Chapter Text
Sansa sat alone on a large wooden bench, thumbing restlessly through last week’s edition of The Continental Insider. The hard seat was making her ass numb, but if she got up, she knew she would start pacing (very unbecomingly, too). Before her phone died, she had been sitting there for at least two hours, and another hour must have passed since then. Arya, Bran, and Rickon (the little shitlets) had ditched her out of boredom long ago. Plus, with Lady at the groomer, Sansa had nothing else to do besides read the gossip magazine and stare at the large, closed door to her father’s formal office.
If she sat still enough, Sansa could hear muffled arguing from inside the room. About half an hour previously, she had even heard a nasty bang, like an object hitting a wall. Every time the voices would die down, she got a rush of hope, only for them to rise again.
She greatly preferred reading the magazine to focusing on the door. It was a particularly trashy one, too, she noted as she combed through the pages for the umpteenth time that hour. She stopped at the Who Wore it Better? segment- two pages filled with colorful graphics and paparazzi-shots of various celebrities.
Sansa couldn’t help but roll her eyes at the two pictures in the top-right corner. Queen Cersei of The Stormlands and her new daughter-in-law, Margaery Tyrell-Baratheon, stood in their respective shots, caught unawares. Both rocked embossed-leather, designer clutches and gold-tipped stiletto heels, albeit paired quite differently. The pictures were captioned, “Lady Margaery Stealing the Royal Spotlight in Queenly Costume!” Sansa had to scoff. ‘What-ever. Margaery wears it bounds better, hands down. These fuckers will do anything to stir up controversy between those women— as if Westeros needed any more controversy.’
Her eyes flicked up to the door, as maddeningly closed as ever. She shook her head sharply, holding the magazine up to her face to block her view.
Reading the caption of the following photoset, Sansa chuckled lightly. It read: “Two Jeynes, One Dress- Which rising actress rocked peplum better?” Above, her best friend Jeyne Poole and her colleague Jeyne Westerling stood in near-identical poses, flashing cheeky smiles in the exact same velvet nightmare dress. ‘Oh, that had to be planned,’ Sansa thought wryly. She’d have to text Jeyne about it when she got back to her room.
She turned the page, sniffing derisively at the red-carpet shot of Marillion, next to some other musician she didn’t recognize, wearing gaudy, striped blazers. “Sleazebag,” she muttered, quickly losing interest in who else wore what better.
She slid lower on the bench with a frustrated sigh, looking up at the thrice-damned door again. Just like every time before, it remained firmly closed. The arguing hadn’t waned, either, from the sounds of it. She shut the magazine, rolling it up absentmindedly and hitting it against her skirt. Besides her movement and the argument from the other room, the hall was almost stiflingly silent, so Sansa could pick up snatches of the conversation with minimal effort.
Lord Frey’s nasally voice rung out the loudest and most frequent. She could imagine the old man, his face red with anger, as he spluttered and yelled contemptuously over the Starks’ slights against his family. The loudest rebuttals came from a female voice— she guessed that of Asha Greyjoy (attending in place of her father Balon, the oft-disputed and little-liked leader of the Iron Islands). Sansa’s eldest brother, Robb, often backed up Asha’s flagrant swearing, though Sansa assumed far more eloquently.
‘Ignore the door, Sansa! You won’t end the meeting by staring.’ Sansa reopened the magazine to a random page with a furrowed brow and a huff. Hot pink block-text screamed at her: TROUBLE IN PARADISE: Revealing this Month’s Steamiest Affairs!!” The words loomed over blurry picture sets of the supposed culprits. Vaguely intrigued, Sansa skimmed the small paragraphs on the neighboring page. Disappointingly enough, the photos (none very risqué whatsoever) were their only evidence. ‘Typical gossip bullshit, then.’
She closed the magazine again with a groan, wishing she had brought a book or something instead. Feeling around her hip, she dipped a hand into her dress’ hidden pocket and pulled out her phone. It was out of batteries- just like the last time she checked. The useless device promptly returned to Sansa’s pocket, and, as ever, the door loomed large before her.
“This sucks,” She muttered. She hated the welling tension in her gut, a horrible mixture of antsy nerves and utter boredom, making the princess entirely unable to distract herself from the unknown events unfolding mere meters away from her. If only they could just wrap up the Gods-forsaken…
…Wait.
