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Chapter Text

Thirty Years Before

The hours of moonlight waned and the girl was running out of blood.

Already, a mound of dead rabbits cluttered the ground behind her, gray and sightless, with ribbons of dried red slashed across their small throats. The magic did not require rabbits specifically; any warm blood would do, but they were the quickest and easiest for her to manage with her own two hands. There was no time to trek into the Deadwood and check her brother’s traps again. She must make do with what she had.

The whole of her father’s keep slumbered, and this alone allowed her the freedom to conduct her business without questions. But sooner rather than later, the rising heat from the bubbling pot tucked in the cellar’s hearth would rouse some grumpy soul from the maester's quarters above.

Tossing the last of the ground turmeric root into the pot, the girl wiped her bloody hands on the front of her apron, coloring the mess of stains a dark, horrible red. If she was to do this, it must be now.

She returned to the bench against the back wall and flipped to the next page of the old tome, damp stone dripping wet onto the yellowing pages like tears. Forgotten words stared up at her, the same ones she had been practicing for two days, and the girl began to mouth the odd shapes, careful not to speak any of the words aloud until the brew finished combining.

There would not be another opportunity to do this. The Old Gods would not waste their breath on her twice.

Across the room, the frothy sludge in the pot began to boil over, filling the room with the rich, hot scent of death.

With a trembling hand, she sprinkled a garnishing of rabbit fur into the goblet of ruby wine placed beside the tome and took a long pull. The gamey, sour taste of it made her wince, but she forced herself to drain every last drop, allowing the sacrificial power to settle into her bones.

The girl took a steady breath, steeling herself.

Rage shrouded her like a second skin, an armor against fear that finally made her brave enough to begin reciting the words aloud, rolling and strange and ancient. This was the language of witches, the tongue spoken only by the wretchedest of women, and she may now count herself among them.

The last echo of her voice rattled off the mantel above the fireplace, off the glass window, and off the stone floor.

For a moment, nothing. Only her shallow breathing disturbed the unnatural stillness.

If they ignored her now, there would be no punishment for what had been done. She alone was not strong enough to bring about a reckoning, however deep her anger ran.

The world did not bend to the will of one girl.

But it would bend to the wind of the Old Gods.

Another long, still moment passed. Then, a cold breeze slipped through the cracks in the window and seeped in from the earthen walls and ceiling. The bitter scent of sap filled the room, despite the stones that separated her workroom from the Godswood.

The pot immediately ceased its boiling, surface stilling to glass.

Without warning, a voice curled around her mind like a serpent and tightened.

Old as the sea, soft as the wind, cruel as a blade, it whispered, Daughter of winter, sister of the wind. Speak your words.

The girl gasped. A thud echoed, dust swirling up to clog her nose as the book dropped from her hands to the desk.

She had not thought—.

For all the years she spent praying at the heart tree, not once had the Old Gods answered her.

Righteousness flooded her chest, flushing her cheeks red. She was correct in her agony; the Old Gods answer was a benediction of her outrage. They too had been slighted. It was with their blessing that her betrothal had been arranged; it was their chosen fate that had been shredded to ribbons at his wicked hands.

Fingers trembling, the girl’s eyes fluttered shut, and she took a deep inhale of the dust and smog of the room, allowing the rich, pained scent of turmeric, nettle, and blood to run down her throat and pool in her stomach.

She sank to her knees, clasped her palms in front of her forehead, and bowed forward. “Wise Gods. A child of yours has broken his vow. We have been betrothed since birth, and he has put me aside in favor of another, a girl lacking the blood of the north, one who does not follow the old ways. He has—he has ruined me. I humbly ask that you award him his due. Let him know my pain. Let him suffer as I will.”

The forces heavy in the room pressed closer, crowding over her shoulders and weaving their breath into her tangled hair.

Though the wind had no hands or eyes, she could feel the burn of its gaze over her cowed form; she could feel its long fingers running down the knots of her spine.

When she had inquired with the priestesses who resided in her father’s keep these past weeks, none had divulged the weight of the Old Gods’ full attention. It did not feel unlike being pinned beneath the waves of the sea, water rolling over one’s body and pressing it further and further into the sand.

Then it shall be, the voice finally answered. So long as his crown is worn, the land will thirst. Only in blood will it drink again.

Her eyes shot open.

Their cryptic riddle sent her heart falling into her feet. “I do not understand.” The girl breathed. “That is not what I have asked.”

It is not for you to understand, the voice hissed. You have asked for aid, and we have answered. That is all.

“What is the meaning of these words?” She pleaded, bowing to press her forehead all the way down to the stones. “What will be done?”

We have done nothing but what you have asked.

“I wish only to repay him in kind as an oathbreaker, as a man who turns his back on his word. Please, do not—do not punish the land; that is not what I have asked, I do not know what that means—.”

It is done.

The looming, invisible presence in the room inched closer, curling over her shoulders and through the tendrils of her curls, licking up the sides of her neck and against the shell of her ear, repeating, It is done, it is done, it is done.

And then the weight lifted from the room, climbing up through the earthen ceiling and disappearing into the night.

Air filled her lungs, and the girl choked out a gasp, collapsing into a ball on the cold stone. Fingers trembling, she wrapped her arms around herself and squeezed, struggling to mimic the calming grasp of her long-buried mother.

What had she done?

In all the stories of the Old Gods and their infinite, unyielding power, never did they speak of twisted words and intentions crumbled to dust. The attention of the deities was not a benediction. It was a curse.

The girl did not know what had been unleashed by their words. Who had she damned? Whose blood would feed the thirsting land? How would the land thirst?

The door to the cellar slammed open, and a bearded man appeared, panting in the entryway, the lines of age stark on his stricken face. He took in the frozen-over pot above a pile of embers, the pile of dead animals, and the girl lying prone on the stone.

Swearing, he raced to her side, grabbing her by the shoulders and pulling her into his lap.

He smoothed her tangled black curls from her face, clutching her face between his hands. Tears streaked a path down her dusty cheeks. Her pale eyes stared vacantly over the man’s shoulder, devastation sucking all light from her eyes.

“Lamb.” He shook her gently, mouth agape in fear. “My lamb, what has happened?”

She could not answer. No words existed.

The lord, her father, shook her harder. “Maea.” He barked. Formal word of her betrothed’s betrayal would not reach their maester until morning, carried through the dawn on dark wings like death. Then, perhaps he would understand her limp limbs and vacant stare. He, who had lost his own love.

Over and over, her father had advised her to take care with her young man, but what could she have done? From the moment of her birth, she was promised to him.

There was no separating her identity, her fate, from his.

And still he had tossed her to the floor like crumpled parchment from his desk.

Yet her regret was a palpable, living thing, as real as the forces that she had called to that room.

A fool. That was what she was.

Whatever was done to him would be done to the land.

There was no separating him from his kingdom. It would be easier to separate salt from water.

Somehow, impossibly, the girl could feel the poison of her prayer spreading like tendrils of shadows through the land surrounding the keep, turning everything they touched to crumbling ash. Grass wilted, and flowers shriveled to dust. Cows and horses and lambs keeled over in fields.

Her brothers and her septas had forever warned the girl of the depth of wrath that lived inside her, the rage that welled beneath the surface of her skin clamoring to escape.

Now, irrevocably, it had.

Tonight, under the ripest moon of the year, she had set loose something that could not be called back. Pride would be her downfall, and she, in turn, the kingdom’s.

Raising a hand, she clutched the fingers her father had curled around her shoulders. The pounding of his pulse broke the chill that had settled over her, slowly giving her the strength to sit up on her own.

“Lamb, please.” Her father breathed as she blinked up at him. “What has happened?”

To her father, the emptied room, the cursed land, she breathed, “I have damned us all.”

Chapter Text

A moon shy of winter, the lords of the Northern Kingdom attempted to start a war.

They’d been at it for hours, crowded around the king’s round table arguing over the merits of meeting the usurper Targaryen queen’s forces with the power of the north, an action that the king vehemently opposed.

Robb Stark I, King in the North, had inherited nearly two decades of peace from his father, the late King Eddard, and often repeated his intention to maintain that legacy for as long as he possibly could, despite the urging of his lords and ample evidence of the looming threat. When the elder Umber lord opened his mouth to speak, Jon tensed in anticipation of the explosion likely to follow.

The sandy-haired man frowned when he said, “It would be wise to announce our intentions, your grace, before this conflict escalates further.”

Robb, resplendent that morning in his iron crown and grey shirtsleeves, snapped, “What is wise about backing a side in a war that does not yet exist?”

“Are we not reading the same reports of skirmishes and battles escalating between the Targaryen army and the Southern Kingdom? The dragon girl has already claimed Dorne. There will be a formal declaration in the coming weeks; you know it as well as I do.” The lord’s jaw was so tight Jon was amazed that any sound was able to escape his mouth at all.

“Then we shall wait for such an announcement.” The king’s thick fists were white around the scrolls before him, scanning over the words for an answer he may have missed in his dozens of re-reads and briefings.

For days in his study, he and Jon had argued over the best path forward in light of the reports from their whispers in King’s Landing. Robb did not wish to sacrifice Northern lives for a war that was not theirs. Jon believed if they did not act, the Kingdom of the North would be next.

The circle of men surrounding the table watched on as he appeared to rack his brain for something, anything, that might give him cause to wait. The Northern Kingdom had just endured one season of famine; Jon knew that Robb didn’t intend to find out if they could survive a war so soon after.

When it became clear the king wouldn’t be speaking again anytime soon, the councilors began discussing amongst themselves.

Once a season, Robb’s bannerlords convened in this stone chamber to discuss the latest reports on battles, taxes, and courtly murmurings. A large table, cut from the same oak as the grander table filling Winterfell’s great hall, occupied most of the dim room. Various diagrams, scrolls of reports, and mugs of tea were laid out before each delegate, with a painstakingly detailed map of the Northern Kingdom and fringe islands painted into the center.

Across the table from Robb, engaged in conversation with Theon Greyjoy, sat the most senior bannerlord and Robb’s chief advisor, Lady Dustin. Jon, the only shield to ever join the lords in this room, had leaned in to join the conversation the Iron Islands heir and Lady Dustin were having, though he was only half-listening to their murmured words.

His focus was darting around the room, assessing each councilor while they argued or agreed with their neighbor, for he and Robb would likely discuss the leanings of the council that evening after supper.

Ser Robyn Flint, Robb’s Master of Whispers, preferred to stand against the wall and observe in his own quiet way rather than join in the debate. Whatever his thoughts were on the matter, advice Robb trusted more than anyone save Jon, Robyn would keep to himself until everyone departed for lunch and it was just his king’s ears.

While the other lords from the various houses muttered amongst themselves, the Karstark voices rose as their argument grew. From his position near Theon and Lady Dustin, Jon rose quietly and came to lean forward on his elbows at the spot beside Robb. No other council member even blinked at the display, his informality with Robb well established after so many years of friendship.

Robb raised an auburn eyebrow, and Jon muttered, “The dragon army grows stronger every day.”

The last report from their contacts in the South had the Targaryen troops based in Sunspear, the capital city of the Southern Kingdom of Dorne they’d taken during the previous year. The Dornish armies were now absorbed into the Dragon Queen’s, nearly doubling their size. King's Landing, the heart of the Southern Kingdom, would put up a valiant effort against their combined armies, but they would not last long once the fighting began. With such heavy pressure from the south, the fall of the Stag King was all but certain should the dragon army press in.

“Then be glad we are not King's Landing, or King Stannis for that matter. My people are hungry. I will not send them to die in another man’s war.”

“A war that will soon be at our doorstep if we do not do something to slow its momentum now.”

Undeterred, Robb answered, “You don’t know that. Any number of things could happen between now and then, and I am not willing to sacrifice Northern lives over a border dispute.”

Frustration rising, Jon bit out, “And will you ever tell your people the cause of this hunger? Or explain the reason for their empty bellies?”

Robb hissed, “Gods, Jon, keep your voice down!”

Jon rolled his eyes. “I am the Lord Commander of your Kingsguard. It is my job to consider the threats to your crown, however they may appear. Sooner or later, they will start asking questions, and you must have an answer for them.”

Beneath the table, Robb elbowed him in the gut hard enough to draw a hiss from him. “Enough.”

Through gritted teeth, Jon said, “You know what they will say.”

Robb dropped his voice and said, “And yet you question why I hold my tongue.”

“They will learn the truth whether you like it or not. Already there is talk of magic at play. Best if it at least comes from you.” Jon drew back.

An unreadable shadow passed over Robb’s face. “If you feel so strongly, why haven’t you joined in the conversation?” Jon had remained predictably silent since they’d sat down hours earlier, studying the great map of the Northern Kingdom and the continent spread out on the council table. Rarely was Jon the loudest of anyone in the room, despite years of commanding a ship and leading troops of men that had instilled an ability to see beyond what these noble sods could garner. Privately, he shared his opinion often and loudly, but here in this room with men of title they inherited and did not earn, Jon kept his silence.

Over Robb’s shoulder, he gave the Master of Eyes a quick nod. Robyn’s voice rang out above the growing din, “Let us reconvene.” Jon leaned a hair closer to Robb, “I will make my opinions known when you are wrong, Robb, but I won’t ever question your word with an audience.”

He pushed off the table and moved back towards his place beside Robyn as the others turned to face their king once more. The lords were correct. Jon knew that much before they stepped into the council room in the first place. Whispers from travelers and Robyn’s whispers confirmed what they’d long suspected and dreaded.

The dragon queen had set her sights upon King’s Landing, and a new war was brewing. If they were unnaturally fortunate, Jon thought she would pass over the Northern Kingdom in favor of the Eastern or Western Kingdoms as her next target once their nasty business with the capital was finished.

The Westerlands was the smarter choice.

The Northern Kingdom was renowned for its military as the stronghold of the continent, the gate to the North Sea, and all the iron isles that freckled the western coast of the continent. It was the sleeping giant of the continent, neutral in all things for the past hundred and fifty years, and even with the weight of Dorne behind it, the Dragon Queen could not stand against the Northmen in battle.

Or perhaps that had been true about the Northern Kingdom of olde.

For the last thirty years, Jon’s adoptive homeland guarded a dangerous secret, one that would clear the board if the Dragon Queen or her allies were to learn of it.

The North starved. It had not happened all at once.

What was first the odd blight and underwhelming harvest soon became entire valleys shriveling to dust. The land bore little to no fruit even in its most fertile inland regions. In the past handful of years, nets were beginning to come in lighter and lighter, with fewer fish biting on lines even in rivers and streams, forcing Northern fishermen to venture out farther and farther beyond the reef protecting their cliffs and into the open ocean, where pirates and beasts ran rampant. In the last two years, they’d lost close to a hundred vessels to ambushes and double that to storms.

If Queen Daenarys tried her luck with the Northern Kingdom, she would find a barren land too hungry to fight her off.

Robb had consulted a hundred maesters and dedicated moons to researching the cause and unraveling it at its root. The consensus was the same resounding fact: there was no natural cause for such famine, no weather pattern or event that could reasonably cause such mounting devastation. Their land was barren, plain and true. None could tell him why. The Northern Kingdom was a ship with windless sails, pushed along by only the current and luck.

Silencing the room with a raised hand, Robb rose to his feet and leaned forward onto the table, staring at the map as though the answer might be hidden in paint. Finally, he declared, “We shall stay our hand until Queen Daenarys formally declares war. The Southern Kingdom has been a fine ally in the past, but until they call for aid, we cannot send it and risk crippling ourselves. Winter is upon us. We must first weather that.”

The lords grumbled, but no one stood to challenge his statement, as Jon knew they wouldn’t. Even if Robb’s reign was young and untested, all of the councilors respected the late King Eddard too much to undermine his son.

“If that is all…” Robb trailed off. When none spoke or raised a hand to interject, he finished, “Then let us reconvene in three moons, my good lords. Safe travels home.”

One by one they trailed out, a few stopping to exchange a handful of quiet words with Robb that he met with a tight smile and little else. When the last of them had slipped from the room, leaving only Jon and Robyn, the king dropped his head into his hands and groaned. “What are we to do, Jon?”

There was only one thing left to do, yet Robb had rejected it at every turn, ending meetings at the mere suggestion. There were two eligible Stark princes and another princess, the girl and one of the boys of marrying age and another who was nearly a man. If a kingdom could not grow their own food, they must marry it.

The late king had known this and wedded the older of Robb's sister off to a southern lord for grain shipments, which had quickly proved insufficient for the growing hunger. They needed more. They needed allies, and fast.

Carefully, Jon tried, “Perhaps it is time to consider Bran or Arya’s betrothal again.”

“They’re too young.” Robb snapped, raising his head to glare at Jon with eyes like chips of ice. “Bran and Arya are children still, and Rickon is barely more than a babe, and more importantly, they are my only heirs. I will not barter away the future of the Northern Kingdoms when there are still viable options on the table.”

“And what, pray tell, would those viable options be?” Jon snorted, dropping into the seat beside him. “What avenues exist that we have not tried?”

Robb deflated before his eyes, broad shoulders curling in on themselves. Quietly, he answered, “I cannot part with them yet, Jon. One of my sisters is already gone. I cannot lose the rest of my siblings as well.”

And Jon, who had already lost his own brother and sister, could not fault his best friend. He wordlessly clapped Robb on the shoulder, and they remained as they were, seated at the round table, king and shield.

“The eastern continent, perhaps. Or the pirate lords” Robyn’s low voice broke the silence like a whip, approaching them on velvet-soft feet from the corner he’d been lurking in, forgotten.

Robb spluttered, “What?”

“You could treat with the princes on the eastern continent or summon the pirate lords.” The Master of Whispers drew up a chair on the other side of the king, eyes trained on the dotted islands off the Northern Kingdom’s shore. “They trade with lands beyond our own. Perhaps there is an alliance to be made across the Far Sea.”

By sea, the distant lands Robyn spoke of was nearly a year’s journey through leagues and leagues of raging seas filled with monsters and magic that could swallow a ship whole. Very few men who were mad enough to venture out so far returned, but those who did carried riches beyond imagination. The voyage needed only be made once for a sailor to retire from the sea and live out the rest of his days on land.

It was too far and dangerous to be viable, and Jon told him as much, but the spymaster shook his head. “That is our best option. Dorne has fallen to the dragon army. The Southern Kingdom will follow. We are out of allies in the South unless we choose to bow to the Dragon Queen.”

“The North will never bow.” Robb rumbled darkly, storms flashing in his eyes.

Robyn answered, “Then the only option is to look across the sea.”

Jon stared at the expanse of the map, lingering on the white paint to the east where few and fewer pieces were scattered. “What of the Eastern Kingdom?”

Robb answered with a sigh, “The East does not concern itself with battles west of the Bite. We have nothing of value to offer them, and they have their own war to wage with one another.” To Robyn, he asked, “How long would it take you to gather the pirate lords in White Harbor?”

The dark-haired man considered him, chewing on his lip as he drew a finger along the painted coast of the North. “Not before winter is upon us. They are scattered throughout the Far Sea. Our best bet would be to aim for the early spring.”

“Very well. You may take ten men and a ship of your choosing.” Robb glanced out the window, eyeing the violet clouds crowding over the keep. “The sooner you can depart, the better. Once winter is upon us, you will not be able to leave the harbor.”

The Master of Whispers dipped his chin once.

“This is your solution?” Jon pressed him. “We wager the survival of the North on hope?”

“Hope is all we have.” Robyn replied, eyes trained on the king.

Robb considered him. Drumming his fingers on the table and rubbing at his temple, Robb squeezed his eyes shut. Quietly, he murmured to Jon, “Has the witch sent word in response?”

Two moons ago, in a fit of desperation after the last of the streams in the Neck ran dry, Robb had written to the only known witch east of the Bite asking for an audience.

There was a lesser-known rumor, treasonous and terrible, that this famine was not of natural causes but rather a curse put upon King Eddard’s predecessor King Brandon for a transgression committed nearly thirty years ago.

Dismissed as hearsay by the throne and all but forgotten by most after decades, the story nagged at Jon as the Northern Kingdom became drier and drier while the rest of the continent prospered.

It was only in private that Robb admitted his suspicions regarding the truth of the origins.

Under the severest of secrecy, the towermaester sent a raven to the most famous magic-wielder who lived in the caves beneath the Bite, whispered to wield the power of the Old Gods and perform miracles beyond the grasp of man. If a witch had indeed placed a curse on the Northern Kingdom, then one could remove it, or so the maesters reasoned.

The Northern Kingdom was not a place of magic, but it did exist in small quantities. Witches were rare, more common in the lands immediately surrounding the Bite, thinning the farther out towards the coastline one went. Curse breaking, the kind of magic they were seeking, was a different breed altogether.

No one knew whether the women they called witches were born or made, how long they lived, or the true limit of their capabilities. Only the mad or truly desperate turned to the Old Gods for power.

Which, he supposed, they were now both.

Jon shook his head, lips pinched. At Robb’s direction, he checked the tower twice a day every day since the missive was sent. There had been no answer.

Behind them, Robyn huffed a breath. He had disagreed vehemently with Robb’s decision to write to the witch, some old superstition amongst his kin that foretold the fall of their blood at the hands of a witch, but Robb was the king, and so he did as he wished.

“No.” Jon confirmed, “There has been nothing.”

Robb replied curtly, “Then we wait.”

The Master of Whisper’s frown deepened, and Jon watched the hand at his side curl into a fist. “Your grace, I really must implore that-.”

“We shall wait for your return with the pirate lords.” There was no argument in the king’s voice. However much he may disagree, Robyn swallowed his words and nodded stiffly. Even he knew better than to continue down that path once Robb had made up his mind. One was hard-pressed to find a man more just or stubborn than a Stark.

In silence, the three men continued to stare at the map painted across the round table and its many ivory pieces, colored for the Northern Kingdom’s many houses. There were larger pieces denoting the kingdoms beyond. The Eastern Kingdom, in green, sat at on the far side of the Bite, fighting a war internally against its own people. Freckled with pieces of Targaryen red along its southern border, the Western Kingdom lay vast and flat to the west of the Bite in gold. Both Dorne and the Southern Kingdom were entirely gilded. The grey of the North stood stagnant and alone, a steady pulse in the growing sea of red.

That could change the next day should the Dragon Queen send her army north.

The knowledge that the Northern Kingdom starved was unbearably fragile, its secrecy so imperative to the kingdom’s survival that they rarely voiced the topic aloud lest they tempt the Old Gods.

For now, they sat on the edge of a blade, starvation on one side, dragons on the other.

For now, they would wait.

Chapter Text

As she hid from the Baratheon riders behind a grove of thorn bushes, Sansa found herself wondering for the hundredth time why she had thought this to be a good idea.

She’d been an excellent horsewoman her entire life. Her father had ensured that all his children had the best riding instructors to be found in the North, and as one of his beloved daughters, Sansa had the fortune of being included in those lessons.

Foolishly, she’d presumed that a lifetime spent on horseback in the North made her equipped to manage a moon ride through along the King’s Road with the beasts of hell biting at her heels.

Her septas had always claimed she was superb with counts; this fatal miscalculation would likely send them to their graves along with her.

The first few nights were brutal.

The King’s Road, the great, wide road winding through the Southern Kingdom from King’s Landing up to the southernmost border of the Northern Kingdom, was void of any human life save the few houses whose lands bordered the road, none of whom were kin to her.

To safely cross from the Southern Kingdom into the the Northern Kingdom, Sansa’s only option was to ride north along the dirt path, exposed in the open with only a flimsy hunting knife to protect her.

Unfortunately, that meant first crossing through the belly of the Reach, with little to no shelter and a thousand different ways to die awaiting her.

Most of the Southern Kingdom lived by the light of the sun, save Dorne, the desert sun too hot to conduct life beneath, so she rode from the beginnings of dusk to the first rays of dawn. During those first days, she slept in whatever bushes she could find that were least likely to tear her skin apart.

Then, one morning, she’d ridden over the crest of a hill and seen the impossible: a party of travelers and their carriages, packing the supplies of the previous night’s camp onto their wagons. There were trade routes throughout the Southern Kingdom that wound across the South in a great knot that few dared travel without protection.

If she could talk her way into joining their wagon train, her trek along the King’s Road would become drastically less dangerous.

In the end, it had taken her sweetest smiles and a few lingering touches on the arms of a sweaty, bearded man to secure her place in their ranks, and even then they would go no farther than House Blackwood’s lands. Their lands were an epicenter of trade; the King’s Road passed directly through them. There would be another two weeks of riding on the other side of their holdfast, the other half of the Southern Kingdom left to cross, but Sansa had readily agreed and guided her horse in line.

Before her mad escape from Storm’s End, the city she’d called home for the past five years, Sansa had stolen a set of common garments from her lord husband’s stables: long, light trousers; a tunic that covered her from chin to fingertips; and lightweight leather boots that could protect her from mud and thieves alike. Her maid had procured for her a set of calf-skin riding gloves and a thin cloak to ward off the rain.

In House Blackwood’s lands, she traded one of the golden baubles she’d stolen from her husband’s chambers for a proper cloak and wool riding habit. The closer she got to the Northern Kingdom, the colder the air grew.

Even with the added protection and the bounty of water she’d purchased in the village, the day she’d seen the forested outline of the Northern Kingdom’s border horizon, the jagged grey behemoth of the Bite rising beside it, Sansa had wept in the saddle, curled forward over her mount’s white mane, the tears joining in the rain running down her cheeks.

The instant she passed into the Northern Kingdom, she would need to change into the traditional clothes of her frozen homeland that were stuffed into her saddlebags. Riding alone through the North as a woman was risky enough. Doing so in Southern garb would attract every eye from the Neck to the New Gift.

Sansa’s retreat relied on secrecy. She had not risked sending her brother a missive that she was returning home out of fear that some lord would intercept it and Joffrey would appear to stop her.

No, the only option was this mad dash across the South and the gamble that the muddy dye she’d used to color her hair brackish brown and her stolen horse were faster than whatever riders would be sent after her once the new Lord of Storm’s End returned from King’s Landing to find her missing.

Thus far, the horse appeared to be the only wise decision she’d made in the past moon. Axan, as her husband had named her, was a massive, white-coated beast who had bitten a finger off nearly every stable hand in the six moons she'd been in the lord’s possession. She bucked off Lord Baratheon’s brother and broke the man’s leg, earning her Sansa’s immediate favor and the fear of the rest of Storm’s Ends residents.

To her great fortune, Axan’s rage seemed to be directed only at male riders and handlers. When she first attempted to saddle and mount her several moons ago while the rest of Storm’s End slept, she was sweeter than a dream.

Their first run through the grassy knolls surrounding the castle was so magnificently quick and graceful that she dubbed the horse Lady in that instant.

There were smaller, gentler horses in the stable she might’ve chosen, like the stallion she’d been gifted six years ago by her uncle or the geldings favored by Lord Baratheon’s shields, but no mount could claim to be as fleet-footed as the raging mare, and speed was her greatest ally.

It was speed and speed alone that had saved her thus far and continued to be the only grace left to her.

Luck had been with her at the beginning; the traveling group were the second boon she’d been gifted.

The first was King Stannis's paranoia.

Sansa was not privy to any of the kingdom’s inner workings, her lord husband would never allow her to know such things, but even the smallest of children could see that the Southern Kingdom was on the precipice of something. Servants whispered about it all through the keep, the streets of Storm’s End were alive with rumors, all of them surrounding the Dragon Queen.

Whatever was happening, the king was clearly worried enough to summon all of his lords to King’s Landing for an emergency council. It was this summons, and the summons alone, that provided Sansa with the opportunity to slip from Storm’s End in the middle of the night, without the watchful eye of the new lord glued to her back.

Her luck had apparently run out.

The Lord of Storm’s End’s men had caught up to her a few miles from the Neck, their golden horses cresting over the hills of the King’s Road like harbingers of death, and she’d been running from them for a full night.

All she had to do was make it to the Reeds lands in the Neck. Even the Stag King himself would not dare to send his men after her into Stark territory.

Despite her crimes, she was just one girl.

One girl was not worth starting a war over, no matter what she’d done.

Still, close enough to the Neck to smell the swampy grasses, Sansa swore she heard the pounding of hooves at her back and had veered deeper into the forest lining the road, leading Lady behind an outcrop of thick trees and thorn bushes.

Hooves thundered past, turning down a bend to the east, accompanied by a shout of, “This way!”

Slowly, the clatter faded into silence. Sansa did not dare breathe, lest she choke on dust and alert them to her presence with the force of her coughing. They were fools, the lot of them, though she had expected little else of her husband’s men. Only a madwoman would try to flee the Baratheons. It was as good as a death sentence.

A moment of silence passed, then another.

Lady nickered softly, to which Sansa hissed, “Shhh!” but no squad of armed men came barreling back around the bend cloaked in blue standards.

She did not intend to wait around for them to return; rising, she guided the horse from behind the stone and bushes back onto the winding path that led north and away from the mountains fringing the east.

Swinging into the saddle, they rode back out onto the dirt trail that wove through the forest..

With a nudge at her mount’s flank, Sansa urged her faster and faster until they were a streak of white racing through the green along the King’s Road. The twinkling light of fading stars was the map guiding her through the darkness to salvation.

“Home, Lady.” She murmured against her sweaty neck, too softly for the wind or fear to steal. “Take me home.”

