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Chapter Text

It was definitely Ygritte.

A woman, amongst several other Free Folk, who had held him captive and who, all along their journey across the frozen landscape was never more than a few steps away, watchful--always watchful—her eyes filled with suspicion and mistrust, always focused on him—wary—cautious.

From the beginning, she was disbelieving in his words of unity and friendship. She was a fierce woman—a fighting woman, just like all her band were--ready to fight—and ready to kill him if their leader, Mance Rayder, so much as lifted a brow.

And when Mance Rayder decided to be an ally in the fight against the dead, Ygritte’s attitude began to soften and that same evening she smiled at him across the fire.

When he awoke the next morning, it was to find she had simply packed up and was gone without so much as a brusque farewell.

Yes, it was definitely Ygritte: the woman whom he had long given up for dead.

-----

He took a breath to calm his fractured wits before taking a hesitant step forward to greet her, only for the Free Folk woman to dismount her horse, glance around as if searching for something specific, and upon its discovery, stride quickly past him.

“Tormund!” she shouted.

Giantsbane had not seen her enter the keep, solely occupied with staring at his current object of fancy, who herself, had come out to lend her sword in fighting off this supposed Wildling horde. Upon recognizing the voice suddenly calling his name, he stilled in recognition and immediately swung around.

Stunned by who he saw approaching, he dropped his wineskin and opened both his large arms, widely, greeting her both drunkenly and jovially.

“Ygritte! You are alive! I long thought you a toothless wight by now. But I see with my own eyes that you are not!”

She barreled forward, and using her small hands, shoved at Tormund’s massive and unyielding body.

“You great, lumbering, ass! Just what do you think you’re doing here?”

“Drinking—admiring yellow-haired beauties—but, mostly drinking.”

His smile only grew broader, which caused her to shove him again, only this time, much harder, causing Tormund to stagger back half a pace.

“Don’t you try that smile on me,” cried a fuming Ygritte. “It never worked before, so don’t think it’ll work now! I looked for you, at Craster’s, like we said if we ever got separated. And again, at that abandoned castle on the wall. You made me ask a Crow, Tormund,” she said, seemingly have taken it for a weakness in herself. “I had to ask that black-haired Crow, the one who’s always ranging out our way, the one I rode in with. He said you was all down at some place called The Gift--said he’d take me there his self. But once I got there, what do you think I find? Not you--just skinny children, miserable old men, and women out of their wits with everything they had to do. And then here you are, scarpered off with this one here.” She gestured dismissively in his general direction. “They all said you told them you would come straight back after speaking to this great southern Lord. Waited as long as I could stand it and here I am… and here you are, drinking all the ale the south has to offer!”

Tormund was quick with his response.

“It’s wine.”

“I don’t care if it’s dog piss. You’re our leader now; you’re supposed to be looking out for all of us.”

Tormund felt compelled to hurriedly explain.

“But, I am. I speak to the Lord of these lands soon--on his day for many people talking and many lords listening.”

Finally finding his own words, Jon took another step forward, glad to once again have the opportunity to speak to Ygritte, but mostly anxious of actually having to speak to the fierce, irascible woman.

“Y-Ygritte,” he croaked, hoarsely, his face having gone from ghostly white to a nervous red. “You’re… you’re--”

“And you,” cried Ygritte, rounding on him and pointing a finger in his face. “What have you been pouring into this one’s ears? Because I was there when you talked to Mance and said you was offering us help. You said your people wanted us to be friends. Watching Tormund getting drunk doesn’t count as making friends, neither is it helping… and it sure as hell don’t feed young ones and old people.”

Naturally, this fracas between the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms and the two Wildlings drew everyone within the vicinities notice, prompting Jon to step closer, hoping for a quieter, calmer word, while desperate to explain himself to her, to put her more at ease—to--he didn’t know exactly what he wanted to express in that moment, he only knew that he was happy to find her alive and, by all appearances, well.

“I’ve—I’ve spoken to my uncle on your people’s behalf, I assure you. Tormund and I are to speak more specifically about the Free Folk’s needs on the day my uncle, Lord Stark, hears petitions. Others from across the North are assembling here, even now. This yearly gathering is the established tradition; it is the best way for everyone concerned to hear of your plight. Believe me, things have been set in motion.” He took another step forward, still hardly comprehending the person before his eyes. “I--they all said that you were dead--I did not want to believe them—I did not think--"

“I didn’t think,” she mimicked right back at him, mocking him loudly in a high-pitched, squeaky voice. “Well, there’s something we can finally agree on. And we both know that thinking is not your strong suit.”

Tormund found Ygritte’s words ridiculously amusing and nearly fell over in hysterics causing Jon to glance around, determined to find a way, at once, from being the object of Tormund’s laughter, out from under the entire courtyard’s scrutiny, and, most importantly, deflect Ygritte’s hostility.

He cast his eyes across the yard to Robb and Sansa, both with little Rickon, welcoming their newly arrived uncle. Robb was focused all on Uncle Benjen, however Sansa, obviously curious, kept casting interested, but concerned glances their way, seemingly a little ill at ease, going by her expression.

“Robb, Sansa,” he called out. “Would you be so good as to come and meet Ygritte—a friend--from the far North.”

Robb was, as always, game to meet any pretty girl, and bounded over easily. But Sansa seemed less sure, and she drew closer to their uncle when he offered her his arm to lead her over.

As they drew nearer, Jon could not help but notice that Sansa’s face reflected her increasing unease as she regarded the young woman’s various weapons and scowling face. However, when her uncle turned suddenly away when Ser Rodrik called out a greeting, he saw Sansa grip Rickon’s hand a bit tighter, stand up taller, and draw up her courage to do her duty.

“Welcome to Winterfell,” Sansa said confidently to the Free Folk woman. “I am Lady Sansa Stark. This,” she gestured to her left, “is my eldest brother, Lord Robb Stark. And this little one here, who is still very shy when meeting new people, is my youngest brother, Lord Rickon.”

Rickon, still a bit unsure of both Robb and Jon and certainly when meeting strangers, grinned at the woman but still hid a bit behind Sansa’s skirts.

Ygritte quickly sized her up, glancing down his cousin’s tall figure, and taking in her sensible, but elegant woolen gown and pristine white fur collared cloak.

“Well, good for you!”

Surprised by such a reply, Sansa glanced to him, perplexed as to how she had offended the woman.

“No, Ygritte,” he said, eager to smooth the way for both women, “I don’t think you understand. The Lord of Winterfell--the Lord you have come to see--is their father. In the absence of the Lady of Winterfell, it is the custom in the North for my cousin to act as the Lady of the house in her mother’s place. Lady Sansa only means to welcome you and to offer help.”

Ygritte’s face took on a look of offense.

“Help me? Help me? Do I look helpless to you? How can this precious little princess ‘ere help anybody? She don’t even have a blade to help herself from what I can see.”

Sansa glanced at him again, momentarily unsure what she had done to draw such censure. And yet, she found her voice and her courage.

“Well, firstly,” said Sansa, smiling slightly, determined to be cordial in the face of the woman’s doubt of her purpose and intentions, “I am not a princess, precious or otherwise. And secondly, you and my uncle may follow me for some hot food and a warm fire. You must be very hungry after your long journey.”

Robb, who had been staring openly at Ygritte, in admiration, blanched visibly when the Wilding woman suddenly flicked her eyes to him, menacingly.

“What you looking at? Haven’t never seen a woman before?”

“I-I, yes, I have--I mean, may I escort you and show you the way to the Great Hall while my sister alerts the kitchens?”

Always the gallant, Robb held out his arm and nodded down to it for her to take.

Staring at his outstretched arm as if it was a snake, ready to hiss and strike, Ygritte stood firm.

“I only come ‘ere to see this Southern Lord and get what they tell me has been offered. No more, no less.”

Sansa tried again.

“Unfortunately, both my mother and father are unavailable, at present. As Lord and Lady of Winterfell, you can imagine how my parents have many matters they must see to personally. However, in three days’ time, when the remainder of the Northern Lords gather, that will be time for you and Ser Tormund to tell my father all that you require. I am certain he will hear what you have to say with fairness and an open mind. Now, what about that food?”

The mention of three days seemed to agitate Ygritte all the more, and she appeared to struggle with herself for a moment, before finally nodding towards Robb and letting him show her the way, pointedly without the assistance of his arm.

As they walked off together, Sansa looked to him, likely for his approval of her hospitality for another of his Free Folk friends. Uncomfortable with her eyes upon him in that moment, he turned to stare after the retreating pair. He really ought to follow to ensure Ygritte’s comfort and care, and yet, he could not follow—he mustn’t follow, he thought. What he actually needed was to go off somewhere quiet to think--to gather himself--to get ahold of himself.

Turning back to his cousin, he opened his mouth to say something—anything, but words failed him at the searching look in her eyes. Bowing to his cousin, he turned and walked off in the opposite direction, calling in his mind, for his dragon. All he knew was that he needed to get away—he needed to fly.

-----

Her uncle, having finished his conversation with Ser Rodrik, returned, taking her arm as they both stared after the rapidly retreating figure of the prince.

“Now, what’s gotten into him?” asked Benjen, smiling, but seeming equally perplexed as she was herself. “He didn’t even greet his old uncle. Have I made him angry, do you think? Surely not for merely bringing the Wildling girl here?”

Sansa tried to rationalize his behavior, taking responsibility upon herself.

“Perhaps it was because of me. Jon called her friend. Perhaps I did not greet her properly. I have little experience in welcoming visitors to Winterfell: my mother has always been here to guide me. And I have just realized I forgot to offer her bread and salt; that must be it.”

“She’s a Wildling, Sansa, Love; she neither knows nor cares about what is customary or what is proper: words and all.”

“Are you certain, Uncle?”

“Yes, absolutely. Think no more on it. Now, what’s this about some food?”

No, thought Sansa, as he led her away, Uncle Benjen must be correct: it had to be something else: but what?

Chapter Text

Prince Jon did not appear for the rest of the afternoon, nor for the evening meal and naturally, Lady Stark, back from her long afternoon of visiting with the new mothers of the village, took issue with this and questioned her daughter, assuming, Sansa was certain, by her mother’s tone, that this was meant to be a failing of hers. But this time, Sansa was ready for her.

“I have no idea why that could be, Mother. Perhaps he was not hungry. Arya and Lord Gendry were not here, either. Perhaps they were not hungry, as well. Here’s a thought, perhaps all three are all off being not hungry together.”

Lady Stark, in her worry for her favorite nephew, did not seem to detect Sansa’s sarcasm.

“Well then, Sansa, you’ll be sure to take the Prince a tray up to his room later?”

She rolled her eyes: she seemed to always be taking Jon a tray.

Ned, sitting on the other side of his wife, broke off talking with his brother upon hearing that.

“What? Why does Jon need a tray in his room? Is he ill?”

Caitlyn merely shook her head at her husband’s inattention to all things being said within his hearing whenever his brother was around.

“Did you not notice that the prince has not come into the great hall this evening?”

Laughing, Ned turned back to his brother. “As you can see, Benjen, Cat fusses over that boy more than she does our Rickon.”

Benjen laughed heartily at this picture.

“Come now, Ned, you can’t rightly call him boy? A boy no longer,” said Benjen. “Our nephew sets atop a dragon now; he helped end the war, brokered a peace with the Wild—the Free Folk—I’ll never get used to calling them that. He is well and truly on his way to being one of the great men of the realm, like his father, or like Aegon the fifth, so his Uncle Aemon tells me. No, Ned, face it, you now have a castle full of heroic young fighting men.”

“They will always be boys to me,” said Lord Stark, wistfully. “Hard to see the men in them when just yesterday, to my eye, they were all chasing each other through the training yard with wooden swords.”

“That Wildling woman,” said Catelyn suddenly, to Sansa, with her mouth set in a disproving line. “Have you spoken to the steward yet about settling our Wildling guest?”

“Ygritte is her name,” said Benjen, a little annoyed that his brother’s Southron wife had not tried to learn her name nor behave a bit warmer to the Free Folk woman, especially after seeing how his good sister tolerated most of the hardened Northmen, men ten times cruder and far deadlier killers, in his opinion.

“She is an interesting girl,” continued Benjen, “reminds me a lot of Lyanna—I mean: a lot. Not in looks, mind, not with all that red hair, but definitely in spirit. She rides well, is reliable on the road where it counts—kept my belly full nearly every night. Always heard Wildlings were nothing but uncontrollable savages… and there are some that are—Thenns, mostly. And yet, Mance Rayder, for all you can say about him, and I can say a lot, especially about a deserter of The Night’s Watch—he got his people in line when the time came for that last fight. No, I’ll say nothing against the woman, especially a woman who uses a knife like Ygritte does.”

Sansa was charmed by her uncle’s words and she herself softened her long-held views a touch more.

“It sounds as if she has the makings of a firm friend.”

Benjen laughed loudly. “For me or for you? Oh no, for my part, definitely not a friend,” Benjen was quick to add. “She made it very clear she was no friend to the Crows, as she calls us, but she didn’t slit my throat during the night, so, I will take that as a win.”

Lady Stark, however, was still ambivalent.

“Now that we have established her as not being a throat slitter,” said Lady Stark, “I suppose we must tolerate her—"

Sansa cut her off.

“Mother, you’ve barely spoken more than three words to her, other than when I introduced you. Give her a chance. Don’t dislike her just because she wears breeches and doesn’t know what a curtsy is.”

Lady Stark sighed.

“What I was going to say, Sansa, before you interrupted me, is that it doesn’t hurt to be cautious--until we are disproved in our caution. Our alliance with them is still so very new—and The Seven save us if Arya meets her and gets any ideas—I’ll never get your sister into a gown when we continually welcome every single breeches-wearing, weapon-wielding woman in Westeros into our midst.”

“Mother, that is simply your southern bias showing. Jon bears her no ill-will and he actually introduced her to me as a friend. If he approves of the breeches-wearing weapons wielding women, as you call them, then is it not my duty to approve of them, as well?”

Saying that did the trick, as Sansa well-knew: evoking Jon’s wishes in anything, she’d noticed in the last few days, softened her mother immediately.

“Very well, then. Far be it from me to disapprove if my Prince does not.” Lady Stark nodded in the direction of the steward, “Vanyon looks to be finishing his meal; go and speak to him now. It will be good practice for you, Sansa, when you run the Prince’s household and you welcome his guests into your home.”

Sansa suppressed a weary sigh, very nearly saying something cutting about how no wife of any Crown Prince of Westeros had ever concerned herself with managing anything to do with a household, but kept her thoughts to herself and walked over to the steward’s table just as he and his daughter, Jeyne, finished with their dinner.

And, just as she suspected, from Vanyon Poole’s own lips, the guest quarters were entirely full--either set aside in reserve for some great northern Lord’s arrival in the morning or they were all filled to the brim with the various visitors having arrived within the last few days to petition their lord.

She thought better than to ask her mother’s advice, knowing she would suggest something like the guardhouse or the broken tower just to spite her and which were hardly suitable for a lone female all on her own.

Sansa thought of doubling up with her sister, having Arya in with her, but that did not appeal to her in the slightest. Arya tended to kick and roll or fling the furs off of herself when she grew too hot or steal all the furs when she found herself too cold. She was messy and complaining and was just all-around an undesirable bedfellow. No, sharing a room with Arya was out of the question. There was only one thing left to be done.

She found Ygritte at a table in the Great Hall, finishing up her ale after the evening meal and simply enjoying her place beside a roaring fire.

“I hope that everything was to your liking?”

Ygritte glanced up when Sansa joined her beside the table.

“Hungry people don’t have a right to complain. But it was good. Very good,” she said.

“I shall pass on your complements to the kitchens.”

“Suit yourself.”

“May we get you anything else? More ale, perhaps?”

Ygritte made a non-committal shrug with her shoulders and Sansa signaled the serving girl to refill the cup before she herself sat down, sitting quietly until she thought of something to say.

“Are--are the people up at The Gift truly in need?”

“They get by, for now. Not as many of us as there once was, so there are less hunters, less fighting men. But we manage. Not ashamed to say we need what help we can get, though.”

“I want to assure you that my father will listen to your plight. He is a good man; a fair man.”

“As you say,” Ygritte, said, her voice tinged with skepticism.

“No, as everyone says. After all, he has not barred you from Winterfell and has permitted you to stay. Besides, my uncle, Benjen, quite sings your praises as a capable hunter and horsewoman and my father always trusts his brother’s opinions and takes his words to heart.”

Ygritte became thoughtful though conflicted.

“That Crow, he’s alright. On the journey here he didn’t snore—didn’t try to see me naked, nor rape me or nothing, which is more than I can say for most the Crows up at The Wall; nasty, the lot of them.”

