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Sansa stands on the battlements. The sun is just rising, a grey fog hangs over everything that she can see, a mist clinging to the new grown grass and creating the lightest dew. Spring has come to the North again, and as Sansa looks out over their kingdom it feels like a long awaited release.
She’d been restless last night, tossing and turning the entire time she tried to sleep, constantly rising to check on Catryn. Their daughter had slept on, unbothered and without need for soothing.
Sansa supposed that after the weeks of rising for feedings that this was only natural, after four children a long ingrained motherly instinct. But part of her knew it was something more than that.
It was one of those nights. Where every time she closed her eyes, fire danced. Or worse poisoned goblets were thrust into her hands, forcing her to drink. (Always from a faceless blonde lioness). Over the years the nightmares had become less and less frequent, less severe. But every time they have a new babe they seem to come back in full force. They’ll subside within the next week she is sure.
It’s why though once she saw the dark sky starting to lighten she had slipped from bed, leaving Jon sleeping on, dressed herself and made her way outside.
She could have woken Jon, he would’ve held her and soothed her. But there was something so unnerving about her dreams last night. They were unclear, no obvious threat in sight, but she knew, as a mother does, that there was danger.
Her children were in front of her, just outside of her reach.
Lyarra. Just turned seven. Her wild black hair all Jon’s and her brilliant blue eyes all Sansa, running through a field shrieking and laughing as she played with her brothers. Born to be in charge, born to lead a new pack.
Edrick and Robar, the twins, four now and as troublesome as ever, chasing after their big sister and trying to fling mud at her. She watched and thought that nobody would know them twins from looking at them. Edrick, so serious, almost sullen. His red hair the same shade as Sansa’s, soft but straight and freckles covering his entire face. His eyes a deep chestnut brown, unlike his mother or father’s. Robar his opposite in every way. His curls bouncier and darker than even Lyarra’s, nose slightly crooked and grey stormy eyes like Jon’s. He tumbles like a child without any sense of fear.
And then Catryn. The baby, not even two moons old. Wrapped in a cloth and laughing endlessly as her siblings carry on around her. She was a funny babe. Born with a full head of hair, red but several shades darker than Sansa’s and eyes nearly black. Sansa could tell from the moment she was born she was a Lady. The same way Sansa always was, the way her mother was too. The way she doubts Lyarra ever will be.
But she loves them all so dearly.
The dream faded to black (almost as if smoldering) and Sansa had woken sweating. She couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding even after she woke.
Here in the fresh air the images seem far away. Here, looking at the vast emptiness of the North Sansa feels safe.
Just then she hears an approach behind her, turns before he can speak.
“I was wondering where you were,” Jon says.
He’s carrying Catryn, bundled up in a blanket. A smile on Jon’s face that once she rarely saw, now she spends her days drowning in it. She can’t help but smile back as he comes to stand beside her, patting her on the back while keeping Cat safe in his other arm.
“Didn’t sleep well,” Sansa muses and turns back to their view.
“The dreams again?”
“Mmm.”
“You should have woken me.”
“They’ll go away soon, as they did when the others grew.”
A long silence settles between them. Not uncomfortable. But familiar. In the years since the wars ended a peace has settled over Westeros and between them as well. They may be King and Queen in the North to their kingdom, but to each other they remain Jon and Sansa. Remain the leaders of the wolf pack.
Today the others will arrive. Tomorrow they will celebrate Catryn’s birth. She’d come quick at the end of Winter and Sansa had insisted their guests wait until the weather cleared with Spring so close. And she was glad for it. Catryn had been just theirs for a while. They’d had time to raise her, in their den of wolves, before she had to face the rest of the world.
“Where are the children?” Sansa asks after a while.
Jon hums.
“Lyarra was already off to the stables with Alys and Benjen. Nothing will keep them away from the horses now that the ground has thawed,” Jon says.