Chapter Text

All Northmen, new or weathered, understood the strangeness that brewed in winter.

The heart of the Northern Kingdom was often ravaged by storms as winter began, so much so that the Northmen dubbed the time of year the ‘storm season.’

Northmen knew this and prepared accordingly. It was not uncommon for inland lords to board up their keeps and weather the brutal onslaught within their own walls, sending out no riders and receiving no guests until the freeze of winter brought some relief.

Winterfell, the seat of the Stark kings, was not one of those keeps.

Its looming walls and towers of stone remained open year-round for common folk and nobles alike. On nights like tonight, it was primarily the former who sought shelter within its walls. Leagues and leagues beyond the castle were dozens of villages and outcrops filled with farmers and tradesmen. But during the storm season, when wind battered the streets and homes, and rain and snow whipped skin raw, many made the long journey through the forests and moors to Winterfell and took refuge in the village that surrounded it.

Jon had watched them trickle in all day, though the stream petered off around supper when the rains picked up and the path became no longer safe to ascend. There were several inns and village hubs that existed specifically to house the influx of Northmen, and tonight they must be overflowing.

It’d been an autumn of terrible storms, growing worse each year since the curse was rumored to be placed upon House Stark, but this was by far the worst. The unlucky men who’d drawn guard duty atop the outer gates were waterlogged and shivering in their standards, grumbling to one another about ale or women or whatever else got them through the night.

Jon pitied the poor men, truly. In his single round of Winterfell’s battlements, the sleet had managed to soak every article of clothing on his body, from the thick trousers he wore beneath his standard to his black cloak. Water streamed in rivers down Longclaw, the black-steel sword sheathed at his hip.

Swords were ineffective for gate duty, though, so it mattered little that Jon would lose his grip on the blasted thing and stab himself if he had to draw it. The real defense was the archers stationed evenly along the walls, bows strung with seal sinew that would stave off any waterlogged twine, and razor-sharp arrows tucked in little crevices carved into the stone to keep them dry until needed.

The bowmen lining Winterfell’s walls were among the finest on the continent, men he’d fought beside in the army who were no strangers to death and dying. A handful greeted him on his trudge, clapping him on the shoulder or calling out, “Alright, Snow?” He rarely made this walk himself. Usually, his second, Grenn, did the moon-high rounds and brought back reports of potential weaknesses or overmanned areas, but his wife had delivered a baby boy just that morning, and even Jon was not cruel enough to drag a new father from his first child.

On any other night it would’ve been pleasant enough. The Northern Kingdom was cold but lovely in the autumn when it wasn’t storming, and there was a certain kind of comfort that came from walking beneath the stars. As he approached the south gate, pointed towards the far-off south, Jon nearly groaned in relief.

The gate was the last point on his rounds, and a hot bath was so close he could almost feel the steam.

There was one gate to Winterfell, facing south. The gate was principally used for visiting parties to enter, but it was sealed and secured tonight. No one was mad enough to venture out in this weather, making defense of the gate rather boring work. The trio of guards perked up when he approached, standing at attention. Two were older men, grizzled and Northern with thick beards and weathered skin, but the last man Jon knew well.

“Snow.” Edd greeted him with his usual dower frown, one side pulled back slightly from the finger-width scar running down his right cheek.

Jon grinned despite the miserable cold and grasped arms with the greying man, nodding respectfully to the older pair. “How’d you land yourself the walls tonight?”

Edd shrugged, fingers drumming a restless beat on his sword belt. “Nothing too nefarious. Just covering for Alyn. He’s been bedridden for a week.”

At this Jon straightened, shedding his casual demeanor as easily as his cloak. “A week? What’s the matter with him?”

“Running himself a sweat, Ser. He's been in and out of dreams, babbling nonsense and throwing up any water the mages bring him.” One of the others answered gruffly.

“Has anyone else in the hall grown ill?”

All three men shook their heads.

“No,” Edd’s face was more serious than usual. "But Sam doesn’t like how he looks.”

Jon chided himself for not keeping a closer watch on the guard barracks. He lived in the shield hall with the other swornshields of House Stark in a wing off the royal chambers, half a keep from the guards, but the men there fell under his purview as well.

“Have Sam move him to the sick quarters. I’ll have an update every day until he’s recovered.”

Edd immediately said, “Of course, Snow.”

“Have you anything to report from the gate tonight?”

“Aside from being drowned like a rat, everything has been quiet down to the south.” Jon gave Ed a pointed look, but his friend brushed it off. “Haven’t seen so much as a fly in hours.”

“Good,” Jon said. “Send a man if that changes.”

“Will do.”

Bidding them a good watch, Jon headed towards the inlet stairs leading down to the front courtyard. If he was lucky, perhaps he’d catch the last hand of cards before the off-duty shields retired to their bunks.

He was two steps down the stairwell, blissfully sheltered from the rain and wind, when a faint voice called out his name. Jon paused, wondering if it might’ve been a particular shriek of the storm, but then it came again, closer this time.

“Ser Jon! Ser!” A younger guard came racing into the parapet, nearly colliding with him and sending them both flying backwards down the stairs. Fortunately, the lad skidded to a halt, panting. “Lord Commander, you must come at once.”

Jon followed when he led them back out into the slushy rain, retracing his steps back to Edd at the south gate, who was standing with his bow drawn, staring over the battlement. Jon shifted into a jog and reached the archer’s side in seconds, trying to stare out into the blackness and see whatever the hawk-eyed soldier had alerted him to. There was nothing but inky sky and thick sleet as far as the eye could see.

“Tis the shadows, Jon.” The archer murmured without shifting his attention from the line of his bow. “They’re not right. Someone’s coming down the road, and fast.”

Having not the faintest clue what Edd meant by ‘the shadows,’ Jon reached for Longclaw, fingers wrapping around its hilt easily. He trusted the man implicitly. If he said the bloody shadows were talking to him, Jon was inclined to believe it. “How many?”

Edd squinted. “Just one.”

“A single rider? In this weather? What man is mad enough to ride through this?” At this,

Edd tensed, then raised his bow to aim into the night.

Behind him, one of the men asked, “Shall I raise the alarm, Ser?”

Jon raised a single hand without turning. “Hold.” For a moment no one breathed. Even the wind quieted its howling, and the droplets seemed to freeze in the air, as if the Old Gods had stopped time for them. Edd and the other men faded to the periphery of his vision until all he saw was the muddy dirt path threading through the dark. The only sound was Jon’s heart hammering in his throat like a drum.

Then the darkness split open, and a white horse came barreling towards the gate in a gallop, saddle-less, its rider clinging flat to its neck like a flea. They cut through the rain like a blade, kicking up muck as they pounded towards Winterfell.

Jon got the strangest feeling in his gut watching them grow closer and closer, quickly trying to assess the danger level of a single rider. Beside him, he felt Edd’s muscles tense, and Jon was acting before his mind could question it. “Stand down, Tollet. Do not shoot.”

The archer did as he was told but kept the bow trained on the rider as the horse slowed into a walk.

As they got closer, Jon tried to decide whether he was a madman for calling Edd off. There was no sword at the man’s side or bow slung across his back, though he just as easily could’ve been hiding a knife beneath the folds of his tattered brown cloak.

The hood was drawn up, hiding him from the lit torches lining the gate’s entrance, so all Jon could make out were pale, ungloved hands and worn boots. The man must be half-frozen in that threadbare cloak and bare knuckles with only a soggy hood to protect him from the elements.

Something was not right. Jon’s gut churned the longer the rider stood there, staring up at them.

A guard farther down the battlement shouted down, “Name yourself at once!”

A distinctly feminine voice floated up to them, “I seek sanctuary in Winterfell.”

Wide-eyed, Edd lowered his weapon in a flash.

The two guards behind them were sputtering back and forth in shock. Their moon-high visitor was a woman, riding bareback on a white horse as large as Jon’s own mount, clothed in the garments of a common village boy and holding herself tall and proud as a queen.

Jon called out, “You will name yourself if you wish to enter this keep.”

The horse huffed, as disgruntled as its rider. She shouted back, “I swear on the Old Gods and the New that I wish no harm to befall Winterfell, nor any man in its walls. I seek only sanctuary, as is my right as a Northmen.”

All Northmen were entitled to seek sanctuary in Winterfell; that much was true. The castle itself was massive, with more than enough room for anyone who sought refuge. All a man must do was ask to enter and swear on his honor that he wished no harm upon anyone inside.

And name himself, which the rider was pointedly not doing. He could almost hear her teeth grinding from all the way on the ground. “If you wish to claim sanctuary, name yourself at once.” Jon repeated, frustration edging into his tone. The sleet continued to beat down upon them, and Jon longed for the dry bed he’d been headed towards mere moments ago.

Now that there was no threat to Winterfell or Robb, he had little interest in some runaway girl seeking sanctuary, however curious her sudden appearance was.

Still, she kept her silence.

“Miss, we cannot offer you refuge unless you name yourself.” Edd called down, ever patient.

For a moment, she hesitated, her hand poised on the edge of her hood. There was no other way to gain entry to Winterfell other than fighting her way in, which Jon had little faith the girl would be capable of. The seat of the Stark kings had never been besieged, not by god or army.

This, naming herself, was the only option, lest she wish to slink back to the village and try to barter her way into one of the packed inns.

Having seemingly come to the same conclusion, she threw the hood back and revealed herself.

The two older guards gasped.

The woman was young, a handful of years younger than him at least. Jon imagined this was what Queen Catlin had looked like as a maiden, when her beauty was so great it caught her a king. Even at a distance, hers was a face from a song, like a boyhood dream from decades ago. She had a sharp face, bordering on gaunt, but it did nothing to distract from the loveliness of her piercing blue eyes and cream skin, with full pink lips gone pale in the cold and a splash of freckles across her straight nose.

At least, Jon thought they were freckles. Given how dirty her clothes were, it very well could’ve been mud.

What was truly remarkable was her red hair. It was haphazardly bound in a long braid that disappeared into her tattered cloak, loose pieces sticking to her flushed skin as the rain quickly soaked through all her layers. It was the color of harvest wine, Jon realized with a sharp pang in his gut, nearly identical in color to the rich, dark wine passed around at the autumn solstice, when all of the South celebrated the end of a long dry season with honey cakes and moonlit festivals.

She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, despite the scowl marring her lovely face. Perhaps the most beautiful woman in the Northern Kingdom or on the continent.

But when the guards behind him surged forward to get a better look at her, Jon was struck dumb by their whispers.

“The princess,” They said in a hushed, reverent tone. “The princess has returned.”

“The what?” Jon stuttered, gaze still locked on the lone tendril of harvest wine hair glued to her cheek.

Even Edd had nothing clever to say to that. He too was gaping down at her, though he would’ve been too young to remember her.

The princess. The princess.

The king’s oldest daughter, who’d been sent south six years ago, long before he arrived in Winterfell. The same girl who, after her first year in the Southern Kingdom, stopped writing any of the Starks and disappeared from their life as though she’d never existed.

Jon could only stare at the girl, face turned up in the rain with those brilliant eyes boring into his own. “My name is Sansa Stark, and I command you to open these gates.”

Chapter Text

Of the five Stark children, Jon knew and loved all but one.

He met Robb during their time in the army almost a decade earlier, scraping over a fine piece of armor left behind by some dead wildling from the Bite who’d ambushed them. Jon had been the one to kill the man, but Robb had been the first to lay claim to it.

They’d been wrestling, thrashing about on in the mud of camp much to everyone’s amusement, while the boys in their wing leered and laughed at them. Jon was older and taller, but Robb was broader and stronger, so they grappled for what felt like hours. And then, just as Jon was getting the upper hand, the auburn-haired little prick shouted out, “By order of the Heir Prince, this armor is mine by right!”

For three moons, they’d had the heir to the North sleeping in a shitty bunk beside them, trudging through the endless motions of a grunt soldier as though he were nothing but a common sod like the rest of them.

However, Jon was not a Northman, not by birth, so he used the boy’s off-balanced, outlandish claim as the moment to flip Robb onto his back and pin him to the dirt. “By victory,” he had snarled. “It is mine.”

The others watched it, stunned and silent, while Robb stared up at him, struggling to catch his breath, until the prince let out a whoop of laughter, dropping his fiery head back onto the ground and laughing himself sore. Jon was the only person he’d ever met who knew who he was and still treated him as an equal. From that moment on, Robb was his dearest friend in the world. He swore his sword and shield to the prince in a snow-speckled clearing in the woods, and no words had ever tasted quite so sweet as the oath of a swornshield.

Jon met the others when King Eddard grew ill and Robb was summoned back to Winterfell.

There was the half-wild princess, Arya, who dreamed of a life on the sea with an eternal wind filling her sails, taking her far from home. There was the quiet second son, Bran, whose head was filled with books and ink. For several years in his youth, he lived in White Harbor to learn the way of the Northern maesters. The littlest and Robb’s favorite brother was Rickon, only seven years of age when Jon arrived, and already a spitfire with a thirst for battle and glory who often begged at his heels for lessons with real steel instead of the wooden swords young boys used to practice. Arya did not share much of the look of her siblings, of a height with her younger brother and with a head of dark curling hair, but the two princes both had Tully blue eyes from their mother, the same shade as the sea before a storm.

Jon knew them. He loved them. For three years he lived in Winterfell alongside them as the perpetual shadow of Robb, and he’d come to view them as family of his own, the little siblings he never had.

But there were five Starks, not four. And the eldest daughter of King Eddard Stark and Queen Catlin Tully was rarely, if ever, spoken of.

Robb had told him of a sister, the second eldest child after him and by birth the liege lady of Winterfell, who had a romantic spirit and dreamed of a handsome southern prince to marry, a dutiful girl with a heart for stories and not winter. He’d spoken fondly of her then, and Jon was almost eager to meet the mythic princess, but she’d been in the Southern Kingdom for three years by the time he and Robb returned. Out of the blue, a moon after she married her husband, the princess stopped writing them. They’d been told of her quick marriage to the Baratheon lord, but no one could explain why, after a year of regular, detailed letters, they suddenly ceased.

Not a word had been heard from Princess Sansa in five long years until she appeared like a figment of the night in front of the castle.

With the two older men to confirm her identity, the gate was raised at once, and the princess nudged her mount forward into the main courtyard. Jon sent Ed to rouse the king, ordering the remaining men stationed at the gate to remain vigilant and watch for anything amiss. The girl had ridden up to Winterfell as though the Stranger itself were at her heels. Something had chased her north. Jon wouldn’t be shocked to find her horse lame.

He thought of this as he entered the courtyard. A trio of guards had been summoned from inside the keep and now stood in a ring around her horse, one holding steady the twitchy mount’s lead while another reached to lift her from the horse’s bare back by the waist. Before the man’s hands could touch her, the princess flinched back, spitting out, “Do not touch me.”

"Your grace, I seek only to help you-.” The man assured her, but Jon was at his side in a heartbeat, shouldering the man aside and directing them to return to their posts at once.

The princess would not be manhandled by a common guard. Jon would see to her himself, as was his duty to Robb. But when he twisted to look up at her, still sitting proud and tall on the horse’s back as if it were a throne, it took years of training to bite back his curse.

Stark against her pale skin was a purple-black bruise beneath her right brow, the whites of her right eye cut with ugly streaks of pink. Another ugly mark darkened the left side of her jaw. Her hands shook where they clutched at her mount’s mane, but no fear could be found on her face, her good eye clear and blazing as she looked down upon him.

On horseback, it was over a moon to King’s Landing, the Southern Kingdom’s capital. Which lordholding she’d resided in, Jon couldn’t say. There was no telling how long she could’ve been traveling.

Jon had been a soldier more than half his life, and as such, there were few things he knew better than a wound. A mark like that was five days old, perhaps a week at most. Whoever struck her had done so as she traveled, perhaps because she was traveling at all. No man of honor, noble or common, would strike even the most base and ill-born woman. It was not done.

Despite the exhaustion lining her face, her stare was razor sharp. Rags and mud coating her, and yet there was no mistaking the blessing of the Old Gods flowing through her veins. It shrouded her like a second skin, anointing her as something miraculous, special, otherworldly. It clung to the other Starks as well, in their fine clothes and shining crowns, but it felt somehow more in her, as if the Old Gods deposited just a drop extra of divine favor into her blood. It was impossible to miss even in her disheveled state. If a man had marked her with his fists, he’d done so knowing exactly what she was and what the consequences were for laying a hand on a princess.

There was no malice in her scrutinizing, just bone-deep weariness and a glint in her ocean dark eyes that Jon couldn’t decipher.

“May I assist you, your grace?” He asked, shouting slightly to be heard over the shrieks of wind rattling the looming gate. The princess furiously shook her head, shrinking back from his hands when Jon reached to steady her restless steed, scared by the storm.

“We really must get you inside, your grace.” He pointed towards the archway that led to Winterfell’s maze of halls, but she made no movement to dismount.

Without a league and a wall separating them, her voice was far raspier than Jon expected. “Where is my brother?”

“In his chambers, your grace. ‘Tis past moon-high; the whole of the castle is asleep.”

“Take me to him.” She commanded, grip loosening on its mane as she slowly swung a leg over the horse’s back and slid clumsily to the ground.

“Your grace!” Jon lurched forward when she tottered on unsteady legs, grabbing her at the waist when her knees buckled. She flinched away from his grip and steadied herself quickly with a hand clutching her mount’s tangled mane, flicking her braid back over her shoulder and straightening her spine.

Jon was a tall man. His father had been, and his grandfather as well. He stood a good two heads taller than Bran and a hand more than Robb, who had both inherited the stocky Stark stature. Their sister, it seemed, possessed the height of their mother’s kin.

The top of the princess’s fine head reached his jaw, only a handful of inches shorter than himself. Her cloak was too short. It barely brushed the tops of her boots. But beneath it she was thin, too much so, and the garments were drowning her. With barely a step between them, that strange look on her face was back. The princess repeated, “Take me to him.”

“Your grace, would you not prefer to rest and speak to the king at first light? Orders have been given to prepare your old chambers.”

She shook her head. “I must speak to my brother immediately.”

Jon hesitated. Unless she rid herself of her sopping wet clothes and bathed soon, it was likely she’d catch a chill. But he was the Lord Commander to King Robb Stark’s Kingsguard, and as such, he was duty-bound to obey the orders of the royal family. Though she was married to that southern lord, the princess was still a Stark by blood.

“Very well, your grace.” Jon relented, motioning for her to follow before stalking towards the keep, ignoring the stares of the on-duty guards who watched them from atop the battlements. Jon shouted, “To your posts!”

The men scattered into the night, disappearing into the rain like mist as he led the lost princess back into her home.

...

Despite the late hour, Winterfell was a bustling hub of activity, with servants racing about to finish their tasks before the nobility awoke and demanded to break their fasts.

The crowds worried him at first, but Jon figured it had been a great many years since the princess was last in residence in Winterfell. Briefly, he wondered if anyone would recognize the Stark girl at all.

He was quickly proven wrong. As soon as they passed the threshold into Winterfell’s winding system of corridors, every servant and guard alike paused to stare over his shoulder when Jon passed by, a few younger girls even straining on the tips of their toes to catch a glimpse of her wet, blazing hair.

Whispers skirted out behind them like shadows, starting softly in the most exterior halls and increasing to full-blown chatter by the time Jon finally turned into the corridor housing the king's study, where a breathless page informed them that Robb waited.

The princess had said nothing about the heads bent together and staring servants, merely continued to walk dutifully behind him with her hood still drawn in the only form of protection left to her, though she did let loose a heavy sigh once Andor and Herry stepped aside to grant them access to the king’s private corridor.

Jon was stationed behind the princess when she tentatively knocked thrice on the oak door and could not see anything beyond the back of her braid and a long, slender neck, but his eyes snapped up when the door pulled open to reveal Robb in the entryway. He’d been roused from sleep mere moments ago, but the king’s blue eyes were wide awake.

For a moment, Robb said nothing. He just stared at his sister with a slackened jaw, eyes raking over the face that’d nearly sent Jon to his knees and the tattered clothes that smelled strongly of wet horse, fingers twitching restlessly at his sides.

Though she’d been in the Southern Kingdom for only six years, Robb had been with the army for longer. The last time he’d laid eyes on her must’ve been nearly a decade earlier, when she was barely more than a child.

It seemed as though neither Stark was going to take the first step forward or breathe a word until a slim figure shoved his way past Robb and gasped a breathless, “Sansa!”

Bran had none of his older brother’s restraint and lunged for the girl, wrapping his arms around her tightly and pressing his face into the hollow of her throat, for she stood a hand taller than the young man. The princess responded just as fiercely, clutching him to her with a soothing hand on the back of his head, murmuring into Bran’s wild red curls while her other hand fisted in the back of his tunic.

Robb remained silent, watching with a stricken expression as his sister choked out, “My little wolf.”

Jon met his friend’s eye over the embracing kin, throat burning at the swirls of blue grief, though Robb just dipped his chin once, as if to reassure him that he was alright, if not now, then eventually.

After what could’ve been hours, Bran finally released the princess long enough to usher her into the room. Jon followed behind them, clasping Robb on the shoulder and squeezing it once in passing.

The king’s study was Jon’s favorite room in the entire keep.

It was a large, circular space with a set of velvet sofas set in the center of it, and on the far wall before a roaring fireplace sat the ancient desk first carved by Eddard the First, who inherited the throne after his 65th naming anniversary and spent the majority of his short reign in these very quarters, crafting the laws of the Northern Kingdom that continued to rule their people. It was a behemoth of a thing, crafted from wood so dark it looked nearly black and decorated with carvings detailing the stories of House Stark, from its origins as the men born of winter itself to the long, bloody centuries spent uniting the broken frozen kingdoms under one banner and calling it the Kingdom of the North. Hand-spun carpets in white and gray softened the stone floor, and from the walls hung tapestries of the first Stark Kings.

Though the bones of all the great kings were buried beneath Winterfell in the crypts, Jon felt the history of House Stark strongest in this old study.

Robb retreated to his seat behind the desk, sitting stiffly in the tall-backed chair and assessing his sister with a tight jaw as she released Bran’s hand and stepped forward to stand before him.

Her voice was raspier than it had been in the courtyard when she said, “Robb.”

Robb swallowed. “Sansa.”

Silence hung between them for several breaths, awkward and heavy in a way that made Jon want to cough or hide his face in a cushion, until the princess relented and announced, “I am home.”

Bran made a choking sound that sounded half-laughter, ceasing instantly when Robb’s sharp eyes shot to him. The younger boy took a step backwards to stand at the right of his shield, Ser Wyllan Fenn, who’d been stationed so silently beside the hearth that Jon hadn’t noticed the man at all.

Clearing his throat, Robb answered, “Yes, I’ve noticed.”

“And yet you seem rather unaffected by the observation.”

“A thousand pardons.” The king said stonily, “I had not realized you were suddenly interested in being a Stark again.”

Princess Sansa stiffened. “I do not know what you mean.”

“Don’t you?” Robb’s fingers drummed on the desk as he stared back at his sister. “Six years you’ve been in the south, six long years, and not once did you write to us or visit. Father died, and no crow flew north with your sorrows.”

Jon tensed, stomach tightening as his friend continued, “He died, Sansa, and still, you did not return to see him buried with our ancestors or even deign to write of your grief. So yes, I ask if you desire to once more be a Stark because for these past years you have been no kin of mine.”

To her credit, the princess did not so much as wince at her brother’s harsh words, the straight line of her spine undisturbed by even the slightest of tremors.

From behind Jon, Bran admonished, “Of course she is a Stark, Robb; do not be ridiculous.”

“No,” she interrupted. “Not according to the line of succession.”

Robb sighed, “Do you expect an apology? When father grew ill, he was concerned that if something were to happen to me or the boys, the crown would pass to you and that southern husband of yours.”

“It was an insult, and you know that as well as I.”

“Would you truly see the north under southern rule? Led by a Baratheon king?”

That must’ve been the lord she wed, Jon realized, a lesson from a thousand years ago flashing in his memory. House Baratheon of Storm’s End. They took a great stag as their sigil.

The princess scoffed, “Of course I wouldn’t.”

“Then let go of your anger, Sansa. What good shall it do you?”

“I am home,” she repeated after a few heartbeats. “Let what has passed be past.”

Her brother nodded minutely, shuffling a pile of papers and attempting to declutter the messy desk rather than look her in the eye. Bran, from behind them, asked, “Why have you returned, then? What has changed?”

The princess did not turn when she said, “Certain circumstances in Storm’s End have pushed me north.”

Certain circumstances? Robb shared Jon’s puzzlement, asking, “What cause did you have to leave Storm’s End?”

“My husband has died without any heirs from me or his previous wives. Thus, the lordship has passed to his brother, Lord Tommen.”

No news had reached the Northern Kingdom of the Lord of Storm’s End’s death, not from the desk of the Stag King, though it was not technically an announcement often made. But King Stannis Baratheon was a friend of the late king. Surely, he would’ve written if their brother-by-law had passed and their sister was at risk. However he’d come to die, Sansa Stark did not seem particularly gutted by the loss.

Robb's brow furrowed. “I do not see how that would cause you to leave. You remain a Baratheon by bond, do you not?”

“That is not Tommen’s opinion.”

Jaw twitching, Robb snapped at his sister, “Then what is Lord Tommen’s opinion, Sansa? Why now, of all times, have you decided to come home?”

The pause grew heavy between them until at last, Princess Sansa said, “They think I killed my husband.”

...

No one moved.

Jon’s eyes shot to the back of her head, but still, the princess remained unmoved.

Robb blew out a heavy breath and pinched the bridge of his nose as if to stave off a headache. “Well? Did you?”

Bran hissed, “Robb!” In the same breath she answered flatly, “Yes.”

Whatever reproach her brother had prepared died in his throat as three sets of eyes snapped to where she stood before the king’s desk. Even Jon couldn’t suppress his shock and staggered back a step. Bran blanched at the girl, hand shooting out to clutch the tall back of the nearest chair. Wyllan's paled considerably at his place to the right of the prince, fingers twitching towards the pommel of his sword.

Falling into the seat, Bran swore, “Gods above, Sans.”

Only Robb remained unperturbed, save the working of his jaw as the princess met his gaze unflinchingly.

No dagger hung from her belt. No scars or calluses marred her pale hands. Jon had fought against many formidable female warriors during his time as a soldier, nearly losing his life at their blades more times than he could count. There was no contesting that women were as fearsome fighters as men.

But Princess Sansa looked as though a strong gust of wind would toss her over these cliffs into the choppy sea below. This gaunt, fine-boned girl was more stumbling foal than seasoned soldier. Then again, she could have hired a sell sword or ordered a trusted guard to cut his throat while he slept rather than by her own hand. It wasn’t as if she lacked the means to do so. But Jon did not know if she possessed the nerve.

As if he’d spoken his doubt aloud, Princess Sansa’s neck went pink, and she turned her face briefly towards him, the fire painting her profile in shadows so he still could not make out all of her. From the side, the princess resembled her mother quite a bit, from their rare, brief encounters, in the graceful curve of her cheek.

Robb, white-knuckled on the arms of his chair, summoned Jon to his side with a quick jerk of his chin. Still blushing, she tracked his movements until he took his place beside her brother.

In the half-light from the fire, the bruise on her jaw had faded into a seasick green. A few scrapes and cuts marked her hands, but it was the pale line of her throat and the shadow just behind her chin that Jon kept returning to, a finely made teacup chipped at its lip.

Jon couldn’t shake the unease from his shoulders. What if she had killed her husband? What had driven her knife? Did the Northern Kingdom now house a criminal?

Robb finally asked, “Does King Stannis know?”

They were to believe her, then. The princess, a murderess. She dipped her chin once. Wyllan cleared his throat, ears going pink when Bran nudged his guard with an elbow. Jon could follow the man’s line of thought easily enough, sending a prayer to the Old Gods that his own face remained unflushed.

The words seemed to unfreeze Bran, and he sputtered out, “Sansa is not capable of taking a man’s life, Robb; surely she jests?”

“She speaks the truth.” Princess Sansa scowled at the young man, who threw his hands up; all signs of their heartfelt reunion dried up. “Had you met my lord husband, you might’ve done the same.”

“A thousand pardons, sweet sister, for doubting your murderous tendencies. I must’ve forgotten your skill with a blade and raging bloodlust. Did you best Lord Baratheon by sword? Or simply overpower the man with sheer strength?”

“Do not mock me, Bran.”

The prince rose from his seat, sporting a matching outrage to the princess. “How do you expect any of us to believe that you took a man’s life?”

Stomping two paces towards him and balling her fists at her sides, Princess Sansa’s voice dropped dangerously low when she said, “You have no idea what it was like in the south, no idea what I’ve endured these past years. None of you do. Father threw me to that pit of vipers, and you both let him. He sold me to a monster for wheat and you wrote me out of my birthright, and no one came for me because I was no longer a princess of House Stark. Joffrey Baratheon deserved to die a hundred times over, and I only regret he did not suffer more.”

Acid burned down Jon’s throat, his knuckles going white where he gripped his sword’s pommel. This was not the first woman he’d seen fleeing a monster, and shame bit at him. Whatever had been done, women who’d seen cruelty in any form wore the same look.

