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Chapter Text

They had almost done it.

Sansa held her breath, watching as the ladies and children pressed up against the door. Daenerys Targaryen's dragons meant nothing, Cersei's war and her death meant nothing.

Not when the dead were knocking at the door. 

Rickon was leaning into her, his small form limp and cold. Already gone, lost to the cold. Besides her she could feel Bran’s eyes. Cold and distant as she looked towards him

“Is it time.”

She asked quietly, stroking a frozen lock from Rickons forehead

Her brother merely nodded as Sansa grabbed the match, showing the green substance that coated the walls and the floors. Wildfire.

She would die as her grandfather had done it appeared, although not at the hands of a Targaryen.

They were all dead.

And soon would the starks.

“Sansa.” Her blue eyes met her brothers. They were the same shade, as was once their mothers “It will be okay.”

There was emotion in them. More than Sansa had seen in years. Since his fall. Her cheeks were cold with frozen tears as she smiled at him

“I love you.”

She didn't hear what he said as she dropped the match. She didn't feel the heat, one minute she simply was.

And the next she felt nothing.

Rickons leaned in closer to Sansa. It was so cold in the cellars. He didn't understand why they had to stay there. Surely they could have hidden in the crypts, as he and Bran did. 

Outside the door he could hear the banging of bodies. He had stopped shivering, Sansa was warm like that. His eyelids felt heavy as he could hear a man scream for them to help him. He wasn't the first one Sansa had ignored.

He missed Shaggy.

Gendry's eyes were blue.

They had always been blue, a blue that reminded Arya of better times. Of being in the godswood with father and seeing the peaks of the summer sky through red leaves.

His eyes were not an Icy blue. Cold and without emotion. Gendrys could not hide what he was feeling, and wore it out on his sleeve.

Arya stabbed the dagger he had made for her into his chest, twisting it slightly before pulling it out as he slumped forward. A sidestep to prevent her from being crushed under his body.

She looked around the battlements. They were littered in corpses of friends and enemies alike. A dragon laid strewn across the destroyed courtyard, where the dragon Queen and Jon's forms lay. 

She was not meant for battlefields. She was an assassin. She was meant to lurk in the background, a shadow, a nightmare that her foes would always be aware of. In the corner of her eyes, a spark of green flickered. She smirked slightly, before she was consumed.

“...Lord Rickon Stark with his wife Gilliane Glover, had four true-born children. The twins, Cregan and Sansa, born 107 AC, the shieldmaiden Arya born 109 AC, and their final child in 115 AC. Due to tradition in the North, the child would not be named until its second name day, once they were sure it would survive the winter. It was his sister, Lady Sansa that named him, Rickon Stark…”

Excerpt from The Detailing of the State of the Realm at the Time of The Reign of King Viserys Targayen I by Archmaester Perestan

Chapter Text

Sansa I

Sansa awoke with a scream, feeling the green of the flames lick her her skin as her brothers eyes disappeared, she looked without seeing at the bedding surrounding her as she made to move, to only feel hands rest on her shoulders 

“Sansa.”

The voice was soft but she could barely hear it over the rushing of the fire, as she brought her hands to cover her ears, she vaguely realized she was still screaming as she heard a crash before a voice cut through the darkness, picking her up and holding her tight

“Sansa, my heart, what's wrong.”

The voice was strong and the chest she was resting against was cool against her cheek as tears fell down her face. Cregan was still holding her hand as her father rocked her against her chest, her mother slowly combing her hair back from her face. 

She didn’t voice her thoughts, only clung slightly tighter to her fathers shirt with her little hands. She closed her eyes as the tears fell, she had seen Bran die, she had watched as the fire overtook their bodies as the screams of the women and children she had doomed we snuffed out before they had ever even begun. 

“They will come.”

Was all she was able to force out at all of their questioning looks, as her father pulled back a little, looking into her eyes, as his hand gently stroked her head. Had Eddard Stark ever done this before, he must have, but she had long forgotten what he had looked like, any many of the memories she had of him. 

“Who will come darling?”

“The others.”

Was all she said as her father looked at her mother with concern. He wasn’t the quiet Eddard Stark, the coloring was right, but he was, happier. Her mother wasn’t Catelyn Tully either, but her red hair shone just the same. 

Her mothers hand was gentle as it cupped her face, a fierce smile as she did so

“We will protect you my dear, me and your father.”

No one can protect me. She thought bitterly No one can protect anyone . 

She had told Jon so much once and he had proved her right, bringing the second greatest threat right to their doors, not thinking beyond the long night.

“And so will I.”

Cregan said softly, but his voice was confident as he tightened his grip on her hand. He was already as serious as Jon was at five, but there were times he would laugh and for a second, it was Robb.

Or maybe it was just Cregan. Memories faded, faster than Sansa wanted. 

The door creaked open as Arya moved to come in. The only memory she held that she was sure was right. Arya was just as gangly and awkward as she had been before, although held herself a little taller. 

She walked right up to where her father had held her, jumping up to sit on the bed and look at her with eyes wide, it was creepy, seeing Arya seven once more but with eyes that reminded her much more of those end days, Of false hope, and of heartbreak. 

She grabbed her hand gently, taking it in hers as her father put her down to lay in the bed with Arya next to her

“Go back to sleep my loves.”

Her mother said softly, gently pushing back some of Sansa’s hair as she and their father left the room. There was a moment of quiet as Cregan situated himself in his bed. It was only after he had gone quiet that Arya whispered softly

“Wildfire or Ramsay.”

Sansa squeezed her hand as she hummed, closing her eyes for a second to just see the green fire that had consumed them that night burn behind her eyelids. 

“Wildfire.” she said softly, as Arya nodded, inching a step closer.

“Me too,” she said softly “And Gendry.”

Her whisper was heavy as she closed her eyes, burying her face in the pillow as Sansa rubbed a thumb along the back of their clasped hands. A tear fell from her cheek as she closed her eyes

“I want Mother.”

She barely whispered, unsure of if Arya could even hear her. It wasn’t Gilliane Glover that Sansa longed for, but Catelyn Tully. To be in that chair as her mother braided her hair and told her stories of knights and princesses. Of Aemon the Dragon knight and Naerys Targaryen. She longed for the Winterfell that would never be returned to them.

Her eyes didn’t open, as both she and Arya returned to sleep.

Sansa walked through the thin layer of snow, each step she made behind Jeyne made a crunch noise under her boots. The wolfswood was quiet beyond that, as if the birds stopped singing when they walked by. 

Jeyne, Sansa didn’t know what to make of Jeyne. 

She was older than her parents, but Sansa couldn’t tell how old. There were times the light would hit her and she seemed older than old nan, and then other times she would say something to her and she looked to be as young as Sansa.

She reminded Sansa a bit of the Red Woman. 

She hadn’t truly met the Red Woman before in her last life, had only seen her around the camp on their mission to reclaim Winterfell. But she had heard Jon’s tales of her, and of what she had done.

Sansa prayed that Jeyne wasn’t like the Red Woman in that regard either. 

“Here we are.” Jeyne said suddenly, leaning into the snow to reach out to touch the petals of a flower with her glove. “Do you recognize what flower this is?”

Her voice was careful as Sansa kneeled down beside her to look at the flower. The color was an intense purple, standing out against the the summer snows

“Northern Wolfsbane.”

Jeyne nodded as she took off a flower with her gloves very carefully rising

“Very, very dangerous. It's rather potent as a poison. Even touching it with your bare skin briefly can leave it irritated for days on end. And if you ingest any, you would need to purge yourself to possibly survive. And even then the chances are low.”

Sansa hummed, her eyes never leaving the plant. The strangler had been the poison to kill Joffrey, Petyr had told her. It was awful to watch the little of it she had seen. 

“How does it work?”

Jeyne hummed, looking her up and down

“It is hard to tell, the poisoned may feel odd symptoms, but once the poison reaches anything critical, the patient just, keels over.”

Sansa nodded, looking at the plant. It was rather beautiful, and sad as Jeyne took cuttings to place in her bag.

She glanced up as a low howl rung out through the trees. Jeyne bolted up, her eyes widened as she tied the small bag. Sansa stood slower, looking through the trees as a voice seemed to call for her. The whisper of the wind seemed to beckon her deeper into the woods, a familiar call that Sansa couldn’t recall

“We must go.”

Jeyne made to leave, but Sansa walked in the other direction

“No, wait.”

Jeyne looked towards her, eyes wide as she looked towards where Sansa was walking. She made a small noise of protest as Sansa continued to walk forward through the snow. 

Sansa did not know what would have possessed her to act in such a way. It was something, on the edge of her brain, tugging her forward as the only sound that greeted them as the crunching of snow.

They came out alongside a small stream. Bubbling along as the form of something sat on the edge, huffing slow breaths as it did so.

“Dear gods.”

Jeynes breath was shaky as she put her hand on Sansa's solder attempting to pull her back, falling as Sansa only moved forward. Kneeling down beside it.

It was a direwolf. 

It moved to snap at Sansa with its bloody maw, causing her to stumble back slightly, staring deep into its yellow eyes. It was bleeding heavily from its side, preventing it from moving fully. 

But its eyes didn’t move from Sansas. Staring deep into them as Sansa sat on her skirts, staring back just as much. 

She moved her gaze to look at the wound, attempting to reach out her hand before the wolf snapped again, curling up to protect her center from her hand

“I just want to help.”

Sansa said softly as the wolf stared at her, the moment seemed to stretch on as she stared. Yellow eyes meeting blue before an understanding seemed to pass between them, the wolf's head gently touching against Sansas hand, laying bare her center. 

Sansa scooted closer, taking a closer look at the wound. Her hand gently tracing along the edge of it as the wolf flinched 

“I know it hurts, I'm sorry.”

She swallowed at looked up at Jeyne higher on the riverbed

“Can you help her, Jeyne?”

She didn't know why her voice felt so small as Jeyne made to go lower on the bank, only for the wolf to snap at her, ears folding backwards as a low growl sounded

“What does the wound look like?”

She asked carefully as Sansa shakily explained it to her. It was in that way that Jeyne instructed Sansa what to do and it was that way that eventually the wolf stood in the mud, taking a few shakey steps forward. 

Her coat was muddy, but the clean parts looked to be a ginger color and when Sansa moved to stand beside Jeyne, the wolf followed, step in lock with Sansa.

With the rest of the pups in tow.

It took pleading with her parents but finally, finally they were able to keep the wolves. Cregan instantly had become enamored by one with a pale gray coat, holding it close to his chest and Calling it Bhera. 

The second pup looked oh so much like Shaggy Dog, with his black fur and green eyes, and had taken to following after her father, falling over itself as he did his duties.

And Arya.

Arya had instantly recognized one of the pups. Reaching out with her small hands and holding a pup close as she whispered quietly to Sansa

“It's Nymeria, Sansa.”

Sansa had only swallowed as she clung gently onto the furs of the mother wolf. Lady had different coloring, and….

She didn't feel that hole fill. At least not in the same way.

Lady had been sweet, gentle and innocent. And trusting. And what had it gotten for her? Mayhaps she would have been wiser to have some of the wariness that the wolf mother had shown on that riverbank. 

Maybe her father wouldn't have killed Lady if she hadn't been so trusting.

It had been her father's blade that had taken his head, something meant for northern justice that had been taken and twisted

She looked at the Auburn fur of her new direwolf. The wolf was the closest Sansa would come to baring a blade herself

“Ice.”

She muttered, and she would use her as it should have been.

That night Sansa dreamed.

She was walking in the godswood. The walls of stone were scorched as they had been after Ramsay had burned winterfell. It felt nice in a way. For the Keep to be as it had been. She had placed so much work in restoring it.

She was walking towards the heart tree, she vaguely realized. There was, something, near the bottom. In the mass of roots, was a body, and the closer she got the more she recognized it

“Bran?”

Her voice sounded as if a gust of wind had passed by. But be that as it may, her brother turned his head. For a second he looked as ancient as the dawn as her eyes met his, before his face returned to the one she so knew and recognized.

“Sister.” His voice was as empty as ever as she sat down beside him “did you like your wolf.”

She tilted her head slightly as she heard what must have been a hundred little giggles from all around

“Ah, you must forgive the children.”

His voice was odd, as if two were talking through one as he spoke

“Bran, where are we?”

She spoke carefully as she watched him. A root had grown through his eye, leaving an uncomfortable mess of flesh and wood in its place, the root turning with his head as he did

“It seems the wildfire has locked any further places I can appear beyond here, at least in this form. It truly is a curious substance.”

Sansa sat beside him, her dress billowing out beside her as she tilted her head, studying her brother, forcing herself to look at the parts that seemed more tree than human. Somewhere behind her a raven crowed as she stared at his good eye, unable to describe and put to right in her mind what color it was.

She felt a whisper on the wind behind her as she turned her head, seeing where Jeyne was kneeling, her face holding a revenge as her lips moved as if through a silent prayer.

Cregan I

Cregan laid in the godswood, staring up through the canopy with a wide smile on his face as Sansa recalled him with one of the tales she had read from the library. He could hear her talking of wolves and lion, of wicked queens and of a mockingbird. He was honestly only half listening, more intriguing to him were the clouds forming over head above him.

“That one looks like a dragon.”

He blurted out as Sansa paused, pointing at a cloud. He turned his head to see Sansa looking at him curiously before scooting over to him, looking at the clouds herself as she took his hand. 

“I see more a bird.”

She said softly as he snorted

“Nay, look at that one, that's obviously the fire, see.”

Cregan gestured wildly with his hands, trying to illustrate his point as Sansa looked up towards the sky 

“Sansa.”

Aryas voice rang through the godswood as she strode in. His sister, all of seven name days, was all audacity and confidence. She even now bore a thin sword she had instructed the winterfell smith to make, keeping a close eye on it before calling it needle. 

She flung herself onto Sansa’s lap, flinging her arms out as she made herself comfortable. As she moved Sansa winced, attempting to push their little sister off of her 

“Arya, your ribs hurt.”

Arya shifted slightly as she bit back

“Well your knee is digging into my back.”

Cregan rolled his eyes, toning out the sound of his sisters bickering, his eyes returning to the clouds as he watched they went at each other.

He knew it was pointless to try and separate them when they were bickering. They seemed to oddly take comfort in it, and he had never seen Sansa or Arya as fearsome as when someone dared to be mean to the other. 

Sansa was his twin, the other half of his soul. She was strong where he was weak. Cregan thrived where matters of combat were being taught, and Sansa shone where anything to do with conversation mattered, but despite that there were times it felt as if Sansa and Arya were the twins. 

Cregan sat on the bench outside of her parents chambers as his mother screamed. Her voice tearing through the quiet of Winterfell as all the servants gathered around the room, their whispers quiet as the labor lasted long.

There were tears running down his face and he was resisting the urge to run into the room and fight whatever it was that was making his mother cry out in pain like that.

But he couldn't fight it. And as he looked up towards his father, pacing and pacing back and forth, back and forth before that door. He was crying, Cregan saw. It was odd the image in front of him, his father so made of muscle and of the north. And yet he was crying, staring at the floor in front of him as he paced, tears wetting his cheeks. 

He glanced at his sisters, one sitting on the bench on either side of him, staring at the door. Arya was crying slightly, although she was fighting it. She would sniffle and wipe the tears away fixing her posture each time that their mothers screams came out. He reached out his arm, gently bringing her into his side as she leaned into it for comfort. 

Sansa on the other hand, had no expression on her face. Her face could have been etched into stone with how blank it was, her whole self could have been. It unsettled something deep in his gut as she turned to look at him. Her eyes were rimmed in red, and in combination with her hair gave her the appearance of a spirit, haunted by grief. She reached out, grabbing his hand and holding it tight as the door came open, the voice calling out for their father. 

He rushed into the room, slamming the door as the servants that had gathered scattered to return to their duties, leaving just the three of them alone in that hall as the screams went quiet. Sansa’s grip on his hand was tightening as Arya sat up, her hands on her knees as she clutched them into fists. Sansa swallowed as she looked at Arya, tears beginning to fall as Arya stared at her, a question arched on her face as Sansa shook her head. Arya let out a small noise before making her face into one of impassivity.

The door creaked open slightly as the three of them stood, their father stumbling out. Instead of standing tall he was hunched over as he carried a small bundle in his arms. As she stumbled over towards them he suddenly dropped the bundle into Sansas arms, before stepping back 

“I must go to godswood.”

He choked out before running away from them. The small bundle made a noise as Sansa shifted her hold, cooing at it slightly. Arya made to talk to Sansa, but Cregan's eyes remained firmly on the open door to his mother's room.

Was there supposed to be that much blood?

He moved slowly into the room, the woods witches and the midwives not sparing him a glance as he looked to where his mother was laying. He took her hand in his as he looked to where her chest was laying flat

“Why isn't she breathing.”

His voice was small, and weak. The Lord of Winterfell can not be seen as weak . His father's voice whispered to him. He sniffled a tear as Jeyne moved closer to him

“You shouldn't be here, little Lord.”

Her voice was gently as she tried to guide Cregan away

“I want my mother.”

He said firmly as he pulled out of her grasp and moved towards her face. Her eyes were closed, she must just be sleeping he lied to himself as he walked more forward and stared at the body

His mother was a warrior, she was a shieldmaiden . If she were to go it was to be with an ax in her hand or at the age of ninety surrounded by her grandchildren. That's was she had promised him, that she would be there to help him when he became lord of winterfell. 

He was crying.

The future lord of winterfell should not cry.

He thought determinedly, raising his head slightly as he forced himself to look at his mothers corpse. 

She was dead.

His mother was dead.

“Cregan.”

His sister's voice called out into his mind, as she entered the room

“Would you like to meet our brother?”

He nodded as he moved closer to where Sansa was holding up the parcel. The babe shared their moth-Sansa’s-the babe shared Sansa’s coloring. With his Red curls and pale skin. He was fussing slightly, and hand managed to get one arm out of the swaddle as he made his anger known to the world with his fist and his little scrunched up face

“He looks like an old man.”