Sansa pondered the news that the men of the Nights Watch were crude brutes and not all the gallant defenders of the realm as she imaged. When she had digested this disturbing discovery sufficiently, she looked up, ready to broach the subject of the sleeping arrangements.

“There was something I particularly wished to talk to you about.”

“Go on, then.”

“I was speaking to my father’s steward just now, and, as you can imagine, with so many visitors assembling to present petitions, we are having difficulty finding accommodations suitable for a woman traveling on her own.”

“No trouble for me-- I can sleep anywhere—make a camp in the woods, if I have to; I only need a fire.”

Sansa grinned.

“Oh, no, we can do much better than a fire in the woods. As my cousin’s friend and as clanswoman to Ser Tormund, you must be given something suitable while you are with us.”

Ygritte laughed brittlely.

“Tormund and I ain’t in the same clan: haven’t you heard him talk? And I sure as hell ain’t no fancy perfumed Lady needing ac-com-o-dation in your fancy castle—not that I ever had need of a castle before, that is.”

Sansa nodded smilingly and offered another solution.

“Would you have any objection to sharing with someone?”

“Share? With who? And share what exactly?”

“I was going to suggest—I would be happy to share my own chambers—for a day or two. Winterfell is not in the habit of hosting women traveling on their own. I have a rather large chamber—it is two chambers really, a sitting room which I use to read or do my sewing--and a room for my bed. With your acquiescence, I would ask my father’s steward to arrange for a cot in my sitting room. The sitting room has its own door, so you would have your privacy. As their problems are solved, people tend to leave Winterfell to return to their own homes and then we could give you a chamber of your own. Something will open up for you, I am certain, in a few days.”

Ygritte, perplexed, stared at Sansa for a long while.

“Why would you do something like that? Why would you even want me near you? As you people is always saying: I’m a savage Wildlin’, after all. Your people don’t even like us; how do you know I’ll not slit your neck in the middle of the night?”

Sansa laughed lightly at the mention of throat slitting; Lady Stark would probably get along well with Ygritte once she got to know how much they thought alike.

“I have nothing against the Free Folk. Granted, I grew up with those stories told to me by our old nurse to frighten and warn and there are those I know who have said many unkind words about your people. However, just from knowing Ser Tormund these last days, I am inclined to like you too—if you will permit me.”

“Tormund! That’s not a good thing, at all, let me tell you. Tormund really is the worse out of all of us,” said Ygritte smiling broadly.

Sansa laughed, realizing when you get past the outer brashness, Ygritte was actually quite delightful. She spoke her mind and didn’t sugar coat things. Yes, they would likely get along well.

“Will you consider it? Young, unmarried women amongst our acquaintance usually travel with their family and have men, such as a father, uncle, or brothers to protect them, and failing that, household guard. Since you are without, please know that the tower where my sister and I are housed, really is the safest part of the castle.”

Sansa noticed Ygritte’s focus had wandered as she didn’t seem to be listening for the last few words. She was busy, staring at, of all people, Sandor Clegane, who was just sitting down to his own dinner at the opposite end of the same long table, before he himself turned his eyes their way and watched them both watching him and narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

Sansa kept up her end of the conversation even under his disagreeable scrutiny and Ygritte’s distraction.

“Not that you have any reason to worry: my father allows no unruliness in his men, especially where the women in the castle are concerned—no man,” with a quick, uncertain glance at Clegane, “will approach you and make himself unpleasant.”

Sansa had meant it sincerely as a way to assure Ygritte of her safety, but the way Ygritte eyed and then boldly winked at Clegane made Sansa wonder if the Wildling woman did not quite see interactions with certain men the same way she herself saw them.

“Come,” said Ygritte, standing suddenly and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Show me this fancy room of yours, then I’ll make up my mind about what to do.”

Chapter Text

And Sansa did show her, with Ygritte testing out her cot when it arrived, complaining that it was far too soft, before looking curiously over all of Lady Sansa’s scents and jewelry, asking various questions, and reaching out to touch things before thinking better of it and drawing her back her hand.

There was a sudden knock at the door and Sansa bid them enter. It was her handmaid and two male servants following carrying in a tub.

“This is Freya,” said Sansa, introducing the young woman, a little younger than herself. “She is my handmaiden. Well, I share her with my sister. I took the liberty of asking for a bath.”

“What? For you?” asked Ygritte, puzzled by this large, for lack of a better word, cauldron’s appearance.

Sansa blushed again.

“No, for you.”

Ygritte casually sniffed her underarm.

“Yes, I supposed I am a bit too ripe for sleeping in the same room with the fancy folk.”

Sansa bid the two men carrying the tub to place it before the hearth in the sitting room. They were followed by two more servants bringing in pails of hot water.

Sansa turned back to Ygritte. “Shall I have Freya lay out your things?”

“Things? What things?”

“Your—” Sansa regarded the woman’s pelt coat, leather breeches, and various daggers tucked into her belt and boots. “—your sleeping shift?”

Ygritte glanced down at herself and laughed. “I don’t know about garments just for sleeping. This here is it.”

Freya giggled, but was silenced by a mere look from her mistress.

“Well, I am certain we can find something for you to sleep in--you are welcome to wear something of mine while Freya sees to the cleaning—brushing of your clothes. I trust they will be ready for you by morning.”

Freya nodded back at Sansa’s pointed look, but to Sansa her handmaid looked uncertain.

Sansa walked to her clothes cupboard and began sorting through some of her own things just as her sister ran past the servant carrying the empty pails out the door and into her room.

“Sansa, you won’t believe what Robb just told me! He said that there is a Wilding woman—." Arya’s eyes immediately alighted on Ygritte as the words “Wildling Woman” sprung from her mouth, temporarily stunning her into silence.

Ygritte raised one eyebrow.

“We call ourselves the Free Folk,” said Ygritte, knowingly, looking at the new addition to the room with bemusement. “We don’t much care to be called Wildlings.”

“Oh, sorry,” said Arya, a bit abashed. "I’ll remember.”

“See that you do.”

Sansa, to cover up any awkwardness, quickly introduced their guest.

“Arya, this is the Lady Ygritte. Lady Ygritte, my sister, the Lady Arya Stark.”

“Just call me Arya—nobody calls me Lady anything.”

“Me neither,” said Ygritte, grinning, not even knowing what the Stark girl Sansa was going on about.

“Oh, that’s just Sansa, being all prim and proper. Everyone here to her is either my Lady this or my Lord that in her eyes. And no matter how many times you tell her not to do it, she will do it anyway, but you’ll get used to it, even though it is really annoying.”

Sansa rolled her eyes before she addressed her sister again. “We didn’t see you or Jon or Lord Gendry at dinner.”

“I was at the blacksmith’s all day, with Gendry.”

“Lord Gendry.”

“See what I mean?” said Arya, now having a turn at eye rolling. “And I don’t know where Prince Jon went off to, but Lord Gendry was having his weapons repaired and I got to help a little. He then helped Milken start to make me a new sword.”

Sansa shook her head, exasperated.

“Don’t you have enough weapons already?”

“You can never have enough weapons,” said Arya and Ygritte simultaneously, causing them both to laugh at the other.

Seeing that they now had something in common, Arya lost the last of her initial hesitation, if she even had it in the first place.

“Is it true—?”

Ygritte raised both her eyebrows this time at Arya’s obvious curiosity.

“Is what true?”

“Were you with the Free Folk who captured our cousin—I mean, Jon—up North?”

Ygritte made a face.

“Capture? Wasn’t much capturing involved, if you ask me. We just walked right into his camp, all quiet like, and there he was, sleeping like some helpless newborn babe as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Then after, I mostly kept watch over him, making sure a bear didn’t eat him or anything--because he knows nothing and was just that stupid. Oh, and I had to hit him once when he talked back to Mance; that was our King. Mance didn’t much like me hitting him, though; learned then that he was some kind of a fancy Prince, so I guess he’s allowed to talk back to Kings and folk like me ain’t supposed to slap Princes. But he didn’t fight me back, so that’s something, I guess. Soft, that one.”

Here Arya was incredulous.

“Jon? Soft? He’s one of the best sword fighters in all of Westeros. He trained with Ser Arthur Dayne and was squire to Ser Barristan Selmy.”

Ygritte looked skeptical at that pronouncement.

“How am I supposed to know who they are?”

“They are only the greatest fighters in all of Westeros!”

“You’ve never seen the Free Folk fight. And no, as for your Prince Jon, I don’t mean soft in the fighting way—he’s not one of those hard men, like Tormund—always with a rough word and a hard fist—soft with his ways—soft in the way he talks to you, especially women—all gentle-like. Plenty of woman in our camp liked him and wanted to try him out to see if such a soft man was any good at giving as good as he got.”

Ygritte had a good laugh at Sansa’s sudden blushes. However, Arya, curious, had to know what she meant.

“Try him? What do you mean, try him?”

“Bed him, little one; something you’ll know about soon enough. But unlike other men, like Tormund (this said pointedly to Sansa), he kept it in his breeches. They only liked him because he had a pretty face and nice, curly hair—not many men as pretty as him beyond the wall.”

A servant arrived with the last of the hot water. When they finished filling the tub, Ygritte began to undo her buckskins unashamedly in front of the sisters before Sansa grabbed Arya’s hand and gestured to Freya to come with them.

“We’ll leave you to your bath. There’s soap next to the tub and linen over there to dry yourself with along with a night dress,” she nodded in the general direction. “I’ll send Freya back after a time to collect your clothes. We will see you later, come Arya.”

Ygritte stuck her hand in the hot water and nodded distractedly, but thanked them, before adding softly: “Just as warm as our hot spring back home.”

Chapter Text

With the morning light beginning to illuminate her windows, Sansa rolled over in bed and looked towards the other room.

Ygritte had not closed the door to the sitting room the previous night and she could see that her visitor’s eyes were wide open and staring up at the ceiling. Sansa stretched languidly before she sat up.

“Good morning, Ygritte,” she called across the room, yawning. “Did you sleep well?”

Ygritte sat up, looking slightly grumpy.

“Never slept inside a castle before, nor with these pillow things or anything like it up under my head. Beds still too soft.” Then, thinking she may have offended Sansa, hurried to add, “I slept good enough, though.”

Ygritte threw back the furs and arose and entered Sansa’s chamber, and, uninvited, flopped down at the foot of her bed, tucking her cold feet in between the extra furs at the foot of Sansa’s bed.

“You southerners sleep too long—been up for a while now. The Free Folk would have been up long before--you don’t get up early enough to hunt, you’re hungry the rest of the day.”

“Do many Free Folk women hunt?”

“We all hunt—and trap and skin what we catch. We do everything a man does—only better.”

Sansa smiled at the idea of voicing out loud to her father, brothers, and all the lords of the North that she considered herself far superior to them.

“We, Westerosi woman, do not generally take part in such activities, although, here in the north there are some that do. The Mormont family, mostly. And Lord Umber taught all his daughters to ride to hunt. My Aunt Lyanna, my father’s sister, who is also Prince Jon’s mother, was known as a great horsewoman—and she did hunt from time to time. Not much call for it now that she is the Queen and lives in the south.”

“You keep calling this place the north. I’m from the north; I thought this was the south.”

“This is the North.”

Ygritte shrugged as if still disbelieving.

“Back home… when we had a home, that is, we’d all sleep together… get up together--that is if I didn’t have a man sniffing around. Besides, it’s safer that way—us all together keeping warm. If the bears don’t get you up there, the cold surely will freeze your tits off and no man likes that—not that I has a man now to speak of.”

Sansa, who had begun her more womanly education on men and what to expect in marriage the year before, choose to ignore her guest’s colorful words, regarded Ygritte. She really was a very pretty woman. A little polish, a little tidying up, and she could very well attract many fine young men in the North. Probably not a firstborn, but a second son with a small keep, surely. And not from a major house, but a good house on the rise.

She wondered if the Free Folk could integrate into their Westerosi society or if Ygritte would even want a permanent home in the North. Perhaps the nomadic lifestyle of wandering across frozen wastelands had some appeal that she could not, as yet, fathom. She had so many other questions.

Sansa was just about to ask her another, when she heard footsteps approaching from down the corridor and assumed it was merely Freya come to start the day.

She was surprised when, after a brief knock, her mother entered the room.

“Good morning. I am come to see how our guest fared. Did you sleep well, Lady Ygritte?”

“Yes,” Ygritte said, before looking quickly to Sansa, unsure what the proper answer was in a southern home. “I mean, yes, La-dee Stark.”

Caitlyn nodded cordially.

“I am afraid I’ve come bearing ill news. Freya came to me this morning in quite a state. It seems that your clothing is not yet ready—some mishap in the laundry, I am told. I’m sure they will be dry--ready for you by this evening. So, in the meantime, you will need to wear something of Lady Sansa’s. I hope you don’t mind… Lady Ygritte. We apologize for any inconvenience.”

Ygritte glanced back and forth between the two women not quite understanding what this news entailed until Sansa threw back her furs and enthusiastically jumped out the bed.

“Oh, I have just the thing for you to wear! You will absolutely look well it!”

Sansa had been wondering what the pretty Free Folk girl would look like in Westerosi clothing and here was her chance to play dress-up.

Catelyn eyed the girl for a moment or two longer before nodding then excusing herself and exiting the room.

“Come Ygritte and have a look. I think green is definitely your color.”

Freya soon arrived apologizing profusely about the problems in the laundry, until Sansa told her the plan to dress Ygritte up in one of her dresses. Naturally, Ygritte was doubtful but not too unwilling and only had a little bit of uncertainty once Freya came at her out of nowhere and attacked her hair with a brush.

-----

A little later, down in the great hall, at breakfast, Sansa saw several heads turn when she and Ygritte entered the dining hall. Ygritte was walking rather stiffly, almost as if she was afraid she would break.

“Just relax. You look as if those clothes were made for you.”

She had settled on a blue dress, which Sansa had worn several years back when she was a little petiter and a hair slighter, and which suited Ygritte’s leaner and shorter frame.

Freya had fashioned her hair in a style very similar to Sansa’s own, which Sansa found very becoming on the Free Folk girl, and so did, apparently, several others because she spied several northern men looking over in admiration.

“Don’t give yourself away,” Sansa whispered, “but Domeric Bolton is looking at you in a rather interested way.”

“Who? Looking at me? Why? What do they want?” cried Ygritte, rather loudly, immediately on her guard, causing Sansa to sigh in disbelief.

“Just--oh, never mind that now. Come and take a seat.”

She led her up to the head table, as if she was just another member of the family, where no one sitting there said anything, with the exception of Arya, gasping in shocked outrage and making her displeasure over Ygritte’s new appearance known to all.

“Oh no! What did they do to you?”

“They said my clothes were still in the laun-de-ree. La-dee Stark come this morning and says I got to wear this. Sansa calls it playing dress-up.”

Arya shook her head in disappointment.

“Yes, Sansa used to trick me into playing dress-up too, a long time ago; I’m smarter than that now. If you were my size, I would have made you a loan of some of my clothes,” Arya said, gesturing down to her suede breeches and leather jerkin. “Now you just look like another version of Sansa.”

Sansa huffed in outrage over her and Freya’s hard work, but Ygritte put a stop to it.

“Just never you mind, I’ll live. I can pretend to be La-dee Ygritte for a day if it please your sister and that other girl that does up her hair,” said Ygritte, with good humor. “But watch this, Arya, and tell me what you think. Sansa showed me it this morning. Says all la-dees down here do it to be proper.”

Ygritte proceeded to give Arya a look at her curtsy, quickly and ungracefully bobbing up and down.

“There, what did you think of that?”

“I take it all back,” said Arya, disappointed once again. “You do not look like Sansa… at all.”

Before Sansa could scold her sister for her unkindness, Jon, Robb and Tormund made their appearance looking for their own breakfast. Robb, at least, made a good show at being unshocked and courteous, and actually gave Ygritte a slight bow. But Jon seemed flummoxed at the sight and stopped dead in his tracks. He said nothing and only stared.

Tormund had become unhinged with laughter, nudging Jon and grabbing at him to prevent himself from falling over in hysterics.

“What the fuck do we have here? You look strange, my friend; like these southern fucks women. Next, you will take one of the Westeroi fucks to your bed and breed children that forget our ways.”

That incensed Ygritte.

“And what if I do?” taunted Ygritte, right back, “Are you the only one allowed to become friends with them? Why can’t I? Besides, all the men left up at the gift are exactly like you. What do you care if I go off and find me someone I just might find that I like better?”

And, to Sansa’s great horror, she watched as Ygritte gave an oblivious Sandor Clegane, sitting in his same seat from the night before, yet another suggestive wink.

Tormund, incredulous, threw his head back a laughed even louder.

“Him? He’d as soon as fuck a fire breathing dragon than a ginger.” Tormund then got a meaty arm around each of them and pulled them close. “Look, Dog, look! I am surrounded by the beauty of the north. Too bad you have no taste for those kissed by fire. But we cannot help but be beautiful. ”

Clegane, eating his solitary breakfast, lifted his head and turned a grim eye on the three of them.