Sansa smiles to herself. Their eldest daughter is already a very gifted rider. Sansa has tried to hone her interest in politics, in the crafts that the future Queen in the North will require. Jon has tried to get her in the training yard with a sword. But she only wants her ponies. Too small still for her own horse. And the stablehand’s son, Benjen, as well as her dearest friend Alys both indulge her in this.
Once, it may have worried Sansa. Her daughter’s interest. But she can’t bring herself to labour over it. Regardless she knows Lyarra will make her own way in the world. And whatever that is will be what the North needs in their future queen. Besides, she’s only seven. Hope is not lost that she could develop a sudden interest in needlepoint.
“And Arya was with the boys, something about going down to the pond to catch frogs with Uncle Gendry and Aunt Arya. Nothing but trouble I’m sure,” Jon laughs to himself.
Sansa smiles at that too. Her twin boys. Her troublemakers. A perfect pair they make. Erudite Edrick and Robust Robar she heard one of the kitchen staff call them when they were little. Even at four their personalities are so loud. Like all the Starks before them.
These children of theirs. They’re done now, Sansa knows. Catryn will be the last. The littlest of their pack. Four is enough, she and Jon decided.
(Though part of her wants one more. A little boy. A little Theon to round out their pack).
Each of their names had been chosen with care too. Named for people but not after them. Lyarra for Jon’s mother. Edrick for their father. Robar for their brother. Catryn for Sansa’s mother.
A compromise to honour those they lost without making their children bear the heavy burden of that pain. A remembrance. Kinder.
Sansa sidles up beside Jon and he slides Catryn into her arms as Sansa lays her head on his shoulder.
“We did well Jon. At the end of it all. We’re here and happy. Our family is healthy. I never could have imagined…”
Jon rubs her shoulder idly as she muses and loses herself in the past. Jon has seen it before.
“You’re reflective this morning.”
“Just enjoying the quiet before the guests arrive.”
“Yara Greyjoy, Mara Martell, and your Uncle Edmure in one room is always an interesting combination.”
Sansa snorts.
“Don’t forget Tormund will be coming as well. Sam with Gilly, and Davos too if the ravens are to be believed. We’ll have a busy house under our roof for the next week.”
“By the time they all leave I’m sure Arya and Gendry will be itching to get back on a boat somewhere,” Jon muses.
Sansa silently agrees. Arya and Gendry tend to spend about half the year at sea or adventuring elsewhere and half the year at Winterfell. They’d journeyed back for the end of Sansa’s pregnancy and to see their new niece. But time is dwindling and they’ll be off again soon. Sansa will miss them, she always does.
“Just us, Brienne, and Bran then,” Sansa says.
Jon nods, “As usual.”
Bran stays with them always. Brienne as well. They both serve on their council, as the most trusted advisors to the North. Who else of course? There’s nobody Sansa would want to spend that much time with anyways
Sansa looks up and realizes that there are two figures approaching the castle, not far at all now. Her expression changes to puzzlement briefly, then she realizes. Two figures on horseback, travelling alone. Her and Jon had forgotten some of the guests they were expecting after all.
Missandei and Grey Worm.
She breaks out into a huge smile.
“Go,” Jon whispers, already taking Catryn from her arms.
Sansa grabs Jon for a moment. Presses her lips to his for the briefest of moments. Even in times like these she doesn’t take this for granted, doesn’t take him for granted. Not after she came so close to losing him.
“Go to breakfast, I’ll meet you there shortly.”
And she’s off. She’s running down the stairs of the battlements and across the courtyards. It’s been too long since she last saw her dear friends. They’d travelled North in the immediate aftermath of the war. Stayed for nearly two years, helped the Starks in more ways than Sansa could ever articulate. And when they’d left, left for Naath and all the places they’d dreamed of, Sansa ensured they knew they would always have a home at Winterfell.
They visited often. Never often enough. But often all the same.
Sansa opens the gate. They’re only twenty feet away now.
She grins up at Missandei, nods at Grey Worm. Watches as Missandei breaks into a grin that mirrors her own.
Today, with all the people she loves in the world arriving here, in her home, the dreams which sometimes still plague her will never feel further away than they do now. Left in the past, where they belong.