Cregan blurted out as Sansa laughed, a wet, sad laugh, but a laugh all the same.

“I imagine all babes do, he will grow out of it I'm sure.” her eyes are not looking at the babe, but rather at him. She gently frees a hand and places it on his shoulder, not using any effort but still guiding him towards the door “come Cregan, let us leave Jeyne to her work.”

He barely registered the gap between their mothers room and their room, Sansa sat him on his bed, and promptly gave him the babe. He sniffled as Arya sat on the opposite side of the bed, stretching out as she stared blankly at the ceiling. He sniffled softly as he bounced the babe, trying hard to smile as it tried to fight the air

“You can cry, Cregan.”

Sansa’s voice was gentle as he stared at the babe. He couldn’t look at Sansa, he couldn’t. He would break if he saw that red hair and those blue eyes

“The lord of winterfell can’t cry.”

He said softly as he moved to rock the babe, running a finger along its little nose

“You can, here, with us. With the pack.”

And he broke, leaning into her as she gently stroked her hair. 

Margaret I

Margaret hated horses. They stunk, were so very fussy, and more than anything, she disliked riding. Her mother had always refused to ride a saddle, preferring the more practical carriages of the south. They made more sense for ladies, what with their dresses and the like. 

So when Bennard informed her that she had no choice but to ride on horseback to reach Winterfell, she had just about thrown a fit. But it did not matter what she said to her husband, she rode from Karstark on horseback, feeling her mother's tight lipped disapproval on her back. 

Now she was standing here, in Winterfell's gatehouse, her son's standing on either side of her as she looked at the man who should have been her husband.

Bennard had never grown into the Stark looks, he always rather looked akin to a drowned rat, but Rickon. Oh how Rickon was the image of a Stark Lord. His dark curls were shoulder length and through them she could see peeks of the tattoos that must be covering his entire back. 

Why that plain featured Glover girl had been the one to win the heart of the Lord of the North Margaret had no clue. From what she remembered of her sister by law, she was a bawdy, rude thing with an affinity for spending her time hunting in the woods, not what the Lady of the North should be.

Her niece is standing by her father, the only other Stark left in Winterfell besides the babe she carried in her arms. The girl, she could not recall her name, had been only a babe the last time she had seen her, with her mothers coloring. Yet as she looked upon the child before her, Margaret could only wonder where she got her looks from. 

She was also well mannered it seemed, as when she moved over to them with grace and curtsied flawlessly, despite the babe in her arms. She wore a dress in another stark contrast to her mother.

“Uncle, Aunt.”

Her husband went over to greet her warmly, taking the babe from her arm and hugging her with one arm, laying a small kiss to the crown of her head. 

“Sansa. Look at how you’ve grown.”

Margaret hummed, Sansa, that had been her name. Melodic, in a way. She couldn’t help the small pang in her heart when she watched her husband interact with the girl. Bennard had never hugged their sons like that, had never bounced them as a babe like he was doing to the small one in his arms at that very moment. 

She felt a hand grab onto her skirt and leaned down to be on eye level with her eldest. She was forever thankful that Benjen had inherited her looked, her dark hair and gray eyes reflected back to her as Benjen stared at Sansa, his eyes wide

“Mama it's her, it's the girl from the Song.”

His voice was full of wonder as Margaret straightened his jerkin

“Benjen, what did your father tell you about public spaces?”

She could feel his eye roll as she dusted off his shoulder. Her son seemed to attract dirt and grime

“But Mother, it is. A maid as fair as autumn, with sunset in her hair.”

Margaret glanced back to where her husband was ruffling Sansa’s hair, much to her chagrin. As she laughed, and her husband laughed as well. Her stern serious husband who rarely cracked a smile, was laughing with her niece, something he had never done with her sons.

“So she is, love.”

She laid a kiss on his head as she stood back up to watch as Bennard led over the girl

“Sansa, I am sure you don’t remember but this is your Aunt, Margaret and your cousins, Benjen and Brandon.”

She smiled softly at them as she bowed her head

“Well met.”

Margaret couldn’t explain why, but when the girl's eyes fell on her, she felt a moment of panic. No child of nine should be able to look at her like that. Like she could see right through her, like she knew far more than she let on. 

Margaret walked the halls of Winterfell, hoping for a sign of her husband or his brother. As she approached his solar, she paused as she heard a conversation spill out

“And what is this one?”

“They are hungry, it is our duty as a Stark to help.”

She stiffened as she heard Sansa’s voice answering her husband, and opening the door quietly, she had to contain the scream she wanted to let out at the image of the girl, in a smaller chair pulled up besides her husbands as he held a letter up, showing it to the girl as he gently explained to her his reasoning. 

He had never done this for their sons. Benjen would hold her skirts as she tried desperately to get him to spend some time, any time teaching their sons the way he was doing for Gilliane Glover's daughter, for his niece.

“Husband.”

She said coldly as the girl stood, curtsying slightly before standing back up, her blue eyes looking straight into her. Her face was blank, and it felt as if instead of staring at a living breathing human, Margaret was looking towards a statue carved from ice

“Niece, I must speak to my Husband, alone. ”

Her voice was mayhaps a bit harsh, but the girl simply nodded, before leaving the room as still as she had been standing. Margaret close the door with force before turning to look at her husband

“Margaret there is no reason to be so cruel to Sansa.”

Margaret moved to stand beside him

“There is something off about that girl.” Bennard snorted as he focused back on the letter on his desk, shaking his head as Margaret felt her anger grow “What, husband.”

Bennards gray eyes looked up at her harshly. They were not the gray of his brother, the gray of a building stormcloud, they were muddy, and rather unremarkable. 

“She lost her mother, less than a year ago. And her fathers all but abandoned her to be the sole caregiver for her brother. I had hoped that you would have aided in his care.”

Margaret hummed, moving to stare out the window, that babe, which cried whenever anyone other than Sansa held him for even a second, that pulled her hair so roughly he almost pulled it out of her head

“If the babe’s own father doesn’t even design to give him a name, I don’t see why I should care. Leave it to the servants.”

Her mother never fed her from her bosom, never was the one to brush her hair in the mornings, a mothers place is to teach the babe when it grows older, that's what hers did. Benjen was just old enough for her to impart on him more than fanciful love stories, and she had only just begun telling such tales to Brandon. 

It's the girl from the song.

Maybe she shouldn’t tell such songs to Brandon

“Margaret, do not be so cruel.”

Bennards voice was quiet as he muttered, and she turned her back to him further, bringing her furs tighter around herself as she closed her eyes. 

“Forgive me husband.” She lied, forcing the words to leave her mouth as she took deep breaths as she turned back to him “Is being her some kind of punishment for me, I see no purpose for me to be here.”

Bennard sighed as he leaned back in his chair

“Rickon is a walking deadman.” his voice was heavy with grief “his life went with Gilliane, I fear it is only a matter of time till he follows her. I will need someone to help here with the running of Winterfell, until Cregan comes of age.”

Margaret straightened, her mother had always prepared her for this, to be the Lady of a keep, not the wife of a second son. This is what she had been meant for.

Chapter Text

Sansa II

Winterfell was cold.

Not temperature wise, it was the height of summer and the hot springs kept it warm, but a chill fell over the residents of the keep as Margarets Mother entered the keep. They had to wait moons for her to arrive, her litter repeatedly breaking upon the uneven stoney roads of the north. 

Bennard had made his protests of her coming here, but Margaret had insisted on it, and the whole keep had heard of their disagreement. Margaret had refused to talk to him apparently, a small respite for Sansa. She preferred her time to work alongside her Uncle to not be interrupted with her meddling. 

Minisa Mooton had been the talk of the north for a time, her Marriage to a northerner stirring many a whisper, and in the years from it, nothing good from them. Bennard had told Sansa many a time what he thought of his mother by law

“She ought to have stayed south, been some pretty accessory on the arm of some pompous lord and not meddle in things she knows nothing of. Her and her gods.”

He had spat on the ground at that, and Sansa had said nothing, staring at the window. 

She stepped from the litter and Sansa had a strange moment of remembrance. She may not have been able to recognize it before, but when Minisa Mooton stepped from the litter, the look on her face was the same as Cersei Lannisters had been years before. Her hair was strawberry blond, although flicks of gray were starting to appear, along with the wrinkles along the edges of her eyes. As she walked over towards them, Sansa noticed distinctly how thin her gown seemed, silks and myrish lace that caught on a rock tearing slightly as she came towards them, even summers in the North were chilly, and Sansa watched as the goosebumps appeared on her arms. 

“Daughter.”

Her voice was icey as she greeted Margaret, not the response Sansa would have expected of a mother and a daughter reuniting after years apart. The greater snuff seemed to be the meer nod she gave Bennard as an acknowledgement of his presence. Margaret curstied low, as if she were greeting a queen as her voice softly said

“Mother.”

The woman hummed as she walked to look at the children, coldly analyzing each of them, only to pause when she came across Sansa

“You are a beauty.” She spoke as Sansa quietly said thanks, taking Rickon’s hand in hers as he moved closer to her, his gaze staring intently onto Minisa “and how old are you.”

“Fifteen, My Lady.”

She hummed as she looked down at Rickon, freezing slightly before swishing her skirt, tearing the edge of the myrish lace once more as she walked towards Margaret

“I find myself growing chilly dear, please take me to my rooms.”

Despite being posed as a question, there was no doubt it was an order as Margeret quickly moved to obey. Sansa took the note quickly, guiding Rickon to her solar. They sat around the solar as Jeyne read on her chair, absently humming occasionally

“I don’t like her.”

Rickon said finally as he moved to grab his tea, pausing as Sansa gently put her hand on top of it

“It's too hot.” she said quickly as she poured her own “and I don’t find myself liking her either.”

Jeyne hummed again as she placed her book down, slowly coming to stand behind Sansa as she gently carded her fingers through the loose locks

“Maybe the Raven can provide us with insight.”

Sansa pondered softly, as her finger tapped the edge of the cup, setting a certain rhythm that went with Jeyne’s soft hums as she braided her hair

“Maybe we shall need to take no such action, we hold no blood ties, we must simply be cordial with our guest, and leave the care of her to Margaret.”

Rickon looked up with a vague look of disgust,

“Is Margaret going to try and make me put up my hair again?”

Sansa giggled softly as she reached over, her braid lightly thumping against her back as Jeyne let it fall, ruffling his hair as she did so. His hair had grown into a mass of shoulder length scarlett curls, a color eerily close to a flame. It was near impossible to tame, as he let none but Sansa touch it, much to Margaret's chagrin. 

“I won't let her.”

Her voice was firm as she leaned back in her chair, watching as Jeyne moved to stand towards the fire, staring into the flames as she hummed. Softly, the voice luring Rickon to sleep on her settee

Sansa smiled as she stroked his hair, standing slowly

“I am going to go to the gardens, look after him.”

She commanded as she swept from the room. Her wool knitted dress gently swept the ground as she moved the halls, smiling and inquiring with the men and maids she passed, who greeted her in turn with a smile. At times, Sansa expected to turn the corner and find Vayon Poole talking with her father, or Yohn Royce waiting for her to impart his wisdom. But neither would be born for centuries, if at all now.

She removed her cloak as she was hit with the heat of the glass gardens, as the birds that made their homes in the aviaries inside, she smiled as a small yellow bird landed on the ground in front of her, curiously pecking at the ground as Sansa carefully reached into her pocket, pulling out seed as she outreached her hand, inviting the bird closer which it happily did,  picking the seed from her hand happy as she watched it with a smile. As it ate the last of the feed she rose slowly, careful not to disturb it as she made it to where her and Jeyne had made their small setup. 

All of the midwives and healers that had made their home in winterfell were allowed access to the main area of the glass gardens, where apple and lemon trees grew and you could pluck fruit right from the tree and feel the juices run down your chin all year round, but deeper into the gardens was reserved an area for very few, the Starks, and their most trusted. 

A pair of Valyrian songbirds trilled overhead as Sansa sat at the small settee at the base of the desk, a dried flower sitting under glass to protect it from pecking beaks looked back at her. A remarkably common flower in the north, but no less beautiful. Northern Wolfsbane, freshly harvested it seems. Sansa glanced at the plant growing nearby, its flowers a toxic purple as she slowly slipped on gloves, carefully removing the seeds from the flower as her world focused on the mission. Slowly, slowly she removed each part from the flower, carefully placing each bit in its own glass jar, corking each one and placing it in its place on the shelves in front of her. 

Sansa jumped as she heard a throat clear behind her, sending the glass bottle in her hand flying to the ground where it shattered into a million pieces as she turned quickly, before her face fell into one of annoyment

“You cannot be here.”

She said sternly as she watched Minisa Mooton moved with foe grace across the stone cobbles of the walkway, her silken dress tearing on the sharp edges

“This is quiet lovely,” she said sweetly as she moved to touch a flower, its pink petals falling low as the wind rustled them. Sansa quickly moved her hand, stopping her from touching the delicate flower “I wish Karhold had a glass garden like this. My husband insists on keeping only practical things in there.”

“If you wish to enjoy our gardens,” sansa said sternly “then you are free to do so in the public ones, however these are private to only the starks.”

She smiled a sickly sweet smile as she dropped Minisa arm, moving to the door to open it to invite her to leave as Minisa’s face contorted with anger for a second before moving back to her sweet expression

“But my daughter married a Stark, surely that gives me the ability to enter.” 

Sansa smiled back, using her body to prop open the door 

“But you are no Stark, so please leave.”

Minisa smiled

“Fair and honorable to rules, at fifteen how have you not been betrothed yet.”

She added as a jest as she made to leave pausing at the door

“I almost wish you were the heir to the north.”

And she left closing the door as Sansa stood in thought, staring through the glass as she walked away, pondering what she meant by that.

Margaret II

Margaret sat across from her mother, doing her best not to fidget as her cold eyes stared her down, slowly stirring her tea once, then twice, then thrice as a true lady does before taking a slow sip, placing her cup down as she tapped her spoon against the rim

“Have you considered betrothals for my Grandsons yet.”

She asked sharply as she critically watched Margaret stir her own tea. She took a sip herself, hiding her cringe at the bitter taste, but a lady did not add more than one sugar to her tea, so she did not add more. Placing the cup down she nervously swallowed. 

“There is a Blackwood girl close in age to Benjen, along with a Manderly girl. While the Blackwoods are in the Riverlands they follow the old gods, so my husband may hopefully see no fault in marrying them, while the Manderlys-”

“Oh no no no my dear.” Her mother interrupted her, placing a hand over Margarets as she spoke “from what my brother tells me that Blackwood girl is a Heathen training alongside her brothers and preferring to wear trousers to skirts.”

She shuddered as if the thought sickened her

“And the Manderlys? The girl is lovely I'll admit but no blood of mine is going to marry into a house that has to flee its homeland.”

Margaret nodded, placing her hands in her lap as she looked down at them, nodding slowly

“Of course mother, please forget my foolishness. Whom would you suggest.”

“Your niece of course.”

Margaret had to stop herself from gasping at the  suggested, shaking her head

“Sansa? For what purpose would that serve?”

No alliances could be made by marrying a cousin, not any gain for marrying a son of a second son for Sansa.Her mother sent her a condescending smile as Margaret shrinked back into her seat, the gaze withering her soul

“So my grandson can be the Lord of Winterfell.”

Margaret knew her face was full of confusion as she looked at the room, suddenly grateful that it was only the two of them in it.

“Cregan is the heir of Winterfell.”

Her mother smiled again

“Is he the eldest?”

Margaret paused shaking her head as she spoke

“For what does that matter, he is a son, a male heir.”

Minisa hummed, lifting her tea cup to take a small sip, letting the silence permeate the room as they sat on the wooden chairs, a gently snow beginning to fall outside the window

“And yet a woman is to sit the Iron Throne, before her brother. Should the North not follow the president that the king sets, my dear .” she said sharply, her eyes not looking as she stared out the window “You know my dear, you should have been a princess.”

Margaret sighed, rolling her eyes as she took a sip of her tea

“How Mother,”

Her mother had always said those words, talked of how she was born to be a queen. Oh how she had raged when she learned that Alicent Hightower, a daughter of a second son had married the king, but she never bothered to answer the how

“If it weren’t for Saera Targaryen of course, my brother ruined my prospects and shamed our house with that little, dalliance he had.”

Another one of her mothers complaints she had heard a hundred times. Despite the fact that Margarets uncle and aunt seemed to have lived a happy life together, with their son being the one who now ruled Maidenpool. Walys was a nice boy who regularly liked to share letters with his only cousin, along with the small letters his daughter would include, Catelyn also shared a joy of sharing letters with Margaret’s boys, despite their reluctance to read about their cousin's girly pursuits.

She was all that Sansa pretended to be.

Oh she may put on a good show for the Lords and Lady’s, acting as a contrast to the rumors coming out of Bear Isle of her sister, or even her brothers betrothed. The Lord of the North had a fondness for her, all of them whispering over the daughter of Lord Stark, oh the tragedy of the girl. 

She did not fool Margaret. 

She could wear the dresses, she could curtsy and do the smiles, but she was no true Lady. A true Lady would not go down into wintertown and talk to the commoners. Nor would she go out into the fields with her uncle to bring water and food to the men tending them. She would not spend hours with that, witch.

Oh Jeyne Moss may pretend to be just a simple woods witch, a healer with herbs and yet, Margaret could see how she looked at Sansa and Rickon.

As if they were gods.

“She's a heathen.” Margaret muttered “Sansa, Rickon as well. And yet they fool everyone.”

Minisa smiled softly, moving forward to cup her face. Margaret couldn’t help but push her face gently into it as her mother smiled

“Then we shall have our heir with her and do away with her. Our blood is all that matters.”