Sansa grew still, listening.
The room had grown quiet from where she sat, not a yell or curse to be heard. Oddly enough, it unnerved her more than the shouting, although she also hoped it meant the meeting was just about over. The princess held as still as she could, straining to hear any voices from the bench. She couldn’t.
Huffing and looking around to make sure the hall was empty, Sansa slowly stood up. She snuck over to the door on her tiptoes, her footsteps loud on the hardwood floor, and crouched down, pressing her ear to the edge of the frame.
Through the heavy quiet of the hall in one ear and the muffling wood on the other, she made out a few voices. Namely, she heard her father’s voice, level in a way that screamed internal frustration. That was good, though. If King Eddard Stark was speaking in that level, diplomatic way of his, it meant he was trying to end the meeting or, at least, finalize something without sparking another bout of arguments. Gods, Sansa hoped that was what it meant.
She waited.
There was an optimistic amount of shuffling in the room, sounds of paper rustling and people milling about. Sansa’s ankles were beginning to ache in her crouched position and high-heeled shoes. The magazine was bunched up in the crook of her lap, daring to fall over and make noise if she didn’t-
The door handle clicked, loud in the hall’s stifling quiet.
Sansa jumped back in a flash, smoothing down the floral skirt of her day-dress and chucking The Continental Insider under the bench as the door slammed open. She startled at the noise, nerves running wild, though she tried to school her expression into some semblance of “professional interest.”
Lord Frey, blazer askew and red-faced, stormed out of the room, barely grunting at her as he passed down the hall. For a man of such old age and decrepit health, he could muster a powerful stride. The two sons (grandsons?) he brought, at least, tried to act more courteous as they trailed behind the old lord. They bowed shallowly with reluctant murmurs of “My Lady,” waiting for her to nod and bid them stand, yet sniffing up at her courteous smile. They strode quickly down the hall after their patriarch, muttering to each other quietly.
She couldn’t help but feel hopeful by the Freys’ dour moods.
To her surprise, the next two figures to emerge were Lord and Lady Bolton, who bowed and curtsied respectively when they approached her.
“Lord Bolton! I didn’t realize Father called you here.” Sansa remarked, curiosity briefly getting the better of her propriety.
The Dreadfort Nobles stood straight, Roose smiling dimly. In his soft voice, the lord explained, “I have my ties to both His Grace and Lord Frey.” he gestured to the open door and Lady Walda, who looked up at him with a dimpled smile, “They saw it fit that I stand in as a mediator.”
Considering how unmediated the meeting had sounded, Sansa doubted Roose Bolton’s effectiveness, but she smiled politely and nodded nevertheless. She wasn’t the biggest fan of the Boltons by any degree, but still recognized that the Northern Lord’s quiet demeanor typically proved useful in argumentative situations.
“I’m glad you could be here, then, Lord Bolton. You too, Lady Bolton.” The plump woman giggled, flustered, and both bowed again before politely departing.
Soon after, her parents emerged with a sharp-featured lady Sansa recognized as Asha Greyjoy. The Ironborn woman smirked at her and winked as she trailed behind the king and queen, her hands tucked nonchalantly into the pockets of a heavy leather jacket daringly thrown over her (rumpled) off-white button-up and black-gray pinstripe slacks. ‘The Insider will eat her up,’ Sansa thought briefly, already seeing the gossipy headlines printed alongside a picture of Lady Asha, looking as unapologetically Ironborn as she could beside famously-put-together Eddard and Catelyn Stark. Her father in a sharp gray suit, her mother in a deep blue satin-and-lace dress, and not a hair out of place between them, the couple looked as if they hadn’t just spent several hours in heated debate.
The King and Queen stopped to give their daughter a quick hug and kiss. Sansa smiled hopefully at the three of them. “May I ask?”
Eddard gestured behind him, “Your brother.”
Sansa nodded and, after the group passed her, turned to the door and walked into her father’s large office. As far as royal office-spaces went, she always considered the King in the North’s rather modest. As a girl, Sansa would constantly try to show her father ways to spruce up the place, suggesting fancy curtains or an extra bookshelf, and would get miffed and snippy when he insisted it was just as fancy as it needed to be. Now, however, she had come to understand the subtle grandeur in the polished mahogany and elaborate paneling around the room, heavy curtains letting in a controlled amount of light that could illuminate the large desk at one end forebodingly if the king so chose. Today, every curtain was sashed open, flooding the space with warm light.