Princess Sansa stopped writing around a year after leaving, her last letters consisting of clipped words with no mention of her new husband until she ceased writing entirely. Where Robb had endured the spurn in silence, it was young Bran who hid in the mage’s library moons after their last exchange, still sending unanswered letters to his beloved sister.

The same beloved eldest daughter of King Eddard that was sold to the Baratheon lord for a few bushels of grain. The beloved eldest daughter of the king that stood before them now, shaking in anger and wearing someone’s knuckles on her jaw.

Wordlessly, Robb buried his head in his hands. Bran slumped back into his chair with a face so stricken that Wyllan reached across the table and squeezed his shoulder.

Robb’s voice was soft when he tried, “Sans...”, but the princess snarled, “Did it help, King Robb? Did that handful of wheat and barley save your kingdom? Has supplanting me in the line of succession healed the land? Have I done my duty well?”

“Leave me out of your fight with father, Sansa; I had no hand in this-.”

“I would’ve come for you,” she hissed through clenched teeth, eyes wet. “If he’d bartered you like cattle and sent you thousands of leagues from here, if he stole your birthright from you. I would have gone to the edge of the world to bring you home, the both of you, any of you. My brothers, my own kin.”

For a moment, it looked as though she might empty her stomach onto the lovely rug. Jon eyed the wastebasket beside the study door and debated if he could move fast enough to save the beautiful handiwork of some northern artisan.

When she moved south to live among her mother’s kin, all four of the Starks lived under this roof. In the time since, Arya traveled to the Bear Island, and Bran left for three years to study in White Harbor. Three and a half years after she left, a burning fever took their father, placing his crown on Robb’s head.

How awful it must be to return to one’s home and greet graves instead of arms.

When Robb had received word of his father’s death on the journey back to Winterfell, Jon had struggled to keep the man on his feet. For two full days afterwards, he’d wept. On the third morning, Robb climbed out of his bunk, mounted his horse, and without another word, they continued towards Winterfell to bury King Eddard.

She’d been alone, Jon thought with a pang, all alone in Storm’s End. But the princess hadn’t returned for his funeral, and at once his sympathy dried up.

Thankfully, before Jon had to test his reflexes, the princess collected herself with a rattling breath and wiped her shaking palms on her stained trousers, hastily turning to face the burning logs, seemingly surprised by her own outburst.

Robb, habitually running a hand through his recently shorn hair, choked out, “Aye, we should’ve come for you.” Bran silently bobbed his chin in agreement. “And Father was wrong to supplant you. But I swear to you now that no harm will come to you from this day forth.”

“No one can promise that.” Not even a king, apparently.

Robb admonished, “Sansa.”

“Let what has passed be past.” She repeated. “But hear me now. I will never ride south of the Neck again. Do you hear me, Robb Stark? Take my head for it, I care little to live if it’s not in Winterfell. I am the blood of the north, and despite what you may think, this is my home. If you sell me to some Lannister farmer or another southern lord for a few bites to eat, I will throw myself from the battlements and join our aunt in the crypts.”

Her chest heaved, the croak of her harsh breathing the only sound breaking the room’s silence. The late Princess Lyanna, had infamously jumped from the westernmost tower of Winterfell, rendering the whole of the north into a state of mourning. Her brothers had never left it.

At his desk, Robb dragged a wide hand down his face, loosing a shuddering breath when his eyes met Jon’s. This was not the dreamy, pink-cheeked girl who’d left all those years ago; in her place was a stranger, spitting mad and wearing enough wounds that Jon doubted she could breathe without wincing.

Jon glared at his friend with enough conviction, hoping he understood the silk-thin line he trod, but Robb turned his unwavering focus back to where his sister stood.

She had recovered from her fit of emotion, hands tightly clasped in front of her trousers, and with a raised chin she awaited her brother’s response. Rising on steady feet, Robb walked around his desk to stand before her in three short strides. Toe to toe, the princess stood an inch taller than her elder brother, but their profiles were a mirror: the same straight nose with its crooked bridge, the same glass-sharp cheekbones, and full mouths. If Jon squinted, they even balled their fingers into identical fists.

Robb clasped her hands from where they hung by her sides and pressed them between his own. In the time Jon knew his best friend, he could count on one hand the number of lies he’d heard the man utter. Starks were honest and honorable, at times to a fault, and Jon widened his stance to brace himself against the truth Robb would surely reveal of a kingdom starving and a board void of pieces.

But he instead said, “My words were harsh, and for that I beg forgiveness. You are the blood of the north, Sansa; you shall always have a home here, this I swear.” Not a lie, not truly.

But the princess saw through it anyway. “That is not what I have asked, Robb.”

Robb’s throat bobbed, but he did not retreat behind his desk or release his sister’s hands. “It is the promise I am able to make.”

She yanked her hands from his grasp, snapping, “Here you stand, swearing you are different from Father in one breath and selling me in the next just the same.”

“Be reasonable, sister, I -.”

Her shriek cracked through the room like lightning: “Reasonable?! You implore me to be reasonable? Why not just summon the butcher and sell me for parts if the north is so hungry only the body of a princess can feed it?”

Robb’s auburn hair should’ve been a mess from the number of times he’d run a hand through it since she entered the study, but it’d been shorn short a moon earlier and now barely poked up around the silver points of his crown as he implored, “Please, Sansa. Please see my perspective.”

“Perspective, is it? What is your perspective, your grace, on my worth?”

She did not mean for him to answer, but Robb did so anyway. “My kingdom. This kingdom, your kingdom. Would you have me weigh you against the lives of every Northman the sun touches?”

“It would not even be a question for me.” The princess shouted. She refused to back down from the staring contest they’d entered, still as stone as she stood toe-to-toe with the king.

Robb slammed a fist down upon his desk, shouting back at equal volume, “And that is why you should never be queen!”

Silence, then the door was thudding shut behind Jon, and Wyllan was hurrying after Bran, muttering hasty apologies in his rush into the hall.

The other shield had hardly left the room before Robb was sighing and following Bran, pausing at the threshold to say to Jon, “See that my sister returns to her rooms and stays there.”

Princess Sansa scoffed, white-faced after her brother’s outburst. “Am I to be a prisoner in my own keep?”

“Keep talking and you might be.” Then Robb too was gone, and only Jon remained in the study, suddenly alone with the princess.

Despite her and Robb’s near-identical profiles, the distinctive dark, burning blue stare of the princess cut into him. She looked over him slowly, taking in Jon’s worn boots and Stark-grey cloak, glancing over on the snarling wolf sigil sewn into his standard shield’s armor and pausing where Longclaw hung heavily on his belt.

The princess rasped, “Are you his lord commander?”

No one needed to say it aloud for her to realize who Jon was and what his role was to be. If she resented him for it, he couldn’t discriminate that from her generally sour expression. Jon nodded once, “Yes, your grace. I’m Ser Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.”

Eyes on Longclaw, the princess asked, “Have you ever killed a man?”

Her hair seemed to burn in the dying light of the fire where small strands had come loose from her plait. Was this the last image her lord husband had seen before he died by her hand? It was foolish, Jon thought to himself, to see a beauty like hers and think it was anything less than fatal. Mouth dry, Jon answered, “Yes, your grace.” Just as you have, but he didn’t dare say that aloud.

“Do you know any words beyond ‘yes, your grace’?”

“Yes, your highness.” His easy smile slipped when the princess’s stone face remained unmoved, narrowed eyes sizing him up as if deciding where best to strike.

Even after they’d fled from Robb’s study and Jon alone remained with her, the air around the princess thrummed with hot bitterness. He stiffened under the weight of her gaze, half expecting her teeth to shred into him now that he was the only target, but all at once the sharp anger bled from her stormy eyes like a snuffed candle, and Princess Sansa wilted into just another weary, pink-faced girl with dirt on her chin and a dusty cloak hung across her thin shoulders.

Muttering, “Very well,” the princess marched from Robb’s study without waiting to see if he’d follow, leaving Jon to put out the dying fire.

Chapter Text

As expected, the barracks were a flurry of activity, so much so that no one noticed the moment Jon slipped in.

His relief was short-lived.

From his place wedged between two castle guards around the cards table, Pyp bellowed, “Snow, you great bastard!” All his shieldbrothers’ heads whipped towards him, voices rising all at once, loud enough to drown out the torrential rain.

“Where is the princess?”

“What is she like?”

“Is she as beautiful as they say?”

“Did the witch cast a spell on you?”

“Enough!” Jon snapped, shrugging off his damp cloak and hanging it on the row of hooks beside the entryway.

As the room quieted, Olle shouted from the back, “Why has she returned?”

Because she is a murderess, Jon considered shouting back, and she will bring nothing but trouble.

Instead, he growled, “Shouldn’t you all be on duty?” A few had the decency to look guilty, muttering apologies and scurrying around him out into the halls; the rest grumbled and resumed their various stages of dressing and armoring themselves. The long, narrow hall was home to the twenty-some odd swornshields, men under Jon’s direct command who were oathbound to protect the Stark bloodline and their king.

A few of the older men, like Ser Aron of Karhold and Ser Edgyr of Stony Shore, had been shields for three kings, swearing their oaths during the brief reign of King Brandon the Wild Wolf and serving both his brother and nephew. Their rooms were near the back of the hall near Jon’s, farthest from the ruckus of the common area where the men took their meals between shifts and gambled and drank when they had a reprieve from duty. Younger, greener shields were in bunks closest to the outer corridor, subject to the noise both in and outside the hall, though none of the lads would dare complain about disturbed sleep or annoying bedmates.

Shields kept strange hours, sleeping during lulls and often stationed for long nights outside their charges' doors or patrolling the battlements and passageways of Winterfell, so the Shield Hall was thrumming with bodies and noises at all hours of the day, even now when the moon was shining high above them, hidden behind ripe black clouds and bolts of lightning.

While the sparse few castle guards made their way back to the guard barracks off Winterfell’s outermost courtyard, Pyp shouldered his way to the front of the room and planted himself in front of Jon. Ignoring the warning in his eyes, Pyp said, “Everyone’s talking about it.”

“Let them. I don’t involve myself in gossip.”

Pyp rolled his eyes, but no true annoyance flickered in his gaze. A long scar cut diagonally across his lips, twisting his smile into more of a grimace. They’d fought together in the army, surviving countless battles at each other’s sides. Aside from Robb, Pip was the closest Jon had to a brother.

Which unfortunately meant there was no wielding his authority for a moment’s peace.

Pyp’s grin was a gruesome sight. “Who said anything about gossip?”

“Pyp.”

The shorter man gasped at the chiding, wide-eyed in feigned shock. “Bah! I merely seek to learn more about the princess! As royal shields, we will now be guarding her as well.”

Her arrival meant another body to incorporate into Jon’s mind-numbing scheduling, a task he was already dreading. When he accepted the position of Lord Commander, Robb had failed to mention how much administrative slogging would be demanded of him and how little he’d get to wield Longclaw. “You’ll learn what you need to know when you need to know it.”

Pyp groaned. “Give me something, Snow.”

Jon paused. Anything he said would be circulating around the castle by the time he finished his sentence, and Robb would undoubtedly know who was responsible for it.

How did one begin to explain Sansa Stark?

A thousand words came to him: the girl was prickly as daggerfruit and prettier than any woman ought to be; her return, and the severing of bonds with Storm’s End, doomed them all to starvation; she was a murderess, the killer of a noble southern lord, and the implications of welcoming her home were nauseating to consider; she struck more fear in Jon’s heart than any enemy he’d faced in battle.

Of course, he could say none of this to Pip or any of the others.

Instead, he replied, “She is much like her blood.”

“Like a Tully?”

“Like a wolf.” Jon said firmly, pushing past his friend towards his private chambers and maybe a single moment of reprieve.

...

It felt as though he’d been asleep for barely a second before someone was pounding on his chamber door, a muffled voice shouting his name. Jon groaned and rolled onto his back, dragging a hand down his face and blinking blearily at the tall ceiling.

The voice came again. “Oy! Snow!”

“What?” He snapped, rolling to a seated position on the edge of his bed. His clothes from last night were still scattered on the floor where he’d shucked them off, stumbling towards his bed, Longclaw lying atop the papers scattered on his desk.

Unlike his predecessor, who was infamous for leaving himself out of the schedule and favored drinking halls and pleasure houses, Jon took as many shifts as he could before dropping unconscious. His king was young, and so was his reign, the years that a coup or other revolution was most likely.

Jon knew better than anyone how tenuous power was.

This unfortunately meant he slept very little and did not take kindly to being awoken before his precious hours of rest were up.

The knocking ceased, but the voice called, “‘Tis the king, Ser. He requests your presence in his private office.”

Groaning, Jon heaved himself to his feet, blearily tugging on a clean shirt from the pile of laundry he’d yet to put away and pulling on yesterday’s trousers, barely remembering to put on socks before shoving his feet into the muddy standard-issue guard boots beside his desk. The water in his basin was near frozen, and the cold knocked the breath from him when Jon splashed some of it on his face and dragged damp fingers through his curls. His hair would need cutting soon, he reminded himself. Perhaps he might get one of the pretty maids that Pip fawned over to trim it for him.

The sun had barely crested over the horizon, but the halls were filled with people bustling to and fro. A handful of nobility who resided at court recognized him and said a friendly greeting, as did the servants and guards he knew. The pair of shields outside Robb’s office were younger, two men who’d been boys when Jon joined the army, but he’d played cards with Halys and Torrhen plenty of times and liked them both well enough. Torrhen grinned, his right canine tooth missing where it hadn’t been last time he’d seen the man.

The younger men frequented alehouses down in the crowded harbor town at the base of the castle and often returned with a bloodied lip or stories of pretty barmaids with sinful intentions. So long as their swords swung true and their watchful eyes were clear, he allowed them their fun.

“Alright, Snow?” Torrhen asked, clasping Jon’s forearm in greeting.

He gripped the man’s arm in return, nodding at his partner. “Well enough, I suppose. All quiet this morning?”

Halys answered, “Quiet as the grave.” The blonde shield rapped twice on the door, then stepped aside for Sol to enter.

The king looked up at his entrance, sitting back in his chair and smiling wearily at Jon.

“Your Grace.” He greeted, dipping his head respectfully despite the scoff Robb gave.

“No one is here, Jon. There’s no need for that.”

“Good to practice lest I fall into bad habits.”

Robb’s pinched smile relaxed, turning genuine. “You’re much too disciplined for that.”

Jon ducked his head, cheeks hot. “I live to serve.”

At this, Robb cleared his throat and shifted slightly in his seat. “Yes, that is unfortunately what I wished to speak to you about.”

“How so?”

“My sister’s return has changed things.”

Jon’s brow furrowed. “It was certainly a surprise.”

The hair on the back of his neck prickled when Robb drew a steadying breath, glancing through the window beside his desk towards the cloudy morning. “I need you to swear into her service. At least for the time being, while this business with the Southern Kingdom and Storm’s End is handled.”

Dumbfounded, Jon could only stand there.

This was the same oath Robb discussed that renewed his purpose in the world, drawing him from the bleak, mundane existence he’d lived in before meeting the Stark heir, mutely going through the motions of his daily tasks as a captain in the army while his guilt grew fiercer with each passing day. His family remained unavenged, but so long as he served Robb, Jon was putting his mother’s sacrifice to good use.

Without looking up, Robb said, “What is the issue, Jon? You might think I ordered you to fall on your sword.” What he’d give for such a simple, clean death.

He had no interest in trailing behind Lady Blackwolf, the sneered title bestowed upon her by the court when she chose to stay in the Southern Kingdom rather than attend her father’s burial rites.

The nobility took care to hide their disdain after King Eddard’s funeral, but the servants and common workers of the castle whispered readily to one another of the late king’s mysterious daughter, and it hadn’t taken long for their words to reach Jon’s ears: Princess Sansa had inherited all her mother’s southern blood, and it was her fault their fields were cracked and barren; Princess Sansa was a traitor to the Old Gods and all of the North; Princess Sansa was a witch who hated her kin and threw a great feast upon the news of her father’s illness.

There were other rumors, though.

In camp, Robb called her a romantic with a gaze set on the southern kingdoms, despite the witch blood of her mother’s house and northern prejudices. In the early days, the palace staff and nobility alike whispered of the pretty, rosy-cheeked princess who’d been sent to foster in Riverrun before the heir returned home, a wolf surrounded by stags and lions, the winter rose of Winterfell whose beauty might win her a king. It was what she’d always wanted, Robb had said: born of ice and silver with dreams of sandstone cities.

At first, he had been so thoroughly fascinated by the princess turned southern lady that if Robb ever learned of it, Jon would have to beg for the headsman. Having met the girl quickly cooled that interest.

Finally managing to raise his jaw from the floor, Jon stammered, “My apologies, but wouldn’t someone else be better suited for the role? Someone other than your Lord Commander?”

“That is precisely why it must be you. There is no man I trust more to keep my sister safe.”

Any other day, Jon would’ve flushed pink to the tips of his toes at the compliment, but instead he took a few steps forward and braced his hands on Longclaw’s pommel. “Can I not protect her within my current role? I’ve guarded your brothers and sister for years without issue. As Lord Commander, I must strongly urge you to choose someone else. There are a number of fine knights sworn to House Stark that would proudly guard the princess. Donnel Locke and Robett Glover are exemplary swordsmen and loyal bannermen, either of whom I’d strongly recommend-.”

Robb cleared his throat, leaning back in his worn wooden chair with his calloused hands clasped on the desk, and Jon’s words died on his tongue at the weariness on his friend’s face, at the purple smudges beneath his eyes and beard in need of trimming. Had he looked half so haggard last night?

In a quiet voice, Robb said, “My sister is not well loved in Winterfell, and despite being its princess and liege lady, few see her as such.”

Jon doubted many were even aware the princess was the true Lady of Edgewater, not with Arya named its absentee lady these past few years in her stead. Officially, Princess Sansa was the lady for the past three years, since Robb became king.

Jon swallowed his surprise at the confession, locking his face into practiced neutrality. “What makes you say that?”

“Oh, sod off, Snow. You’re neither deaf nor dumb; the busybodies have worked quickly, and their whispers have undoubtedly reached you as well. The nobles think her a traitor, and the commonmen call her a southern whore.” Robb flinched at his own words, knuckles going white where they rested on his desk. “But I love my sister, no matter the years and distance she has put between us. I will not see her harmed by words or weapons. As I stated before, there is no man I trust more than you. Effective immediately, you will guard her back and protect her safety, be it with your life, until there is no longer a need for such caution.”

He fears the northmen will reject her, Jon realized, or that the Stag King would send someone for her.

Before he could stop it, Jon found himself saying, “Of course I will.” Whatever dread curdled inside him faded to numbness at Robb’s immediate relief. If it kept some weight off his friend’s shoulders, Jon would do it. After all, he knew what it was to lose a sister.

With his downturned forehead still held in the cradle of his hands, Robb murmured, “Swear it.”

“I-. How? The princess is abed; the code states that I must lay my sword at her feet and speak the words before her.”

A choking sound came from behind Robb’s hands, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, “Swear it to me. The King in the North says he’ll allow it.”

“Oh, does he?” Jon muttered under his breath but drew Longclaw from its sheath and placed it before him on the woven rugs of Robb’s study, kneeling behind it and speaking the sacred words, “I, Ser Jon Snow, Knight of the North, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, do so solemnly swear my sword and shield to Princess Sansa of House Stark, to serve as her protector and offer counsel when called upon, and to follow where she walks, be it even into death, until the Gods release me. I swear by the Old Gods and the New.”

The first time he’d made this vow, it’d been to Robb. Jon hadn’t yet won Longclaw, so the sword he knelt behind was common issue, still stained with wildling blood, but when he’d spoken the words, everything faded to two boys and their shaking hands when Robb’s ancestral dagger cut down Jon’s palm to bind them in blood. Most men swore the shield’s oath just the once, remaining with their charge until death or dying themselves to uphold it. Few outlived their charge, and fewer still chose to re-swear. It was akin to marriage in that regard, at least those in the north. Nothing prevented one from doing so, but honor compelled a man to remain faithful for life.

Robb squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered out a sigh of relief. However ill at ease this transition made him, Jon would gladly make whatever oaths his friend demanded if it would lessen his burden.

A kingdom weighed something fierce upon one’s shoulders.

...

No guards were stationed outside the princess’s rooms, though that was hardly abnormal. The two entrances to the royal wing were heavily guarded from the outside, and two men were stationed within the hall during the night. He knocked twice, inspecting the tapestry hanging beside the door while he waited, depicting the ill-fated Princess Jeyne and her lover Bennan before their demise.

The ancient princess leaned out of a balcony on one of Winterfell’s spires, her long black braid hanging in the direction where Lord Bennan stood on the grounds calling up to her, a small harp and a single winter rose in his outstretched hands.

“What are you doing?”

Jon almost jumped out of his skin. In the open doorway stood the princess, bathed and rested, leaning against the stones watching him with a raised brow, out of her tattered rags and dressed elegantly in a simple dark green gown that made the red of her braided coronet all the richer. Woven into the plait across the crown of her head were white flowers, creating a charming effect that was almost enough to distract from the dark bruise around her eye.

She looked at him expectantly, glancing pointedly between him and the tapestry.

Remembering his manners, Jon bowed his chin, hand pressed to his heart. “Forgive me, princess. I was enjoying the artwork.”

The princess stepped into the hall to stand at his side, head tilted while she examined the colorful threads. “Morbid, is it not?”

“Your grace?”

“The tapestry. Princess Jeyne and her doomed love. It’s all quite sad.” Her nose wrinkled. Jon, momentarily transfixed, felt the oddest sort of longing when he realized there was in fact a spattering of freckles on her crooked nose and not just mud, as he’d suspected.

Dazed, he replied, “Most find Jeyne and Bennan’s love story to be quite romantic.”

Princess Sansa made a polite sniff that jarred him from his trance. “What is romantic about fools? Jeyne was so blinded by her love for him that she bartered poorly and lost her life as a result. ‘Tis a tragedy.”

Jon scoffed. “Isn’t that what everyone longs for? Someone you love so much you’d be willing to lose your soul for.”

The corner of her mouth twitched so minutely Jon wondered if he imagined it. “That seems the longing of simpletons.” Without her riding boots on, she stood an inch or two shorter than the night before, her forehead brushing his chin. “Nevertheless. Did Robb send you?”

“Yes, princess. I am to see you to the great hall to break your fast.

“Why?” Her blue eyes narrowed.

Patiently, Jon explained as if to a child, “Because that is where the residents of Winterfell dine.”

She corrected herself, “Why must you see to me?”

This was the moment Jon had been dreading since leaving Robb’s study. Squaring his shoulders, he said, “Because the king has sworn me into your service as a shield.”

There was no explosion of anger or flood of words as he’d expected. The princess just stared at him, eyes wide and pink lips parted in a round “o.” It was a bond more sacred than marriage in the eyes of the gods, and he had hardly spoken a word to the girl his life was now chained to.

She croaked, “Robb did this?” Sol nodded once. “Are you not his?”

He shook his head and swore, “I am yours.”

She assessed him with narrow eyes, skirting her gaze over his white and grey standard, lingering on his scuffed old boots and the ring on his smallest finger. Jon imagined how he must look to her: solemn and scuffed, tall and tired in worn clothes that he’d repaired himself with needle and thread more times than he could count. Even being Lord Commander didn’t come with special privileges like spare standards beyond the issued two.

“What is your blood, Ser?”

As always, the question made his stomach tighten, flashes of sandstone and children’s laughter darting through his mind like wind. “I am but a simple butcher’s son.”

This surprised her. Voice dripping with disdain, she asked, “How did a butcher’s son end up the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard?”

It had been nearly twenty years since he was anything other than the butcher's boy. How had he found himself here, in Winterfell, at the side of the king? He could tell the easiest truth: the only time he felt right was in the thick of battle, sword in one hand and death in the other, blood dripping down his face like tears. He was the only one to survive the murder of his kin. It was only logical that he became the very monster he escaped.

For one heartbeat, he imagined laying the truth out between them bare. But Jon just pasted on an easy, lopsided smile and answered, “Luck, I suppose.”

She gave him the strangest look, as though she saw through his every layer down to the bone. “Luck? Did luck get you that sword?”

He gave this answer automatically. “No, princess. I won it fairly.”

“I see.”

Jon cleared his throat, drawing the princess’s dark eyes up from where they’d fixed on Longclaw. “Are you ready to break your fast, my lady?”

“I’d prefer to take a tray in my chambers.”

“The king has asked-.”

Her demeanor changed from one heartbeat to the next, suddenly stiff-shouldered and scowling where seconds before she’d looked almost content. “The king is not my keeper. Winterfell is my castle. I shall go where I please within its walls.”

She’d certainly made herself comfortable in her position overnight.

Still, orders were orders. Jon answered, “The king is still the king. You must answer to him as the rest of us do.”

“I do not wish to-.”

“Are you having a difficult time?” He heard himself snap.

Her blue eyes narrowed at the venom in his tone. “Difficult time with what?”

“Adjusting to the fact that the world does not revolve around beautiful women.”

Head tilting, the princess asked, “You think I’m beautiful?”

“I think you’re intolerable.” Jon glanced over her shoulder at the tapestry, now marred by her bitter perspective. “There isn’t enough beauty in the world to fix that.”

For once, the princess had no answer. Her face remained impassive, as if he hadn’t spoken at all, but along the high neck of her gown, her skin flushed a bright shade of pink. Jon widened his stance, readying for a fight. “Now then. Queen Alys wishes to meet you.”

For a moment he thought she’d defy him and lock herself in her chambers, but finally the princess grumbled, “Wait here,” and slipped back through the tall doorway she’d appeared in.

Briefly, Jon pondered what offense he had committed against the Old Gods to deserve this fate tied to Sansa Stark’s. Was this to be his life now? Arguing for argument's sake over the simplest of requests? It could be worse, he tried to reason. During his earliest years of his service in the army, when he was barely a grunt soldier in a legion, Jon had drawn the short straw and slept in the bunk nearest the latrine. Even asleep he could smell the stench of sick and shit, and most nights he was kept from sleep by the groaning of green-faced soldiers and lordlings whose stomachs could not yet handle the rougher quality of their cook’s gruel.

That had to be worse, Jon decided.

The princess returned as abruptly as she’d departed, not a strand of scarlet hair out of place, unchanged save a pair of delicate lace gloves covering the bare skin of her thin hands and wrists. With the gloves, she was covered from the base of her throat to her ankles, the only exposed skin being her long neck and sour face. Raising a single, perfectly arched brow, she motioned towards the hall. “Shall we?”

She didn’t know the way, Jon remembered. Her own keep, and she could not navigate the halls. Dutifully, he fell into step beside her, and they wove through the crowded corridors of Winterfell towards the main hall in silence, studiously ignoring the whispers and stares of the passing nobility who could not look away from her.

Chapter Text

After a headache-inducing introduction to her brother’s wife, Sansa had required three uninterrupted days with Rickon and Bran before braving another interaction with the young, perky queen.

It wasn’t that she did not like Alys; in fact, Sansa found she liked the girl immensely. Alys Karstark was gentlehearted, optimistic, and bright, filled with a thousand questions and a bone-deep kindness that enamored everyone who spoke to her. She laughed freely and often, without restraint or even a hint of self-consciousness, and was never found without a friend at her side. No one at court had a single negative thing to say about the girl other than envy at the king’s lucky hand in wedding her.

Yet for whatever reason, Robb was unamused by her. Sansa had noticed it the very first time her brother interacted with his wife that first morning at breakfast.

Robb was not a difficult person to read; he wore his every minute emotion clear as day on his face. It was a shortcoming she had reminded herself in the moment to address the next time they were alone, as it did not befit a king to be so easily revealed.

At supper the night prior in the Stark dining room, surrounded by her brothers and Theon, Sansa had an excellent view of their confusing, awkward dynamic. Robb poured her wine without request, waving off the servant who went to do so, and kept the goblet filled throughout the evening, yet he barely spoke a word to the girl. Alys wordlessly handed him her small, dense roll when it arrived on the corner of her plate but kept her attention fixed on Bran’s academic ramblings and Rickon’s long-winded, boyish stories of his swordsmanship lessons from the morning. They departed dinner together but carefully separated by an arm's length of distance.

When Sansa inquired with her solemn swornshield about the details of their odd dynamic, he made some gruff comment about keeping her pointy nose out of other people’s private business and then proceeded to ignore her pestering for the rest of the day.

Grief and the well of sadness brought about by the south had robbed Sansa of her childhood curiosity, but she found it returning now that she was once again within Winterfell’s walls. Under the guise of tea, she decided to pay a visit to her queen.

Ser Jon was occupied by some business of Robb’s, so her brother's old playmate Donnel Locke was accompanying her that day, a comfortable, quiet companion who patiently endured her prattling as they walked down the hall to Arya’s former rooms.

Alys Karstark, dark-haired and beaming, yanked the door to her study open herself, practically bouncing with excitement when she realized it was Sansa waiting in the entryway. “Sansa!” She exclaimed, snatching up Sansa’s hands in her own. “What a delightful surprise! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The girl’s joy was infectious, and Sansa had to bite back her own smile. “No special occasion, I assure you. I was hoping I might join you for tea this sun-high.”

“How wonderful! Yes, of course, please come in. You as well, Donnel.” Alys tugged her inside, Donnel hesitantly trailing a few steps behind. It was not common practice to invite one’s swornshield into one’s private chambers, but then again, Alys was proving most unusual.