“But perhaps a dog likes yellow hair, like I do when it comes to women,” continued Tormund.

Clegane scowled and turned back to his food, trying to ignore them.

“What’s this?” asked Ygritte, posing a question, incredulous. “You got something against us gingers?”

Clegane, apparently, had had enough, and defended himself.

“I never said I didn’t like gingers—what I said—,” Sansa noticed that Clegane glanced her way quickly before training his eyes back on Ygritte, “--what I meant was, I didn’t like him.”

Ygritte threw back her head and actually cackled, stepping over to Clegane’s table since she now knew she had a compatriot against Giantsbane, and flopped herself down opposite him.

“That’s not hard, let me tell you. And there’s nothing of beauty about him: I’ve seen him scratching his naked ass.”

Sansa looked back and forth between the head table and Clegane’s table, momentarily unsure what to do. Thinking that it would be unreasonable to let a woman sit all on her own with such an unpleasant man as Clegane, she followed her new friend and sat down next to Ygritte, though a little more daintily.

The commotion over, Robb merely shrugged, took his usual seat next to his father, and began to prepare himself a plate.

Sansa watched as Prince Jon did the opposite. At first, he hesitated, looking conflicted as to which was his expected place, with his family or with his unexpected guest. Finally determined, he sat down next to Clegane.

Clegane paid no mind to the Prince, but he looked back and forth between the two of them sitting side by side across from him, almost as if he didn’t quite understand what or why they were doing such a thing.

“So,” asked Ygritte, grinning and leaning slightly more forward as if taking an interest. “What’s your story, Dog?

Clegane gave a long, tired sigh.

“The name’s not Dog,” he muttered, crossly. “It’s Clegane. Sandor Clegane, if that mad fucker Tormund would only take the time to learn it. Not no bloody ser Sandor or cocksucking Lord Clegane, neither. I am called the Hound, not Dog. The end.”

“Why are you called Hound?”

“Why’d you think?”

When he didn’t elaborate, it was Sansa, with more recent knowledge, who answered for him.

“The sigil of his House is three Hounds, you know, like the Starks with our Direwolf sigil. My father is called the Quiet Wolf, by some. My brother, Robb is the Young Wolf: it is that sort of thing.”

But Ygritte wasn’t finished with him apparently. “And your story,” she asked again, turning to Clegane once more.

“Don’t have one.”

“Sure you do,” added Ygritte, inspecting his face closely now that she was sitting near enough to him to see every flaw. “A face like that surely has a story.”

Sansa was shocked that someone had broached such a topic out in the open. She had wondered herself, but knew better than to ask Sandor Clegane outright and did not wish to be branded a gossip by asking anyone else. His heated retort was immediate.

“Looking for a frightening bedtime story to scare yourself with at night? Why don’t you go and ask that old Winterfell wet nurse if you need to hear one so badly.”

Two serving girls approached then, interrupting the discourse, for which Sansa was eternally grateful. She was certain that Clegane had just enough bite and Ygritte just enough mirth in her expression, to warrant some interruption before things escalated.

The plates and platters of steaming food were laid out for the three newcomers to the table. Ygritte, who had said she hunted up her own food every morning, looked as if she did not seem to know what to make of the platters of sausages, vegetables and porridge, which must seem to her, a great luxury.

Tentatively Ygritte reached for a sausage with her bare hand, snatching it back before looking over to see what Sansa did. Sansa used the serving spoons at the side of each dish to help herself to fried potato while Jon served himself a sausage. Ygritte followed suit, the utensils clumsy in her hands as she filled her plate. In the end, she found that she could not manage the fork and ended up enthusiastically eating her sausage off the tip of her knife.

“So,” said Sansa, hastening to introduce some bright, less volatile conversation, “What plans do we all have for today?”

Ygritte smirked and eyed Clegane before having a go at him once again. “Perhaps look around the castle for a bit; find out all your dark and secret places. Perhaps Hound can show them to me?”

Clegane stilled and looked at her with distrustful eyes.

“Pass.”

Ygritte rolled her eyes and stabbed at her sausage again.

Sansa, stepping in to deflect once again, turned to Jon and posed the same question.

“Nothing too important. Probably take Maxon up for a fly a little later. I can sense his boredom even from here.”

“So, it’s true then?” asked the now astonished Ygritte. “Heard tell up at The Gift that the fancy Prince we all laughed at because he couldn’t start a fire on his own, was last seen flying away on a dragon.

“I can start a fire!” was his uncharacteristically peevish reply.

“Didn’t believe it, at first… and I’m not talking about the fire; I just knew it were false. But no, I guess it were true. If I’d knowd you could command beasts to fly and breathe fire, I never would have clapped you in the mouth that time. I suspect you could have called him up and burned the whole lot of us if you had a mind to?”

“You have it all wrong,” said Jon, shaking his head. “I did not have a dragon until a few short moons ago. Maxon was my uncle’s dragon, until one day, he just turned up at the wall—and we knew—my Uncle Aemon and I knew—just knew that my uncle Vicerys’s was dead. Someone with the blood of old Valerya had to claim him then and there and so it fell to me; my Uncle Aemon is rather old and frail, you see.”

Ygritte pondered this development for a moment.

“So, you’re not just a pretty face after all. You’re the best sword fighter that ever lived, according to little Arya over there; you’re the man that came north to make peace with your enemies, and now I find that you can fly a dragon. And here I thought I’d only see you fly if I throwed you off the top of The Wall. Wonder what other surprises there are for me to learn? And I still have a fancy to know all this castle’s secret places--bet you know them and can show me?”

Sansa had been distracted monetarily by her mother trying to gain her attention from the head table. To avoid her, she turned her head away and watched as Clegane suddenly halted his fork in front of his mouth while pinning her with his own eyes. Feeling ill at ease under his curiously searching gaze, she squirmed slightly in her seat and looked away until Jon abruptly drew her attention.

“COUSIN!” said Jon, a touch too loudly. “W-What are you doing today? Perhaps you would be the better one to show Ygritte around Winterfell?”

“I would enjoy that, but I must postpone,” said Sansa, smiling good naturedly, “My mother has been giving me the eye since I sat down to breakfast. I expect she has some other duty planned for me involving all of the new guests arriving today.”

Just talking about her seemed to summon the woman herself, because Lady Stark did indeed come up to their table.

“You are all so good as to keep my daughter company this morning. So, you will surely forgive a mother for taking Lady Sansa away. My daughter has many duties she must see to herself—that she will one day put to good use when she runs her own home.”

Sansa felt as if she wanted to cringe and couldn’t help a quick look to the Prince to see how he bore such an obvious suggestion.

“I am sure you a right, Aunt. Everyone always speaks well of Lady Sansa for her kindness and welcoming nature.”

Satisfied that she’s wormed a compliment from him, yet again, her mother curtsied deeply and Sansa rose blushingly from her place at the table.

-----

Later that morning, Jon showed Ygritte around... outside the castle, the training yard, and he even walked with her through the Godswood.

Arya was tagging along with him as he gave the tour, critiquing his scant knowledge of the intricacies of the Winterfell crypts, (no Jon, there are six levels in the crypts now, not seven—the seventh one collapsed last year)

Lord Gendry was tagging along with Arya, telling her tidbits about the intricacies of his own home at Storms End You know, now that you ask, I suppose it does storm quite a lot at Storms End).

The lively group drew Sansa’s curious eye as she walked along the yard, with, Jon supposed, some Lord or another’s daughter. While this Lord’s daughter, whomever she was, was staring at him in an obvious way, he was studying Lady Sansa.

After some time, Lord Gendry and Arya, lagged behind, their heads together, discussing some matter of great interest to only the two of them, before they both suddenly took off in a run towards the stables and entered it.

From where Jon stood, he could see Sansa’s worried face when some moments later, the pair of them rode off and out of the gate together and very much alone.

“What’s crawled up your ass and died?”

Jon blinked and looked at his companion.

“I’m sorry, I was not attending.”

“I can see that myself.”

He smiled. “I will try to be a much better guide. Now, you were saying?”

“Your cousin, Arya. Sansa was watching her run off with that good-looking blue-eyed boy and you were watching her watching them.”

“Yes, Arya is nothing like her sister, Lady Sansa. Arya riding off with a man unrelated to her is—well, she does not like to follow the rules.”

Ygritte scoffed. “Any fool can see that, too. She’s a true woman of the north, that one. And she likes that boy, but even I can tell she don’t yet truly understand why that is—won’t be long though; she’ll be a woman soon enough and have the wants of a woman and the old gods help him when she does. He’s just as flummoxed about it all as she is, if you know what to look for. He can’t help himself. He smiles at her, he does things for her, but he doesn’t yet know why. Most men are idiots.”

“Sansa and I did joke once about arranging their match. But it is best that they get to know each other, as friends first.”

“Will you listen to yourself. Arranging matches. La-Dee-Da. If I want a man, I just takes him. I know a place, back at my old home, a secret place: warm and hidden—just take a man there and—well, I’d like to see it again, one day—but no matter. I suppose I lives in The Gift now. But back to you, to hear Tormund tell it, nobody will be arranging a woman for you. People say that your people, in that red castle in the south are all matched up with their own kind.” She made a disgusted face. “You’re likely arranged to take your own sister to wife.”

Jon made his own disgusted face.

“First of all, that was long ago--we don’t do that anymore; and secondly, as it happens, I-I have already been—"

Jon was cut off from speaking more fully on the subject when everyone in the yard suddenly started moving rapidly about, calling out to each other in either shock or command, distracted by the sudden appearance of a great object flying up in the sky.

Seeing Maxon flying over their head the last few days had become quite commonplace, but this dragon was much larger and all black.

“Is that your dragon, then?” asked Ygritte, a little worried.

“No, Maxon has green markings,” said Jon, looking up, breathless and in awe. “That is my father’s dragon.”

Chapter Text

News that something of great importance was going on out in the courtyard spread throughout the keep and Ned, Catelyn and Robb, all from opposite directions, rushed out into the yard, followed by various other Lords of the North and their families.

“What is it?” shouted Ned, noticing the castle folk in uproar and trying to get someone to answer him.

Ser Rodrik approached rapidly and answered gravely.

“It is the King, my Lord.”

“What?” asked a shocked Ned, “Here? Now?”

Ser Rodrik nodded, glancing upward causing Ned’s eyes to follow suit, just as a dragon’s massive wingspan threw the expansive surroundings in shadow.

“You there!” barked Ser Rodrik to a passing guard. “The King has come to Winterfell. Go and call Embry and Bronwen and that lot out of the barracks and the stable and from wherever they are and be quick about it.”

Ned was busy looking about, looking for all his family and not seeing those he expected to see. He turned to his wife, slightly behind him.

“Cat, the children?”

Catelyn, as all mothers are able, did a quick count with her eyes moving in every direction at once. There’s Bran with Benjen. Sansa is coming now. Robb’s run after Rickon who was flapping his arms about the yard pretending to be a dragon…

“Sansa,” she called across the near distance, “Where is your sister?”

“She was here not long ago. I believe she is out riding.”

“Poole, my cloak?” Ned shouted to the steward, just as Hodor was bringing out Catelyn’s and Robb’s.

“Ned, Arya is not here—she is not within the walls of Winterfell.”

“That girl,” Ned grumbled, as his brother and remaining children quickly formed a line according to age.

Under Ser Rodrik’s watchful eye, the men-at-arms had assembled and ordered themselves swiftly. Ned nodded to the two guards on duty and the gates were then thrown open.

Off in the distance the great black beast circled Winterfell once more, gave a great roar as if to announce its arrival, then placed its feet hard upon the ground, only to roar out in greeting once again.

Prince Jonaerys joined them then, leading a bewildered Ygritte to a position just behind Sansa, next to Tormond and Clegane, with Sansa giving the two Free Folk quick instructions as what to do in the presence of their King. He gave an appreciative nod to his cousin and friends before settling in next to his uncle at the head of the line.

-----

King Rhaegar had barely landed his great dragon when, to everyone’s surprise, Queen Lyanna was seen rapidly scurrying down to the snowy ground from the dragon’s back and front leg quarter, readjusting her furs before running through the gates, into the yard, and right into her son’s open arms.

Once she had embraced him sufficiently, and had kissed every single part of his face, she took his hands in hers and drew back to look him over and just shook her head at what she had discovered.

“Do I even want to know how you got that scar on your brow?”

Jon’s heart was full, so full, in fact, that he could not speak. His smile and eyes were watery and his mother suspected that if there had not been such a great audience, all watching their reunion, he might have shed a tear or two.

“Your brother and sister so wanted to be here to greet you in person, but as you know, it just wasn’t possible.”

“I can well believe it of Visenya, but you will never convince me that Daemon cared in the slightest.”

“Believe it,” said the Queen. “Yes, he may not have said it in so many words, but news of your return affected him in ways only a mother would know.” She quickly embraced him once again. “And you’ve grown, my dearest, although, I can feel your bones even through all those layers of wool and fur,” said the Queen, now playfully poking at his ribs.

“Mother,” was his exasperated protest.

She tsked, but embraced him once again, hiding her worry over his wellbeing by burying her face into Jon’s chest.

“My good aunt had been feeding me up since I got here.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Queen Lyanna said, leaning back again, and quickly wiping away her own tears. “Well, you now have two to feed you twice as much.”

By now, King Rhaegar had dismounted, although a little more regally, owing to his status. He collected his saddle bags from his dragon’s harness before signaling the great beast, Praxis, to fly up and greet his brother, Maxon, who had come to see everything upon the other Dragon’s call.

The King took his time, his booted feet carefully stepping through the ice and snow, his red and black cloak and long white-blond hair blowing elegantly in the frigid wind. However, once in the more well-maintained courtyard of Winterfell, he dropped his bags, marched straight to his son, ignoring the entire courtyard as it came to kneel before him. He got his long arms around both his son and his wife tightly.

“Jonaerys. At Last.”

Rhaegar stood in that attitude for several long moments, his head bowed down over the two most precious objects in the world to him in that moment, while whispering a prayer to his gods which only they three could hear.

“I thank you… I thank you.” When he had thanked the gods of both himself and his wife, he grabbed the back of Jonaerys’ neck with his gloved hand, pulled him forward and kissed his beloved son’s forehead.

When he pulled back, Rhaegar belatedly noticed his subjects still upon their knees and bid the Lord of Winterfell to rise before once again looking over his son and assuring himself that Prince Jonaerys was well and whole, and then stepping forward to greet the Lord of Winterfell.

“Thank you, Lord Stark. Thank you for seeing him back to his people and his family.”

Ned nodded.

“There is no need for thanks, my King. My sister’s son is as dear to me as my own five children. My nephew need never worry that I would not go to the far reaches of the world to find him.”

Lyanna immediately stepped forward and greeted her older brother next, and brother and sister held each other tightly.

“Thank you, Ned. Thank you,” she whispered into his ear, a few of her tears finding their way onto his leather jerkin. She drew back, and a little louder, said, “We set off the moment we received your raven, Neddy. I cannot thank you enough.”

“And what about me,” said Benjen, stepping in to kiss his elder sister. “I’m the one that kept that baby dragon of yours safe above the wall. He is a Stark and we Stark’s look out for our own.”

Lyanna beamed, hugged him while whispering, “Benjen, you know better than that,” she teased, knowing full well that he had only said that to get a rise out of her husband, who only nodded to his younger good-brother in exasperation, causing Lyanna to pinch Benjen’s cheek as punishment for teasing her husband.

The Queen turned next to kiss her good-sister.

“And Cat, you look very well. After the wars, it does my heart good to see you all hale and hearty, although,” she grinned and raised an eyebrow in amusement, “if I am not mistaken, your children are one less in number.”

“Yes,” Caitlyn rushed to say, hesitant to offend the Queen of the seven Kingdoms, “please-please excuse us. I have no idea where Arya could have gotten to. Your arrival was so sudden.”

“Like her Aunt Lyanna more every day, if you ask me,” said Benjen to his brother, in jest.

Lyanna scoffed at her little brother in mock outrage and gave him a little shove to Ned’s amusement at the childishness of his siblings.

Prince Jon was busy reintroducing his cousin Robb to the king.

“There’s always a place for you in my household. A strong northern lad, such as yourself, would have much distinction in the south.”

Ned looked over, suddenly alarmed, knowing Robb was just the sort of impulsive young man to take up such an offer if it meant adventure.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” said Robb, clearly seeing his father’s horrified face, “but my place will always be here in The North.”

Rhaegar only pressed his lips slightly in displeasure before moving on.

“And Lady Sansa, how you have blossomed into a lovely young woman, my dear,” said King Rhaegar, leaning forward to kiss his pretty, red-headed niece, only to kiss Ygritte instead.