A knock sounded at the door as a maid cautiously opened the door, peaking through as the sound of a baby wailing made its way through the chamber

“Forgive me my Lady, I know you said not to be disturbed, but he won’t stop crying.”

Margaret stood quickly, taking the small bundle from the servants arms, quickly shushing and rocking the babe. Benjen had been an easy babe, and so had Brandon. They had come quickly and seemed to prefer being held by the servants and not by her. But this little one, oh her little heart. 

Her mother's hair had appeared to have skipped a generation, only repairing the slight tufts on her son's head. As she held him he stopped crying, his little hand wrapping around a lock of her hair, holding it tightly as she sat down across from her mother, unable to help the coo that came from her mouth at the sound her boy made

She looked up to see a sneer across her mothers face as she looked at the babe, quickly taking a sip of her tea as if in an attempt to hide it, but rather poorly

“Let the servants handle the child dear. It's not as if he shall remember any of this anyway.”

Her sneer was obvious as the child moved in arms, quickly taking Margarets attention again as she fixed the small blanket that was wrapped around him

“Don’t worry about him, mother, he falls right asleep most times that I hold him.” She cood again as her son looked at her with wide curious eyes “Will you stay for his naming, Mother.” 

Margaret hated how full of hope her voice was, internally cringing as her mother made a disgusted face

“Such a vile tradition, withholding something as important as a name from the babe until his first name day. I see no reason as to why I should. I took no such precautions with you and your brother.”

Margaret nodded, unsurprised with her mothers response. Despite them having been in the same castle for Benjen and Brandons namings, her mother had missed them as well. Uncaring for the looks the Northerns gave. She could almost hear the hissed whispers in her ear as she thought that “Northern Heathens, no opinion of theirs is one I wish to share.”

“Besides, with it being so close you must have already chosen a name, so let's hear it.”

Margaret swallowed as she stared at the little babe with pale hair, a smile crossing her face as she tickled his stomach, causing him to let out the cutest giggle. Had Benjen and Brandon laughed like that, had they ever laughed because of something she had done

“Edric.”

She whispered finally as his hand grabbed her finger, holding tightly against all odds.

Arya I

The water lapped around Arya’s ankles as she walked the along the shoreline, holding the hem of her pants up as she searched the mud, her rake moving in and out of the mud, a wide smile crossing her face as she picked up the clam, throwing it into her bucket as she made her way onto shore, sitting on the sand with a huff as she watched Freya continue to clam from her comfortable spot. 

Oysters, Clams and Cockles.

Arya swallowed slightly, closing her eyes as she looked out over the water. The waves further out were rough, the peaks of white peeking through more frequently. Very rarely they would see a ship, not a fishing ship or a small ferry to carry one to the mainland, but a true ship. Usually blown off course by a storm, or raided by Ironman long before it drifted northwards. 

The island, was peaceful.

The man only ever bought Oysters.

Arya closed her eyes again, taking a deep breath of the sea air before opening them again, her hand coming to rest on where Needle sat in the sand beside her. 

“And what are you planning to do with that, Aye?”

The voice caught her off guard as she looked up, squinting slightly as Freya stood in front of the sun, the edge of her hair caught the golden light, making her brunette curls glow

“Thought I saw a ship.” 

Arya lied, it slipped from her lips so easily she almost believed it herself. Freya hummed, turning to look over the water, her hand shielding her from the sun

A courtesan had asked her for some sauce. She had none to give her.

“Let's get these Clams to the kitchens.” Freya said steadily, reaching her hand down to pull Arya from the sand.

Despite being only a moon older than her, Freya was already close to two heads taller, and built for the rugged terrain of Bear Isle, the fearsome ax she would train with in the grounds only completing the image of a shield maiden.

Nymeria came up beside Arya, curiously sniffing the bucket before making a small gagging noise looking away as Arya laughed, ruffling her fur

“It's just clams.”

Freya joined her in the laughter as they passed the statues at the entrance to the keep, the eyes of the mother on them as her ax glinted in the son and the babe suckled on her breast. 

Inside the keep was full of life as they dropped off the clams in the kitchens, meandering their way through training yards and conversations before they settled in the godswood, Arya laying down amongst the roots as Nymaria settled on the lap, closing her eyes against the glimpses of sunlight peeking through the leaves and onto her eyes. Freya settled with a huff to the otherside of her. Arya smiled, leaning her head against her shoulder. Her eyes never opened.

But she saw.

Nymeria’s eyes blinked open, looking up at where the Faceless Pup and the Bear Cub were laying side by side on the roots. She moved off of her lap, stretched her back before trotting off deeper into the forest. The dirt under her paws felt different that when they were on the mainland, sandier. 

A smell drifted by on a breeze, a light thing that Nymeria had difficulty following after, seemingly never truly getting clower no matter how long she chased after it. But she chased it, because she knew that smell. 

The flying wolf. 

His master had never given him a name, or at least, not one that Nymeria knew. But she knew him. He who had traveled further than the rest of the pack but now always watched over them. 

Very rarely was his sent this strong. 

They made their way to a small grove, the sent growing strong as the pines pulled back to reveal a small stream and a raven sitting in the middle. Three eyes blinking as she sat on her haunches, tilting her head. It moved its beak forward, shifting the Pups tooth towards her. But the tooth was sitting back where the Pup was. Moving closer, she saw a small marking upon the blade, one that was not on the tooth.

Not on the tooth sitting near here. 

“Wake up.”

Arya sat up with a gasp, taking deep breaths as Freya moved languidly besides her, stretching out

“What going on.”

Arya shocked her head, laying back down against the root, looking over to where Nymeria was bounding through the trees, her tongue lolled out as she chased a leaf rolling along the ground. 

“Nothing,” Arya said, looking at the sky “thought I heard something.”

She explained away, her hand rotating the handle of needle, staring down at the mark of the workman on the blade. It was the mark of the smith in winterfell, but not Mikan’s. It wasn’t Needle . 

“Girls!”

A voice called out as they both sat up, looking to where Lady Mormont was walking, towards them, Freya’s younger sister sitting in her arms, babbling out what may have been an attempt at their names. Freya smiled, standing up and offering Arya her hand which she gladly took.

Cregan II

The Norrey keep was up high in the mountain’s, the air thin and clean. If you looked north you could see the wall, its blue ice glowing in the morning sun. The snow never melted here, leaving the peaks always a pure white, peaks of icey rocks could be seen here and there. Evergreen trees were the only colors beside the shades of gray and white. It was what many in the south would call a Winter Wonderland that would be in their songs, the ones that Sansa would sing to him. Those same southerns with no real love of Winter. 

But that was not the most beautiful thing in the Norrey Lands. At least not to Cregan. 

It was Arra Norrey. 

Her hair a mess of Ginger curls she kept short, framing her round face, covered in freckles. Her warm hazel eyes manage to catch the light just so to color them golden, her freckles kissing her cheeks and her gap toothed smile only completing her beauty. 

She let the arrow fly from her bow, laughing slightly as she hit the target, stepping back and flipping her hair as she turned to look at him, her face one of confusion

“What?”
Cregan shrugged, looking away as his hair hid her from his view, looking to where he was supposed to shoot his own arrow. It hits it on the second ring from the inside, good, but not as good as Arra’s. 

“Loosen up, Cregan.”

Cregan sighed, putting the bow down as he did so fiddling with where the feathers on the back of the arrow

“Bows aren’t my thing Arra.”

“ Bows aren’t my thing, Arra. ” 

she repeated, deepening her voice as if to mock him, smirking at the annoyed look he sent her, before leaning on her bow, raising her eyebrow as Cregan’s scowl deepened, looking down before making to move into the keep, stumbling forward as something hit his back. 

Turning as he looked at Arra, her own face in a scowl as she threw a snowball up and down in her hand, her scowl turning into a smirk

“Don’t walk away from me, Stark.”

Cregan groaned, before the snowball hit him in the face, removing any thoughts he had of just leaving. Rather he charged, tackling Arra into the snow much to her humor it seemed as she grabbed a handful of snow, shoving it down the front of shirt as he did the same to the back of hers, both of them writhing in the snow as they desperately tried to get the small amounts of snow out of their shirts, their laughter filling the air. 

Arra turned to look at him with a small smile before raising an eyebrow

“I'm serious Cregan, don’t walk away from me.”

Cregan smiled, taking her hand in his

“Never, I swear on the old gods.”

Arra smiled looking up at the sky from their snowy seat. The quiet of the north took over them, no birds singing, no men doing their work, just Quiet in the way only the North could be, Cregan assumed. It was Arra that broke that silence.

“How do they expect us to marry?” She said softly from their spot as Cregan turned to look at her, a confused look on his face as she looked towards them “I mean, I hear my brother talk of his marriage, of all the things he has to do.”

She said the last bit with a note of disgust, looking towards the sky

“It just seems,” she sighed, shaking her head “I don’t know.”

Cregan nodded, looking up towards the sky as well. A crow flew overhead as he tried to figure out what to say. He thought of his mother and father, of how they would fight, fight loud, fight dirty and more than anything, fight angry. It would scare him, and Sansa would be his only grounder when he could hear their screams from their room. But, they would never let it end them. And his father died without her

“Well figure it out.”

Arra nodded, leaning her head against his shoulder. 

Chapter Text

Benjen I

The tavern of wintertown was alive with merriment as Benjen sat in the back corner, watching as some of the working girls made their way through the men. One with red hair caught his eye, her smile was lopsided and she had too many freckles, Benjen considered as he sipped his ale, sniffing slightly at its bitterness. The girl sat down in the lap of a patron, the bust of her dress slipping down to reveal her bosom. The man seemed to take much delight in that, his hard coming to grip it hard. 

His mother would surely flay him alive for even being down her, he could almost hear her shrill of decency and the den of debauchery he had found himself in. He was lucky he was even able to sneak out of the keep long enough to have a drink without her realizing what he was doing

Or his father tanning his hide.

“Never thought I’d see a Stark in a place like this.”

A cold voice broke him out of his thoughts, looking up at the cold eyes that met him. He seemed an average northern, the eyes being the only remarkable thing about him. So pale they were almost white, like moons staring down at him

“And who do I have the pleasure of meeting?”

Benjen asked carefully, fixing his posture as the sound around them continued, uncaring for the encounter happening in amongst them

“Domeric Bolton, heir of the dreadfort.”

His voice was eerily monotone, no note of inflection on any word, despite the small smirk that crossed his face as he sat down next to Benjen. His hand coming to rest on the back of the chair behind him, taking a deep sip of Benjen’s ale

“I thought that Domeric Bolton was the Lord of the Dreadfort?”

The thought slipped out before Benjen froze, his eyes wide as the boy made a face at that, tilting his head softly as he did so

“My father. He wasn’t very creative when it came to names.”

He said as his eyes drew over to the red headed whore, his smirk growing as he leaned into Benjen’s side, his arm coming to rest on his shoulder as he pulled him in shaking him softly

“Why have you come here, Stark?”

He questioned slowly, his hand moving up his arm to cup the back of Benjen’s neck, pulling him closer as Benjen gulped looking up towards him, unable to form an answer as Domeric smiled, looking towards the red headed girl. He moved to stand. 

He walked towards the red haired girl and pulled her off of the man's lap, tossing some coins on the table before he ripped the top of her dress, much to the other patrons delight as they drunkenly cheered. She began to lead Domeric away towards the stairs, no doubt to a separate room. As he moved he shot Benjen a questioning look.

Benjen sat for a second, watching as the merriment continued around him, more whores were working around him, brunettes and blondes, none of them with that same red hair.

It was not honorable, for him to even be here would be a disservice to his mother. Every second he spent was a betrayal of her.

Yet he thought of his maiden fair. Her pale skin and red hair. She had just smiled at him today while playing with her brother and the blood had gone straight to his member. 

What would she think of him here? Would she shame him, or would she accept it with a grace as she did his mothers insults.

He looked towards the stairs again.

He would not do it again.

He downed his drink and moved towards the stairs.

Margaret II

Margaret sat in front of the mirror, gently brushing out her dark hair in the quiet of her room. Her mother had left her with many things to think about, and a task. As the door swung open he husband strode into their shared rooms, sitting on the bed with a sigh.

“Remind me why your mother had to visit again?”

Margaret hummed, gently braiding her hair as she thought a response

“She wanted to check on Edrik. He is only a babe after all, and the only one of her grandchildren she had yet to meet.”

Bennard huffed as he stretched out on the bed, the only part of his day to day wear not on him being his boots

“She already trying to fill his head with southern shit.”

Margaret placed down her brush staring at her eyes in the mirror at that. Swallowing down her pride she stood and moved towards the beds

“Bedtime stories do not harm love. Benjen loved the tales of knights and their maidens.”

She remembered the words that he had said to her that first day when he looked at Sansa Stark and had to contain her flinch. Bedtime stories can do harm.

“And he wanted to be one. I had to ring his head like a bell in the yard to get that notion out of his head.”

Benjen had nursed a black eye and a split lip for a week after that, and oh how she had screamed at Bennard for what he had done to her boy.

They fell into silence as Margaret sat on the bed, Bennard stripping to prepare to sleep. Swallowing her tongue Margaret finally began

“Any word of Cregan lately.”

She watched as Bennard sent her a strange look, sitting in front of her, hand resting on her knee through the sheets

“You have never asked after him before?”

Margaret shrugged as she looked out the window

“I was thinking over betrothals for Benjen, and I recalled his recent betrothal to that clans girl.”

Bennard hummed looking forward as he thought

“By all accounts he and Arra are at least friends. Hopefully it will be a good match.”

A Heathen as lady of the north again. The clans were all glorified wildlings and had cursed the rest of them by choosing the right side of the wall

Margaret hummed as she pulled her braid

“Have you had any proposals for Sansa.”

The name felt bitter on her mouth as she said it, and his laugh made it only more so as he smiled fondly

“Have I ever, half the North seems to wish to marry her. Some were outright preposterous. Lord Bolton even asked before he married that Flint girl.”

Margaret gapped at him as he said it, shaking her head

“He would be old enough to be her father, and before he married that girl, she would have been thirteen.”

She had not been much older, when she had been married to Bennard, but sixteen was a different story, and even this far north she had heard of the horrors of Queen Aemma’s early pregnancies and labors.

She may not like Sansa, but no lady needed to be subjected to that, especially at the hands of Lord Bolton.

“I rejected it, gods be good no Stark will marry a Bolton. ” He sneered the name, pausing a beat before continuing”There have been some decent ones however. The Manderlys have a son about her age, as well as the Cerwyns, and I hear he is a close friend of Cregan’s, them both being warded at Castle Norrey.”

Margaret hummed as she looked towards him. In this low light, he almost looked knightly, his nose tracing against the flickering flames. 

“For all my faults with the girl.” she said carefully, watching as her husband's eyes turned to look at her “I do sometimes wish it was her rather than her brother that would one day rule the North.”

Bennard looked at her with confusion before looking forward

“A mad thought.”

Margaret shrugged, moving to sit up beside him, settling her chin on his shoulder as she pretended to ponder aloud

“We are to be ruled by a queen soon enough, who has younger brothers. The throne seems to be setting a president does it not? The eldest inherits.”

Bennard laughed as he shook his head

“Cregan is the eldest.”

Margaret shrugged, letting her hand run along his arm, his ghastly tattoos faintly visible in the light

“Is he?”

Bennard looked out the window, over the lightly snowy fjords as he shook his head

“This talk is madness, the whole north expects me to stand aside for Cregan’s ascension.”

Margaret joined him in looking out over the fjords

“You have been grooming Sansa to rule since you first came here, consciously or not. She sits in the solar and aids you in ruling does she not. Not to mention how the Lord's of the Winter Council adore her” she stretched her words long as she settled her hand. Margaret turned to look at him, forcing her eyes to be soft. “She would be willing to listen to your counsel, much more than a teenage boy would ever. Maybe that is the kind of ruler the North needs.”

Bennard took her hand in his, although looking past her seemingly to stare at the wall

“Many lords will fight back, Cregan will likely fight back.”

Margaret smiled as he finally looked at her

“But we shall be fighting for the North.”

Bennard sighed as he looked back forward

“The girl is like a daughter to me Margaret, I don’t wish to put that stress on her. Fighting her brother would be an awful thing.”

Margaret nodded as she pulled her hand back, it coming to rest in her lap

“So rule the North through the battle, and then make her its ruler when peace has finally settled.” she swallowed her next words as she closed her eyes “I am sorry I could never provide you with the daughter you long for.”

Bennard shook his head, taking her hand

“I do not blame you for that, I never have. And we are still young. Perhaps on the cusp of the war we seem to be brewing, we can bring some joy.”

Margaret looked up at him eyes wide before swallowing, hand coming to rest over her stomach, still soft from Edrik.

“The maester says it has been long enough, we may try for another if you wish.”

Bennard smiles

“Maybe a girl who looks like me. All our children look strikingly like you.”

Gods no, she thought, if it's to be a girl, let her look nothing like him. 

She had a restless sleep that night.

Royce I

The dungeons of the dreadfort were a drafty place. A shrill wind always managed to make the cracks and crevices of the place sing an eirie tune. Skeletal hands jutted out of the walls occasionally holding torches that were rarely lit. At the end of one corridor, in a little room to the side, was Royces home.

A bed had been shoved in a corner, and a little desk next to it where he would sit to sharpen his knife. The walls were lined with preserved skins that his ancestors had made. It was the only room in the dungeons that regularly received light, although only from the fire that Royce himself would stalk. 

A fitting place for a lowborn bastard. 

A rare sight here, was Lord Domeric Bolton himself. As of late, especially, to focused on impregnating his young new wife to care for the bastard he got on a millers wife. 

“Royce. I have a job for you.”

Royce slowed the sharpening of his blade to look at his father. There was a multitude of things that job could entail. Domeric Bolton would often pass of the dirty work to his bastards, prefering to keep his trueborn son’s hands (and his own) clean. For who would care of those with bastard blood. 