The space was different than Sansa remembered, brighter and more colorful than drab Arya had kept it when she lived here. Dozens of vibrant cushions decorated the chaises and sofas littering the sitting room, adorned with knitted blankets and warm furs slung over the backs and neatly folded at the ends. Through the archway on the far wall, she could just make out the shape of a large bed canopied by sheer white sheets, neatly made and piled high with more pillows and blankets.

Already, a porcelain pot of tea sat on a round table beneath one of the side windows, though she did not see the usual plate of biscuits and cookies accompanying the pot.

Though she had to reach to hold Sansa by the shoulders, Alys ushered her into one of the seats and poured a cup for her, tittering as she did about some book she had been reading before Sansa arrived. One glance around confirmed that no servants or maids attended to the queen. The chambers were wide and welcoming but empty save the three of them, much to her surprise. The queen was rarely alone when walking through the halls or attending meals in the great hall; Sansa had expected a gaggle of young ladies to be crowding the sitting room for such a social event as sun-high tea.

Alys insisted Donnel join them at the table, but after his fourth refusal, she finally acquiesced to allow him to stand by the door and sip quietly on his own cup.

“This is such a lovely surprise.” The girl repeated for the dozenth time, taking her own seat across from Sansa and pouring herself a cup. “Truth be told, I don’t often have company for tea, so this is quite exciting.”

Starting, Sansa asked, “What of the young women you surround yourself with? Surely, they are calling upon you frequently?”

Alys shook her head, nose scrunched. She blew softly on the steaming liquid before taking a short sip and winced. “Take care; it’s very hot. But no, those ladies do not often join me in my sitting room. They’re lovely, but I’ve found we have little in common. Our hobbies don’t quite align.”

“And what might those hobbies be?”

At this, Alys’s ears flushed endearingly pink. “Oh, I won’t bore you with such details; they’re horribly ordinary. But tell me more of yourself, Sansa. What did you love most about Storm’s End? Is it true they wield magic in the streets?”

Before the misery, there was a great deal she loved about the Southern Kingdom. The food was exquisite, seasoned with all kinds of desert spices, and cooked over open spits in the streets of King’s Landing. They would walk for hours, she and her friend Margaery, tasting morsels from every stall they could find: roasted goose, moonflowers dripping in honey, and peaches so sweet her teeth ached. Southern wine was infinitely better than the piss-warm ale northmen loved, as was the tea. And Gods, despite the years, she missed her Margaery. She could not count the hours she spent with her friend, dining and dancing and riding horses through the dunes. The Tyrell lady was the finest of companions, wickedly funny and clever as any maester.

Slowly, Sansa went with the safest option. “I loved the sea.”

The sunsets over the Bloody Sea turned the whole sky magnificent shades of pinks, reds, and oranges. Most days, she would wake a few hours before dusk just to watch the sun sink below the water.

“How very un-northern of you.” Alys teased over the lip of her teacup. “Was the water terribly warm?”

“Swimming was like taking a bath.” She admitted, lips twitching when the queen’s bright smile widened. “The air was so hot, even at night, that the water barely provided any relief. I used to request cold water in my baths just to cool down.”

It was common practice to take cold baths, especially after the long, hot nights of the dry season. If there was anything Sansa did not reminisce fondly on, it was the sweltering heat.

“I cannot imagine going from all that sunshine to this gloom. Have you missed it terribly since returning to Winterfell?”

Sansa shook her head without a beat of hesitation. “No. Winterfell is my heart. There is no place more beautiful in all the world than our home.”

After her declaration, they drank in silence, enjoying the quiet room and the overcast day peering in through the window. Outside, trees bent and bowed to an invisible breeze. Sansa wondered if Theon was out hunting today, enjoying the reprieve from slushing rain.

When she reached the dregs at the bottom of her cup, Sansa placed the thin porcelain back on the table and asked, “How are you enjoying your new crown? I trust my brother has treated you well?”

Alys nodded instantly, doll-like. “He is a fine man. King Eddard and your mother did a wonderful job raising him.”

“Have you enjoyed marriage thus far?” To the rest of the court, she was the happiest of women, but within the walls of her chamber, Sansa had already witnessed a far more mellow demeanor. If the queen was putting on a performance of sorts, her acting was superb.

“Marriage is…interesting.” She mused after a moment's pause, swirling the remnants of her tea absently. “I was promised to your brother from the day I was born. This has been my sole purpose; everything in my life has been to prepare me for ruling and being his queen. Whether I enjoy it, I cannot say. Can one enjoy something if it is all they have ever known?"

“What would you have liked to do?” Sansa asked gently, careful not to press lest the girl get spooked and retreat behind her mask of joy. “If you were not meant for him.”

“I wished to study in White Harbor once, at the university.” Alys answered. “When I was still a child. The maesters in Karhold told me all these magnificent stories about their time at university, and I wished to continue learning beyond my lessons. Beyond that, I never considered anything else.”

Everyone in the north knew of the university in White Harbor, the great university of the Northern Kingdom that sat in the harbor town, where the brightest of the brightest studied to be advisors, strategists, and emissaries to lords. If one could pass the entrance exams, they could count themselves among the few who could boast an education from the prestigious institution. The school was free to attend, drawing the greatest minds from the noble and common alike. There were few schools on the continent that allowed such diversity in their student body, but White Harbor’s university was dedicated to producing the best possible students, regardless of blood.

Bran had attended, briefly, before their father died. He had spent most of his days studying for the exams and preparing with the maesters, for even a prince must pass the same rigorous testing as everyone else. The joy in his letter to her when he’d been accepted had brought Sansa to her knees in the tower.

Sansa struggled to picture the bubbly, wide-eyed girl in front of her buried to her nose in books, burning candles to wax in the library, or hovering over a maester’s shoulder watching them mix poultices. But she had long suspected there to be more behind the facade Alys Karstark presented to the court. “What was your favorite thing to study?”

The queen smiled wistfully down at her hands. “Strategy. ‘Tis strange, I know, but I enjoyed the puzzle of it.”

“Do you play crowns?”

“Of course.”

Sansa reached out and clasped her sister-by-law’s hand where it rested on the table. “Good. I have been desperate for a worthy opponent.”

Alys beamed.

...

After several rounds of crowns, a few of which Sansa soundly lost, she bid the queen a good day and ventured out of the castle to the stables to pay a visit to her darling Lady.

In a stroke of luck, their walk coincided with the end of Rickon’s lessons with the septas, and she was able to snatch her little brother up before his maids could shoo him back to his chambers to ready for supper. For the duration of their walk to the stables, Sansa listened while Rickon bemoaned the dragging, boring lessons he had endured that day, detailed the contents of his dream the night prior, and listed out all he had eaten and whether he liked it. Donnel and her baby brother’s shield, Ser Edgyr, followed at their backs, speaking quietly about some game of cards they believed one of the other shields had cheated to win. As Rickon prattled on, he darted up and down the path, kicking rocks and collecting pretty stones.

Sansa watched him, endlessly bemused. She’d gone to the kitchens to collect a basket of carrots and apples for her mount, but there had been none in the stores, much to her disappointment. That had been a recurring theme she’d noticed over the past few days; the elaborate feasts and treats of her youth were few and far between, replaced by bland, sparse meals and stringy meat. It was not altogether too strange, however. Poor harvests happened once in a while, and migration patterns of game shifted and required adaptation by the hunting parties. Sansa made a mental note to check with Winterfell’s steward on the stores in preparation for the upcoming winter, as well as the curing of meat and preservation of produce in the kitchens. As Lady of Winterfell, such things fell under her purview.

Rickon groaned, drawing her from her thoughts, and stomped back to her. Tugging on her elbow with the hand not clutching rocks, he whined, “Sansie! Are you even listening?”

“Of course, darling. Now, tell me something you learned today.” She smoothed a hand over his unruly curls, her half-hearted attempt to tame the mess unsuccessful as he ducked out of reach.

“Nothing. All my lessons are stupid.” He grumbled, kicking up dirt with the toe of his leather boot.

“I don’t believe that. Surely there is something you know now that you did not know yesterday.”

Behind her, Ser Edgyr paused his and Donnel’s conversation long enough to call out to Rickon, “Didn’t the septas discuss dividing counts today?”

Sansa jumped on the clue and asked her brother, “How did you enjoy that?”

“It was awful.” He moaned. “Why do I have to learn counts? They’re too hard. If I am ever king, I shall forbid the mages to teach it forever. And I shall have a sword named Killer.”

She sighed, exchanging a single, weary look with Ser Edgyr. “What if I help you with your counts, hm?” Rickon made a face, and Sansa had to duck her head to hide her grin lest she encourage him. “We could do them together, in my study.” She offered.

Rickon considered her with narrowed, wary blue eyes.

Sansa continued, “Perhaps if you work hard, you might be able to join Robb on the first hunt of spring.”

At this, her brother perked right up. Robb had already been planning on bringing Rickon along. They had discussed it a few nights prior after Rickon had gone to bed, but he didn’t need to know that. Sansa smiled. “Does that sound alright with you?”

He nodded, a bright grin splitting his face in two.

As the stables came into view, Rickon lunged for her hand and tugged her forward, demanding, “Race me!”

He took off running, long, gangly limbs flying down the path.

With a laugh, Sansa picked up her skirts and chased after him.

Chapter Text

As they feared, word from King’s Landing arrived within the fortnight. Robb read the missive aloud to them early that morning in his study, pacing in front of his desk whilst the rest of Winterfell slumbered.

“By order of King Stannis Baratheon I, King in the South and Guardian of the Bloody Sea, the Princess Sansa Stark, Lady of Storm’s End, shall be returned to the king’s custody to await trial for the murder of Lord Joffrey Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End.” He cursed and threw the parchment to his desk, rubbing at his eyes with a groan.

Wincing, Jon slumped back in his chair, deflating as though someone had punched him in the gut. “It could be worse.” He tried, but Robb quickly cut him off with a glare that could freeze the Far Sea.

“How?” His friend growled, dropping into his own chair. On the table beside him was a large jug of wine, and Robb poured himself a healthy cup, draining it in one long dredge before filling it anew.

“He could be demanding her execution.” Murder was a charge for which the punishment was death; this was true in every kingdom on the continent.

Robb snorted, shaking his head as he said, “You’re right, Jon. At least there’s that.” The three of them remained silent for a beat, each considering the words.

Jon went first, suggesting, “What if we have her trial here?”

Robb was the one to answer, “Stannis will never allow that; it’d make him look weak to his people.” Princess Sansa had initially gone south to foster in her uncle’s court in Riverrun to learn more of her mother’s blood and culture, and then had moved on to briefly spend time in King’s Landing with King Stannis. While she was still writing to her brothers, she had written of her love of the South and the friendship that she’d developed with King Stannis’s heir, Princes Shireen.

The amiability between her and the Stag King the two of them had apparently dried up.

Draining his own cup, Jon said, “Ask him for a pardon.”

Head dropping to the back of his chair, Robb squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in a long, deep breath. This was an inevitability; from the moment she’d arrived and announced her crime, they’d known that the Southern Kingdom would come knocking, demanding justice. If Robb denied them, the South would have cause to forcibly remove her to their custody. That would be grounds for war, should Robb order it. How could they feed an army when they could barely feed their own keep?

For the first time, the princess chimed in. “Something tells me he is not likely to give it.”

Robb shot the princess an unamused look from beneath his brow. “Then what do you suggest?”

“Turn his attention elsewhere.”

Jon sat forward, eyes narrowed at her. “You mean direct the blame onto another? That isn’t very honorable.”

The princess rolled her eyes. “To hell with honor. Give him a different culprit and let Stannis handle this internally. He is already paranoid that there is a dragon spy in his court; present a spy, name him a murderer, and Stannis will let me go.”

Robb straightened, shooting Jon a quick glance. Their whispers had reported no other espionage threats in King’s Landing, only rising tensions and a king that grew increasingly angry with each report of lives lost. “A spy?”

His sister warily eyed his swift change in demeanor, mouth pinching. “Don’t get too excited, Robb. I know nothing beyond that. I was kept far from any actual knowledge of Storm's End or the kingdom’s wellbeing.”

“Then how could you know whether King Stannis will accept another man in your stead?”

Despite his disagreement with the princess’s plan, Jon immediately saw her logic. He answered Robb, “Because there are greater threats to his kingdom than one bloodthirsty girl.” Like dragons on his borders and apparently in his court. “The king will accept whatever answer you give him for the sake of closing this out to focus on what matters.”

Sansa nodded her agreement. “If we pick the right man, he will ask no further questions.”

Robb agreed far too quickly for Jon’s liking. “Fine. Who?”

She paused for a moment, squinting at the table as she thought. Finally, the princess said, “There is a lord, Swann. He was always stirring dissent in King’s Landing, biting at Stannis’s heels and undermining him in council meetings. He’s a cheat, terrible at cards but desperate to play; the debt he owes to the crown is unfathomable. Rumor has it he owed quite a large sum to Storm’s End as well. If we turn Stannis’s head towards him, paint him as a dragon sympathizer, he’ll back off. He’s desperate to get rid of the man.”

Jon gaped at her, his stomach falling into his feet. “The Lord of Stonehelm. That is your suggestion of a fall man?”

The princess tilted her head, assessing him with those demon-like blue eyes. She answered, “Yes. Lord Swann of the Stonehelm. Is that a problem, Ser?”

Hugely. Insurmountably. “Of course not.” Jon acquiesced, nodding politely to the princess. “Just wanted to clarify.”

Robb glanced between the two of them, his amber brow furrowed. “Remind me who Lord Swann is.”

“Nobody.” Sansa replied.

At the same time, Jon said, “Someone immensely important.”

The king snorted and leaned forward, resting his chin on his interlocked hands. “Important in a way that will endanger the North?”

“No.”

“Probably.”

Sansa shot him a glare before continuing. “Aside from clearing my name, destabilizing Stonehelm will only benefit the North. It is the largest trading post between the Southern Kingdom and Dorne, and the Dragon queen relies on goods that flow through the city to provide for her armies. Without it, she will be delayed in supplying her armies.”

“Or,” Jon returned the withering look, leaning towards Robb. “It will incense the Dragon Queen and direct her gaze north. Not to mention, tens of thousands of Dornish and Southerners will suffer.”

“You are not the king of the Southern Kingdom or of Dorne.” The princess pointed out.

“No, I am not.” Robb agreed. He turned his head towards Jon instinctively, already anticipating his counter.

“Why not pick a foreign entity?” Jon suggested. “Someone from the East or the West, somewhere Stannis will never press.”

The princess shook her head. “That is not believable. Why would the Eastern Kingdom wish for the death of some Southern lord?”

It was Robb who shot back, “Well, why did you?”

The princess did not react for a moment, her lovely face still as a statue. Jon did not have to guess what occurred in Storm’s End to their beautiful princess. Women did not flinch from men unless they were taught to. Whatever had transpired, he did not blame the girl for ordering her husband’s death. The man had undoubtedly deserved it.

But thick-skulled Robb had put none of that together evidently and continued to press his sister. “Why kill him, Sansa?”

She stared at her brother thoughtfully, swirling her wine glass lazily in one hand. “Joffrey was fond of choking me while he took his marital rights. He liked to remind me how small my life was, how insignificant it was compared to his desires. I thought it fitting that he die drowning in his own blood, gasping for breath as the serpent’s poison paralyzed his lungs. I am a lover of symmetry, after all.”

Neither man spoke. To speak of such cruelty with the flippancy one might discuss their next meal… Jon could not look the princess in the eye.

Robb’s handsome face had turned a dangerous shade of green. In a low, dangerous voice, the king said, “He did what?”

The princess waved a hand in the air dismissively and took a sip of her wine. Lips stained like blood, she sighed, “It is of no significance, Robb. The man is dead and deserves to be. That is all.”

“No significance?!”

“Let it be, Robb.” Jon muttered to his friend, shooting him a warning glare, but the man was already rising to his feet, leaning on the table.

“This man-. He hurt you, Sans?” He asked, his voice cracking on the childish endearment.

Pained, she nodded. “But it is over.”

“No.” The king said sharply.

Dark brow furrowing, Sansa asked, “No?”

“No. It is not over. If Stannis wants to come for you, he will be met with the might of the Northern forces, Gods be damned. Northern justice demands the price of blood for such a crime, and you delivered it, as was your right. You have broken no laws. You have spat on no gods. Let them come, Sansa. Let them try and take you.”

“But I was legally a southerner.”

Robb spat, “You are a Stark; your blood is winter from your first breath until your ending. The only laws that you answer to are those of the Old Gods.”

It was inappropriate for Jon to be here, privy to such a conversation with the king and the Lady of Winterfell, but with no clear exit, he remained glued to his seat, wincing from the fire in the siblings’ gazes.

The princess whispered, “I killed a man, Robb.”

“There is no atrocity you could’ve committed that would negate the crime against you, sister. He is lucky a man can only die once.”

Gently, Jon interjected, “What is to be done with this letter then? How do we answer?”

“The truth.” Robb decided, staring his sister down. “If Stannis will not honor the old ways of justice, then he will face a war unlike anything this continent has ever seen.”

“Don’t be stupid, Robb.” The princess snapped, flushing a pretty shade of pink up to the tips of her ears, but Robb was having none of it.

“There shall be no mercy, Sansa.” Robb swore. “None at all. You owe no apologies, not to me or Stannis or anyone.”

The letter, of course, was drafted much more diplomatically. The princess saw to that, as she was the only one with a personal relationship with the southern king, tattered or not. After several rounds of arguments and a heated tea break that Jon endured in pained silence, Robb pressed his seal into the wax, and the missive was handed off to a page who hustled it towards the towermaester at once. A second letter was carefully drafted in her own hand to the king, appealing to his heart as a matter of personal integrity, and sealed with her own sigil of a wolf and a winter rose and smelling of rosewater.

The princess endured all of it with a perfectly straight spine and the kind of composure Jon wasn’t sure most elite generals were capable of, unmoved even when a drop of hot wax dripped on her little finger.

She offered no further answers on what had occurred in Storm’s End, and Robb quickly ran out of questions he could stomach asking, leaving them in an uncomfortable limbo that had Jon wishing to melt from his seat into a puddle on the floor.

Finally, when he thought he could not take a second longer, the princess declared, “This will not end well.”

Robb grimaced. “Likely not.”

She glared at him halfheartedly, exhaustion lining her sharp face. “If he does not believe me-.”

“Then he is no man, and I will lose no sleep over crossing swords with him. The punishment for…” The king swallowed, unable to say the words aloud. “The punishment is death. He must honor that most sacred law or risk the consequences.”

Softly, she said to her brother, “Stannis…he is not the man I thought him to be. He was willing to sell me to Joffrey, knowing exactly the kind of monster he was sending me off to. If he was willing to do that, what could stop him from coming for me?”

For once, Robb had no response for her. He just stared at the princess, his thin mouth a slash of pain across his face. No, this was a gamble, and he did not know how the cards would fall.

...

Theon was waiting for them in the princess’s chambers, lounging on a chaise before the roaring fire with a book sprawled open on his lap. His lax head jerked up when the door slammed shut, sleepily blinking in their direction until the fog cleared from his eyes and he recognized their approaching figures. The princess clucked under her breath and hurried forward to his side, brushing the back of her pale hand across his forehead. “Are you well, Theon?”

He wriggled from her clutches to a seated position, tugging her down to sit beside him.

“Fine, Sans, completely fine. Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for hours.”

She glanced over her shoulder at Jon, warning sharp in her dark gaze. There would be no mention of the situation with Stannis to anyone outside Robb’s study. Not even to Theon. “Attending to my duties as Lady of Winterfell. You would know all about those if you ever did a lick of work.”

The lordling rolled his eyes, slumping back into the overstuffed cushions. “I found that I wasn’t well suited to paperwork.”

As Jon had come to witness whilst accompanying the princess through her daily tasks, the running of Winterfell was no small matter. Every day, a new mountain of documents and ledgers appeared on her narrow desk, requiring her approval or a signature from the crown or a second set of eyes for sums. The stack was a limitless well of paper. No matter how late the princess burned her candles down pouring over the documents, double- and triple-checking her counts, and scrawling her elegant signature on each dotted line, the height did not decrease. There was always more to do.

Jon’s lady sighed, rubbing at her temple. “Thank the Gods for Maester Sam. Without him, I fear this entire keep might’ve fallen off the cliffs some time ago.”

Ignoring her, Theon nudged at her skirts with the toe of his boot. “Come riding with me, Sans. I grow weary of the castle.”

“I am far too busy for a leisurely outings, Theon.” Lady Wylla Manderly had invited Princess Sansa to midday tea to discuss the festival celebrating the end of autumn, and after that she had a scheduled promenade with the young Lady Eddara Tallhart to perhaps invite her to join her circle of ladies, then an early evening meeting with Sam to go over the grain stores and the status of Winterfell’s reserves before the feast for Lady Dustin’s birthday, which she was, for some reason, in charge of coordinating.

Tomorrow would be no slower: morning prayers with Rickon, breaking her fast with Lady Juline Woods, meetings with castle servants regarding wages and concerns, and a private dinner with Lord Wylis Manderly and his wife, Leona.

The princess barely had time to blink, let alone disappear for hours on end on horseback.

Still, Theon urged her. “Just an hour, sans, two at most. How long has it been since you left the grounds of the castle.”

“Theon.”

“Please?”

Jon could sense her resolve wavering seconds before she loosed a long sigh and said, “Fine. One hour, that is all.”

Shooting to his feet, the lordling dragged the princess up with him and marched her towards the door, glancing back once at Jon to call out,

“I will guard her back, Snow; take the morning off.” If the princess protested, the heavy stone door slammed shut before she could voice it, leaving Jon standing alone in her sparse chambers.

Chapter Text

At that night’s feast thrown in honor of Lady Dustin's birthday, ceremony was entirely ignored as every lord and lady searched the great hall for Lady Blackwolf, straining to catch a glimpse of the long-lost Northern princess.

This was the first formal opportunity all of the court had to witness her beyond rumors or glimpses in corridors. They did not have to search hard to find her.

Winterfell's guests stared at the willowy young woman seated beside Robb, admittedly quite striking but intentionally unremarkable in her understated gray gown, captivating due to the crown placed atop her head that marked her as someone worth noticing. It was not a Baratheon lady seated beside their king; it was not a Baratheon at all; their Lady Blackwolf looked as Tully as her brothers.

Watching her take a demure sip of wine, Jon wondered if any of the lords and ladies would have cared about Princess Sansa's arrival at all if she’d been a smidgen less beautiful.

Once the shock of Princess Sansa's presence dimmed, Jon watched from his place to the left of the princess’s chair as the bannerlords of the North assessed her. Eventually, they must’ve worked up the courage or curiosity to approach, as the first men soon came marching to the great table of royals, and others followed quickly after, eager to get a closer glimpse and perhaps the favor of their new liege lady.

But every lord or heir who dared ask for a dance or wandered over to attempt conversation was immediately waved away by Robb or, to Jon's surprise, quickly redirected by the Karstark girl to instead dance with one of the noble ladies who attended to her.

Once the lordlings realized they would not be taking a turn on the dance floor with the princess, what he’d dreaded would be uncomfortable and fraught with unease quickly became another boring evening watching his friend’s back; the princess spent the entirety of the feast staring at her untouched plate in silence, occasionally nodding at a quip one of her brothers made or clapping politely for the musicians when a particularly lovely song ended. Their guests gradually accepted defeat or lost interest in Princess Sansa as more drinks were poured and songs were played, seeming to reach the conclusion that she was portraying that the girl was rather underwhelming, more painted porcelain or well-spun tapestry than the she-wolf of Winterfell.

Jon wasn’t all too surprised at the rejection of suitors by Robb and Alys. It was to be expected, after all; the princess wasn’t exactly popular at court, and her recently widowed status did not help her cause. None of their guests knew the circumstances of her husband's death, nor did they understand how little the princess would truly mourn the loss, but she dutifully performed her role as sorrowful widow, and only Jon's presence at her confession in Robb's study stopped him from falling for it as well.

Long after the last young, strapping man approached the king’s table, an older, noble lord made his way to their place at the head of the hall, his face lined with the first signs of age and gray beginning to creep out at his temples. A deep green cloak sat upon his broad shoulders, the same shade worn by the table of well-groomed, finely dressed men he’d been dining with moments ago, secured at his strong throat with an silver broach in the shape of an armoured fist.

It was his brother who got the in-depth education, Jon being too young at the time. But the Starks recognized his house, as did the Karstark girl, who beamed at the man, saying, “Dear uncle,” and giving him her ungloved hand to kiss. While his knowledge of Northern houses was sparse at best, Jon knew the Karstark queen's house sigil was a white starburst on a black banner. The lord must be kin to her late Glover mother.

"Lord Galbart.” Once her uncle released Alys's hand, Robb gave the slightest nod of his chin and remained seated. “Our thanks for attending the festivities.”

Bowing deeply before his king and murmuring the appropriate honorifics, Lord Galbart shifted his sharp brown eyes to the princess, whose attention remained fixed solely on her full bowl of carrot and beef stew. It was to her he walked after rising, bowing once more with a silky, “Your grace.”

If he hadn’t been standing directly at her back, Jon would’ve missed how her shoulders stiffened minutely, fingers white-boned around the chalice of wine she’d been sipping on before the lord approached and reached a hand out to boldly clasp her fingers to press them to his lips. Jon's own hand drifted instinctively towards Longclaw at his side, brushing its pommel. He needn’t hold it outright for Lord Galbart to notice the motion and pale slightly, taking a generous step back from where he’d been hovering above the princess.

Jon growled, “Mind your hands, my lord.”

The man’s eyes narrowed to slits, but he nodded stiffly in acknowledgement.

But then she placed her chalice down and turned her head towards Jon directly, as if he’d all but shouted her name, and his tongue went dry under the full weight of her dark, cutting stare. Her heavy gaze dragged down to where his fingers twitched atop the sword at his hip, then snapped back up to his face, eyes lit in a way Jon couldn’t decipher before it was gone with a blink, and her full mouth was twisting into a scowl that had the hair on his neck standing up.

“Deepest apologies, my lord. My shield is rather protective of me.” She murmured. The princess gave him a weighted look and turned back to the man more deserving of her time. Only then did Jon let himself glare at the back of her crowned head and velvet-trimmed gown.

The Glover lord spoke too softly for Jon to hear his question. Sansa answered him, “Yes, my lord, I shall be assuming my birthright. Was this not to be expected?”

Lord Galbart seemed momentarily taken aback. “Is Winterfell not the keep of the Stark Kings?”

At her left, Bran's hand tightened around his fork whilst Rickon chattered on, unaware of the rising tension. Princess Sansa's voice was colder than the heart of the Bite when she said, “And it shall remain as such forevermore. Are you suggesting otherwise, Lord Glover?”

“But it will not remain as such,” a shadow of frustration fringing in the lord’s words. “For you are a Baratheon by law and a Southerner through marriage. Do you mean to say the heart of the North shall have a Southern liege lady?”

“Hold your tongue, Lord Glover, and do not dare address me by such name again,” The princess snapped. “I am a princess of House Stark, and it is my bloodline you swore fealty to, and it is my table your men dine at. The next time you address me by the name Baratheon will be the last time you draw breath.”

Bran released a long breath while Jon clutched Longclaw so tightly his wrist was beginning to ache.

Drawn by her raised voice, Robb gulped down his swallow of wine and placed a hand on his sister’s forearm to hurriedly say, “Give my thanks to your brother for the good wine he has sent us for this joyous occasion, Glover. You are dismissed.” For a moment Jon feared the man would argue back, mouth half open and brow flattened, but Lord Galbart seemingly thought better of it, dropping into a significantly shallower bow and storming back to his men.

The Karstark girl whispered to Robb, “I’ll handle this,” then shot to her feet and hurried as regally as possible after Lord Galbart's retreating figure.

The princess snatched her arm back from Robb's grip like she’d been burned. “You would let one of your lords speak to me that way?”

"Are you out of your mind!?” Robb hissed, ignoring her indignant scoff. “How could you speak to a noble lord in such a manner? What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that I am his crown princess, and he was questioning my right to rule.”

“Lord Galbart is the holder of Deepwood Motte, whose territory holds the most fertile lands in the North. We cannot afford to make an adversary of him.”

“He questioned my birthright and my blood!”

Robb twisted in his chair to face her fully, cheeks flushed beneath his auburn beard. “Aye, and he is not the only lord who feels that way. Northern law dictates that you stopped being a Stark the day you wed Lord Baratheon, and though his death has released you back to the North, you have spent far too long in the South for them to have trust in you.”

The princess’s jaw clenched so tightly Jon waited to hear a crack. “It was not my choice to remain in the South, Robb, or to take a new name.”

“But it was your choice to let your anger keep you there.”

“How might I have left?” She raised her left hand and showed her palm, a single scar down the center indicating her marital status.

The edge in Robb's voice softened ever so slightly. “The North does not allow weddings against a woman’s will-.”

Her voice cracked when the princess snapped, “And yet it was done anyway.”

Robb flinched. “Once I ascended, if you’d only come home or written of what had been done, I would’ve declared the marriage void in a heartbeat; you needed only send word and I would’ve come for you, Sans. I-.”

