you. She seemed... Harmless. Misguided. Used. Surrounded by all these men. Each of them greater than the next, do you understand?"

Tyrion, Varys, great men. Powerful men. Players in their own right.

Sansa nodded.

"She had these great speeches. Grand and so hollow, I almost wanted to laugh. She seemed almost silly, if you can believe that. As if she couldn't understand the stakes of it all. But then, as time went by I realized that all these great men... They didn't speak. Not in her presence. They didn't speak. They were just so... I wouldn't say they were afraid. They were just... Impaired. Because she wouldn't listen, and they didn't know what to do. Tyrion seemed almost... Thankful. That I was in the room. That it was someone else's turn to manage her. To manage her impulses. Because that is all that she has. Impulses. There is no thought to her. There is no rationality. There isn't even any regret. Can you imagine that?"

Sansa shook her head. There was little else to her than regret and sorrow.

"I have done... Terrible things, Sansa. Before I... Before I died. Things I could never tell you about, such is my shame. But I think about them constantly. I am racked by guilt and at times, I think that is the only thing that makes me... Me. And to see her not even be plagued by her choices... "

"You couldn't be her enemy," Sansa concluded.

"Yes," Jon agreed. "I thought that if I distracted her long enough, if I offered platitudes and...” He looked away from her and sighed. “And myself, she would forget about it. About the North, about the throne, long enough to do some good. Long enough to get her here and make her useful. And now..."

Jon shook his head.

"I didn't even bend the knee, you know? I didn't. I just said pretty things, I allowed her believe that I... "

Jon looked up at her, begging Sansa to understand so he wouldn't have to say the words, to admit the dishonour – Jon allowed her to believe he loved her.

"I understand."

Jon took a deep breath.

"I thought they would make you Queen, when they heard, and everything could be as it should. But Eddard... When I arrived... You were being pulled in so many directions. They wanted you to be so furious with me." Jon laughed. "And you were. It was good that you were. But Gods, you were so much more disappointed. And you were so... Afraid. I could see it in your eyes. I thought that, if only I could get us through this... Through this battle, I could persuade her to walk away. That this was a cold land, unappreciative and barren. I could make you angry enough that you wouldn't care that I went."

"I would always care," Sansa assured him.

"I hoped you would not. Not with the way I was treating you. I hoped you would never endure anyone treating you like that. But I hadn’t realized I would feel so… with your grand uncle… I felt... Denied. A burden once more. It brought back feelings I thought I was done with."

"Why didn't you tell me? Why not tell me all of it when you arrived?"

"I wanted to make you proud. I wanted to take care of you, for once.” Jon shook his head. “And I am ashamed. Of all that I have done. All that I would still do. And it has achieved us nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

Jon sighed.

"I have to go with her, Sansa. To reign in her impulses. Every time she is denied her anger grows. She has no patience anymore. With her dragons harmed... I can hardly know what the state of her is.... It is best that I go with her."

"Does she know? About your parentage."

"She does. She came to me two days ago. She was rambling about this prophecy she had told me about before. About her being barren. The reason the dragons were born. Only death can pay for life. She's convinced... She's convinced that the death of the dragon means she can conceive again. I presented myself as a Targaryen bastard, which... Apparently I am. A worthy consort."

Sansa narrowed her eyes and fought the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose.

"You... You would marry her. Another price for peace. And when she finds that she cannot conceive, or worse, if she does! You'll have a child with that woman?"

Jon took a deep breath. "If that is what it takes..."

"What it takes for what?” Sansa demanded, rising from her place beside him. “Delay war for another generation? Let little Eddard and whatever Aerys or Aegon comes out of her, face each other in ten and four years down the line? If we’re lucky, that is. This is madness." Sansa shook her head vehemently. “You’re a target now, to her. And… to everyone else who finds out. As a Stark bastard you could be protected, I could protect you! But as a Targaryen one…”

Jon nodded.

"So it is. I am out of your reach."

And he was. Yet she couldn't let go, not when so many cards were still on the table.

His battle was done. Hers was just beginning.

“Ser Jaime.”

“Lady Stark,” he greeted her curiously. “I fear I am in no condition to receive you.”

And he was very amused with his own words, leaving Sansa to wonder if he had spoken them before. To another Lady Stark.

"I had hoped to find you gone, Ser."

Jaime Lannister did not rise from his chair as she entered the room, however he did raise a brow as he inspected her. Just as Cersei Lannister would have done.

"I await trial as commanded, my lady."

Sansa hummed.

Such a disconcerting man Jaime Lannister was. She imagined him saying those same words to her mother, the same bruises on his face though from a different war, and Sansa shivered under her heavy furs.

She wore her hair like his sister did at her most beautiful. Down her back, a simple twist as to not fall to her face. She would have been lying if she claimed it was not purposeful. If she did not seek to shame him by reminding of who was it that he had abandoned.

Sansa had learned this from his sister – how to dress for the occasion. Her lady mother had been a practical woman, who although always beautifully dressed, wasn’t one for frivolity.

"I was assured Her Grace carried your child. Is that not true?"

His back straightened and he looked away from her. There was shame to him – half the battle was fought. Half the battle was won, just with that small bit of knowledge.

"It is," he answered with confidence though he did not face her. “She is.”

"Your sister, the mother of your children, is all alone, prepared to face two dragons and you remain here. Enjoying the comforts of Winterfell. A castle surrounded by snow while she awaits you, in one soon to be surrounded by fire," Sansa mused.

"Say what you will and leave me be, Lady Stark,” he demanded of her, feigning boredom at her antics.

And yet this interested him.

Sansa Stark interested him.

She knew his sister, she knew his brother, she knew his children. She knew things he did not. When they all died, she would remain. Jaime Lannister was clever enough to understand that. To understand that Sansa Stark would be one of the souls that would carry their legacy, their memory, far past their deaths.

Sansa smiled politely and looked to the chair in front of him asking for permission.

“It’s your chair, not that you have forgotten it.” And yet he consented all the same.

Sansa’s smile widened.

"Cersei spoke so fondly you. So reverently of how you made your way to her in every one of your children's births. How I could only hope for that kind of devotion from her son. She seemed a different person entirely, when she shared your love."

He narrowed his eyes on her, his expression changing into one of keen attention.

"Cersei spoke of me, to you..." Ser Jaime nodded slowly as if coming to terms with some deep truth he had just now realized. "You had a question," he reminded her of.

"Your devotion. Where has it gone?”

“Cersei betrayed me.”

He said it as if it mattered.

“Not so many times as you betrayed your oaths to her, I’m sure. Three children you gave her, all of them dead. Joffrey to Olenna Tyrell and Petyr Baelish. Sweet Myrcella to Tyrion's poorly executed schemes. Little Tommen to the Faith.”

"They were not my children. They were never allowed to be my children,” he interrupted her, as if it made for a good enough excuse for either of them.

“A walk of shame while you fought for Riverrun, for your glory, your honour, while she hurt, while she suffered. Almost forty years of chances, of waiting. The queen spoke of your devotion, and I have yet to see it, Ser. I can’t help but find myself disappointed with the Lion of Lannister. I expected too much, I suppose."

Sansa aimed to strike where her uncle had shown her it would hurt.

“My sister is dead either way. You do not deny it. You are not a liar," Jaime Lannister wagered with a shrug, playing at indifference.

Oh but she was. A skilled one at that.

Sansa tilted her head to the side and honed her blades.

"You would have the maesters write of the great Ser Jaime Lannister who willingly subjected himself to a makeshift trial while his sister, his rightful Queen, burned. The man who pushed children from towers to hide his secrets. Who threatened to kill babes to gather his victories. And yet, he would seek a trial for history to remember him by. For he could not abide by doing the duty he chose for himself. What a great song that will be. I’ll have it commission after your trial. Glory be to the cowardly Lion of Lannister. "

Ser Jaime laughed. He truly laughed as he looked her over.

“I have been called many things behind my back, but to be called that by Catelyn Tully’s daughter to my face… it is quite something.”

He laughed some more while shaking his head before he took a deep breath and held his chin high.

"I am not a fool. I may not be from that same scheming cloth as both my siblings, but I am not a fool, Lady Stark. Cersei would want you dead. She wants it still, the memory of you something she holds close to her chest and here you are. Speaking for her. I know why I love her, but why do you?”

“I do not love her.”

And yet Sansa wanted her to know it was her that sent him.

Ser Jaime leaned forward with a wicked smirk on his lips, as if they shared a secret between the both of them.

“You don’t hate her either. And isn’t that so much worse? That you understand her? Not even I claim to understand my sister. But you do, don’t you? Do you think your lord father would be ashamed of you, Lady Stark? That Eddard Stark’s daughter would lead a man away from doing the right thing."

And he smiled proudly as he said it. As if he had won.

“The right thing,” Sansa intoned. “Pray tell, what would that be? My father died doing the right thing. What did it achieve him or anyone else? Many a man have died doing the right thing having it achieved nothing more than blood and heartbreak. Shall you follow his footsteps, Ser?”

“If you wish to kill me, you will do so after a trial and not before. I won't run to give you a reason, my lady," Jaime Lannister sneered.

Sansa smiled amusedly and leaned back on her chair. Crossed her fingers above her lap and looked Jaime Lannister down.

She wondered if he believed himself a different man when he was parted from Cersei. A better man. Away from her, as he was, he did not have to confront himself with his choices, with their nature and reason, he could simply look back at her, at the memory of his sister, and pat himself on the back in comparison. Surround himself with those who hoped in him or didn’t know him at all.

Sansa wondered if he truly believed it, or if Ser Jaime understood, deep within himself, that Cersei was only ever an excuse.

Jaime Lannister did what he wanted to do, and Cersei would always be the only one he could be himself with, with no judgment, nor shame, nor guilt. That for how long he could deny himself in front of the likes of Brienne, the effort was too consuming. That the need to go back home and be loved as he was, would always be there. No matter how he denied it or concealed it.

It would always be Cersei or death – for they were the only ones that could keep the shame at bay.

"You think you will ever achieve honour, here?” Sansa shook her head. “I'm not your son. I won't pass judgment over false charges for the country to contest over in the coming years. I will charge you with what you did to my brother. To Bran. And years from now, no one will ever defend your name. No one would dare claim you honourable for this.”

Jaime Lannister’s face fell at the mention of her brother’s name.

“What justice will be achieved here? Riverrun is still ravaged, you made it so. My brother will never walk again. You made it so. My mother will never speak again. My brother will never hold his child. My uncle will never unmake the decision you forced him to make and live with. Do you think standing trial here, will give them justice? Do you think their ghosts will settle? That your own heavy conscience will grant you a reprieve?”

Sansa shook her head and took a deep steadying breath.

“To die here… it's only a mercy to yourself. You should walk a thousand days on this earth and feel the weight of your choices, the same as the rest of us. It isn't that you choose to be here to answer for your sins, it's just that it's simpler. Your sister, your queen will die alone, and you will die to the shame of it all, before you perish by a blade carried by any man of mine. But Cersei? She might forgive you yet. So stay here or leave, Ser. The gods will know your reasons better than I. But I am no liar, and you are no fool.”

“I do wonder, Lady Sansa. Do you speak only for Cersei, for yourself, or for a brother who you wish would hurry back to the safety of your skirts and leave the dragon queen to me and mine?” he attempted to strike, not content to be the only one harmed in their spar.

Sansa made way to rise but Ser Jaime stopped her, a hand to her forearm.

"Cersei does not forget and she does not forgive. More than that, Cersei does not stand down," he spat the words as his sister would have. A way in which he could defend her honour without rising from his chair. “You can’t prevent the ash that will become of Kingslanding, no more than I could. Sending me will change nothing. Cersei will never abandon her throne and Daenerys Targaryen will never give up her delusions. Kingslanding is already ash. All of us know it. You can’t…” He sighed. “You can’t prevent that," he said it with sorrow, with regret.

“I don’t deny it.”

“Then why?” He demanded, hungry for clarity.

“I have to try. You can understand that, can’t you, Ser?”

Jaime Lannister nodded slowly.

“Daenerys will blame my brother, for my escape. Will she not, Lady Stark?” Ser Jaime challenged, returning to even ground once more.

His cunning was Lannister indeed. He was no less than his siblings in this moment and Sansa had nothing to say of it.

“Has Tyrion offended against you, my lady? We are friends now, are we not? You might share with me your grievances.”

And he had the nerve to smirk.

“Your daughter, Myrcella, died because of him, did she not?” Sansa asked instead.

His eyes narrowed on her.

“It wasn’t him that killed her.”

“It was certainly him that brokered her marriage to a second son of Dorne, third in line to inherit. It was him who placed her in danger, who sent her to the house of Elia Martell, yet to avenge. When your sister dies, when you die, it will certainly be because he brought a Targaryen to these shores. Cersei might have won," Sansa admitted, to herself and him, "her wits alone were enough for that. But the dragons came and changed everything. Lord Tyrion has offended against you, much more than he has offended against me.”

Ser Jaime was quiet for a moment, but he could no more allow Sansa to leave this room unharmed as she could allow him.

"Tell me, Lady Stark, will you forgive your bastard brother with the same fierceness with which you command me to forgive my sister? Or will you show him the same loyalty you ask me to deprive my brother of? After all, the Lord Commander,” he said mockingly, “did bow to that which you have the good sense to want to destroy."

There was no answer that could be safely delivered and so Sansa chose a question instead.

“What would you advise, Ser? Love or duty?”

Jaime Lannister was amused by that and nodded in acknowledgement of her.

"Bless me then, Lady Stark. Give me your leave and bless the journey."

Sansa frowned, in surprise. "What?"

"I made an oath to your mother. No matter the means, I have fulfilled it. You and your sister are in Winterfell, and with Catelyn Tully dead, it passes on to her eldest daughter. Release me and bless my journey, the gods will find it paid. One less strike when I meet them."

Sansa took a deep, steadying breath and nodded. And Jaime Lannister took her by surprise once more as he dropped to his knee in front of her.

She swallowed harshly but meant every word, "I release you from your vow, Ser, and find it fulfilled upon my Tully blood. May the Old Gods and the New have mercy on you and your journey. May they judge you fairly upon your death."

There was to be a feast. No one would take notice of his absence. And by tomorrow's first light they would still be nursing themselves to notice.

"There will be no guards at your door this night, Ser. Some men leave for White Harbor, they will grant you safe passage and a boat. Daenerys and what is left of her armies will leave from there by sea as well, I will ensure it. Use that to your advantage."

Sansa took one final gamble and offered him the letter that she had hidden in her sleeve. For this much Sansa had learned in the course of their conversation – Jaime Lannister wished for honour.

"And give this to the Queen, will you?"

He looked at her and back at the letter, utterly amused by the circumstances they found themselves in.

"I gather I could destroy you with whatever is written in this parchment. I gather you would burn for it alone," the knight surmised after accepting it.

"I can only hope that you will do the right thing. And if desire compels you to deliver it to those who would destroy me for its content, that you read it first and decide for yourself if my death is worth its price. It isn't signed, I'm not that trusting, nor that foolish. And it wasn't my hand that wrote it either. You would have to argue your case very skilfully indeed," Sansa assured him. “But nevertheless it is your choice to make.”

Ser Jaime nodded and presented her with a charming smile, after concealing it in his leather jerkin.

“I wish you good fortune in the wars to come, Lady Sansa.”

“I wish you good tides, Ser Jaime.”

Sansa had chosen to wear a dress of pale blue to the feast. Fish scales of an assortment of colours embroidered on her bodice, sleeves, and hem. Her neckline was much lower than she was accustomed to, but Lady Lyessa had insisted it would be much too warm in the Great Hall with all the guests and the fires. They had compromised with a rope of sapphires and moonstones around her neck, that she had received from Sweet Robin to remember him by. It reminded her of his mother instead, but it served the same purpose. Her thick auburn hair fell down her back in ringlets.

She mourned the loss of her Tully kin and she wanted that to be clear for all to see. She would be a Tully this day. She would be a Tully for all her days to come.

"May I sit?"

Sansa looked up at Tyrion and pointed to the chair in front of her. He grunted a little as he made himself comfortable, while lewdly ogling at her breasts.

"How do you fare?" He seemed to be in pain, and it was only polite to ask.

He frowned before he understood her meaning and offered her a tight smile.

"The cold, you see. Awful to the joints of an imp like me. It's beautiful North, of course, but you'll forgive me for saying that I cannot wait to return south."

"I would expect nothing less. It is your home, after all. Or it was."

Sansa tilted her head to the side, as any wolf would do accessing prey.

Lord Tyrion smiled quietly for a moment, considering her words.

"It will be again. Her Grace shows great promise and-"

"It isn't her chances of winning that should concern you, my lord, not truly. No matter if she wins or loses, you are a kinslayer, Lord Tyrion. Do you think anyone will forget? You were found guilty of murdering your King and nephew. All of Westeros knows you murdered your father. If they demand your trial, once your Queen has her throne, do you think she will be able to refuse? Do you think she will want to?"

He was taken aback by her forwardness but answered all the same.

"My father was a cruel man. Joffrey just the same. Many celebrated his death. I need not remind you of this."

But he surely needed reminding himself for the thought pained him. It was clear for all to see.

"No need at all. My family died under his orders. The Tarbecks. The Reynes. Elia Martell and her children. That does not unmake the fact that you have committed a great crime towards both the new gods and the old. And you’re still a Lannister. For all of his crimes, Lord Tywin was beloved by the West. Respected by the other realms. And Joffrey, beloved outside of the walls of Kingslanding simply for being a King. Can you say the same?"

Are you beloved by anyone at all, she left unspoken.

"I am beloved by my queen. Daenerys has need of me. That will be enough," he settled, taking a big gulp of his cup.

Sansa nodded. "In this particular moment, surely. I'm told her love burns quick."

"I'm not quite sure I'm catching your meaning, Lady Sansa." And there was a warning in his voice.

"I would have thought you would, having spent so many years with your sister,” she threw back in his face, the same way he had instructed his queen to throw in hers. “You've failed her more than once. What will she do when you fail her again? It is time for you to gather allies, my lord, not enemies. It is time for you to think of yourself and not your queen. She will show you the same courtesy, I’m quite sure."

So will I.

Every soul Daenerys Targaryen burned, ten rose against her. Their resolve stronger. Every time she resembled her father more houses remembered who they fought against not so long ago. Every lord she burned turned their sons more forcefully to her enemy. Cersei gathered allies every time the Targaryen Queen's dragons drew breath. To burn Sansa would mean to make enemies of her friends. To burn Tyrion would mean to make allies of his enemies. Daenerys wasn’t so much of a fool as to not understand that. Or be led to.

He raised his brow. "And are you my friend, my lady?"

"More than anyone else here."

Sansa did not lie. It was simply that there was no one here he could hope to call thus.

"Not a soul in my halls wishes you well. They all hunger for an excuse to draw blade against any Lannister living. It is by my will they stand down. It is by my will your brother draws breath, that you did not see him being consumed by flames. And how have you thanked me for this, Lord Tyrion? What do you think another forced marriage will mean? What do you think my kin, my people, will take this threat as? Your queen is untouchable, that is true. What do you think that will mean for you?"

"Jon doesn't hate-"

"Is that so? How quickly his lack of hate will be replaced once he hears of it. And Edmure Tully? My beloved cousin, Robert Arryn, who loves me above all living women. My own northern lords who achieved their freedom from Bolton rule from my own hands. What do you think these men will do, given the queue? Think wisely of this proposal, Tyrion. Think wisely of your life against her ambition. That is what hangs in the balance after all. One of us will die if she speaks those words, to this room. Me or you is left unsaid. I would die, of course. Better that than becoming the Lady Lannister. But my family, my people disagree. They would chose death of another kind. Are you certain it won't be yours?” Sansa frowned. “Does this not worry you? It worries me, my lord."

Lord Tyrion shook his head, firm in his convictions of what he believed he knew of the North.

"They would not take the chance so openly against dragon fire," he argued back.

"And declare a war?” Sansa feigned a delightful laugh, they were old friends, after all. “Of course not, my lord. But accidents do happen. Men are murdered in their chamber pots by vengeful sons. Innocent women are choked in their beds for not offering undying loyalty to their patrons." That got his attention. "Anyone can choke on their wine."

And she glanced innocently towards his cup for good measure.

"You offered me guest right. You would not anger the gods. Not you, faithful one."

Yet the hand that held his cup trembled and he looked at Sansa in a different light, at long last.

"I? Surely not, I’m a gentle lady, unaccustomed to the ways of war, the brutality of it, the lack of mercy. But I cannot deny its possibility. Nor can I prevent the course of action you chose this night. This is out of my hands, do you see that, my lord? Your queen has made it so. I do so wish you could understand how that truly affects your circumstances in the North."

"I protected you. In Kingslanding. I protected you."

Everything he had done for her, he had done in his own self-interest. In his family’s interest.

Shae had protected her.

Shae had gone to great risks to hide her first blood.

Shae, powerless Shae, had done more for her than the great Tyrion Lannister.

And no one would have saved her, had she been caught. And Sansa never had to pay her a single coin. She wondered if that was what offended Tyrion the most. That Shae’s love for her came free of charge.

There was rage to her now. Sansa had lived so long in a world of sorrow and apathy that the feeling seemed foreign to her. And yet… it was so freeing. To look at an enemy and feel nothing but rightful anger.

"It’s why I protect you now, my lord."

Tyrion took a deep breath and attempted to soften his features.

"We are in the great game now, Sansa. And the great game does not forgive missteps. Think wisely of this. A husband will be forced on you, eventually. You know this. You know me. We would not be such a disastrous pair, you, and I."

They had always been in the great game. But back then, she had been a pawn. And now – she controlled the table, for a bit longer at least. And while she may be forced into this union in the South, she would not be so in the North.

"While that may be, it does not change the circumstances of the place you stand in. It does not change this particular outcome. For you see, they will kill you not in my name, for me, but for their honour. For while they could not stop it the first time, to stand by it now -" she shook her head "- the shame of it would swallow them whole.”

And the fear on Tyrion Lannister's face... That brought her some manner of joy.

"I would hurry, Lord Tyrion. She seems awfully excited to share this news to the drunken crowd. Who can tell what they might do. They have just won an impossible war against an enemy far greater than her. Why not wager one more? They might see the odds in a different manner than we do. Luck is on their side, is it not? They no doubt believe so."

That bought Sansa some time. And time was all she needed.

Daenerys had just raised from her seat to announce to the North her forced marriage, in all her Targaryen red.

A thick red robe, lined with white fur, which distinguished her from all other women, who had chosen lighter garments for the festivities. It was the first time Sansa saw her with her hair up, though. Braided back from her face, dispersing in plaits of elaborate braids, adorned with strings of pearls and rubies, some pinned to the top, others more loosely arranged. It had to hang as heavy as a crown, drawing everyone’s eye.

Sansa watched closely as he raised from the table and walked to his Queen in a hurried pace. She watched as he whispered in her ear, and Sansa controlled her face into passivity as Daenerys's purple eyes found hers in the crowd.

“Gendry.”

And all the noise in the hall ceased awaiting dragon fire.

“That's your name, isn't it, boy?” Daenerys called him forth.

Gendry could be barely more than two years her junior, Sansa found it a weak insult at best. A poor show of authority at worst.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he answered bravely. His back straight and voice certain.

“You're Robert Baratheon's son. You are aware he took my family's throne and tried to have me murdered?”

Sansa could almost have been grateful for the visionary that he had been.

“I can’t say that I am, I never knew the man.”

Sansa had to hide her smile.

Daenerys raised her brow, unimpressed by his honesty.

“If the Usurper is dead, and his brothers are dead, who is the Lord of Storm's End now?” she asked as if anyone would give her an answer.

The man shrugged. He was from Kingslanding, Sansa had been made aware, an apprentice at the smiths. How would he know the state of the Stormlands. How would anyone here.

“I do not know, Your Grace.”

“I think you should be Lord of Storm's End,” Daenerys proposed.

Gendry frowned. “I… I can't be. I'm only his bastard.”