But off all those jobs, he entrusted the dirtiest to Royce. 

Royce was lucky to even be able to bear the name Snow, as he was often reminded

“There is a girl, last cell before your chambers. Do what you wish with her, but make it long.”

With that his father left, and Royce collected his equipment. Despite what many would thing, Royce held no enjoyment of pain. Screams did nothing for him. Unlike Domeric, his half brother. 

Domeric would drag an innocent girl down to the dungeons just to keep her there for weeks, taking delight in the slow, dragged out torture. In the end, the cell would be covered in bodily fluids that Royce would have preferred to not think about. 

Domeric made him clean it either way. 

Who would care of those with bastard blood. 

The girl looked to be around Royces age, her dress already torn and bloody as she frantically tried to look for escape. He had no clue what she could have done to ensure his fathers wrath, but he knew better than to question it(the scar on his back that would come back sometimes always would).

The girl gasped as she looked at him, desperately pulling back as he advanced forward, putting his instruments down on the table as she began to beg. Royce closed his eyes for a second, taking in a deep breath as he counted to ten, shutting off that part of him begging to help her. 

He turned, holding his flaying knife as he rushed her, holding his arm against her throat to the wall. He was sure the jagged stone was digging into her back, maybe even leaving rough cuts against it by the way she gasped and began to cry more

“Please, I won’t say anything. I won’t say what it saw.”

Foolish girl, Royce absently thought as he pressed his knife into the soft flesh, Only those of Bolton blood had lived to see the dungeons of the dreadfort. 

Even if it was dirty.

Sansa II

Sansa had turned seventeen once before. 

She had been in the vale, pretending to be Alayne still. She had dyed her hair that morning, recovering her roots at Petyrs urging the night before. There was no mention by the others of her nameday, none of them knew that it even was. Alayne had been given a different nameday by Petyr. (if she had persuaded him to give her Catelyn’s nameday, well no one ever called her on that)

She had gone to sleep that night another year older, and held no cares of it. 

And if silent tears had fallen into her pillow that night, well no one had been able to tell the morning after. 

The tension at the breakfast table was heavy, as sansa slowly ate her meal, enjoying the cooks blood puddings and bacon and washing it all down with a waterdown ale. On the table was a litany of other foods, many of which Rickon piled onto his plate, shoving down whatever he could with his hands, using his knife and spoon as little as he could possibly get away with. From her position she could see Margaret smearing slightly as she ate her oats with her spoon, carefully eating as little as she could with her hands. Even as she spears a piece of bacon with her knife.

Benjen’s head was hung low, gripping it in one of his hands as he ate little, only small chunks of bread and sipping on water from a cup. He let out a small groan as he looked up, reaching for the pitcher of water to pour himself a fresh cup, avoiding the light of the torches with his hands. 

The only one at the meal that seemed to posses a measure of joy was her uncle. He sipped his flaggon of ale with great enjoyment as he ate a little of everything from the table, some drippings getting caught in his beard as he did so. He was conversing with Brandon as the younger boy ate a meager meal, seemingly picking up on his mothers discontent with the others eating habits. On a table besides them, a maid was feeding Edrik some sort of mashed up fruit, which the babe was seemingly having more fun throwing around them truely eating. 

With a slamming of his flaggon his uncle rose, attracting the attention of the other in the hall, some lesser lord and servants gathered in the seating hall all to join them in breaking their fast. Her uncles voice boomed out over the hall as he smiled greatly

“Those that have gathered here today I thank you. While my dear niece insisted on nothing grand for this occasion to prepare for the coming winter. I find myself wishing to say something aways.” he turned to look at her “Sansa I have watched you become a wonderful young lady, and to think it feels like only yesterday I was bouncing you on my knee as I taught you of Northern Politics.”

She feigned a blush, looking down at her meal to contain the laugh she wished to release. She had more experience truly ruling the North than her uncle had at that time, and through much more difficult times as well. If anything it had been her teaching him.

“And all I can say is. I do not believe your father could have left the north in more capable hands.” Sansa looked up with wide eyes, “Sansa Stark, heir of Winterfell, I hope seven and ten proves to be as fruitful as six and ten.”

She looked around with panic across the hall, her expression mirrored on many others in this hall as whispers filled the hall. Rickon pulled on her sleeve impatient, a questioning look on his face as Sansa quickly shushed him as well. 

Her uncle had sat down, and was smiling at her fondly. She found her own expression mirrored on Benjen and Brandon’s faces. Benjen’s exhaustion clear as he rubbed head, looking at his father as if he had imagioned what his father had said. Brandon was looking directly at her with an expression that she did not wish to read beyond the shock. And margaret.

Margaret was looking at her with a small smirk. As she carefully took a spoonful of food, eating it delicately as she stared at Sansa. Sansa felt her throat constrict as she looked at her with such joy. Her eyes drifted over to Benjen before back to Margaret. 

Out of the corner of her she saw Jeyne leave the room. She swallowed before tapping Rickon on the thigh thrice, before he spilled his drink down the front of his woolen shirt.

“Shit.”

He called out, calling attention to him as Margaret sent him a critical look

“That is not appropriate language for a young Lord, Rickon, much less at the high table”

Her voice sharp as he sheepishly tried to clean him shirt, Sansa aiding him in it as Bennard laughed

“Leave the boy be Margaret he meant no harm.”

Margaret was tight lipped as she glanced at her husband, before looking towards Rickon

“He shall need to change before he can begin his day.”

Sansa smiled at her, as she stood

“Come along Rickon, lets find you a new tunic.”

Rickon took her hand as they left the hall, Sansa’s smile falling as she saw they were alone, rushing Rickon through the halls to her chambers. She closed the door carefully, pulling the lock through before looking towards Jeyne

“Send word to Cregan.”

She hated how her voice shook as she spoke. How she felt unprepared for this possibility. She had assumed her Uncle would just do has he had in history. He was nearing that point already with how long he had ruled the North for. She had hoped she would have been able to steer the North away from war. 

But there was no question now. 

Cregan would have to raise his banners, there was no question of it. He had been the uncontested heir to the north from the second they had been born. He would one day become one of the greatest leaders of the North. Robb had spent hours pouring over the books that detailed his life, preparing for his own rule of the North one day.  

Her uncle had not given up his power, and so Cregan had fought him, earning the respect of his banner men.

Oh the Lords of the North. The Winter Council?

What would they think of her, of Rickon.

Her uncle could position her as the one whose idea it had been. No, Margaret would be the one to do that, if thats what it took to save the lives of her children. Or even for less. 

“I-” Her voice felt weak, and she could feel Rickons eyes on her “I should write a letter to him.”

She forced her voice to be more confident as she walked towards her desk, and towards where she kept her stationary. Would Cregan believe her words? Him, her twin. Cersei had always spoken of her twin as her other half, as the person she loved most in the world beside her children. Whether that had been because of their sibling bond or the, other sins they shared, Sansa was unsure. 

But she did love Cregan. 

He reminded her so much of her brothers before. And he loved his family, oh how he loved them. After their mothers death he had been despondent, cutting himself off from anyone but them. He had sobbed into her arms, but he had never done so in front of others. 

They used to lie on the ground of the godswood and cloud gaze. Arya would often join them, but there were times it was just them. They wouldn’t talk always, but just sit. They didn’t always need to talk. She knew his heart, and he knew hers.

It had been years since she had seen him, would he still trust her to the extent he had when they were children. They had sent letters but would the care and love she had felt in them be able to withstand this.

Her quill hovered over the paper as she took a deep breath, forcing herself to to be calm, and for her hand to not shake as she wrote.

Chapter Text

Cregan III

Cregan stared at the letter before him his spoon hanging empty as all the meal had dropped out as he read the letter, his uncle's sprawling scrawl mocking him as the words faded in and out of his vision

My dearest Nephew 

I must say I am worried, Cregan. I am hearing reports of you falsely claiming that you are to be the future Lord of the north and I must hope that they are false. I know your mother and father would have raised you better than to steal your sister's birthright as the eldest. After all princess Rhaenyra herself would likely come to her aid, in the case that your falsehoods continue as such. And I am finding myself in agreement.

Tread carefully Cregan, I would not wish to become a kinslayer, but for Sansa’s claim I would be willing 

Bennard Stark,

Regent to Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the north.

The paper Crumpled slightly in his hand as he stared down the table, crackling slightly as he forced himself to breath.

Sansa wouldn't, Sansa couldn't have done this. In no way had his sister changed so dramatically in the years that had passed apart, nor would she have lied in her letters to him. 

His sisters could lie, Cregan knew, he had played enough games and watched enough mischief to know their skills, but they always kept to their promise. 

Around each other, they were allowed to drop the facades. Around them he wasn't The future Lord of winterfell, he was Cregan. They were maybe the only people he could be that with.

Vaguely, he felt Arra take the letter from his hand as he swallowed, closing his eyes and taking a breath in for a second.

It had been years since he and Sansa had seen each other, all the while she was under his uncle's influence. What if he was wrong. How well did he truly know his twin? Was he even remembering the shade of her hair or her eyes right? 

And he released the breath opening his eyes to see Alaric Norrey and his daughters all staring at him, and he vaguely felt Jory Cerwyns eyes to his side

“Call a meeting of the Winter Council, my uncle is now in open rebellion of his liege Lord.” He kept his voice firm and even as he spoke, staring past Lord Norrey as he did so “send word to my grandfather as well, he has the capacity to host them all better.”

The stone behind Alaric shifted as the girls left, Arra gently touching his shoulder as he did so, the small touch sending his head spirling as his breath quickened. Cregan closer his eyes taking a deep breath, opening his eyes as he let it out

The Lord of Winterfell does not cry.

Alaric moved to stand beside him resting his hands on the table as he looked at him. Alaric looked much like Arra, wild ginger curls that descended down to a matching beard. The main difference beyond said beard being the bald spot one could notice subtly growing on his head, although Alaric desperately tried to hide it. His hand came to rest on Cregan's shoulder as he sighed.

Alaric’s hand was calloused like many Northern man’s, and his other hand went to pull on his curls as he stared down at Cregan. Cregan knew Alaric had been a warrior proper in his youth, and had watched him spar with his battle axe enough times to not underestimate his prowess. But Alaric seemed to be on the verge of some emotion, of which Cregan could not name.

“Cregan, I must tell you that what your sister seems to be doing-”

“No.” Cregan said firmly as Alaric looked at him with wide eyes, Cregan’s voice shocking him  “This isn’t Sansa’s doing, it's Bennard and that, that, bitch Margarets mark my words. I have talked to Sansa, she is my twin. She would never do this, she never showed any interest in ruling.”

His voice was more confident than he was, Cregan thought for a moment as his chest heaved as he looked towards the wall once more. He wouldn’t have Alaric, or any of the other Lords question his sister's honor. 

Sansa was more a Stark than Bennard or his whelps were, he would not have lords question that to his face. 

He stood then, swallowing as he looked at Alaric. He was no longer just a ward of his, he thought bitterly as he straightened his poster. He was Alaric’s liege Lord, and who this man had entrusted his daughter to. He would prove to him worthy, 

He would be the Lord of Winterfell

“Send word to Lord Glover to expect us in a fortnight. And tell him to expect my sister as well, she has been on Bear Isle for long enough.”

He needed all the family he could get.

Deepwood Motte was not the most secure of the castles in the North. Cregan stood in the watchtower as the lords and ladies of the North slowly filed in. He leaned against its side, tapping his hand in a steady pattern as he hummed a song, the letter in his other hand filling his head. He had read over its contents a million times over, to the point he was sure he had it memorized. Sansa’s looping elegant script so her as the letters lengthen, showing her panic. 

Cregan,

I believe our Uncle intends to usurp your place as Lord of the North. In truth, I almost expected some conflict to come from his wardship of the North, but not like this. I had foreseen him not giving up his regency. If I had known that this was to happen I would have done something you must believe. 

I do not want to rule the North, Cregan. I want to stand by your side and aid you in ruling the north as you have a horde of pups. I wish to be your hand, your confidant, your sister and twin. Know that whatever they tell you about my intentions, that is the truth of it. 

I will try to get what word I can out to you, Jeyne has been indispensable in that regard. In addition I may use my outings to Wintertown as a cover as well. But I fear what they may do shall they find out. I wish to protect Rickon beyond any harm they may do to me. 

Your Twin and Loving Sister

Sansa

He swallowed as he closed his eyes, hearing the footsteps coming up beside him on the wood planks. They did not talk immediately, simply looking at him from where they had paused

“Almost the Full Winter Court came, Cregan.” Arra spoke gently, joining him in leaning against the railing, him returning to staring down at the servants milling about, they were little more than dots below them, akin to ants from this high “they are waiting for you.”

Cregan nodded, shoving the letter in his pocket

“Who didn’t show.”

Arra hadn’t taken her eyes off of him he realized as he looked back, and he wished it didn’t make his heart flutter slightly as she nodded

“Lord Karstark, seems he is siding with his goodson. No word from the Reeds of course but I see them sticking in their swamps to wait this one out. Many of the houses close to Winterfell sent word, as well Lord Hornwood, Lady Harclay and Lady Ryswell. Lady Harclay is apparently snowed in and shant be coming out soon.” 

She laughed slightly at that, the Harclays and the Norreys were both of the mountains, though the Harclay’s seat sat high up in the mountains. They regularly had marriages between them, Arra’s own brother and Harclays youngest daughter being among them. 

The paused turned into something different as she went to speak again, as it trying to figure out how to word it

“And Lord Bolton,” her words were careful as Cregan stiffened, be too much like a Bolton to capitalize on any weakness in house stark “sent a representative. According to him, Lord Bolton wishes to see to his new wife's pregnancy to term before leaving the dreadfort.”

Cregan shook his head, spitting slightly as he did so

“Coward. So is his heir here?”

Arra shook her head as she finally tore her eyes away, and Cregan missed them before he shook his head again, chasing that thought from his head

“His Bastard. Wasn’t even aware he had one named Royce.”

Cregan wasn’t either. While the Norrey’s keep got news slow, they still got news, and he had lived long enough in Winterfell for a boy old enough to send a message to have been born then. He knew of many of them, at his last count, 5. 

Yet Lord Bolton had always struggled to have true born children, his heir being the only one. 

Cregan hummed as he began to walk down the steps of the tower, slowly ever so slowly going over the plan he had made for what it was he was going to say. He couldn’t allow his uncle to simply take the north, but by that same metric, he couldn’t besmirch Sansa’s name to the eyes of the North. 

There will also be the expectation for him to set his Winter Council. The most trusted lords of the North that would be the ones he would see most often. His fathers were mostly still alive, but there were some he had only ever met briefly that nowadays rarely left their keeps. 

He wished he had Sansa and Arya here right now. Sansa would know what to say, how to best navigate this politically and Arya would have some comment on the Lords of the North that would have cut the tension. He wished the council could compose of just them. 

He pushed open the door to the longhall, hearing the whispers of the Winter Court go quiet. He felt all the eyes on him, waiting, expecting. He forced his posture up straighter as he walked, Arra a few paces behind him. 

The Norrey’s as his betrothed had been given high honor at the court, placed at the very front and were among the last people he saw. He ascended the steps and took a deep breath. 

He did not wish to count the amount of eyes watching him at that moment. He turned, keeping his face firm as he scanned the tops of the heads. The hall seemed to be holding a breath, waiting for him to speak as he took one more breath, praying to the gods that his voice did not break

“My Lords of the North, I am sure many of you are wondering what news has occurred for me to summon all of you. And I am also sure that the most astute among you have noticed who is not here.”

He began to pace the front of the dias, his hand resting upon the blade hung along his belt. Mummers began through the court as they looked around, theorizing among themselves

“My Uncle, through the false idea of uplifting my sister's claim, has stolen Winterfell.”

He could hear the outraged cries fill the hall at that as he took another deep breath. Briefly he caught Jory’s eye, sat amongst the Norrey’s as their ward. He nodded slightly, although a slight fire burned in his eyes as Cregan spoke once more

“For all purposes now, I consider my Uncle in open rebellion of his liege lord. I had forgiven previous slights, had even let his regency extend far past my coming of age for the simple reason of Family. I see now I had false hope in him.”

He swallowed as he carefully considered his next words

“In addition he has for all purposes made my brother and sister hostages in their own home. Winterfell, the keep that has been the safe haven for us Starks for millennia, turned prison for our own. Another crime to add to the list of them.”

“And how do you know your sister was not part of this man.” Cregan looked towards the man talking. It was not one he recognized, the sigil on his breastplate however was of house Locke, he looked however too young to be its Lord “after all it's her claim they are promoting.”

He made to answer when another voice called out

“Are you questioning my sister's honor, Locke?”

He glanced towards the Mormont table and couldn't help the wide smile that crossed his face as Arya rose slowly, languidly walking towards Locke with her hand resting on her blade, a cat like grin on her face

“My Lady I meant no insult, but we cannot know her intentions.”

“And you think you know her more than her own blood, than her own twin.”

Arya asked coldly, standing over where The Locke was sitting. Cregan subtly took in his sister for the second, his heart aching for the years they had missed together.

Arya was sixteen, and every bit a Stark. Her face was long and her features sharp, her dark hair was kept short, with two braids left long framing her face. 

In the years they had been apart Arya had grown from a child to a woman.

If she had changed that much, and Cregan certainly had, he wondered how much Sansa had. Would he even recognize her? He was sure that she was beautiful, he had heard the rumors and her letters had spoken of the Lord's vying for her hand.

She may look like their mother.

Cregan forced himself out of his thoughts, clearing his throat to call the halls attention back to him

“Thank you, Arya for defending our sister, I am sure however that Lord Locke meant no harm. Did he, My lord?”

He posed the words as a question, but spoke it as a threat, raising his eyebrow as he watched the man's throat bob, shaking his head

“No my lord, forgive me, my lady.”