Princess Sansa stood abruptly, her heavy, wooden chair screeching horribly on the stone floors as she pushed away from the table and turned her back on her brother.

“Sansa, take your seat.” Robb commanded at her elbow, hand twitching on the arm of his chair as if to reach for his sister.

It was too late—the bannerlords and ladies in the great hall had already noticed their liege lady standing atop the raised platform the royal family dined upon. A new thrum filled the room, one that had Jon lurching forward and quickly saying, “I shall accompany the princess back to her chambers, your grace, with your leave.”

Her eyes snapped to Jon from where they cut a hole in the stone wall, already narrowing. She stepped forward and stabbed a finger against his leather chest plate and spat, “I do not need permission to -.”

It was not her brother but the King in the North who answered, “Yes. You do.” He nodded once to Jon, grimacing, then pushed himself up from his throne to stand before the room. All eyes shot to Robb, the collective voice of the room silencing instantly with the raise of his left hand.

Whatever the king was about to say mattered little to Jon; he understood the distraction for what it was. Grabbing her upper arm a touch rougher than necessary, Jon guided the princess from the great hall into a hidden side corridor that led to House Stark's quarters.

The second the heavy wooden door slammed shut behind them, Princess Sansa shoved him away from her and cursed loudly. Rain was thundering beyond the exposed pillars, but the rabbit lining his cloak kept the chill from creeping beneath his tunic. The storms had left Winterfell's courtyards flooded with all manners of mud and sludge, but inside the castle it was warm and dry. Hopefully, the biting autumn air would cool her anger enough so that Jon could wrangle the princess back to her chambers and place another swornshield on duty outside her door. Perhaps then he could sneak downstairs to the shields’ barracks to have a drink or four with his shieldbrothers. These nobles and their noble problems made his skull ache. Jon knew where he truly belonged, and that was with his men around the battered oak table playing cards and drinking tankard after tankard of strong harbor ale, preferably as far away from the Lady of Winterfell as Jon could get without breaking his oath to his king. At least she seemed equally desperate to get away from him.

It took all of a moment for the princess to finish her cursing, walk directly over to the corridor’s stone wall, and, before Jon could even blink, kick it with all her might. Immediately, she keeled over at the waist and let out a brief shout of pain. “Gods above!” She panted, gloved hand braced against the wall while she raised her skirt to expose a thin, already purple ankle, and winced.

It was the flash of pale skin that jolted Jon into action, lunging across the corridor and dropping to one knee at her feet. “Princess! Are you alright?” He grabbed her ankle without thinking and examining it carefully. While she hissed for every prod, the princess remained standing and when he instructed her, managed to put some weight on her foot without yelping.

The princess merely placed her hands on her hips and scoffed. “I do not need a nursemaid, Ser.”

His sympathy dried up like tears in the desert. Jon growled, “Then do not make me act like one.”

The princess rolled her eyes and started off towards her chambers, moving all of two steps before her ankle gave out and she nearly crumpled to the ground. Jon shot forward and caught her by the waist, hauling her upright with a grunt. He’d hardly steadied her before she was shoving him off her with two hands. “Unhand me.”

“Do you truly think you can make it back to your quarters without assistance?”

“Yes, and I shall.” Another attempted step and she crumpled again. This time Jon let her collapse into a heap of skirts without intervention.

With a furious huff, she glared up at him over her shoulder. If she was stubborn enough to attempt to walk without his help, Jon would not force her to take his help, but still he extended a hand. After several beats, the princess begrudgingly took it. If it were Robb or one of his shield brothers, Jon would’ve just heaved them up by the arm, but this was a princess, so he wordlessly dropped to a knee beside her pool of skirts and grasped her narrow waist. It was as easy to lift her to her feet as it would’ve been a child, despite her height, her ribs biting into his palms through the velvet of her gown.

Princess Sansa was thin; he’d noticed that the moment he saw her in the courtyard soaking wet, but in her court finery and pale with pain, her narrow body took on a gaunt hue. Her eyes shot open, burning, and Princess Sansa harshly removed his hands from where they rested limply on her hips. “I do not need your help.”

“Yes,” Jon shot back. “You do. The feast will end shortly. Would you like the entire court to see you crawling back to your chambers on your hands and knees like a drunkard?”

It seemed for a moment like she would not take the arm he offered, glaring at the limb like she might set it ablaze, but finally the princess placed her hand in the crook of his elbow and allowed Jon to bear some of her meager weight.

They moved slowly through the corridors. Several times Jon considered lifting her into his arms and simply carrying her back to the royal wing, but he only needed to offer it once for the princess to bare her teeth and remind him how very unwelcome his touch would be.

Finally, eons later, they turned onto the hall holding her rooms. He was barely able to swallow his sigh of relief at the sight of Beren and Donnel stationed at her doors, calling out a greeting to his shieldbrothers who blissfully made no mention of the limping, furious princess on his arm.

Beren bowed to Princess Sansa before asking, “Alright, Snow?”

“Well enough, Tallhart. And yourself?”

“Can’t complain.”

“I can.” The princess muttered under her breath, nearly sagging with relief when her dark-haired chambermaid swung the doors open and rushed to her lady’s side. As though his arm was fire, she released him and clutched onto the older girl, who stroked a soothing hand up and down the princess’s back and guided her through the entryway.

Donnel's dark eyes darted between the slammed door and Jon. “I take it the feast went poorly?”

“An understatement.” The other man chuckled.

“Ever the charmer, our princess.” Beren said with a lopsided smile.

Jon's lips twitched. Through the wall-length window at the end of the corridor, the moon was inching towards dawn. “Go back to the barracks,” Jon ordered with a resigned sigh. “I’ll stand her guard for the rest of the night.”

The pair exchanged a look. With a frown tugging at his mouth, Donnel said, “You’ve been shielding her since dawn, Snow. Surely that merits some rest.”

Ordinarily, he’d agree with the other shield. No one man could guard someone for days on end without pause, and since she’d arrived, he’d been at her back for nearly every waking moment. But this was Robb's sister, the Lady of Winterfell and princess of the realm; Jon had sworn beneath the eyes of the Old Gods that no harm would befall her, and he would keep his word no matter the cost. Jon brushed his friend off easily, clapping a friendly hand to Donnel's shoulder. “I’ll manage. Now go, or they’ll start drinking without you.”

Though Donnel was clearly unimpressed, the stocky shield sighed and bid him goodnight, Beren following close at his heels, leaving Jon alone in the chamber when the heavy door thudded shut behind them

Chapter Text

Jon awoke to screams.

It took less than a heartbeat for him to lurch forward from where he must’ve fallen asleep leaning against the wall, drawing Longclaw and widening his stance to assess the threat.

Nothing had shifted in the corridor in the few moments he’d dozed. There were still the distant sounds of people returning from the feast and rain whipping against the sea glass windows, the familiar thump of guard boots against the floor, and his own harsh breathing.

Slowly, he lowered Longclaw from where he held it in front of him, warily placing it back in its scabbard. “It was only a dream,” Jon muttered to himself, dragging a hand through his hair. “Nothing more.”

It had been many years since screams pulled him from sleep, though the nightmares still plagued him.

He had been dreaming of home. Not the day he’d left it, seven years old at his mother’s side, but the morning of the summer solstice festival. It’d been scorching hot from the moment he woke in his brother’s chambers, already sticky with sweat where his older sister’s small body had been tucked in the night. They did this on the eve of every solstice: Jon and his brother would pile into their sister's bed and whisper of the treats and sweets they could eat the next day, goodies that were only made on the days the sun and moon danced. His mother encouraged the tradition, though she was not southern by birth. She’d curled around them while they fell asleep, whispering the stories of the great warriors they were descended from. That solstice, when all of the South celebrated the start of a long summer with moonflower and fried lizard, his brother convinced their father to take them down to the market square to watch the fire-dancers and snake-tamers perform in the bazaar.

He was so little at the time that all Jon could remember was his brother’s warm hand in his own and the blaze of flames whipping on the ends of the twirling woman’s long braids.

In this dream, no blades came from the shadows to cut his family's throats one by one; it was just him and his brother and his sister and Mama and Papa, laughing and together, dipping their bread in fat yellow lentils.

No, it had been a great many years since Jon had screamed himself awake imagining their violent deaths over and over again. It was likely exhaustion causing him to hear things that weren’t real. Maybe he should’ve taken Donnel's words more seriously and taken an evening of rest.

Jon settled himself back against the wall, fingers lax atop Longclaw. Dawn could not be far off; soon enough, he would be snoring in his own bed.

Then it came again, slicing through the silent chamber like a blade gutting a fish. This time, there was no mistaking its source.

It was coming from the princess’s rooms.

Jon did not hesitate, drawing Longclaw once more and yanking a second curved knife from his weapons belt before slamming into her door with his shoulder. It was locked; one of the chambermaids must’ve done so from the inside, or someone might’ve slipped past him and barred the door to stop Jon from getting in.

If anything happened to her, Robb would have his head. There was no man in Winterfell he trusted more with his sister, and as she screamed once more, a second fist of ice clenching around his heart as he slammed into the door once, twice more, numb to the impact against the thick wood, until it finally broke open.

Half-crazed, he tore into the dark chambers. This was his fault. His damned pride caused him to fall asleep, and now the princess was being attacked or worse because Jon could not allow another to ease his burden. “Princess!” He shouted, scouring the shadows for a hint of movement or her familiar lithe form.

There was nothing. Not even embers burned in the hearth, the heavy drapes tightly drawn across the window so not even weak, cloudy moonlight could provide a line of sight. It was utter darkness.

Knocking into the chaise, something went crashing to the ground and shattered. Jon cursed, his voice cracking when he shouted again, “Sansa!”

Somewhere in the black, there was the sound of rustling. In the center of his gut, that twisting, starving thing inside him began to uncoil. He’d felt it before: facing Longclaw's previous bearer in a fight to the death; watching from across the battlefield as an arrow landed true in Robb's chest; lying beneath the bed of a turnip cart with his mother’s last kiss burned into his skin.

That first time, he’d nearly set the cart ablaze when the fire had come unbidden to his fingertips before disappearing without even leaving ash under his nails. He’d been terrified to so much as breathe after that, taking quick, shallow breaths for a fortnight before they’d arrived at a threadbare village in the middle of nowhere in the North.

Tonight, he answered the growing urge. Jon slid Longclaw into his belt and called for the fire burning inside him.

It came instantly, greedily climbing through his veins to the cradle of his palm, bursting into a small ball of molten flame. The light wove through his fingers like a hand twining with his own, illuminating the room until he could make out a pair of blue eyes, wide as saucers. Slowly, as his fire grew, she emerged from the dark.

Unharmed.

She was unharmed.

No man stood with a knife to her throat; there were no gashes striping her pale skin or dripping blood staining her nightdress.

Jon turned in a full circle, stalking the length of the room, nearly flipping the tea table over in his effort to look beneath it. There were a dozen half-finished blankets folded in a pile atop an ottoman, a mostly empty cup of tea, and several stacks of books scattered around the seating area. The gray dress she’d worn for the feast was crumpled on the floor in front of the towering armoire, a pair of boots strewn beside it, and the circlet of iron wolves perched on the edge of her vanity as though she’d carelessly tossed it there seconds after returning from supper.

It was normal. There was nothing amiss.

“Ser Jon.” Her voice was hoarse, and when Jon finally stopped in front of her, the fire danced in the dark of her eyes like sapphires.

“Princess, what has happened? Are you harmed?”

She shook her head slowly, gaze locked on his alit hand. “Just a dream.”

“Does this happen often? The screaming?”

She nodded slowly. “Most nights. Ser Jon, are you aware your hand is on fire?”

Slowly, carefully, Jon loosed a long, low breath and counted to five. His mother had taught him that breathing trick when his magic first emerged and he could not control the raging fire inside him.

One breath for silence. Two for stillness. Then three for strength, four for solace, and five for sun, the same sun that coursed through his body like blood. By the fifth, the roaring in his ears had lessened to a shout. As though doused by water, the flames slowly dimmed until only smoke remained on his skin. He felt the lack of it like ice down his spine, cold where seconds before he was warm.

Without the light, the princess fell back into the shadows, but Jon could feel her in front of him, solid as stone. He had not done that in front of anyone, not even Robb, not since his mother first told him of the fire in his blood.

In the North, only witches could touch fire without burning. Common men from nowhere villages were not witches.

Voice cracking, Jon said, "Pay it no mind. Shall we light a candle, my lady? Or perhaps the hearth. It is so very dark in here.”

“I prefer the dark.” She answered immediately. But a second later he felt her move away from him, then heard the scuff of her limp on the rug.

A soft snicking noise broke the darkness, and a small light appeared, cupped in her hand where she crouched next to the hearth. She placed it carefully beneath the fresh logs, then lit another match and slid that one beside the first. It took a moment to catch. Jon slowly made his way to the sofa opposite her, placing his knife back into its sheath against his thigh when he caught her warily eyeing the steel. The princess relaxed minutely after that, rising and taking a seat on the chaise opposite him.

Silence.

Stillness.

Solace.

Strength.

Sun.

“So,” the princess said after the silence began to grow uncomfortable. “You can wield fire.”

“You scream in your sleep.”

The princess’s dark eyes flitted away from him. “That’s none of your business.”

He dipped his chin once. “Then we are in agreement. I will not ask about the screaming. You will not ask about the fire.”

“But-.”

“You will not ask about the fire. I will not ask about the screaming.” Her jaw ticked, but eventually she nodded tightly.

Dappled in firelight, Jon finally noticed her attire.

The princess slept in a long cotton nightgown, loose and fluid around her like a pool of blue. It had a high neck and flowed down to where he could just make out white stockings, a smidge too long in the arms so half her hands were covered. There were no flowers or wolves embroidered in the fabric, but his lady needed no embellishment.

Her hair was plaited down her back once more, near black in the half-light, and there were faint creases on her cheek from the lines of her pillow. Yet she still looked like the Maiden born again, bright as the stars above his homeland and purer than a spring dawn.

She spoke softly when she asked, “Did anyone else hear me?”

“I don’t know, my lady.” Jon told her truthfully. “The little prince should be in bed at this hour, as should Prince Bran. But these walls are thick.”

“You heard me.” The princess pointed out.

“It is my job to watch over you, my lady. No one else in Winterfell would’ve been paying as close attention.”

A frown tugged at her pink lips. “I do not wish for them to hear that.”

Jon considered her for a moment. “Are you particularly attached to these chambers?”

“Why?” Her dark eyes narrowed.

“Lyarra's tower. It has sat vacant since her death; I’m sure with some work it could be suitable for your needs.”

The princess smiled slightly, the faintest dimple appearing on her left cheek. “Another princess in a tower?”

“Is that not agreeable?”

“No,” she sighed, smile slipping from her face. “It is not a terrible idea. Let us bring it to Robb in the morning. Now please leave my chambers, Ser Jon. It is highly scandalous for you to be with me in here alone.”

“I am your swornshield,” he protested, rising to his feet all the same. “How am I to shield your back if we do not have some form of familiarity?”

“Careful, Ser. The fates of swornshields who became too familiar with their charges are not happy ones.”

No, they were not. Ser Jonnel and Lady Alyssa, Princess Lyra and the Rainsinger, the Winter Knight and Queen Arsa. Always it ended in tragedy: Ser Jonnel's end in the Battle for the Horn, Princess Lyra's death at the hand of her lover, driven mad with envy, and Queen Arsa's suicide. Northern shield oaths were different than the other kingdoms. They were binding for life, breakable only upon death, and to go against one’s oath was to thrice damn yourself in the eyes of the Old Gods. Men who broke their shield oath were known to go mad, attacking their loved ones or developing a taste for blood, though such a thing rarely happened. Nowhere on the continent was honor more valued than in the North. To swear yourself to something was to swear to take it to the grave. Oaths could be released by the crown, as his to Robb had been, but the scar on his palm served as a constant reminder of the words once said between them.

It was never truly gone, that line connecting two people.

Jon hoped their lives would not be quite so tragic. He said, “Let us pray we will be different.”

The princess didn’t respond until he was halfway out the door, so quietly he almost didn’t hear her.

For the rest of his watch and until the sun was high above them the next morning, Princess Sansa's words rang in Jon's head.

“There is no one to hear your prayers.”

Chapter Text

After witnessing the abysmal state of Winterfell's stores for herself, Sansa finally accepted Robb's invitation to dine in his private quarters.

The lackluster meals, a far cry from the robust feasts of whale steaks and tables full of roasted vegetables and venison dripping with fat of her youth, were no longer a mystery. Winterfell simply had no food. How her brother allowed such a thing to happen, Sansa could only speculate, but that afternoon she spent hours holed up in her study running the counts and devising a simple, elegant plan to restore the stores and build up Winterfell's supplies to a livable level before winter arrived in full force. When she arrived at Robb's chambers at the eighth bell, she clutched a stack of papers to her chest drawn out with plans and proof of her calculations should he question it, as well as another long list of questions regarding the state of the North's taxes and a request for the previous few years’ harvest analogues so she might adjust her recommendations in accordance with the historical yields.

It was a relief to feel useful at last, contributing in some way to the well-being of her kingdom other than as a source of gossip for the idling nobility. For all she’d loathed practicing her counts as a child, Sansa now found the tedious work to be a source of stability. Numbers were reliable, unchanging. Where her mind and heart were a jumbled mess of thoughts and feelings she struggled to parse through, this work was something concrete that she could achieve and have something to show for her efforts.

The door swung open with a groan to reveal her brother in a rumpled robe, shoeless and wearing a simple crown atop his close-cropped auburn head, looking boyish and relaxed in a way she had not seen since returning.

Here is the brother I remember, Sansa thought to herself as he bit back a yawn and waved her inside with a jerk of his chin.

He’d remained in his childhood rooms after ascending the throne, Ser Jon had explained when she’d started walking towards the late king’s chambers out of habit.

Their mother had remained in the queen’s rooms, and Alys had simply been moved into the room adjoining Robb's.

His chambers looked the same as they always had: flawlessly neat, without a speck of dust or stray sock to be found, thick books on battle strategy and ancient Northern history lining every shelf. The sitting area was set for supper, with two trays of stew and bread placed on the low table between the two swan-feather sofas, a merry fire crackling in the hearth that drew Sansa in from the drafty entryway towards its warmth. A half-played crowns board still sat on the table beneath the far window overlooking the Godswood, like Robb had been playing against himself before she knocked, as he liked to do when no opponent could be found. It was akin to stepping back in time; in this room, her greatest fear was missing a step during the maiden’s dance or the kitchen running out of cherry tarts. In Robb's room, she had a father who loved her more than the stretch of the sea.

There were changes, though, tiny cracks in the facade of the past that made it impossible to pretend for longer than a heartbeat: A scabbard leaned against his small desk, the hilt of their father’s sword, Ice, bound in aged brown leather; On the table beside his neatly made bed were a teacup and a woman’s whalebone hairpin; A new tapestry hung over the fireplace, depicting the signing of Lyra's Peace to end the Hundred Year War.

Sansa had always pitied the tragic princess for her role in the story as the catalyst who was remembered only as a victim and her use being dragged out into death as the reason for pursuing peace. History showed that the North and the East had been teetering on war for years before the attack, yet it was her great tragedy that was blamed and not the tempers of two powerful men. 

Would the king have accepted a surrender, she wondered, if it had been a son, his heir, who was murdered like a dog? Would he have agreed to peace?

Her eyes remained on the tapestry as she took a seat opposite Robb. “Where did you find this one?” The tapestry from their childhood had been Prince Brannon and his legendary sword Wrath defeating the army of shark-toothed mermaids that had been terrorizing the southern coastline, eating villagers and drowning entire towns.

Robb had idolized their ancestor Brannon, pretending to be him when they played Knight and Lady whilst he waved his wooden sword against enemies made of air, going so far as calling himself Lancent the Daring Wolf.

Her brother followed her line of sight and shrugged, eyes flitting over the woven knots. “Someone found it in the sept's archives; I’m not sure of the specifics. Alys likes it.”

When he said his wife’s name, Robb's voice lightened ever so slightly.

“‘Tis an interesting choice.”

“Did you wish to discuss my choice in decor tonight, or can we choose a more interesting topic of conversation?” He motioned to the stack of papers still clutched to her chest. “What’s with the props?”

Leaning forward, Sansa nudged the trays to the side and spread the papers out. “Sam took me through the granary this morning, and I have some ideas for increasing our stores before winter arrives in full, if you can provide some clarity on harvest taxes and historical yields. These sums are based on my best estimation, but they can be easily adjusted to account for the actual tithes. Sam didn’t know the location of our records for the last few years on production and store levels by season, so those are also estimations, but I believe my numbers to be comparable.”

Robb sifted through the sheets, grunting to himself as he read her careful script and triple-checked counts. “These are excellent, Sans.”

Her cheeks heated. “It wasn’t particularly difficult, I just—.”

“There is something you must know. Something I should have told you the moment you arrived.” The king quickly cut her off.

The frown marring his face made the small, proud smile slip from hers. “What is it?”

“We cannot replenish our stores.” The words rushed from him.

Sansa pointed to the page detailing her import plan and proposed trade deal with Riverrun, their mother's home. “If you look here, you’ll see that we can. I ran the counts three times, so as long as we’re conservative in our preparations, there should be no issues.”

“No, I am saying there is nothing to replenish with. The North is barren.”

She blinked, stunned. “Barren?”

“Empty. Infertile. It has been happening for years, slowly at first, but the blight has worsened with each season that passes. What we have in the stores is the sum of the last two growing seasons. Once that is gone, there is nothing.”

There was a slight issue with a few bad crop yields when she was young, minor bumps that were resolved within the season through the dealings of their father. It was the reason she was married off to Joffrey, for a portion of their harvest each year to supplement what the North was unable to produce on its own. But that was precautionary, Sansa had believed.

Father told her it was precautionary.

Surely if there was a true problem in the North, she would’ve heard of it. Then she thought of Sam's words in the granary, the concern on his face at the sight of the dwindling silos that only deepened when Sansa dismissed it as a matter of poor planning on the part of Winterfell.

“I don’t understand.” She said, chewing the inside of her cheek. “What could’ve caused such mass failure?”

Robb shifted in his seat and gulped. “The maesters have many theories.” From the way he said it, she doubted he agreed with them.

“What do you think is happening? Surely Father must’ve mentioned it if something was amiss.” For all his faults and the depth of Sansa's complicated feelings about the man, he was a thorough, dedicated king who put his people above all else. 

“Father…had many things on his mind towards the end of his life.”

It was not like Robb to be cryptic—none of the Stark were. They were taught from a young age that if one planned to strike, they best do it in plain sight. There was no honor in smoke screens. Growing impatient, Sansa bit out, “Speak plainly, Robb. I have neither the time nor the patience for riddles this evening.”

Her brother hesitated. Dragging a hand down his face, he sank back into the sofa and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s the curse.”

“What bloody curse?”

Curses were a business of the Southern Kingdom and Dorne, where magic ran rampant. Northmen preferred more direct methods of confrontation. The last curses in the North that Sansa could remember were from the era of King Jonnel, hundreds of years ago, when he set out to eradicate all magic in the North.

But those were more fable than fact, less a story of magic and more so a history of Northern violence. Robb was shaking his head, mouth set in a grim line. “Uncle Brandon's curse. Our mother’s curse. The one they call the Wolfblood Curse.”

“That stupid myth? Be serious, Robb. What do you truly think it is?” Stories had been flitting around for all her life about the Wolfblood Curse, as they dubbed it. When their uncle first saw their mother at that wedding in Casterly Rock, he had been betrothed to one of the Umber daughters and begged his own father, King Rickard, to break the arrangement so he might marry the woman he’d fallen in love with in an instant. Rickard, whose only weakness was his children, agreed. Tragedy struck before the nuptials could take place, though, and Uncle Brandon was felled by a stray arrow on a hunting trip. Sansa's father, honoring his brother's promise, married young Catlin Tully in his stead and made her Queen in the North.

What happened next differed depending on where one was in the North. Most believed the Old Gods to have inflicted the curse upon Brandon and Eddard Stark's line as a punishment for breaking a sacred vow, while others thought it to be the magic of the land itself, rejecting their foreign queen. A small group deemed the Umber daughter the culprit for the curse, citing the proximity of Last Hearth to the Bite and the peculiarities that seemed to be most prevalent in the Umber lands as proof.

None voiced such a theory north of the Lonely Hills, however, not unless they wished their head to be separated from their neck at the end of the Greatjon's vengeful blade.

Besides, it was nonsense, a child’s tale that had no bearing on truth. Fields did not dry and crack because the fates willed it to be so; they shriveled because the weather was temperamental, and crops failed on occasion for no reason other than poor luck. Their father had declared it treason to speak of in front of the royal family, and thus Sansa hadn’t thought of the Wolfblood Curse in years.

To her scoff, Robb answered slowly, “We have reason to believe that the curse was cast by an Umber daughter, the one Uncle Brandon spurned, a girl named Mae or something along those lines. Consider it: the Umbers have always been a strange bunch. Rumors have run rampant for years that there is magic in their bloodline, and there has been no mention of the girl in the years since. Her entire life has been struck from their histories. It’s curious, no?”

“This is a poor jest. A curse? Truly, Robb, do you take me for a fool? You blame the state of our kingdom’s stores on a girl whom you aren’t even sure exists?”

But Robb looked deadly serious. “Sometimes even madness is truth. There is no natural explanation. Trust that I have scoured this kingdom for an alternate source, and this is what the wisest of maesters have concluded. In all likelihood, that witch did this, and unless we find her and reverse her curse, the North will starve and soon.”

She stared at him for a long minute before sputtering, “Are you mad?!”

“Probably.” Her brother sighed, long and weary. “Doesn’t change the truth. We must find her. That is all that can save the North.”

“You speak of a story, brother. A story is not what has lowered our stores. That would be poor management and overuse of resources, both of which I address in my plan.” She stabbed a finger at the parchment laid out between them, now discarded.

Robb shook his head, his steady blue gaze deadly serious. “The maesters have been running tests of the soil for moons, Sansa. There is no reason born of nature for such a thing to occur, no sickness in the land itself that might be plaguing our crops. It can only be the curse. Our maesters have all but confirmed it.”

Her little counts looked so silly now, splayed out between them. “Let’s say you’re correct and this is the work of a curse, and she is responsible; what can be done? If you are to be believed, the woman is all but forgotten. How would we even find her?”

The Northern Kingdom was vast, more so than the Western or Southern Kingdoms. Only the East rivaled it in size. Searching the entire kingdom would take moons, if not longer, and that was before considering the potential pitfalls in locating a woman who may not even exist.

“I have a dozen of my best men scouring our lands for her; if the woman lives, we will find her.”

“And if she refuses to reverse it?” Sansa pressed, feeling a touch mad for even entertaining this preposterous theory. Robb looked so sure, so exhausted.

His stare now was like the sea before a storm. “She will do as she is commanded.”

“Then you are a fool!” Sansa hissed. Power did the strangest thing to a person; for whatever reason, it erased one’s memory of the simple fact of free will. “You would go to her as Brandon Stark's nephew, the son and heir of Eddard Stark, and ask her to reverse decades of anger? Do you even understand how curses are cast? I don’t! None of us do. Would you wager the fate of the North on this woman’s obedience? On the reliability of magic, of all things?”

“What other choice do we have?” He slumped back in his seat, dragging his hand down his face. “We are out of moves, Sansa.”

“The only men who seek magic for their troubles are mad or desperate.” She reminded him.

“Yes,” Robb snapped. “And we are both.”

“And until then? Let’s say your idiotic plan works and we somehow find this ghost of a woman. How do we make do until then?” Her plan accounted for five years and the harvest yield of her youth. Already, Sansa's head began to ache at the thought of all the counts she would have to redo to adjust for her brother’s madness.

Red tinged the tips of his ears as Robb stared at his feet and said, “A betrothal to my heir may buy us some time.”

“No.”

“I don’t recall asking for your permission.”

She leaned forward in her seat, forcing him to meet her eyes. “I. Said. No.”

“There are also Arya and Rickon, who may be useful yet.”

“None of them should be sold to ease the burden our father and uncle thrust upon us.”

Robb snapped, “They are Starks. They will do their duty.”

“Rickon is little more than a babe.” She reasoned. “It is inefficient to barter him now.”

“The council is already discussing matches for Bran with daughters of our bannerlords. And some from the East.” Robb acquiesced.

Scoffing, Sansa said, “Like who?”

“Lord Manderly's girl, Lady Wyla.”

“The odd one?”

Robb ignored her. “Grain grows in White Harbor, and House Manderly has been loyal bannerlords for centuries.”

“I will not entertain it.”

“Then it is a good thing you are not king.”

“What of Lady Claere?” Sansa tried, the plain-faced friend of her childhood coming to mind. “House Cerwyn are no less loyal than House Manderly, and their lands borders Winterfell. Bran would remain close.”

“Her parentage is questionable at best.”

She chewed on her bottom lip, flipping through the noble Northern houses with eligible daughters in her mind. Two decades of lessons and such knowledge were imprinted upon her. “Melysse Flint”

This gave Robb pause.

Sansa pounced on his hesitation. “House Flint is rich enough, and Melysee is beautiful and has experience living at Winterfell. She could serve as my attendant until they wed.” Lord Robin was the liege lord of Widow's Watch and Melysse's elder brother; both were known to be kind.