“You are Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm's End, the lawful son of Robert Baratheon. For that is what I have made you.” Daenerys Targaryen raised a cup, as she toasted to the Baratheon Lord she had just created from clay. “To Lord Gendry of Storm's End.”

The people cheered though it lacked understanding. Though it lacked proper joy. It was only the cheer of drunken men who would have cheered for anything, anything at all. It made no difference to them who was Lord in a land they would never lay eyes on, much less step foot in.

"She's not very bright is she?" Arya asked, joining her side, raising her cup as well in mocking tribute.

It was a threat to Sansa, of course. A stupid one, but a threat all the same.

I can make and unmake lords at will, Sansa Stark, was what she said with this pitifully show.

Never mind that the man most likely couldn’t read or write. Never mind that he did not know the first thing about ruling a castle, much less a kingdom. That he did not know any name of the Lords of the Stormlands. Of their history, of his own. Never mind his own lords were likely to kill him upon arrival, just for having been raised to his seat by a Targaryen.

Never mind that any trueborn Baratheon had a greater claim to the Iron Throne than an exiled Targaryen.

Sansa almost rolled her eyes.

“Daenerys Targaryen has dragons. She has never needed to be bright.”

Sansa had left a dark green gown on Arya’s bed. Hadn't presumed to ask her to wear it, but her lady mother would have done as much, were she alive and in her place. Would have offered the Hero of Dawn a new gown to celebrate and so, Sansa did the same.

It wasn't so long as Sansa’s own gowns. She had shortened it so it wouldn't drag on the floor, so Arya could move freely, and not trip over herself. A slit had been added in the front as well, Arya would have to wear trousers underneath, but it would serve for her not to feel as confined.

To be truthful Sansa had taken the idea from one of Daenerys's gowns. One wouldn't jump to that conclusion from seeing Arya in the dress, but the Dragon Queen would. It served Sansa well, that she wouldn't consider Arya an enemy. It served them well. Sansa wanted Arya shielded from these affairs.

"You look lovely, Arya."

She blushed under her stare and Sansa found it ever so precious that she was still a young girl.

Arya had braided her hair from her face all the way down. Her lip was still bruised, but it healed up nicely. The same as her bandaged hand that slowly regained full motion.

"Thank you, for having it made. It was very considerate of you." The words sounded rehearsed, but Sansa appreciated the effort.

"I had some time. I think better while I am sewing, either way."

That took Arya by surprise. That she would still work on her own gowns.

It wasn't what was expected of her, she was the ruling lady of a great house, regent to the King. But if men could spar and hunt for enjoyment, Sansa took that she could sew for her own. It seemed only fair. And sewing circles could give way for marvellous council rooms, should ever the time arrive when she would be free to gather one.

"Is he a fool? Your friend," Sansa asked, eyeing Gendry.

At a distance Davos Seaworthy shook his head, his disappointment evident. Gendry might have the blood, but he lacked everything else, and he was aware of it. Ser Davos was aware of the danger he was in.

"I'll put some sense into him. Worry not. It's just the ale and the excitement from a war won, I promise you. Gendry won't become an issue. You don't have to worry." Yet there was tension in her voice and Sansa knew her to be concerned.

"Edric Storm is in the Stormlands. Having served there all his life. Raised under Renly Baratheon, their beloved young stag, a castellan to Storm’s End for years. They will kill your friend for him,” Bran said, appearing at their side. “And even if they don't, she'll come to realize the stupidity in making him trueborn. It might take her a while, but she'll realize. Keep him far and hidden from her, if you want him to live,” he advised.

“Deliver him from these ambitious. If he wants food and work he has it here,” Sansa offered. “If he wants to be a lord he should know he tempts his hold on life."

Arya sighed. “I will. He’s a good man, he won’t become an issue,” she said once more.

“Everyone can become an issue given the proper incentive,” Bran mused.

Sansa had left the Great Hall to deliver instructions to the kitchens to start deluding the ale and wine when familiar voices caught her ear.

“(…) You know our history better than anyone. That will be useful to you, as Lord of Winterfell.”

“I'm the Prince of Winterfell, not it’s Lord. Not anymore.”

That had been the first time Sansa had borne witness to Bran using his title.

“You're the only surviving trueborn son of Ned Stark.” As if any child of his needed reminding of it from a Lannister. “While your nephew does not come of age it would only be natural that you-”

Sansa considered it a weak attempt at undermining her. At trying to keep to his queen’s will by finding some other Stark that could take her place better than Lady Westerling could. More firmly. With less danger to it. Less chance of revolt. And yet she stayed for she wanted to hear what Bran would say to him.

“And Sansa Stark is his trueborn eldest daughter. She will serve the North better than I. She has done as much already.”

“Sansa is capable, to be sure. And yet, as a young maiden, her duties will lie elsewhere. Should she not be freed to fulfil the demands of nature? The demands your own lord father and lady mother would have chosen for her?”

“The Lady Stark,” Bran corrected his free use of her name, “may fulfil the demands of nature, as you call it, here, should she choose it. As the head of House Stark it is her prerogative. And I hardly think you are well suited to presume to know my lady mother’s will, much less my lord father’s.”

“Winterfell is your right. Your blood given right. And you do not want it?” Tyrion sounded incredulous. “You would not want the ancestral seat of your house?”

Sansa shuddered at Bran’s chuckle, if only because it sounded just like Robb.

“It’s simply that I know my place, Lord Tyrion. And I know my sister’s. It would be best, if you knew yours as well.”

Lord Tyrion sighed, sensing his defeat. But not yet willing to lay down his sword.

“I envy that. A loving relationship with one’s sister, a precious thing to have, for sure. Be that as it may-”

“It’s quite easy when one doesn’t threaten to rape and murder her children. But I understand that it is simply… what did you call it again? The demands of your nature, Lord Lannister.”

Sansa covered a gasp with her hand.

“What she did… Cersei is… she is…” he stuttered in his explanations. Those that would never be enough.

“A monster. I am aware. You are no less than her, no less than your lord father. Leave my presence, your memories are a stain I would rather do without.”

She heard it like a slap. A blow one does not expect, does not have time to recover from. It must have taken him aback, Bran’s bluntness, the way in which he almost growled his warning.

Sansa didn’t leave her hidden place but signalled the guards at the end of the corridor and sent them Bran’s way. Hoping their presence would be enough to push for Tyrion to leave out of his own volution and not their strength.

She waited in silence to hear him walk away. Slowly. Definitely.

“You are not something to trade and barter away as if cattle, sister. You are the Lady of the North. The Stark in Winterfell. You are the stone in this keep that keeps it from faltering. I know your worth. If you are broken, so am I.”

His voice pulled Sansa from the darkness, and she placed her hand on his shoulder.

“And I know yours, Bran.”

Bran covered her hand with his, surprising her.

“It is close to the end, Sansa.”

She only raised a brow in question.

“The call of the wind grows fainter and fainter, as do the trees. From the moment the Night King died… it has started to fade. I remember everything I have seen, still… I have the knowledge, as clear as a page in a book standing before me. The birds, the wolves, all still there. But the weight… the fear… it becomes less pressing. The voices grow weaker...” Bran shook his head.

Sansa nodded slowly in understanding.

“Does that come as a gift or a painful loss, brother?”

“I do not yet know.” Bran took a deep steadying breath to supress a shudder. “But the dragons, Sansa… How I hear them roar…”

“Do you think you can…?”

“I can only hope, sister.”

They ignored Daenerys Targaryen.

The Night That Ended was playing joyfully and both young and old joined in. Though a song most commonly heard during the harvest season at Winterfell, it seemed most well suited to the moment at hand.

In their joy, their dancing, their songs – they ignored the last dragon. And the Dragon fumed.

Her fists open and closed. She kept fidgeting in her seat. Kept waiting for something that would never come. She waited for toasts in her honour. For her graces to be sung. She was hungry for praise and in that hunger she would devour.

It seemed so clear now...

Cersei did not mind the hate, the disapproval. She did not need the love, nor the admiration. She despaired with the dismissal, though. For all of her faults, Cersei Lannister inspired awe, and when she smiled... She was beautiful and mayhap even radiant when one dared to look upon her rare moments of joy.

This woman though... Daenerys Targaryen had only fear and she could not accept it.

Kingslanding would offer her nothing else and it would burn for it.

Sansa looked for Varys in the crowd. Found not to her complete surprise that he already stared back at her. That he saw what she did. That he understood. Sansa looked to Jeyne Westerling then and Varys understood that as well. It could not be Sansa, nor anyone close to her, for the North and the Vale had to be certain of where she stood. But it had to be someone Daenerys found to be sufficiently meaningful.

Varys moved across the floor and whispered in the ear of the Seashell Queen.

Jeyne Westerling was beautiful indeed. Much could be doubted about her, but not her beauty. She wore a dress of grey wool that served to remind everyone that she was a Stark widow. Her bodice was rigid and bared her shoulders. A necklace of gold seashells looped around her neck. She wore her hair in two long braids, hanging down far past her shoulders. She looked young, was what surprised Sansa the most.

Sansa could see Jeyne counting the seconds in her head. She could see her thinking loudly as she waited for Varys to leave her side and then she rose, cup in hand. Cleared her throat, one, two, three times, until she finally gained the proper attention, music fading in strength to allow her to be heard.

"To Daenerys Targaryen! Mother of Dragons. Protector of the Realm! Slayer of the beast!"

Her own beast, Sansa thought.

It wasn't by any means much, not bold nor daring enough to draw defiance from drunk lords, but enough to sooth the Dragon Queen’s temper. Drunk men cheered at empty words. This much was known.

Daenerys Targaryen smiled mistaking tolerance for acceptance. And a crisis was averted.

She would burn the world for lack of love. This much Sansa understood about her.

"Is this how the game is played? In silence. Heavy looks and shared understanding?" Jon whispered in her ear, causing her to shiver.

Sansa smiled turning slightly to him.

"It's better than playing with swords."

"More dangerous too," he mused.

She turned more fully to him, taking notice of the healing leg he could once again place his weight upon. Half of his face was concealed by a flimsy piece of white cloth wrapped around his head, so as to not draw too many stares to his wound.

"How so?"

"When a man faces you with a sword you know what he intends to do with it,” Jon explained, eyes narrowed, a battle in itself forming in his mind to illustrate his point. “This battle you wager, where one can never divulge one's intentions, it's only hope isn't it? Hope you are understood and agreed with. It is a game of shadows. Half blind players. Other half deaf ones."

Jon shrugged and took a heavy gulp of his ale. Though Sansa wasn't so sure it was ale, and not the fermented wildling concoction she had seen being shared at Winterfell's tables - goat's milk, it was called. Perhaps Jon used it as a distraction from the pain. It was strong enough for that, surely. She did not fault him for it. Not when less than a fortnight had passed from the battle, and he was already on his feet, preparing himself for another.

"And the game goes on. Never ending," she answered in good spirits. "Each of us has our place in the world. I was raised for this. Knowingly or not. If it were not me, another would take my place. I cannot fault the order of my birth. Nor curse my burdens for being mine. They are only so because of my blood."

"And if you were not a Stark?” Jon wondered softly. “If you were only a fair maiden, in your pretty gowns and auburn curls, quick witted and sharp? Would burdens not find you, sweetling? All manner of men seeking your hand in marriage, bothersome that would be," he trailed off in his drunkenness.

Sansa could not help but laugh.

His cheeks were so red from the drink, he seemed almost feverish. He had the most handsome smile on his face, something that Sansa didn’t believe could ever be robbed of him, no matter that half of it was scarred forever.

But it pained Jon to laugh, if only a little, since he was made numb from the drink, and his pain, Sansa could not ignore.

"Perhaps they would. Maybe someone would want to marry me for love, instead of claim. That wouldn't be so bothersome, I think," she wagered, with an unladylike shrug, her eyes cast upon the people dancing.

Jon frowned as if she spoke nonsense.

"You think they won't now?" he asked as if she had made a personal affront to the honour of House Stark.

"I have made my peace with it," Sansa said, hoping to smooth out whatever it was she had riddled in him.

"You're quite silly," Jon commented, shaking his head reprehensibly.

"And you're quite drunk," she laughed.

He shrugged. "Fair enough."

Jon clang his cup to hers and she laughed some more.

The Bear and the Maiden Fair tune began, and Sansa found herself sighing wistfully.

Lord Cerwyn led Jeyne Westerling by the hand to join in on the dancing. Sansa both feared and gave thanks that he possessed an ambition that was not matched by his wit. The couple were of a same age. Comely, the both of them. Even-tempered. And if Sansa squinted she could almost see genuine affection between them. Not enough that would explain betrayal, but alas… they were well suited in truth.

It made Sansa sad. A sadness she could not explain. She felt terribly lonely all of the sudden.

Jon offered her his hand.

"Would you like to dance? All fair maidens should dance on this most joyous occasion."

It was a tempting offer. For certain. She couldn't remember the last time she had danced. The tournament at the Vale? Spinning in Harry Hardyng's arms. Someone else who died for wars not of his own making. She almost accepted, she truly wanted to and yet…

Sansa shook her head, unwilling. She felt too many eyes on them already.

"You should ask Daenerys instead. No one will be brave enough, if not you, and she wishes to dance. The same as any maiden at a feast."

Jon shrugged, absentmindedly.

"The same could be said about you. And either way, I asked the Lady of Winterfell."

Sansa smiled in way of an answer.

"I do not tell you to dance with her for kindness, Jon. Rather that I would."

Though perhaps she should. Perhaps it was kindness that was missing from her. From this room. From this realm.

Jon put on a serious face. "You send me to war."

"Yes. I send you to the dragons and give you leave to play for yourself. Isn't this the trust you wished from me?"

He narrowed his eyes on her.

"Would you be disappointed if I said no?"

Interested, perhaps. Curious for curiosity's sake. Relieved...

Sansa shook her head.

"I will do as commanded, my lady. They won't like me any better for this," he noted, taking a long look at the northern crowd that surrounded them. That created a barrier between Sansa and the Dragon Queen, no matter how flimsy. No matter how keenly she felt the queen’s eyes on her.

Sansa nodded, because they had decided to be honest with one another.

"They are lost to you. She is not. We must play in the boards allowed to us. I cannot play there, and you cannot play here. Dance with her, Jon. She has lost someone as well in this war. That must be respected."

"And am I lost to you?" Jon asked intensely instead, leaning far too much into her than he would have, had he not been drunk and bruised, his balance failing him. Sansa did not think to shy away from him.

"You'll never be lost to me," she promised with a smile and that managed to please him, if his grin was any indication. She took the opportunity to slip one of the dark curls that had escaped his bun behind his ear.

She might be angry with him tomorrow, that he should strain himself so much, so early on after being given leave to rise from his bed. Tomorrow, when he would remember. Today, she could be a girl charmed by... By...

Sansa shook her head.

"But who will dance with you?" Jon pushed, his concern for her lack of dancing partners unrelenting.

Had uncle Edmure been here, or… uncle Brynden. They would have been the first ones on their feet to ask her. And Sansa would have had to fight the urge to place her feet upon theirs, like her Lord Father commanded her to, when she had first starting dancing at feasts. She hadn’t remembered that. How quaint. That happy memories should fade before the horrible ones.

"Lord Royce will offer, when a steadier tune comes. After him, more Vale lords will follow. They'll send me their sons."

"And you'll marry none of them?" he asked so suddenly, so seriously taking a hand to her waist, to command her attention, to bring her even closer to him, that it managed to make her giggle.

"Go Jon!" she commanded him, hiding her face towards his shoulder, feeling herself blush under his stare.

"You must promise not to marry any of them. You must swear it."

He pulled her by the waist closer still. Sansa placed her hand on his upper harm, to steady the both of them.

"I hardly think they'll ask now. I'm promised to another, remember?"

Jon shook his head vehemently and narrowed his eyes on her.

“You’re not. You know you’re not, don’t you, Sans? No matter what plans you feel the need to have. It will never come to that. You know I wouldn’t allow it to, don’t you?”

“And risk your own life?”

"I already died once, for worse reasons." Jon waved it aside, with an easiness she envied.

Sansa smiled softly for a moment.

“I don’t need you to be my hero, Jon. Nor do I require a champion. I thought I did, for the longest of times I… I surely did.”

She nodded to herself as she spoke words that she found necessary to be shared between them. To be settled. In this room. In this moment. Surrounded by laughter and music, joy and victory, even if it was only to last for a moment longer. In a place in time where they were both content, understanding of one another and close.

“Now, I just need someone who will listen. That will answer to me when I speak, and most dearly when I don’t. Will you listen to me, Jon? Truly listen.”

“Intently. Devotedly,” Jon swore, taking the back of her hand to his lips. “As long as you speak only to me.”

Sansa was left confused at the meaning of his words, which she attributed to the drink and even more confused with herself by the fluttering of her heart at the solemness of the moment.

"And if they do, ask," he insisted, returning to his earlier concern, leaving her to do little more than laugh at the absurdity of it all.

"I won't marry anyone without your blessing, Jon. Go along now."

That managed quite a smile from him.

What a silly, silly man, one would almost think... That.... Gods, she was going mad.

“I’ll come and find you for the Flowers of Spring!” Jon turned around to shout, though she hoped only she could hear such was the noise that surrounded them.

That Sansa was so quick to nod barely took her by surprise.

Chapter Text

Sansa felt a lean arm slipping into hers and was surprised to find Lady Barbrey's dark eyes staring back.

Her hair fell down her back freely, softening her demeanour, a grey highlight breaking the tide of her dull brown tresses at the very front. It added character to her. It added beauty.

"Lady Stark, shall we take a turn about the grounds?" she proposed with an amenable voice.

Sansa answered with a nod.

She took longer to speak than Sansa had expected, but then again, she had to be certain they wouldn't be watched as they entered the safety the Godswood provided, from wandering ears.

"Wynafryd Manderly will have to be well-compensated for her efforts."

Sansa suppressed a laugh and said nothing of it.

"You forget she's older than you. That she was prepared to be Lady of her house by a grandfather who was clever enough to make peace with the knowledge that she would be his heir. The Manderlys are ambitious, and their dwelling numbers don't present an impediment to that."

Sansa did not forget it at all.

"The loyalty of House Manderly has never been called into question. Which is more than you, my lady, can say."

"And yet, the houses sworn to me and the ones I gather prepare for your Queenship. We are loyal to you before we are loyal to House Stark. Remember that. Because there is a difference between loyalty to your house and loyalty to you. You can't count on the Manderlys for that unless you present them with a great enough boon."

Sansa had considered the gift already, befitting the services of House Manderly – The Vale of Arryn.

She could not be its mistress and her sister wouldn’t do at all. Lady Wylla however... She was younger than Lady Wynafryd, her head fuller of tales of loyalty than it was of ambition. She would do well.

It would ensure that Sansa wouldn’t lose her footing in the Vale. But for this boon, which was greater than anything else they could provide her with, Sansa would ask to choose Lady Manderly's husband. The Lady would have to ask her permission regardless, but alas, it was good to have a powerful hand to give in marriage. And this way, she would trust Sansa to choose it ably.

Sansa had a place to barter it in mind already.

"I did not ask you to do that."

"You did not have to. This is what it means. To have a council. To be surrounded by those who are willing to hold your banners high in the air. This is what it means to be followed. To be obeyed. Do you wish for my efforts to cease? There is still time for me to lay down my shields."

Sansa frowned. "I-"

"Before you answer, understand what this means. You left it in our hands to choose – we have chosen.  The North will fight for its Queen, but it might not fight for their King's regent. The choice bears different weights. The North won't be safe in the hands of a child. It can be safe in yours. And you can be safe in ours this way. Eddard can be your heir, for the time being, at the very least. There is security in this. There is balance in which the northern crown can prosper. I see no other way. Do you?"

No. Sansa did not. Being regent was a fragile position. It left her defenceless on too many fronts.

"And if you manage such a thing. Without my interference, of course. What boon do you expect from me, Lady Dustin?"

"A Queen needs a council. Let me build one for you," she humbly offered, surprising Sansa.

"You would not seek to be my Hand?"

"I hardly wish to be a foreman. But a permanent position at your table. My voice heard, I would treasure it greatly. I lacked it for too many years. Your loyalty in perpetuity, in exchange for mine," Lady Dustin proposed.

Sansa hummed.

"Who are you certain of, at this moment?"

"Lord Locke will be steadfast. He's more concerned with the food shortage, sensible man that he is, and is aware our only ties to the stores of the Vale are tied to you. The Umbers would rather fall on their swords than go South and fight for a Targaryen, you've proven yourself to them. Glover is a challenge, he aims to survive no matter the means, he will turn to where the wind blows, that much we know, no reason to count too much on him. House Reed is silent but silent they will always be, too much separate them from us. Lyanna Mormont is your devoted servant. Alys Karstark and Eddara Tallhart have been persuaded by the threat the foreign invaders present, they will remain true, Lady Poole has assured me this much," she added.

Sansa narrowed her eyes on her.

"You've spoken to Jeyne Poole?"

"Surely. She's a clever lass and her loyalty to you is admirable. Besides, she can inspire loyalty of her own."

"She can," Sansa agreed, thinking back on the words she spoke in Sansa’s defence while they were in confinement during the Long Night. The way the people had rallied around her.

"It is spoken about, you know. Reverently. Kitchen wenches and stable boys whisper about it as if it is a hymn. The honourable Lady Stark, that would have kneeled for a steward's daughter. You could have given out bread, barefoot in the snow, and they wouldn't have revered it so much as they did that speech."

"Jeyne is now the ruling lady of a great house and-"

"That doesn't matter, and it shouldn't. She's the steward's daughter for them still, she's one of their own. And in the homage you paid to her, you paid them in turn. This, is how stories are written and this, is how wars are won. You are loved. Treasure it as long as you can. It will sustain you, if you allow it to," Lady Dustin advised her.

"And get yourself a Royce, for darling Jeyne. You must thank valiant Yohn for his efforts in raising your banners, even if you must resort to a cadet branch. He will find someone well suited for her."

Sansa shook her head and took her arm from Lady Dustin’s.

"Jeyne will never again suffer to bear-"

"There need not be any suffering to it. She has time to waste and eyes on her to keep her safe. She can be married here, under your watch and then if she finds herself willing, so be it. If she does not, so be it as well. No one would force the Queen's favourite to anything inside her own halls. If you don't find any Valeman well suited, take my Roose. His name is unfortunate, to be sure, but he will answer to Ryswell. I know my brother’s nature, he would not harm her. Besides, he is a third son, he never considered inheriting, he can run Whitefort, and she can remain here. The distance will be a comfort to her, and he can come and go at her request. She's not even twenty, you mustn’t allow her to think her life is over before it has begun."

Sansa almost laughed.

"You begin with a Royce and end with a Ryswell, why am I not surprised, my lady."

Roose Ryswell would never do.

Not because Sansa believed him a brute or unsuited. But with Whitefort, the Ryswell House would take control of the formerly Bolton, Dustin and Ryswell holdings. Three of the largest domains of the North. Sansa was hardly naïve enough to believe they were owed such urgent boons as to endanger the future of House Stark by rewarding their loyalty on such terms that would make them as powerful as their liege Lords.

"Why should you? Rickard was offered Arya Stark, and he refused – for you."

Not truly. He hadn’t refused it at all. Lord Rickard only refused that which he knew he could never possess.

Her sister was a rebellious creature that had escaped no one’s notice. That much could have been ignored, if she could have been persuaded to submit, yet Arya had been taught how to be dangerous and that had escaped no one’s notice either. Even if they had dragged her to the weirwood tree to say her vows, if they had dragged her to her own marriage bed and fathered a child on her. Lord Rickard nevertheless would have known never to sleep soundly in his bed again, for he stood the risk of never waking. His good judgement in refusing Arya’s hand was hardly enough to convince Sansa to give away Jeyne’s.

Lady Dustin sensed her defeat, faced with Sansa’s amused smirk.

“Never mind all of that now, there are still wars to fight. Who can say if any of the brothers remaining to me will survive them."

Sansa saw something in Lady Barbrey then, that she had never seen before – fear.