Arya simply hummed, turning towards him with a small smirk, bowing slightly before walking back over to the Mormonts leaning against one of the other girls there, her knee propped up on the bench as she eyed the room, like a predator eyeing up her prey.

“Anyone else have any questions?”

Cregan asked out over the crowd, glad to be met with a heavy silence. He did another stalk of the front, letting the eyes follow him before stopping.

“If we are all in agreement then, I will send summons to those who will be the commanders in the army in an hour. You are all dismissed.”

The crowd moved away from Cregan as he stood there, watching as they all made their way back to the camp, until slowly, there were just a few people left. Arra and Alaric were watching him, as he walked towards Arya, who stood once more. Walking towards him as well

“You're taller.”

He said, and she laughed, shaking her head as she did so. Stopping moving as she just laughed

“That's certainly brave coming from you, Cregan. Gods it's ridiculous.”

Cregan laughed two, pulling her closer as he hugged her tight. He felt her hesitate for a second before hugging him back. 

Sansa III

Sansa could feel the blades running over her skin as she screamed, her hands held over her ears and her eyes closed tight. She knew if she opened them, she would see nothing more than the room she was laying in, a room that was for all purposes safe. But she could feel it. Could feel the knife slowly tearing through her skin, carving scars that were no longer there. 

And she could hear him, if she tried hard enough. 

She could hear all of them, sometimes. 

But she wished she couldn’t. 

Her throat was hoarse as she continued to scream, the desire for water continuing to grow as she distantly felt a hand rest across her forehead, gently mopping away sweat with a towel as well. 

The knife moved along her spine, taunting her almost as pain continued to rack through her body. She couldn’t help the spasm that caused her to kick out. She felt it connect with something solid and for a mad moment she panicked as she tried to open her eyes, to see what she had done only to be met by a blurry mess as the world and colors shifted in and out. 

She was sure she was about to vomit as she made to sit up, only for firm hands to gently push her back down against the bed pinning her down. Panic gripped her as she tried to pry off the hands, closing her eyes tightly again as she kicked and clawed at the hands, all the while still hoarsely screaming. 

She felt a liquid rush down her throat and another hand held it shut, even as she tried to keep it up, but all the same it went down. 

The world went black and for a second she was sure she was floating. 

It was a moment of sweet release from everything she had been feeling before as she simply floated in that darkness, letting it wash over her as she heard faint whisperings. And the sound of chirping birds.

Slowly, she opened her eyes, looking up through the leaves of the weirwood at the blue sky. She sat up slowly, feeling weightless as she looked towards where Bran was sitting on one of the weirwood roots.

She much preferred these visions of him. Not when he was entwined in the roots, more plants that man. But when he was just, Bran. 

He smiled at her, and he did that more in these visions. Smile. It warmed her heart as she sat down next to him. His hand reached out and gently pushed some of her hair aside as they simply sat in the peace of the godswood. In a way, she expected to see father polishing ice beside her. For Lady and Summer to bound around as the laughter of Robb and Jon filled the space.

She felt tears well up in her eyes as she stared into the dark water of the pond, reflecting back a face that was no longer hers. Her hair was duller, and she see the peaks of scar’s through her shift as she moved, slipping her feet into the warm water.

She ignored the name as she stood in the spring, tears falling down her cheeks. 

“Why.”

The same question she asked every time, and like every time she asked, the vision faded away. And reality came back. 

She swallowed as she sat up on her bed, looking around her chambers. Her uncle was sitting with a concerned look on his face, leaning on his hands as he watched Jeyne as she made a concoction. 

Neither of them seemed to have noticed her moving. 

“They are happening more frequently Jeyne.” Her Uncle's voice was deep as he picked up a discarded flower petal, twirling it around in his hands“I can not hide it forever, you are aware.”

Jeyne paused her grinding to pluck the petal from his hand, placing it back where she had put it before

“I am well aware, My Lord. But I am doing all that I can. They appeared with time, there is the hope that they will fade with it as well.”

Sansa cleared her throat, prompting the both of them to look back over at her. Her uncle rushed over from his seat, cupping her face in his hands as he cheeked her over. For all his softness and concern, Sansa had to force herself to smile. She doubted she was little more than a pawn to him, to gain control away from his brothers true heir

“Sansa you're awake, are you feeling alright.”

She gently took his hands, moving them away from her face as she nodded. He sighed in relief as he sat down on the bed, looking at her with such fondness that it almost made Sansa gag. Instead she forced herself to clear her throat, looking towards Jeyne

“How long did it go for?”

Jeyne shrugged, handing Sansa a cup as she sat down on the bed opposite her Uncle, smiling softly as she did so

“An hour or so. I cannot say however, how long you endured it before you woke up.”

Sansa nodded, rubbing her throat slightly as she drank the bitter concoction, its viscous texture coating her throat as she did so. Vaguely, she could feel parts of her throbbing, although not painfully. Subtly she rubbed her leg, trying to shake the feeling of knife cutting through flesh from her mind. 

“Did I wake anyone?”

Her uncle answered her, patting her leg as he shook his head

“Just me and Margaret. I told her it was just a nightmare and that I would handle it. She is none the wiser.”

Sansa thought that Bennard was underestimating his wife's intelligence if he really thought her none the wiser. Sansa was sure that if Margaret knew the full truth as he knew it, she would have her burned at the stake as a witch, if the Northman wouldn’t stop her. 

And if someone told her the actual truth, she would call them mad. 

Sansa stretched her neck as she glanced out the window, watching as a breeze caught a pile of snow on the ground, kicking it up and catching it on the light.

“I wish to go down to Wintertown today.”

She said suddenly, the urge to get out of Winterfell gripping her as she could hear Ramsay's laughs echoing. Her Uncle sighed as he shook his head

“Sansa, your brother is making moves I cannot ensure that the usurper won’t-”

“You can send me with a battalion of men if you must.” she interrupted him, grabbing onto his knee as she sat up, staring deep into his Stark grey eyes. She hated how weak her voice sounded as she pleaded “Please Uncle.”

She watched his eyes as they somehow softened even more, letting his large hand cup the back of her head and pull her forehead close to lay a small kiss upon it. For a mad moment she thought of closing her eyes and pretending it was Jon. she didn’t let herself as she pulled back, looking into her eyes

“I will have ten guards accompany you, Brandon and Benjen.”

She forced a smile as she nodded, cringing internally at the idea of being accompanied by both her cousins. She only prayed that Benjen had less to drink last night than he had the night before her uncle had made his position clear. And that Brandon did not attempt to ridicule her gift giving. 

Sansa stood as her Uncle left the room, draping herself in a simple dress as Jeyne quickly braided her hair, leaning in close as she whispered a question against the shell of Sansa’s ear

“Did you see anything while you were out?”

Sansa thought of Bran’s sweet smile, the singing of the birds and the feeling of the water lapping against her legs and shook her head. Much to Jeyne’s visible disappointment. 

She slipped her feet into her shoes as she heard a knock on the door, she forced a smile onto her face as she called out, inviting whoever was in. Benjen opened the door, thankfully well rested it seemed as he smiled, bowing slightly

“Cousin.” He said as rose, his eyes scanning her in a way that made her skin crawl slightly “You look radiant this morning.”

She made herself to look downwards, letting out a false huff of embarrassment as she did so

“Thank you, Benjen. You look nice as well.”

He at least seemed to have put in effort. His dubcoat was a rich blue, with a dark fur trimming that blended in with his dark curls, pulled back from his face in a style similar to what her father once wore. 

He offered her his arm, which she took only after grabbing her basket. She always kept a few knick knacks in there, toys and bread for the orphans and the other she saw that needed it. A few coins rattled in her pockets as well, and multiple blankets covered all. She would surely need to sew a few more before her next trip, her supplies were running low. 

Rickon Stark had taken Cregan and Arya with him to the fields to aid the farms and the woods to help the hunters. Sansa however, with her needle had taken to the streets, sewing and repairing what she could. She would join Jeyne in her foraging occasionally, but much preferred the small help she could do in the town itself. 

As they walked into town arm in arm, Brandon just a few steps behind them, Sansa took in the changes that had happened in the short month since she had last been. 

The streets were largely dead, no vendors were out selling their wears and no doors to any houses were open. The windows were shut despite this being a rather warm fall day. A quiet held over the town as if waiting, daring for something to break it. 

She wondered if her Uncle had been down since he had decided to usurp her brother. If he at all regretted his choice when he looked at the normally bustling town. Or if he stayed holled-up in his solar, Margaret whispered poisons in his ears that he just assumed were his own. 

Margaret.
Margaret had never cared for the common folk, at least the common folk of the North. Despite the fact that she had never lived outside of it, Margaret seemed more like a southerner of her time, than a Northerner of this time. She spoke of the common folk as nothing more than a commodity for the Lords to command about as they wished. As long as whatever ailed them never reached Margaret, she didn’t care. 

She could act the caring lady, but Sansa had heard every one of her lessons, and had found nothing worthwhile to take away from them. 

Sansa had seen however, what desperate enough commoners could do. They outnumbered the nobel and more than that. If there were no common born, there would be no food for them to eat, no cloth for them to wear, no keeps for them to reside in. It was the common born who built the realm, and the nobles who took credit. 

It was wiser to be loved by them, then to be anything else. No matter what Cersei or Margaret said.

Fear and indifference ended up the same, at least if she was loved they may hesitate.

The orphanage was among the largest villages in Wintertown. Not as large as some of the ones in King's Landing, but the population of the entire North would be hard pressed to reach the numbers needed to orphan that many children. However, the harsh conditions of the North did lead to a great many children making their way to the Wintertown Orphanage.

As Sansa entered, a crowd of younger children swarmed her, little hands grabbing her skirts as they pulled her away from Benjen's arm, each one talking over the other. She smiled softly as she sat down on a bench, picking up one of the blankets and putting it out, tucking it around one of the orphans who let out a mad giggle, holding it one had as she flipped her other arm

“Look I'm a Dragon!”

One of the other orphans stood up, leaning his hands on Sansa’s knees as he smiled wide. 

“Do you have toys today? Do ya do ya do ya.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow, reaching into the basket and pulling out a small wooden carving of a wolf she had painted herself. It's fur was white and it's eyes red, and the boy pulled it close

“It's like yours!”

He exclaimed, spinning around before looking at her, his eyes sparking as she laughed

“Your wolf is going to need a name. Mine is named ice.”

The boys face scrunched up in thought as he stared at the wolf, shifting slightly from one foot to the other before jumping up and down

“Ghost cause he's white like a ghost!”

Sansa forced herself to smile at the boy as he ran off, showing off his cravings to some of the older children. His dark curls caught the light in a way that forced Sansa to look away, towards where Benjen was playing with some of the other boys, ruffling their hair and pretending to sword fight as the boys let out wild roars of laughter. 

Sansa stood, making her way through the younger children. Giving toys here are blankets there. She subtly placed the coin into the apron pockets of the matrons, and gently aided one of the girls with her sewing.

It was a moment before a small girl with auburn hair grabbed onto her skirt, gently tugging her towards the stares, a request that Sansa granted. 

Benjen made to follow her but Sansa gestures towards him, giving him pause

“Don’t worry, Benjen, I believe she has something to show me I will be right back.”

“We shouldn’t stay much longer, Sansa.”

He called after her as she followed the girl up the stairs.

The room she was led into was small, two beds side by side as Eddarda held up a slip of paper proudly, shoving it into Sansa’s hands, gesturing with her hands as she did so. 

“Have you eaten today, Ned.”

The nickname never felt quite right coming out of her mouth, but as Ned nodded proudly she moved towards the window, grabbing a toy left there long ago. She handed Sansa the small Stark warrior, before pointing to where the sigil had once been painted in its traditional grey having been carefully painted an auburn red, a color reminiscent of Ice.

She looked towards were Ned was bashfully looking at her feet, her brown eyes shimmering in the candle light as she kicked the ground slightly

“It's wonderful ned.”

She said carefully, hugging Ned into her side who smiled widely, before rushing from the room, leaving Sansa to carefully place the figure back on the window, and return down the stairs. The letter weighed heavy in her pocket. 

It was only once all of the goods in her basket were thoroughly wiped out that she let Benjen’s whispers of returning to the keep be heard. With promises to return, she made her way out into the town. 

Looking up, the sun told her it had already passed midday. She looked over and Benjen slipped his arm into hers, a wide smile on his face as he guided her back to the keep, his steps slow and thoughtful as he talked

“I see why you love it there, Sansa. Those children are infectious with their joy.”

Sansa for once found herself not having to fake the smile on her face for his sake,

“It can be eye opening, for nobel’s like us who have lived with the simple joys of having an extra blanket, or a simple toy, to see how much happiness it can bring to those who have nothing.”

Benjen looked at her with the same expression he always did, and she wished she could say it reminded her of someone more cruel, but reminded her of Ser Dontos. It made her skin crawl as the thought came to her mind

“I imagine you feel a kinship with them, after losing your own parents.”

She hummed, so many of those girls' dresses were too small, she should bring some of her old ones down the next time she went. She knew of the embarrassment of wearing a dress for a child as your body came into adulthood, of desperately trying to let out the seams to keep a sense of propriety.  

“I taught some of them that game you taught me and Brandon.”

He said softly, and Brandon finally spoke, coming up beside him

“The one of the Dragon Knight and his sister, or the one with the Young Wolf and the Lion.”

She smiled as the two boys bickered. Brandon had always loved the stories and games she had made about Robb, the battle, the glory, the gore and the tragedy. Benjen had a more keen interest in the romantic tales, even if she embellished the true events of Aemon and Naerys a bit for that one. 

“Well Sansa it is clear that Brandon here has taken the role of Ser Morgil, leaving me as the brave Dragon Knight to save the fair maiden.”

Sansa couldn’t help the small shriek that left her and Benjen spun her behind him, poking Brandon on his shoulder as the boy laughed

“Like I would ever question Sansa’s honor. Or either of us would even let our fair cousin marry an oaf like that tale had.”

Benjen let out a wild laugh as he let go of her hand, throwing his arm over his brother’s shoulder as Sansa followed a few steps behind, sure if she just closed her eyes she could pretend it was Robb and Jon talking together

“You see Brandon, it takes imagination, that's why you have always failed to have fun.”

“I have plenty of Fun.”

Brandon pushed his brother's arm as Benjen laughed. Brandon seemed to have the last laugh however turning to look at her, a smirk on his face

“Would my fine lady give me the honor?”

Sansa wished she hadn’t wanted to smile at the pure Joy on his face, he had been a shy boy when he had first come to Winterfell, hiding in his mothers skirts and blushing up a storm anytime she even looked at him. She was glad to see that he had grown. 

“I am pleased that you have the manners to ask.”

She said, not even trying to hide the look she sent Benjen who at the very least had the decency to look ashamed as Brandon just laughed, looking behind her at him to send a jab

“Yeah Ben, I thought mother taught you to teach Lady’s with respect .”

“I know for a fact I did.”

All three of them turned to look at Margaret stiffly, she was standing in the gate of Winterfell, her hair tied up tightly as she stood up ramrod straight, her eyes boring a hole straight through Sansa

“Brandon, you are late for your lessons.”

Brandon dropped her arm, moving towards his mother as she heard him gulp

“Mother, I had thought that I was excused as father asked me to-”

“I do not care what your father asked of you, your lessons take priority, go.”

Brandon nodded, looking back to wear Sansa and Benjen were standing before walking off, his posture stiff but doing nothing to hide his displeasure. Benjen stepped forward

“Don’t blame him, mother, I was the one who kept us for so long.”

Margaret’s eyes softened only slightly as she walked towards Benjen, cupping his face slightly as she spoke

“I do not blame either of you for anything, I don’t want my sons to be simpletons however.”

She dropped her hand as she briefly nodded towards Sansa, her dismissal clear and welcome as Sansa hastened to her room. The basket was dropped unceremoniously on the ground as Sansa moved towards the fire, the letter unfolding easily as she kneeled beside its warmth. 

Sansa.

Cregan wished to send word, but it turns out leading a warforce takes quite a bit of time, and answering lords questions takes the rest of his time. There are times I am glad to be the younger sibling, all I am expected to do is threaten whoever dares question you. 

He mentioned that you had managed to get a letter to him, despite what I assume our lovely aunt was reading over your messives. I can’t imagine what that cunt is scheming, but I certainly don’t trust it. 

I wish I had more to tell you, but in truth, there hasn’t been much. Few lords are siding with Bennard, but the Karstark forces are strong enough, with Lord Bolton keeping most of his men locked up in the dreadfort and many of the other houses having been snowed in. It is a miracle that Cregan wasn’t, then we’d all be Fucked. 

I know it must be hard for you to get letters out of Winterfell, and even harder still for you to get them back, but I miss your voice. It's ironic, I used to dream of the day you would marry and then I wouldn’t have to deal with my prissy sister, but I miss you. 

Arya

Sansa couldn’t help the tears that filled her eyes as she stuck the letter in the fire, watching as her sister's name burned with that paper. 

Benjen II

“Are you mad, Mother.”

Was the only question in Benjen's mouth as his mother stalked back and forth, muttering insane ramblings about Sansa. It seemed his mother did this once a month at least, her theories how Sansa was out to get them, how she was loyal to her brother, how there was something wrong about Sansa. 

Benjen couldn’t understand his Mother at times. 

“It was a foolish risk of your father to allow her out of the keep.”

She hissed as she paced, tapping his fingers on her chin.

“She was with me and Brandon, and ten other guards, we only let her out of our sights to use the gods damned privy mother. Nothing could have happened.”

Really, he thought as he lounged back in his chair propping his leg up on the cousin, he may need to see a woodswitch to see if she truly was mad. This was a obsession if he had ever seen one

She snapped next to his head, causing him to jump

“Sit up straight, that is no way for a future Lord to act.”