Ygritte froze and looked stunned. Catelyn froze and looked equally stunned. And Lyanna, who had already beckoned Sansa forward half a moment before and who she was currently kissing, merely laughed at her husband’s mistake.

“I have our niece here, my love. But you are right, that young woman is also very pretty, as well.”

“This is the Lady Ygritte, father; a friend,” Prince Jonaerys hurried to say, by way of introduction.

Ygritte looked as though she wished to have words with Jon over the use of the word Lady, but she merely curtsied as Sansa had taught her.

Jon watched his father furrow his brows over his use of the word friend. His Kingly father inspected her more closely. And he would admit himself: Ygritte’s curtesy was in no way as refined as other women of his acquaintance performed it. But her attire—there, his father could have no issue--Sansa had provided Ygritte with a very fine dress from her own collection.

His father’s countenance, unreadable to strangers, but very readable to himself, reflected curiosity. He could see the questions about Ygritte forming in his mind. Questions likely about her noble house and her noble father and what long and storied noble lineage she sprang from that gave her leave to consider her Prince Jonaerys’ friend.

However, the anticipated moment of awkward questioning was deflected when a loudly laughing pair of riders rode in through the Winterfell gates.

“I told you I would win!” yelled Arya, triumphantly; her face shiny from exertion, her hair windblown, and in that moment looking like the promise of being a wild northern beauty just like her aunt, was well within her grasp.

“You are such a cheat!” bellowed an outraged Lord Gendry just as he pulled up the reins of his mount, and due to his dark good looks, looking completely the part of some rakishly handsome warrior out of some traveling bards song.

Jon suppressed a groan knowing full well that he should never have let them ride off together. The North always remembered and seeing the two of them together-- surely everyone else was thinking exactly what he was thinking, and soon, his father, who never missed anything would being thinking it, as well.

Lord Gendry, a half an instant before his companion, finally noticed the gathering of all of Winterfell and the instantly recognizable hair color of the Targaryen King and the red and black cloak of the lady. He was off of his horse and bending the knee immediately.

“M-My King. M-My Queen, forgive me,” he said, thoroughly embarrassed, his eyes trained steadily on the ground.

Arya, finally having caught up in recognition, jumped down from her horse rapidly and jumped straight up into Rhaegar’s arms just like she had done since she was three years old.

“Uncle Rhaegar!”

“Yes, just like her Aunt Lyanna,” whispered Benjen, laughingly into Ned’s ear, thinking the entire episode ironic and hilarious.

Ned, shocked by Arya’s cavalier behavior, was stunned into silence, so it was naturally up to Catelyn to wield the discipline.

“Arya, you forget yourself.”

“Oh, sorry.” She let go of her uncle and dropped into the most ungraceful curtsy possible while wearing riding britches. “I mean, Your Grace.”

However, Rhaegar could have cared less about the display of his niece. He kissed her forehead lovingly, while narrowly watching the young man kneeling; much more concerned about this man who had been alone in his nieces company. He eyed him disdainfully, before bidding him to rise.

“And you are--?”

“Lord Gendry Baratheon, at your service, My King.”

“A Baratheon,” said Rhaegar, wearily, as he sneered and rolled his eyes. “But of course you are.”

Lyanna wasn’t having it; tired of her husband’s bias over a person long unseen by any of them. She brightened and was quick to cover up her husband’s rudeness.

“Lord Gendry Baratheron, we are delighted to finally meet you. Jon has mentioned you most fondly in his raven’s, when he remembered to send a raven, I might add,” she said, shooting her son a scathing, but affectionate look. “When I was but a girl, I knew your father a little—a very little.” Rhaegar could not prevent his eyes rolling a second time even if he tried. “But that was a long, long time ago now,” she added for emphasis, specifically for her husband. “When you next see your father and mother, please give them my and the Kings fondest wishes for their health and happiness.”

“Yes, my Queen, of course my Queen,” said Gendry, bowing.

Catelyn reached out and with strong, motherly fingers, got ahold of the back of Arya collar so she had no ability to drift away with the gathered throng in order to miss her punishment. Ned bid the King follow him to his solar to rest, warm himself by the fire, and take some refreshment.

As Rhaegar walked alongside his good-brother, he nodded his way down the path created by those gathered off to the sides. The king glanced all about Winterfell and stopped here and there, nodding to the castlefolk come to see him, patting a child on the head, or greeting some Northern Lord or Lady whom he recognized.

“I see that the repairs are well underway.”

“Yes, my King; we are coming along, though slowly. How goes it in the south?”

“Better every day, though by no means perfect. After the wars in the Western seas, shipping is finally returning to near normal, and food is getting through to the people once more. My kingdom could not have survived another year with wars on two fronts. There are still some Kraken along the coasts to root out, but all should be well in a few more turns of the moon. I so look forward to ruling the peaceful kingdom that has always been promised but always denied me. I owe both you and Lord Jaime Lannister a debt beyond payment.”

Chapter Text

After the Lady of Winterfell had gotten the royal couple settled before the fire and a few moments after enjoying their cups of ale, Catelyn began to fret. She was beside herself with the thought of how she would properly house the royal family on such short notice as the guest chambers for noble visitors was completely full. Fortunately, there was room enough in the family wing if Bran and Rickon doubled up, but it was nothing near fine enough to host the King.

Luckily, the Prince came to her rescue, giving up his room, which had formerly been his mothers, and happily taking Rickon’s smaller space. And naturally it was Sansa who was immediately dispatched to bring it up to a more fitting state to house the heir to the Iron Throne.

Seeing the worry in her good-sister’s eyes, Lyanna sought to sooth her. “We are only here for a few days.”

Rhaegar leaned back in his chair in the Stark family solar and added, “The Princess Daenerys sits the Iron Throne in my absence and let us just say I still hope it is my throne upon my return.”

Catelyn looked as if she didn’t quite know how to answer that.

“A jape, Aunt.”

“Is it?” said Rhaegar, to his son, with the bemused look of a man who knew exactly how at once loving and bloodthirsty his little sister could be in the right situation.

Lyanna once again sought to reassure her sister.

“Rhaegar will happily sleep wherever you put us, Sister. He can survive one or two nights in my former bed without his silk sheets and goose down pillows to comfort him.”

The King cocked his head elegantly, tossing his long white-blond hair as it glinted in the firelight.

“Can I?” he said, eyeing his wife hotly, with some sort of silent challenge.

Catelyn, oblivious to the flirtatious conversation going on around her rushed to add: “As always, we are delighted to have you here, My Queen; however, you must forgive the state of us. We had to prioritize rebuilding other parts of the castle. Your former bedchamber is perfectly warm and comfortable, only a little faded, I’m afraid.”

“Perfect,” exclaimed Lyanna, unwilling to put her good-sister further out in their case. “Now, no more of this My Queen this and My Queen that nonsense. I was once Lyanna and you were Cat and so we will be to each other, again.” Lyanna then became distracted by a large someone standing by the door. “But do excuse me, Cat, I see my old friend has come to greet me.” Lyanna stood and quickly walked over. “Wylis, I am so glad to see you looking so well?” She pulled the big man down and kissed his cheek.

------

Sansa glanced around Rickon’s slightly altered room in satisfaction, just as her maid added the finishing touches to the Prince’s new bedchamber. They both believed that they had succeeded in ridding it of all signs of her youngest brother when the Prince arrived with a small stack of clothing and his leather saddle bag containing the rest of his things.

“You do know we have servants for that?” Sansa smilingly admonished, nodding down to the saddle bag and folded garments which looked suspiciously like Robb’s old riding clothes which she had repaired several times over the years.

“Show me a man who cannot carry his own things two paces down the hall, and I will show you a useless man. I walked for 50 miles in the snow once with my hands bound and without the aid of my horse; I think performing this small task will not do me a grave injury.”

Sansa smiled at his jest, reaching over and removing the clothes from his arms and directing her handmaid to fill the drawers, before dismissing her. Once alone, she felt she could broach a personal question.

“Was it so very bad for you? Being their captive, I mean?”

“No, not so very bad. Ygritte only hit me five or six times,” he exaggerated, laughing. “But thinking back, I said some very unkind things to her King when I first met him; I likely deserved it.”

“Were the Free Folk very cruel to you?”

“No, never cruel; and in Ygritte’s case… there were some not so bad times.”

“Oh, how so?”

“Well… she shared her food and water with me when others were inclined to let me starve. She defended my back during an attack because, as a captive, I had no access to my sword. She led me to a hot spring when, after walking for miles, I was half frozen and she--she helped me to get warm. And just when I thought we were becoming friends—well, then she was gone.”

He was frowning and Sansa wondered at it. But soon, he stopped himself and glanced up, and smiled, something which Sansa would call false.

“After a time the Free Folk King and I reached an agreement to settle our differences--and I found, for my part, that I no longer bore Ygritte or her people any ill-will. I honestly thought she was dead—Tormund said so, and I believed him. I was as surprised as anyone when she rode into the yard.”

Sansa was just about to ask another question when Maester Luwin, standing at the open door, cleared his throat and interrupted their conversation.

“My Prince,” he bowed. “Forgive me, but I was sent here to find Lady Sansa.” He turned to Lady Sansa. “Your Lady Mother told me that I would find you here preparing the Prince’s change in rooms. You have had a Raven, my dear. It bears the sigil of House Tully.”

Accepting the small scroll from his hands into hers, Sansa noticed the Maester lingered and glanced back and forth between the two of them. When it had grown slightly awkward, he spoke.

“Do not stay long, my Lady; I am sure your mother expects you soon.”

“Of course, I won’t be long.”

With another moment of hesitation, Luwin turned to go. When she heard his steps retreating down the corridor, Sansa laughed and rolled her eyes. Jon was staring at her curiously, so she clued him in to her amusement.

“That was Maester Luwin’s way of saying it is inappropriate for the pure and virtuous Lady Sansa of House Stark to be alone with a man in his bedchamber—as if you have not been my own cousin and like a brother to me my entire life.”

He watched as she broke the seal on the scroll and read through it quickly, and smiling her delight at the message it contained.

“Is that how—do you see me as your brother, then?” asked Jon, a doubtful tone in his voice.

“Sometimes.” She finally glanced up from her raven when she heard the somber sound in his voice. She reached for his hand and pulled it to her breast. “I do love you, Jon, just as I love Robb and Bran and Rickon; never doubt it. But--is it not strange to now be expected to change from one kind of love into another kind of love? We’ll be expected to—to share intimacies—and I will admit--”

“Yes.” He quickly added, moving closer, knowing exactly what she meant. “I agree. That is one of the reasons I pushed for a longer betrothal—to give you a chance to get used to the idea of loving me another way--and for me to get used to the idea of loving you that way, as well. And, as you say, I do love you, Sansa, just as I have always loved you, but, not on such terms as to—I mean, I will come to love you that way--I am certain of it—I will endeavor to--in time—I am certain.” He stepped forward and cupped her cheek, lowering his voice and addressed her in earnest. “Sansa, I promise you this: know that I don’t expect—I mean, after we are married—please don’t think I would make demands of you—demands of your body. When you are ready, be it a week, a moon or a year, I will be ready.”

Sansa could see by the pained expression on his face, what his speech had cost him. And it was such a delicate topic that she knew she must be blushing. Summoning a bit more courage, she stepped forward and rested her hand over the hand that cupped her check. She then leaned forward and kissed him chastely, the first time she felt brave enough to undertake such an action.

“Then,” she said softly, “It is settled between us. We each know our own mind and need not speak of it again until the time is right. When I travel to Kings Landing, we will take our time and get to know one another. Properly.”

“Yes. Gods, yes.”

He pulled her to him then and they embraced each other for a long while, taking comfort in the fact that they must now understand each other completely.

“So,” he said, finally pulling back, the press of her body having unsettled him a bit. “You have had some good news from Riverrun, it would seem?”

“Yes!” she said excitedly, remembering her raven, before sobering. “Only… I will have to see if my mother and father agree if the news is good or bad. Here, would you like to read it?”

“Are you certain, I mean, it was meant for you.”

“I do not mind. And really, no matter how long we have managed to put it off, sooner or later I think we must begin thinking of ourselves as an us. My burdens or joy must, one day, become your burdens and joy, as well.”

Carefully, he took the parchment from her hands and quickly read through it.

“So,” asked Sansa, watching his face closely. “What do you think?”

“I think—this news would give you pleasure. And Sansa, I will always have you happy, if I can. That I promise you.”

Chapter Text

After dinner in the great hall with the boisterous Lords of the North, copious amounts of ale, and endless toasts to everyone’s continued health, the Stark and Targaryen family gathered together in the welcoming quiet of the Stark family solar.

Queen Lyanna watched as her husband was finally able to cast off the public face he had been wearing for the evening and relax with the ones he truly loved. She turned back to Catelyn and she and her good-sister discussed the myriad of concerns for those under their care since the end of the wars.

At the mention of the children’s activities of late, Lyanna regarded Arya and Bran, sprawled across the floor, taking turns reading to young Rickon from a book on the lore of the magical creatures to be found in Essos and Westeros, with Rickon turning to her husband multiple times as they read about dragons and asking him if such and such were true.

She glanced over at Eddard and Benjen, far too quiet as they both sat silently contemplating the fire.

Jonaerys, Robb, and Sansa, were simply sitting off to the side, delighting in each other’s company, with Sansa being the more industrious of the three, dutifully at her needlework, embroidering something yellow onto a great quantity of black fabric.

Rhaegar had a certain gleam in his eyes. He was watching his son and niece closely and she could see his mind turning over something. Lyanna suppressed a sigh: it was inevitable. She loved her husband dearly, but he was a man—he had his faults and such was the life of a woman.

Jon pointed to something that caught his eye on the fabric and Sansa held it up for him to inspect, causing both of them to laugh while Robb shook his head in what looked like exasperation.

She thought the scene very charming and domestic and apparently, her husband thought so too by the shrewd smile rapidly blooming on his face. Despite her slight misgivings on such arrangements, Jon and Sansa did, at least, get on well and she instantly thought how it would do their hearts good to have such congenial family scenes repeated daily back in Kings Landing.

“Lord Eddard,” said Rhaegar, suddenly, this time more informally now that it was merely the family gathered round the hearth together. Rhaegar sat up straighter in his chair, the tone of his voice commanding the attention of the entirety of the room. “I believe that it is high time we make Lady Sansa’s and Prince Jonaerys’s betrothal official. Shall we come to an agreement, my Lord brother?”

Rhaegar stood then and Ned stared at the Kings outstretched arm for a long moment, knowing that his good-brother expected him to also stand and take it without delay. The entire room grew silent, until both the Prince and Sansa came to their feet, the black fabric forgotten and falling softly to the floor. And both of them immediately spoke at once.

“Lady Sansa and I have come to an agreement.”

“The Prince and I have agreed to delay.”

Taken aback at this sudden declaration, the King spun towards them both in astonishment.

“What is this?” His voice grew tight. “What is this talk of agreements? The last I heard it was the providence of Lord Stark and Lord Stark alone to make any such agreements. With me and me alone. Is that not correct, Lord Stark?”

Sansa was looking down in embarrassment, while Jonaerys had that Targaryen part of himself that she recognized as a man now very much used to making his own decisions and misliking anyone telling him otherwise. Her son turned away, silently fuming.

Ned was looking to his nephew with worry and Jon’s countenance prompted her brother to act.

“Yes, my King,” said Ned, finally standing. “You are, of course, correct. However, I think you can see for yourself that now is not the best time. The wars have left a cruel mark on your kingdom. Now is the time for rest, my King. For reunions. For healing.”

Rhaegar scoffed. “Well then, if it is rest you all require, you must all come down to Kings Landing. That is the place to take your rest, out of this interminable cold and snow. Yes, bring your family to Kings Landing and warm your faces in the sun.”

Queen Lyanna knew her brother well enough to know Kings Landing was not his idea of restful in any way, shape or form. She had seen with her own eyes how worn-out her fellow Northmen were. Several of the children did not seem to be of a proper weight and Winterfell had only just now built back up their stores. It pained her to think her husband had not noticed.

“You are very generous with your offer, my King,” said Ned. “However, there is much rebuilding to consider. There are also appeals from my bannerman to see to. Besides, there must always be a Stark at Winterfell. Perhaps next year, when we are on better footing. I have a duty to my people.”