But it was quickly replaced with curiosity.

"Tell me truthfully, did Jaime Lannister escape your grasp?"

"Winterfell is a fortress, when it intends to be," was the only thing Sansa would endanger herself to say.

"Why marry you to someone she lacks trust in? That was clever indeed," Lady Dustin appraised looking her up and down, as someone would do to one’s beloved child. Lady Dustin had no children, and whatever motherly gestures came of her, were nothing more than feigned.

"I will not be your puppet,” Sansa told her easily enough.

There were games that she would partake in, but this one would take energy that she had not, and so, Sansa respectfully retrieved herself from the board, before the cards were dealt.

“My Winterfell won't be to you the same as Roose Bolton's was. And I would rather we part as enemies under that honesty."

Barbrey Dustin gave out a shriek disguised as laughter, before rising to the occasion.

"My beloved sister, Bethany, died at the Dreadfort. My nephew -" Lady Dustin shook her head "- a son of my blood died under Roose's negligence. Domeric was my precious boy, bestowed to my care by his dying mother. If I had wished Roose alive he would have lived. If I wished you dead, you would have died. Do you doubt me, Sansa Stark? Do you doubt this honesty, I now gift you with?"

Sansa didn’t find Barbrey capable of having killed her before. Not before Daenerys Targaryen came to these halls. But Sansa did not doubt Lady Dustin had considered herself capable of it. That she had stopped her own hand from attempting to do so.

"I do not, Barbrey Ryswell."

Lady Dustin grinned at the use of her maiden name.

"The North will be free."

"The North will be free," Sansa repeated.

"And it will remember," Lady Dustin vowed.

"I believe that from now on, it would be best if I should take on the role of the Lady of Winterfell," Lady Jeyne Westerling proposed after some time of fidgeting in her seat, in Sansa's solar.

She had the good sense to look down as she said it.

She had the good sense to be ashamed, though it served little purpose for the both of them.

Sansa had the time to notice that when Jeyne came to her, she always dressed herself in her most austere gowns. A pale yellow dress that covered her all the way up to the neck. She was sewed into it. Her hair was pulled back in coiffure at the base of her neck, which made her look older. She wore no rings nor trinkets. A far cry from her choice of clothing at the feast, when Sansa had considered her very beautiful indeed.

Did Jeyne Westerling armour herself for her? The same as Sansa did for such a great number of people. She almost felt flattered, if not for the insult to her blood.

More than that, Sansa was curious that she would take on this approach after their exchange in the mass funeral. That Jeyne did not consider them neither above, nor beyond feigning a familiar relationship.

"It isn't that I..." Jeyne sighed. "Her Grace is becoming restless, Sansa. And while we are at odds with one another, I do not wish to see you harmed. I hope you know that to be true."

Any more harmed, Lady Westerling meant.

"Certainly, Jeyne. We wouldn't wish to antagonise Daenerys Targaryen any further," Sansa conceded, it was simply in her nature to not itch for a fight.

Sansa made way to rise from her seat, from the seat of her father, but Jeyne stopped her by raising a shy hand.

"I would be grateful, that you would point me the way forward. I wouldn't wish Winterfell to suffer for my lack of experience or knowledge of the grounds. And I know how capable you have been, and still are."

Sansa pitied her, truly, for she meant no harm. And it would indeed be easier to carry on the work out in the open, as opposed to behind Jeyne's back.

"The groundwork for the rebuilding of Winterfell has already started. On that parchment you will find the names of the head stonemasons and the foreman."

Sansa slid to her a heavy stock of paper she would not have the time to read but might attempt to.

"Lady Jeyne Poole is supervising their labour, since she has been the de facto steward since I've returned to Winterfell. Lady Poole is well liked by all, and the most capable for the task, so I would not advise you to change that, while the work is to be done. She takes advice from senior members of Winterfell's household."

Jeyne nodded and so she carried on.

"Lady Manderly has been tasked with the importation of glass from Essos. There will be a famine in Westeros, and it is best that the North should start building glass gardens in all the keeps with the available space."

In part, it was true. But more than that, Sansa needed to afford House Manderly as little oversight as possible.

"I didn't know the North was in a position to purchase glass," Jeyne noticed with surprise.

"We are not. But with winter upon us we can spike up the costs for wool exportations,” Sansa explained. “That should keep us going for a while longer at least. After that, greenhouses will have to do. Crops of sweet onions, cabbage, leeks will withstand the frost, all houses have been instructed on that."

While they had lost many in the Long Night and the wars before, and that would certainly ease the famine. Sansa had to count that with the news of dragons in the south, people would start making their way north.

"A new venture to build roads to connect all the major castles in the North and the great cities has been undertaken as well. It will give the people something to do and expand trade. Lady Flint and Lady Dustin are at his forefront," Sansa set out. "You'll find the plans here."

They were efforts that had barely left the parchment, but it would give leeway for all the moves the ladies would need to take.

"Reports of the progress, condition of the stores and anything else you have to attend to, will be given at the first meal, every day," Sansa informed her of.

"I am grateful for this," Jeyne told her humbly, taking a hand to her chest.

Sansa nodded without much appreciation.

"Shall I have my things moved from the Lord's chambers?"

Jeyne shook her head vehemently.

"There's no need. Until you leave it's best for all that what can remain the same, remain so."

Sansa nodded slowly.

"Have you informed the lords?" Sansa asked, knowing that she had not, leaving Lady Flint and Lady Dustin to do so in her absence and control the narrative then forth.

"I was hoping that you would-" Jeyne sighed and looked away deep in thought. "The next few days should prove capable of informing everyone."

Sansa raised a brow and leaned back in her chair. Wondering if Jeyne would finally share with her what she so clearly wanted to let go of from her chest, ever since she entered her chambers.

"We've come so far, sister. I hardly think more secrets would serve much between us," Sansa pushed, with a bored lightness that made the silence between them overbearing.

"In the council room tomorrow, she will demand that you depart with her and her armies. To offer strength to the troops, is what she'll say. I, and Lord Varys, considered it better than the alternative. Without you here I don't think... I don't think there will be much cause for commotion when everything else comes to pass."

It suited the plans already in place well enough. If Sansa was to be there to rally her men, then she had to stay with them. 

"I do believe she will become more temperate, once she has the Iron Throne. And like all of us, she will understand your worth."

Sansa said nothing of it.

Daenerys already understood. That was the core issue.

That despite the men that surrounded and advised her, who underestimated Sansa, to some degree – Daenerys did not. The Dragon Queen understood her to be dangerous, though not for any skill of her own. Simply by the strength of her blood and the friendships she kept.

"I understand that you were very cross, as you had all rights to be, and with Ser Brynden's death...” Jeyne sighed. “But I know you would never be reckless. That you would never endanger us. And the North."

Jeyne ventured to cover her hand with hers as if they were sisters.

"Never," Sansa agreed.

Jeyne leaned forth, emboldened.

"And you know that she won't keep Lord Tyrion for long. Not once she has the throne. Keeping a kinslayer by her side... Not after Jaime Lannister's escape. She is adamant of his guilt," Lady Westerling shared with her.

And the way she looked at Sansa, as if she was sure it had been her hand at play, as if she was glad of it. She almost pitied her for it. Jeyne was a gentle lady. She had no use in these games. No urge to play them. No desire of her own. It made Sansa feel guilty about her outcome in them.

"I'm sure it won't even come to marriage," her voice was very soft as she said it. Sansa couldn’t be sure who she was trying to convince. 

Maybe not Lord Tyrion. But Daenerys would marry her to someone of her trust. As soon as she found someone to trust.

Sansa did little more than nod. She had to wonder if she wished for absolution from her. If she was eager to be forgiven.

"Is he a good man, Jeyne? Your Lord Cerwyn," Sansa asked for curiosity's sake.

Jeyne did not deny it, which Sansa respected her for.

"Cedric is not as charming as Robb. Nor so valiant. But I don't need him to be. I find that I only require a husband to be constant. And not willing to jump into the fire, only because the wind rushes a cold breeze, if that makes any sense to you."

“I see,” Sansa mused softly.

Jeyne only wished for the safety no one could give her. For the assurances no one had the power to grant. For all that she had forfeited the moment she turned away from House Stark.

"He might have not come to me, if you hadn't refused his marriage proposal. The Gods work as they deem fit. I suppose." She looked down as she spoke.

"Indeed they do," Sansa agreed, suppressing her need to both laugh and cry.

"You mustn’t bear it. His eyes on you," Jeyne Poole whispered, as they went over the stonemason’s suggestions to rebuild the outer wall.

Sansa frowned at Jeyne, not bothering to look up from the parchment.

"Lord Tyrion will soon be gone and-"

"I didn't mean him. I meant Jon Snow."

Sansa became breathless faced with her words.

"He doesn't," she argued, meeting her eyes at last.

"Yes, he does," Jeyne told her firmly, straightening her spine, preparing to do what she understood to be her duty.

Sansa felt the need to clear her throat.

"Jon would never harm me, Jeyne," she assured her.

Her closest friend narrowed her eyes on her, and Sansa's hands shook.

"And yet he has. So many times. You can't forgive him for all of it. Not all of it, surely," her eyes were gentle as she said it. Protective. Concerned.

"Jon... He traded himself, Jeyne. For all of us. Gave himself to the Dragon Queen," Sansa tried to explain, to ease his burdens, to ease her own.

Jeyne hummed in understanding.

"Do you wish me to sing his praises? That like any other woman, his bed as well, is a place for war."

Jon Snow would have fought for Arya Stark. Not for Jeyne Poole. He wanted to leave. To go south while Jeyne bled onto the snow where their eyes could reach.

Sansa wanted revenge. For Jeyne.

Peace, for Jeyne.

Sleep, for Jeyne.

And that would only be achieved when life faded from Ramsay Snow's eyes, where she could see him weep. And she did.

Jeyne saw him weep and beg for mercy. From the Gods. From her. From anyone who might hear him. He was denied. Again. And again. And again. And Jeyne smiled for the first time since Sansa saw her again. The whole of Winterfell's household watched on silently as the Bastard of Bolton was eaten alive by his precious hounds. It took hours for him to bleed out, the dogs making the matter slow, as he had taught them. The bastard never lost consciousness. He never knew relief. As he had never allowed anyone to.

The brutality of it shocked Sansa, but... It didn't keep her up at night. Jeyne's screams did.

Sansa sighed in recollection.

"No. I do not."

Jeyne's eyes narrowed on her. "It doesn't come as a surprise, does it? You've noticed it as well."

Had she? She would admit to herself that their relationship had always been... Different.

They had been strangers as children, playmates if anything at all. But when they returned to one another at Castle Black. When no amount of distance was bearable. When safety was in his arms. What had she called it, other than relief?

She knew she hadn't called him brother.

Sansa was hurt, when he accepted the winter crown, but she had barely the time to feel it, with his eyes so keenly on hers, begging her approval. She was frightened when he went to Dragonstone, fearful that she would never see him again, hear his voice again, have her hand held by him again. And then, when he returned with Daenerys hanging from his arm... There had been too many feelings to name. When she believed him to have knowledge of the plot against her, she had endured a betrayal so keenly that she had considered her own death to be more endurable. There had only been despair to her.

And then…

The feast... It had been too much. He wasn't like that with Arya. She wasn't like that with Bran. She couldn't bear to think about it too much. Afraid of what she might find beneath the tunes of the Bear and the Maiden Fair.

"The Lord Commander wouldn't have been the first man to have lusted for his sister. Many were to be found in Littlefinger's brothels," Jeyne explained softly, much to her surprise.

"Jon's not my brother. He's..."

It weren't Jon's eyes that she couldn't bear, it were Jeyne's. And her doubt. Sansa had endured much in life, but Jeyne’s trust would never be something that she would risk. And Sansa knew her to be someone with whom secrets died with.

"Jon is Aunt Lyanna's bastard."

Surprised echoed in her features before acceptance was quickly found.

"Well, I suppose it makes it better,” Jeyne conceded with a nod. “But it doesn't take knowing the Lord Commander to realise that that same lust started before he came into that knowledge. The guilt was in his eyes long ago."

"And what do you see in mine?" Sansa wondered, almost recklessly.

"Sorrow. Always. And if there is guilt, you mustn’t let it cloud your judgement. Better men will come," Jeyne promised softly, head tilted to the side.

"What if... What if I..."

Something dark dawned in Jeyne’s eyes and her tone changed, becoming dangerous when she asked, “Has he touched you? Is that why…”

Sansa shook her head vehemently.

“No! Never. He would never…”

Jeyne took a deep breath to steady herself.

"I love… I loved -" she corrected "- Theon. But my love, our love came due to the circumstances we found ourselves in, running in the snow. It was born in the blood, and the pain, and most of all the fear. And I don't think it would have been born in its absence. Nor would have endured much, without its memory."

Jon and Sansa had walked through blood, and pain and fear. Was it only that which joined them? Was it all an illusion of two people who had gone through so much together.

"What will you do about him? After the war. If he -"

If he survived.

If he returned.

"I ask because others won't, although they want to. Lady Flint will come to you soon enough and ask it of you herself, in their name. I’m quite sure."

"My self-appointed Hand, is she not?" Sansa tried to find the humour in the situation, cleaning away a stray tear.

"Indeed. And you must allow her to. With Lord Manderly's death she has gained much influence. While Wynafryd is her grandsire's heir, it is Lyessa Flint that has taken his place. A great feat indeed given how meeker her holdings are in comparison. I would have expected it to be Lady Dustin to take his place, or at the very least Lord Rickard Ryswell."

So had Sansa.

"And how is Lady Lyessa when I am not in the room? Do you find that she changes?"

Jeyne Poole was one of them now in truth. They had embraced her as peers.

"I find her much the same. If only sterner. She rallies your banners high in the air. She softens doubts. Assuages their fears of your age, of Eddard's rights. She labours relentlessly, allow her too."

"Lady Dustin has told me she brought you into the fold. Are you pleased with this?"

"She is a quaint woman. I have been made quaint as well, by the world. She spoke to me about her youngest brother."

Sansa could have roared.

"She had no right to," she argued. "Nor should you feel the need to entertain her."

"I know, you've given me that freedom. But I will consider it, should he survive the wars to come. Should I."

Sansa took the time to consider at last, if Jeyne gave her the permission to.

"Roose Ryswell is comely, if a bit dull. But he is older, so I would expect him to have some vices, as any man."

Jeyne agreed.

"I have made inquiries about him. He isn't spoken about unfavourably. There are no whispers. The kitchen maids will question the brothels in Wintertown soon enough for further intel. But I'm told Lord Rickard is the more bolder of the two."

"I've heard much the same. They take their cues rather diligently from Lady Barbrey, so they aren't the sort to despise women for the sake of for being so," Sansa mused.

"It speaks favourably of their character. And a cruel man can never hide it. Nor does he try to. And that he would take me after... Well. He is of a great line, it speaks favourably of him as well."

"They should be so lucky as to receive your attention. You are as beautiful now as you've ever been, Jeyne. And you command attention and inspire loyalty. You would be a great bride," Sansa assured her, covering her hands with her own.

"I also have plenty of land, which makes me a truly great bride. Yet being the Queen's favourite that is what makes me appealing, Sansa. Not whatever beauty remains to me."

"Do you resent me for it? You can tell me if you do."

"Why would I resent that which gives me strength? That ensures no hand will ever be raised to me, for fear or love of you?" Jeyne asked.

"I did mean it, Jeyne. What I said before. Should anything happen to me, Bran will ensure you are looked after. I trust that knowledge with my life, and yours."

Jeyne nodded, tears making her eyes bright.

"I know. Lord Brandon promised it to me himself at the feast."

Sansa smiled breathlessly.

She loved Brandon Stark with all her might. That he should know what his sister needed from him. What would grant her solace and strength. What would steady her amongst all this strife.

"Nevertheless, I'll propose the match to Lord Royce first, if you're amenable. He has nephews and grand nephews. Men who have made themselves but have the Royce honour instilled upon them. He would never send anyone unsuited to us. They will be younger and less comfortable here."

"You wouldn't be favourable to Ryswell?"

"One family cannot hold such power North other than the Starks. It is one thing, that children of mine should become your heirs, it is quite another that Rickard's would. I wouldn't wish to have a Ryswell lineage ruling over so much of the North. They are far too ambitious for that."

"I trust your judgement,” Jeyne assured her. “And should I gather from your change of subject that you have not decided what to do with the Lord Commander?"

Sansa took a deep breath, willing her tears not to cloud her eyes.

"I need him to live. You understand that, don't you, Jeyne. You can forgive me for that, can't you? That no matter his trespasses, I would risk much to ensure his life. I know that I will have to take measures to please the North but I… I can't bear to consider harming him."

Jeyne looked at her for a very long time. Time enough that Sansa began to become desperate with her lack of reaction.

"I will speak with Lady Karstark and Lady Lyanna. They'll be the most favourable to showing him mercy. After them, Lady Tallhart," Jeyne decided. "The Lord Commander won't come unscathed, no matter if his reasons are understood. But perhaps on account of his injuries… I'll see what can be done."

Sansa could do nothing more than to kiss the back of Jeyne's hand in the utmost gratitude. That she should endeavour to assist Sansa in saving a man she had no reason to wish mercy to be shown to.

"Lady Westerling came to me. She wishes to be the Lady of Winterfell from now on. Pass the knowledge along that she should be indulged. At dawn, the ledgers shall be given to me and then forwarded to her. "

Jeyne was surprised by the lady's boldness.

“It’s a pity. That she shouldn’t take notice of how the wind blows.”

Sansa agreed.

“Once Brienne is well, her service should be exchanged to Little Eddard. I want to know his whereabouts at all time.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

Sansa raised a brow but did not contradict Jeyne. She too had to understand where the wind blew and allow herself to be led by it.

"Daenerys Targaryen has a secret. And I think you know it too. Shall I guess it, Lady Stark?"

Lord Varys took joy in playing the game, it could hardly be avoided or misconstrued as any less than what it was.

Sansa tilted her head to the side.

"Can you, my lord?"

"You both have few things in common. Few people in common. Fewer still who could have secrets. Shall I go on?"

"Please do," Sansa challenged, carrying on with her duties, the keep moved in sync with her, no matter who attempted to claim the title she wore as a second skin.

"Jon Snow is a dragon rider. I find it hard to believe in sheer luck. A faraway Valyrian ancestor on his unknown mother's side," he trailed on.

"What is your theory then?" Sansa asked, feigning disinterest most ably.

"I think the honourable Ned Stark was honourable indeed. And neither did he take a babe from Ashara Dayne's arms, nor from a poor girl he took advantage of down the Kingsroad. And if I am correct, what a solution we have before us."

Sansa looked up to him at last.

And he smiled victoriously.

"Pray tell."

Lord Varys grew frustrated with her lack of commotion but carried on all the same.

He used and disregarded kings as one did clothes. It became increasingly harder to regard him with the seriousness he owed himself deeming of.

He enjoyed this. He enjoyed the thrill of it. How much he might pretend it all to be a nuisance. He enjoyed the game, for it gave him purpose. Gave reason for his wounds. And yet, he hadn’t yet accepted how far removed he was from it.

"My Queen must consider a future. She needs an heir, after all. And as we well know, only someone of her own blood will be suited to be admitted into her household. I can persuade her of this truth, if it is indeed so,” he proposed. “Jon Snow is capable of inspiring and uniting those around him. His temperament is easier dealt with. What prosperous times could come of it. The people must unite behind someone. It is in their nature. It’s how countries prosper. And dragon fire won’t do, I have understood. Joining her claim with that of a Westerosi, raised by Ned Stark… it would ease her journey and calm her spirit.”

“You have told me before that you find Jon unable to temper her impulses,” Sansa reminded him of. "And if what you predict is true, Jon is in great danger indeed. Daenerys Targaryen is a proud woman, but she is not without sense of the danger that a male heir, no matter its origin, strength, or order in line would present to her. Will you send another man to his pyre for your own suspicions, Lord Varys?" Sansa asked softly, tilting her head to the side.

Sansa argued for arguments sake.

She required an understanding of Varys’ nature. Of the lengths he would go to remain relevant. To remain useful. To remain in control.

Daenerys had already accepted Jon’s parentage and found him worthy of being her consort. All of it behind his back and hidden from his knowledge. He mistook his own importance, and he overplayed his hand. His time presiding over the board was nearly finished, but Sansa wasn’t about to share that with him, not when he might prove himself useful still.

“As a Stark bastard? Surely. But as a Targaryen one… Daenerys is enchanted by the magic of her own blood. She wouldn’t risk to lose what she has only now regained,” Varys argued. “I have brought her to these shores, I have become familiar with the nature of her. Daenerys is dangerous, surely, but she is far from already being the mirror of her late father. She is not so far removed from taking wise council when it is presented to her in the right way. And there is work to be done while she does not succumb to it."

“You are only a man, Lord Varys,” Sansa reminded him of, not willing to feed his illusions now that he had once again convinced himself of them.

"Lord Tyrion loses her confidence more and more each day. I fear his brother's escape, the last drop. It’s true, I am alone.” He spared her a sly look between words. “You might take the opportunity to endear yourself to her now. You are capable of it."

Sansa chuckled softly.

"I fear we are past that point."

"Why should you be? My Queen will find no higher ranking lady, no woman better suited to be her companion. With more in common. You've both lost much recently, it should unite you," he proposed.

Sansa narrowed her eyes.

"And yet it separates us."

Brynden Tully would never be the reason that brought her closer to a Targaryen. Sansa refused to entertain the thought of it. He should only ever be the reason Sansa called for her banners to be raised and demanded blood to be drawn for kin and realm.

"You won't hold power here for long. Even if you manage to unmake Jeyne Westerling. Others will come. You are only a regent, you'll find it no easier than Cersei Lannister. Others will come," Lord Varys assured her, with a sweet kindness that irked her. “You’ll never be free of this, do you understand, Lady Stark? And it is best that you make your peace with it. That you accept the role others offer you. That you are best suited for. You should answer the call. Littlefinger made you for it, after all. To do your work in the shadows.”

Sansa took offence to that. That she should only ever be safe in the role others deemed her worthy of. That they deemed her prepared for. That even dead men were more well-suited to decide her fate than she was.

That she should leave the North for a foreign destiny. To pay homage to a false Queen. To make her home in another’s court. To pave the ground for a Targaryen King she had no desire to build.

“Once you become aware of it, it never ceases to exist. If she dies another will replace her. And on and on it goes. Daenerys Targaryen described it as a wheel she intends to crush. Either a naïve assessment or a brutal resolution. She’s in it. She’s a part of it. We all are. We make ourselves in the space we are allowed. Better to have your own place than to be the one that is crushed underneath another’s ambitions,” he advised her, mistaking her silence for acceptance.

It was sound advice in truth. Sansa wondered if he would take offence that she should take it in regard to him.

Varys would pursue Jon’s claim, and while Sansa had to allow it, to allow him to be made relevant on the board as a safekeeping measure, she wasn’t blinded to the added dangers. She did not find Daenerys able to kill him, much less if he was to be known as her kin, it didn’t mean others wouldn’t.

“I’ll take your words into account, my lord. But know this, if Jon’s life is threatened by these rumours… while you mistake the horse you champion. If you press these falsehoods as a knife, you’ll find no friend in me,” Sansa advised him.

Lord Varys eyed her with interest.

“Your loyalty to your kin moves me, my lady. And leaves me much to consider.”

"Why are you leaving?"

Arya resembled a child caught with her hand in the honey jar.

"You remember that I told you of my list," her sister began with.

Sansa nodded.

"Cersei is on it," Arya said as if it meant something.

"Why?" Sansa wondered with a frown.

Arya frowned in turn.

"She gave the order to kill Mycah. To kill Lady."

Sansa suppressed her need to scoff and took a deep breath. Reminding herself of their differences and what united them.

"I am aware. I want to know why you are risking your life to kill a woman who is already dead. I am asking why you are leaving Winterfell and the work yet to be done for petty revenge."

"Petty?!"

"What would you call it?" Sansa wondered.

"Justice."