He couldn’t help the snort that left him as he moved his leg back down, tilting his head

“Mother, I have no birthright.”

He watched as his mother walked towards the window, staring out of it as she tapped her arm, and Benjen counted the minutes with each tap. 

One.

There was a light snowfall occurring outside, a fall snow, slightly heavier than the summer snows. It may rain next week and it will all be gone once more. A cycle of snow, ice and rain that marked Northern Autumns. 

Two. 

The bottom of her dress was mudstained, he was sure that she was going to have a conniption fit when she realized, that or she had been mad enough that she wasn’t able to find him and Brandon inside the keep that she had trudged through the yard to berate them in public, in front of Sansa. 

Three. 

She stopped tapping turning to look at him

“You should be the heir, not the glover's boy.”

He couldn’t help the laugh as he looked towards the ceiling, he was ready for the next hour of speech. That he had the blood of kings in him, not from his family, or even hers, but from her mothers. That they were meant to be something greater, that it was an insult that she had even been married to his father, that he was meant to be the heir of something great but that it had been stolen by his cousins and on and on and on. It never seemed to stop. At least grandmother wasn’t here to lecture him on his marriage prospects and to be even more insane than his mothers. 

“I thought Sansa was the heir.”

He pointed out as his mother huffed, looking at him with a look of complete disappointment that she leveled him with more than any joy. She let out a small laugh, and for a second he thought it could have been Brandon’s, their laughs so similar that he hated hers for how it soured his

“You actually believe that ruse, I thought I raised you better.” She shook her head as she sat across from him, taking his hand in hers. “No matter, soon enough I shall wed you to her, and you will be the actual ruler while she cares for whatever grandchild you give me.”

He sat there in stunned silence for so long, she had risen by the time he had to even register what she had said. His hand sat limply in his lap as he stared at her

“I'm going to wed Sansa.”

He waited for the scolding about how weak his voice sounded, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He looked down at his hands as his mothers words washed past him. 

He was going to wed Sansa in his mothers plans.
His maiden fair, he would actually be able to touch her, to caress those sunset locks, to kiss her, to love her.

That woman in Wintertown was sure to be just a candle to the flame that Sansa was. The flame that Sansa had let in him since the first moment he met her. He had met others with red hair, but the way the light had caught hers, the summer snows melting as she held her brother. 

The old gods may be faceless, but he was sure that had they had one, hers would be the goddess of beauty. 

And gods, his mother was already talking about children. He hoped they would get her features, a little girl to dot on like his father dotted on Sansa. A son that he could raise better than his father ever could. 

He would name the boy Florian, and the girl Jonquil, He decided.

“I'm going to wed Sansa.”

He smiled as he looked at his mother, meeting her disappointed gaze as she sighed

“I'm going to try and convince your father, but that is the hope. Our blood shall rule the North, Benjen.”

He couldn’t help the laugh that left him as he looked out the window, through the clouds there was a gap of blue sky the same color as her eyes. 

He hoped their children had those eyes. 

Chapter Text

Margaret III

Margaret paced the room nervously, the raven’s cawing as she did so. The Aviculturist was eyeing her warily, but Margaret did not find it in her to care. 

It had been two months since Cregan had officially declared war on them, since she had begun to make the moves that would one day put her blood in charge of the largest kingdom in the seven kingdoms. Her Mother had left her with so little instruction, but Margaret struggled to imagine a world in which her mother did not listen to her words. 

She had hoped that her father would have brought word when he brought his troops to Winterfell, along with the troops of the Overtons, and the troops and many second sons who decided to throw their lot in with them. 

It didn’t matter that they had fewer men however, they held Winterfell. 500 hundred men could hold the keep against any army in the kingdom, the only thing that could break its walls were the dragons themselves. 

Her mother didn’t send word with her father however, so she was stuck waiting, pacing back. Her mouth filled with saliva as she forced herself to swallow it back down. 

“M’Lady, if a letter comes for you I will be sure to send word, but you are-”

“Quiet.” she hissed, turning to look at the woman. She looked to be as old as her mother, her hair at her temples just starting to turn a bold white as lines etched her face, not yet the crone she was sure to turn into “Quiet on matters of which your opinion bears no weight.”

She turned away from the Aviculturist, tapping her finger against her arm in a simple pattern, humming the melody under her breath as she did so. A raven flapped its wing in its perch as she looked at it, its eyes a milky white that seemed to look right through her.

Or not.

As she blinked at the ravens was just a normal bird, with eyes dark as coal. 

She shook her head, looking back to the window as the small form of a raven could be seen getting ever closer. Margaret had to resist the urge to move to the window and grip the ledge, chastising herself for being so foolish as to have even imagined herself doing such a thing. As if she were some small child and not a lady.

So she forced herself still, watching as the raven moved closer. There was always the chance that it wasn't a letter from her mother, that Margarets mission up her was a passing fancy before she began in true. She had duties to attend to, after all.

None of that explained the nausea slipping up her throat.

The raven landed, and Margaret watched as the Aviculturist patted the bird's head, cooing slightly as one may a babe. It was a sad thing really, for a woman Margaret imagined had no children to be lonely enough to project those feelings onto a bird. 

She took the letter from the bird and handed it to Margaret, and it took all of Margaret's energy to not snatch it from her hand.

The scroll was sealed with red wax, imprinted with the sigil of a trout. For a mad moment before Margaret cut it open, she pondered how similar it could look to blood when the wax smeared against the paper.

Her mother's handwriting was as it always was. An image of lady like perfection. No spelling errors or inkblots, almost inhumanly perfect 

Margaret 

I hear that you sweet nice is to be lady of Winterfell. A fine choice from what I remember of the girl. However she shall need a strong husband and as her guardian you have a responsibility to ensure that a good match is made. As the key to the north, Sansa Stark will be much sought after.

I hope you understand that purpose

Minisa Mooton.

Margaret had to swallow down bile as she folded the letter up, staring out the Window. Her mother still asked for more from her, it seems. Everything has to be done to her schedule. Didn't matter that Bennard was hesitant to do so much as bethrothe the girl, no Minisa wanted her to be wed, and most likely already wanted a son in the girl's womb. 

Margaret was once again reminded of her own inadequacies.

Her head swam as she turned, turning towards the rook master, weakly managing to ask for a bucket before letting out an unladylike belch. Before promptly emptying the meager contents of her stomach into the barrel the woman had provided.

“M’Lady”

The woman called out in concern as Margaret held her arm, shaking her head

“Do not worry, I imagine it was just a bit of breakfast that did not settle well.”

She forced herself to straighten, swallowing desperately to rid the taste from her mouth as the world fell flat again, no longer seeming to spin around her as she nodded to the rook mistress 

“Good day.”

She forced herself to keep her walk calm as she held her hand over her stomach, scolding herself for letting such emotions consume her to the point of making herself sick. It wasn't something she had done before, despite having fallen short of her mother's expectations plenty of times. The stress of the war must be getting to her.

The door to her husband's solar was ajar as Margaret walked by, allowing her to peek in, bringing her to a stop. 

Her husband was hunched over his desk, pulling at his hair as he read over papers. So lost in his thoughts that allowed Margaret to slip inside unnoticed

“If you pull at your hair like that, I fear you shall go bald, husband.”

Despite her words being meant as a joke, they came out feeling more like a harsh critique as Bennard jumped slightly. His eyes were frazzled as he shook his head, but still removing his hands from his hair

“I would like to see you deal with these missives and not lose most of your hair.”

He huffed as he threw one, it slid across the other and landed nearly on the ground. Bennard let out a large sigh as he leaned back in his chair. Margaret moved closer, picking up the letter and shaking out the dirt, reading the contents

“Lord Bolton has denied us his troops.”

She noted raising an eyebrow, looking at her husband as he placed it back down

“You would think having his heir here would mean he supports us, but no, appears young Domeric is here of his own volition. At least my reports tell me he has made no attempts at sending troops to Cregan either.”

Margaret would have never taken Lord Bolton for a coward, but it seemed she had misjudged. A lustful coward was all he seemed to be, chasing after whatever young maiden caught his eye and dropping them as soon as he grew bored. 

She feared what that drop would entail, shivering at the thought. 

“And the others?”

Bennard shrugged, rifling through papers

“Troop movements, and marriage offers. It seems word of Sansa’s beauty has reached the south, if the amount of Lord's offers were to be believed.” He sighed, looking down at the papers “Another issue, I tried breaching the topic of Marriage with Sansa and she just, shut me down. I know Rickon promised her the ability to choose her match, but I will have to step in soon.”

Margaret tilted her head as her husband continued to talk, blabbering on as she noted the dark circles under his eyes. It seemed he had not slept the night before, despite having visited her chambers as he had done every night for the past two moons. 

“There may be a solution closer to home.”

She said, watching as her husband looked up at her with an expression, as if asking her to carry on

“Benjen.”

Was all she offered as Bennard laughed

“She would never choose him?”

Margaret shook her head, carefully repeating the script she had so carefully prepared in the last moons

“Mayhaps not, but at least she knows him. They grew up together, and at the very least they are fond of each other. And you know of Benjens character, he will do nothing to mistreat her. He has been rather enamored by her since they first met.”

Much to Margaret’s frustration. She had wanted the girl separated from her sons, for her sake as much as theirs. It wasn’t proper for a girl to be raised alongside sons, even if they were cousins. But Benjen had fought, every step of the way. It had taken an hour long screaming match between them for him to stop calling the girl ‘his maiden fair’. 

“He feels for her?”

She couldn't help the small snort that left her at her husband's question, slowly turning into actual laughter. She knew her husband cared not for their sons, but to be so blind he did not notice the way Benjen's eyes traced after Sansa, the way he would seek out her company? Gods she must have married the biggest fool in the north, possibly in the seven kingdoms

The laugh felt bitter in her throat.

“And what does she think of him?”

Her laughter died as she looked at her husband, meeting his critical eye, shaking her head slightly as he did so

“You know the girl better than I do.”

Bennard let out a small huff

“You think Sansa would talk to me about that? You have already shown more awareness of our son's feelings then me, what of hers?”

She watched as her husband looked down at his cup. She had told him Sansa was fond of Benjen, but he had forgotten in less than five seconds it seemed.

It was because she had said it she knew. She had long learned to hope what she was saying to her husband actually went through his thick skull, but it seemed even on topics as important to him as this he did not see fit to remember.

She would not be surprised if he did not know who Edric even was.

She felt a pang of jealousy grip her heart even as she desperately tried to push it down. Even in this Sansa would prove to have more luck than she ever had. Benjen practically took every word she said as gospel. She was sure he would cut off his own hand if that's what it took for her to simply smile at him.

What would that be like, to have a man fall at one's feet like you were a god?

“I believe she holds some fondness for him. Mayhaps more will grow.”

She forced herself to smile.

She could find no soft spot in her heart for Bennard. His only saving grace was the seed he had split for her to have her sons. 

A knock sounded at the door as a small boy peaked his head around the corner walking sheepishly towards Bennard with a letter outstretched in his hand. The boy said nothing as he fled the room the second the paper but Bennard's hand. The seconds seemed to stretch on as Bennard cut the wax on the paper, the black wax showing her father's sigil as Margaret held her breath, her husband seemingly reading the letter as slowly as possible as he stood turning away from her.

In a split of a second he turned back around, sweeping the objects from the table with a frustrated yell

“The gall of that boy!”

He continues his rampage around the room as Margaret carefully gets up, creeping around the room as he rants and raves and throws anything not nailed down. Carefully, oh so carefully she grabs the letter, half reading the letter mixed with watching to ensure her husband does not get too close in his rage. She freezes however, a frozen block in the middle of her husband's storm as she stares at everything at nothing, her husband's screams transforming into little more than buzzing. Slowly she sunk to her knee, crinkling the paper beneath her as a tear slipped her lashes

Karhold is under siege.

Rickon I

Rickon didn't like Winterfell.

It felt too tight. The walls ate him even as he moved higher and higher to escape. He didn't climb. Sansa had been so scared the first time he did so that he never tried again. No he stayed on the parapets and walkways, breathing in the air under the sky.

Sansa was the only good part of Winterfell. She was the only one that came back for him. The only one who stayed. 

He knew he must have had a mother, he knew she had red hair like Sansa’s. Catelyn Tully had been the name of his first mother, Sansa told him all about her. And Margaret seemed to remind everyone that he had killed Gilliane Glover the second time.

Osha could maybe count as a mother, but she always told him she wasn't his mother. She was just Osha. Thoughts of her would always lead dark, and Rickon didn't like to think those ones.

He had father's too, but they didn't care about him. 

The only person he had was Sansa. 

Rickon ran through the godswood, playing tag with Shaggy through the trees. He always had Shaggy, but Shaggy wasn't a person. Shaggy was the other half of him, he couldn't exist without shaggy.

Shaggy caught him, Shaggy always caught him and laid on top of Rickon as he laughed, feeling Shaggy rough tongue lick along his hair, squirming as he felt dirt dig into his clothes. Through his squinted eyes he was able to look up through the pine needles and up onto the open sky. The beginnings of pink were showing, along with the darkness beginning to let the light shine in.

It would be so much easier if this was all there was, him and shaggy in the wilderness, no etiquette or rules to tie them down. They could hunt their own food, sleep where they liked, do as they liked. 

It was how it had been on Skagos. The unicorns let them be once Shaggy had displayed his dominance and the people were too focused on killing each other to worry about him and Osha. If it hadn't been for Onion man finding them, maybe Rickon could have stayed there forever.

But then he wouldn't have had Sansa.

Sansa. Sansa, the only person who would never leave him. She had held him, when he had been born this time. She held him more than anyone. It was her he took his first steps to, her name which had been his first word, her who gave him anything this time.

The boy's own father does not care for him, so why should I.

Margaret was a cunt, Sansa would be sad if he said that out loud but it was true. She was a raging cunt who looked at Sansa with mean eyes. Rickon wished he could set shaggy on her, or even stab her with the sword he had been training with. But it would put Sansa in more danger. And he has to protect her.

She wasn't able to fight like him, despite what Margaret would say, women could fight, Osha had and she was the second strongest person he knew behind Sansa!

But Sansa's strength was not that of a warrior, and it had taken Rickon longer to see because of that. But he knew she was made of steel, she survived Ramsay after all, one had to be strong to do that. 

And she would comfort him when the nightmares came. She would tuck a loose curl of his behind his ear and sing to him when memories of what Ramsay had made him see came back. 

And when memories of stuff that didn't happen as well.

That was why Rickon was out here right now. He didn't want to bother Sansa, she deserved all the sleep she could get, the past didn't let her forget either he knew, even if she tried to hide it from him. It wast even Ramsay who haunted him this time.

Rickon didn't recognize the face he had seen, pale long hair and purple eyes, but it wasn't that dragon queen he had seen before his death. She was made of fire, always doing something and exuding energy, good or bad. This man was something he couldn't recognize.

 He was with Sansa, cupping her face as they were slowly, slowly pulled away from him. Sansa wasn't even looking at him, just at that man. He called out to her, ran after her but nothing seemed to tear her away from him. 

He didn't know who the man was, Rickon just knew he hated him. He would set shaggy on anyone that would try and take Sansa away from him. Let shaggy have his fun too, maybe give the man a head start in the wolfs wood to make the hunt a little more interesting.

Shaggy wouldn't want to eat someone like that however, for the flesh would certainly taste foul, not at all like the stag he liked to feast on.

Rickon curled himself around Shaggy in the dirt, feeling his hair get muddy as it fanned back behind him. Margaret hated his hair long, he saw the pinched face she made when he left it down, so he kept it. It fell past his shoulders now, thick Auburn curls that looked so much like Sansa. 

She told him that Cregan looked more like Arya, and he was glad of that. Despite not being her twin, he was the one most like her, not some Lordling they happened to have been reborn at the same time as.

Night seemed to have been chased away at last as he felt the garden around him come to life, squirrels and birds moving around, not caring about him. They were probably used to him, always here when he was not needed for some stupid event.

Arya was weird. She was like him, he supposed, wolfs blood Sansa called it. She had shown him how to throw a knife before they died, the way that you had to flick your wrist just so. She had clapped so enthusiastically when he had got it, putting hands on his shoulders and calling him little brother. 

He missed her. He knew she came back with them, but she had left. Sansa said she would come back but Rickon didn't believe it. No one who promised that ever did.

Only Sansa. 

He felt someone sit down beside him, tucking a curl behind his ears with such care that Rickon knew only belonged to one person

“How long have you been out here, little wolf.”

Sansa's voice was like a melody as Rickon looked up at her from his spot next to Shaggy. He briefly glanced to where Ice was sitting beside her, looking at her pup in much the same way Sansa was looking at him

“I wanted to see the dawn.”

A poor lie and Sansa caught it, humming slightly as she continued to stroke his dirty hair. That and her humming was almost enough to put him back to sleep

“You know you can always wake me if something is wrong.”

Rickon hummed, watching as a cloud passed over their heads, blocking the light of the sun from Sansa’s hair for a second before lighting it again. Osha had called him kissed by fire, but that seemed more accurate to Sansa than him. 

“I'm your brother, I’m supposed to protect you.”

Was all he was able to offer. He had said that to Bran, all those years ago, before he had even gone to Skagos. He missed how simple everything felt back then, even if he could remember very little else about it. 

Sansa simple laughed, shaking her head

“Rickon, I wish to protect you as well, from bad dreams and others alike, I am to protect you as well.”

She stood, outstretching her hand to hoist him up from the floor, Shaggy and Ice running around their feet. He was taller now than he had been before, and probably still had room to grow. Shaggy was bigger as well, and more playful. He nipped Ice, running around as Ice nipped back, despite the other wolf being older, she never was too tired to play with her pups. Rather, she seemed to enjoy it. You could barely tell anymore that Shaggy was her pup, the way he was bigger than her. 