Her metal-tipped heels clacked sharply on the polished wood floor, muffling on the large, embroidered rug in the center of the room as she strode to the great fireplace opposite the desk, towards two familiar figures. Robb leaned against the wall by the mantle, pale-faced and obviously exhausted, his hair a copper mess as he dragged his fingers through it. Theon Greyjoy, in a rare show of self-composure, looked more put-together than his boyfriend. However, Sansa spied a noticeable sweat-stain down the back of his shirt when he shouldered off his jacket, and it took him several tries to loosen his tie with tremulous hands.
Robb looked up as she approached, waving vaguely and running his hand through his hair again, dragging it down his face, “Hey, Sansa.”
She hummed and, when she reached them, threw her arms over Theon’s shoulders from behind. Too late, she realized they were just as sweaty as his shirt and cringed internally, lilting, “Hello, boys. Had a fun late morning, I see.”
Her brother snorted, “Fun’s a strong word. Eventful, maybe.”
“Well, watching Asha almost punch out old Walder was fun.” Theon pointed out, eliciting a conspiratorial giggle from Sansa.
Robb met the Greyjoy’s gaze evenly, “Theon, that was the most terrifying moment of my life. I know you Ironborn have a very… physical approach to diplomacy, but Seven Hells!”
“What brought that up?” Sansa asked, leaning further over Theon’s shoulder.
“Lord Frey tried to insult Father,” Theon replied blandly.
“But you and Asha do that all the time.”
Theon shrugged, accidentally shouldering Sansa’s jaw, “Well, yeah, he’s our shitty dad! Lord Frey doesn’t know him well enough to insult him, so Asha had to defend the Greyjoy name.”
“Meaning,” Robb added, “Asha wanted to beat him up, and used Lord Greyjoy as a handy excuse.” Theon’s bark of laughter confirmed the statement, despite his chuckled assurances to the contrary.
Hopping at the opportunity, Sansa prodded eagerly, “What else happened? Have anything… oh, I don’t know… special and filially significant that you’d like to share with your sweet little sister who waited so very patiently for the last three hours?”
“Oh, is Arya here too?” Robb craned his head behind the two dramatically.
Sansa glared and pinched Theon when he laughed, “You’re both so mean. If you must know, your impatient, inconsiderate little sister Arya ditched with our brothers before the real shouting even started!”
Theon craned his neck back to side-eye Sansa, “You waited out there the whole time?”
“Um, yeah.” She replied.
“Why?”
“Because,” Sansa drawled, “I’m a good sibling, worried for her sweet big brother and awesome friend.”
Robb rolled his eyes, and Theon looked at him wryly, stating, “She wanted hot gossip, didn’t she?”
“Oh yeah.” The prince replied, letting his smug grin show when Sansa scoffed and flipped him off.
“Please, if I just wanted gossip I could look anywhere else in Westeros! This, boys, is proper drama.” Sansa stepped back from her brother’s boyfriend, dropping her ‘worried little sister’ gig. She did care about her siblings, really, but sometimes leeching off their drama was just so fun! She leaned gingerly against a nearby windowsill with a conspiratorial smirk, “Speaking of drama… Lord Frey seemed to leave in quite the sour mood…”
The young men looked at each other, cracking grins (Robb stilling his expression far better than Theon).
“Oh, did he?” Theon airily replied.
Sansa perked up, “You’re smiling at each other… Why? Tell me.”
“Tell you what?” The Greyjoy asked innocently through his grin.
Sansa stood straight, remaining by the window, “You ass, tell me!” She stifled a giggle, her own excitement getting the better of her. She bounced on her heels to try and let out the energy.
They looked at each other again, and Robb asked, “You want to tell her?”
“No, you,” Theon shook his head.
“Go ahead- you’re friends!”
“You’re her brother.”
Sansa groaned, “Gods, you two are impossible!”