"There is no justice in what will happen to Cersei Lannister. There is no justice to what will happen to Kingslanding. There is no justice in this world, Arya."

"But we can achieve justice. We can make it," she argued.

"At times. This is out of our hands. How will you achieve it there?"

"Should she not know her end by our hands? Stark hands," Arya demanded.

"No more than we should meet ours by hers. Her end will be a cruel one. We should not make it about ourselves." But Sansa couldn't stop herself there. "And while she may be on your list, she is mine. Lady was mine. And Mycah was killed by Sandor Clegane and yet you allowed him to live and share these halls. I shan't ask you why, I trust you had your reasons. We all have our own."

That took Arya aback.

Sansa had the man sent away from Winterfell not long after the battle was done, with nothing more than a white cloak. It was the only thing she owed Sandor Clegane.

When she understood that Arya would add nothing more to the subject, Sansa began what had brought her to her door.

"I need you to stay. Bran and I must leave for Riverrun," Sansa told her.

“And Jeyne Westerling?” Arya demanded, past the point of patience. “You’ve hardly forgotten about her, I trust.”

“A plan is already in place, as soon as Daenerys and her armies leave us. I will have it settled before my departure, I won’t leave you here surrounded by loose ends, worry not.”

Arya nodded, trusting her with at least that.

"This isn't something that I'm good at," Arya sighed, suppressing the need to pull at the ends of her short hair.

"I don't need you to rule them. I barely need you to speak to them. I just need them to know someone is watching. That Winterfell isn't without a Stark," Sansa explained, a degree of desperation to her. “You can do that, I’m certain of it.”

Arya listened.

If a coup were to come while they were away she would have the means to crush it. And if her hand was too heavy, then it would only serve as a reminder that there were Starks built for war, and Starks built for peace, and none should be trifled with.

“And if you’re ever in doubt… Jeyne Poole can and will assist you, if you turn to her.”

Arya clenched her teeth at the mention of her and Sansa regretted it immediately. Although it was a truth that demanded to be spoken.

Jeyne Poole was Sansa's most trusted council. Most loyal servant. Most committed friend. And she had no doubt Jeyne would push their differences aside and aid Arya in whatever she required. It was simply in her nature.

"I belong with Jon. I would be far more helpful if I went with him. He lost an eye! He needs me at his side."

Jon would rather die, then and there, rather than have Arya follow him and be cannon fodder for Daenerys to use against him. That much Sansa knew, but she hardly believed Arya would be asking his permission if she were indeed to depart.

"I need you to stay because I cannot leave knowing that I leave little Eddard without the protection of my body. I cannot do what I must do, if half of me is here, going over everything that could go wrong. And so much can go wrong…"

“And can you understand that I cannot leave Jon without the protection of mine?” Arya asked of her.

“Yes!”

Her sister raised a brow then.

"And will you keep to Jon in turn then? As I would? Do you vow to keep him safe as I understand safety to be?" Arya asked solemnly. “In whatever is to come.”

"I do," Sansa vowed, taking a hand to her chest in a way to give body and truth to her words.

Arya took a deep breath and nodded slowly, perusing every inch of her face.

"To keep him alive you must make him King. You know that better than I."

Sansa kept her silence for a moment longer. It was the only thing that remained of her that was only her own.

It was true. In a sense. To survive in the South he would have to be made a King. To be allowed to remain in the North he would have to be punished. Each option required her to play a part. The lack of her interference would mean his death. And yet Sansa found herself unable to move.

“His claim does not matter as long as Daenerys lives."

Arya scoffed.

"You don't want to. Do you?" And there was an accusation in her voice. There was disappointment. As if she had any claim to be.

"Do I? Do I know that?" Sansa questioned her in turn.

"It seems easier than whatever it is you're doing. With your letters, your heavy looks, your whispers with Bran. And Lord Royce. Lady Lyessa, Jeyne Poole and all the others you claim as your own. I can make whispers of my own, you know. Between the both of us we could manage it. Samwell Tarly is right here, waiting for the word to claim him legitimate. We would have to take care of the Dragon Queen, but…” Arya shrugged. “That will come no matter who replaces her. You plan it already. So, why not him? The North, the Riverlands, the Vale. That's more than anyone with half a claim to that bloody throne has."

But Jon didn't have it. He could barely claim the North.

"It would be a lie. No matter if it is written down. No matter if it was signed by the High Septon himself."

"What of it?” Arya questioned. “We've told worse ones. I know I have."

No. She hadn't.

Sansa would admit to have done a great many deal of dreadful things, but she had never dishonoured a dead woman. She had never betrayed an ally. And she wasn't about to discover the toll it would take on her if she did.

Sansa would not be the Stark to engage Dorne in war.

"That lie would lead to another war. With even less purpose. Rhaegar Targaryen had a true wife. Elia Martell was well loved. Dorne does not and will not forget her. Dorne would raise arms for the insult alone. Her brother... Died to avenge her murder. Others would die to avenge her honour still. Do you wish to start a purposeless war only to shame a dead woman? To shame our house."

Arya listened to her silently, eyebrow narrowed.

"So many words just to say no, Sansa. Just say you don't want to. That you don't want to make our brother king. Above you at last."

"Above me?" Sansa laughed breathlessly. "I would have to marry him. To get him those kingdoms you speak of. I would have to marry him and forsake the North’s independence. To lay down the banners I have carried ever since I climbed down that mountain. Everything that has kept me standing. That has kept us standing. Am I the only one who sees that? I do wonder at times."

"Those grey banners place you in danger. Why don't you lay them down?" Arya shocked her by asking. "It would be a safer marriage than any other you have been proposed. Any other that you might still be forced into."

"I am no Kingmaker,” Sansa said at last, a decision in and of itself. “I never claimed I wanted to be."

Arya nodded slowly, somewhat pleased as she looked Sansa up and down.

"That's right. You're a King. I'll leave you be, Your Grace," she answered simply enough, offering her a deep mocking bow, leaving Sansa perplexed and with the impression that this exchange had been about something else entirely.

Sansa stood back from the council. She was here to bear witness and nothing more. She wore her mourning blacks and sat demurely, leaving the standing tall to others, who required it more.

It was Jeyne Westerling’s turn to take charge and be seen doing so.

Daenerys sat upon her lord father’s chair, facing the maps upon the library table, her leg tapping ceaselessly against the stone floor. The figurines of all players and pawns of the game were placed there by Sansa herself with the assistance of Lord Royce for her convenience. Lest the Queen confuse the Lannister banners for her own. 

“Half our forces are gone. The Northmen as well. And the Golden Company has arrived in King's Landing, courtesy of the Greyjoy fleet. The balance has grown distressingly even,” Varys spoke into the room, beginning the proceedings. 

“When the people find out what we have done for them, that we saved them-” Tyrion began his fruitless task.

“And how will word reach them, I wonder? Those high and low. By your Kingslayer of a brother?” Daenerys demanded of him, patience thrown to the winds, fists clenched white upon her arm placements. “We will rip her out, root and stem. And finally be done with her.”

Lord Tyrion attempted to hide his sigh.

“Our goal must be to defeat Cersei without the complete destruction of King's Landing. It is your family’s seat, after all. The history of your lineage is carved into every street corner, every building, into every stone.”

“History is important, most assuredly, and it would pain me, that the streets my ancestors paved, the buildings that they erected and gave name to, would be turned to ash. However, I understand that sacrifices will have to be made. A new Kingslanding may be built in the ashes of the old one, need be,” Daenerys had no qualms to say. The impediments of it escaping her.

Not even Tyrion’s allusion to the feats of her family, to the history carved with blood, soothed her. Made her question her course of action. She was beyond calls for temperance. She was beyond the search for peace.

“Cersei is losing allies by the day, Your Grace. Yara Greyjoy has retaken the Iron Islands in your name,” Lord Varys intervened, offering what meagre welcomed news he had. 

"And how did that serve me, Lord Varys? When Euron Greyjoy's fleet still managed to serve Cersei most ably," the Dragon Queen demanded of him. “No matter how many lords turn against her, as long as she sits on the Iron Throne, on my father’s throne, Cersei can call herself Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Allow her to,” Lord Varys pleaded softly. “What are a few moons to the decades you will sit and rule upon the Iron Throne?”

That was sound advice, in truth. Advice the North was eager for her to ignore.

“Moons?” Daenerys asked aghast. “You would ask me to wait out winter to take a city? When my dragons have taken countries with less effort and half the size.”

“I watched the people of Kingslanding rebel against their king when they were hungry, and that was before winter began. Give them the opportunity and they will cast Cersei aside,” Lord Tyrion advised.

“And how much time will that take, Lannister? I hardly remember the Bread Riots being enough to cast Joffrey Baratheon from his throne,” Lord Ryswell contradicted, feeding into Daenerys’s urge to leave the North.

The Dragon Queen eyed Rickard Ryswell’s intervention appreciably and turned to her Hand for answers that would never come.

Sansa in turn looked to Lady Dustin who shared with her a knowing look and afforded her an imperceptible nod behind her brother.

“We'll surround the city. When the Iron Fleet attempts to ferry in more food, we will take it for ourselves. If her forces and the Golden Company attack, we'll defeat them in the field. Once Cersei understands there is no escape, and the people see that she is the only enemy, her reign will meet its end,” Tyrion said, feigning conviction remarkably well. “She’ll be frightened, that they will overwhelm the castle, of what they would do to her. Cersei will wield, she might even take her own life, doing so.”

Sansa shuddered at the thought of what Tyrion alluded to. Remembering Bran’s words.

Lord Tyrion had decided to take on a different approach. With his brother’s escape, he was once again under his Queen’s suspicion. And if he wished to keep his head, his heartfelt pleas for a peaceful approach would no longer do.

“The people will ring the bells themselves and open their gates to your benevolence,” Lord Varys agreed. “But they must be given the time to do so.”

“Your Grace, it can hardly be ignored that the men you have left are exhausted, many of them wounded. They can’t be expected to march out in deep snow, southern men that they are,” Jon exhausted himself by saying.

It was good that Jon offered it, it left the impression that he concerned himself with her troops, with her chance of victory. That he cared for her in truth. It was good indeed that Sansa hadn’t shared yet with him her plot, his lack of knowledge made his reactions more believable, and gave certainty to the actions Sansa hoped Daenerys would take faced with them.

Daenerys narrowed her eyes on the maps in front of her before turning to Grey Worm.

“What say you, General?”

“The Unsullied will march for their Queen, no matter the ground beneath them,” he proclaimed proudly.

Blind loyalty was a deadlier poison than treachery.

“Half my forces are gone, you said it yourself. We’ll make use of the Yara Greyjoy's fleet and sail from White Harbor to Dragonstone,” Daenerys added, nonetheless taking Jon’s words under advisement.

Lord Tyrion took a deep, desperate breath in preparation to deliver to her the news House Manderly by Sansa’s prompting had so carefully crafted. Just as soon as he understood Varys wouldn’t volunteer himself to deliver them.

“Half the ships are gone as well. The storms brought forth by the Night King were vicious. More than half of the fleet suffered.”

Daenerys grinded her teeth and presented a tight lipped smile to keep the rage at bay.

“I’m sure House Manderly could be called to lend some of their ships to carry my Unsullied. Of course that would mean our armies would be divided. The northern forces will have to follow by land,” she settled.

That hadn’t been agreed upon – grain for the use of her army against the Night King, those had been the terms of her stay in the North. It wasn’t a bargain Sansa had expected the Dragon Queen to keep, but she would have done well to have made the demand towards all the Northern Lords before calling them upon it.

“The Northern forces will honour their promises and their allegiance to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. What you command, we will obey,” Jeyne Westerling assured Daenerys, in the absence of Lady Manderly.

Not all had been summoned to this war room.

Only those northern lords whom Jeyne Westerling considered her own, those she considered bought and paid for. Which in turn made the outcome of the meeting meaningless. The North would only march when their lords commanded them to. And their lords would only command them to, when the Lady of Winterfell commanded them to do so.

Who she would be at the time, was yet to be decided. But they had all been commanded to remain at Winterfell for the time being. Feigning compliance to a foreign crown.

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek to keep from any kind of emotion, there was an eerie silence in the room. All parties were waiting for some sort of reaction from her. Sansa would not offer it. She deferred to the new Lady of Winterfell by looking down and refraining from offering her thoughts on the matter.

“I will stay and ride down the Kingsroad with the Northern troops,” Jon proposed, easily enough.

“No,” Daenerys surprised him by saying, eyes made heavy by concern. “You’re harmed as well, you will come with us by ship,” and she almost sounded gentle as she said it. “May I call upon you, Lord Ryswell, to lead the northern troops South, to Dragonstone?”

To take Sansa to Dragonstone by the hair, need be.

“Certainly, Your Grace.”

Lord Rickard bowed his head.

From the corner of her eye Sansa could see young Lord Cerwyn deflating from the dismissal. Perhaps having expected his position as Lady Westerling’s future lord, to gain him some higher degree of respect. Of authority.

“Lady Sansa may accompany you, down the Kingsroad. Her presence will give strength to the men, I’m quite certain of it,” Daenerys stated, looking at her, daring her to speak.

Sansa was the Lady Stark in this room no more. But it pleased her well enough, that Daenerys would no longer wish to be the one to make the reasons for her departure well known. That she once again expected others to do so. Which in turn expected the same from Sansa.

Jon was about to say something. His hand restlessly flexed upon the hilt of his sword, but Sansa beat him to it, “As you wish, Your Grace.”

That pleased Daenerys Targaryen well, but it was hardly enough.

“Lord Royce, what say you, will the Knights of the Vale join my campaign? Will the Vale of Arryn fight for their rightful Queen, and rid the realm of the likes of Cersei Lannister?”

Lord Royce was an honourable man, above lies, yet he was not above misunderstandings. No man could be faced with dragons and those who threatened to wield them.

“While I, and my generals do not feel comfortable facing the snow just yet, with the soldiers tired and wounded as they are. We see no objections in going down the King’s road in a fortnight. And join you in Kingslanding, forgoing the journey to Dragonstone. If the Lady of Winterfell would dispense her hospitality a bit further.”

Lady Westerling gave her consent, though Lord Royce looked past her, giving only the impression of awaiting her agreement. Under candlelight he had made these plans with Sansa, and it was only to her authority he deferred to.

Daenerys, appeased with the agreement that she had not expected to be given so easily and without threats of carnage, saw no issue with his terms. Nor did she consider the implications of them. Lord Royce had made no promises of loyalty, nor of submission to her.

“It is settled then,” she said, almost pleasantly, but then she clenched her fists and sighed. "On another matter, my child was hurt. Drogon was pierced by one of those... One of those things."

"The scorpions," Lord Varys offered, eyes facing down.

"I want them destroyed. The scorpions," Daenerys sneered.

Jeyne turned to Sansa, looking for guidance. Which of course, was a terrible way to succeed one in their former position.

"It's the Lady of Winterfell’s discretion, of course, to decide what to do with Winterfell's armoire," Sansa offered in a soft, almost encouraging tone that certainly humiliated those who had offered Jeyne up as her replacement.

“It will be done,” Jeyne assured her unimpressed Queen.

"I wasn't made aware you had them,” Tyrion intervened, eyes narrowed and assessing Sansa. “Scorpions, in Winterfell. It hardly seems like weaponry one has laying around, ready for use."

"Is that a southern custom, Lannister? Surmising a comprehensive list of the weapons available? It would have surely come in hand at Blackwater," Ser Davos was quick to jump in, making Sansa for once thankful to hear his voice.

"Hardly. I simply find it curious, Ser Davos. We are allies after all and-"

"I think many of us still find it more curious how Jaime Lannister managed to escape Winterfell. Any thoughts there?" Lord Ryswell questioned in a good-spirited challenge with a tilted head.

It suited all those involved, that in the hatred Tyrion Lannister commanded, it made it very hard indeed to take whatever thoughtful concerns he had with the necessary degree of importance. No worse Hand could have been chosen.

“I understand, of course, your doubt of my character,” Lord Tyrion accepted diplomatically, nodding his head along. “Yet I am only an imp, in foreign grounds, I hardly can be expected to have orchestrated such an escape. Winterfell is a fortress, is it not?”

“Yes,” Jon answered, commanding the room’s attention. “Not a prison. And if you expected your brother’s escape after such a heartfelt defence of him, and his intentions, not so long ago, you can hardly allocate your responsibility, Lord Tyrion.”

Lord Tyrion narrowed his eyes on him. Assessing him in a new light, sharp Lannister eyes no longer hidden.

“The Lady Brienne vouched for my brother as well, did she not?” Tyrion turned to her, once more, seeking a target he believed more easily beaten. “Lady Sansa? I remember you asking it of her.”

Jon wouldn’t allow him to.

“The sworn knight of House Stark lies in bed, recovering from wounds endured while bravely fighting in the Long Night. But if the most noble Lord Lannister would like to question Brienne of Tarth, let us begin with her. The list of all those vested in both Ser Jaime’s life and death shall be long, and we may yet spend a moon or two in Winterfell, if it pleases the lord and Her Grace’s designs,” Jon offered in such a way Sansa had to look down to prevent herself from smiling.

Some part of Sansa was relieved. That Jon should know her so well. That he should understand that no one else in Winterfell would have been able to orchestrate such a thing if not their lady. That he should decide so quickly to keep the focus away from her.

While Brienne had indeed suffered injuries in the Long Night, she was as capable to resume her post as Jon was. And yet Sansa knew Tyrion Lannister as well as he presumed to know her, and so she had requested her sworn shield to remain in bed rest in anticipation of this moment, of the fault of Sansa’s actions being placed upon her. Brienne became antsy from being confined to her rooms, but she understood the need of it. She understood Sansa and she understood the role Jaime Lannister would have to play far away from these walls to achieve his own absolution.

“I shouldn’t wish for time to be wasted, Lord Commander,” Lord Tyrion conceded with a tight smile. “It was only a thought, that I wasn’t the only one mistaken by my brother.”

“Simply more often,” Lord Ryswell piped up with a smirk.

Daenerys raised only a brow to her Hand as if she had won something with the display from the northern crowd. Instead of showing herself a worst judge of character. And Sansa needn’t worry who would be the one to take her hand and lead her towards dining halls now that Jorah Mormont was gone. Lord Ryswell would ably take his place, with considerably less devotion.

Tyrion Lannister controlled himself into not taking a hand to his face, before carrying on with the preparations required for their departure for White Harbor in three days’ time.

Daenerys was the one to break the meeting by exiting first, followed by her retinue which in itself took much of the audience from the room.

Lady Westerling followed after an encouraging nod from Lord Cerwyn who left behind her.

Lord Royce took his leave sparing Sansa a polite nod and with him his fellow lords who stood as representatives of the Knights of the Vale. After them all those who remained scattered, off to do the work of little birds. Lord Ryswell amused her by throwing a wink at her before closing the door behind him. Leaving Sansa and Jon alone in the war room.

Jon prepared to speak, and Sansa raised her hand to stop him to which he nodded. Giving time for all steps to be heard more and more faintly, certain that whatever he was to say should stay between the both of them.

"You've been so quiet," Jon noted in barely more than a whisper. "I can barely think when you're so quiet."

He held up his hand to run over his face before stopping himself.

Remembering his wound.

Remembering his face.

Letting go of his hand in frustration.

"People speak of wars to you. Of marriages. Of death and life and everything in between and you're quiet. Have you given up on us all, my lady?" he attempted to laugh but his voice nearly broke as he said it, dropping his weight on the edge of the table, as Sansa leaned against the opposite wall. "When she commanded you to go down the Kingsroad… We had an agreement that I would not press my claim as long as the North remained as it was. So long as you remain as you are. That you would not go. Why did you consent to it?"

Sansa smiled softly, she had presumed as much.

"It is only for her peace of mind. Let her think me odd. As ravenous as a wolf and then as demure as a lost pup. Let her think me beaten, even if I remain proud."

It was wise to leave one's enemies confused. And Sansa had other reasons as well. Everyone who had ever stood between herself, and danger ended up robbed of life. She would not allow the same to happen to Jon.

"Do you not speak so that Bran has to take your place? Do you prepare him for his inheritance?" he asked almost fearfully. As if it meant she would embrace her fate and ruin. As if he feared for her down in Kingslanding as much as she did him.

"I'm not.” Sansa furrowed. “I think I'm not, at least. He just... So often knows what is on my mind."

"Might you tell me?" Jon promptly suggested.

Sansa smiled, softly, keeping to her silence and pushed herself from the wall, walking over to him.

She took a hand to his chin, so he might hold his face up towards the light. Giving her better light to inspect the pink flesh around his eye. Jon sighed under her touch, closed his other eye.

She was growing bolder.

She understood that. She couldn't bring herself to stop. She couldn't bring herself to see anything wrong in it. To see that something shifted between them. Perhaps due to their honesty, perhaps due to the threats all around them... Or perhaps because... The words that would deliver them wouldn't come. That this illusion would not be shattered. That neither of them would threaten to break this understanding by naming whatever it was that made her so free to touch and him to welcome it.

"Would you be more comfortable with an eye patch? I can make one for you. It won't take more than an hour. With all the dust down the-"

"I enjoy how fewer people are able to stand my gaze," Jon told her, simply enough.

"Do you? Do you really?" Sansa wondered, focusing more on the rugged pink skin around his wound.

The maester had burned it, to cauterise the wound, once Jon had made peace with losing the eye. He had commanded them out of the room and Sansa had been left to hear him howl from the outside of the chamber doors, hands held with Arya.

"I do," Jon said, taking the hand she had allowed to fall, running his thumb over her knuckles.

"Varys came to me," he informed her, to no surprise of her own. "Spoke of legitimization. Of inheritance. I suppose that to hope for it to remain a secret was innocence indeed. I rode a dragon after all," he almost laughed. "That it took so long is surely the surprise. That she hasn’t told him yet."

"What did you say?" Sansa asked tentatively.

"That it was treasonous to speak of a monarch's death," he answered, accessing her reaction as much as she did his.

Sansa nodded in approval.

"What did you think?"

"The Spider presented it to me as a simple matter that is anything but. Especially now that Daenerys believes she might still conceive. And I believe he still hopes in her. That he cannot give up the illusion she provided him with. But he isn't above making contingency plans, all of them built upon marriages."

"Plural?" Sansa asked, curious now.

Jon looked down and nodded, anger changing his features, seemingly fighting with himself before sharing something with her.

"True Targaryen legacy," he sneered. "He spoke your name most freely."

Sansa nodded to herself. She had expected it to some degree. Varys understood the need to weave her more tightly into his plans.

Daenerys, Jon, and Sansa – Fire and Ice.

The Faith were nearly ants, not strong enough to put up enough of a fight should it be decided. If Daenerys should prove herself fertile there would be no issue, her children would take the throne and Sansa's children their hand in marriage. Little Eddard's hand in marriage. All houses' hands in marriage. Nothing but a broodmare, as Cersei foretold not so long ago. The thought alone left her queasy, but Sansa remained steady.

And if Daenerys couldn't conceive... She would both love her children and resent them. Either way they would be taken from Sansa, to do with as Daenerys pleased.

Did Varys believe this to be a solution worth being spoken? Worth being shared? It was one thing, to play a part in her council, to be her lady in waiting, this was quite another. He had less good will with her than Tyrion had once presumed to have. Like all others he believed her to be a pawn still. Soft still.

"Did he regret it?" Sansa asked at last. “His presumption.”

Jon looked up.

"Dearly. Yet I think it only encouraged his devious thoughts I’m afraid."

It would be seen as Targaryen passion, that Jon should so promptly defend her honour and yet so meekly react to the possibility of his lover's death. It should only serve to double his efforts. The same as her concerns over Jon’s safety surely had.

“Bran came to me as well,” Jon said, startling her from her thoughts. “Spoke about what should come next.”

“He did?” A hint of both hope and fear in her voice.

Jon’s lips twisted in an amused smile. As if he just now understood whatever it was that Bran had shared with him. That her reaction brought him clarity. And so he took her face in his hands. Leaving her no place to hide. No room where to conceal herself.