“And might I remind you, Lord Stark, that you also have a duty to your King—and to your sister, the Queen. You need to show your face in my court at some time. Long before the wars took place you had not been to Kings Landing in years. Do you want my subjects to whisper, to speculate why the Warden of the North keeps himself away from his family in the south? Do you wish for people to wonder if there is a rift between Stark and Targaryen? Now, with the wars over, I have half a mind to call a quorum of all the Lord Paramount’s of my Kingdom where you certainly must present yourself regardless of your duties in the north. But think of your family, as well. Look to the needs of your wife, Lord Stark, to your children. Does not your Southron wife deserve to feel the sun again? How are you to make advantageous marriages for any of your children if they never meet anyone new or talk to other people their own age. And none of your children, I must add, are betrothed. Lord Robb should have an heir and a spare by now, Lady Sansa if I am not mistaken, is now 17 and should have my grandson in her arms. Arya is of an age to be betrothed. They need to meet the other young people of the kingdom. Would you have them show up to meet perfect strangers on their wedding days like in the days of our fathers? Might I remind of you of the misery visited upon your own sister with her betrothal to a man she barely knew nor ever wanted?”

Ned was all thoughtful silence, causing Lyanna and Catelyn to share a worried look between them. She knew the King had made many fair points, but they also both knew that Ned would be firm where he knew he was right.

“Might I beg a little time to set more things to restoration; two or three turns of the moon at least, my King.”

“Granted, but no more than three turns of the moon, mind. I am not so heartless as to not see the ravages upon the North, the little children so small and pale. I will sit with you during the petitions and Lyanna and I will visit with your people over the next days to extend our care and support. Does this suit you, Brother?”

Ned nodded and gave a small smile and Lyanna could not hold back her own. She grabbed her good-sisters hand and squeezed.

“However,” added the king, and by his commanding tone, causing everyone to sit up straighter. “I have one additional demand. You will send Lady Sansa to us at Kings Landing, immediately. She will learn all she can from the Queen and begin to know the ways of the court. Upon my return to Kings Landing, I will issue a proclamation throughout the land that Lady Sansa of House Stark will henceforth be considered as the Ward of the Crown.”

Sansa and Jon shared a look of silent agreement.

“Father, I must tell you that Lady Sansa has had an invitation to journey South. She only learned of it today and she would very much like to accept.”

All eyes now turned to Sansa.

“I was about to mention it, Mother, Father. As you know, I have been corresponding with my aunt, Lady Tully at Riverrun. She finds herself short on companionship her own age and we have taken a liking to each other through our letters.” She turned to her uncle. “She is not so well-versed in the Tully ways which my mother has been so good as to teach me. Since my mother cannot be spared from Winterfell, my Uncle Edmure wishes me to be their companion for a time,” she turned back to her father. “And I so want to go.”

“I—” Ned paused and looked to his wife, sharing a silent, saddened glance between them. Lyanna felt that look in her heart knowing what it all meant and so did Ned.

“I would do anything to promote your happiness. But, Sansa, I don’t think you fully comprehend what this now means. As the Crown’s Ward, only the King can now grant you that permission.”

Sansa cast her eyes to the floor and Rhaegar accessed her for a long moment. Lyanna had seen enough of her interactions with her son to know, though not in love and nowhere near, they had a high regard for each other, and which with exposure could eventually lead to love.

“What say you, Jonaerys?” said the King. “It is her company you would be spared from if she were not to journey to Kings Landing for several moons. It is you who must decide.”

Lyanna was the only one in the room watching Sansa at that moment. Her niece had bristled a little at that declaration, and in the true manner of all Stark women like herself grew a little annoyed that her fate was in the hands of another, even if it was Jon’s. Lyanna smiled to herself, impressed and proud, knowing her son would always be kept on his toes.

And yet, as much as Rhaegar loved Jonaerys and said he was a true dragon, Jon was also her son and a Stark and she already knew what he would do.

“I would gladly let Sansa do anything that made her happy and I have said as much to her myself. For the present, going to visit her family at Riverrun would make her overjoyed. Sansa well knows my mind.”

Sansa gave up all pretense of keeping her ladylike demeanor and flung her arms about her cousin, kissing his cheek.

Her husband smirked a little when, realizing he had walked right into that. He took his defeat and shared a knowing glance with his wife. Lyanna merely raised one eyebrow, communicating to him silently: Let him have this, causing the king to roll his eyes.

“Lady Sansa.” Sansa disengaged from Jon. “When your visit in the Riverlands is over, you will rejoin your family directly in Kings Landing, where you will take up your role as our Ward. After a time, when the Queen and I deem it fit--and not before--we will then move forward with an official announcement of your betrothal.” He then turned back to his Good-brother. “Is this agreeable to you, my Lord Stark?”

Ned quickly held out his arm and the King took it in agreement, and they both turned to their children and watched as they both joined hands and smiled at each other.

Chapter Text

Later that night, Freya was dismissed for the evening, and the three young women gathered in Sansa’s room to talk over the day and make ready for bed. Sansa was digging through her chest looking for something specific while Arya and Ygritte talked.

“But what does that mean: being a ward?” asked Ygritte, somewhat interested in the inner workings of the people of Westeros.

Arya, spread out across her sister’s bed, with her boots still on and laughed.

“It means my sister has to do everything the king says, when he says it.”

“I thought all you Southeners had to do that anyway?”

“It will be like she is his daughter,” said Arya, explaining things to her new friend with a patience heretofore not shown to anyone else.

“I heard tale that this Dragon King of yours has another son and one daughter. Doesn’t he like the daughter he already has?”

“When you say it like that, it all sounds crazy. They do it so everyone is tied together in some way or another and we don’t spend the rest of our days lopping off each other’s heads. I’ll explain it like this: Say the people in The Reach want to start a war and they call their banners; you know, assemble their troops, because they want to march on Riverrun.”

“What is the reason for this war?” asked Ygritte.

“No idea--it’s only pretend--they just do, alright. Anyway, when they ride into the Riverlands, they risk offending the Westerman because…”

“…because they rode through the West lands without the West Lord’s leave,” said Ygritte, proudly thinking she had figured it all out on her own.

“No, not at all. No, the Reachmen risk having the Lannisters, the Lords of the West and their very large army, halfway up their ass because of the Stormlanders.”

“Wait. What?”

“The Baratheons… as in Gendry Baratheon… are Stormlanders—The Reach cutting off the heads of the Riverlanders would offend the Stormlanders.

“That don’t make no sense.”

“Gendry is part Lannister; he squired for Lord Lannister, his uncle: Gendry is also great friends to the prince. The same prince who is kin to the Starks, the Starks are married into the Tullys. The Tullys are Lords of the Riverlands.”

“Oh, I think I see—that is--"

“But there is another example we can consider. If something bad ever to happened to the King and all his family and to Lord Baratheon--Gendry’s father—then Gendry would be King.”

“You’re lying! Explain that one.”

“Well, as I said, almost everyone are related or tied up together. Gendry’s grandmother or great grandmother—I don’t know which one—was a Targaryen, just like the King. So, in a way, though distant, Gendry is Prince Jon’s cousin—but not like we are Prince Jon’s cousins—but we are not Gendry’s cousins. Do you understand now?”

“No. And you are making my head hurt.”

Arya laughed hysterically.

“Consider yourself lucky that you don’t have to learn all the House names or House Words and all their sigils and banner colors. Running off and becoming one of the Free Folk is starting to look very appealing to me.”

“Don’t let mother hear you say that, or she will certainly tie you down to the bed,” said Sansa, coming out of her dressing room, holding out her thickest, longest, warmest night gown and pushing Arya’s dirty boots off her bed.

Ygritte was incredulous at what she saw in Sansa’s hands.

“How do you sleep in that?

“There is a chill in the air tonight. It’s very warm, I assure you.”

“I’m not talking about how warm it is. You’re all covered up to your neck. Bet your man don’t like that. It will take him all day to find all your good bits with all those buttons.”

Sansa blushed.

“I don’t have a man, well, not quite yet.”

“What? Never?”

“No.”

“What, don’t you like men? Oh, you prefer women?”

“No, I mean, that is not the Westerosi way. The good bits, as you describe them, are kept for my husband alone.”

“What? All you Southern girls? You save your yourselves for one man? Why do they make you do that? None of your Southern boys, leastwise the few I’ve seen, save themselves for one woman. Even those ugly Crows up at The Wall can’t wait to take their cocks out and share it around with as many of them Molestown whores as they can. Why shouldn’t you enjoy yourself, as well? It’s the Free Folk way.”

“It is just the way it is.”

“You’s as old as me, or damn near and I took my first roll with a man when I were fifteen.”

Sansa chose to ignore such frankness and continued.

“Yes, you are correct, I am considered old by Westerosi marriage standards, but it will happen soon enough. I still can’t speak on the appropriate age for taking rolls, but in the North, if not for the wars, we are usually betrothed by the time we flower and—”

“Flower?”

“She means when we bleed,” said Arya. “I first bled when I was 12; Sansa was 14.”

“Yes, thank you, Arya; always delicate.”

“And Sansa, always a perfect lady.”

“So, you’ve never taken a lover, then?”

Sansa scoffed. “I can well imagine my mother’s face at the thought. Father would likely fall over dead and then call all his banners to make war on the man presented as his eldest daughter’s lover.”

“Who says they need to know?” Ygritte grinned wickedly, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. “Jon took me around your castle. Plenty of hidy-holes round here where no one would dream of looking for you. Just pick a fella with the biggest sword.”

“It’s Winterfell: they all carry big swords,” said Arya, innocently.

Ygritte laughed so hard that she could not draw a breath.

“I wasn’t talking about a weapon, least wise, the ones made of steel, silly. I’m talking about cocks. There’s a fair few here that look like they have nice, big ones. And big one are always better than small ones.”

“Like who?”

Sansa was scandalized by her sister question.

“ARYA! Ygritte, don’t answer her.”

“Speaking of--I likes the look of that Gendry. He fills out his breeches real nice.”

Arya’s eyes grew as big as saucers. She sat up.

“What do you mean?”

“You are such a wee babe, Arya. Haven’t you ever looked? Next time you see him, when he’s out in the training yard, swinging that big battlehammer of his round and round, getting all hot and sweaty, just take a look for yourself; you’ll see.”

“Don’t you dare, Arya!”

“Leave her be, Sansa; let her have her fun.”

But Arya was suddenly worried.

“Ygritte--you won’t—I mean—not that I am anything to--”

Ygritte knew what Arya was getting at before she even finished the sentence.

“What? Take him as my lover—is that what you mean? No, I won’t go after him. I’d wager he’s just as untouched as you lot. He still has a sweetness about him, meaning he hasn’t been worked over too much. And he don’t look at women like they are juicy pieces of meat on his table.”

Arya sighed, strangely satisfied.

Ygritte now trained playful eyes on Sansa.

“Now, what about you, Princess Sansa, I’ll wager that the menfolk hereabouts don’t see you as a babe in the woods like this one here.”

“Oh, Sansa can have her pick of men: they are always walking around here mooning over her.”

“They do not!”

“Yes, they do!”

“Who?” said Sansa.

“Clay Cerwyn. Fallon Glover. Small John Umber—Big John Umber. Those skinny Tallhart twins with the pimply--.”

“They do not!”

“Yes, they do!”

“Arya, that is not how we find your sister a lover. Sansa’s lover needs to be mysterious, dangerous, because half the fun of having a lover is the chance of being caught in the act, and really, being caught with some skinny, pimply twin with his hands up your skirts takes all the fun out of it.”

“What do you mean: with his hands up your skirt?”

Sansa slapped her forehead. “Ygritte, please don’t answer her!”

“You’re a tall woman, so you need someone taller. You know who I’d pick for you, Sansa? A real man—a big man. Not some boy who doesn’t know which end to stick it in.”

Arya had a thought and laughed. “Tormund!”

“Gods no, not unless you want the same hand up your skirts that was up your handmaidens skirts the day before. He’s disgusting. He drinks too much, and he shares his cock with anyone who asks. And I do mean anyone.”

“Who did you have in mind for Sansa, then?”

“What about that Hound fella. He looks like he’d knows what to do with his hands. I flirted with him something awful, but he showed no interest. Might be Sansa can do better.”

“He has an aversion to red hair, remember. Besides, he is most unpleasant, so, no thank you.”

“But have you seen the size of his fingers, Sansa? That’s a good sign. He’d be good for four or five good fucks before your lady bits dry up with non-use.”

“Dry up?”

“Don’t answer her!”

“Gods, you southerners?”

Chapter Text

The King and Queen, due to travel fatigue, had not, as yet, made an appearance the next morning, so, the Winterfell inhabitants carried on with their duties as if it was a normal day.

Up on the high walk Sansa, on her way to entertain yet another Lords insipid daughter, joined her father who was staring down into the training yard below.

“What is going on?” she asked.

Ned nodded below.

“Watch and see.”

Down below, Sansa could see that a training session had just ended.

Lady Brienne was putting away her training sword. Ygritte, whose Westerosi transformation had not extended beyond a day, was now wearing Mormont colors, and was absentmindedly twirling a staff and speaking with her new friends, the Mormont women, whom Arya had apparently introduced her to the day before.

They had all become fast friends, it seemed and were now laughing together. Sansa felt a little excluded from their easy comradery and was somewhat jealous from being encumbered by all her ladylike northern finery.

Arya left the group of warrior women and was busy pestering Clegane about something, but Clegane was ignoring her.

Whatever it was that they were discussing suddenly drew the attention of the Prince, Robb and Lord Gendry. Laughs and japes were exchanged until Clegane threw his hands up in defeat and appeared to be granting some sort of concession.

“All right, all right,” he suddenly said, loudly, “Show us what you got, then.”

Arya glanced eagerly to Lady Brienne who said nothing, and who only nodded her head once in assent.

Arya then took up her training sword and began brandishing it to-and-fro, before saluting Clegane with a flourish.

Everyone moved off to the sides giving them ample space. Sansa couldn’t believe what was about to happen and glanced to her father with concern, but he was bemused as he concentrated on the scenes below.

“None of that Braavosi Water Dancing sh--nonsense, if you please,” shouted Clegane, irritably.

Arya began to circle her much larger opponent, stepping forward, then withdrawing quickly depending upon her success in landing hits or not.

Clegane did not mock Arya nor taunt. He took her hits without comment, fought cleanly—elegantly even—but even Sansa could tell from her vantage point above him that he was holding back his full strength. She now studied him closely: in battle, he was likely a fearsome thing to behold: tall, broad—his sweat-soaked chest, heaving, wielding his broadsword with a savagery heretofore unseen in the North--a wild look in his hard gray eyes as he chased after you, caught you, pinned you down, his hands, with those very large fingers, slowly lifting—”

“Dammit, Ygritte!”

“Sansa? Did you say something?”

Sansa blinked and looked at her father.

“No! What?”

“You’re flushed.”

“Am I? Oh, I am just worried for my sister. Is it wise to allow this?”

“Brienne has my trust when it comes to Arya’s training. She has allowed it, so I will allow it.”

“And because Mother is not here.” She smiled, mischievously.

“And because your mother is not here.”

They were missing the spectacle below, both noticing that Arya was now flat on her back, breathing heavily, Clegane’s blunted blade sword pointing towards her neck. There was humor in Clegane’s voice when he addressed her.

“Do you yield, Wolf Girl?”

Her eyes flicked from the blunted blade up to Clegane’s smirking face and back to the blade again.

“I yield.”

“The right answer.”

Sansa could see for herself that her sister was not happy about it. Reaching out his hand Clegane helped her up.

“You’re good; not as good as you think you are, but any cu--idiot can see that you have been taught well (with a nod to Lady Brienne). If you were a lad, you’d probably be a squire by now. Not mine, but a squire all the same. And speaking of squires, let’s see what Jaime Lannister’s former squire can do.” He turned to his friend.

Lord Gendry, shrugged then reached for a training sword, seemed to think better of it, before beginning to warm up bit with his own warhammer, swinging it two and fro.

“If that isn’t Robert reborn, I don’t know who is,” said her father, looking at his best friend’s son fondly.

“Not with that thing!” yelled Clegane, in exasperation.

“You said all comers; this is what all comers means. I never wield a sword, you know that.”

Clegane grumbled,

“Just keep it away from my head,” he said, setting his blunted blade aside and taking up a dulled battle axe.

“If you are afraid, just say you are afraid,” taunted a grinning Lord Gendry, taking up his stance briefly, before launching into a vicious and rapid attack.

Sansa could see that this sparring session was very different than the one with her sister. Gendry was strong… very strong. He parried and thrust the heavy hammer as if it weighted no more than a dried leaf. Neither of the men held back, and for a fair few minutes, Clegane had taken up a defensive posture.

Sansa could clearly see how very intrigued her father was as he stepped closer to the railings, gripping them tightly, and silently sending encouragement down to the Baratheon heir so as not to show outward favoritism to either of his son’s friends.

Ayra, Sansa could tell, was mesmerized, her eyes tracking every move Gendry made with a focus she had never once paid to anyone or anything before in her life. Sansa happened to glance down at Ygritte and Ygritte noticing, looked up and winked at her, both knowing very well why Arya was so intrigued.

Robb began to shout, humor lacing his voice.

“You can take him, Hound, I believe in you! Come on: move your feet.”