As Rickon and Sansa moved to leave the godswood, hand in hand, the wolves followed in lock step, stopping their playing to join them, tongues lolling out in a grin as Sansa spun Rickon around, his and her laughter filling the air as they made their way through the courtyard, finding their own happiness amongst the gloom that seemed to cling to the walls of winterfell now.

Rickon knew vaguely that Cregan was at war with their uncle, and that for all Sansa appeared to be at the very least impartial to what happened in the North, she wanted Cregan to be the Lord of it. She had wanted Jon to be the King in the North as well, after he had renounced his title. But even with Jon as King she did all of the real work, she ruled the keep, showing Rickon what she was doing as Jon traveled south, not caring for how vulnerable he had left the North. 

Rickon hoped Sansa’s faith in Cregan was more earned. 

They sat at their usual spots at the table, Rickon digging into the bacon and sausages left before him, caring little for the small mince pie and honey cake that was sitting on the plate as well. 

Margaret was staring down at him with her usual pinched faced glare as she held Edric on her hip. Her face was tear stained, and he could subtly hear the small sniffles she let out. She had very little on the plate in front of her, a lone blackberry oat cake with some honeycomb on it that she picked at delicately, occasionally sending glances between Bennard, Benjen and Sansa as she did so. More often, she would give Edric a bit of honeycomb with the babe happily smeared on his face. Making small noises that seemed to be the only thing that could draw smiles out of the cold woman.

Benjen however didn’t seem to fare at all well. He was once more hung over his plate, rubbing his forehead as he slowly drank from his cup, eating only a piece of black bread with some honey smeared on top. Each time he looked up he seemed to wince slightly at the light. It was becoming a more and more common sight at these family breakfasts, and Rickon took some small joy in watching Margarets pinched expression fall onto her own son rather than him for once. 

Just as Rickon was finishing the last of his honey cake, Bennard stood up, looking at each of them. There weren’t many others in the hall this time, only a few servants rushing here and there, and maybe an odd guard or two coming to switch rotations. It seemed whatever Bennard wanted to say was just for them

“Sansa, as you may know as your oldest male relative it falls to me to betroth you to a man I believe will treat you kindly, as well as offer us the best benefit to our house.”

He didn't smile as he said it, just staring at Sansa with grim determination. Sansa paused, staring up from her meal with shock. Rickon was sure he was wearing much the same expression as he felt anger boil up in his chest

“Uncle, I had planned on eventually choosing my own match, what do you-”

Bennard cut her off with a raise of his hand as he continued to speak, and Rickon had to push down the urge to growl at the man. It would only lead to more trouble for Sansa and that was not what Rickon wanted. 

“I thought given the recent goings on I would expedite the process. But I believe that I have found you a good match, and much closer to home than I initially thought.”

Sansa’s hand found Rickons under the table, and it was her gentle touch that kept Rickon from leaping across the table and ripping out their Uncle's throat himself. After all Sansa had gone through, the thought of her going through another match made Rickon want to set Shaggy on each and every one of them, let him rip their throats open and expose them. Maybe in whatever was beyond he could convince Bran to have Ramsay have their way with them as well, show them all that marriage was truly good for. 

“Benjen.”

Rickon’s eyes twisted around to look at his cousin. The boy, despite his sluggishness, was sitting with a grin that made Rickon want to punch it off of him, and it was only Sansa pulling on his arm to pull him back down that made him stop. He looked back towards Sansa, with her blue eyes blown wide in a shock she couldn't hide as she pleaded him to not act out. 

It took everything within him, but he managed to keep all of it bottled up as Sansa made their excuses, and led him away from the room, all the way back to his chambers, where it exploded out of him. 

He resisted the urge to throw at the wall; he looked at Sansa with wide eyes as she stared blankly towards the ground, her breathing slow as Jeyne wrapped a blanket around her. Rickon moved towards her, grabbing her hands

“Don’t marry him, Sansa please.”

She shook her head, staring blankly

“Rickon,”

Rickon shook his head, moving to cup her face. From this angle he was taller than her and as she looked up at him, he did not see the woman who had raised him, who had been the one to comfort him through his nightmares. This was the woman who had experienced the nightmares along with him, under Ramsay’s eye.

“Swear to me you won’t marry. Not to him, not to anyone.”

Sansa’s eyes hardened as she leaned into his touch, gently smiling as she did so

“I swear it's Rickon. On the old gods and the new I swear it. I would rather die than wed again.”

Rickon smiled, even as tears pricked the side of his eyes.

Sansa V

Sansas chest hurt, as if tight chains had been wrapped around her lungs and pulled tighter and tighter as she tried to go about her day. Smiles coming a little harder, laughs feeling a little more forced. It was as if bile was constantly building up in her throat, never trying to escape simply content to suffocate her. 

Let Margaret and Bennard think it was because of the news of Karhold. She would hold the truth.

She ate very little of the dinner she took privately in her rooms, twirling her spoon around absently as she watched the patterns made in the soup. The idea of taking a simple bite repulsed her as she pushed it away. Jeyne hummed, coming over to braid Sansa's hair as she watched the stones

“You need to eat something my lady.”

Sansa shrugged, not breaking her stare with the stones of the wall. Jeyne finished her braid and Sansa stood, pacing the room without truly looking, her fingers fiddling with the end of her braid. It hurt to get the words out of her chest, but she knew before anything she would need to plan.

“I will keep my oath to Rickon Jeyne.” She looked up and met Jeynes eyes, even as her vision swam as the words titled of its axis she forced herself still, meeting those moss green eyes “I need to know if I can trust you to aid me in whatever way that endeavor takes.”

Jeyne smiled, falling to her knees before Sansa, her eyes blown wide as she did so. Something about her smile made the Sansa's skin crawl

“My lady, I will always do whatever you ask of me, even if I die in the process.”

Sansa shook her head, taking Jeynes arm and helping her back to her feet

“I would never ask that of you, Jeyne. Go now, we will plan more on the morrow once we have a greater grasp of the field.”

Sansa let out a few shaky breaths as she watched Jeyne leave the room, sinking into her bed with a huff as her breaths came faster and shorter. He chest tightening all the more as he huddled in around her center, feeling tears spill from her eyes.

She was such a stupid little girl, even still it seemed. She had not even thought of marriage as a possibility, holding onto a promise not even fully made. She should have known better than to think half oaths meant anything to a man already breaking his fealty. 

She could practically smell the way that Margaret was behind this, or more accurately her mother. Sansa remembers all too well the wish made in the glass garden. She should have seen through and saw how this was all a ploy to get their blood on the North. She imagined that as soon as Benjen could get an heir and possibly a spare off of her they would try and stage some sort of accident. 

She ran her hand along her snotty nose, pushing her face into her pillow then. She had not lived through Cersei, Joffrey, Petyr and Ramsay just for Margaret Karstark and Minisa Mooton to be what got her in. No, she would not go with anything less than an explosion the size of the one she had gone with in her last life, or a quiet death at a great age, surrounded by her nieces and nephews. 

She would not marry Benjen. 

She would not marry anyone. She swore it on the old gods and the new. Even as her tears quieted and exhaustion took her over, she swore it. Over and over again she swore it. No man could wed her. She would run and fight in any way she had.

With those words she slipped into sleep. 

And found herself waking once more.

She was walking, although she had no clue where. The steps under her were a polished white stone, and the walls around them seemed to continue that theme, with tapestries adorning them. Although there seemed to be an issue. A man was walking along the hall opposite her, taking down the tapestries to throw in a small waggon he dragged along. Switching out the old ones depicting dragons, others and other strange beasts and horned men for ones covered in seven pointed stars, and depictions of their gods. 

A voice clears before her and she turns to look at Bran. He was standing, and the same height as her as he smiled that same lopsided grin he had sent her during their childhood. Sansa couldn’t resist the urge to hug him, as he did it back, tucking his head and holding her back as he held her

“It's good to see you Sansa.”

Her voice held inflection as Sansa pulled back, smiling softly as she looked around. The tightness in her chest was gone, and she found herself dressed in her dove grey dress and not the simple shift she had worn to sleep. She felt well rested, despite the exhaustion that had settled in her body before

“Where are we Bran?”

Bran turned to look at her with a hum, shrugging

“I don’t think you would recognize its name, at least not the one it would bear at this time.”

Sansa nodded, following his lead as they entered a room, although no door was opened, and Sansa could not comprehend how they had done so. A girl with auburn hair was sitting in front of a mirror, wearing a dress as a younger girl weaved Evening Stars and Forget-me-Nots into her waves. The girls both wore tired expressions as they talked quickly amongst themselves. Bits and pieces of the old tongue passed through Sansa’s ears, yet she could somehow find herself understanding their words, even with her basic understanding of the tongue 

“Catia, I do not wish for you to marry him. Not for my sake.”

Sansa froze at their topic of conversation, gripping onto Bran’s hand tightly as she stared at the auburn haired girls. The younger of the two girls, rested on the shoulder of the other fiddling with one of the others locks of hair. The older girl, Catia shook her head, placing a gentle kiss on the others forehead

“Fear not, Linnā. I will wed him in his faith, but ours will not recognize it. I have sent word Northward, they shall not be at the mercy of our conquers.” She turned, taking a hand in hers as she looked towards Linnā “Listen to me carefully, Bréanainn is waiting for you. During the wedding go to the antichamber, you will find someone waiting there to spirit you away.”

Sansa swallowed, as a tear fell down Linnā’s face. Her curls were tighter than her sisters, and bounced as she shook her head pulling in close to her sister

“No Catia, I will not leave.”

The girl cupped her sister's face so tenderly, that it felt almost as if it was Sansa being held. She had held Rickon like that hundreds of times, a movement so natural it was no question why Catia was doing it now. 

Sansa did not hear what was said next, as the world around her melted away back to the godswood she was used to in her dreams, staring at Bran with an empty look

“Why show me that Bran?”

Her voice was eerily blank as she stared just straight forward, not even looking to where Bran was tangled in the branches, not even flinching at the way his voice was once more toneless and affectionless 

“Sometimes, I just wish for a soul there as I journey.”

She shook her head, picking up some of the light snow that covered the ground here, or was it ash. Her ashes perhaps. It might have been quieter if she had just stayed that way. A loose grain caught in the wind as nature pulled her this way and that. 

“Why that memory, are you telling me that I have no way out. That I am doomed to that same fate. Because I won’t let it happen.” Her voice was firm as she looked towards Bran, a single tear was on his cheek, though no other emotion showed on his face. “I don’t care what sins I must do, if I must burn Winterfell to ash once more, I will keep my oath to Rickon.”

And to herself.

Royce II

The sun was warm on Royce's skin as he sat outside his little tent sharpening his knife. Him and the delegates his father had sent to talk around Cregan about troops had been stationed on the back end of the camp. Cregan hadn't missed his father's insult it seemed.

Nor the insult of sending him here.

Royce knew the looks he got, the whispers that followed him. His father had no lack of bastards, but no one knew about him. After all, why should they? Royce wasn't the son of someone born with the right name. For all Royce cared he had no last name. His mother had simply been a miller's wife, who happened to have worked in the dreadfort before marriage. 

Royce sheathed his blade, his hand coming to fiddle with the pendant hung round his neck as he stretched out, watching the clouds as they moved over the sky.

He thought a siege would be more exciting. Much like the tales of trebuchets and men sacking cities. An opportunity for much of the blood Royce had been bathed in since he came into his father's care. His father had raised no fool, ensuring he knew of the darker aspects of life, but some part of Royce must have always stayed cuddled up beside his mother as a storm raised outside, her callused hands gently pushing his hair back as she told him stories.

A stomp of boots interrupted Royce from his thoughts, a pair of men standing before him. They were grabbed in armour, the stark crest shining on where it had been imprinted into the metal, freshly polished as well it seemed. 

Even Stark's lowest guards were treated better than a baseborn bastard in the dreadfort. 

“Royce Snow.”

Royce nodded, leaning on his knee as he examined the smaller of the men. He was a thin man, even his armor doing little to bulk him up. His helmet did little for his weasel like face either, his hand nervously twitched on the pommel of his blade as he looked towards the bigger man expectantly

“Aye that's me.”

His eyes drifted to the other man. He was broad, and as if one took every idea of what a Northern was and boiled it down. Tanned skin and a strong jaw, and as dour as rain as he stared down Royce.

“Lord Stark wished to speak to you.”

He spoke like a highborn, that air in his voice that they thought themselves oh so much better. Royce father had him skin and torture lowborns and the rare highborn, in the end they were all just flesh. Their blood all the same as it soaked into the floors of the dreadfort.

Royce stood, not saying anything as he followed behind the two men. He walked carefully, the way father had commanded him to do in public. His hands carefully held behind his back as his spin sat straight. He resisted every urge to hunch his spin. 

Father often forbade him from leaving the dungeons that he had been assigned to, a baseborn bastard that meant nothing. But Royce had broken that command more often than he had stuck to it. A simple cloak and a bunch made him invisible to all the high Lord's. Their eyes just glossed over him. It felt nicer than all these accusing eyes that looked at him here, tainted by a name he couldn't even claim.

Stark's tent was a large thing, its dark color standing out against the light snow dusting the ground. The guard held open the flap, revealing Cregan Stark hunched over a map, studying its details as if it could save him.

Royce bowed, catching the man's attention with a simple m’lord, His grey eyes looked up at Royce, staring at him without saying anything. Royce didn't move, could feel his fathers slap if he did. 

Besides he was used to cold stares, and at least Starks were not filled with disappointment. There was no warmth in a gaze sent his way, not since his mother and the miller died.

“I was unaware that Lord Bolton had a son named Royce.”

Ah so it appeared Royce was finally being questioned about his existence. He was no son of a noblewoman, so his father hadn't seen fit to announce him

“Very few did My Lord.”

Cregan narrowed his eyes, standing up straighter. Royce could understand why the Starks sigil was a wolf, those eyes seeming entirely inhuman as he stared Royce down, a battle of wills. One that he could hear his father hissing about in his ear. How the lowest of Bolton's was still better than a Stark. 

But he was not a Bolton.

He broke his eye contact, looking toward the earthen ground of the tent. Cregan hummed and Royce fought to feel anger at himself for it. Cregan sat down, staring at Royce as he looked back towards those grey eyes. Staring slightly above them

“Why did your father send you?”

Royce couldn’t help the small smile that crossed at that, shaking his head slightly as he did so 

“Do you need me to say it outloud my lord? There is only one message sent by sending a Lowborn Bastard to meet with someone.”

He looked back towards his feet, the words hanging in the air around them. An insult. His father may try to hide it, but it was the truth. His father had sent a mear insult instead of actually trying. All the while his one trueborn son and heir was making nice with the very person stealing his true lord's seat. 

He knew that Lord Stark was no fool, and that he hadn’t needed Royce to spell it out for him. He was sure that this was just some torture for him. He was sure that the guards were ready to come any minute and remove his head for his fathers crime. 

His father probably sent him for that reason anyway. Better the son of nobody than the son of somebody to pay for his crimes.

“And why did you come?”

 Royce looked up, his eyes looking towards the other person he hadn’t realized was even in the tent. She seemingly melted out of the dark corners, her short hair braided out of her face as she stared at him with eyes that matched her brothers.

She was a true Northern beauty, even standing still a sense of wildness seemed to surround her, a danger. He felt his hairs rise on his back much akin to the feeling of being watched by a predator. He was sure that this must be the Lord's younger sister, Arya Stark. There was simply no one else who would stand so close to the Lord of Winterfell.

Between her and her brother, Royce could understand why the Starks were considered wolves. He feared them almost as much as he did the beasts that followed them around camp

“Why did you come, Snow?”

Her voice was sharp when Royce failed to answer, forcing him to look down. He could easily lie, say something of his loyalty to his father. But that would surely cost him his head, and with the way she was holding the handle of her blade, he was sure he wouldn’t even leave the tent to die. 

So he told the truth.

“I am the Bastard of a dead Miller's wife. Likely if I did not comply with what my father asked I would either be dead in the dungeons or turned out and left to starve in the woods of the Dreadfort.”

The girl tilted her head, watching him with a marked interest as her brother observed her. Royce did not even attempt to hold her eye contact. Staring at the table before them depicting the siege. 

“Return to your tent, we may need you in the future.”

Royce left the tent in a daze, sitting on his own with a hand resting on his neck. He let out a small laugh as he leaned back on his cot, shocked with his continued existence.

Chapter Text

Brandon I

Brandon could admit he was sulking. 

To be fair to him however, if there ever was a place to sulk, it would be the Winterfell Library. There were many places to put up and stay hidden from others to bask in one's own sorrow. 

It was especially easy, when anyone who may go looking for you was off doing their own thing. 

He was sure that his brother was celebrating the announcement. Despite the air of gloom that had fallen over their family in light of the siege of Karhold, none of that seemed to affect Benjen at all. He was much content to celebrate his upcoming nuptials with the Bolton that had attached himself to his brother. 

Benjen’s joy only brought a smile to their mother, as she would look at him with that soft look she seemed to only reserve for Benjen and Edric as she gently cupped his face, not caring or possibly not knowing what her precious son was getting up to. 

He supposed he couldn’t blame her, the announcement of her pregnancy that had come a moon after the betrothal from her was taking up a majority of her time. It wasn’t like when she had carried Edric. Then she had been still herself, scolding him when he snuck out of lessons to prepare tea and food for her, or when he would wake up early to ensure she had less work to do that day. She was so caught up between preparing for the babe and preparing for the wedding that she had barely even sent a hard glance at him when she had caught him out and about when he should have been in his lessons.

She really shouldn’t blame him for sneaking out of his lessons either. The old man who taught him had been a half brother of his grandmother, originally training to be a maester before being kicked out for reasons both he and his mother would refuse to share with Brandon. He was an awful teacher, so maybe that was the reason. Brandon was sure if he was able to teach himself it would be better for all parties. He had practically taught himself most of what he knew anyway. 