"Say it. Tell me not to press my claim, Sansa. Speak all the truth you wish Bran would speak for you," Jon tempted her softly, his eyes keenly on hers. “You wished for truth between us, so speak it. I wish for it as well.”

But how could she ask it of him? When she prepared herself to press her own as soon as Winterfell was delivered from the Dragon Queen’s presence.

“I have no claim, but the one Daenerys conquers or the one you would grant me. I know that, sweetling. I know what you would have to give up. What you would have to sacrifice. I wouldn’t ask it of you. I would never ask anything of you that might bring you dishonour. I understand the position you are in, what it demands from you.”

It hung above them. His change of circumstances. As if it were a blade.

Whatever action she took to deliver the realm of Daenerys Targaryen would have consequences to his own life. Either from the Dragon Queen herself or the ones that would seek to deliver the realm of Targaryen influence, no matter its origin. Sansa could protect him in the North to some extent, none could argue him to be pursuing any southern claim when he hid himself beneath the snows. But with his departure to Dragonstone… it would be easy for everyone to argue his support of his aunt. It would be easy to claim House Stark blinded by love of kin and demand his head all the same.

Unless…

“You want to be King,” Sansa whispered, afraid of giving the words strength. “I know you do.”

Jon wanted it when he accepted the northern crown. And he wanted it now, when it was offered to him. He was an ambitious man. He was a leader. He commanded respect and loyalty. Despite his own shame it made it no less true. Yet a price would have to be paid for it. And Sansa doubted he was a man willing to pay it, to ask her to pay it.

And yet, what did it say of her, that she wasn’t willing to. That she couldn’t trade the North for him. That no matter how great her love was, it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough for her to betray the North. That she might bleed herself dry ensuring that he might live, but she wouldn't attempt to raise her banners to make him King of the Seven Kingdoms.

Jon allowed his hands to drop from her face.

“I would prefer to be punished for what I have done, than to be King for what I failed to do,” Jon told her, offering her absolution. Offering her a way out of the pitch darkness that had been with her all these days. “There are things I want far more, sweetling.”

“And would they lead you away from Winterfell?"

Sansa feared where his desires might lead him. How far from her.

From them, she meant.

"Yes," Jon breathed out, as if it were a confession. "The New Gift. The lands must be repopulated. And I always entertained the thought that... Well, that had I not joined the Night’s Watch, Lord Eddard might have one day bestowed them to me. A humbler dream than kingship."

"I can grant you the New Gift," Sansa offered in a way of amends. With no Night's Watch to speak of, the lands of the Gift returned to the property of House Stark. "I could grant you Queenscrow as my steward, upon your return."

"Hide myself from the North's view and judgement," Jon gathered with a hint of amusement at her hopeful thought.

"The North can be persuaded to forget when it suits them. If you went there, took the wildlings, and the men left from the Night’s Watch and made something of the land. It might be seen as penance.”

And his smile was lovely. But then reality took a strong hold over them.

"You might argue it to be an exile for my crimes, if I were to survive. The ones I’ve committed and all the ones I’m yet to do. That I should go and prove myself worthy of the North's mercy."

Sansa could sell it as just that. It wouldn't be so hard. The northern lords had neither the time nor the means to object. Not when she had been so merciful to others. How could Lady Dustin and Lord Ryswell argue when she had allowed them to keep all that was theirs after supporting the Boltons for as long as they did.

If she could prove that all Jon had ever done was nothing more than a farce… that he despised the Targaryen name and all that came with it. If she could sell that to all that mattered as an absolute truth.

“Why not,” she demanded of him.

Sansa took Jon’s burned hand. Brought it to her lips. Kissed the finger where a king’s signet ring would have been and whispered, "Don't press your claim."

"Is that all?" Jon asked almost boldly.

Sansa could hear his heartbeat pounding rapidly against his chest. As much as she did her own.

She tilted her head to the side.

"Don't wage a war that will take you from me."

Jon looked at her for a very long time. As if putting her words to memory. The way her lips shaped themselves into the words.

He gripped her hand and pulled her closer, intertwining their fingers, above his chest. Turning serious all at once.

"I already am, Sansa. The moment Daenerys commands Kingslanding to burn will be the moment I am parted from you forever. From our family. I think you know that better than I."

No sinner is so accursed as the kinslayer.

Sansa would do everything in her power to prevent him from being the one who would have to make that choice.

Sansa would have him return home as a Stark.

"I can’t watch as she burns Kingslanding. Nor do I consider you capable of idly standing by and sending her on her merry way to burn it and all in it to the ground. We both know she won’t stand down. So what is it that you plan in the shadows of this keep, my lady? How is it that you plan to keep me with you, for all the days to come?"

They danced close to heresy, didn’t they? It was hard to ignore when faced with such words. But to admit Jeyne right… it threatened too much. It risked the loss of it. If Sansa admitted to it, wouldn’t she have to lose it? To put space between them. To not say all that she wished to say and not hear all that she wished to hear?

She swallowed harshly and looked away from devious thoughts.

Sansa knew that Jon would raise his sword, he was too good a man not to. And so, Sansa took courage and told him the plot with Arianne Martell. If only so that he wouldn't lose his head fighting for the people of Kingslanding that wouldn’t be there to be grateful to him. Not if Cersei Lannister heeded her words and Arianne Martell was true in her promises.

“I'll be going down the Kingsroad, but I won't join you at Dragonstone. I summoned a Great Council, in Riverrun. To unite the Kingdoms against the threat of her. All have answered the call,” Sansa shared with him, her chest heavy. “You’ll have to bear the brunt of my absence and that of the northern armies. Proclaim your devotion to her, your disownment of me."

“Often enough you have borne the brunt of mine,” Jon said, attempting to soften her doubts and fears. “The destroyed ships, that was you?" A hint of pride could be heard in his voice.

Sansa only nodded.

"The Kingslayer could have just as easily gone back to his brother. He is no less of a Lannister, no matter the shade of his coat," Jon pointed out.

"Ser Jaime had the chance to finally save his sister, after all these years. Achieve honour choosing to perish by her side," Sansa explained, though she agreed there had been much luck to it.

She had spent the night with her eyes wide open after the feast. If it had been for fear of being dragged towards the courtyard to be burned alive or excitement from an evening well danced, she could not be certain.

Jon raised his brow.

"You think he loves her? His own sister. That it isn't only something wicked... Something… ill."

"I think...” Sansa took a deep breath. “I think that Cersei became softer when she spoke of him. I think he brought all of his rage to her, for her to mould and shape as she wished. And she spared all of her tenderness for him until there was little of it for anyone else. I think they were truthful to one another. In all that mattered. That they thought mattered. I think from honesty comes love." Sansa shrugged softly and looked up at Jon once more, bearing the steady weight of his eyes. "I suppose it is only a guess, from what I knew of her and what I learned from him."

"And the fact that they are brother and sister?" Jon wondered, eyes narrowed on hers.

"It isn't for me to judge. The house they were built in was a cruel one. They might have searched for love where they could find it."

“But do you? Judge them,” he challenged.

“No,” Sansa confessed. “I would have, if Ser Jaime hadn’t returned to her.”

Jon nodded slowly and tightened his lips into a smile.

“If I don’t… if I can’t… return to Winterfell. It won’t be any fault of yours. And I won’t have you believe it so. You play a dangerous game, but you do not play it alone. I have taken every step by your side and most without your counsel. I’ve tied your hands plenty. I’d rather you sleep than weep over me. But I also rather you weep over me than bleed in my service. Do you understand?” Jon asked of her, the meaning of his words clear. “Whatever choices you have to make in Riverrun with Bran, you should make them in the North’s service. In your own service. And I shan’t take them as any kind of betrayal, do you hear me?”

Sansa let go of a shuddering breath.

“Then why does my heart see it as such?”

“Dearest…” Jon whispered, before deciding to take hold of her and wrapping his steady arms around her shoulders. Allowing Sansa to weep fully into the crook of his neck until the tears were spent from her and only Jon and her remained.

"Lady Sansa,"

"Your Grace," Sansa greeted her with a respectful nod. She had evaded her presence long enough.

The woman had a leather doublet in her arms which she held dearly to her chest, brown and worn. "I had Ser Jorah's things brought to me. I wanted a keepsake, to remember him by," the queen explained without need.

"Ser Jorah seemed a most devoted servant to your cause. His loss must be a painful one to endure," Sansa found herself saying in way of soothing words.

The woman nodded along with confidence.

"He had his failings, but he was the first to truly see me as I was. As I was bound to be. The heir of Aegon the Conqueror. The blood of old Valyria," she said almost wistfully. "Was it so, with your Ser Brynden?" she asked, her violet eyes finally searching for hers.

The question surprised Sansa in its thoughtfulness and so she considered it carefully for a moment.

"My great-uncle Brynden saw me as kin, which was all that I needed. What I felt hungry for, after so many years as a hostage, away from Winterfell and my own."

Daenerys hummed with interest, feigned or not Sansa would not presume to know.

"Lord Edmure has left us as well, I've noticed."

"Indeed. He did not wish to be a strain on the North's resources. And he has much to build, the same as the rest of us. I quite think this new age of Westeros will be one for rebuilding," Sansa said, as she should say to any lord she needed to exchange words down a corridor.

"We can only hope, Lady Stark, that we are given the chance for that. Even ground is needed for rebuilding. And as of yet, we haven't nearly enough of it. Don't you agree?" she asked, handing the doublet to Missandei so she could pack it away with her belongings.

"To hope is in my nature, Your Grace," Sansa chose to say. A cheerful little lie she might have said in every cage she had ever inhabited.

The queen nodded slowly, pleased in some way by how demure Sansa presented herself as this day. She was certainly easier to converse with when she offered no struggle.

"It will be good for us, that you should accompany the rest of the forces that depart from Winterfell. I know you love your family very much, no matter your misgivings and would not wish to see them harmed, for your lack of obedience," Daenerys alluded to rather crudely.

It lacked polish. A cover of politeness, of statecraft.

"I would not, Your Grace." Sansa nodded. "I hope that Her Grace is soothed as well, that while she has lost precious council, she has gained family."

Daenerys’ hands stilled and her soft demure changed abruptly.

"I don't quite catch your meaning."

"Jon, of course, has shared with me the news of your shared blood," Sansa informed her.

Daenerys was quiet for a very long time accessing the options in front of her.

"Yes. We've been blessed. No longer Targaryens alone in the world. It will take me some time to come to terms with it," she said, avoiding Missandei’s wide eyes, who had just now learned the news. Sansa took careful notice of it.

"The Gods willing, you'll never be alone again," Sansa offered gently.

“Yes…” Daenerys shook her head and her eyes lost focus as she spoke, "Then again, I haven't been alone ever since Drogon and Viserion and... Rhaegal. All of them, my children, either dead or harmed."

Sansa did not know how to answer that. Nor did she wish to. Daenerys frightened her, when she spoke like that. She might have said 'in service of a good cause' but that might only aggravate a woman that didn't see any reason great enough for the harming of her beasts, much less their loss.

And so, Sansa chose to aggravate her in a different way instead. Waiting for Missandei to turn from her task so she could listen better to what was being said.

"I'm sure you'll wish for the news to be kept quiet for a while longer at least. If anything were to happen to Jon during the war in the South, I can't imagine the rumours that would follow."

Daenerys narrowed her eyes.

"Rumours?"

"Kinslaying," Sansa explained softly. "It cannot be overlooked that Jon is a threat to your birthright. If anything were to happen to him, ill tongues would claim you guilty of the most grievous sin."

"Jon is still a bastard. While I am the trueborn daughter of Aerys, the second. I have dragons. My legitimacy cannot be called into question, Lady Sansa. I hardly deem it a concern.”

"So was I. Trueborn daughter of Eddard Stark, when Jon was crowned King in the North," Sansa mused. "I'm not saying that anything that happened to me would happen to you. Jon never wished to be King. And yet... Men choose where power lies. Rarely is it upon a woman's head."

Daenerys tilted her head to the side and accessed her for a long time.

The more people knew about the nature of his birth the more protected and endangered he was. The knowledge was both a shield and a call to arms. And yet… with his departure he would become a hostage. As Sansa was. To… to suffer as she did. And there was nothing she could do.

Nothing else than to make certain that Daenerys believed Sansa loved him less than she did. To make her believe than even in love, the Dragon Queen was the Stark woman’s superior. And that, Sansa could do. She could make Daenerys believe she had no one else in the world but Jon, that he had no one else but her. That they were united in their need for one another. No matter if the woman didn’t believe Jon when he said it.

Bran had sworn it, after all.

"I thought you loved him. Jon,” Daenerys said, judgement thick in her voice. “I thought you loved him and yet here you are, in my chambers, naming all the reasons I should wish him dead. You are a curious creature, Lady Sansa."

"Wish Jon dead?” Sansa feigned absolute shock. “Your Grace, I am naming all the reasons by which Westeros will claim his death - your doing. Should anything happen to him. I'm giving you council, as I was requested. Take it with all the grains of salt you deem necessary. Targaryens have been killing Targaryens for centuries and rarely do they sit soundly upon their throne after committing kinslaying."

Daenerys frowned as if Sansa had offended against her by reminding her of her family's history. Leaving her to wonder if she truly knew it. If anyone had ever bothered to explain to her the parts that did not suit her entitlement.

"You think I would kill Jon? After all that I have done for him? Coming North, for him. My dragons harmed, fighting for his cause. Blood of my blood spent in his service, for him."

"I'm saying that the Lord Commander has lost half of his sight. His leg is still recovering. I'm saying that I don't wish to see him in the middle of an army. I'm urging you to keep him safe. Both because I love him and because you would be the one blamed, Your Grace."

Daenerys chuckled sourly, furiously turning the rings in her fingers.

"You would make sure of that, wouldn't you?" she accused.

Daenerys thought she wouldn't answer. That it would be enough to demean her into silence.

"The thing is, Your Grace, that no enemy of yours would have to whisper a word."

Sansa heard Missandei gasp before she felt the strength of the back of Daenerys's hand against her cheek. Being left to swallow the shock of it.

"You are much too high-handed, Lady Sansa," Daenerys said after a long beat of silence, her own chest heaving with the enormity of what she had done.

"Forgive me, Your Grace," Sansa found herself saying.

Eyes turned to the ground fighting the impulse to cover her cheek, allowing it to redden in her presence, willing her burning eyes not to shed tears. Daenerys wore heavy rings, Sansa had enough experience with her beatings in Kingslanding to know they would leave a bruise, she willed Daenerys to testify to it. Both of them.

"For my ill-advised council."

Sansa was the Lady Stark, the true Lady of Winterfell. She had been beaten, dress torn in a court full of cheerful people. She had been married against her will. Touched against her will. Kissed against her will.

This was nothing.

Nothing at all but a bruise to one's pride. She would receive as many as it would take to ensure Jon’s safety. Daenerys was bound to receive some of her own, soon enough.

"You're forgiven."

Daenerys swallowed harshly, having her own actions unsettled her.

"Jon would only be harmed if he returns my aid with betrayal. Even kinslaying must have its exceptions. A queen must pass judgement, no matter the sinner that stands in her presence," she said without missing a beat, hoping that if she spoke quickly enough the room could soon forget what she had done.

So did kingslaying, Sansa urged to say, but contorted herself not to.

"Jon would never betray his kin," Sansa said at last, looking up tentatively.

Daenerys's eyes narrowed, yet all the rage had been exhausted from her.

"Yes... He wanted you to stay in the North. But you know that. Of course you know that. You didn't put up a fight to remain in your beloved Winterfell. Why was that?" she asked of Sansa.

"Sacrifices have to be made for peace. Your dragons suffered in its pursuit. So did all the forces that gathered in Winterfell. Jon worries for my heart, but... It does not matter. I shall not evade my duty," Sansa answered easily enough, casting her eyes not to Daenerys, but to Missandei instead, who seemed to still be reeling from the actions of her mistress.

"Jon loves you," Daenerys said in a way that demanded a response.

All that Sansa had to say would prove ill-fitting.

"He's my brother."

Daenerys let go of a laugh.  The sentence sounded as foreign to her as it did to Sansa’s own lips.

"That's the first time I've ever seen you addressing him like that. Now that you know he is not. It must be a relief to you. That he is a Targaryen. Blood of my blood. If it is to be believed."

“If?”

To me? Sansa found the higher question to be. And yet she understood it all the same. They both did.

"It is convenient, isn't it. That Jon should be my kin. Now, now, don't pretend an innocence that does not suit you, don't insult us both," she demanded from her.

"I believe Jon considers it a great loss. With the way Targaryens are regarded in Westeros."

Sansa bit her tongue awaiting another slap.

She knew it to be the truth. Jon refused to speak of it after all. They spoke of his claim. They spoke of Daenerys and her dragons. They spoke of the North and Winterfell. But they never spoke of them – Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. Of the weight of what might have gone on between them. Either the foolishness of a child and a reckless prince, or the dreadful cruelty of a dragon willing to commit in the service of want. Jon couldn’t bear to think of it, so neither would she.

"How so?"

Rotten blood – the walls around her howled.

Sansa straightened her spine.

"We all grew up listening to the whispered stories of our elders, burning and suffocating in the view of the Iron Throne, for demanding their daughter and sister back. Father and son dying reaching for one another. Jon now bears the blood of all he was taught to despise. His blood and heritage – a battlefield."

Daenerys considered her for a moment and then smiled, turning her golden ring emulating a dragon tooth around her index finger, its shade still upon Sansa’s cheek. 

"I will teach him new tales. What my father did was unfortunate, but so are lords turning against their liege. Your lady aunt was chosen by a true dragon. What greater honour could there be?"

For a moment Sansa truly wondered if she believed her own words. If she was so far removed from sanity that she could not see the fault in them. Or was it merely an attempt to misremember cuts as bruises to safeguard family legacy. Was this a shade of lunacy or a way to comfort one-self.

"Everyone said my brother, Rhaegar, was a good man, a kind man. Why believe falsehoods? Why believe horrors when the truth could be so much more simple. Your lady aunt shouldn't have been without her attributes. Perhaps not of the same delicate beauty of his Martell wife, but men are strange in what they can be tempted by," Daenerys reasoned, casting her eyes upon her.

"It would be good for the realm to see a Stark bowing to a Targaryen once more. If the Lady Stark can see the truth in the Usurper's tales, why not the other houses," she added.

"I wouldn't believe my influence to extend past the borders of the North," Sansa remarked humbly to the Dragon Queen's pleasure.

"Tyrion told me you were liked in Kingslanding. Even regarded as a traitor's daughter, your beauty and courtesies were appreciated. They can be so once again. In service of a greater cause."

If only you submit, was left understood.

"If Lord Tyrion claims it so..." Sansa trailed on.

"How did you find Kingslanding?" Daenerys asked all of a sudden. "Do you believe it is worth being saved? For its history."

It was clear to see that she did not believe Lord Tyrion's motives. That she found them to be an excuse to save his kin. Yet Sansa disagreed, not only because she had been the one to free Ser Jaime from his tower, but with what she had learned from Bran, she did not find Tyrion desirous to save Cersei. Only aching to be there, in the room, when she breathed her last. Willing to do whatever ensured it.

"I only ever saw it as a cage. But the people there are worth being saved."

"Are they? Did they not testify to Lord Eddard's execution? Did they not cheer?" Daenerys challenged with keen eyes.

They had done worse things and still Sansa found them not deserving of being burnt alive.

"Hungry men accept bread no matter its provenance."

"Perhaps you will see Dragonstone with better eyes then," Daenerys surmised.

Sansa dared not to say anything against it.

"Once Cersei is dealt with, I'll legitimise Jon. A dynasty is weak as long as there is only one member to it. Jon Targaryen... It doesn't ring true. He may choose another name. You might even help him with it. You're clever in that way. Perhaps the brunt of the discovery will be made softer by it. After all, the Starks never made him legitimate," she noted sharply, as if it stood against her.

"I bow towards Her Grace's wisdom and mercy."

Daenerys hummed, as convinced as Sansa herself was.

"I'll see you at dawn. You must wave the troops goodbye after all."

A dismissals if she ever received one, Sansa welcomed it hungrily.

Chapter Text

"Tell me, Sansa, is my brother buried below the snow, somewhere our gods can't reach? Or am I thus mistaken about you."

The idea that they shared anything at all – their gods, in particular – seemed ludicrous.

Sansa had only been standing in the battlements while overlooking the final preparations for the Dragon Queen’s party departure. She had only watched, panic filling her to the brim as she gazed at the wagons that should have been full of sacks with grain, instead of the sand tumbling within. She had made Jon aware of it, of course. By the time they reached Dragonstone there would be nothing for Daenerys to feed her men with, the decoyed grain placed above done with. Jon stood ready to face her wrath. To device where he could. To bear it when he could do so no longer.

"Ser Jaime was offered guest right by me and I am a faithful woman," Sansa reminded Lord Tyrion of, using his own words against him, facing him fully, at long last.

"You are a wolf in sheep's clothing," he remarked with little bitterness, blowing into his hands to keep the cold at bay.

Her former husband seemed worn. Both by the frost that enveloped him and the heat that threatened to swallow him whole. Such was the fate of an exiled lion beseeched to hungrier, deadlier, sharper beasts.

"I never took any other name other than Stark, my lord. I hardly deceived you with that."

Lord Tyrion narrowed his misshaped eyes on her.

"I wonder how much longer you'll be able to claim it."

It was no less than a threat and it amused Sansa that he should think it appropriate when he stood still within her walls, no matter who sought to claim them. She had only to raise the alarm. To scream. To whimper. To cast her eyes towards Ser Ondrew Norrey, the captain of the Blackfish’s guard in the crowd. To search for Jon.

Daenerys would not be able to protect him. Suspicious as she was of her Hand, faced with his brother's disappearance, she would not endeavour to try.

"For a moment longer it seems, my lord," Sansa had no qualms to say, keeping her eyes on him.

Always a moment longer.

"I hope that you understand that if you do not follow down the Kingsroad there will be consequences. And they will extend far past you," Lord Tyrion issued another’s threat. “And while I can certainly comprehend your strained relationship with your bastard brother, I would urge you not to place him in perilous terms with Her Grace in service of either your pride or your fear, my lady. Higher duties call to you.”

Sansa did him the grace to nod.

"I quite believe Jon already is,” Sansa feigned absentmindedness, as she allowed it to pass her lips. Allowing the hollowness of her words to fester in his mind.

Tyrion did not know, of that, Sansa was certain. 

And yet, it weighed heavy on his mind, the knowledge that something escaped him. That there were whispers he was not privy to. It was important that he should search for them. It was important that he should seek them and attempt to turn it into a solution for himself. He would be the loudest advocate for a marriage between Daenerys and Jon. He would be the loudest to advocate for Jon’s life as an answer to his own troubles.

“Nevertheless, I would hardly deny Her Grace's command, my lord. Nor add to her unrest. I was raised dutiful, as you well know."

Lord Tyrion did not believe her, the cleverest thing he had done since she last saw him in Kingslanding. Which was quaint since she spoke the plain truth, perhaps for a first time to him.

"If not me, then someone else. There will always be someone else. That is your fate, as the daughter of a great house, as it was my sister's. I never thought you would resent it as she did. I never thought you would be this naive."

Lord Tyrion shrugged, as if he had said an awfully clever thing and wished to appear humble faced with his own wisdom. It was a sour thing. His deluded pride.

Sansa smiled softly and refused to dignify him with an answer that would never please her.

She wondered what was the duty of a second son, for a brief moment. To keep out of the way, most likely. To be great in the shadows. To rise, far away from home, through humble service. Lord Tyrion Lannister had never done anything of a kind. He had always demanded attention, he had always called forth vitriol, he had always left a bloody trail.

"It is inspiring, really," Sansa mused, eyebrow raised eyes cast into the horizon.

"What is?"

"Ser Jaime and the Queen's devotion to one another. That it should survive death, greed, and betrayal. And that in spite of it all, they should always choose one another. That they should always forgive one another, love one another.” Sansa sighed wistfully. “It must have weighed you deeply, my lord. That they could not love you in that same way. That Ser Jaime would leave these halls aware of its repercussions upon you. Aware that your death would certainly be its outcome, given his beliefs about Queen Daenerys."