Her brother considered her for a moment, blue eyes narrowed. “The Flint lands are as hungry as the rest of us.” He rumbled. “It does not stand to benefit Winterfell or the North as a whole if Rickon marries into more barren soil.”

“He should not have to marry at all.” She hissed, slouching back in her chair and crossing her arms. The emerald dress Beth laid out for her that morning was lovely, but the sleeves were too long and bothersome for Sansa's taste, getting tangled and twisted every time she moved her arms. Under Robb's scrutiny, it took considerable effort not to fidget with the fabric.

Ignoring her outburst, Robb continued, “Uncle Benjen's preliminary attempts with the Eastern lords have proved unsuccessful, leaving us with very few options. I have pushed off the official betrothal until we see some evidence of the longevity of the Manderly's land’s fertility, but I cannot put it off much longer. Unless we find the witch, Bran will marry Lady Wyla as soon as he comes of age. I swear it, Sansa, my men are searching all of the North for her. I’ve sent scouts north and south and out to the islands; if she can be found, they will do so. But the fate of our kingdom cannot rest upon hope. Actions must be taken at some point; plans must be made.”

It took a lifetime of lessons in etiquette to keep from lurching forward, grasping her brother’s arm, and begging on her knees. Anything else, Sansa's thoughts screamed: marry me to the Night King reincarnate or sacrifice me to the sea as an offering to the Old Gods—anything but condemning my brother to a lifetime of service.

For a heartbeat, she almost did. In Storm's End, Sansa had vowed to never again bow or bend before a man, king or common, yet for her blood, for her little wolf, she nearly betrayed herself and kissed the king’s feet. But just as with every prayer she’d uttered in the last six years, the Old Gods remained silent and unbending as stone, and then Robb was rising and ringing for attendants, the subject as good as law.

Chapter Text

Adjusting his life around the princess’s daily schedule proved shockingly easier than Jon had anticipated.

As predicted, Robb posed no objections to moving the princess to Lyarra's Tower, and it took all but an afternoon to clear out the round, dusty room and move her belongings into the new space. There was one way in, up the winding staircase, and all it took was two men at the base and Jon himself outside her door for the princess to breathe a sigh of relief.

Once she found a place that felt secure, there was hardly any moving her. Apart from mandatory meetings or the rare summons from Robb, the princess remained holed up in her tower, sending her chambermaids up and down the stairs as needed, emerging only when required.

That meant at moon-high, when her screams would rip through the stone tower far from prying ears, she would appear seconds later, swinging open the heavy door and wrapped in a light robe over her nightgown, demanding to promenade through the castle.

It was his duty to oblige her.

Jon was no stranger to nightmares. He recognized enough of the haunting in her dark eyes to avoid the subject altogether. He did not ask her again about the nightmares; in return, she did not mention his ability to summon flames.

As far as relationships went, it was not the worst foundation one had been built upon.

The first few evenings, they walked in relative silence, the only words exchanged sharp enough to draw blood, but eventually the routine became breathable. A fortnight of screaming later, they were almost amiable during their wanderings. While that unspoken truce vanished with the sun each morning, for those few quiet hours, he and the princess were a well-matched pair, haunted beings haunting Winterfell's halls. So much so that tonight, she’d sent Beren to fetch him when her nightmares had come.

It was a rare night where Jon had no duties other than sleep, yet he’d been unable to enjoy the early hour he’d recused himself to his bedchamber. For hours he’d been tossing and turning, flipping his pillow back and forth to find the cooler side, but sleep did not come. Something nagged at him, pinching the back of his mind like too-tight boots, and he couldn’t, for the life of him, think as to what it could be.

Dragging his hand down his face, he tossed the pile of furs aside and rose. The standard he’d worn that day was coated in mud from a lively sparring session with Grenn, leaving Jon with only the black trousers crumpled at the top of his dirty laundry pile and his cleanest-smelling tunic.

Cloak in hand, he wrenched the door open to find a page standing with his fist poised in the air. The boy startled back, swallowing a yelp. Quickly lowering his hand, he stammered out, “Ser Jon, Ser. Ser Beren has sent for you in the princess’s—in Lyarra's Tower.”

His heart lurched. Beren was a capable shield, one of the few men Jon would entrust the princess with. He would not send for him unless the situation was dire.

Fastening his cloak around his neck, Jon stalked from his chambers down the corridor leading from the shield hall to the castle halls. Over his shoulder, he asked tightly, “Did Ser Beren offer an explanation?”

Jogging slightly, the boy came scurrying after him. He shook his head, mop of white-blonde hair bouncing. “No, Ser.”

Jon dismissed the boy with a wave of his hand, ignoring the greetings called from his shieldbrothers, who huddled around a table in the common area, cards in hand, and shoved through the large oak doors into the main hall.

Winterfell’s corridors were mostly deserted at this hour, occupied only by the occasional patrolling guard or shield who wisely darted out of Jon's path when they saw him approaching. He could not bother with pleasantries, not when the moon hung over them and the princess might be in danger.

When he reached Lyarra's Tower, Jon raced up the long, spiraled stairwell two steps at a time, sending a silent thanks to his miserable years as a grunt soldier and the regime of fitness that had been drilled into him. Rounding the final turn, Jon skidded to a stop at the sight of Beren leaning against the princess’s doorway, staring mindlessly out the arched window into the inky sky.

The stocky shield turned at his arrival, flashing him a grim smile. “Evening, Snow.”

Five breaths, Jon reminded himself. Five. As calmly as he could muster, Jon asked, “Why have I been summoned?”

Beren shrugged, pushing off the doorframe. The leather hilt of his long broadsword sheathed down his back poked out from his fawn-colored hair like antlers. “Her grace was asking for you.”

“Did her grace say why?” He implored patiently. They were not friends, not really. The time they spent together was duty-bound, not out of any fondness on either part. Enduring him was one thing; specifically requesting his presence breached a barrier between them.

Beren shot him a pointed look. “Yes, she gave me a long, detailed explanation of her nightly terrors, and then we braided each other’s hair.”

“Well, what happened?”

“It’s been the same as every other night I’ve shielded her,” Beren explained, “Quiet for hours and then screams. The only change was tonight she came to the door and asked for you.”

“Did she scream for longer than normal?”

Beren rolled his eyes. “The princess screams herself awake every night. None of this is normal.”

Jon frowned, shouldering past the other shield to knock on the wooden door. It opened immediately, revealing the princess in a long blue nightdress and fur-lined cloak already pinned at her throat.

Even flat-footed, she was of a height with Beren, but her thin shoulders were perhaps half his width, and there was little muscle lining her lithe form. Without the bluster of a ballgown or crown, she looked impossibly fragile, likely to shatter if handled too roughly.

“Took you long enough.” She rasped, crossing her arms over her narrow chest.

To anyone else, her barbs landed as blows, but Jon just raised a brow at her, unamused. “A thousand pardons, my lady.”

She sniffed, lifting her chin in that haughty, proud way of hers. “I wish to go for a walk.”

Jon flicked a glance at Beren, standing to the side with his hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers, unabashedly grinning at the exchange. “Is Ser Beren incapable of accompanying you?”

“He is perfectly capable.”

“Then why,” Jon asked her, "Have you summoned me? I was abed.” Not sleeping, but she didn’t need to know that.

The princess’s jaw ticked.

Sansa Stark loathed many things: sugar in her tea, incompetence, and loud noises, to name a few. She hated nothing so much as she did admitting a weakness and asking for help.

Through gritted teeth, Sansa said, “I wish to walk with you.”

“I am ever at your service.” He answered with a dip of his chin.

The princess scoffed, shaking her head. To Beren, he jerked his chin in the direction of the stairwell. “Go back to the barracks. I’ll stay with the princess until morning.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice.” The younger shield winked, bowing his head to Sansa respectfully before taking off down the stairs. A few beats later, a cheerful whistle echoed off the stone walls.

The princess pulled the door to her chambers shut behind her before staring up at him, narrow eyes bright and expectant. “Shall we?”

Wordlessly, Jon extended his elbow. This was new; most nights, they walked side by side, an arm's width of careful space between them. But tonight, she had swallowed her pride and unbalanced them. She slipped her hand into the bend of his elbow without even a pause, stepping close enough to his side that he could smell the rosewater in her hair.

Only when they entered the main hall did the princess speak, softly saying, “I apologize for waking you. Beren did not mention it was your night off.”

“‘Tis no matter, my lady. Truth be told, I was having trouble finding sleep.”

Sansa glanced up at him, brows raised. Jon shrugged, turning from the curiosity in her dark gaze to stare down the dimly lit corridor ahead of them. He muttered, “You are not the only person in this keep who dreads their dreams.”

Winterfell at night had an eerie, beautiful quality that Jon preferred to the hours of day. The halls were empty, the crackling of the torches lining the wall the only noise to break up the stillness aside from their footsteps, and a fingernail moon winked above them.

Emboldened by the press of her hand in his elbow, Jon dared to ask, “Would you like to talk about it?”

There was no need to specify what ‘it’ was: the dreams, the screaming, the past forever nipping at her heels. As expected, the princess swiftly shook her head and muttered, “No.” She had been serious that night after the feast; there would be no speaking of her screams.

Jon allowed her this kindness, a twinge of sympathy aching in his chest. There was no erasing whatever had been done to her, but the burden could be eased by sharing it. However much they may bicker, Jon respected her quiet, stubborn strength and wished, suddenly, to lighten the weight on her shoulders.

“When I was a boy,” Jon began. “My family was killed, casualties of war, like thousands of others. I escaped the slaughter by hiding in a turnip cart bound for the North, and the guilt of surviving when they did not plagued me for many years. It plagues me still. For many years afterwards, even after I was taken in by a butcher in a small village outside Moat Cailin and given a place to live, I could not sleep through the night. Every time I shut my eyes, I dreamt of the horrible ways they might have died. Every night, I watched their throats cut or their skulls bashed in, and I would scream until my throat bled.”

They had stopped walking entirely, and the princess stared up at him, eyes wide. In truth, Jon hadn’t spoken of his family in years. The story of their deaths was not one he shared lightly or without great effort.

He continued, “Eventually, though, the dreams slowed. It was gradual, yes, but as time passed, they came less and less until I could sleep through the night without incident. I have not forgotten them, nor will I ever, but the years have softened the memories. Now, I think of my family freely and often, and it is not their deaths I imagine but their lives that I remember.”

The princess’s fingers tightened on his arm minutely. “Ser Jon, I am so very sorry.” She whispered, her voice thick.

Jon shook his head, a sad smile pulling at his lips. “It is in the past, princess. It cannot hurt me anymore unless I let it. I do not pretend to understand whatever haunts you, but you can take comfort in the knowledge that this will not last forever. Time is grief ’s greatest cure.”

Though it may take years, her ghosts would leave her eventually. The dead could not linger in the world of the living forever, no matter how badly he might wish for them to.

But then he would drink dandelion tea, or feel the sun on his face, or see a smiling child with a wide gap in their front teeth, and Jon would remember that they existed everywhere, in all things, and so long as he loved them, they would be with him until his own ending came.

Sansa would get there eventually. He could help her if she allowed him.

Quietly, Jon said, "My life and sword are bound to you for life, my lady. If you trust no one else, you can trust me."

Her eyes fluttered shut. The strong line of her long neck bobbed. “I fear this will not leave me for a very long time. Perhaps ever.”

“It might be many years. But you need not bear it alone.”

She made a small sound in the back of her throat. “Is it not a cruelty?” The princess asked lightly. “To force upon others that which you are too weak to endure alone?”

“Love is a burden, my lady. Let yourself be carried. Would you not do the same for any of your brothers? Your friends?”

“That is different.” Her bottomless eyes opened, darker than the night-hued sea.

Jon patted her fingers with his free hand. For so long, she had been alone, without comfort or allies to aid her. It came as no surprise that she would refuse to see the merit of allowing another to help her. “No. It is not.”

“I did horrible things, Jon. Am I a wretched person for that?” Her blue eyes were so somber and glossy that Jon nearly doubled over.

“I think—.” He paused, considering her turmoil a moment longer. “I think you are a good person who was forced to do horrible things to survive.”

“Was my survival worth their lives?”

She did not elaborate on the lives she referenced, nor did he ask. Jon just shrugged and said simply, “There is nothing of greater worth to me than your life, princess.”

Swallowing, she traced her eyes over his face. “I doubt you’d be half as understanding if you knew what it was that haunted me.”

“Try me.”

For a moment, he thought she might. Her full lips parted, a wrinkle formed between her dark brows, and he imagined the words finally spilling from her, whatever secrets she had buried that unearthed themselves night after night. But she blinked the shine from her eyes and said nothing.

“Princess...”

“We should send for tea.” She interrupted, warning in her gaze. There would be no delving into the weakness she’d just exposed, not if he wished to keep his head on his body.

“Of course.” Jon conceded with a bow of his head. Let her keep her secrets.

She did not speak again as they traced back through the halls to Lyarra's Tower, nor as he knocked on her maids’ door and sent a bleary-eyed Beth down to the kitchen with instructions to deliver scones and thistle tea at once, nor as they ascended the winding steps, her breath shaking as they rounded the final curve.

After the tea was delivered alongside a sparse plate of stale bread, the princess sent her maid back to sleep with a murmured apology for waking her that the girl brushed off. She then resumed her reading with one hand, the other plucking pieces of bread from the plate.

Jon had given up on hope of her uttering nary a word for the rest of the night, steeling himself for another silent night, when her smoky voice pulled his attention from the crackling fire. “Play a game with me.” The princess said quietly, folding the corner of her page and setting her book aside.

Jon grimaced. “You won’t find much of a challenge in playing me in crowns, my lady. I’m awful at the damned game.”

He’d wager his last coin that Sansa was an excellent player. Robb attempted to teach him many times over the years, but Jon never quite picked up on a winning strategy, bumbling through beginner maneuvers and losing time after time to his growing frustration. As he loathed being awful at anything, even that which he was attempting for the first time, he abandoned the activity and staunchly refused to play whenever Robb or Pyp asked.

But Sansa was shaking her head, lips ticking up. The princess clarified, “No, not crowns. I wish to ask you a question, and if you answer it truthfully, you may ask me one in return.”

“And if I don’t answer honestly?”

Her smile grew a smidge, the shadow of a dimple emerging on her cheek. “You will.”

Jon ducked his head to hide his burning cheeks. Yes. He would. It was the greatest of jests; his entire life was built upon a lie, yet his stupid honor would not allow him to hide any other truth. Those brief snippets of honesty were his way of repenting for the falsehood he existed under each and every day.

Jon cleared his throat, praying the shadows from the fire hid the red creeping up his face. “Alright. Ask away, my lady.”

“Why did you swear yourself to me?”

A startled laugh burst from his throat, causing the princess to jump slightly. “Good of you to start with an easy one.” He said under his breath.

Blinking up at him with wide, innocent eyes, she asked, “Would you prefer I ask something else? Like the contents of your nightmares or the truth of your origins?”

“No.” He ground out through gritted teeth. “I accept your question.”

“And?”

There were several reasons he could give, none of which she’d enjoy: he distrusted her on principle, guilt forced his hand, and Robb all but begged him. That last one stood out larger than the rest, glaring and unavoidable. If his friend had not asked him, none of those other reasons would’ve been enough to make him swear the oath. But razor-edged tension riddled the space between the siblings, and he doubted his lady would enjoy the knowledge that his loyalty was based predominately on Robb's request.

Carefully, Jon answered, “My honor demanded it.”

She considered his response, eyes narrowed as they traced his face. Under the prickling weight of her stare, Jon shifted his weight to lean against the mantle above the hearth.

“Ok.” The princess finally declared.

“Ok?” He scoffed, brows high. His lady could not concede on how far to pull back the drapes in her windows; any concession raised his suspicion like the tide.

Sansa's lips twitched, curling at the corners, and even the stars shone brighter. “Ok, Ser Jon. I am satisfied by that response.” And as if the conversation had never occurred, she plucked her book from the cushion beside her and thumbed it open to her dog-eared page.

Was she mad?

Jon snatched the open book from her hands, ignoring the sound of protest when he held it high above his head, well out of even her reach. “That is not how the game works, princess. I gave you a truth. Now, give me one in return.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, settled back against her settee with her arms crossed across her chest. “Then ask what you wish to know.”

There were a thousand things he wished to know about his lady, none of which were appropriate or honorable, so Jon simply shrugged and said, “Your choice. I’ll take whatever you choose to give me.”

She blinked up at him, taken aback. Whatever she had expected him to say, that was not it. Good. He liked her unguarded. Those rare instances were perhaps the only moments he got to see the girl that Robb and Theon and all the others loved so fiercely.

The princess stared down at her hands, inspecting her long fingers and unblemished palms. Carefully, she said, “I miss Storm's End sometimes. Not often. But on occasion, I'll smell salt on the wind or read a particularly excellent book and be reminded of the scant few happy moments I had there. It does not erase all the horrors I endured there, but sometimes, I do miss the view from my chambers. That is the truth.”

Despite his oaths and the depth of his loyalty to House Stark, Jon loathed the late King Eddard with every fiber of his being in that moment, more than he had ever hated anyone. He'd ordered her marriage to that Baratheon bastard. Would she have remained that dreamy-eyed girl forever, the one from Robb's stories, if he hadn't?

Jon could only offer her the comfort of saying, “Thank you.”

As they fell into silence once more, her flipping through her story and him watching her eyes roam the page, he sent a silent prayer to the Stranger that wherever the Lord of Storm's End was in the land after endings, Joffrey Baratheon's soul had not been found worthy.

Chapter Text

As she did when confused with all things academic or intellectual in nature, Sansa consulted the greatest mind she knew to uncover the truth behind Robb's outlandish claim on the curse.

Unfortunately, Bran knew about as much on the topic of curses as she did, and there was a limit to how much detail Sansa could share with him per Robb's vehement demand that she share their secret with no one. Sansa had employed Bran's assistance under the guise of continued research from a curiosity she’d developed in the South, which was not entirely false but made her Northern-specific questions difficult to explain.

The very suspicion of a curse on House Stark had to remain the utmost of secrets, known to the fewest souls possible, and that included the younger boys. Bran was brilliant, but he was, after all, a boy of fifteen years, and that inherently made his reliability questionable at best.

Still, Bran loved little more than a task involving research.

In the old library nestled in the belly of Winterfell's ancient library, she and Bran poured through every book pertaining to curses, witches or magic as a whole.

There were very few that met that criterion.

After a week of fruitless searching, Sansa was beginning to lose faith in finding anything helpful.

She could not yet believe in Robb's far-fetched magical theory, not until she found some evidence to support his words beyond desperation. Sansa slammed closed her fourth tome of the evening, pushing a cloud of dust down her lungs that sent her into a ferocious coughing fit.

“Gods.” She wheezed, doubled over the table she’d spread that night’s pile of books over. “When was the last time anyone was in this bloody room?”

Without turning from his perusal of the overflowing shelf, Bran said, “I like it down here. It’s quiet.”

From his seat at the desk across the room, Rickon whined, “Sansa, I’m tired of this.” Sansa was inclined to agree.

Bran grumbled, “It was quiet. I don’t see why you had to bring him.”

She massaged her temples. Being Lady of Winterfell was not nearly so tedious as being part of her family. “Because I promised to help Rickon with his counts. Don’t be a sod. Have you found anything?”

“Nothing but a bunch of old histories on the high houses. Did you know the Dustins and the Manderlys were warring two hundred years ago?”

The same Dustins and Manderlys who now broke bread frequently in Winterfell's halls. “That’s interesting.” She said when Bran cleared his throat, brows raised expectantly.

It was the same each night thus far: endless histories, stories in the olde tongue and useless ledgers. Nothing in the room was of use to her thus far. Nothing offered support for Robb's outlandish theory.

Rickon slammed his tome shut, dropping his chin to his chest atop his hands with a large, exaggerated sigh. “Can I be done now?” Supper had been hours ago; if they were able to see the moon from down there, Sansa would wager it to be almost right above them.

Having pleaded to stay up far after his bedtime, Rickon lost his excitement over the late night adventure a while ago, when it became clear that Sansa and Bran were there to work and he was meant to do his counts quietly in the corner.

Sansa sighed and answered her brother, “Yes, darling, you may be done. Go ask Ser Edgyr to bring you to bed, and I’ll be up shortly to say goodnight.”

Needing no further motivation, Rickon leapt to his feet and darted into the hall where his personal shield and Donnel stood guard.

“Finally.” Bran muttered, flicking the page on his book.

“Don’t be unkind, Bran.” Sansa scolded. “He’s just a child.”

“An annoying one.”

Huffing, Sansa pushed to her feet and stalked to the shelf of parchment rolls on the opposite side of the small room. She yanked one the first one her fingers touched and unspooled it, revealing a fading portrait of one of the Northern Kingdom's early kings. His plain iron crown gave up his identity before Sansa even saw his name in large script beneath his face, along with the date:

King Eddard Stark I, the Good Wolf - 112 AC.

It was her father's namesake, the original King Eddard. His long reign saw the the North through both of the White Wars and a devastating drought, culminating in the establishment of Bear Island as a territory of the Northern Kingdom.

This sketched portrait was one she’d never seen before; rather than his solemn, serious expression in the great painting hanging in the Hall of Wolves, this Eddard was smiling. Sansa carefully flipped the parchment over. Ah. There was the answer to his grin.

Scrawled in the bottom corner, so small she had to raise the paper to inspect it closer, was the artist’s name: Bess Burley. His mistress. Their love was infamous, far overshadowing any legacy left by his wife, Queen Eryn Hornwood.

Pity curdled in her stomach for the forgotten Hornwood woman, and Sansa found she could look at her ancestor’s face no longer.

After sliding the first Eddard's portrait back onto the shelf, she finally said to her brother, “Did the maesters teach you this new founded irritability?”

Bran barked a humorless laugh. “Yes, right after our lessons on pessimism and the olde Northern tongue.”

“Bitterness isn’t befitting of a prince.”

He snorted. “That’s rich coming from you.”

“Please.” Sansa turned to stare at his back, carefully leaning back against the shelf and crossed her arms. “Do go on.”

When Bran finally faced her, tome still clutched in his hands, the shadows on his face gave her pause. He looked, in that moment, far older than his 15 years. “Unlike you, I wasn’t desperate to return to Winterfell after I left. White Harbor, studying with the maesters, it was…everything I dreamed it would be. Becoming a maester has always been my great ambition. With two years left in my studies, I wasn’t exactly overjoyed to receive Robb's summons.”

Her arms fell to her sides. “Robb summoned you home?”

Bran nodded. “This past spring. I presumed it was because he arranged some betrothal for me, but it’s been nearly a year and he’s said nothing.” His gaze flicked down to the floor. “Arya, too. But it’s not like Robb can leverage her hand. Not like mine or Rickon's." Because she was a girl. Because she'd had the great misfortune of being a daughter.

She kept her conversation with Robb to herself, where Bran would be sent off to marry the bewildering Manderly girl, for it was her brother’s news to deliver.

But her sadness for him had her saying, “I’m sorry, little wolf. That isn’t fair to you.” Her brother shrugged and returned to perusing the shelves of books.

Sansa allowed him his privacy; Bran was unlikely to ever address his emotions if forced. His sensitive shell was harder than even her own.

She parsed through the rolls of parchment and selected a handful, returning to her table but it was no use. There was nothing of relevance to magic or curses.

From behind her, Bran murmured, “How peculiar.”

Sansa's head shot up. “What is it?”

He flipped through the book resting on his forearm and crossed the room to her table, placing it before her. Stabbing a finger at the open page, Bran said, “The Umber bloodline is wrong in this one.”

Her heart lurched. The Umbers. “How so?”

“See here?” He pointed to a faded lineage map. “The maester who kept this history added a daughter where there isn’t one, right here after the Greatjon. Maea Umber. She doesn’t exist.”

Sansa's eyes fluttered shut. She was real. Robb was right; there was a Umber daughter, erased by history save this one forgotten tome in a forgotten room in Winterfell's library. The map was clearly old, for it ended with the Greatjon and his brothers and did not include their wives or children or their children's children, but it was correct up through the generations before.

The map did not mean his curse theory was correct, however; her presence alone did not damn her as a witch. But this was more than they had yesterday. They now knew she was real, with a name and a place of birth scrawled beneath it, Last Hearth.

At Sansa's silence, Bran mused, “Perhaps she was a babe who died in the cradle?”

Clutching her brother's wrist, Sansa said, “We need to find everything we can on Maea Umber. Everything. Who she was, if she’s dead, and where she is. It is of the utmost importance, Bran.”

“Gods.” He grumbled and pulled his wrist from her claw-like grasp. “Calm down. I doubt we’ll find anything; this is the only mention of her I’ve ever seen.”

“We must try.” She urged. “If there is mention of her here, it must be somewhere else as well. Perhaps someone knows of her.”

“What is this about, Sansa?” Bran cut her off, snatching the book back from her grasp. “Where is this newfound obsession with our history coming from? Are you ill or something?”

“I—I cannot tell you, Bran. I just need you to trust me that this is important.”

Her younger brother assessed her, careful and curious. Sansa could remember a time, years ago, when she kept no secrets from anyone, least of all her own blood. Her entire life was open to all, every joy and delight of her life before the South had been exclusively happy.

Now, she did not know where her secrets ended and she began.

“Alright,” Bran finally acquiesced. “I trust you.”

Sansa patted his cheek, swallowing her rattling breath of relief. “Then help me find more information on Maea Umber.”

...

Luck was on her side, for once.

Two nights later, after another dozen dead ends and several dust-induced coughing fits, Sansa found what she’d been looking for during another moon-high search.

Seated with his feet up was Jon, head dangling off the back of the armchair he’d chosen by her desk, that silver sword of his draped across his lap like a blanket. For hours now, they’d been debating the merits of setting controlled fires to the dead fields to revive the soil while she dug through the shelves, but at her sudden silence, Jon's head jerked up.

“What’d you find?” He demanded. Sansa had begrudgingly confided in him what Robb suspected soon after that supper with her brother, desperate for any aid she could find in uncovering whatever truth could be found in such madness.

Jon, who had struck her as pragmatic and logical to a fault from the moment they’d met, had shocked her by stating his agreement with Robb on the cause and provided a greater history of the research they had taken into the Umber daughter and her curse.

Northern magic was not of the same variety as that of the South, or so Jon told her. Standard magic, of the simple and everyday variety, was inherited by blood, similar to the South. There were three types: prophetic, runic and blood. Blood magic was the most common, followed closely by runic magic, which required the drawing of runes to unlock certain properties. The rarest were seers, those who received visions from the Old Gods on fate and destiny.

The Umbers had long been rumored to have witches in their lineage, blood magic, but whispers circulated about some of the smaller lords, like Knott and Locke.

Curses and their casting, though, were not a form of magic one could possess. That power flowed only through the Old Gods will. Anyone could cast curses, witch or not, so long as they had the ear of the Old Gods and their blessing. Mortals served as a conduit to their power, their link connecting them to the earth, though the Old Gods were apparently fickle and had a penchant for riddles.

All of this knowledge came from the oldest maesters in White Harbor, who Robb had consulted in his research on the failing land. It was their libraries that housed the history of Northern magic and warnings of the dangers in channeling the Old Gods.

Through those maesters, they had learned there was a way to undo curses, though it required the a witch, the Old Gods and more blood than Sansa could stomach.

When Jon revealed their failed attempts to contact the witch in the North, the magicwielder rumored to reside in one of the caves at the base of the Bite, Sansa understood then the depth of her brother’s desperation. He, it seemed, was willing to stomach it.

Sansa was no witch; she did not understand magic nor the rules that governed its use, but she had her mind and her motivation, so Sansa began her search into clues that might be found in Winterfell's records.

If there were books on magic, that would be a greater aid, but no Starks of times past dared to keep such information in their keep. All she could do was find out whether Maea Umber existed and where exactly she might have gone. Perhaps, if she learned why the curse had been cast, there would be an answer on how to undo it.

When Jon repeated his question, Sansa waved a hand at him to shush, transfixed by the glorious, magnificent paper in front of her.

Tucked between the pages of a small journal filled with her uncle's messy script was a yellowing note, addressed to Brandon Stark from an ‘MU.’

Hope’s fingers curled around her throat, and Sansa's hands began to tremble as she unfolded the fading parchment, careful not to rip it. A rustling noise sounded behind her, the creak of the armchair as Jon rose and came to stand at her back, peering over her shoulder at the miracle she clutched.

His breath warmed the nape of her neck, and Sansa's cheeks heated.

That bone-deep unease that developed whenever men stood close to her never seemed to arise with Jon. Instead, his nearness made it feel as though ants were running beneath her skin. His broad shoulders and pale skin made her aware of the press of her toes to the front of her boots and the laces of her underskirts against the small of her back.

Since the other night, when they walked the halls arm-in-arm and he told her of his family, Sansa's nerves were exposed, raw to the touch. If he so much as blinked, she would hear the thunderous flutter of his eyelashes against the thin, purpling skin beneath his grey eyes.

It was maddening.

Clearing her throat, she shuffled half a step forward, closer to the tall bookshelf and out of the range of his body heat.

“Is that note from her?” He asked, oblivious to the roiling of her gut.