Robb glanced at her quickly, visibly relenting. He stood straight, trying to fix up his crinkled shirt as he spoke, “Well, Walder Frey finally settled down once we promised to accept some of his grandchildren- great-grandchildren, possibly- into the palace for schooling with Rickon. We also significantly altered some standing trade deals— all in his favor, of course.”
Sansa rolled her eyes, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, he’ll be harping on about the injustice of it all forever- what else?”
Robb’s grin seemed to grow, almost erasing the exhaustion on his face.
“Theon and I can marry in a year,” he admitted.
Sansa jumped up (she would later be humble enough to admit she squealed), and before the men had a chance to retaliate, had both of them in a bone-crushing hug. Robb readily hugged her back, Theon patting her shoulder as well. “You guysss!”
Internally, Sansa could feel her excitement and nervous tension welling up as one— one part joyful for her brother’s engagement, the other already panicking over having to plan such a daunting wedding in the near future.
Robb laughed lightly as she pulled back, looking a bit bemused. “I wish Mom and Dad were as ecstatic as you, Sans.”
She waved her brother’s comment off with a shrug, “Oh, they’ll warm up to it! They already love Theon, in their own ways— just let everything with the Freys cool down for a bit.
“Besides,” she added, rolling her eyes, “it’s not like Mom will ever be happy about any of us getting married. You remember the state she was in on your twentieth birthday, Robb.”
Her brother grimaced and Theon cackled, remembering Queen Catelyn’s drunken stupor years ago, unwilling to accept that her eldest child was actually an adult. There had been many baby pictures on display that night.
Throwing an arm around Robb’s back, Theon cringed, finally looking down and realizing that sweaty state of their clothing. He scrunched up his face, muttering, “We’d better go change before we have to go deal with more fucking dignitaries.”
Robb nodded, agreeing, “We’re a bit of a sorry state. I should check on Grey Wind, too.” Sansa could read the room— the boys were ready for a fucking break.
“Well then, dear brother and almost-brother,” she said, linking arms with the two men and pulling them forward, “Let’s get out of this forsaken office.”
Theon smiled cheekily back at her and Robb rolled his eyes, muttering some false regret about bringing his boyfriend into the family. Nevertheless, both let the young woman lead them out of the room— Sansa to spread the good news (or, as Theon insisted, to share her hot gossip) and the two men to bask in a calm, less-politically-strenuous afternoon.
For the rest of the day, Sansa tried to locate her younger siblings. Bran and Rickon were easy enough; she found the boys in their respective bedrooms and told them to go congratulate their brother in short time. Arya, on the other hand…
It was Nymeria who gave her away in the glass gardens after a fruitless half-hour of searching, the wolf’s long, tan tail sticking out of a bush. She truly hadn’t expected her little sister to be in there; Arya greatly preferred romping around in the ornamental summer gardens outside. Sansa sat on the bench directly in front of the shrub, waiting smugly for a response.
Accordingly, an angry voice hissed, “Move, dumbass, you’re in the way!” Sansa turned, grinning cheekily into the shrubbery at her little sister’s glare. “Either come back here with me or go sit somewhere else.”
Sansa surveyed the warm greenhouse. To her knowledge, nobody else was there- just the usual array of plants that palace staff utilized throughout the year. These glass gardens were a near-replica of those from the ruins of the ancient Winterfell Keep just a mile westward, displaying her family’s respect for their ancestors’ ingenuity. “What’s so interesting?” Sansa asked, at a loss towards her sister’s current scheme.
Arya rolled her eyes, explaining, “Robb and Theon are headed this way. I’m spying on them,” like it was obvious.
Sansa rolled her eyes back, nevertheless standing, shuffling around the bench, and carefully crouching down behind the bush with Arya. She winced at the dirt she knew would stain her clothing. Nymeria licked Sansa’s proffered hand as she said, “Maybe you should go congratulate them instead- they’re engaged now.”
The smaller of the two waved her hand dismissively, “Later.”
“Why are you spying on Robb anyways?” the elder asked. Arya held up her phone in response, camera open and ready. Sansa quirked an eyebrow skeptically, “Blackmail? Really, Arya, you’re an adult.”
She shrugged, “It’s not blackmail, per se. I want to get some candids- you know Mom eats that shit up- and Robb won’t cooperate if they know I’m here. Besides, I’m fucking bored. Stupid Gendry and Hot Pie went camping without me, so I don’t have anyone fun to talk to. I’m punching them both right in the balls next time I see them.”