Lord Tyrion's face morphed into something hard and brittle. Into something capable of cutting deeply.

And yet, Sansa towered above him. She always would.

"What happens next is on your bloody hands, Sansa. I hope you can understand that. I hope you can understand that I did my best towards you and that I shall attempt it no longer."

Sansa straightened her spine and nodded slowly, sharpening her own claws.

"It must be a great comfort to you, my lord. To always be able to look down at your own bloody hands and miss the knife," she mused innocently. "It must have been just so with Shae."

His eyes darkened and his lip curled in anger. He looked like a different beast entirely and Sansa wondered if this was what Cersei saw. Every time she looked at the Giant of Lannister.

Lord Tyrion had believed that because he owed her coin, Shae owed him her life. He had believed the same about Sansa, if only because he hadn’t forced himself on her on their wedding night. He believed that had she remained in Kingslanding she would have testified for him. Petyr Baelish had shared it with her, and she believed him because she understood it as the truest show of Lord Tyrion’s character. A sense of entitlement that blinded him to reality.

“Lannister,” Jon called forth between gritted teeth, his voice harsh as he reached them. “Her Grace requests your presence.”

Tyrion stood there for a moment longer. Eying his former child bride with all the vitriol he had never deemed her worthy of. He would never make that mistake again.

"I wish you good fortune, in the wars to come, Lady Stark.”

Sansa bowed her head both in mockery and challenge. She knew it to rattle him, when he was challenged not on the basis of the prejudice others held against him, but by that of righteousness. It threatened the notions he held on to so dearly of his own character. For Lord Tyrion Lannister armed himself against his physical disability, not against the impediments of his soul.

“I trust we will see each other soon enough," Lord Tyrion told her, nothing short of a curse.

“I shall pray for it, my lord.”

Sansa afforded him a beaming smile that only served to aggravate him.

Both Jon and Sansa watched carefully as the Lord made his way from them towards his Queen. Their eyes heavy on his back.

“Tyrion troubles you?” Jon asked when certain he was out of earshot.

Sansa shook her head.

“He’ll attempt to endear himself to your trust. If he cannot have hers, he’ll search for yours and your own rise to qualm his fall in Daenerys’ affections. Tyrion might prove himself useful still, in the same ways Lord Varys can. There’s a lot of fear to him now that neither Lannister gold nor wit can shake away. A well-earned change of pace.”

Jon hummed.

“As long as these safety nets you build for me are not in detriment to your own.”

“No,” she assured him for his peace of mind. “Lord Tyrion could only present himself as an enemy to me from this day forward. Too much honesty has been shared between us for anything else to stand. It’s a relief, truly.”

Sansa chewed on her lower lip, looking far into the crowd.

“All of them… They believe I allow you to brandish yourself as both my shield and sword when suits me, with no regard to where you’ll fall. They cannot comprehend that you might have some will to it… That I might have some love still to offer, some shields and swords to my name. Some loyalty I won’t barter.”

Jon remained unconcerned.

He did not question it. Because something had changed along the way. When Sansa raged against him and the plans she believed him to have been privy to. When Sansa allowed him to enter her rooms despite the pain. When Jon stood guard of her as she stitched him up, after the battle. When he twirled her in his arms in the Great Hall.

Jon wouldn’t question her love… no matter the nature it undertook. She knew not why they were so certain of it.

At times, Sansa wondered if he could understand it better than she did. He seemed to, at the very least. To be more comfortable than he had been during those months they spent together before he departed to Dragonstone. She wondered if Jon might put it to words and explain it to her. Because, for all his silence, he seemed much more well versed in whatever went on between them than she would ever claim to be. And while lack of knowledge in any other field would have troubled her, between them it served as some sort of shield. A door she willed herself to keep locked. She had not the time to look into it, yet she trusted that whatever stood behind the door had no means of harming her. Not in any way that mattered. Not in any way that Jon wouldn’t protect her from.

“That’s favourable to the cause, isn’t it, sweetling? That they should be so blind. That they shouldn’t attempt to use me, to further that chip in your armour. That they should believe the effort is in vain.”

Sansa offered him a weak nod.

It was true. It made it no less worthy of doubt nor worry. That the wheels turned smoothly. Such a hopeful creature it made out of her.

Jon took a deep breath that made her turn towards him.

"I suppose this is the time we say goodbye."

"Not for long," Sansa offered hopefully, with a weak tilt of her lips.

Jon smiled sadly, pushing a stray strand of hair away from her face, the cold northern wind pushing against them.

"What's that?" Jon asked, his thumb hovering over the red patch of skin left by the impact of Daenerys’ ring.

"Her Grace lost her temper," Sansa whispered, not wishing to make a spectacle of it at this moment.

Jon looked at her as if he couldn't comprehend what had just left her lips. But it took only a moment for his eyes to furiously search the crowd gathered in the yard, looking for the culprit. Sansa reached for his hands before he could do something he would regret.

"She was more scared of it than I was, Jon. Truly. Worry not."

“She had every reason to be scared,” he assured her, with barely concealed anger curling his upper lip. "If she would do such a thing in your own halls –"

Jon shook his head, his feet unsteady as if he prepared for an untimely march.

"Cease now," she commanded him.

"You should have sent for me. I'm so sorry. That I brought her here. None of this would have been happening to you if I hadn't. And I can’t even do anything about it…"

"And you shouldn’t,” Sansa was quick to argue. “I don't wish to set fires I can't put out. "

"Sansa, you should know that I-" he began, turning back to her at last, adjusting the furs around her shoulders to keep busy.

She shook her head profusely, grabbing at his hands once more to make him listen to her.

"I won't have any deathbed confessions, Jon. Whatever you desire me to hear you can tell me down in Kingslanding when we meet again."

He shook his head.

"It doesn't bode well, to leave things left unsaid," Jon spoke, looking down at their joined hands. “Lord Eddard left much unsaid, and much could have been settled by its knowledge.”

"It doesn't bode well to finish stories. To prepare endings. If you say all that you wish to say, and I hear all that I wish to hear, then, what is left of us?" Sansa demanded, almost as if it meant something, and not only the ramblings of a woman in denial about the loss of another loved one.

Jon let go of a dry laugh, that served more to put her at ease than anything else.

"Much, I think. We could never say enough, you and me. But we shall do as you wish, my lady," Jon settled with a gruff laugh. "Be careful about Lady Westerling," he advised, taking notice of her doe eyes on them. "Be careful about your heart. She has the means to break it, I think."

Sansa didn’t wish for him to be disappointed in her. At the steps she was prepared to take to keep Winterfell in Stark hands – in her hands.

"Take it then. My heart. May it serve you well in Dragonstone, my lord," Sansa offered.

Jon chuckled, taking a hand to the back of his neck. He liked that. When she called him her lord. He became flustered so easily with the mention, his cheeks reddened in colour, and he had to look away, at a loss with what to do with his hands. Sansa quite enjoyed it too. That it emboldened him.

"You jest but I-"

Sansa shook her head.

"I don't," she assured him, taking an embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve.

Sansa was a trout born amongst the snow. A direwolf overlooking the stream. She was both a Tully and a Stark, and her personal emblem showed as much.

"Take my favour, might it bring you luck, Jon. Whatever was in me that allowed me to survive the capital, take it with you now."

Jon's eye widened but he accepted it without another word and placed it inside his jerkin, close to his own heart.

He wore her colours now – blue and grey. That meant something, did it not? If not to men then to the Gods, both Old and New. That a Stark woman, both faithful to the Gods of this land and the ones of the land he prepared to enter, claimed him. The drowsy hope that her prayers should possess more strength than whatever beliefs the Dragon Queen’s drowned him in.

All of the sudden, from the breathlessness of Jon’s reaction, Sansa was overcome with the notion that this was how wives sent their husbands out to war.

This was how Lady Catelyn had sent Lord Eddard to the Greyjoy Rebellion. And it was quite different from the way Sansa had waived him goodbye when Jon had left out for Dragonstone, the first time. They had felt like strangers then, not much more than passing ships, compared to what they were now. Whatever they were now.

“Well,” Jon began, searching his pockets, before taking her hand. “You should have something of mine then.”

“There’s no need,” Sansa argued weakly, before she felt the cold metal wrapped around her forefinger, her eyes widening at the feeling.

Sansa turned her hand around to inspect the oval shaped dark stone set in an iron band. It would have appeared to be a fairly masculine jewel if not for the fact that the band was engraved in its entirety. Two direwolves reaching for one another, meeting at the back of the ring. Their own little secret.

“It’s dragonglass, the stone. To remind us of threats already dwelt with. We’ve endured the ice, now we’ll face the flames.”

Jon had it made for her. It was far too delicate for him to have ever worn it, too small to have fitted him. It was made for lean fingers, it was made for Sansa. She could hardly imagine it. Imagine Jon requesting such a frivolous thing in times of war. And yet there it was. Wrapped around her finger.

“You shouldn’t have.”

“Shouldn’t I?” he wondered with heavy eyes, tilting his head to the side with keen interest, perusing her assement of the jewel.

It emboldened her too. That he thought to claim the Stark sigil, when another was offered to him. That he should believe himself deserving of it. In the ways that mattered to them.

He cleared his throat, faced with her silence.

“Well then,” Sansa whispered, willing her heart into submission. “You are not granted permission to die, do you hear, my lord?”

That amused him, the way his eyebrow raised, and lip quirked.

“Certainly, my lady. I shall endeavour to return your heart.”

“Nothing short of your duty, ser.”

He agreed with a laugh.

And yet the silence was still too loud. There was too much unsaid. The air too heavy. It threatened the balance of them.

“Sansa.”

If she could have described it, she would call it a bark of a whisper, a prayer of a curse.

“If this is the last time we should see one another, trust that I have said all that I needed to say and done all I needed to do. If it is not, I pray that you understand that there is still much more that I would say. Much more that I would like to hear. I hope that you will wish to hear of it, all of it.”

Sansa took care to swallow the lump in her throat.

“I shall endeavour to hear it all, my lord,” she vowed. “Every word of it.”

“Until we meet again then,” Jon said, taking the back of her hand, kissing the ring he had placed upon her finger, not daring another look into her eyes.

“Until we meet again,” Sansa whispered into the wind once Jon turned away.

Sansa stood in the battlements for the longest of times, Ghost taking Jon’s place by her side, allowing her to bury her hand in his fur, offering her balance. They watched the armies depart until she couldn’t make out Jon’s frame in the crowd. Her cheeks burning with the cold wind that lashed against her, that dried the tears in her eyes.

They would both have the direwolf remain in the North, it hadn’t required to be spoken. Even when Sansa left. It had to bear some weight to the Gods. Bind him to the North. The same way Sansa was bound to it – her Lady buried underneath the snow.

Sansa met Daenerys’s amethyst eyes in the crowd, as Jon made his way to her, the Lady of Winterfell offered the Lady of Dragonstone a solemn nod, which the woman returned. They met as equals in this moment.

It would be the last time Daenerys would ever question whether Sansa was a friend or a foe.

A horn was blown to signify the beginning of the departure march. Her heart heard it as a blow it couldn't be sure she would recover from.

"I can hardly understand it, such are the twists and turns of this play," Arya spoke with a feigned boredom from the shadows, rubbing at the freshly healed scars in her left hand.

"I would have believed you the only one able of understanding it," Sansa answered easily enough, slapping her hand to keep her from bruising herself.

“That’s an interesting trinket,” Arya noted, drawing their attention towards Sansa’s hands. “I’ve never seen it before.”

A clever way of saying it wasn’t their lady mother’s. Far too dark to have been misconstrued for being their lady aunt’s. And yet Arya allowed the subject to be forgotten when Sansa offered her no explanation in return. Arya required none. She saw too much and, when it came to understanding, it seemed a risk she wished to take no more than Sansa did.

"Colour me lost yet let me attempt to gather the facts,” her sister approached it as she would any game. They were only amongst themselves now. They gathered at home. Both in action as in thought.

“Daenerys Targaryen believes you to care for Jon, yet not enough to save him. Tyrion Lannister doesn't believe you care for him at all, not in any way that matters, a surprise when by all rights he should be the one who knows you best. And then the Spider..." Arya frowned in thought, in interest. "He believes you care for my brother very much indeed, enough to build him a throne, to present your back as a stepping ladder, which makes him the most foolish out of them all. Have I gathered it correctly?"

"As well as I have," Sansa wagered.

"Then it begs the question... Why did Daenerys leave without you, when she believes that you'll betray her any chance you might get? She hardly sees Westerling as infallible, and while Ryswell has made a good impression, he is much too new to the act to offer her solace in the uncertainty she leaves behind, no matter what her straw men tell her. Why not drag you by the hair down the kingsroad now? For her peace of mind. Even with the chance for northern rebellion, it's clear she would have no issue spilling blood here. Burning flesh here."

"Jon," Sansa said it as if it were the clearest thing in the painting of this play.

The only thing Arya shouldn't have missed. 

Sansa had to be certain of it. Desperate as Daenerys was to have her believe she would use Jon against her.

"Daenerys might doubt me, and my tender feelings, yet she does not doubt Jon's. The chance that she might sully herself in his eyes by raising her hand against a beloved... sister, in the event I would defy her here -"

Sansa shook her head.

"She loses believers in everyone's eyes she meets. Jon... The Targaryen blood, its promise is what she's clinging to now. Her final bastion hope. Even if I weren't to follow, Daenerys would be able to say that she did all that she could to bring me into the fold peacefully, that I gave her no choice. That the blood on her hands is my doing. So you see, she's leaving for Jon, and to be able to say that her hands are a shade less bloody than they could be. To be able to say she tried, for him, when I did not."

Arya hummed.

It certainly helped that Daenerys believed in her own promise. That she believed herself unvanquishable. That despite having lost a dragon she should believe that the ones remaining to her would always endure, now that the one worthy threat was gone and done with. That she could go and turn back, destroy at her leisure. That there would always be time and strength. That there would always be opportunity for fire and blood.

"Her love for him... This devotion comes as a surprise. I wouldn't have believed her capable of it. To bear the betrayal and still search for his heart." Arya could only shrug. “He betrays her every second he chooses your company instead of hers.”

It was a mistake to believe Daenerys Targaryen a monster from tales. She was a young woman alike any other who had been entrusted with beasts of legend. She had wants and needs. She had tender feelings as well as vicious ones. She wished to be loved nearly as much as she wished to meet the legacy of her blood.

"Daenerys believes Jon can..." Sansa cleared her throat, feeling her chest burning. "That he can give her an heir. The promise of a dying dynasty."

Arya narrowed her eyes on Sansa.

"Jon died and came back to life, did he not? Such a chance seems... Infinitely small. To my… meagre understanding of things, I confess to your solace."

Sansa nearly laughed but thanked the Gods. No knowledge of it would have come without violence, knowing what she did of her sister’s path. Knowing what she did of her own.

"I shall hope you're right. And yet she must believe in the magic of his blood. That he was brought back to serve her in this way," the words wrestled against her lips.

"Does it concern you? The chance of it?" Arya wondered.

"The Gods brought him back to give us a chance against the threat from behind the wall, to spread the word of what was coming. He answered their call, he fulfilled the task."

"Do you think Jon..."

Sansa only raised a brow to beckon her to continue.

"That he resents my hand in it?" Arya’s tone was soft and pliant as she begged her older sister to soften her fears.

That Jon should resent Arya for being the one to deal the Night King the final blow seemed… unbearable. Too much so to be true.

"I trust, with my whole heart, that Jon would resent your death far more than he would ever resent your victory, sister."

"I suppose it stands as victory against Prince Rhaegar's sins, does it not?" Arya mused, looking down at Ghost, searching for his silent agreement. "That his actions were only ever that. That he shall burn in the seven hells and know no peace, be offered no relief by the misguided notion that his cruelty served a cause or had any purpose."

Sansa allowed herself some hope in that regard, but another thought was all the louder.

"At times, I fear..."

"There's such a thing as wolfblood, that's true,” Arya settled before Sansa could push the words about their aunt out. “And yet, if for some misguided belief in the words Prince Rhaegar whispered our lady aunt went with him willingly, it does not stand to reason she remained willing the moment she heard of the fate of her kin and was confined in the sands of the woman she stood as the greatest affront against."

"You've spoken to Bran of it?" Sansa wondered with keen interest.

They spoke, it was true. In silent whispers and hooded looks. But there was a heaviness in their interactions. Bran saw too much in her, and Arya devoted herself too keenly to forgetting.

"I fear what Bran might tell me, I fear what I might think. I prefer this tale I hold close to my chest. It seems... The kindest thing I can hope for the woman who gave me my brother, and who, by all accounts -" Arya swallowed harshly. "- I reminded father of."

"It's kind indeed, sister," Sansa appreciated.

"And you? Have you asked Bran?"

Sansa shook her head, looking away from her.

"It seemed... selfish. To know when father could not. When Jon will choose not to. It would feel as a betrayal I will spare us all from."

Arya nodded slowly in agreement.

"If I fail at this, it will be the end of us," Sansa spoke, the weight heavy on her throat. A thousand of unshed tears that not even the grief could summon, such was the strength of the lacing that kept her wrapped up. "The reckoning will be the end of our house. The end of Winterfell and the legacy our elders have built. It might even mean the end of the North as it is known."

Arya nodded slowly, her eyes cast far away from those of her sister.

"Why do you say it to me now?"

"You're the one who doubts me the most," Sansa shared with her softly. It was not judgement, only an affirmation of the truth that stood between them. "I'll have you know that I understand the cost of what I attempt."

"You could stay in Winterfell,” Arya proposed once more. “Resolve the threat Jeyne presents and that threat alone. Allow me to depart and bring Jon home to us. Leave the south to their wars. Daenerys Targaryen won't return any time soon and if she does... I'll resolve it myself. As my elders did before, of the House of Black and White."

Her sister’s voice was as soft as fresh snow, falling down from the heavens. Just as cold.

Sansa swallowed harshly under the enormity of what her sister shared with her.

"And if she should choose to burn Riverrun down for our defiance?" Sansa questioned. "Our mother's halls. Whatever dominion Bran has over the dragons will be lost on account of the prolonged distance. They might be given the chance to heal. Our window of time is short and narrow. My path, unsure as it is, offers the most certainty. Too many have been compromised, too many wish to see it through. Their will outlaws that of a few. We are not enough. No matter the gifts and curses built into us."

"Then you shall not fail," the certainty in Arya’s voice had a way of hardening her heart. “A thousand Starks elders stand behind you, none more than them wishing for House Targaryens’ fall.”

Thy will be done, the winds spoke for them.

Lady Jeyne Westerling and Lord Cedric Cerwyn had been married in the cover of darkness, the night past, Jeyne Poole had informed her. Lord Ryswell having stood as witness, informing them of the occurrence. It had been set, the wheels beginning to turn.

Tomorrow, when the northern armies readied themselves for departure, which they did for another reason entirely, Lady Jeyne would order Sansa to go. It would be then.

Little Eddard would be with her.

If Cerwyn men were to surround her, the northern council could not be certain they wouldn’t harm her. And with Sansa needing Jeyne Westerling to be the one to call for blood, her own vain attempt to keep Stark hands a shade cleaner, it was the only way agreement had been reached. Sansa would keep to her honour, ensuring that no small effort had been undergone to give Lady Westerling ample opportunity to forgo her unfortunate intentions, and Jeyne Westerling could still keep to her family, to her son, in this way. She was certain that Jeyne would not take the risk to see him harmed any more than Sansa herself would.

What would her mother, Lady Catelyn, say of a thing such as this?

Family, duty, honour.

Her family.

Her duty.

Her honour.

“He has the face of a man he will never meet,” Sansa whispered absentmindedly, playing with the curls hanging on little Eddard’s nape.

“He has your face as well,” Bran told her, smiling to the boy, his eyes witnessing feats hers might never look upon. “And mine. And Rickon’s. And mother’s. The Tully – the Whent – blood is strong in us all, sister, and we must all give thanks to its strength. Arya most of all, I think.”

Sansa nodded, a shuddering breath escaping her lips before she could catch it. If she began to cry now, she might never cease. And yet the tears still trailed down her face.

“But is it enough to sustain him, do you believe?”

And yet that was not what she wished to ask.

“If you will it, it can be so. You have the makings of a great mother.”

Sansa shook her head.

“I prepare to take a child from his mother. I am no better than…” Sansa shook her head vehemently, tears clouding her eyes. She willed them gone.

“Consider the plots that would have ensured against his life, Sansa. You either take him now or make your peace with his slaughter. If not you, if not now, it will be another. You, trapped in Kingslanding. What will be left of it. Some northern lord killing Jeyne, taking the regency. And his life will not be their concern. It is yours. Does it matter if it is not the only thing that moves you?”

“Yes,” she breathed out. “Yes, it does, can you not understand that?”

Can you not understand me? Were the words that were heard the loudest.

Bran was the closest tie she had to her parents. Sansa could hardly explain it, but she felt it keenly in her heart.

Her brother smiled sadly and placed a soft hand upon her forearm.

“It is only that I see you in a better light than you see yourself, sister.”

Sansa took a deep breath.

“Do you wish me to be there, with you?” Bran offered in the gentlest of tones.

“Lady Flint will be with me. I do not wish to burden you.”

When Sansa had informed her inner council that she and Bran would set out for Riverrun, that only Arya would remain – Ladies Dustin and Manderly were quick to fret, to demand her to remain, to wait out the war – yet Jeyne Poole and Lyessa Flint stepped forward and rose to service. They knew her best. They would do their duty and understand Sansa in her own.

As soon as this business was dealt with, they would take the Cerwyn men down South, so they might have a chance to make amends for the mistakes of their lord and prove themselves some place they could not become a threat to Winterfell.

Lady Lyessa had pleaded her case for the role of her Hand. Presented the advantages and disadvantages. She was not the highest ranking, nor were her holdings greater than any of her companions. She couldn’t claim to care for Sansa better than Jeyne Poole, nor be so scheming as Barbrey, or as useful as Wynafryd. But she had done what she had considered best in those past few months. Lady Flint knew her well and she knew what Sansa required of her in Arya’s service, Jeyne Poole’s watchful gaze not far behind. She would ensure it, as long as Sansa was away from the North, and after she returned. Sansa trusted her to act as she should. And ask for council from those Sansa would.

“Your burdens are my burdens,” Bran assured her.

Sansa took his hand in gratitude.

“Then yes, I want you there.”

Bran squeezed her hand in return.

“You will weaken yourself in that hall over the respect of the dead. Ensure it is the last time,” he asked of her. “Abide the Lady Flint’s request. I shall crown you under this very tree after it.”

Sansa had to shake her head.

“It is too great of a presumption. It will anger the Gods. It will anger Arya. It will frighten me.”

Bran waved her concerns away with a steady hand.

“We shall do it not for the Gods, but for our people. For Jon.”

Sansa frowned but became keenly interested in the council he offered her at this moment. In the knowledge he shared with her. In the promise that it could create. In the hope that it could build.

“Jon?”

“Anointed in the Godswood by her brother, who relinquished his rights to her - Sansa Stark, the wolf unbent, who stood defiant against the threat of fire, the keeper of Winterfell, Lady of the Northerners, the Queen in the North. Allow that story in every northern tongue and it will steady your hold of this realm while you are away from it. Everyone is here, let them witness it now, let them draw hope from it, write songs for it, share stories of it. They will love you so dearly they will be willing to love Jon again. For him, if not for yourself, you must take the mantle in this moment where you can be witnessed, when there is hunger for the tale and time for it to be shared. In this moment when they can feel the danger it will place you in and admire your bravery in the dead of winter.”

Her brother placed his hand above her forearm, begging her to listen.

“You have taken everything else, take the glory as well, my sister. Abide both our judgements. Rise below the crown.”