Sansa snapped, “If you managed to stop prattling, I could open it and tell you.”

He continued, undeterred. “Is it from the Umber daughter? The curse caster? What does it say?”

Sansa jabbed an elbow back into his gut, the grunt of air that escaped him curling around her ear. Focus, you fool, she grumbled at herself.

Gingerly, she flipped up the last fold of the note. A long message was messily written in extremely faded ink, barely legible even when she squinted. The script was clearly feminine and noble, certain letters written in the style taught only by septas to the sons and daughters of lords.

A soft sort of noise came from behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, there was Jon, dark brow lowered, slowly mouthing out the words on the page as though he could not quite decipher them. When he noticed her noticing, his mouth slammed shut, the tips of his ears flushing pink.

Sansa was struck with the sudden realization that she did not know whether Jon could read. It was not a skill typically taught to common folk. For all she'd learned of him, from the temperature of his breath to the weight of his footsteps against the stone, she did not know this one simple fact. 

She was inexplicably desperate to know all of his facts. 

“To my dearest Brandon,” Heart squeezing painfully, Sansa began reading aloud, “My father has informed me of your return to Winterfell, yet I have not received word from you. Was all well during your travels to Casterly Rock? You must tell me of everything you saw and tasted in the Western Kingdom. Did you come across any witches? Was the Lion King as fearsome as they say? I shall eagerly await your next letter, as I always do. My love for you grows stronger and stronger as our wedding grows nearer. I cannot wait to be your wife. Your love, Maea.”

They stood in silence, the thirty-year-old words sinking into the walls and spines of old books.

Sansa, in the days since Robb informed her of his suspicions regarding the curse, had struggled to see what about her uncle was so divine that the girl he scorned would curse an entire kingdom over him. None spoke of a great love of his, nor had any whispers ever reached her ears of an affair.

Perhaps, she had thought over the past few days, Maea Umber was just mad. Now she knew better. Perhaps a woman scorned was capable of far greater a wrath than Sansa herself had ever fathomed.

“She loved him.” Jon finally said, his voice quiet. “Maea Umber was real, and she loved King Brandon. She was going to marry him.”

“That does not mean she cursed a kingdom over him.”

“It at least provides a motive that we did not know existed before today.”

Sansa cleared her throat, refolding the parchment into neat little squares and tucking it into the pocket of her skirts. “A note alone is not enough to prove the curse’s existence.”

“Then what is?” He pressed, following her back to the desk. “What proof do you require? What will convince you of the truth Robb and I already know?”

“I don’t know!” Sansa snapped. “You are asking me to suspend disbelief and judge a myth to be true history. That is no small feat.”

“There is no other explanation.”

She shot back, “That we know of.”

Jon threw his hands up. He stalked away from the desk towards the door before turning back, crossing the room in three long strides to stab a finger onto the desk between them. “We have exhausted every option available to us save the most extreme. Our fishermen have gone out beyond the reefs to fish the open waters, and we’ve lost more than half to pirates and the threats beneath the waters. We have burned the fields thrice over to coax new growth, and nothing has sprouted. The riverbeds are running dry, and the herds are migrating farther north and south out of our borders. Robb has sent riders out through the North to find the witch. Your uncle is doing his best in the East to arrange a trade deal, but they have greater concerns than that of another kingdom’s longevity. Robyn and his quest for the pirate lords will not show results until the new season. Unless Prince Benjen or Robyn comes back with a miracle, and soon, we will be out of time. Clinging to your sensibilities and pride will not save you from the fate that awaits us all if we do not find some way to reverse this famine.”

“If Robb believes so strongly in the Umber daughter’s hand in this, why has he not written to the Umbers inquiring about her whereabouts?” Even in her asking, Sansa knew the answer.

Jon hesitated, the anger ebbing from his bright eyes, leaving him wary. “Robb has his reasons. Besides, she could be anywhere on the continent, anywhere in the world. At least in finding what motivated her, the witch may have a better chance at undoing the magic.”

Sansa answered stiffly, “We cannot hang the future of the North on hope.”

Her shield did not deign her with a response, turning and marching from the room with his last words unspoken between them.

Hope was all they had.

Chapter Text

For the first time in decades, Jon's Old Gods heard his words and delivered a miracle. Not one that would save the North, but a miracle nonetheless.

Word came a fortnight before Rickon's birthday feast. The entire keep was abuzz with movement, kitchen staff racing through the halls carrying undersized eggs and leading thin pigs and bony lambs into the butchering dens, pages and guards polishing armor and washing their finest standards until they shone like silk. Jon was working double time to maintain order among the shields and castle guards, staying awake well into moonhigh drafting and re-drafting versions of their schedule to accommodate the influx of residents and potential threats to the king, as well as housing and protection for their guests.

The princess was equally occupied; every meal needed to be tripled to adequately feed the invited guests, and ladies and chambermaids needed to be delegated to the open wing to ready dozens of chambers for their Tully and Stark kin, who would be upon them in days with carriage trains a mile long and countless trunks and gifts that must be seen to immediately. Together, they sat and reviewed the map of the castle’s interior a hundred times, arranging who would be housed where, what shields would guard which nobles, who would be seated beside whom in the great hall for each meal, and what men Jon would station at which points in the room to protect Robb and the other princes.

It went without saying in all of their strategy meetings that he would remain by her side until the last guest had departed. Though she’d never admit it, the princess’s anxiety at the presence of visitors was greatly heightened.

During one of those moonhigh sessions, a breathless towerrunner came barging into the princess’s study, waving a partially burnt missive in one hand. “For the princess.” He gasped, doubled over as though he’d sprinted all the way from King's Landing to deliver the message. “For Princess Sansa.”

Exchanging a fleeting, worried glance with Jon, she rounded the desk and delicately plucked the singed paper from the lad, thanking him quietly.

As she read, she shakily dropped into the armchair by the door, fingers clutching the leather armrest. All the color drained from her pale face, turning her the shade of milk. Her eyes scanned the parchment once, twice, and then she rose on unsteady legs and tossed it into the small hearth, a hand rising to cover her mouth as the flames swallowed whatever words had been written.

“What is it?” Jon demanded, crossing the room to her side. When she didn’t answer, remaining frozen staring at the fire, he squeezed her elbow and asked again, gentler.

Dazed, she looked up at him with tears in her blue eyes. “It was my friend Margaery. We warded together in King's Landing for a time before…before I was wed. She writes that the king is dead. It is the Dragon Queen who holds Stannis's throne now.”

Jon staggered back a step, the breath knocked from his lungs like a punch. “The Southern Kingdom has fallen?”

The reports of escalating tensions had come to them barely a season ago. It should have taken the Dragon army a year to take the Southerlands, perhaps more.

The Southern Kingdom and Dorne belonged to the Targaryen's empire now, grasped firmly in the usurper’s talons. Dorne had fallen first, unsurprisingly, and made a deal with the Dragon Queen that left the Martell King and his heirs alive, but none thought the heart of the south would ever bleed for the empire. The Southern Kingdom alone could rival the North's might, and its soldiers had kept the peace throughout continent for a millennium.

Sansa made a small, pained noise that startled Jon from his stupor. Then she did it again, and he realized she was giggling, choking down maniacal laughter, nearly doubled over as tears began streaming down her cheeks. She gasped for air as she began laughing in earnest, sobbing with every other breath.

“They’re all dead.” She managed to get out in between howls, hands pressed to her head in disbelief. “Tommen Baratheon, Stannis. All those who demanded justice, they’re all dead.”

Ah. A morbid sort of silver lining, then. Jon could only stare as she continued to laugh in great heaves, collapsing back into the armchair when her titters finally faded to silence, something like horror dawning on her face.

“I am spared.” She said to the still room, dazed. “It is over.”

“What did the message say?” Jon demanded.

When she continued to stare distantly at the fire, mouth slack, he brazenly grabbed her knee in his non-sword hand and squeezed. “What did it say, Sansa?” He asked again, more gently.

“Stannis was right; there was a traitor in the palace after all.” She whispered, clouds clearing from her eyes. “Stannis was holding a lord’s council to discuss the matter of my trial; all the Southern nobility were present: Baratheon, , Hightower, Ashford, all of them. Every liege lord and their families. The Dragon Queen came in the bowels of night and slaughtered everyone, man and woman and child. There are no survivors. The empress seized control shortly before dawn and announced that every Southerner was now a citizen of her empire and must bow to her or face the sword.”

“Her empire?”

Sansa nodded numbly, eyes focused on the indents of his fingers in her skirt. “She has fashioned herself the one true ruler of the continent, calling herself Azor Ahai, the prince who was promised.” All the blood in Jon's body froze. He jerked his hands from her knee like her dress was fire and sat back on his haunches, ghosts swimming in his chest.

It could not be. Not after all this time, not now.

The princess leaned forward and grabbed for his limp hand, pressing it between her cool fingers. “What is it, Jon?”

“Your friend wrote that word?” He rasped.

Brows drawn, she nodded. “Yes. Empress Daenerys Stormborn, Azor Ahai —that is what she has dubbed herself. Does that mean something to you?”

Did the sun mean something to the moon? Did the salt mean something to the sea? “Does it mean nothing to you?!” He choked out.

She slowly shook her head. “A word I read once or twice in some storybooks in King's Landing, but beyond that, no. Nothing. ’Tis an odd name for her to choose.”

These damn Northmen and their strange, backwards ways. The truth of the Azor Ahai was the first one told to Southern children in the cradle, the first words their mothers and fathers whispered to them under the black, moonless sky.

It was the story of their New Gods, the history of their people stretching back to the formation of the Bite itself.

Jon turned his hand and interlocked their fingers, tugging the princess to her feet. She stumbled forward and grabbed his arm with her free hand, concern etched heavily on her lovely face.

“Jon?”

“We must go to Robb.” His hand dropped to Longclaw instinctively. “We must go to him now.”

…

In his chambers, Robb had received a more official message from the newly minted ruler of the Southern Kingdom. Leaning against his hearth, he read it aloud to Jon, the princess, and the queen.

“Robb Stark of the Northern Kingdom, I write to you as the rightful ruler of the continent and the fated Azor Ahai foretold by the New Gods. What was once the Southern Kingdom now belongs to the empire, as all of the continent soon shall. Surrender now and lay down your arms and be welcomed into the new golden age. Resist at your peril. I eagerly await your response. Signed, Empress Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen.”

The crackle of the hearth was the only sound for several heartbeats as the four of them drank in the words. A tremble had entered the princess’s hands, slight and quick like the rapping of hummingbird wings against Jon's pant leg.

It was the Karstark girl who spoke first. “Is she mad?” Alys asked, incredulous.

Robb ignored his wife. To Jon, he asked, “Why does she call herself ‘Azor Ahai'?”

“Do you know what that means?” The queen demanded of her husband, stilling her shaking hands with a white-knuckled grip in the folds of her skirts.

Sansa and Jon were pressed shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, on the narrow lounge to the right of where Robb was standing, while the queen sat across from them alone, confusion painted all over her pretty frown.

Sighing, Robb sank down beside his wife, exchanging a single, weary look with Jon. “I had hoped to be wrong.”

Jon pressed, “If she is fashioning herself as Azor Ahai, Robb, this is far more dangerous than we ever believed.”

“Can someone tell me what in the Gods' holy name an 'Azor Ahai’ is?” Alys crossed her arms over her chest. She and Robb had been in their night garb, clearly abed before Jon and the princess had come beating down their door seconds behind another towerrunner bearing a note for the king.

The queen wore a velvet robe over her white nightdress and sat with her legs curled beneath her, perched on the sitting room sofa like a throne. Her hair was loose and wild around her head, curls springing in every direction, but she paid it no heed, pushing a loose strand out of her face and elbowing Robb with her brow raised expectantly.

Robb answered after a pause. “Not ‘an’ Azor Ahai. ‘The’ Azor Ahai. There is only one.”

Jon added, “And she must be a raving lunatic if she thinks she’s it.”

“What do you know of the Great Dawn?” Robb asked his wife, surprisingly patient.

Alys chewed her bottom lip. “Is that a story?”

“Most in the South regard it as true.”

Alys flashed Jon an incredulous, annoyed look and responded, “What does some myth have to do with a mad empress?”

“Everything, apparently.” Robb groaned, burying his face in his hands. The queen reached out a hand as if to stroke his back but thought better of it, yanking it back to clasp her fingers in her lap.

Jon pressed the queen, “What about the New Gods? Surely you learned of the Southern faith as a child?”

“Of course.” Alys's wide eyes narrowed as she concentrated, the wheels of her mind whirling. “The predominant faith in the South follows the New Gods, who are believed to have been buried beneath the Bite at the end of the Age of Heros. I know of no sects, however, that mention a figure called ‘Azor Ahai.’”

“That is because Azor Ahai is not aligned with any sect; it is enshrined in the history itself. It is an old prophecy, foretold by a seer hundreds of years ago, claiming that a great darkness will one day sweep the continent and only the prince who was promised can lead us to the Great Dawn.”

The queen asked, “How is that connected to the New Gods?”

Jon said, “Because the first Azor Ahai is the one who killed them and formed the Bite as their tomb. But many believe the great darkness to be the New Gods, risen again, ushering in an age of chaos and plunging the continent into an era of night.”

A wrinkle between Alys's brow as she wrung her hands. “If this prophecy concerns all of the continent, why is it only known in the Southern Kingdom?”

Sansa huffed, “Only the South know of it because it is a story, Alys. One read to small children at bedtime to scare them into behaving.”

Robb scoffed, “Clearly the Dragon Queen disagrees.”

The princess stared at him for several long moments, mouth slightly agape.

“This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” Robb winced as his wife broke the silence, huffing.

But Jon continued, undeterred, eyes locked on the princess’s clasped, pale hands. “We have wondered for over a year what Daenerys Targaryen's motivation was for aligning with Dorne, and not even the brightest of our maesters and generals could provide a reason beyond madness, until now. If she believes herself to be a fabled hero, then we are in far more dangerous waters than we thought ourselves to be.”

“Azor Ahai.” Sansa whispered, ghostly white. “She thinks the gods are returning? And she is the fated one?”

“Perhaps she is.” Robb interrupted, dragging his hand down his face. Alys stared at her husband in disbelief. “But there is no evidence for it, and we can consider only what we know to be true.”

The princess asked, “And what would that be?”

“She is the first person to unite Dorne and the Southern Kingdom since the days before the Bite.” Jon answered. “And she intends to keep conquering nations with delusions of divine intent.”

Carefully, Sansa said, “Is it conquering if she consider her actions to be saving the continent? You said Azor Ahai is foretold to bring us through a great darkness to dawn; what if everything she’s done, in her mind, has been in pursuit of that?”

Robb answered, “Then she is still a conqueress, and people are still dead. Her intentions do not matter in the face of all she has caused.”

Alys said, “We must get ahead of this information, and quickly. Who else knows of this, Sansa?”

“The four of us.” The princess answered. “And all of the South, I suppose.”

To Jon, Robb said, “We must gather the lords at once. War is imminent—they must learn of the South's fall and the Dragon Queen’s intentions.”

“Why now?” Sansa turned her attention to Jon, untangling her fingers to grasp his forearm imploringly. “Why now does she call herself Azor Ahai, after all these years? Why did her father not announce it upon her birth?”

He glanced at Robb, the silent question passing between them. How much could the princess know? Robb dipped his chin once.

Carefully, to Sansa, Jon answered, “There are rumors, stories really, of odd happenings in the villages bordering the Bite, in all kingdoms. Voices, echoing through the trees; boulders, crumbling to dust beneath a single touch; rivers running backwards; flowers blooming that have not grown in centuries; creatures emerging from myths. Magic practitioners across the continent have been complaining for a decade that something is shifting, and it has only growing stronger in the last handful of years.”

Understanding dawned in Sansa's blue eyes. Aloud, she said, “She believes this is part of the great darkness.”

Jon dipped his chin. “Most likely.”

Alys said, “Why is that?”

“For the rest of the continent, those who do not follow the New Gods, magic is akin to infection.” Jon said, ignoring the burn of Sansa's eyes on the side of his face. “It oozes from the Bite like poison, attacking those closest and trickling out through the land, weakest at the coastlines and strongest inland. Some is based in blood, following family lines and passing from generation to generation, whereas some is akin to a sickness, an environmental side effect that impacts those who live closest to the Bite, regardless of kingdom or creed.”

“Why the Bite?”

Jon said. “It is the burial site of the New Gods and the lingering power in their remains is what fuels our continent’s magic.”

Sansa started. “Are you saying all magic originates from the New Gods?”

He nodded.

“That’s preposterous.” Alys scoffed. “The North does not even follow the New Gods.”

“Yet they exist all the same.”

“Does she have it?” Robb asked him. “The Dragon Queen, this so-called empress, does she have magic gifted by the New Gods?”

“Maybe.” Jon shrugged. “I know little of the history of the Targaryen blood.” Little, at least, that was relevant to the conversation. 

Alys shook her head slightly, as if dazed. “Alright then, we’re believing this. Could Daenerys Targaryen be causing this wild magic?”

“No.” Jon answered at the same time Sansa said, “Perhaps.”

“If she possessed a gift unlike any other on the continent, I mean.” Sansa clarified in a soft voice, the gears turning behind her narrow eyes.

“Or,” Jon added, “if she was attempting to resurrect the New Gods. Mere possession of one of the remains from their graveyard would send all magic into a frenzy. Reviving even a single god would upset the balance of life itself. But she would need to possess blood magic to even attempt that, and unfathomable nerve.”

“Besides,” Sansa said, “Her great agenda is to lead the continent through the great darkness to the dawn, not to cause it.”

Alys pressed Jon. “But you yourself said that Azor Ahai must be the prince that was promised, born in fire. She is a woman. How could she possibly fulfill the prophecy?”

Pursing his lips, Jon sucked a harsh breath in through his nose. The Karstark girl was correct, as odd things sometimes were on the unhappy instance. That part of the prophecy did not line up, yet he couldn't dismiss it outright.

To Robb, she asked, “What are we missing?”

Her husband considered her question for a beat. “That’s the question, isn’t it? But does it truly matter whether or not she’s the real Azor Ahai?” Robb said, squeezing his wife’s silkclad knee gently. “The mere fact that she considers herself to be it is a danger, and that makes her a far larger threat. What does the truth matter if the people believe her?”

Jon nodded his agreement, rising from his seat. “I’ll send word to the towermaster at once that summons must go out to the high houses who are not already on their way to Winterfell. They must learn of this urgent news and make haste in getting here.”

“No.” Sansa's firm voice stopped him dead, halfway to standing.

Robb and Alys frowned in tandem, as if they were a single entity. The queen asked her, “And why is that?”

“We cannot speak of this to any of them until they are all at Winterfell, under our eyes.” She ignored Alys as though she'd never spoken, blue eyes locked on Jon's. “Winter is in full force; there will be suspicion about any sudden, urgent summons received from the crown at such a time. Write and invite them to the prince’s birthday party as a special request by the king. Make no mention of the South or the Dragon Queen. Panic is our greatest enemy right now. If our people find out the Southern Kingdom has been taken by a woman who dubs herself ‘Azor Ahai,’ they will fear we are next, and there will be mayhem across the North.”

“There is a strong possibility they will find out before arriving here, Sansa.” Robb reminded her.

“Rumors are not the same as an official message from their king.” She shot back. “Chaos is best controlled before it begins. Control the narrative, and you control the reaction.”

Robb hesitated, eyes flicking between Sansa, seated and coolly composed, and Jon, tensed as a whip. The princess wasn’t terribly wrong. It would be more strategic to withhold the information until everyone was physically present and under the watchful eye of their king.

But Robb was loath to admit his sister had a better idea than him. Through gritted teeth, he acquiesced, “Fine. But the truth of it must be sent to Greywater Watch. The Neck is our closest land to the Southerlands and at the greatest danger of invasion.”

Sansa asked. “Do you trust Howland Reed?”

Robb's response was immediate. “Yes.”

At the mention of Lord Reed's name, Alys stiffened minutely, her full mouth flattening into a pale line.

Hesitant, Sansa nodded after a beat, and Jon finally straightened, extending a hand to help her to her feet.

As usual, she ignored it and rose on her own. They’d rushed over here from her study, where she’d been burning her candle going through guard rotations with him. She wore only a nightdress and robe with a pair of grey satin slippers, making her shorter than ever beside him.

He glanced down to find her already staring up at him, deep in thought.

Robb and Alys remained seated, her knees curled beneath her as she leaned against his shoulder. The king shifted and wrapped an arm around her back, tugging her even closer to his side.

With a sigh, he dismissed them. “The hour is late; let us speak in the morning. Jon, direct the towermaster to send out additional invitations to Rickon's party. It seems we are to host all of the North.”

In the corridor outside the king’s chambers, the princess asked, “Have you ever heard of such a practitioner? Capable of impacting magic on such a large scale?”

Jon shook his head. They set off back in the direction of her study, halls alit with torched sconces and a surprisingly clear moon. In darker lighting, her deep red hair looked almost black.

“No, my lady. No such person exists. At least, to my knowledge.”

She hummed thoughtfully, staring over his shoulder at the bright night. “I suppose there is some slight good to be found in this. With everyone dead, I no longer face the threat of the South's judgement for the murder.”

“Lucky girl.” He joked half-heartedly, but her lips quirked anyway.

To the quiet hall, Sansa said, “If I’d known I would be spared, I would’ve aimed bigger.”

Jon quipped, “It’s not a very common regret to wish you had killed more people.”

“I wish I’d killed the entire household.” Sansa announced, a ghost of a smile lingering on her face. “Every last one of them who heard my screams and ignored them. Which is crueler, Jon Snow? The act of violence itself or knowing violence was occurring and doing nothing to stop it?”

As with every mention she made of Storm's End, Jon answered carefully. “I do not know, my lady. But I have full confidence that whatever justice you would’ve doled out, it would’ve been well deserved.”

Her answering smile was absolution.

Chapter Text

Once Robb revealed the true bleakness of the kingdom’s hunger situation, Sansa could not help but notice the food shortage everywhere she looked.

At the morning meal, no sugar was set out to sweeten their teas, and where there were once dozens of jugs of cold milk scattered through the hall, now she counted only five. The portions of porridge poured out by the kitchen girls were smaller than Sansa remembered, watery and weak where they used to be thick. There were no slabs of pork sizzling on her plate when it was brought out, nor were there roast potatoes to soak up the runny yolks of eggs.

Yet none in the hall seemed the least bit concerned about the lacking meal, dining and laughing as they always had around the long tables in the great hall while the Starks watched from above at the high table. Even at that evening’s feast, Sansa was hyper-aware of where the meal suffered.

She mentally cursed herself as the kitchen girls brought out another few rounds of venison, damning Robb twice over for agreeing to her plan of deceit before informing her of the truly dire nature of the North's survival. If even tonight, with only a sparse few members of the nobility to crowd their tables, food was running low, how in the Gods name would they be able to host all noble houses for a full week?

Her anxiety kept her seated the entirety of the meal and well into the dancing, causing her to reject the brave souls who asked for a turn despite Robb's displeased frown two seats over.

Sansa adored dancing as a girl. Whenever the king threw a feast, Sansa would spend weeks practicing her dancing with Robb or Bran, and she’d spend the entire night before wide awake in bed, unable to sleep from sheer excitement. The moment a noble boy asked for a waltz and took her hand in his was like lightning; the only feeling that compared was when the music started. She imagined every boy and young knight as her husband, the Bennan to her Jeyne, but then the song would end, and a new partner would spin her around the floor, and all her imaginings would start anew with a fresh young man to star as her fate-bound love.

A child’s dream.

It was Theon, damn the boy, who finally dragged her out onto the floor after she turned down the 13th lord’s humble request for a dance. He hadn’t even asked, just downed a gulp of amber ale and leapt from his seat, fingers curled around her wrist, dragging her behind him like a doll.

And as she spun and twirled and kicked and clapped, Sansa slowly remembered just how much she had once loved to dance. Dancing was more of an art in the South; one could be trained professionally as a dancer and make an entire career of their body’s grace. Perhaps, if she was not divinely anointed and just another beautiful girl, she would’ve wanted to do so.

The Northmen were more reserved in their songs and far less free with their bodily movements, but dancing was the one activity of Sansa's childhood that she did not feel stifled beneath all the frozen air. With each turn around the floor, spinning into and out of Theon's arms in time with the music, something in her soul lit. A laugh bubbled from her when the lordling dipped her dramatically low, the ends of her long hair brushing the hall’s floors before he swept her up again and threw them back into the music.

Even though her mind stumbled over the rhythm, her feet remembered the steps because she had been born knowing them. Northern dances were as much a part of her being as the Stark or Tully blood running through her; they were integral to her make-up. As she matched Theon step for step, beat for beat, Sansa could not stop the smile from stealing across her face, bright and wide as the moon.

Theon's own lips curled up in answer, true joy shining on his sharp face. “There she is!” He hollered over the sound, and Sansa shut her eyes as the music built louder and faster, the steps of dozens of dancers pounding into the floors in tandem as the song built to its peak. When the last note rang out, the whole room let out a cheer, and she felt so undeniably Northern for a moment that the walls began to spin. No, it was not the walls. Her friend had swept her into a slower waltz and led her into the next song as simply as breathing, joining the mass of dancers spinning gracefully around the hall.

He grinned, sweat shining on his cheeks that Sansa knew matched her own. “I forgot how annoyingly good you are at that.”

“Face it—I’m better than you at everything.” She teased, squeaking when Bran pinched her side.

“Ten silvers says I’m the better shot.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. Theon was practically born with a bow in his hand. He’d obsessively trained with the weapon since he was strong enough to string one. “Double or nothing that my stitches are straighter.”

“You’re on.”

A laugh pealed from her chest, unrestrained as the music filling the hall. “Have you ever held a needle in your life?”

Theon shrugged, twirling her beneath an arm before pulling her back into his warm grasp. “Needles are just smaller swords, no? How hard could it be?”

Sansa went to answer and inform him just how ridiculous he sounded when Theon's brow lowered, and a shadow crossed his face. Instantly, her heart lurched, and Sansa was scanning the room for Jon. If there was a threat, her shield would already be moving towards her. But the man was where she’d last seen him, unmoved from his corner. “Theon,” she murmured, squeezing his arm. “What is it?”

“The better question is ‘who.’” He muttered. A heartbeat later, he released his hold on her and turned his attention to a spot behind her.

“Lord Theon.” A deep male voice rumbled, one Sansa did not recognize that immediately set the hair on the back of her neck standing up.

Her friend nodded politely, hand still curled around her elbow. “Lord Ryswell. May I present my dear friend, the Princess Sansa?”

When she turned, Lord Ryswell stood alone, a still figure in the swirling crowd, watching the pair with a curious glint. As far as liege lords went, the Lord of the Rills was admittedly agreeable, known to be a clever and gracious lordling who wore the red-maned black horse of his blood stitched onto the breast of his brown tunic. Like most men in the North, he wore his hair cropped close to his head and kept a short, neat beard. Beneath it, his warm smile softened Sansa's hackles just a hair.

Instinctually, Sansa extended a hand when Lord Ryswell bowed at the waist, allowing him to brush a chaste kiss along the back of her gloved fingers. When he straightened, it was to her, and not Theon, that he asked, “May I steal you for a dance, Princess?”

With one damning, sidelong glance at Theon, Sansa inclined her chin and said, “Of course, my lord.” The next set was just beginning, a slower tune that called for the intimate press of partners, and Sansa steeled herself to slip into his arms, willing her stomach to settle and her heart to slow from its frantic pound.

She was in Winterfell.

She was safe.

Over the lord’s shoulder, Jon would be watching, poised to intervene the instant she needed him.

Lord Ryswell's fingers curled tighter around her waist, pressing her closer to his hard chest as the music slowed to a sway. It was a possessive hold, a man with a treasure not yet his.

“My deepest condolences for the loss of Lord Baratheon, if I have not yet expressed that.” Sansa felt his voice more than she heard it, reverberating through her ribs like thunder. On the small of her back, his hand remained light and respectfully high.

There was no reason, of course, for him to express such a sentiment, as this was the first instance she remembered speaking to Roger Ryswell since she was a child all those years ago. Still, Sansa murmured, “I am most appreciative of your kind words, my lord.” It almost sounded genuine.

“Alas,” he sighed, “I cannot help but be glad.”

They were nearly of a height, so all Sansa had to do to look him in the eye was turn her face. “Oh?” She asked, brow raised.

“No, I must admit that I quite admire you, Princess Sansa, and such admiration would be far less appropriate if your husband still drew breath.”

Over Lord Ryswell's shoulder, she could see Jon watching them from across the room with his hand tight on Longclaw's hilt, standing against the far wall with a handful of other shields drinking and jostling one another. Robb had given him the evening off to enjoy the feast as a trusted friend of the king rather than her nursemaid, so it’d been Beren who accompanied her from her chambers to the great hall and stood at her shoulder all evening while her shield supped with his brethren.

She met Jon's gaze, holding it even when his cheeks reddened. A lord in her arms, and his was the face she sought out.

He raised a brow in question. The answering shake of her head had him finally glancing away from her, returning to the conversation with Ser Pypar he’d been involved in.

Lord Ryswell squeezed her fingers lightly, drawing her attention back to his gray-green eyes. “I pray I have not been too forward, princess.”