Robb then laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen in life.

Not to be out done, the Prince began rooting for Gendry.

“Finish him now, Gendry, while you are still fresh. You know how he gets when he has his second wind.”

That statement signaled a change in Clegane. He became a totally different warrior within the blink of an eye. He began to advance on Gendry, forcing him to take up both ends of the hammer’s handle in his hands to block the blows Clegane was suddenly raining down on him with his axe.

“I told you, Gendry, second wind,” shouted Jon, elbowing Robb.

“Yes, come on, Gendry,” shouted Robb, reversing his previous loyalties, “Move your feet. I believe in you!”

Their taunting of the two combatants sent Jon and Robb into fits of more laughter.

“Will you two just shut up,” yelled Gendry, having momentarily lost his concentration in a sudden fit of pique. This inattention only succeeded in Gendry being driven to a knee, his hammer still held upward to block more blows.

However, Gendry must have seen some sort of opening, because he took the smaller end of his hammer’s handle and jabbed it quickly into Clegane’s abdomen.

Sansa didn’t know what suddenly came over her, but she let out a loud, audible scream, just loud enough to momentarily draw Clegane’s eyes upward to herself. At his sudden distraction, Gendry didn’t hesitate, he rotated his hammer to the heavy end and sent another much more forceful jab into the same spot, knocking all the air out of Clegane’s lungs, causing him to immediately double over and drop to both knees with a loud “oof”.

For a long moment, all was silence before all was action. Robb, the Prince, Ser Rodrik, Maege Mormont, Brienne and Arya rushed forward. But Clegane only raised his hand to keep them all back.

“Give me a moment—just give me—a moment."

Lord Stark, glanced once at Sansa with worry, before rushing to the stairs, causing Sansa to swallow in shame before following. She was mortified. This was surely her fault. She must apologize--what had she done?

When they both reached the yard Clegane was using his axe’s handle to push himself upward while Gendry assisted his up on the other side.

“Are you well, Clegane?” said Lord Stark. “That was quite a blow you took.”

“Yes,” said Gendry, “I guess I hit you harder than I thought. My blood was up. I am sorry.”

“But it’s not your fault, now, is it?” said Clegane, his eyes turning accusingly towards Lady Sansa causing Sansa to flush in great embarrassment.

“Ser-Ser Sandor—I don’t know why I screamed--please, let me apologize for--”

He held up his palm before her.

“No.”

“But I feel some responsibility towards—”

“Only some?”

“Let us call our Maester,” added Lord Stark. “Arya, run and fetch Maester Luwin, at once.”

“No!” said Clegane, grumbling in irritation. “I’m all right.” Then, taking a deep, steadying breath, he calmed his tone. “My thanks, Lord Stark—just let me—let me walk it off. I will be well.” And presently, he turned and moved off towards the bath house and out of sight.

“Robb, keep an eye on him—if he isn’t any better this afternoon, show him to our hot springs. A long soak will likely set him to rights.”

Ygritte took the opportunity to move in, grin playfully, and to whisper to Sansa.

“I think we can take the Hound off your list of potential lovers, don’t you?”

Chapter Text

The great hall was teeming with all sorts of people, both high and low. At the middle of the table, with her father, her mother sat to her father’s left and the King to the right and the Queen and the Prince sitting near him but slightly off to the side. Maester Luwin sat at his own small table on the left; a quill, ink pot, and several sheets of parchment at the ready.

Robb and Benjen Stark stood behind Lord and Lady Stark, leaning against the wall, taking in all the action.

Arya, as usual was nowhere to be seen. Lord Gendry was missing as well, but then, the North’s matters were not really of his concern. Sitting in the front row, beside Bran and Rickon, sat Tormund Giantsbane, watching the proceedings closely, no doubt curious as to how the meeting worked when it came to his own time to speak.

Clegane, a head or two taller than most men assembled, other than the Umbers and Wylis, stood in the very back, watchful.

Lord Stark, being a fair man, always gave the small folk equal attention in between the larger request’s from the assembled Lords.

When Sansa and Ygritte entered, the proceedings after the afternoon rest break had already started. A middle-aged woman was speaking.

“Hims been a right nuisance, milord. Always at the ale, always eating us out of house and home. I keep telling him I can’t keep him no more; I’ve got littluns at home. Hims needs honest work, him does. Hims too old for me to look after.”

Lord Stark eyes studied the sullen young man.

“Stand Halen Belk and answer me true? Have you been causing your old mother distress?”

“Didn’t mean it, milord, didn’t mean it. I’ll do better, I promise. Just don’t send me to The Watch.”

Her father furrowed his brow.

“What makes you think I’m sending you to The Night’s Watch.”

“I’m seeing that there Black Brother. Him standing there, watching me like he has idears.”

To Sansa, the King had the perfect countenance of composure, but she could tell her father was amused by the look in his eye, even if the others didn’t recognize it themselves.

Ned Stark turned to his brother Benjen, his eyebrows raised in inquiry.

“Do you have ideas, Ben?”

“Lord no, not for this one, at least. But, if you like, I would be happy to send Yoren down to collect him. Shadow Tower is always looking for fresh recruits. They keep getting eaten for some reason. Bears, I imagine.”

Several of the lords assembled chuckled, but Halen saw nothing funny about it.

He dropped to his knees, pleading. “Please, not The Watch, milord. I’ll take any work, but not The Watch. Please, please.”

Lord Stark sighed deeply.

“I’ll not send you to The Watch.”

“Oh, bless you, milord, bless you.”

“However, I will be sending you to Deepwood Mott. Lord Glover has petitioned for strong young men to help with the rebuilding there. You will serve the Lord of the Mott for three years. However, for the first two years, Lord Glover will send half your wages to your mother as recompense for the trouble you have caused her. Is that understood? You will see Lord Glover’s man before the end of the day and follow his directions from here on out.”

Mother Belk beamed, and bowed several times to Lord Stark, Lord Glover, and the King in thanks as she left the floor; but young Belk looked none too happy and scowled as he followed his mother out.

Ned drank from his water cup before turning to Maester Luwin. “Who’s next.”

“Prince Jonaerys Targaryan, Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms and Tormund Giantsbane, Leader of the Free Folk from beyond The Wall, here to appeal for assistance.

As the two stood and came forward, a few grumbles in the crowd could be heard at the presence of the Wildling, which Ned ignored for the time being.

“Please state your business, Prince Jonaerys.”

“Uncle, as you already know, I brokered an alliance with the Free Peoples beyond The Wall during the great Northern war. It was not without heavy cost. They lost many fighting men, their homes beyond The Wall, and the lands which they used to range for food and fodder have been devastated and depleted. I escorted a party of survivors to The Gift myself as a place of refuge and rest. As you can imagine our brave allies need assistance before they safely return beyond The Wall. They only request leave to remain in The Gift for no more than five years to begin to recover. They have a great need of tools and building materials and help with the building efforts there.”

Ned nodded, before turning to Tormund Giantsbane. “Do you have something to add, as well?

“Yes, Friend Stark. We can build for ourselves, but along with the tools to cut timber, we need better weapons with which to hunt.”

Before Lord Stark could reply, the King’s voice rang out.

“Over the last days, my son has spoken to his mother, the Queen and myself, about you, Ser Tormund and how your people came to his aid many, many times during the war. He has told us stories of the time you saved his life and aided him when he was injured in the battle. For that you have mine and the Queen’s thanks and appreciation. The people of Westeros owe the Free Folk a great debt for their many sacrifices, which I am more than happy to pay. Let the Lords of the North know that the Crown will bear the cost of your settlement in the Gift for five years as thanks for the return of our beloved Crown Prince. Lord Manderley, arise.”

With his granddaughter’s aid, Lord Manderley stood.

“My Lord,” said the King, “You will see to it that regular shipments of building supplies and iron from the trade in your port, are sent to the Free Folk in The Gift and in return, the Crown will compensate you from our own purse.” Lord Manderley nodded before sitting back down. “In return for the Crown’s aid,” the King added, “the Free Folk must pledge to live in peace with their fellow Northmen. You will not raid our lands; you will abduct no women… well, unwillingly.”

Soft laughter cut through those assembled.

“No worries, there, Westerosi King,” added a jovial Tormund. “Not enough cock left amongst the Free Folk to pass around, as it is.”

This earned a round of louder chuckles or either blushes, from those gathered.

“As you say, Friend Tormund. In return we will leave you in peace to raise your families how you see fit. In the interim, as guests within my northern most kingdom, you will bring your more immediate needs and concerns to Lord Stark and Lord Stark alone. Is there anything you wish to add, Lord Stark?”

“No, my King; you are just and fair and I am happy to follow your command.”

Thinking petitions now complete, he turned to his Maester to bring matters to a close.

“What say you, Maester Luwin? It would seem we have heard from everyone who wished to be heard this day.”

Luwin nodded in agreement and moved to pack up his supplies. However, Lady Sansa stood.

“Father, I would speak if I am allowed.”

Lord Stark and his wife cast surprised looks in their daughter’s direction.

“Come forward and state your business, my child.”

“Thank you, father.” She came to stand in the center of the room like all the Lords did when making their case, and took a deep, steadying breath under the weight of so many eyes. “Like Prince Jon has done with Ser Tormund, I too have found a friend in the Free Folk. Lady Ygritte has told me many things about her people, and father, from what I have learned from her, I wish to speak particularly on behalf of the women and children among the Free folk. Tools and weapons and building supplies are, of course very important, but babies and young children need other things, too. They need cloth for clothes, leather for shoes, and the women require assistance with storing food for the long term like we do here at Winterfell. I would ask that you consider the women and children’s needs, as well.”

Ned gave a long and thoughtful pause and nodded his head.

“Yes, Sansa, you are right, of course. Thank you for the reminder that we should always consider the more tender side of life.”

“You are kind and good, Sansa, dearest,” added the king, his eyes shining, showing all just how proud he was of her for coming forward.

Sansa curtsied deeply and nodded her head in thanks.

“Lord Robb, come forward and stand next to your sister,” said Lord Stark, addressing his son and heir.

Robb quickly did as he was bid.

“Sansa,” said her father, “you once asked me to let you take on more of an active role in the running of the North and I am sorry to say I discounted it, wanting my daughter to have the comforts and the life of ease she was meant to have. However, I now see that I have been shortsighted. You are wise and worthy beyond your years and I thank my wife, Lady Catelyn, for the raising such a loving, generous, and thoughtful daughter.”

He glanced around the hall to make sure his proclamation would be heard by all.

“Lord Robb, Lady Sansa, as soon as you are able, I wish you both to journey to The Gift. Robb, you will go forth as my representative to the Free Folk. Sansa, you will see to the concerns of the women and children and report your findings and requirements to your brother. Robb, you, in turn, will make a report on what specific tools and supplies are needed and make those reports to Lord Manderley. You will keep me informed of your progress. You may both take what ready supplies that can now be spared from Winterfell and transport them to The Gift with a suitable party of men from our ranks to assist you. I charge you both to make your plans and discharge them as the two of you see fit, consulting with each other, your Lady mother and Maester Luwin, as needed before you go.”

With that, Ned called an end to the long day. The King nodded his approval and smiled once again at Sansa, extremely gratified with himself for having selected the perfect woman to be a princess for his son, his good daughter and Westeros’ future queen.

Chapter Text

“I said, did you know Ygritte could use a bow and arrow?”

Sansa jumped, startled. She had not been attending and had no idea when her sister had approached her.

“Jon said he will ride out in a day or two with Robb so we could hunt and have meat for the journey to The Gift.”

“What do you mean by we?”

“Me, Robb, Jon, and even Ygritte. Ygritte said she would go to help hunt, too, so I asked Father, and he said yes, that I could go, but only, I think, because I would not be a woman alone. Now Gendry and Tormund want to tag along. We should be back in a day or two depending on what we find in the Wolf Wood.”

“I assume you did not inform mother of this hunting trip?”

“You would assume correctly.”

“What about Ser Sandor?”

She nodded in the direction of the very man she had been watching; afraid that he was still angry with her but needing to talk to him all the same. Arya glanced over quicky and looked back at her sister.

“What about him?”

“You didn’t mention him. Is he not to go on this hunt of yours?”

“Robb says he has business in Wintertown.”

“He’s not from the North; what sort of business could he possibly have there other than the tavern? If it is wine he wants, he knows father will give him all he wishes.”

Arya rolled her eyes.

“Don’t be daft, Sansa; the same sort of business all soldiers back from the wars have in Wintertown when they haven’t seen a woman in more than a year, I should imagine. I did not ask, nor do I care to know.”

Arya spotted Gendry then and ran off to talk to him, while Sansa remained and watched Clegane.

His arms were folded across his chest and his face was grim, but that was, in her short time of knowing him, his usual look. Clegane merely watched the talking and laughing Lord Torrhen Karstark while remaining silent and stoic himself.

Finally digging up the courage, she approached him.

“Ser Sandor,” she hailed him, causing both men to stop what they were doing and look down at her; it was the first time she’d seen him together with any Northman other than Robb.

She smiled and curtsied prettily to Lord Torrhen, but turned back to Sandor wondering how to broach the topic she wished to. They had not spoken since the incident and in truth she was still a little leery of him.

“Might I have a word with you, Ser Sandor?”

Lord Torrhen looked back and forth between them for a moment before bowing and taking his leave, knowing when he was not wanted.

“Yes?” he queried almost grumpily when Karstark walked off.

“I would have a word with you, unless you are off to Wintertown? Or are you back-- all your business there concluded?”

He studied her for a long moment, looking, in her opinion, much more irritated than usual.

“My only business there was boots and no more,” he said pointedly.

Her brow furrowed.

“Boots?”

“Yes, boots. Where else is a man my size to go for new made boots?” He glanced down causing Sansa to glance down. And sure enough, he had a new pair of boots on his feet. “The miserable old cunt who runs the place, needed two times to get them right.”

Feeling foolish for her assumptions, she went a different way with her conversation.

“So, you and Lord Torrhen looked to be making friends.”

The loud, mocking laugh that came out of him gave her pause.

“Not on your life--not with that cunt?”

She drew back, indignant.

“I don’t care for that particular word.”

“What? Cunt? If it fits, it fits.”

“And might I remind you that you are in the North and Lord Torrhen is the son of my father’s most loyal bannerman.”

“The way I hear it, all your father’s bannerman are the most loyal; only tells me you lot don’t know what loyal really means, especially when it comes to that one.”

“What can you possibly mean by that?” she questioned, offended. “I’ve known him all my life, my family thanks well of the Karstarks. They are family after a fashion, and I would thank you if you would not go around—”

“He was talking about your tits—”

“What? I don’t believe you!”

“Believe it! He said: wasn’t it mighty grand that Lady Sansa grew up to look like her Tully mother with the same tits and not like her Stark father. And then he said something I’ll not repeat about the little Wolf Girl. I was getting ready to punch him in the face just before you walked over here claiming I was only going down to Wintertown to look for whores.”

“I did not!”

“You were thinking it.”

“Oh, you read minds, now, do you?”

“I don’t like liars or deception, so I saved you the trouble of pretending you were interested in talking to me.”

“But I am interested! I mean, in talking to you. About something!” She huffed out a sigh and took a long cleansing breath. “Ser Sandor, before you train this morning or go into Wintertown to—do whatever you choose to do there, might I beg a little of your time?”

“What for? Ah, thought up a new way to get me killed, have you? Might be that new Wilding friend of yours can stab me in the back while I’m turned away.”

She gritted her teeth.

“I apologized for that incident, did I not? I will happily apologize again, if it will finally remove the stain on my character that you seem perfectly happy to hold over me until the end of my days--along with the temerity to be born with ginger hair!”

Sansa could have been wrong, but she did not like the half-smirk and amused eyes which she thought she saw flicker momentarily across his smug face.

“All right, all right; don’t get your small clothes in a twist; out with it, then, what need have you of me?” he questioned.

She closed her eyes to calm herself once more, before opening them and looking him in the eye.

“I have asked my ladies to gather in the sewing room. We have your items of clothing ready.”

He paused, glancing at his feet, looking like he wanted to be anywhere but.

“I promise you it will not take long, Ser. You need only to look them over so that we may see if any adjustments need to be made.”

He tilted his head, indicating that she should lead the way, with Sansa feeling his large presence at her back as she walked ahead, making her, she didn’t know why, feel… strange.

-----

Once in the sewing room, the ladies all gathered round. The oldest one, introduced to him before as Ella, had been the one to make his new cloak. It was a handsome piece, falling to the floor in waves of thick, dark gray wool. To complete the look, a full fur collar was included, exactly like the ones all the Northmen wore.

He swung it around his shoulders, causing the woman to smile and clap her hands.

“Well, well; aren’t you a sight? You have a look of the true North about you, milord.”