Bran was right, of course. Sansa knew. Sansa was beloved by her people. By the northern folk she had taken into the walls of Winterfell, by the soldiers who she had rallied, by the lords who had taken arms for her, by the lords she remained in battle for.

And yet people required monuments. They were nourished by stories. And while some had already taken to calling her queen, while many whispered of the Lady of the North, they would require assurances that Sansa, herself, took on the duty. That she took on the crown. That she willed them hers.

The Crown of Winter Robb had made for Jeyne Westerling.

It would do.

It would have to.

Legacies had been built with less.

Sansa heard the sound of the guards footsteps before the doors to the hall were opened.

Her heartbeat hammering just as loudly in her ears.

Jeyne Westerling was startled as she walked through them. Faced with Sansa with her child in hands. The Lady of Winterfell knew Jeyne had ordered little Eddard to be guarded in the nursery, the doors barred.

And yet Sansa’s voice outranked hers.

Lady Lyessa stood beside her. Sansa hadn’t wanted Jeyne Poole in the room. She couldn’t bear to have her witness what she might become. It seemed too much of a breach from the memory of her youth. The Lady of Whitefort, after all, was the one who remembered her as she was the most. She was the one who grieved her the most dearly.

Jeyne had instead been entrusted to keep Lord Cerwyn away, to be informed of the shifting winds and be given the time to settle to them. Sansa had trusted her with it, as she did with all manner of things.

While Arya’s presence had not been requested, sitting down, languidly in her seat, she was most welcomed. Nothing in her sister was to be confused with disinterest, she resembled Ghost sprawled down on the stone floor, his eyes following everyone with keen interest. Brienne not too far behind in her full armour, knights all around them, some standing, some sitting, an illusion of ease none felt.

It seemed all too queer. Too difficult to accept as a simple coincidence or convenience.

It spoke of danger.

It spoke of war.

Jeyne attempted to take a deep breath to soothe herself. Anyone would find the task too great to be accomplished in the midst of what threatened to unfold.

The air tasted of stilled blood.

The scent of metal unsheathed.

“It is time, Sansa. The armies are ready to depart. You must go now,” Jeyne spoke quickly, as she kept herself from fidgeting with her hands, from holding on to her corset, from ripping her own hair apart, from tearing at her own skin.

There had been no need for this. Not truly. Sansa could have had Jeyne arrested in her chambers. The issue resolved as easily as it had been created.

She could have placed kindness above duty.

She could have chosen her own heart instead of reason.

She could have made the weight upon her chest less pressing.

She could have ensured that years from now this event would not weigh heavy in her mind.

And yet the Lady of Winterfell ruled that it should haunt her for all the days that were to come.

She had required knowledge. She required the knowledge of who it was that would stand against them when the opportunity presented itself, and those who despite their bark, would not.

Witnesses were required. A tale to be told was required. The will of the North ruled it so.

The threat had been required. That this fate should befall the traitors of House Stark, even those they were bound to by oaths and blood.

“Are you sure of this, Jeyne? There is no way back,” Sansa attempted for a final time. “No forgiveness to be granted.”

“Sansa… Give me my son," Jeyne Westerling asked, doing her best to prevent her voice from shaking, while she stepped closer to her. "Please, Sansa, please, go quietly," she tried again, her arms stretched out to receive the child.

Sansa swallowed her tears and made herself steel.

As her elders before her.

"I am afraid that cannot be," she told her as she held the child's cheek against her neck and pressed her other hand against his ear so he wouldn't hear his mother's anguished cries. Her affliction. Her grief.

Sansa wondered what Robb might have thought of this moment.

It surprised her how much it did not matter.

From the corner of her eye she started to see the Dustin men that surrounded them, Manderly men only slightly behind. An army in and of itself. The clear sound of readied steel unmistakable against Cerwyn backs.

Jeyne might have presumed to count on those Dustin men, but the Manderly swords could not be mistaken. Much less could the Tully men that had passed on from her uncle's charge, to hers, all around her, slipping from the cracks.

"Sansa."

Jeyne swallowed harshly, hanging on to the lower edge of her bodice in search of breath.

"I came to you for protection. Not your brother. Not your sister. I came to you. You. Only you, I trusted with my son. I beg of you now," she pleaded, eyes filled with tears and hands shaking as they stretched out once more towards her child.

Eddard was Sansa’s child, now.

The thought overwhelmed her. Not with malice, but with need. It needed to be, for survival, for peace.

"And I did. I offered every bit of protection I could muster. I made your son a king, I placed him above myself," Sansa said, her voice perturbed by her misguided shame, she swallowed it whole. "What happens here and now is a reflection of your actions and yours alone, Lady Cerwyn."

Jeyne shook her head, tears staining her cheeks freely, thoughts running wildly behind her doe eyes.

"He is my own darling boy, Sansa, everything I have in this world..."

"You shall have more," Sansa promised with every bit of kindness she could muster, "beautiful babes, I have no doubt. I pleaded for your life, Jeyne, and that of your husband and the North will be merciful," she vowed, a hand above her chest.

"Sansa..." Jeyne whispered, eyes jumping from one to another, her arms falling at her sides in defeat.

"You will be allowed to depart to castle Cerwyn and live a peaceful life there. Your children, should you have them, shall be given the opportunity to regain back the control of their house’s holdings once they come of age and prove their loyalty. Until then, the Cerwyn lands will be overlooked by a castellan of my choosing. And so will you," Sansa explained softly.

Hostages in their own keep – the agreement that had been reached.

"And my son?" 

"He will remain as he should have been. Eddard Stark. Heir to the North. My heir. But you will never be allowed in Winterfell again nor near him."

"A fatherless boy,” Jeyne Westerling chuckled bitterly. “You would make him motherless as well? You! Who I trusted with his safety above all others." 

"I am keeping Eddard safe. I am keeping his mother alive even if that means that he will not have her at his side. The North wanted you tried and executed for conspiring against it. Make no mistake, Jeyne. They wished you dead."

It wasn't that she was innocent. It was that Robb, her brother, had made her kin. It was that Sansa was no kinslayer. And it was that if Jeyne Westerling were offered this mercy, Jon Snow could be offered no less.

"And you? What did you want, Sansa?" Jeyne asked her viciously. "Shall I see it as mercy? That you should only take away my son and not my life?"

"Yes," Sansa whispered breathlessly, knowing its impossibility.

Many of them would have had her die for it. For betraying the house she willingly joined. The one she searched for rescue in.

"I wanted your trust,” Sansa ventured to say. “That you would have come to me with your concerns instead of Daenerys Targaryen. That you would trust that I would keep your son alive, no matter the cost. That if I did not bend, it was only because I knew better."

"Oh dear... Should I have expected that you would share with me plans you do not even share with your blood kin. Your lady mother said how cold the North was... But I never could have expected how you lot could be to one another. You do not even trust yourselves, how could I have trusted you?" Jeyne demanded from all the Starks in the room.

“Do not speak of her,” Arya growled at the mention of their mother. “Do not speak of those who would have cut you down where you stand had they known of your treachery. Do not speak of those that would have not offered you this mercy.”

Lady Westerling faced away from Arya’s piercing grey eyes.

"I placed a crown upon his head," Sansa spoke.

"I did not ask you to!" Jeyne shocked her by roaring.

Sansa tipped her chin forward and faced the crowd with her answer.

"Then you shouldn't have come," was the only thing Sansa knew to say. What roared in her mind. If Jeyne Westerling had not wished for this then she should not have come. “You shouldn’t have step foot in Winterfell if you expected anything else. From me, from any of us.”

"Yes..." Jeyne said, her eyes vagrant as she nodded slowly to herself. "Yes, that's right."

She cleaned away her tears and took a deep breath, understanding the severity of what happened in this moment.

"You're still so young. And beautiful. You'll want a babe of your own. You’ll see. And they’ll be resentful of him, one day. My orphan boy. They will hate him, and he will be all alone. And he will hate you. All of you,” she cried out, searching for Arya and Bran’s eyes in the room. “He will hate you for keeping him from his mother."

Sansa shook her head and ran her fingers smoothly down the babe's back to draw his attention back to her.

"Girls to be sold for peace and boys to be sent out to war? Children to be used for their claims just as I was. Just as you were. Just as you wished me to be. I shall keep to your child, Jeyne," Sansa attempted once more, not wishing to have her dragged away. Not wishing for that to be the last memory Eddard had of his mother.

The Lady Cerwyn turned to the soldiers then.

In disarray.

Voice shaking and desperation clawing at her neck as she attempted to rally them into action.

"She's not even a Stark anymore. Your King unmade her. Robb Stark, your rightful king unmade her! You would defy his will thus? Betray his memory after his death. He, who died for all of you!"

Sansa was reminded of Lady Flint’s words, not so long ago.

It had been Sansa’s failure to present herself to the mercy of those northern men that had made Jon their King while she stood beside him, allowing resentment to build in her heart. And then to offer them Robb’s son, to decide her fate once more. While she took council on matters that extended past her, she would not take orders about her name. Her house. Her honour.

A search of Jeyne Westerling’s chambers had been ordered to procure Robb’s will before this. Her brother had neither denied the inheritance of her blood, nor her claim upon Winterfell. That which was not in his power to do, nor in his heart. Robb had only legitimised Jon as his brother, and named him his heir, in the event of his death without children. The parchment was shared with every northern house that stood with Sansa before it was returned to its hidden place.

In the end it was… inconsequential.

The will of the dead had only the weight that was given to them by the living.

The North gave it none.

“I am Sansa Stark, trueborn daughter of Lady Catelyn Tully and Lord Eddard Stark, the blood of Winterfell,” she growled. “What right do the dead carry to unmake that which the Gods have seen fit to create? Produce the testament to such betrayal if you claim my brother capable of it and I shall challenge it at once, Lady Cerwyn.”

Jeyne chuckled as wounded prey might,

“It is time that you compose yourself, Lady Jeyne, cease your lies and submit,” and the word sounded vicious from Sansa’s lips, her patience subsiding.

Fear reigned ever the loudest now as Ghost silently pushed himself into the crowd.

Grown men threw themselves from his path as he made his way to reach her and little Eddard. The great beast did not growl, and yet his blood stained teeth stood in full display, a silent threat as his body placed himself between the Lady of Winterfell and the new Lady of Cerwyn Castle.

The Gods had spoken and still, they were not enough for a loving mother to stand down.

Sansa could have admired her for that, if she were truly a foe.

“Oathbreakers,” Jeyne seethed, bearing the eyes of every soul in the room. “And Jaime Lannister! It was all her!”

Sansa took a deep breath awaiting some kind of reaction. But they remained impassive.

As if the North did not hear. As if it could not.

It strengthened her in all the same ways it terrified her.

She was no longer Lord Eddard’s daughter. King Robb’s sister.

 She was Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, the Queen in the North.

“Jeyne,” Bran spoke softly, and yet his voice was enough to make the skin from all those in the room prickle.

“Do not push those who show you mercy beyond reason. Consider what your blood kin might have done were they in our place now. Consider how harsher their hands would be and attest to the softness of the ones offered to you in this moment.” Bran tilted his head to the side, his eyes narrowed. “Trust that they shall present themselves in this light not a moment longer.”

Jeyne Westerling’s hands trembled at their mention and the fight left her faced with their memory.

"You will be confined to your chambers, until you and your lord husband can be safely sent back to Cerwyn Castle. Return to Winterfell at your own peril, Lady Jeyne," Sansa spoke, before cradling Eddard more securely to her chest.

Then, she took a hold of her skirts and turned her back on the first woman her son had known as his mother, not wishing for him to see her being dragged away.

That would be the last Sansa Stark would ever hear of Jeyne Westerling.

"Sansa Stark," the woman said in greeting.

Her voice was as strong as it was melodic, and Sansa found herself pleasantly surprised.

"Arianne Martell," Sansa greeted in return.

They meet on the outskirts of Riverrun. A tent prepared for that same purpose. Two chairs and a table of white oak. The call of the Trident stream a faint sound in the background. Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was slayed just there. A call for unity between the houses who suffered the most for his trespasses against the realms.

To Sansa – a reminder of his son.

"It sounds right. Doesn't it? That we shall treat each other as equals now and forever more."

Sansa smiled in acknowledgement of the Princess' words and their meaning.

Arianne Martell was a small thing, a mane of jet-black ringlets loosely pulled back from her face was what composed most of her frame, and yet, as Sansa stood taller than her, the Princess remained in command of the room.

"I wished to see you, before gathering a council. Their presence is important, surely. And it speaks favourably of the outcome of our cause. Nevertheless... "

"We are different,” Arianne agreed. “We have wished for independence before. Our countries never ceased believing themselves what they are. Our swords had no place on the Iron Throne. Other kingdoms carry your banners though, Sansa Stark. The Riverlands and the Vale have sworn themselves to you, it hasn't evaded anyone's notice. That carries weight. It would be foolish to claim otherwise."

There was a question there Sansa would answer easily. She did not wish to rule over any more than those who asked for her to do so.

"My mother's house is my own," Sansa answered, because it was the plain truth.

She was a trout born amongst the snows and she could not deny so without insult to herself and those whose blood she carried.

"And while I do not seek to have a claim to Riverrun, as long as they have need of me, they will receive the North's aid. It is to my uncle Edmure I answer to, while in the service of his lands and people."

"And the Vale of Arryn?" Arianne questioned, dark eyebrow raised.

"We are equals. We understand each other as such. Deep bonds of friendship and respect unite us."

Princess Arianne hummed, unconvinced.

"I would feel more at ease if that was all that united you. How little our endeavours here would mean, if in a few years’ time you and your cousin, Lord Arryn, were to marry."

"I shan't. My dear cousin is promised already to a bride better suited. Lady Wylla Manderly will wear his colours, not I, nor my sister, rest assured."

There was something about Arianne that unsettled Sansa. Perhaps her ease, her charm. The way she effortlessly commanded a room and inspired admiration. Sansa was certainly used to fearless women, but in the North they tended to hide it. To not make a show of it. To ease those around them into acceptance.

Arianne Martell lent men no such courtesies. Yet she didn't make a threat of it, as Daenerys Targaryen did, flaunting threats as if they were her virtues. For Princess Arianne it was simply the nature of things. There was much to be admired about her.

Sansa pointed to the chairs once her more grievous concerns were settled.

"Did Cersei accept the offer?" Sansa asked at last, suppressing her need to fidget with the ring upon her finger.

"Cersei sent more women and children than the ships could manage in one trip. How did you manage it? Few things in life have brought me this degree of curiosity. Of surprise.” She raised her hands in wonder. “My only purpose was to indulge you, truly. A show of faith, where I possessed none. I envied your hopeful heart. But you surprised me as much as she did."

Sansa sighed with relief.

A weight abandoning her chest she hadn’t noticed.

Cersei Lannister knew she was going to die.

It did not mean she was prepared to lose. This was as fine of a way to ensure that she wouldn't as she would be offered. That even if Daenerys found herself sitting upon that throne, it won’t be her name that was sung, not whispered about in admiration. That everyone would know who Daenerys truly was. That everyone would believe Cersei to be a different person entirely. She would enjoy the irony of it. The legacy of it.

"As long as Daenerys Targaryen wouldn't know they were evacuated, the effect would be the same. It will be believed that the Dragon Queen is willing and able to burn all those who inhabit Kingslanding alive. Cersei's name will be sung, and it isn't so much that this matters to the Queen, but Cersei knows it to matter to Daenerys. She will be winning in a way, even when she loses. And how easier it is to command men to fight when you have offered their wives and children safe passage from dragon fire."

"Cersei had to trust your intentions. That you did it not in aid of Daenerys Targaryen,” Arianne mused. “The maiden whose head she placed a bounty on."

Sansa took a deep breath as she prepared to confide a great truth in the Princess of Dorne.

"I sent her Ser Jaime Lannister to keep and condemned Lord Tyrion to pay the price of it. She knows me. I wouldn't have risked this much simply to kill her, I'm not reckless and I'm not bloodthirsty. Her Grace understands that."

Arianne hummed with interest, eyes narrowed and accessing. Most surprisingly without judgement.

"Her daughter was a sweet thing – Myrcella. I mourn her death as if she were my kin. I blame myself for it. In all the ways I am to blame,” she shared with her sweetly. “Will you mourn her mother?"

Sansa swallowed harshly. At the intimacy she demanded from her.

"I will mourn her as one mourns a memory one can't quite remember," she answered truthfully.

Arianne smiled curiously at that.

"Was she as beautiful as one hears? Queen Cersei."

"Yes,” Sansa nodded. “The Light of the West indeed. And when she laughed... She was radiant."

The Princess of Dorne hummed with interest.

"And was she as cruel as one is told?"

"She attempted most dearly to be. To reach the heights of her lord father. I’m not quite sure she managed. It is a fearsome task, after all. I don't know if it makes it better or worse," Sansa confessed.

Arianne gave a light shrug.

"I can't claim to know either. This one single act is what she will be remembered by. If we allow it. If we intend it to." The Princess tilted her head to the side. “Do we?”

"It wouldn't matter to her either way. But it will matter to Tyrion Lannister and Daenerys Targaryen. That is the only thing that should carry weight at this moment."

"Was he cruel to you, the imp?" her voice softened as she asked it, as she assumed him to have been.

"Lord Tyrion killed someone I loved dearly. Shae, my handmaid."

Her eyebrows shot up, having expected something entirely different.

"The whore?"

"He killed her for that, yes... But she was kind to me. Shae mattered. She was good, at heart she was truly good and brave. And she did not deserve to die a cruel death for a role she was forced to play, in the high games of lords she couldn’t dare to refuse. Justice would demand his tribute. I demand it. In her name."

It was at that moment Arianne decided she enjoyed her. Sansa could tell by the way her eyes softened and she let go of the tension on her shoulders, leaning back in her chair. Allowing Sansa to do the same. It was at that moment the Princess decided that they would not be at odds. That women, such as she considered them to be, simply couldn't be at odds with one another.

"You are a queer thing, Sansa Stark. We will get on well enough, I gather," Arianne nodded to herself as she said it. "But there is another matter that stands between us. I have heard of a child born in one of my kin’s deserts. From a letter from either a friend of yours or a foe. You will look me in the eye, and you tell me if it spoke the truth."

Sansa took a deep breath and considered her choices. She had known this would have to be addressed. She would rather it settled in this room than in any other.

"It is a truth that does not demand to be spoken, Princess."

Arianne grinded her teeth and hummed.

"This much can be pardoned, if it would suit your desires. This much I can forgive. But other things were said as well. About a traitor in a septon's gowns. And for that false piece of parchment I would spill blood. Dorne would demand blood, you understand."

The northern woman nodded, turning the ring on finger ceaselessly for comfort.

"Jon would never stake any claim that would rob him of his home. Nor of his true name," Sansa assured her candidly.

"You will claim him a Stark then?"

"I will claim him."

Arianne nodded slowly, accessing her words.

"Very well. I trust you to ensure he does not. To understand the price if he does. My kin would demand it of me, you see... Both those living, and most certainly those who are dead. Those to which I owe the highest debts to."

"That trust shall be rewarded," Sansa had no qualms to assure her.

"And Daenerys Targaryen? Will she claim him by any other name?"

"She will have to be dealt with. That is a certainty. My brother, Brandon, would like to share something with you to that effect. He has... Particular skills he would make use of in the service of our cause."

Arianne raised a brow with interest, but then her eyes narrowed on her face, prodding into it. The Princess took a hand to her own face, just underneath her cheekbone.

"That's a pretty bruise you have."

Sansa felt her face burn under her watchful eyes.

"I’m afraid the Dragon Queen has quite a temper."

Arianne's upper lip tilted in a disgust she no longer had an incentive to hide.

"My brother, Quentyn, he...” She took a deep, steadying breath. “Well, he suffered the temper of her beasts and did not survive to warn us of it."

Arianne looked away in recollection, the memory painful and unsettling.

"I seek justice. I want her to die as my brother did. Screaming. But I will settle for her unending silence. I can be merciful when the situation begs it of me," the Princess assured her. “I gather this one might. We walk on uneven ground. Everyone in Westeros seems to. We’re all aware of it. Exhausted of it. Ambition withers and dies on account of the bloody time robbed from us.”

The Silent Sisters, a more Westerosi punishment could not be found.

Sansa could not envision the woman to choose any other thing other than death, if she could not have victory.

"I don't wish for brutality to define us. But I wager that Daenerys Targaryen will demand it of us. She has little to lose, and she is much too below begging for mercy. The dragons… their death is all that should matter. All that should guide and strengthen us.”

"The same can and will be said of us. Are you prepared for it?" Arianne asked, her eyes softening for once, looking away from her. "It leaves a stain upon the soul one can't be rid of, I’m afraid."

"There are worse things to bear. The murder of one’s kin most assuredly," Sansa settled.

“A certainty I share.”

“Ser Garlan!” Sansa gasped, taken aback by the figure.

Garlan Tyrell smiled generously and offered her his hands in amiable greeting.

“Forgive me, I thought…” she shook her head as she said it.

Of course the Queen of Thorns wouldn’t have allowed all of her treasures in the same basket. It was silly of Sansa not having spared it much thought. But her concerns had laid elsewhere then. Her assumptions having jumped towards House Hightower far too quickly, perhaps even rashly.

“I was commanded to remain with my lady wife’s kin, at Cider Hall,” Ser Garland explained without need. Sansa could see he bore no joy for not having fought and fallen at Highgarden with his brother, Willas. It was too much to ask differently of the knight.

“How does the Lady Leonette fare?” Sansa inquired.

Lady Leonette Fossoway had always shown her much kindness during her time at Kingslanding. And unlike Lady Margaery and her young, sweet, silly cousins it hadn’t known an end with her marriage to Tyrion Lannister, the end of her use. She had taught a traitor’s daughter how to play the high harp, simply because Sansa had showed an interest. And sent Ser Garlan to dance with her during her marriage feast if only for a reprieve. The northern woman would never forget it.

Leonette Fossoway was a good woman, Sansa wished her well.

“Leonette is far along with child.” His eyes shone at the mention of her, he always loved her so. He was a good man as well. “The reason she could not come. However, Lady Alerie accompanies me. My mother will be delighted in seeing you once more.”

Of course. Sansa mattered now. She mattered most irrevocably. She nodded all the same. Lady Alerie was a Hightower of Oldtown, and she had never been unkind. She had lost children as well, too many of them for Sansa to bear her any ill-will.

“Lord Willas?” Sansa inquired, though the answer was known.

Ser Garland looked down with sorrow and shook his head, before raising his eyes to her once more.

“I’m afraid I’m the Lord of Highgarden now. Whatever remains of the Reach answers to me. Cersei Lannister left with the grain and Daenerys Targaryen with the lives of many good men and whatever else she could burn. Their error was to believe it enough. We shall carry on. We always do,” he assured her, between gritted teeth and unbound strength.

“I’m glad that you came, my lord, despite it all.”

Because of it.

“What other option was there, I wonder,” he mused without vitriol. The thoughts of a man who now bore too much weight. “I must avenge my dead, both of my blood and of my land. The Reach must never be stumped out of its growth and the Tyrells are its gardeners.”

Sansa nodded pleased that he came knowing his own purpose and needn’t much convincing of her own.

“Who else joins us? I have yet to meet the whole retinue,” Sansa offered him the escape from his thoughts and prepared for what awaited her.

“Edric Storm,” he informed her with vested interest.

“Truly?” Sansa feigned surprise.

“Indeed. Lord Estermont comes with him. Not the old Lord Estermont, his son – the boy’s uncle. He’s committed to upholding his Baratheon rights.”

“To Storm’s End or Kingslanding?” Sansa wondered.

Lord Garlan chuckled with delight at the new woman he found before him.

“They have their ambitions quite reigned in, I assure you. They heard of the most terrible news that the Targaryen Queen has raised another one of his bastards as their Lord. Can they count on you to confirm this rumour, my lady?”

“A bastard from Flea Bottom,” she shared.

His eyes narrowed on her, keen on understanding her stakes in the matter.

“Does this man come with you?”

“The man does not wish to press his claim. And so he has stayed behind to tend to his smith,” Sansa said, painting a picture of his interests and lack of them. A man who worked with his hands had no intention to exchange iron for ledgers.