Sansa frowned, “That’s rude.”
The brunette shushed her, getting her phone into position, “Shut up, they’re coming in!”
Sure enough, the men in question strolled into the opposite end of the garden, both looking considerably more put-together than they had directly post-meeting. Arya shifted closer to the bench, trying to get a clear view of her brother. Nymeria followed close behind, burrowing into the bush and pressing her side directly into Sansa’s, tail whacking the ground furiously. Sansa petted her reassuringly.
Jammed close together, the girls peered curiously down the pathway. Theon and Robb stood under an arched, vine-woven trellis near the entrance, leaning in close to each other with their hands tangled together. Theon leaned in and said something into the prince’s ear, eliciting a blushy laugh from him as they trailed slowly through the room. Sansa heard Arya gagging beside her, waiting until they got closer to get a good, embarrassing photo of the two (she had it down to a science at this point). The redhead flicked her sister, earning one in return.
Arya began snapping away furiously with her camera as the two finally neared their spot. Sansa, on the other hand, could barely breathe, staying as still as she could. Hushed as they were, the princesses got the tail end of a conversation as the men passed by, hand-in-hand.
“… long as it happens, I’m happy.” Theon was saying casually.
Robb rolled his eyes slightly, smiling. “Me too, but Mom will be insufferable about which ‘cultural traditions’ we need for the ceremony the moment she finds us.”
“What if I told her Ironborn wed totally naked, and consuma—”
Robb smacked his fiancé’s arm, gasping, “You wouldn’t!”
Right by her ear, Arya desperately tried to stifle her chuckles. Sansa nudged her.
Between laughs, Theon relented, “I won’t! I won’t! But you have to admit it’d be hilarious…” His words faded out the further they got. After a few seconds, Robb and Theon disappeared around a shrubby bend, far enough that the women could no longer hear the fiancés’ footsteps, and Sansa let out a breath.
She made to stand up, muttering, “Okay, little devil, you have your fodder. Let’s-“
“Shhhhh!” Arya hissed sharply, hand darting out and holding Sansa in place as she continued to peer out at the pathway, “There’s someone else, stupid.”
That silenced Sansa. She crouched back down, looking out just in time to see the narrow shoulders and sharp profile of Roose Bolton over the foliage. He had been trailing along slowly, quietly admiring the plants and angular glass panes of the garden as many visiting noble-people were wont to do (although Sansa had expected, if Roose were to take such a walk, it would be to entertain his currently-absent wife). Sansa’s movement had apparently distracted him from his reverie.
Bolton’s brow furrowed, and he stopped right next to the bench. Sansa flushed. ‘Oh, fuck, he’s heard us! Damn it, what if he sees us? How humiliating!” Instinctively, she squished herself as far behind her small sister as she could, heart jumping in her chest.
Roose stood stock still, scanning his surroundings with careful, suspicious eyes. It felt like every noise silenced in those moments, while Sansa’s own breaths and shifts amplified by hundreds. She wanted to dart away or bury herself into the ground but didn’t dare move an inch.
To Sansa’s absolute mortification, Nymeria got up and moved forward. Sansa bit her lip to keep quiet as the wolf slid out of the bush, Arya grinning cheekily after her. The redhead pinched her sister’s arm, giving her a panicked look to which the brunette rolled her eyes.
Nymeria crouched by the pathway, bright eyes trained on the lord. The princesses barely breathed, frozen in place as Nymeria and Roose Bolton stood facing each other for a tense moment. Then, the man smiled wryly at the hackled dog, shaking his head and muttering, “bloody wolves.”
He stepped around Nymeria and resumed strolling away from the hidden princesses.
After a minute of tense silence, Arya made a rude gesture at the direction the lord had wandered. “Bloody fucking Boltons, more like,” she snarked to Sansa.
“Arya,” Sansa scolded lightly, “Lord Bolton helped us with the Freys today. You didn’t have to set Nymeria on him!”
“He helped Robb with the Freys today, not me.” The brunette pointed out as the two women wiggled out from under the bush, standing slowly after making sure the coast was clear. “And I didn’t set Nymeria on him. She just doesn’t like him,” she insisted to her big sister’s raised eyebrow, “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t die on the spot if he’d seen you crouched in a bush, getting your pretty dress all muddied up like that. I know you, Sans.”