“Not a lord and you people have been telling me that a lot since I been up here.” He took the cloak off and carefully set it aside.

“Oh?” the one called Beth asked, shyly, tucking her mousy brown hair behind her ear and grinning while ducking her head, but not in the way most women in the south usually ducked their head at the sight of him.

“My mother’s family were Northerners.”

“From which great family, my lord?” asked Jeyne, taking a step forward, curious.

“Not a lord. And, I don’t know about great family, but I hear tell she was some kind of distant kin to the Umbers… the poorer kind most likely.”

“And are you married, milord.” Ella again.

“No.” His eyes skittered to Lady Sansa and back again. “Not married. Not a lord.”

Beth took another step forward. “Betrothed then,” she finally glanced up and looked him dead in the eyes, “to some great Southron family, Ser?”

“No, not any betrothals to any family, shitty or great.”

“Shame,” added Ella. “We lost many a Northman to the wars. Many women would welcome you here, gladly, Ser. A Northern bride would give you many fine sons--fine big sons.”

He had nothing to say to that. In fact, he had no idea what was even going on. He had never had ladies even speak in the south or even look him directly in the eyes like all these Northern women generally did, and that part was something he was unused to and which further unsettled him the most.

Sansa, more entuned to his moods and how quickly they could turn, could sense the tension in his shoulders under so much close and personal questioning, and acted quickly.

“Ser Sandor, please take a look at these tunics over here. Since Ella made your cloak, the rest of us each made one,” said Sansa, holding out a folded stack of three tunics.

They were all made of bold colors: a dark blue, the color of the midnight sky, and a smokey grey, which prompted Beth to whisper: ‘like your eyes’.

However, it was the black tunic which particularly caught his fancy. He pulled it from the bottom of the stack, shook it out of its folds, and eyed it closely. He then looked to Lady Sansa in wonder. He instantly knew she had made that one.

Where the other tunics were neatly stitched, but merely serviceable, the black one was rather fine: solid black with yellow-gold trim at the cuffs and intricate scroll work embroidered across the chest and collar, featuring the three hounds of his house sigil stitched in deep autumn gold.

He quickly lifted his old shirt off, exposing his upper body, now completely bare.

Lady Sansa immediately spun around and presented him with her back, but the other ladies felt no such compunction. He saw Ella elbow Jeyne and share a giggle, while Beth was simply struck dumb, staring at his chest.

“My Lord,” said Sansa, her head still turned firmly away, “there are ladies present.”

Sandor ignored her and merely pulled one of his new shirts over his head.

“Aye, these will do.” He noticed that Lady Sansa was still turned away. “I’m decent. I’ll no longer offend your delicate sensibilities.”

Cautiously, she turned, noticing that instead of the black shirt, he had selected the dark blue one, instead.

“Oh. Jeyne made that one,” said Sansa.

He nodded his thanks to Jeyne, which caused Jeyne to light up like a torch. All the ladies in the room were still gathered round—eying him. He had never had such an experience and seemed to fumble for the right words for a moment.

“Very fine. I thank you. All. I thank you all.”

They all stood there smiling at him, with Lady Sansa only giving him a strange look with a quizzical brow. Her look unsettled him the most, so he quickly gathered up his new items and made a dash for the door, ducking through, with the sound of female tittering behind him.

Chapter Text

The next morning after breakfast the King and Queen took their leave, with multiple reminders from the King to hurry their tasks and to join them in Kings Landing soon.

Everyone in the castle gathered to see them both off, with the queen beckoning to Sansa before she was to go. She reached out to hug her.

“I wish we had more time together on this visit, Sansa.”

“So do I, Aunt. But I expect we will soon have plenty of time together when I join you all in Kings Landing. You’ll likely grow quite sick of the sight of me.”

“Promise me that you will stay safe on your various journeys to the Gift and to the Riverlands. You will soon be the second most important lady of the land, for you must know your cousin Visenya must always be first.” The two shared a hearty laugh at that knowing it was very true. “If you ever find yourself in trouble on the road, and I think you are both old enough and wise enough to know what I mean, a quick jab upwards with your knee to a man’s privates works wonders for your safety.”

“Oh, aunt,” Sansa giggled. Between you and my new friend Ygritte, I have received quite an education over these last few days.”

Upon the mention of the other young lady The Queen turned to watch Ygritte talking animatedly to her son, staring at the two of them and deep in thought.

“Aunt, are you well?”

Queen Lyanna startled and returned her eyes to her niece. “Oh no, just—just thinking. When I was your age, I so longed to travel, to see everything, to meet new people and have adventures.”

“You sound very much like Arya.”

“Yes, I see some of myself in her, but I also see a lot of myself in you. The Wars have changed you, Sansa. You were always a pretty, delicate little thing, but now I see a strong woman, a Northern woman and I like what I see. The young Sansa who loved pretty things and pretty people would have never taken upon the plight of the downtrodden as her own.”

“I hate to admit it, Aunt, but you are correct. What a thoughtless, selfish creature I once was. And it did take the war to finally open my eyes. I like to think I am far more open to new things and very open to new people.”

Clegane just happened to pass through Sansa’s field of vision at that very moment, leading his large black war horse off to the side with the others. She followed him with her eyes, before remembering herself and turning back to her aunt, saying, “Well, I am open to some new people.”

The Queen turned to look to see where her nieces eyes were moments before and found Sandor Clegane and momentarily wondered at her niece’s blatant dislike of a man whom her son called his bosom friend and his sworn brother. This was… interesting. She turned back to her niece.

“Will you promise me one thing more? Promise that in the coming moons, before you settle for your new life of duty in Kings Landing, that take every opportunity to enjoy yourself? You are only young once and I want you to be certain, absolutely certain before to make this final commitment to this life. Remember, you do have choices even if all the men of the Kingdom believe you do not.”

“Oh, Aunt, this is very serious talk. But of course, I promise you,” said Sansa, giving her aunt one final kiss before she set off to say her goodbyes to her son and all the rest.

And once the King and Queen were aloft, Sansa, thought to go to the Prince to provide comfort and a kind word to sooth him over his parents departure, only to see that Ygritte was already dragging him towards the party of the others who were all mounted and ready to begin the hunt.

Chapter Text

Over the next few days, Lord Stark noticed that the sight of Sansa was somewhat rare. She was either closeted away with Maester Luwin seeking advice or sorting through the seed stores with Vanyon Poole, looking for something suitable to grow in a kitchen gardens in the slightly harsher northern climes.

She had already set the kitchen to work on the dried meat her brother and the others in the hunting party returned with and had the staff of the bakehouse portioning out the starter for making loaves of bread. She even tasked several of the castle ladies to make warm baby clothes and blankets. Ned left her to it, only once consulting with the Maester to see how she got on.

“You would be proud of her, my Lord. Nothing slips past her notice. One day, she will be an exceptional Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

-----

Robb was no less busy. He took the establishment of The Gift as seriously and fully as possible. Prince Jon, who in no way felt slighted for having to take on a more secondary role, was almost always seen trailing in his cousin’s wake.

Robb organized the wagons, worked with Millken to prepare some simple iron tools. Even Robb’s other friends were helping, Gendry was sharpening what weapons needed it, and Tormund and Clegane were often seen lifting heavy loads onto the wagons or assisting with the horses.

Satisfied with Robb and Sansa’s capable handling of the Free Folk issue, Ned was free to turn his mind to Arya.

She had come to him soon after the petitions and begged him to let her be part of the expedition to The Gift. His permission was easily given, and she set off immediately from his company to inform her sister and brother, much to the consternation of her mother.

Over the next days, he began to watch more closely Arya’s interaction with Jon’s other friends. With Tormund and Ygritte she asked them countless questions about the Free Folk people; with Clegane, she was always begging for sword fighting tips, however, with the Baratheon heir, she always seemed to simply gravitate to him for the benefit of his company.

There wasn’t a hint of coquettishness in either of his daughters and for that he was grateful. He knew his youngest daughter enough to know that the idea of being a flirt had never once entered her head, and yet, here she was, with this boy, when she had been forever claiming that boys (not related to her) were all things to her dislike.

He soon began to wonder at Gendry’s marriage prospects. He was a good-looking, strapping lad, having all of Robert’s looks, but none of his sire’s less than desirable qualities. Thankfully there were no tales going on around Winterfell of any drunkenness or of him frequenting brothels.

Also, being part Lannister must also be to his marriage advantage--on top of being a future Lord Paramount, it made him (along with his own son, Robb) one of the most eligible young men in all the land.

And Arya, he had to admit, seemed to like the Baratheron boy, really liked him. For all Benjen liked to compare her to Lyanna in both looks and temperament, Lyanna took an immediate aversion to all thoughts of having a Baratheon as a husband.

Ned felt a pang in his chest at what he knew for certain he must do. The King was right; he must think to the future of his house. And Benjen was also right: his children were not children anymore. Robb, now back from the wars and at leisure to turn his mind elsewhere, had strongly insisted on finding his own bride; Sansa’s splendid match was now secure. And so, his focus was now all on Arya and the parchment was out before he could change his own mind.

Robert,

Just a few lines to ensure you of Lord Gendry’s continued health. His rest and the recovery of his full strength is all that remains. He trains daily with the Prince, Robb, and with all his friends, and to my mind, he will soon find his way home to you and Storm’s End.

I find Gendry a truly fine young man and know that you must be very proud of him. His prospects in both future Lordship and future marriage must be excellent, and I envy the fine family you have surely chosen for him to marry into for the good of your house.

Ned sighed and re-read that last part, disgusted with himself for having to take such an action for his daughter, and for once, feeling that he now knew what every father, hoping for an advantageous marriage for a daughter of Westeros, must feel.

He well knew that Robert, though his most excellent friend, was quite lazy, not the least bit clever, would not see through this scheme of his and would immediately take the bait he was dangling before him. Tiredly, he continued writing.

My own children continue well. Robb is as superior a young man as your Gendry; Sansa is a credit to her mother in both kindness and beauty; and the King, so recently with us, will soon honor all the Starks with his favor regarding my eldest daughter’s future life. Arya is so like Lyanna that it quite astonishes me every day. I will soon begin to search for a strong betrothal for her, and an excellent good-son for me. Bran grows quite tall and more intelligent by the day and young Rickon continues to be a reflection of his Wolf-blooded ancestors.

My best to the most excellent Lady Baratheon and your younger children: Lord Edmon, Lady Myrcella, and Lord Tommon.

Yours, in true friendship,

Lord Eddard Stark,

Lord of Winterfell,

Warden of the North

Chapter Text

It was good to get away from Winterfell for a few weeks. The war had had them all occupied with greater matters or cooped up within the walls of Winterfell for far too long.

To Sansa, there was nothing better than to give her mount its head and canter ahead of the column for a moment or two of freedom.

“Sansa, no,” admonished Robb from somewhere in the back. “Stay where I can see you, please.”

Of course that had Sansa rolling her eyes. She had not seen her brother for over two years and this over-protective young man that had now returned, tried her patience. She kicked her heel into the sides of her mare and spurred her on slightly faster.

Though still clearly in view, it wasn’t long before she heard the sound of hooves riding up behind her. She spun around in the saddle, ready to give her bothersome brother a piece of her mind, only to encounter an even more bothersome person: Sandor Clegane.

“Best you stay close, Lady Sansa. Even the open road is not safe.”

She gave a great sigh, but slowed her mount to a walk. Oh yes, she thought, the North she had grown up in all her life, is not safe. How did she not know this?

“Thank you for your wise council, Ser.”

Clegane turned in his saddle to face her and locked eyes, clearly having heard her sarcasm.

“I only mean, there’s bears and other wild beasts about, lying in wait to feast upon such a pretty, little dish.”

He had said it with his usual dismissiveness, so it was easy to disregard the unintended, she was certain, compliment. Pulling up her reins to slow her mount further, she led her mare over to the side of the road and prepared to dismount. Arya cantered up then.

“Why are you stopping?”

Sansa quickly glanced at Clegane, who had stopped his horse a little ways behind them and who wasn’t paying them any mind. Leaning forward she whispered into her sister’s ear.

Catching this movement from the corner of his eye, it was Sandor’s turn to roll his own eyes.

“Go on, take your piss; I’ll keep watch; but stay where I can see you.”

Sansa and Arya dismounted and handing their reins over to Clegane, they both hurried off into the woodland. Arya would have dropped her breeches in clear view, if not for Sansa, clearly in defiance of Clegane’s order, pulled her sister deeper into the forest.

The wagons, accompanied by Tormund, Ygritte, Gendry, and the Winterfell guards, following, were still a ways back, Maxon lazily flew over them all before disappearing to nobody knew where, however, the Prince and Robb galloped ahead.

“My sisters?”

“Picking flowers?” Clegane said, sarcastically, looking off to the left, thinking he had heard something in the trees.

Robb made the decision. “We’ll stop here for our midday meal, then.”

The group dismounted. Their escort, when they caught up, found a broken log for the ladies of the group to sit upon and rolled it towards a small fire being hastily prepared by Lord Gendry to brew hot tea. The Prince began doing very unprincely things, by handing out cheese and dried meat to the group of guards.

Clegane thought he heard something further up the road just north of the girls. Putting his hand on the hilt of his sword, he surveyed the area all around him and that is when he heard it: something that sounded like a struggle--then a muffled scream--before the tell-tell signs of a man’s curse.

The sword was out and before he thought twice, he dashed off at a full run.

“Sansa! Lady Sansa!”

He came into a small clearing and halted at the shock of what he saw: Lady Sansa in the arms of a large man, clearly a Wildling, struggling with all of her might--and the little Wolf Girl pointing her blooded Valyrian steel dagger in the direction of the interloper.

“You nearly took my bloody eye out!” cried the Wildling man, dressed all in tattered pelts.

Arya sneered. “Take your filthy, dirty hands off my sister.”

“She be your sister no longer?” the man sneered right back, his yellow teeth glinting in the pale sunlight. “She be my woman now!”

Sandor didn’t hesitate, he stepped in front of Lady Arya and pushed her behind him. He took two steps forward and brandished his blade in the Wildlings face.

“She is not your woman,” he cried, decisively. “I promise you, you’ll be a shit-stain upon the snow before I let you take her anywhere.”

Robb arrived in the clearing with his sword out, and took up a flanking position. “Release my sister. NOW!”

The Wildling looked nervously back and forth and only gripped Sansa tighter around the waist with his left arm, while raising his spear with his right.

“She be on her own and I claimed her.” He pointed his spear at Clegane. “Her man over there weren’t nowhere near; it can only mean he didn’t want her no more, so that be meaning I gets to take her; it’s only fair.” He started to back away, deeper into the woods, pulling Sansa with him. “Her man there let her out of his sight and that be making her my woman now.”

Tormund, Gendry, Ygritte and the Prince were the next to arrive. With Tormund exclaiming in anger.

“Sigur, you stupid fuck!” he yelled.

With the Wildling man’s surprise upon seeing Tormund with the group, his grip loosened, and Sansa acted. She spun around quickly and kneed him in the groin, sending him instantly to his knees.

Ygritte smiled broadly, both surprised and impressed; even Arya looked awestruck.

Sansa looked momentarily appalled at what she had done. She ran to Robb.

Tormund acted and walked directly to the kneeling Wilding man and punched him square in the face, sending him straight down to the snow-covered ground, causing him to clutch both his jaw and his balls.

“What’d you do that for?”

Tormund gestered widely, to explain.

“Fuck, Sigur; look around you, we are no longer in the North. Her father is the Lord of these lands and her uncle is their King. You cannot go around stealing these Southern fucks women!”

“Was no one around except that little one over there.” The Wilding spat blood. “She stuck me, Tormund and she nearly cut off my damn ear.”

“I was trying to stick it in your eye!”

Sansa, still a little shook by her experience, reached for Arya’s hand to keep her from provoking the Wilding further, pulling her sister towards her as if it was her job alone to protect Arya when it always seemed to be the reverse.

“And I will do more than cut off your ear if you touch her again,” exclaimed Tormund, incensed. “I promised the King of these Lands that the Free Folk will steal no Southern women.”

The Wildling man gestured to Sandor. “If he be wanting his woman back, he has to fight me for her. That is our way.”

“I have seen his pecker, Sigur, and I’ve have also seen yours; she’ll run back to him before first light.”

Sansa flushed red at the same time as Arya asked, “What’s a pecker?”

Robb got between his sisters and grabbed both of their arms, no doubt knowing Tormund would handle the other Wildling, and pulled them back towards the Kings Road, scolding the entire way.

“I told you both to stay close.”

“But what’s a pecker?”

------

Sometime later, the men along with Ygritte emerged from the forest, Tormund pushing the still disgruntled Wildling man before him. They came to stand before Sansa and her brother and Arya stood up on either side of her, looking on with contempt.

“Sorry,” said the man.” Tormund jabbed him. “Sorry, Lay-dee Sansa.”