Impossibly so. Bolder than anyone else at court. Still, Sansa gave him a polite smile. “Not at all, my lord. I am deeply appreciative of your admiration.”

And she found that she meant it. Roger Ryswell was handsome in the standard Northern fashion, pale and broad and serious, and the grays in his fawn brown hair and deep lines beside his warm eyes endeared her all the more towards him. A moon ago, she could hardly stand anyone’s skin touching her own, and tonight she’d danced with a stranger without emptying her stomach over the battlements. It did not mean she would ever marry or permit any man to know her in such a way ever again, but to exist in the world without flinching, even if just for a few moments, made her dizzy with relief.

The lord’s ears flushed pink under her gaze until he eventually looked away, staring out into the crowd of dancers twirling around them. “I hear you are quite the horsewoman—would you join me for a ride tomorrow? My shields spoke highly of Winterfell's beauty, and I would be honored if you were my guide.”

However handsome the Lord Ryswell was, and though she’d seen it coming, a hole opened in Sansa's stomach at his words and the earnest look on his face.She knew what a trail ride through the Wolveswood meant and what would likely follow shortly after. There were worse men than him to marry; Sansa had, after all, been wed to one such man, but a marriage was the same shackles no matter how many fine jewels covered the iron bite. Her children would be be lords; she would likely never again see Winterfell.

It was a fool’s wish to think she would remain eternally in Winterfell, yet still she held onto it. Her hope had held out for so long in Storm's End, the unyielding belief that her brothers would come for her and she would be taken home, where she belonged with the rest of the wolves, but even that was broken down to bits over time by her cold husband. She was merely a pawn of the great players, to be used and discarded as best suited her kingdom.

But she still had her courtesies. “I would be honored to accompany you, my lord.” Roger's eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled at her, releasing her to twirl as the fiddler sawed away at his instrument.

Returning to his arms, the lord dipped his mouth beside her ear and boldly whispered, “Do tell the Lord Commander of King Robb's Kingsguard that I am no threat. And perhaps call upon a different shield to accompany you tomorrow, for the man looks inclined to bury that pretty sword of his in my chest.”

It took every ounce of her willpower not to whip around and glare at Jon, but Sansa refused to give him the satisfaction. “Pay him no mind, my lord. Ser Jon is overzealous at times with his protection.”

“There's a rumor floating around court that King Robb swore his Lord Commander into your service. Is there any merit of truth to that, princess?”

She nodded, ignoring the burning at the back of her neck. If she turned around at that moment, she knew with certainty she’d find his eyes following her like a brand around the dance floor. It was a feeling she’d grown accustomed to over the past fortnight. Enjoyed it, even. “Yes, my brother thought I would feel more comfortable having a sworn protector.”

“And are you?” Lord Roger himself traveled with only a pair of shields and two men he was raised alongside and spoke to more as brethren than as a lord. According to rumors from her own shields, the Lord of the Rills was quite the swordsmen. Against most men the lord would leave victorious, but Sansa had seen Jon move in the training yard and watched him cut down men with graceful ease, as though bodies were mere reeds in the wind and his sword the hand that parted them. She trusted him. Even when they’d bickered endlessly and her screams kept them both awake through the night, Jon was a steadfast presence eternally to her left. The entire ride to Winterfell from Storm's End, she’d been looking over her shoulder; now, she did not need to look back. He was there, and no harm would befall her; she knew it like the sea was wide and winter was cold.

“Yes, I do.” Sansa finally dared a glance at her shield, watching her unabashedly as he often did. Out of his standard white and grey, Jon looked rather lordly in a black wool tunic and finely sewn black trousers, his dark curls tamed for the night in a knot behind his head and the breadth of his shoulders solid beneath his leather jerkin, the very picture of youth and strength. When she’d first seen him after taking her place at the grand table, Sansa had bitten the inside of her cheek until a metallic tang coated her tongue.

Jon turned into a different creature altogether with his men than he was with her. He sang along to their lewd shanties and downed mugs of ale alongside the other knights; if a pretty kitchen maid wandered past, he gave her an easy grin and went so far as to brazenly kiss one on her round cheek after delivering another round of drinks. How he must resent me, Sansa thought glumly, gliding to a stop as the music finally ended and the dancers politely applauded the performers.

Regal as ever, Lord Ryswell bowed his head to her, the greying brown of his wavy hair shining beneath the candlelit chandeliers that hung over the great hall.

Sansa dipped into a curtsy in return.

The lord asked, “Until next time then?”

“Until next time.”

Chapter Text

Sansa excused herself as gracefully as possible from her turn with Roger Ryswell, fleeing the dance floor for the refuge of the shadowed wall behind Robb's table.

Her brother had yet to join his dancing subjects and remained seated beside his roundcheeked wife, each looking more miserable than the other. Alys at least sipped on wine, looking longingly at the dance floor and speaking quietly with Bran; Robb did not attempt to look pleased with the seating arrangement, openly scowling whenever their elbows brushed or the queen attempted to draw him into conversation. How strikingly different they appeared from a few nights previous in Robb's chambers, curled up against one another.

Untangling the knots of her brother’s relationship was beyond the capabilities of Sansa's mind. Some days, he looked at her as though she hung the moon. Others, they pretended the other did not exist.

At least earlier in the evening, before she’d excused herself, Uncle Brandon was able to entertain Robb with his rough humor and gossip from Riverrun. Their great uncle was always an amiable dinner companion, and Sansa had felt a twinge of disappointment when the Blackfish said goodnight. Sansa enjoyed the lord's presence at the high table, if nothing else for the way he made Robb laugh, as Sansa hadn’t seen him do since they were children.

As she cautiously approached, Robb raised his head from where it rested on his palm and smiled tightly. “I see you are still a lovely dancer, though much improved from our youth.”

“Southerners love festivities of any occasion. I must’ve attended at least a hundred weddings and twice as many feasts.”

Robb whistled under his breath. “How boring we must be in comparison.” Boring indeed.

That had been her tireless complaint as a girl whining after her mother, begging to go south to study the arts of her ancestors and fall in love with handsome southern lords and princes. In the Southern Kingdom, magic ran wild through the red streets of King's Landing, the largest city on the continent and main port of the Southern Kingdom. There were endless bazaars and market stands lining the alleyways and squares, filled with spiced dragonsnake and moonbloom flowers and the many wonders of the warmth that could not be found in the frozen, wild North. In the South, Sansa might finally be free of her bothersome brothers and her father’s disappointed lectures and the long, endless road stretching before her that had her dying in some lord’s keep far from her family in a birthing bed.

This was well before talks of husbands or barren farmlands, back when her mother was still her mother and not yet a walking ghost and could promise her such a fate. She would be something in the South; women could inherit titles and crowns there, birth order the only barrier to the throne, and they could also run their own lands and keeps and serve on the king’s council in their own right and not on behalf of their husband’s blood.

The Northern Kingdom was harsh and cold, and its people were practical and modest. Their great feasts paled in comparison to those held in the South or East, where celebrations lasted weeks and music would play from sunset to dawn every night so even the common folk could dance in the streets.

Sansa had no interest in war and weaponry, nor in hunting and sailing, so her childhood days in Winterfell had been filled with lessons from the septas and prayers in her mother's sept behind the castle, embroidering with the other young ladies while the boys played battle in the courtyards, and daydreaming about which gallant knight would be her first kiss. Things only grew duller as she aged, and many of the handsome lordlings and shields left Winterfell to join the armies, though it meant Sansa could send handsewn favors to her favorites, which entertained her well enough for a time until those men were killed, and her brother came of age to join them.

The only exciting aspect of Northern life was their stories, which were unmatched in any corner of the continent, for the North boasted its own golden age of warriors and fearless winter kings from whom Sansa and her brothers descended, men like Bran the Builder and the Laughing Wolf. Her favorite told the story of Lyra Stark and her forbidden lover, the wildling bard Bael, and the war their love started, but she listened just as eagerly to the triumphs of Edrick Snowbeard and his century long reign. King Eddard would read them to her and Robb. Once she grew old enough, Sansa read the same legends to her little brothers after supper.

Gods, what she wouldn’t give to go back to that morning and tie her 16-year-old self to her bed-frame to stop her from wandering south of the border. All of this, all of what she had become, could’ve been stopped if she had just stayed in boring old Winterfell and kept to her boring old life.

Robb, as if sensing he misspoke, clasped her hand in his own and pressed a kiss to the back of her knuckles. “Apologies. I do not mean to bring back unhappy memories.”

Her brother, her big brother. Her very first knight. Had it driven him mad to know he had not protected her as promised? She released Robb's hand, ignoring the pained look on his face when she took a step backwards away from him. “‘Tis no trouble, your grace.”

His jaw worked for a beat before the shards of guilt that lay between them won out. “You may retire for the evening, if you wish.”

“There is still much for me to do, many lords for me to speak with before your meetings begin in earnest.”

Robb glanced over her shoulder, smiling tightly to greet whoever approached behind her. “I believe the keep shall remain standing if you take an evening for yourself.”

“There is no room for error, Robb.” Something, someone, brushed against her shoulder as they came to stand abreast with her, and Sansa went rigid. It took only a heartbeat for the smell of frost and pine to reach her, the familiar cadence of his light breathing and the near scorching warmth of his arm bled through the satin shoulder of her gown, and the tension melted from Sansa's limbs like wax.

Jon did not speak, but his presence at her side eased the fist around her heart ever so slightly.

Robb's frown deepened. “I don’t need a reminder of the stakes here, Sansa.”

Sansa really, really wished she could trust him. If she were better, stronger, perhaps Joffrey Baratheon wouldn't have been able to break her into the fragments she’d become, but she was not those things; she was a silly, weak girl, and now she could not even believe the word of her brother and king.

But pity was a poison coating her stomach, so Sansa humored him. “Understood.”

Robb, softly so as not to be overheard, murmured, “Take the night, Sweetwater. I shall deal with the lords.” At the childhood endearment, a lump formed in her throat thicker than whale fat, and tears burned at the backs of her eyes. Her brother. Her knight.

Unable to speak, she jerked her head in a nod. Jon's large hand brushed against the back of her fingers so lightly she wondered if she imagined it. Swallowing thickly, Sansa turned to her shield and brusquely asked, “Shall we retire to my chambers?”

Despite the somber mood crowding the air between her and her brother, the corners of Jon's mouth twitched. “Aren’t I supposed to ask you that, your grace?”

“Do you wish to accompany me or not, Jon? Beren shall take me if you are unwilling.” She snapped, crossing her arms over her chest.

Instead of responding, he merely held out his hand. Sansa took it, the warmth of his skin bleeding through her thin gloves to her already clammy palms, and with a respectful bow to her brother, Jon led her down from the dais, past the revelries and lively music to a narrow archway, and they emerged in a dim, open-walled corridor facing the. Snow had begun to fall while they'd feasted, the crunch of their footsteps through the light dusty a steadfast drumbeat nearly loud enough to drown out her hummingbird heart.

He had not yet dropped her hand. The pathway was empty; aside from a skeleton guard, all of Winterfell was at the feast.

They would not expect any other houses until first light. Perhaps she would get lucky and it would be House Cerwyn who came knocking at their gates come dawn, not the Umbers. House Stark was strongly aligned with their closest lords, and House Cerwyn had long been loyal bannerlords.

Besides, Robb's suspicion of the Umber daughter made her uneasy to interact with the family and their secrets.

Already Sansa was dreading being roused from her sleep to stand in the entry courtyard like a pretty statue and greet the delegations as they arrived. Robb would be able to claim kingly business and miss a few, but while he was King in the North, she was the Lady of Winterfell, and as such it was her responsibility to welcome visitors to her keep.

But morning was far off, and Jon was smiling sweetly at her. “You look so very pretty tonight, my lady.”

“Are you quite drunk?” Sansa sputtered, quickly removing her hand from his and resisting the unladylike impulse to wipe off the feel of him on her long blue skirts.

Unabashed, her shield’s grin only deepened. “‘Tis a celebration, princess. It would be rude not to join the festivities.”

There was no wobble in his step or slur in his voice, but there was no hiding the slight haze in his lovely grey eyes or the relaxed set of his shoulders. Longclaw hung at his hip, as always, and his hand rested atop its hilt. She warily eyed the blade as he fell into step beside her, close enough for her skirts to brush his new trousers. Once Sansa had recovered from the sight of him smiling without restraint in the great hall, she’d been pleased to see him wearing the tunic she’d sewn for him when sleep evaded her. Little grey wolves ran along the collar, claiming him as Stark even if his name and blood did not match, and his dark curls looked blacker than night against the pristine black wool she’d used, tan skin turned velvet, and the strong line of his broad chest fit nicely beneath his cloak.

If he realized they matched, Jon had yet to show it. They walked in companionable silence for several minutes, listening to the softness of falling snow and the wind rustle through the moors surrounding the keep.

As they passed into the Lyarra's Tower and began climbing the long spiral staircase towards her chambers, Jon asked, “Sweetwater?”

Fisting a handful of her skirts to step without falling flat on her face, Sansa asked, “What about it?”

“Forgive my ignorance, my lady. I was not born to the North. Is that a common endearment?”

Unbidden, a smile tugged at her lips. “No, it is not. My uncle began saying that when I was a babe, and the rest of my family followed suit.”

Even her father, the high and mighty king, would perch her on his lap during feasts and castle hearings as a little girl and call her his sweetest girl, his Sweetwater, and then she’d hide her face in his chest whenever the drunkards got too rowdy.

The younger boys never picked up the endearment, chasing after her or reaching for her with calls of, “Sansie, Sansie!”, but Robb would use it when some childish nightmare kept her from sleeping and she crept into his chambers to snuggle against him beneath his furs and beg for one of the stories fathers only told their sons.

Only Mother refused to use it. To Queen Catlin, Sansa was her little trout, a memento of home. 

Slightly winded from the climb, she paused on a small landing, leaning against the interior wall and letting the cool stone leech into her flushed skin. Jon stood a step below her, making them nearly even in height when Sansa straightened to face him fully.

The grey of his eyes gleamed black in the shadowed half-light as he stared intently at her. “Why Sweetwater?”

A curl had fallen loose from his neat knot and hung over his forehead. Emboldened by the moonless night and his mugs of ale, Sansa gently tucked it behind his ear, letting her fingers linger on his jaw. His skin was warmer than hers, like a heated brick laid at the foot of her bed during the coldest nights. “When my mother carried me, a drought ravaged the North, one of the first. Our nets brought in no fish, our lands were cracked and barren, and by the end of the autumn people were beginning to starve. She prayed night and day to the Seven for a miracle, and my father prayed to the Old Gods. My uncle says there was no sound sweeter than the downpour of rain that accompanied my first cries. He likes to say that the North was born again with me.”

That first rainstorm raged for twenty days and twenty nights before the sun broke through the clouds again, and in that time the North was able to drink its fill. Ships began hauling in greater catches than before, and the fields blossomed with the ripest harvest Winterfell had seen in a generation.

There was a look in his dark eyes that she couldn’t name, equal parts intense and tender, and she hastily removed her hand from his cheek. “‘Tis a silly childhood endearment. No one uses it anymore, except for Robb.”

Jon murmured, “Sweetwater. ‘Tis a fitting name for the girl who brought spring.”

Her pathetic heart coughed inside her chest. “Certainly better than Lady Thunder or Princess Raindrop.”

“I don’t know,” he mused, “Sansa Stormbringer sounds mighty fearsome.”

Her given name on his lips was a punch to the gut. Always he called her by the formal titles of her birth: lady, princess, and your grace. It wouldn’t be appropriate for him to use her name; people would talk of the intimacy between them, and while she cared little for her already ruined reputation and virtue, Jon did not need to be tied to her beyond the duty that bound them.

Sansa sent a silent prayer to the Old Gods and the New that her scarlet cheeks weren’t visible in the shadowed stairwell. “Aye, it does. Though I doubt the nobles whisper such flattering names.” They called her Lady Blackwolf. Rickon had asked her what it meant during supper one evening, much to her shame, and Robb had sharply told their brother to never mention it again in his presence.

Her shield scoffed. “Pay no mind to the blathering nobles, my lady. They grow bored of their privilege and seek any form of entertainment, the crueler the better.”

“I place no value on the opinions of those I do not hold in high regard.” Sansa pushed off the wall and resumed her ascent, breath more even and legs mildly steadier.

With the last curve of the tower in sight, Sansa huffed in relief. Jon, hardly winded and spry as ever, bounded up the last handful of steps and reached back for her with an outstretched hand. Sansa swatted it away and climbed onto the landing herself, albeit shakily, and glared at him with her chin raised.

“Good evening, Ser Jon.” She said, hands on her hips. “Who is to guard me tonight? I can’t very well have a drunkard shield my door.”

Jon sputtered at the insult and tightened his hold on Longclaw. “I am perfectly capable of doing my duty in my current state, princess, I assure you.”

“I can smell the ale on you, Ser.” He rolled his eyes. “Suit yourself. Have my horse saddled at first light; the Lord of the Rill has invited me to go riding. And inform Beren he must be the one to accompany. Apparently, you aren’t very popular with Lord Ryswell.” Teeth grinding, Sansa whirled on a heel and stormed into her room. Blessedly, none of her maids were scuttling about, so only the slight pant of her breath disrupted the stillness of the evening, soft enough that she heard Jon's low voice, muffled through the door, as though his lips were pressed to her ear.

“Goodnight, Sweetwater.”

Chapter Text

As luck would have it, the first party to roll through Winterfell's gates in the morning were the Cerwyn's of Cerwyn, with their black and silver banners waving in the misty air above six carriages and three times as many mounted men, and Sansa was saved from her ride with Lord Ryswell.

Sansa watched them ride in from her place in the center of the courtyard, trumpets blaring from the battlements above them so loudly her wine-weary mind ached in protest. Jon, who’d indulged far more than she had the night prior, looked outright miserable to her left, grumbling something that sounded like ‘Gods damned horns’ that was quickly buried beneath the pounding of hooves entering the keep.

Cerwyn was their closest neighbor to the south, half a days ride from Winterfell. Their trek to the king's seat was the easiest of all the houses.

The Karstarks, being the queen's kin, had arrived before everyone else, leaving the Ryswells to straggle in second and now the Cerwyns in third.

The first mahogany carriage rolled to a stop just inside Winterfell's gates, and a pair of Stark pages darted forward to place a stepping block beneath the rounded door, extending their hands to assist as an arm threw the door open and a comically large pile of black skirts spilled out like ink. A stout woman followed her dress, handsome face scrunched as she scanned the greeting party with hooded, hawk-like eyes, finally landing on Sansa and widening ever so slightly.

Jon dipped his chin down, murmuring under his breath to her, “That is Lady-.”

Waving him off, Sansa held the older lady’s hard gaze. “I know who that is.”

Neina Cerwyn, the spinster sister of Lord Cerwyn, accepted a page’s hand and descended to the damp earth with the grace of a woman 10 years her junior. Neina was not an old woman by any means, but silver streaked through her dark hair and years of hard winters lined her face. Still, she had the same Cerwyn look as her much younger cousin, Lady Aryana, whom Sansa had met two nights prior when Alys's brother Harrion had dined with the rest of the Starks at their family table: dark hair, so brown it looked almost black, and lovely pale skin that was so common in the North, though Lady Neina's was more of a wind-burnt red, and where Aryana's eyes were large and doe-like, hers were a shockingly bright shade of blue that pierced Sansa from across the courtyard, narrowed and curious at the sight of her.

Running the long, convoluted history of houses through her memory, Sansa concluded that the blue must be from her mother’s Fisher blood. Behind Lady Neina, a young woman emerged, several years older than Sansa, so closely resembling what Lady Neina must’ve looked like in the height of her youth that she could be none other than Lady Jonelle, the unwed daughter of Lord Cerwyn. Lady Jonelle was quickly followed by a third woman clad in a light shade of brown. The girl, maybe of an age with Jon, looked around the entryway with saucer-like brown eyes, staring in wonderment at the glory of Winterfell's ancient stone walls looming above them. Slung to her chest was a small babe bundled in white rabbit furs, whose fussing she quieted with a soothing hum when the child began to whimper at the sudden jostled movements as the woman stepped from the carriage to stand beside Lady Neina and her niece.

When Sansa subtly glanced at Jon, brow quirked in question, the shield quickly whispered, “That is the new wife of Lord Cley, the heir to Cerwyn, the Lady Brinna of House Whitehill. They were wed just last spring.” Like her companions, Brinna was not particularly pretty, but there was a kind warmth to the set of her pink mouth, and her amazement at Sansa's home made her fond of the young woman in an instant.

The three Cerwyn ladies stood in a line, increasing in height from the iron-backed, stocky Lady Neina to slight Lady Brinna, who barely stretched a hand taller than thick-waisted Lady Jonelle to the right.

Before the silence could stretch to awkwardness, Sansa stepped forward and dipped her chin politely to the Lady Neina as the eldest. In a single, practiced movement, the three women bent into low curtsies, heads demurely lowered to the ground.

A touch hastily, Sansa commanded, “Rise,” wincing internally at the tremor in Lady Neina's wobbly knees from holding the stooped position.

Clutching the elbow her niece kindly extended, Lady Neina rose to her full height and met Sansa's eyes without hesitation. “It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Princess Sansa. Stories of your beauty have not been exaggerated.” The older woman rasped, her voice tinged with smoke and frost. Motioning to her left, she said, “May I introduce my beloved niece, Jonelle, and my nephew's wife, Lady Brinna”

Both women bowed their heads in turn, a pink flush coloring the cheeks of Brinna as she stared at Sansa with wide eyes.

"The pleasure is mine, Lady Neina. Your house is very welcome at Winterfell. I trust the journey wasn’t too difficult?”

“Gentle as a lamb, your grace.”

Glancing over their shoulders to the retinue of horsemen, she asked, “Are we to expect Lord Cerwyn to join us?”

“Here, your grace.” A man’s booming voice broke through the crowd, and the mass of riders parted like reeds for a bearded man atop a tall chestnut mount making its way from outside the walls, tailed by a pair of armed men. “My apologies for the delay; one of our carriages got caught in a patch of mud and required my assistance to dislodge it.”

For all his sister took after their mother, Medger Cerywn had none of the Fisher look. His greying hair was cropped close to his head in the style of soldiers, and the sharp lines of his cheekbones and jaw seemed to slice into the weak morning sunlight, the only flaw on his light skin being a wide scar through his left eyebrow the width of Sansa's little finger. The thick cloak hanging over his shoulders was divided in half, split between black and silver. If there was any doubt about the validity of his excuse, it was quickly put to rest when she took in the rest of him. The bottom half of his body, from the thigh of his wool trousers to the leather toe of his shoes, was coated in cracked, sludgy mud, as were the long legs and underbelly of his horse. The men who winged behind him were similarly dirtied and red in the face from whatever exertion had been required to move the trapped carriage.

Lord Cerwyn gracefully swung from his horse and crossed the courtyard in five steps, dropping to one knee before her and bowing his head low. He was a startlingly tall man; on his knees, the top of his head reached her chin. “You honor us with your presence, your grace. House Cerwyn are humble servants to the crown of the North.”

She accepted his words with a wave of her hand, and he rose to his feet. At his full height, he stood a full head taller than Jon, who might’ve been the tallest man Sansa had ever seen before today. Behind her, she felt her shield shift on his feet, straightening ever so slightly before the giant man.

Biting back a grin, Sansa raised her voice to greet Lord Cerwyn so all of the crowd could hear her. “Winterfell welcomes you, my lord. As lady of this keep, I invite you to share our bread and drink from our wine.” A handful of servants came forward at Sansa's beckoning. “My household shall show you to your rooms. I trust you will not find them lacking. If any of you are in want of anything, do not hesitate to inform me.”

He pressed a hand to his heart and extended an arm towards Brinna, who came forward at his summons to stand beside her father-by-law. “Your hospitality is most appreciated, your grace. Allow me to present my heir's wife, Lady Brinna, and her babe."

The lady squeaked, “I am most honored to meet you, princess.”

This close, Sansa could make out the small, slumbering face of their babe, whose little fists clutched the fabric of his mother’s cloak to his body. Softening, she smiled at the sweet boy as he sleepily smacked his rosebud lips. “The king and I are honored by your attendance, Lady Brinna. If you have the time to spare, I should like to have tea with you an afternoon this week.” And Sansa found she meant the offer in a way she hadn’t yet to the other wives and daughters of her brother’s lords. There was an innocence clinging to her that reminded Sansa of herself as a girl, a kindness in her light brown eyes that eased some of the tension in her spine.

Lady Brinna nodded eagerly, flashing a wide, gap-toothed smile. “I would be delighted to, your grace.”

As the servants led the Cerwyn party inside Winterfell's halls and the rest of the shields and staff trickled from the courtyard back to their duties, Jon whistled under his breath and nudged her shoulder with her own, intentionally gentle so as not to unbalance her with his strong form. “Do my eyes deceive me? Has the Lady of Winterfell fallen in love?”

Rolling her eyes, Sansa turned on a heel and stalked back towards the keep, scowling when her shield just laughed and fell into step with her in two strides of his long legs. “That was the friendliest I’ve ever seen you.”

“I’m incredibly friendly.”

“Mhm.” Jon hummed in amusement. “Like a shark.”

She didn’t deign him a response. The interior of Winterfell was hardly warmer than the open air, but the minor increase in temperature still had her sighing in relief, rubbing her gloved hands together to draw some feeling back into her fingers. There was no self-consciousness in front of Jon for the ice-bloodedness that the North had robbed her of, for he too welcomed the warmth. A pair of true Southerners, the lot of them. “Has there been any word from House Mormont on their arrival?”

Her shield shook his head. “Nothing. Last we heard, they were caught by a storm just west of here and forced to hunker down in some village three days ride from here.”

“The festivities begin tonight. If they miss the opening feast, I imagine they’ll take it as a slight, and it’ll become a headache for Robb.” No matter that the Mormonts had chosen to depart later than they should’ve and failed to take into account winter's unpredictability that only worsened the farther north one traveled inland.

Ever the optimist, Jon declared, “Never you fear. They’ll be here tonight, I can feel it.”

“Have your Gods sent you a vision, wise one?”

“A dream, actually.”

“I see.” Sansa smiled politely at Lady Eddara as she hurried past them, her gaggle of Tallhart attendants scurrying after her like mice. “Have your dreams told you anything else of note?”

“Just the usual. Prophecies of olde, lessons from my elders, destinies whispered by the wind. As a matter of fact, they have lots to say about you, princess.”

“Like what?”

Jon grinned, wolflike. “I would not dare to speak such filthy language to a noble lady like yourself.”

“Sod off, Jon.”

He clutched at his chest as though she’d wounded him, lips twitching. “My cruel lady.”

Alone in the corridor and without witnesses to scandalize, Sansa shoved him with a barely suppressed laugh. He didn’t budge or break his stride.

After a few beats of companionable silence, she said, “It feels strange to be celebrating at a time like this.”

He didn’t need her to clarify; they both understood what she was referring to. The Southern Kingdom, fallen. An empress with delusions of divinity on the rise and the North, starving, hanging in the balance. Word had yet to reach all the lords, but until Lady Mormont and her retinue arrived, Robb could not formally address the topic with his bannerlords. Everyone danced around it, avoiding the topic of the South altogether at feasts or in passing, yet it lingered above them like an axe poised to fall. Even speaking it aloud now had Sansa glancing around the hall for witnesses, but none were to be found, a rare silent stretch of Winterfell's long, winding passageways as they neared her private study.

“All we can do is wait and see what her next move is. Until then, the wars of other kingdoms are not yet our problem.” There was an edge to his voice, making it sound as though he disagreed with his own words, but her shield’s secrets were his own, and Sansa did not wish to pierce the truce between them with invasive questioning.

“If she’s clever, they will take the war to the West next and bypass the North entirely.”

Jon frowned, dropping his hand to rest atop Longclaw. She wondered if he was even aware of the habit or if his muscles moved without thinking. “We are the greater threat, not the Western Kingdom. She would have to employ a navy if she wished to challenge Casterly Rock. If I were her, I would take out the larger, more accessible enemy first, rather than weaken my armies capturing a lesser target.”

It was a fair point and the shared belief of many, if the fearful whispers of the castle servants were to be believed. But the Daenerys that she heard rumors of in Storm's End was no foolish, hot-headed man. No, that clever girl would not be so easily predicted.

Even without the knowledge of the North's secret, the West offered something the North could never compete with: rich, fertile lands. The entirety of their rolling, hilly kingdom was covered in fruitful black soil, and their seasons were mild, never cold enough for frost or hot enough for the grass to wilt. If Daenerys wished to conquer the continent, she would need to feed her growing army, and the Western Kingdom was the best way to do that. The North had its terrible winters, yes, and its formidable army, but it would struggle in a two-front war if the Dragon Queen managed to add the West or the East to her collection, pinning them in on all sides.

Saving the North for last, when she had the largest possible army and every geographical advantage, was the smarter move. Surround the North, and it would fall.

But Sansa was not a general; she was just a princess and a lady. Her knowledge of battle strategy was limited to that which she’d read in books and would not hold up against the wisdom of Robb's weathered, victorious generals. So, she shrugged and said, “Perhaps you’re right. We cannot know what the Dragon Queen is thinking; we can only wait and pray.”

Jon agreed, “Gods save us, my lady.”