Sansa beat out as much dirt from her dress as she could, sighing at the stained hem, “It would be embarrassing, but it would be even worse if he’d been attacked by one of our pets! Do you understand how sensitive our situation with the Freys was? He helped fix that. We owe him a pleasant stay in Winterfell, at the very least.”
“Are you really sticking up for the man who fathered Ramsay Bolton?” Arya made a disgusted face.
“I don’t think he’s some kind of saint, trust me! Ramsay proves that.” That was a relationship Sansa was more than willing to forget about. “Just show him some courtesy, please. Mom and Dad have well enough to deal with right now.”
“Haven’t they already dealt with everything, though?” Arya quirked a brow at her sister as they began to amble back towards the Garden’s exit.
“The political mess, maybe.” Sansa conceded, “But they have a very significant wedding to plan on top of their everyday royal duties and issues— not to mention The Ball in a few months.
The younger princess kicked a stray pebble on the walkway, muttering “Right, that stupid thing. Have fun with that.”
Sansa stopped in her tracks, “Arya, please don’t tell me you’re missing The Ball.”
Arya looked at her like she was stupid, swiping through her recent photos, “Why do you think I’m buttering Mom up with pictures? ‘Course I’m missing the stupid Ball.”
Sansa felt herself deflate. “Arya.” She scolded.
“Sansa.” Arya mimicked, “Stop sounding like Mom. You’re not old enough to pull it off.” She clicked off her phone with a satisfied huff, “Nah, I’ll be up in Freeland, camping out with Gendry, Hot Pie, and Nymeria for a few weeks.”
“Freeland, like by The Gift where, at least, we can reach you? Or-“
“We’re going up near Thenn. Gendry has a radio, so we won’t miss anything too important.”
Sansa groaned. “Of course you are!”
Arya turned to face her, “Hey, I’m not spending a night broadcasting the tenth anniversary of family bullshit, and I’m not going to sit around while Mom and Robb dig themselves into drunken depression pits in front of a roomful of important people. Jon’s gone. There’s no point.”
Sansa spluttered, marching to keep up with Arya as she resumed her pace down the path, “But— Arya, you have to!”
“Why?” She drawled back.
“He’s your brother!”
“Was.”
“Arya!”
“Sansa!”
“Stop doing that!” Sansa yelled, probably louder than she should have been. She fretfully scanned the immediate area before turning her glare back onto her little sister.
Arya looked at her with a pinched-brow glare— more perturbed than rightly angry. Evenly, she explained, “The stupid Ball feels right for you guys maybe. Whatever. Thenn is right for me, so that’s where I will be.”
Sansa felt like stomping her foot childishly, as if punishing the gravel would do anything to change Arya’s mind. ‘She doesn’t understand!’ But if the redhead knew anything about her little sister, it was that the longer the argument, the more her stubborn resolve steeled itself. Sansa tried so hard for their family, but the younger princess was like a tiny pebble firmly lodged in her shoe, tripping her up and making her walk just that much gracelessly.
Taking a deep breath, she addressed Arya firmly, “This conversation isn’t over— and I won’t help you break the news to our parents, either. Now,” Sansa checked the time on her cellphone (now mostly charged) for emphasis, “I must hurry to meet Lady’s groomer. I’ll see you for dinner.” She turned, clearly ending the conversation, and walked towards the entrance Robb and Theon had emerged from. “And remember to congratulate your brother!”
As they strode away, she heard her sister’s gruff “Fine!” and her and Nymeria’s footsteps as they trod away in the opposite direction. The upper-hand she had won felt a bit cheap, but Sansa ran with it anyways, determined to trudge on with her day unaffected.
Head held high, as always.
Later that night, as Sansa was getting ready for bed, someone knocked on her door.
‘Odd,’ She thought. It was late for social calls. She shouldered a silk robe over her new pajama set, sitting at her vanity desk and addressing the closed door.
“Who is it?”
Lady poked her head up curiously from her doggy toy by Sansa’s feet.
“It’s Theon,” the knocker responded. After a beat, the door opened, revealing the Greyjoy, in the same getup she saw him in earlier that day, albeit lacking the jacket and tie.