“He’ll not touch you again,” added Tormund, seriously. “Or I will kill him, isn’t that right, Sigur of the Black Bones?”

Sigur made a disgruntled sort of snort before wandering off with as much dignity as he could muster, pulling his tattered pelts all around him.

“Sigur’s not so bad,” said Tormund by way of explanation once the wilding man was well on his way. “He only likes women kissed by fire. He says you have hair like his mother.”

“Then I am sorry that he could not have what he liked; but I like my life with my family very much.”

The Prince sat down in Robb’s vacated seat, handing her some dried beef.

“The Free Folk have their own ways of doing things, Cousin. Don’t hold it against him. They will learn our ways in due course. When we arrive at the Free Folk encampment you will discover that they are a friendly people whose only crime is having to live a hard life, which has led them to have hardened ways.”

“You sound like you almost admire them.”

“I do. Well, not so much when I first encountered them, but through talking, fighting and eventually working beside them, I came to enjoy my time amongst such true folk. When you grow up in Kings Landing like I did, where there is nothing but falseness and insincerity in so many, it makes you appreciate straight, frank talk, and true convictions. Many in Westeros do not see their value and it saddens me to think that my people would expect me to set them aside—but I always want the Free Folk to understand they have at least one friend they can always count on in the south.”

“Two.” She took his hand and squeezed. “Even with today’s unfortunate event, I will stand beside you and always be a friend to them, as well.”

John stared down at their joined hands, before bringing his cousin’s hand up to his lips.

Neither of them noticed Sandor Clegane, staring at them saddly during their private moment before he wandered off into the trees, searching for a little much needed privacy of his own.

-----

They were two weeks with the free folk. Tormund directed the Winterfell men where to erect their tents, but it was Ygritte who led Sansa and Arya to a much sturdier round house with a central fire that the two women quickly assumed was were of all of single women were housed.

When Robb came by later to check on his sister’s well-being and comfort, he was treated to many admiring gazes, unmistakable invitations to share furs, and raunchy laughter that made him quickly retreat in blushing confusion.

Gendry, who had a talent in fashioning weapons, set to work with the tribe’s own smith and between the two of them they made all manner of spears and arrow heads from what ready iron they had brought with them.

Since the more able-bodied of the men were needed for hauling and building, Ygritte took Arya away each morning to hunt with a bow provided by Ygritte and a quiver of arrows Gendry had presented to her just before she set off--along with, to Ygritte’s visible humor, his very own knife pulled from his very own boot.

"But I have a knife.”

"Arya, I know you have a knife.”

"So why do I need this one?”

"Just take it, Arya,” said Gendry, in a snit.

"But why?”

"Because even I, who likes weapons of all sorts, think stabbing squirrels with fancy Valyrian steel daggers, is a bit much.”

"But I—”

"Gods, you Southerners,” cried Ygritte. “Will you two just… stop.” (She so wanted to say just kiss and get it over with already... but contained herself). “Your constant need to squabble is making my head hurt. Take the bloody knife, Arya, and have done with it!"

This naturally caused Ygritte, when they were off alone, to tease Arya mercilessly for the rest of the day, saying that Gendry would see his woman protected if he could not be there to provide protection for her himself.

-----

Sansa was established with the mothers and wise women, holding their babies as these woman tended to their work, sewing, drying medicinal herbs, or being endlessly presented with these women’s strapping sons or other partnerless male relatives.

Today, Vreena, who had left her son outside the cookhouse door and who took her leave with a smug, self-satisfied smile, was offering Sansa both pelts and her tall, gangly son—her gangly, red-headed son, who bore a striking resemblance to Tormund.

“Oh yes, my Lord father would very much admire your pelts. However, you really must keep them for your own family. I am certain your wife, whomever she may one day be, would appreciate the warmth that they would provide.”

Haldor, Vreena’s son, looked confused by her refusal.

“But that’s—that’s why I would give him the pelts. Wolf Lord take pelts; Haldor take Sansa and make Sansa Haldor’s woman.”

Sansa smiled and hoped very much Haldor could not tell that it was false.

“You are very generous, but I could not possibly accept your kind offer on behalf of my Lord father… or for myself.”

Strangely, Sandor Clegane suddenly appeared as if out of the mist and began noisily working near them. In the days since the Winterfell party had been at The Gift, he always seemed to be nearby or over-listening her conversations or asking odd questions at the oddest moments. And, it was especially strange for him to be here now, since she could have sworn she saw him hammering nails over at the newly built longhouse only moments ago.

And now, he was delivering a quantity of flour to the cookhouse, where Sansa was assisting with the slicing of cheese in preparation for the midday meal before Haldor had sought her out.

Clegane, with a sack of flour over each shoulder, pushed his way between them, carelessly bumping into Haldor, forcing the Wilding man to stagger back, before he dropped the sacks just inside the cookhouse door.

Haldor looked none too pleased by Clegane’s presence and immediately grunted in dissatisfaction.

“I no like your big, burned man. Always by Sansa, always near when Haldor near.”

Sansa thought over that statement for a moment before she had a sudden realization of what Haldor meant.

“My what?!” Sansa exclaimed, incredulous at the misunderstanding. “No, you have got it all—” but by then, Haldor, in a strop, had already stomped away.

Angry with herself for giving her potential Wilding suitor the wrong impression and even angrier that her potential Wilding suitor thought Clegane, of all men living, was in some way hers.

Clegane, who surely must have heard their conversation, but said nothing, left the cookhouse then and wandered somewhere off to the left. Sansa, frustrated with everything and everybody, gave up finishing her work for the moment, leaned against the doorframe and turned to look the other way.

Sansa could see Jon and Ygritte, a ways away, discussing some issue she was currently not a party to. Ygritte seemed to have just as much authority in the Free Folk camp as their leader, Tormund had, and appeared to be the defacto Lady of the Gift.

She had noticed how many of the Free Folk turned to her for advice, Jon included. There wasn’t a wasted scrap of wood that did not have a purpose or an idle hand when she happened to walk by. And when Ygritte turned to say something to Jon just then, the Prince laughed and paid close attention to every word she had to say.

Sansa did not quite know what it was about this scene that disturbed her. If her mother were there, there would be no doubt that she and Jon would be paired to work together. But Ygritte was the proper Lady in charge there and it was only for Sansa to contribute in the role which she had been assigned. Sansa merely sighed and simply turned to look the other way.

A small child stood off to the side looking bewildered by all the loud hammering noises and the many strangers in their camp. Clearly the young girl had escaped her mother’s care, and no doubt would be underfoot if she neared the workman building the longhouse.

She was just about to go to the child herself, when Sandor Clegane walked over and knelt down. The girl obviously knew him as she did not seem at all frightened by his scars. Sandor handed the child an apple before scooping her up into his massive arms, his tall height aiding him in looking about the crowded camp.

Spotting who he wanted he called out and a frantic looking woman came running over, taking the small girl out of Sandor’s arms, saying a few words of thanks to him and then what looked to be a few sharp words to the child before hurrying off from where she came.

The way his eyes seemed to linger on the woman made Sansa wonder if he had a liking of the Free Folk lady. Her hair was brown after all.

Noticing that he was being observed he walked back in Sansa’s direction to address her.

“We’ll get the roof finished by tonight. The women and children will be grateful for another warm place to sleep. Those thin, flimsy tents aren’t good for man nor beast.”

Sansa nodded as she wiped her hands on her apron.

“Do you know them?” At his silence, she turned to look at him and to clarify. “The woman and her child?”

Clegane seemed to study her a moment longer, almost as if he was trying, once again, to read her mind.

“Her name’s Jemma, the child’s name is Kiva. Her man was killed by a white walker last year. I looked out for them a bit last time.”

“She is very pretty.”

Sandor’s face immediately reflected his incredulity.

“Oh, I see; just like all your ladies back in Winterfell, you’ve got it in your head that I should make her my woman, do you?”

Sansa was scandalized.

“Will you please stop thinking you know what is in my mind. I said no such thing. I was only making an observation. The child seems to like you.”

“You mean the girl doesn’t run away, screaming her head off as soon as she sees me, you mean?” He huffed, clearly over this game. “Jemma tells me the child’s father was a tall man and Kiva gets confused, is all. Anyway, Jemma’s got herself a new man now: that ginger haired cunt over there chopping wood.”

Sansa turned to observe a very tall man swinging an axe.

“Oh right, he’s gingered-haired so that must mean name-calling is required.”

Clegane gritted his teeth.

“I didn’t mean—Lady Sansa--"

“No, no, I understand. We were not all blessed with brown or black hair. I certainly know it. Don’t let me keep you, Ser.”

Sandor took a step forward, compelled to defend himself further to her, and he would have if Gendry and Lady Arya had not joined Lady Sansa, with Gendry carrying all of Arya’s empty baskets and generally being a puppy.

“We’ve finished distributing all the blankets. What would you have us do next?”

Before Lady Sansa could answer, Sandor grabbed Gendry by the arm, forcing him to drop all the baskets at his feet, and dragged him off a good ways away. They seemed to be having a serious discussion and several times Clegane was gesturing in their way and words like “Casterly Rock” and “obligations” and something-something about “wasting time” and “uncles” being faintly heard over all the nearby hammering. Gendry turned to look at them once or twice, his face growing steadily solemn and by turns unhappy.

“I wonder what that’s all about?” asked Arya.

Sansa snorted.

“Sandor Clegane is likely telling his friend all about the many ways big, bad, ginger-haired Lady Sansa is making his life miserable. Which is exactly the reverse, I assure you.”

“That’s not true. I think he likes you.”

Sansa’s laugh was brittle.

“No, it’s true. He looks at you. A lot.”

“Only to criticize, I’m sure. We all know what he thinks of the ginger-headed and the disgusting word for us that always seems to come out of his mouth.”

“Oh, you mean Tormund? He likes Tormund, too!”

“He does not! You see and hear the way he talks to him.”

“Yes, I know, but it’s sort of like the opposite with him. The people he likes: he insults; the people he hates, he smiles at. It’s scary, really, that sinister way he smiles. I’ve seen it when he talked to Torrhen Karstark that time. Gendry says Clegane’s had a sad life and that he does it so as not to get close to people—not to be hurt by them—people like to hurt him.”

“Hurt him?” Sansa rolled her eyes. “The man’s at least seven feet tall! Hurt him, indeed.”

“Don’t be stupid, Sansa, you can be hurt by someone without using a weapon, you know.”

Sansa was disbelieving and really didn’t care to talk about Clegane at that moment. “We should probably help the other ladies get the food on the table. The men will be finished before long and they must be starving.”

Arya nodded and began gathering loaves of bread and placing them in two empty baskets, which were immediately taken by Gendry who walked back over to be of help.

“Uh… we’re leaving,” Gendry said, abruptly.

Arya halted.

“What?” she said, shocked.

“First thing in the morning. They’re almost done here—the longhouse is sure to be completed within the hour and Sandor says it is best we start making our way south before the weather changes.”

“What?” said Arya, still perplexed.

“Sandor says you have no real need of us here anymore. The Northern war is long over. Prince Jon is returning to Kings Landing soon, Robb is settling in back at Winterfell and Tormund has got everything here in good hands. We’re Southronders, we have no ties in the North and it is high time we took ourselves off, don’t you think?” He began nodding, his eyes looking off in the distance. “My family expects me soon and Clegane also has business in the south. It’s not right to keep family waiting, is it? It’s selfish.”

“What?” said Arya, not understanding anything that was coming out of his mouth.

“Best get this bread to the tables.” He took the baskets and set off. “You will excuse me, Ladies.”

Arya’s eyes followed him, watching him go before turning half-pained, half-panicked eyes to her sister.

“Sansa?” said Arya, using her sister’s name almost as a bewildered plea.

Suddenly very angry, Sansa turned to watch Sandor Clegane who stood off in the distance. He was breathing deeply and his eyes were boring into her with what could only be considered contempt, before he turned away and hurried off. Obviously, he was taking his frustrations with her out on her sister.

“Gods,” she cried to Arya. “I hate that man!”

Chapter Text

The journey back to Winterfell was the exact opposite of the journey to The Gift. Arya was subdued instead of her usual perky self.

Robb and Sansa kept up a light banter, until a day or two out from home, when they gave up all pretense, and sunk into the doldrums themselves.

Their father and uncle were waiting for them upon their return. Benjen, possessed of great natural insight, was the first to notice the long faces as he helped Sansa down from her horse.

“What happened? You all look as if someone died.”

“Don’t you know, Uncle Benjen,” said Sansa, “parting from ones friends is hard.”

“With the Wildlings?”

“Well, yes, they were very kind. And then Lord Gendry and that Clegane fellow left for the south. I expected they would stop through here a few days ago.”

“No, haven’t seen them. They may have gone to the coast and taken a ship. With a fair wind, Gendry could be back at Storms End fairly quickly.”

“I suppose you are right. That does make sense.”

Arya, having dismounted on her own, walked by, dragging her feet and taking no notice of anyone. Their father held out his arms for her and she nearly walked by.

“No greeting for your old father, then?”

“Sorry, just tired.” She hugged him, but with no enthusiasm. “Where’s Mother?”

“With Bran and Rickon in the solar.”

“Oh, I should probably go and let them know we have returned.”

She walked off with no seeming interest for her task. Ned looked to Robb.

“She lost all her playmates. After Gendry and Clegane went south, Jon decided to stay with the Free Folk for a few days more.”

Robb then gave his father a rather insensitive smirk causing Sansa to swat him in the arm.

“It’s not funny, Robb! They were friends. She will miss him.”

For Robb, there was no need to guess as to the specific “him”.

“Lord Gendry has better things to do than pal around with little girls, Sansa. The way he just does whatever she says—frankly, it was disgusting to watch.”

Sansa huffed impatiently, not even considering explaining to her lug-head of a brother how things truly stood. She kissed her father, and she too set off to find her mother. When she gained the solar, Catelyn was helping Rickon tie up his laces while Bran was lying before the fire, reading.

“Oh, you’re back,” said Lady Stark. “Where are Robb and Arya?”

“Robb is with Father giving him a report on the Free Folk encampment.” Bran and Rickon got up to hug her in welcome before returning to their book. “I thought Arya would be with you. She said she was coming straight here.”

“No, she has not. But why the long face?”

“Lord Gendry did not travel back with us. He went south.”

“Well, that makes sense, does it not? Surely his family wants to see him.”

“I know, but Arya—I think Arya—she is rather fond of Lord Gendry.”

“A childish fancy that will soon pass, Sansa. All girls go through this stage. It is better to have a broken heart now, when you are young. I did, as you know, with your uncle Brandon. But he was lost to me in his recklessness, and I did better with my father’s second choice.”

“I have not had my heart broken. Then again, I have not given it to anyone yet.”

Her mother gave her a worrying look, and before Lady Stark could launch into a long lecture about her and Prince Jon, or about marriage and duty, she turned to leave, saying she was going to look for her sister.

After inquiring with several retainers, she eventually found Arya in the Maester’s tower feeding the raven’s while looking out the window, staring in the distance. Sansa just sat down and said nothing. After several long moments of silence later, Arya was the first to speak.

“Do you suppose I will see him again?”

There was no need to say whom.

“Of course, you will. Our father and his father are the best of friends, are they not? They do visit each other occasionally. Perhaps Father will take you to the Stormlands for a visit in a year or two.”

“Yes, but, he will probably be betrothed by then. To a Lady, just like you.”

Again, no need to mention who.

“Did he never mention it?”

“He mentioned a Lady Sheereen once. I think she is a cousin.”

“He is at that age, Arya, and Lord Baratheon is getting older.”

Arya was silent; thoughtful, and then, out of the blue, she came up with a drastic plan.

“I wonder if the Mormont’s will take me on?”

“Take you on?”

“To train. Lady Brienne begins to talk of eventually going back to Tarth, so Father would let me go up north, don’t you think? They are the best at light weaponry. Or, perhaps I can journey to Dorne. Always fancied becoming one of the Sand Snakes; but I think you have to be a bastard to be one in their number. In at least three or four years I can be as good as Brienne. I always fancied being a Lady Knight.”

“Arya, it’s only been--.”

“I ought to see Mother about some warmer clothing… or lighter clothes. It all depends where I end up.”

“Arya. Stop it.”

Arya did stop and just screwed up her face in what looked like a preparation to cry. But, at the last moment, she pulled herself together and just sat down next to her sister and laid her head on her shoulder and stared out the window.

“Look,” added Arya, dully, “I think it is Jon and Maxon.” Sansa did look, just in time to see her cousin and his dragon flying off into the distance and disappear into the high clouds. “I thought he would have stopped on his way south. How strange that he didn’t even land for a moment just to say goodbye.”

Just wonderful, though Sansa, uncharitably. Now both of the Stark sisters were abandoned.

To be continued