“Clever of him. Cleverer of you,” he noted with appreciation.

“Is the Lady Tyrell the only one you have brought with you?” Sansa further asked.

The knight shook his head.

“Hightower relations accompany us as well. My mother, my uncle, Lord Baelor, he had good relations with the late Lord Oberyn, with some luck Princess Arianne might look favourably upon his presence.”

To call upon late friendships was not unadvisable. As long as new ones remained the stronger of the two.

“My grandfather joins us as well.” Lord Garlan had a quizzical look about him at the mention. “A rare feat to have parted him from his tower.” He placed the notion aside. “And you, Lady Stark?”

Bran had been the one to address the letter to the House of Hightower. Sansa remembered the look of him well as he wrote it ever so precisely, ever so mindful of the words he used.

“My brother, Brandon accompanies me.”

“Seven blessings indeed, my lady,” he shared her joy in honesty. “You believed him gone, in Kingslanding, did you not?”

Sansa smiled.

“I did, my lord. I was overjoyed to have him returned to me.”

Ser Garlan took the liberty of giving her hands a gentle squeeze.

“I’m afraid we were also under the impression he was lost. It is understood you are the reigning Lady of Winterfell,” the lordling knight prodded softly, without ill thought, rather a need for knowledge of what was yet to come.

“I am. My brother has relinquished all of his rights to me,” Sansa explained simply.

“How very interesting indeed. A Stark trait, most assuredly.”

Sansa couldn't agree. Stark men were better known for stealing their female relationships’ inheritances more often than they were found bestowing them, but she was grateful for the compliment.

“Brandon has his reasons, I’m sure he’ll share them soon enough,” she offered.

That interested Garlan Tyrell indeed.

"Little trout," her uncle kissed the hand offered to him, as she crossed the gates of Riverrun after her meeting. Her brother was not on her side, having Bran already been settled while Sansa broke bread and shared salt with the Princess of Dorne.

Sansa smiled with ease at the sight of him.

"Uncle, I'm glad to see you well."

"Your presence honours your mother’s childhood halls." 

"I am honoured in return by their warmth."

And no words could be truer. Riverrun whispered softly of kin and met her with even ground for her to settle in. Her mother’s scent was all around, slipping through the willow leaves.

"Have you and Princess Arianne reached an understanding?" Lord Edmure asked, slipping her hand through the crook of his arm, leading them into the keep.

"We are united in our loss, I believe. Daenerys slayed her kin. She seeks revenge for the death of a beloved brother few could deny her." 

"And you?"

"I seek freedom for me and mine. I won't stand in the way of her justice." 

Uncle Edmure bowed his head. 

"And, of course, Daenerys' death will be demanded. Jon's hand in it... Might be necessary for allegiance to be proven. It would be a cruelty I might not be able to keep him from."

It weighed on her most deeply.

"If the Princess wishes to bloody her hands on a common foe, allow her to,” he advised. “It is a hard stain to deliver oneself from. Even if he does not see her as kin."

Sansa nodded in agreement, remaining silent in thought.

It was difficult for Sansa to evade them, consumed as she was with them, that her uncle kept himself from asking about what went on in the North. About the issue Lady Wester- Cerwyn had presented and how Sansa might have solved it before departing towards his halls was a relief.

“How does the Lady of Riverrun fare,” she felt compelled to ask instead.

“These halls suit her well,” her uncle spoke with a grin that reached all the way up to his eyes.

Uncle Edmure loved the Lady Roslin Frey with all his might and Sansa couldn’t help but find it incredibly brave of him. So much so that it brought tears to her eyes. That he would have found the strength, that he would have shed the fear of vulnerability and found it in his heart to love the woman her own kin had attempted to use against him.

“Is it… demanding? Between the two of you?” Sansa felt comfortable enough to ask.

Words came easier with this kin, they bore less weight, assumed less space. House Stark spoke in silences and absences. With raised brows and pursed lips. And while House Tully certainly knew how to take on that mantle while in company, words could be shared and relinquished without it feeling as if secrets were being told. Water could reach all crevasses in a way light couldn’t.

“It isn’t without its challenges. Memories are a stain that we would rather do without, and yet…” Lord Edmure smiled in recollection. “These halls stood as witness to such a beautiful love between your grandfather and grandmother. Her death… it nearly robbed him of his life, along with our hearts. Cat and Lysa’s departure was another loss of its kind we had to endure. It was why it took me so long to marry, I couldn’t entertain the thought of losing another woman I loved, of forcing that loss on another.” His head was made to shake by grief. “Loving Roslin is… well… when you notice love, it’s already there. Firmly taking roots in your heart.”

It sounded so similar to what she had heard in songs. It sounded so similar to what she knew.

“Yet, how did it grow? Captive as you were. How could you find the strength in yourself to tend to it.”

Sansa asked it, but she found that a part of her already knew. She had searched for love in Kingslanding. She had searched for it in every corner it could be found. She had willed it into creation to save her. It hadn’t – but the hope was always there. The hope had kept her alive.

“Walder Frey cared not for his daughter. Her life or death stood the same for him. If I felt that same way it would bring me closer to him, and so I chose not to. If she should care for my babe, then it was my duty to care for her in turn, in whichever ways I could. Once that decision was reached in those dark cells…” Uncle Edmure shrugged abashedly. “To keep yourself from love is quite more challenging than growing it. I’m certain your mother would tell you the same.”

Sansa smiled hopefully.

“Thank you, for sharing her with me.”

Uncle Edmure smiled to himself, casting his eyes downward.

“I’m glad that you would have found my answer worth having, sweet niece.”

“Always,” she assured him, as they reached the library of Riverrun.

Lord Edmure let go of her hand before confidently walking through them.

"Sansa, might I then present my lady wife to you. Roslin, dearest," Uncle Edmure beckoned softly, not wishing to disturb the figure that willed herself to disappear into the stone walls.

And yet, as she rose to the light, Sansa found her beautiful indeed in her satin cornflower blue skirts. Her faded white lace bodice that spoke of reflection for the war effort undertaken. The conservation of resources already scarce. Her soft brown curls, her large brown eyes, a little button nose that would always summon the youthfulness of her face. It seemed queer to her, just how similar in appearance she found her to Jeyne Westerling. If only more beautiful.

The Gods had certainly played their tricks on dear, dead, Robb.

"Your Grace," Lady Roslin greeted, the lowest of curtsies following her words, she would not dare to cast her eyes upwards such were the tremors that ran up her spine. They took the Lady of Riverrun so viciously that Sansa felt them on her own skin.

Sansa's heart fell, at how dearly she was reminded of another girl, prostrating herself at the feet of the Iron Throne, at the feet of another King.

The Lady of the North hurried to place her at ease, as she could only have wished someone had done to her.

"I am overjoyed to make your acquaintance. I could have only hoped we might have met under more joyous circumstances, my lady aunt. Nevertheless your presence and good health is a comfort."

Lady Roslin dared to meet her eyes and Sansa met her hope by offering her hand, so they might meet as kin.

“I am grateful that you would have looked upon us with this much favour,” the Lady of Riverrun shared with her.

“Only your halls would do,” Sansa confided in her. “Let us have no past between us, my lady. We meet as aunt and niece, nothing less and nothing more. Every memory we shall have of one another is to be created from this day forth.”

“I would like that.” The lady smiled, a wayward tear threatening to spill. “I would treasure it.”

“As would I,” Sansa assured her.

How cold it all was.

These words when blood had been shed. When candour was so often feigned. How terrified Lady Roslin must be. How fearful, even as she convinced herself it wasn't to be so. That paranoia took the best of her. That there was not to be frightened of.

Sansa took a step forward and surprised the lady by wrapping her arms around her, holding her in a familiar embrace she found herself deeply needing. Comforted as Roslin held her back with the same strength, her wild heartbeat subsiding in her chest. A frightened bird no longer, even if her relieved tears moistened Sansa’s shoulder.

Sansa was overwhelmed with the thought that… if perhaps she had held on to Jeyne Westering, if perhaps she had reassured her… No. It would kill her to be overrun by such feelings. By such lies. The only thing that mattered was what she could do from this moment forward.

And what she could do was embrace Roslin Frey Tully and be embraced in return with the same fierceness, forcing the past between them into oblivion, for all the days that were to come.

Sansa was standing in the halls of Riverrun when all of it collapsed around her.

A weight in her chest.

An uneasiness in her throat.

Her fidgeting hands.

Bryden Tully was dead.

The loss of him was alike a missing limb. It came in waves. Sometimes, in the morning, when the light hadn’t quite reached her eyes, she believed he was waiting for her outside the door. Some important thing that he urged to tell her that he hadn’t the chance before. And then she remembered he wouldn’t.

Yet until this moment, in Riverrun, she hadn’t been faced with the permanence of it. Of his death. The waters of the Trident demanded his presence with a strength Sansa alone could never muster, and if he could not answer its call, the call of his home, of his rivers, it was because he never would.

Her uncle, Ser Brynden Tully, was dead.

Sansa felt the loss of her parents and her brothers most keenly. But this was somehow different. For Brynden Tully knew her not as a child, and loved her not as child, in that easy way all children are bound to be loved. He knew the woman she grew into, and he loved that woman as kin. Unconditionally. Unfailingly. Devotedly. Proudly.

Her uncle would have known what to do in that room she prepared to enter. What to say. How to comfort her and emboldened her. He would have known how to draw bravery out of her.

“Almost none in that room believe themselves deserving of being there,” Bran began with, appearing at her side. “They have lost liege lords, fathers, and brothers, all those they considered their betters. They believe it sheer luck to have survived those they have served. And others consider it a cruel punishment, to have outlived those they have loved. They may be older than you. They may consider themselves wiser. But none find themselves deserving of the right. All of them understand duty, and in that path you are united.”

Sansa smiled softly and straightened her spine.

“Thank you, brother.”

“I stand at your side. Today, tomorrow, and the day after that. Every time you forget yourself, I urge you to remember me.”

Bran offered her his hand for strength and Sansa reached for it willingly. Giving it a gentle squeeze before taking a deep breath and nodding to the guards to have the doors opened.

A great creak in sunken wood was heard.

Men old and young ceased their words so they might more comfortably look upon Sansa and Brandon Stark.

Both of them held their breaths for inspection.

There was some comfort there.

That they stood together feeling the same prickling of their skin.

The Great Hall in Riverrun stood divided into sections, all of them in the same standing. None should be above another, not even the Lord of the Riverlands, who had gifted them bread and salt and the comfort of his fire. It was far too essential to set the right foundations for what was to come. For what could yet be built in the wreckage that was sure to come.

There wouldn’t be time for much, before voices began demanding to be heard.

"Very well, since you have summoned us, Lady Stark, I request that you inform us of your intentions," Lord Estermont began with, three shades redder than any sober man had any right to be.

"You have been invited, and might I add, rather generously," Lord Edmure spoke up, eyebrow raised in defiance, shielding her at once. "Shall we gather that an invite is all that is necessary for the Lord of Greenstone to be bent into submission?"

Lord Estermont swelled another three shades in colour.

"Why you-"

"My great-uncle only wishes that those who so politely wished for our presence be given the right to begin this assembly," Edric Storm took turns to say, his voice steady and with a polite bow of his head in acknowledgement of the Lady of Winterfell.

Lord Edric was handsome, in the way all Baratheons were handsome. Strong and sturdy, with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. Just as the old King Robert was described as having been in his youth. Before the drink and gout took him.

"You all know who has reached these shores. Daenerys Targaryen has pillaged a kingdom and laid waste to another. Daenerys Targaryen, who stands at the gates of Kingslanding this moment and threatens to burn it down. I only ask if we shall we await our turn quietly, my lord and ladies?" Sansa asked of each of every one of them.

"Indeed, I've heard," Lord Estermont spoke once more. "We also heard how she fought your own enemy with you. Rested her head in your pillows. Do you come here with no loyalties, little lady? With no intent to gather who stands to become an enemy of the one you have chosen to serve?"

Sansa smiled and took time to keep the composer the man was unable to gather.

“House Stark stands unbowed. I serve no one, but the North, my lord. And the enemy we fought would have laid waste to the entire country. We exchanged bread for the use of her army and dragons. And if she believes otherwise it is entirely out of her own ignorance."

"Is she witless then?" Lady Gemma Lannister broke her silence, a smirk upon her face. "Shall we quake in fear of this child who has no intelligence to discern who stands with her or against her?"

Sansa narrowed her eyes on the lioness but turned to direct her answer towards Edric Storm.

"If you are confident enough to discard her dragons, you're welcome to dismiss her and return to your keep. If only she hadn't already relinquished the rights of it to another."

"Why should we believe you?" Edric asked of her, though with none of the anger his uncle brandished in every word.

"You shouldn't, my lord. You can opt to believe a Targaryen at your own peril. I invite you to believe in Daenerys Targaryen’s good nature and hope against judgement that it serves you. And if it doesn't, I will receive the news of your death with my conscience clear, for I gave you warning first," Sansa surprised herself by saying, though she was rewarded by the tilt of the lips of many of her supporters and was emboldened by the way their backs straightened.

“Whenever, in the history of Westeros, has anyone on dragon back came in the name of peace?” Arianna Martell wondered, adding to their cause, and receiving further hums of agreement on all sides.

“Daenerys Targaryen has created a second field of fire in the Reach, only because she could. Burned sons in front of their fathers, when she could have easily taken them as hostages. It threatens my comprehension how any of us could believe her to have come in a spirit of mercy when she has brought nothing more than the threat of fire and the promise of blood,” Lord Garland spoke.

"I am favourable to your cause, Lady Sansa, for it is my own, as you well know. And yet your bastard brother follows her. How shall we see that?" Lady Alerie Hightower wondered, her voice soft and pliable, but no less interested.

"As the sacrifice it is, my lady. Jon Snow is no less than a hostage Daenerys Targaryen has taken to ensure a support that she will never receive from my house.”

Lord Edric Dayne’s eyes were heavy as he said, “That certainly isn't what’s being whispered about.”

“Rumours have only the weight the listener gives them, my lord,” Sansa spoke softly, not giving any inkling of a reason to his doubt. Not allowing her reaction to have them fester.

Yet she understood the words had been spoken because Princess Arianne had allowed them to be. She didn't wish the matter to be left entirely to Sansa’s discretion, and the northern woman wasn't sure she could fault her for it.

"And when she takes a knife to your kin's throat, Lady Sansa? Will you not waver?" Lady Alerie asked of her.

Lady Tyrell asked it not out of malice but out of knowledge of what love to family commanded, and there was pity in her eyes at the thought. It made her words no duller.

And Princess Arianne’s eyes found her with ease, unbothered by any pretence.

"My duty to the North is higher than the one I bear my kin," and if Sansa wavered as she said it, it cemented only that those were sacred words, to which she gave heavy weight. “It must be so.”

For a small, aching moment, Sansa wondered what Lord Eddard might have considered of this moment. He, who had placed his love for his sister above duty and honour, and even the family that was to come.

Liar, he might have whispered to her. Deceiver.

"We all risk much, none deny it. I won't claim my losses any greater than any of yours, nor any less endurable,” Sansa explained. “Our duty is what remains.”

Lord Baelor Hightower knocked on the table before him to call for attention, so as not to raise his voice.

“Westeros has seen nothing but war these past years,” he spoke out, in an even tone. “But they have served some purpose or another. Foolish as they were, they have been our wars. None gain from allowing one more bloody foreign threat to displace us and our ways. Not when the only thing offered in return is ash and blood. Burning crops that would feed these realms for nothing more than to prove she could.” He shrugged. “Winter is here, and she will expect tribute none of us can afford to pay to feed her foreign armies. To build a city she wills to be burned to the ground in her image.”

“My uncle speaks with wisdom. I want my dead avenged. I want this realm free from the threat of her. I want House Targaryen to return to the ash it creates," Ser Garlan bellowed, joining in, locking eyes with her. "I will join those who promise it to me. I will join House Stark against this foe."

Sansa bowed her head to him in acknowledgement.

"What exactly does House Stark propose then? That seems to be left unsaid. If the threat of her is so great, what will you have us do?" Ser Addam Marbrand wondered, standing beside Lady Genna, her commander and nothing more.

"Daenerys Targaryen shall make her final stand in Kingslanding. I have been summoned. As I believe all of you have, to bend the knee. I propose we answer her. United."

A commotion began. Whispers and groans.

"With broken armies."

"No protection against her dragons."

"Hungry and frail."

"Pigs to the slaughter."

"We have scorpions, all the way from the Mountains of the Vale towards the towers of the North, and many more that we have brought with us,” Sansa argued. “One of her dragons has been killed already, it rots in the snows of Winterfell. Another has been gravely harmed. The both of them made weak and slow by rotten prey. Her Dothraki are nearly gone. Her Unsullied grow frail."

"Cersei Lannister has killed another one of her dragons. Only one remains. This will be the only chance afforded to us," Bran intervened, his eyes vagrant.

"How do you know?" Lady Genna asked of him, sharply. "Not even I possess that knowledge."

Bran rewarded the lady with a raised brow.

"My sister has eyes everywhere, Lady Genna, should I presume yours fail you?" Bran challenged her in Sansa’s name, though it were his eyes, he spoke of.

"You are children," Lady Genna scoffed. "Speaking above your elders and demanding to take hold of tables you should have never been allowed a seat in."

"And you are old men," Bran pointed out, a bored lightness in his assessment that spoke not of insolence but of might. "Frail and disappointed that your wars have amounted to nothing. That you have achieved nothing."

Uncle Edmure coughed to hide his chuckle.

But other lords took offence and Sansa wasn’t ignorant to their rumblings.

"I did not come here to be insulted," Lady Genna raged.

"Only to insult?" Lord Royce demanded from his corner of the room.

Lady Lannister narrowed her eyes on him.

"How quiet you are, Ser. Battle worn and experienced you would follow the lead of a young girl you owe no loyalties to."

"The Lady Stark has proved herself to the Vale of Arryn most ably, my lady, worry not. The bonds that unite us, strong and steady. But even if she hadn't. Jon Arryn united with House Stark, Tully, and Baratheon to deliver Westeros of a house that has only brought bloodshed and lunacy to these realms. I fought with him, unlike your craven brother, who waited until the result was clear to bloody his hands on the blood of babes yet in the cradle and their innocent faithful mother.”

Lord Yohn bowed his head in Arianne’s direction, who bowed hers in return.

“Who followed the lead of a house of upstart slavers that by blood magic subjugated beasts worthy only of extinction and made once proud kingdoms wither in their shadows. No longer will the Vale fight wars in their name. Bend the knee to their lesser. I will fight against this female Aegon the Conqueror come again and her slave army and I will ensure a different outcome or die in its service," the strength of his words silenced Lady Genna into submission. “And my death will have meant something, unlike Tywin Lannister’s.”

Lady Genna’s lip quivered in unkept rage, and yet she could hardly defend a most beloved brother in halls he had stolen by means of broken oaths, she now depended upon for survival.

Sansa hardly knew why she would have come here. Accepted the invitation and trusted the salt and bread she was offered. And yet, the answer would always be Casterly Rock.

A legacy that could not be forfeited. A legacy her brother wouldn’t forgive her for the defeat. Casterly Rock would be what remained along with the Lannister blood and name. Cersei could not ensure it, Lady Genna knew that, neither Jaime nor Tyrion would attempt it – and so she must. It was her duty to become the lioness of the Rock, no matter the indignities that she may yet be made to suffer.

"Many that gather here speak without cause for legitimacy. The command of their kingdom lost, no better than headless hens, their houses broken, for their sins. And they would question the wills of those strong enough to gather the table. I wonder if foolishness can so easily be confused with courage. What say you, Lady Genna," Arianne demanded of her without need for subtlety.

Lady Lannister raised only a brow and smirked at the younger woman.

"I will shape my house into order, Princess. Much as you did yours, I’m sure. There is no need to worry about that," Lady Genna had no qualms to say. "I have a nephew and a niece still. From my brother Kevan. I will choose the best suited and be regent until I find them prepared. Right of birth has been forfeited by the circumstances. Will any of you draw opposition to that?"

"Well, well," Lord Estermont laughed, his belly rumbling. "How easily a Lannister abandons kin."

"Should I cling to those I see as dead already? Shall I pretend dragon flame doesn't await Cersei and Jaime? That I can do anything to stop it. Shall I put aside my disgust at Tyrion, at his crimes, and beg forgiveness from this council for his transgressions? Shall I spend any Lannister gold to buy his ill-fitting freedom? I will not,” Lady Genna had yet rage in her to wield. “Tyrion abandoned his coat and Jaime, and Cersei will die wearing theirs. I can accept the truth, my lord. I shall weep in my own halls, and not in another's, if you'll forgive me that.”

“Certainly much can be forgiven,” Lord Edmure began and a blanched Lady Genna at last turned her eyes towards the Lord of Riverrun, whom she had evaded to all her might. “Yet a price must be paid, mustn’t it, Lady Lannister? To those who lived.”

Sansa knew her uncle Edmure found it hard to have Lady Genna here, in their halls. Both for her Lannister blood and her Frey marriage. And yet he stood tall. Awaiting his moment.

“Whatever children and grandchildren remain to me will forfeit their rights upon the Twins, Frey estates and everything within them in favour of the Lady of Riverrun. Would that suffice, my lord?” she asked in a lower tone than she had afforded any other lord or lady in the room.

“I am pleased we are in agreement,” was his graceful answer.

Lady Genna’s smile was saccharine sweet, but it would do.

“None deny that there is a price to our presence here, today. Either a betrayal to pride or memory. A show of strength or a commencement to frailty. Nevertheless you all answered the call. The call to blood that the Iron Throne represents that has been without purpose for more years than our kingdoms can bear,” Sansa began once more. “The North has bowed to the dragons before, when my ancestors believed it necessary for our survival. Now… it could only mean our death at a latter day. My people compel me to stand now. My lords bid me tall. They urge to be free, and I don’t believe the North to be much different from any Kingdom represented in this room.”

"So that is what is proposed in this room then, independence," Lord Leyton Hightower surmised, his voice worn, but his eyes steady. The most senior lord in the room. “That after three centuries of unity under the Iron Throne that we shall part and return to the old ways."

Many voices were heard in agreement.

“I do, my lord,” Sansa assented.

“Why shall we unite under the banners of our oppressors, under their legacy, even if they are cast aside? That chair has brought nothing more than blood and chaos. A new war of succession every half a century. Spilling blood to what purpose? Dorne has always been ruled by a Martell, no matter which King sat the Iron Throne. Will any region wish to claim otherwise?” Princess Arianne asked of the room.

Some could. Most certainly.

The Tyrells had risen by means of Targaryen favour. What good would it do to call attention to it now? Their marriages had served them well. That Hightower blood that ran through their veins, most of all, granted them legitimacy now to their seat.

Sansa could hardly deny that hadn’t Lady Alerie been Lord Tyrell’s mother, Lord Leyton would be in the most agreeable position to take hold of the Reach. He would be the loudest to claim their lack of virtue.

“We had no need of Targaryens for wars amongst ourselves,” Lord Estermont conceded.

“If we had the will then, we have it no longer,” Lord Edmure spoke. “It will be years before any kingdom recovers from what went on these past years and winter is most certainly upon us.”

"I gather," Sansa began, "that we would all rest more assured in this alliance, if other plans were made as well. For the after."

All agreed that another Great Council must be called. In ten years’ time. It would give them time to rebuild their kingdoms. To settle their wants. To consider their chances. And marriage agreements to keep them steady. Children not yet born promised to one another, to strengthen the wills of their sires.

"We leave the Riverlands for Kingslanding together, then. Each of the armies that has not met us here, should meet us down the road. But I will only honour whatever agreements are made in this room if we enter those bloody gates hand in hand, so it cannot be said either one of us are turned from each other," Lord Estermont was quick to say.

"I will hold your hand myself, my lord," Sansa promised, prompting some laughter.

It was good for alliances to begin with joy.

None could be sure they would end with it.