Sansa turned to him, quirking an eyebrow, “Did I let you in?”
“You were about to,” Theon replied, smirking and leaning against the doorframe.
“Ass,” She shot back, “I can’t believe Robb wants to be married to you. I’d go insane after a day.”
He put a hand over his chest, faking pain and exclaiming, “Ouch, Sansa!”
“I’m sure you’ll recover.” She snorted.
“Eventually, maybe.” He drawled, sighing loudly, “I’ll need to find a dark corner and lick my wounds. Maybe Gray Wind will have some pity and keep me company.”
Sansa gave him as even a look as she could without laughing. “Then go.”
“I would, but I actually kind of need your help.” Theon explained, dropping the joking façade. Sansa perked up, listening as he continued, “Their Graces your parents want to speak with Robb and me.”
Sansa paused, peering at him skeptically, “And you need me because…?”
“He’s shut himself in that room again- you know I can’t get him out of there.”
Sansa slumped back in her seat with a long-suffering groan, “They should have turned it into a guestroom years ago.” She didn’t totally mean it, but it would make the hallway much less gloomy. Robb would never allow it, though. “What’s brought this on? He can’t already have cold feet.”
Theon snorted, “No, I think he’s just realized exactly how much he offended old Walder and needed somewhere fittingly glum to have his existential crisis.”
Sansa nodded, “Sounds right.” She stood from her vanity desk, Lady hopping up too, “I’ll get him. Where are you meeting Mother and Father?”
“Their chambers,” Theon replied, patting Lady affectionately when she trotted over to him. He clapped Sansa on the shoulder when she reached him, as well. “Thanks.”
She grinned at him, “Not a problem.”
They both exited the room, Lady immediately romping ahead of them to Grey Wind, who sat just down the hall, moping beside the cracked-open door to Jon’s bedroom. He perked up when she approached, the wolves circling around each other excitedly. Lady sat down near the door, Grey Wind quick to follow right beside her.
Sansa smiled down at the two wolves, pushing the door open further and entering the room. It was nearly pitch-dark when she closed the door behind her, the place lit only by the lamp-lights outside. The furniture were large black blotches, moonlight glinting off the polished wood and glossy posters taped haphazardly along the walls. Robb sat in the center of the little-used bed with his knees drawn to his chest, a dark silhouette against a gray wall.
The silhouette grunted, acknowledging Sansa’s presence. The princess groped around in the dark, walking forward until her fluffy slipper hit the leg of a desk-chair and promptly lowering herself onto the seat. She rested her arm along the back of the chair, leaning forward and greeting her brother, “Good Evening.”
“What’re you doing here?” came a low grumble.
Sansa raised an eyebrow, knowing Robb couldn’t see it. “Looking for you. A little squid told me you’d be here.”
Her brother exhaled a short laugh, “He prefers little kraken.”
She shrugged, “Same difference.” She leaned in, “Want to tell a little wolf why you’re in here when your fiancée is out there?”
Robb’s reply was as flat as she expected it to be, “Why don’t you stop being nosy?”
Sansa gasped, “I’m not being nosy!” (She was, even if Theon had sent her to the room in the first place). “I’m trying to be an open ear.”
She saw her brother’s silhouette slump down further over his knees, conceding quickly, “I fucked it all up, didn’t I?”
“Fucked what up?”
Robb huffed, “Everything! We had an outstanding deal with the Freys, and I had to go and offend Lord Walder by not being into any of his daughters or granddaughters.”
“Hey!” Sansa interjected, “Not your fault. That was Walder Frey’s overreaction of the damn century.”
“But still, the North suffered for it!” She could tell that Robb’s brow was pinched up, eyes scrunched closed, from the frustration in his voice. There was a short stretch of silence, Robb seeming lost in thought. Eventually, he sighed, slumping back into the mattress of his brother’s bed and quietly asking, “What would Jon say about this, Sans?”
Sansa rolled her eyes, letting out a frustrated breath. So, it was one of these slumps. “He’d tell you it’s his job to be mopy, not yours, and to get out of his room.”
He lifted his head enough to glare at her, “I’m being serious.”
“So am I.” She got up from the chair and perched on the edge of the mattress, Robb huffing and turning his back to her.
