Chapter Text
She’s not on the battlement nor in her solar. She’s everywhere and anywhere. Being a ruler is being lonely. She knows it, she’s seen it. In all forms. That’s how she knows it is important to be loved by her people. So the loneliness might be worth it. But Sansa is not lonely. She’s angry.
She won't marry until she decides so. The Lords tried to convince her with gifts and threats but she didn't budge. She doesn’t bother to explain. She's at the service of the North and if she worked so hard for its independence is not only for Robb or the North losts sons, not for some kind of nostalgia she wears on her face. It is because it was the only thing everyone ever wanted from Sansa. And claiming it for her was the best way to remove it from the game. It was also the only way for Sansa to keep her sanity. To be more than a piece of chess. To complete herself.
Until her family went at it again …
Arya vowed her place was in Winterfell, as a Stark, as a wolf. Like Bran. Like Jon. But as soon as Jon left to keep his words - of course he would. Arya left with no intention to come back.
Sansa thought at the time, “At least it’ll be me and Bran.”
Until Jon … well, until Jon’s antics.
Sansa needs to stop thinking about it. Anger is rising like dragonfire when she thinks about him. About everything that happened after Daenerys’ death.
How fast she runned down to King’s Landing with all the remaining Northerners and Freefolk willing to fight for him. She barely needed to call the fold.
She’s sewing and suddenly she knit her brows. Thinking about that day. How Bran got crowned. How she and Arya threaten Yara Greyjoy when really, they should have been more adamant about Jon’s freedom with the Unsullied. Jon went to war for everyone and none had wanted to wage war for him. Even Ser Davos.
Sansa looks at her sewing. She’s not embroidering anymore. The last she did was her own crowning dress. She thinks back at some of Jon’s breeches she had mend and embroidered small red eyes. He’d been happy but still told her he could do it himself. How he’d learned it at Castle Black.
“Are you mending yourself now Jon? Was it what you wanted? Do you atone for your sins as much as you wish?”
Sansa is angry and can’t let it know, can't show it, can't direct it to those she's angry at. Because they are all gone. Careless of her broken heart. So she talks to them in her head and repeats it all to the weirwood. She knows someone is listening and if the old tree is the memory of them all, she's vengeful enough to want it committed to memory. She doesn't want to forget that anger, nor those gone. She deeply hopes it'll be useful someday.
She wants to keep her anger burning. Not to be wasted and forgotten. Not to be dismissed as if her feelings never counted. Because that's what everyone did. At least, that's how she sees it now.
So she keeps talking to Jon in her head. She knows too well that writing to this butthead is useless. He won't read it. As a punishment. She'll never get an answer. She didn't petition Bran to deliver a pardon. Sometimes she thinks he doesn’t even deserve it. She doesn’t even want to write one.
If this is what he wants, so be it. She's only his cousin. He dismissed whatever she told him. She fought for him and he showed he didn't care. She asked for forgiveness and offered him his place in Winterfell. He simply hugged her and told her she was the best. He couldn't have said he cared less than saying it plainly.
Slowly, she decided she didn’t care anymore.
She doesn't care and convinces herself of it until her eyes are brimming with tears of rage. Tears blinked away as fast as she could. Gulp her tightening throat and goes back to work.
Sansa is the Ice Queen when she's still or hearing people. Just and fair. Loyal to her people. Honoring Ned Stark. And when she's walking, riding and working in the gardens, she's the Red Wolf. Resolution on her face, foot so sure she could break the earth they say. But Sansa is simply moved by anger.
Some days she's more enraged than others. For no particular reason. And it is on one of those days that one scout comes back with news from the Night's Watch.
To be honest, Sansa doesn't want to hear any of it. Anything related to Jon will make her aflame. The scout says no one is in charge at Castle Black. The Watch changed and now decided between all of them what to do. They decided to start manning other strongholds, because the Freefolk went back to wildness but the trade could be possible with whoever's willing. Instead of travelling back to Castle Black, they could do it at multiple places and thus settle the whole north.
“There's no Lord Commander anymore ?” She can’t resist asking.
“He left Your Grace. No one has seen him since his second day. He left with the Freefolk. I’m … I’m sorry, Your Grace.”
Why sorry ? The Lord Commander is sworn to the Watch, they hold no name, no family.
She goes straight to the godswood. To Bran, to Father, Theon and all the others. She wants to carve out the eyes of the weirwood tree. She lost them all. Now she's truly alone.
“Are you happy now?” she hisses to the tree, may it be a deity or her ghosts.