“Wouldn’t hurt you to humor me, Sansa.” He muttered.
“Jon has nothing to do with this situation, Robb.” The princess reminded him lightly.
“Not really, I guess.” He assented, “But it’s brought up a bunch of my thoughts from back then for me, so he kind of is.”
Sansa shrugged, agreeing, “Sure.”
She was met with another stretch of silence.
“… He was the first person I told, you know-“
“Yes, I do know.” Sansa interrupted, wary of where Robb was taking the conversation.
Robb gave her a look, and she rolled her eyes, acquiescing, “He was the first person I told about liking Theon. I said I was worried it would be an issue, and he didn’t have much to say about it for a while. Just kind of nodded and said if it was a dumb crush it would pass, and if not, then I should start worrying. On that night, he came into my room and asked if he could sleep there for the night. We hadn’t shared a bed since we were little, but I shrugged it off and said yeah, whatever.”
“You’ve told me this before, Robb, many times,” Sansa pointed out, “When you woke up, you found a note in his place and Jon was gone from the palace.” Sansa had woken up that morning to her mother shouting, finding her big brother’s favorite jacket folded neatly on her bedside table. After a decade, it was now fashionably oversized on her, and it really got the public’s collective heart throbbing whenever she wore it out (just as Robb scowled at her for it).
Robb shushed his sister, turning back to face her, “Shut up, I’m not done. Once he’d settled down, we kind of chatted for a bit, just about dumb shit. He got really serious at one point, though, and told me that if I really liked Theon, I should go for it, fuck what the lords and ladies may think. I told him I’d give it a shot just to end the conversation, really. I was embarrassed.”
Sansa smiled sadly, “Then I think you know what he’d make of the situation.”
Robb shook his head, sitting up, “I don’t know… We were so young back then, and telling your crush you like him is entirely different than marrying him and colossally screwing over an international deal, and- “
Sansa cut in, “Listen, Robb, we all miss him, but Jon hasn’t been a part of our lives for nearly a decade. What he may or may not say doesn’t really matter at this point.” Met with her brother’s frustrated silence, Sansa placed her hand lightly on his shoulder with a small smile, “For what it’s worth, the rest of us are ecstatic for you and Theon.”
“I appreciate that, but-“
“No ‘buts!’”
“Sansa. Let me brood!” Robb snapped.
“I will not!” Sansa smacked his shin, which was closest to her on the bed, “You just got engaged, Robb. There are plenty other nights for you to brood. Kay?”
Robb sighed loudly, finally accepting that he was fighting a losing battle, “…Okay.”
“Good. Now, your fiancée is waiting as patiently as he can for you with Mom and Dad to, I assume, discuss your upcoming nuptials, so I would suggest-”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it.” He grunted, mumbling something along the lines of “So sue me if I care about my twin’s opinion,” as he sat up and slid to his feet with Sansa. She patted him on the shoulder and steered him out of the room.
Gray Wind and Lady poked their heads up from their play-wrestle in the hall, the former hopping up and happily receiving head-pets from his human.
“Night, Sansa.” Robb said.
“Good luck with Mom and Dad,” she returned, waving her brother off as Gray Wind trotted down the hall after him.
However, after Robb had turned the corner, Sansa stayed put and glanced back on the threshold of Jon’s room, illuminated by the hallway lights. It had barely changed in the last decade, the only addition several low-burnt candles and framed pictures on his neglected desk- either corny eyesores or memorial votives depending on which Stark sibling (Arya or Robb) you asked.
But that’s really all the room was now— a monument. She couldn’t barge in at midnight and find her big brother sitting crisscross on his bed, playing guitar and keeping her awake. He wouldn’t leave the door half-open while gossiping with Robb, scheming with Arya, or stealing away baby Rickon for him and Sansa to play with while their mother was preoccupied. In her head, the room had kind of died when Jon left, and her family refused to bury the body.
In a way, Sansa guessed she agreed with Arya in this one instance. Did that make her a hypocrite for endorsing the Ball?
‘Surely not,’ She thought stubbornly, ‘An annual celebration of someone is different than this.’ She huffed, frustrated with herself. The eventful day had tired her out, and here she was, staring at an empty room!
She closed the door and headed off to bed, Lady close behind.