The winterfell library was a trove of books lost outside of it. Maybe the Citadel had some as well, but they kept theirs under lock and key, the ones here were protected with the simple fact of looking unimportant. There were Math and History books that had been written in Old Valyria itself, secrets that maybe even the Targaryens were unaware of sitting in simple leather bound tombs, their names not even shown on the outside as dust collected in the pages. 

So Brandon’s sulking maybe looked a little different, here in the library than Benjens was. While Benjen was sure to stalk off with Domeric to some crowded pub in Wintertown, losing himself in the hustle and bustle of others lives, Brandons went to the back corner of the library. 

There was a small desk that Brandon had dragged in himself, along with a small lamp that he would only light when he would come here to lose himself in the simple work of restoring books. Carefully transcribing the pages onto fresh parchment, flipping the pages carefully to ensure that they did not turn to dust in his hands. Many of these his great uncle would call profane and immoral, the drawings the valyrians included in their books depicting crimes that made Brandon ill. 

But he preserved it all the same. Those crimes alongside the deeds his own ancestors did, many of them depicting acts as immoral as what the Valaryians did. 

His brother loved the tales their Mother told them of Knights and Maidens, of heroes of old. He would go on and on about their purity. But if the true histories showed one thing to Brandon, The pure did not last long in the world. And if they did, it was because someone who was willing to commit the bad was willing to protect them. It was a noble pursuit to stay pure and honorable.

But his brother had no intention of staying pure and honorable, he had long since corrupted that. And he hadn’t even realized it. And Brandon wondered how long it would be until he realized that Sansa wasn’t either. 

Sansa wasn’t the scheming monster his mother was convinced she was, but Benjen's version of her was just as false. Sansa had told Brandon more stories than his mother had, perhaps even closer to his uncle Dorrens number of tales. 

They were similar in a way. More Northern than anything that came from his mothers mouth. 

Margaret had never told him the tales she had told Benjen. Benjen who so loved those tales would practically boast of them while Brandon was left with the scraps his mother told him. 

As much as he loved Winterfell, some deep part of him longed for Karhold. He had been so young when he had lived there, so many memories seeming so distant. But he could remember Dorren’s face. Dorren, his uncle who looked more Northern than all his siblings. Dorren, a second son like him. Who had told him stories as him and Jojen curled under his arms. The Night's Queen and the Rat Cook filled his dreams more than Florian and Jonquil. 

He missed Jojen’s letters. A year younger than him, his cousin was everything Brandon was not. A fighter who was more at home in the woods around Karhold than inside the keep. Maybe it was so he wouldn’t have to hear the snide remarks their grandmother would make every time she saw the son of a Wull savage as she liked to call Wylla. 

His grandmother was so hateful, Brandon couldn’t understand it. He may have no love in his heart for his father, and even for her, but to insult both her gooddaughter and grandson the way she had done for years, even implying that Wylla’s inability to bare Dorren anymore children was due to her faith to the old gods was beyond any cruelty Brandon could imagine. 

Brandon stared at the ink that had long since dried, as lost in his thoughts as he was, the simple translation of Valaryian to the old runes had long since been finished and the book could be safely closed now without any issues. He did so slowly, studying the patterns of dust that fell around him as he did so. The swirls and the swoops mirroring his own mental state. 

It was a loud bang that broke him out of his stupor, along with a quietly muttered curse that drew his attention behind him.

Rickon was standing there, starting a book that had fallen off the shelf, the ones that had once lined it on its side were also jostled out of place, along with the others. Rickon seemed to be hiding however, why in the library off all places was beyond Brandon. Rickon was fond of the outdoors, he had followed Sansa enough times as she read books to him amongst the roots of the weirwoods to know that much.

“Rickon.”

The boy turned towards him with wide eyes, rushing over to him to quickly put out the candle that was sitting beside him, drenching the end of the aisle in darkness. He could hear footsteps walk by, but all he could do as his eyes adjusted to the darkness was stare at Rickon. 

His eyes almost looked like they glowed in the darkness, wide and crazed as they looked towards him. He felt rather like a deer caught in the gaze of a wolf, so sure one movement would set teeth into his neck, prey for the predator. There was always an element of, something, that set his cousins apart from them. Something that seemed not of this world as they looked at them, eyes that knew too much, or saw too much. 

Some of the old texts described the legends of fair folk that had lived alongside the children of the forest, and  some of their blood must have been carried on in their lines, awakened in his cousins. 

He heard the rumors of how Arya fought like she was dancing, moving through the air gracefully with lethal precision. He knew that was not how the ladies of bear island were taught to fight, he had seen Lady Mormonts great sword to know as much. 

Gods was he his brother? Fantasizing about myths and legends as he stared at their cousin?

The footsteps had long since faded, but Rickon and Brandon were still staring at each other.
“Who are you hiding from?”

Rickon scoffed, not moving from his position of staring Brandon down. Brandon could feel his heart pumping in his ears, a steady thump thump as blood rushed by. Rickon would surely not become a kinslayer, Sansa had to have told him the tales she had mentioned to him. He may be wild but he was still a Stark, oaths had to mean something to him.

Maybe they meant as much as they meant to Brandon’s father. 

“You're welcome to stay.” He muttered carefully, pushing the book away so if the boy did leap it would not be damaged by his blood. “It's nice back here, once I light the candle I mean. Quiet. And I know I would not expect you here, but I mean here you are. And well if you're already here best not risk exposing yourself, I mean-”

Fuck he was rambling. The boy had clearly lost interest in whatever he was saying, his eyes drawn to the book that he had been restoring, face curling up in disgust. Much akin to the look the boy had been sending him and his brothers this past month. He was even more attached to his sister’s skirt than usual it felt, and Benjen was convinced the boy had growled at him at multiple points.

“Is Sansa nearby?”

He questioned as the boy shot a angry look towards him

“Why would I tell you?”

The voice was sharp, and questioning as Brandon raised his hands, leaning back in his chair

“I didn’t mean to offend Rickcon. I Just.”

He just did. Was surprised to see him without her, wanted to talk to her as he had been unable to since the betrothal announcement. Tell her he wished to stand by her side if the ceremony ever came.

“I miss her.”

Was all that he managed to say, resting his hands then his chin on the table as Rickon relit the lamp, illuminating just their small area

“She's still here.” 

Rickon huffed angrily as Brandon shrugged, humming softly

“I know I just, she was the only one who would talk to me, you know. Like actually talk to me. All anyone else ever had to say was about how I was doing shit wrong, she would actually talk to me you know.” Despite knowing that Rickon didn't care, the words kept flowing “she would debate with me and stuff and it didn't feel like just arguing. she would actually hear what I said and take it into account. And I am worried for when she will marry my brother because as much as I love both of them I know my brother is a fool who lives in fantasies. And with that Bolton around him I fear how he will react.”

Brandon was unsure he had talked so much in his life without repeating phrases from books. Rickon didn’t seem to react at all. Instead, coming to sit on the desk next to him, pushing over the ink pot to crash on the ground, the glass shattering and spilling ink upon the ground

“I don’t like Bolton either.”

Brandon couldn’t help the small smirk that covered his face, looking at Rickon with what he was sure was a conspitory grin

“Want to aid me in some mischief then.”

Rickon’s smile was truly feral.

Dorren I

Dorren could safely say he hated his mother. Minisa Mooton was a cruel conniving bitch, and that was what Dorren longed to say to her face.

He rubbed his hand gently along his wife's back as another sob racked her body, the bloodied sheets being carried from his room. His mother lording over Wylla with her customary sneer. He was sure the insults they were about to hear would be the same they had heard a thousand times over. That Wylla was a lowborn heathen unworthy of her son, that the reason they had only had one child despite their many years of marriage.

Funny how he was her son in this, but not when he was a child. All her time seemed dedicated to Margaret and Gareth. The precious Heir and her daughter, the true political pieces she could move and bend to her silly southern ambitions.

A second son? A spare made when Gareth seemed unlikely to live, who would care for him.

He was surprised she even named him, she left everything else in the hands of the maids and servants.

And his grandfather.

While mother had father wrapped around her little finger in agreeing to ignore him, his Grandfather cared not. Ensuring he was trained and taught as a Northern Lord should be. And who betrothed him to his love.

His wife.

Wylla Wull. Who wrestled him into the ground and smirked at him the first time he met. With her sword and her wit, he doubted there was a finer lady in the north, nay westeros. With her honey hair and hazel eyes, soft cheeks and thick body that hid the muscle she bore. 

She was Northern and lovely.

And she had given him Jojen. Their beautiful son. The best son he could ask for. With his adventurous spirit and love of life how could he want anything more?

His son was sitting at the edge of the room near the window, tears in his eyes. He likely knew the forests of Karhold better than anyone and longed to be in them. The siege had taken its toll on them all, but it seemed to have taken a long one on Jojen's Spirit.

His mother whisked herself from the room, leaving the family in their grief as Wylla sobbed.

And Dorren felt himself snap. 

How many times had his mother turned her nose up at her second son, how many of Gareth's cruel remarks and Margaret's self aggrandising actions could one man, one family truly take. 

On Grandfather's deathbed he wished for him to have been the heir, not his father with his ambition, nor Gareth with his ego. Him, and Wylla who deserved to be a lady of a keep, not some foolish second son. And Jojen, his sweet Jojen would make a fine lord of Karhold after him.

Surely Cregan Stark would wish to take the heads of all those who opposed him, it was well within his rights. 

He would not count them among them

Sansa VI

Sansa pushed back Rickon’s hair as he slept soundly in her lap, a small smile on her face. She was glad he was able to find some happiness in this keep, even as they planned their escape.

It was more than what she could find. 

Dinners with her betrothed, countless hours planning little details that truly did not matter with her Aunt, trying to govern while her Uncle was fighting foes everywhere he looked, on top of planning for her trip, there was little time she had to rest.

Even now, as Rickon slept she worked, mentally going through the guards rotations along with the normal schedules of the residence to find some gap they could get through unseen. She was finding little success however, as it seemed each day more and more soldiers from Karhold made their way into the keep. Even the Lord of Karhold was here, not with his castle that was currently under siege. 

She hoped it would fall and her brother would tear the stones apart and leave it as nothing more than a smoldering pile of rubble. The Karstarks had been a major part of both this war and their abandoning of Robb had been another piece that had led to his death. They seemed akin to the Greystarks the way they betrayed those that were their blood. 

She shook her head as she heard the door knock, quietly beckoning them to enter. The door slowly slid open as Brandon entered the room. Brandon, never Bran, her opposition to the nickname when they were younger had stuck, and even now, not a single soul in winterfell called him Bran,

“He’s asleep?”

He asked in a quiet voice as Sansa nodded, he sat down next to her, looking at Rickon with too much regret in his eyes

“I wanted to apologize for getting him in trouble with my mother.”

Sansa shook her head, forcing a smile onto her lips. Brandon was sweet, she had to admit. Always holed up in a book with some witty retort on his lips. He almost reminded her of Theon, always smiling, although Theon also wouldn’t have been caught dead in the winterfell library.

(Maybe he didn’t reminded her of Theon, maybe she was just grasping for straws of her old life, that  seemed to want to slip away)

“No need to apologize.”

He shook his head

“No, I can take the brunt of my mothers anger, and have done countless times, but he shouldn’t have. And because I know she won’t apologize, I will.” 

She smiled as Brandon looked up at her with big wide eyes. He looked different than his mother and brother. More like his Stark father. His long face and dark curls almost reminded her of Jon before she shook that thought from Her head.

Brandon and Jon were very different people, not at all alike

“I was restoring books when he found me. I found some interesting things in them.”

She smiled as she let him talk. Brandon was quiet around most people she had discovered early, so used to being ignored by his father and shoved aside by his mother for his brother. But if you gave him the simple curtsy of listening, words spilled out like he never thought he would talk again

“Do you know Winterfell has secret passages like the Red keep? The Brandon that I was reading didn't document All of them but some even led out of the castle.”

Sansa did not let her face read anything even as she met Brandons eyes. He was doing no such thing however, looking at her with earnest eyes that looked almost akin to how her brothers had

“I wish he had documented some.”

She said softly, looking around her room as if that would hold the answer. Was there some passageway in here? An escape under nose that she had never thought to look for. 

She remembered the keep keeps secret passages that Maegor himself had put in the keep, killing all the builders so as to keep them a Targaryen secret. Was it such a surprise that the Starks had some as well? The walls of the keep were thick and already had gaps to accommodate the pipes that warmed the keep, gaps big enough for people.

“I find myself wishing for that as well. I may try and find some other personal diaries, in hopes that I can restore their knowledge to us. So many of them are on the brink of just turning to nothing, it would be a shame to lose them.”

She smiled, nodding slightly. She sometimes wished that Brandon had been born in the south, for the simple reason of him being able to go to the citadel and learn from their plentiful resources. Although Winterfell had many resources of their own. Maybe one day they could set up a similar learning institution there. A central hub for all knowledge in the North to gather, scholars, woods witches, and shieldmaidens alike could attend.
A fanciful notion she put out of her head as Brandon stood, tilting his head slightly

“I will go before I wake Rickon from his slumber. I hope you get some as well, Sansa.”
She smiled

“You as well Brandon, on a real bed and not with a book as a pillow.”

He laughed as he moved to the door, pausing for a second

“You are the closest I have ever had to a sister Sansa.” He turned and smiled at her “Even when you don’t marry my brother, you're the best sister I could ask for.”

He left the room after that, leaving Sansa to her thoughts as she stared at the space he had left. She knew when Cregan won many would want him to execute both Benjen and Brandon as the sons of the man who had led this rebellion, and part of her longed for a way to let Brandon survive. To continue to work in the Winterfell libraries as its keeper, until one day in fifty years when the dust and pages claim him as their own and he dies in the books he so loves. 

But odds were not in his favor.

She gently lowered Rickon onto the chaste as she stood, moving towards the edge of the wall where she ran her hand along it. Pushing here or there to test the wall to see if it was false. She remembered hearing of doors hidden into wardrobes and the like as she opened her own, running her hand along the back as if hoping to find some door handle or divot that she had not noticed before.

Despite her search of the room, she came up short. She even checked under the bed and behind the desk. But still nothing. She stood in the middle of her room with her hands on her hips and an annoyed look on her face as she scanned the room, looking at chairs and tables alike as if they had done her some grievous harm. 

She sat down on the chair that Brandon had vacated as she scanned the room, upset as another escape planned slipped from her fingers.

Arya II

They all sat in silence around the table, the letter showing the latest Insult their uncle had made sitting before them. The norreys kept glancing towards Cregan nervously while Freya sat beside her, gently tapping on the table as she stared At the letter. It was an odd Council they were.

And the insult was what connected them.

Sansa, the daughter of a Lord to wed the mere son of a Second son? Who would give nothing to their house or to her? Arya was not blind to what this truly was. 

It was a usurpation of their line.

If their uncle and aunt had their ways, Sansas child with Benjen would be the next lord, and despite their claims of women heirs, there was no question who the history books would remember as the lord.

If Sansa didn't kill Benjen first.

“I'm going to get her out of there. Her and Rickon.” 

Was the only thing that came to her mind. Her father was right, they needed their pack together. This foolish war had lasted longer than it should have. 

“Lady Arya, we can't risk you getting captured as well.”

Lord Norrey said, in that patronizing way he seemed to be so fond of. Lady Arra was but one year older than her, yet he treated her as an equal while he continued to see Arya as nothing more than a child.

What do you know Norrey, have you watched the ones you live die one by one in front of you, Fought even when your strength was failing you, Killed the hollow remains of someone you had loved

She said none of those words, simply looked at the man as he squirmed uncomfortably. She may not have the reputation she had before her death, but she was bringing to gain one. Enough that he would feel uncomfortable. 

“Arya, I need you here.”

Cregan said quietly as her gaze turned towards him. She had always imagined him looking like Jon, but she had been so wrong. If he looked akin to any of her siblings, it had been Rickon. The coloring was wrong of course, but the build and the features were all so similar. 

How many of Jon's features had actually been that of Rhaegar Targaryens, but had simply been overlooked because none thought to look.

“Cregan, this siege has moved forward for months without my input.”

Cregan shook his head and looked towards the other people, giving them a command to leave as he came to stand beside her

“I-I can not do this without you.”

His voice broke as he spoke and Arya could feel her resolve break. Cregan was so young. Seventeen and already so much had been placed upon his shoulders. As a leader, and as a brother. 

God's he was older than Robb had been when he led the war against the Lannisters. How much older than him was she now? Time, that weirdly odd thing that seemed to take so much.

(Yet it always seemed to leave the worst. The sound of Grey Winds cries, her father up on that dais. the monster that her mother had become. Gendry's wrong blue eyes.)

She grabbed onto his shoulder, as he looked at her with eyes that were still so light. 

“We need our Pack Cregan, our full pack. We have been all scattered to the wind for too long. But I can't stay here forever”

He looked back down at the ground as she swallowed

“I will leave tomorrow to bring them back to us. Without Sansa their whole claim falls apart. We will be able to go home.”

The home winterfell had once been was long gone to Arya, but, maybe it could become that once again.

she would have to try and at least make it so for Cregan

“Lord Stark, someone is demanding to speak with you.”

Cregan straightened up as Arya patted him on the shoulder. His face went oddly blank and for a moment, he reminded her of Sansa. Though it was foolish, they looked little alike but still. That mask of nothing they were able to slip on and off. The way all emotion seemed to leak from their face in an instant. It was different than when she dawned the mask of nobody, for even Nobody would react, as any person should. But this mask they wore turned them to stone.

A man entered the tent, Cloaked in grey as he stood up taller, his head down turned. Arya felt her hand come to rest on her sword as the guards reentered the tent

They seemed to have no reason to fear however as the man pushed back his hood as he kneeled down, speaking the whole time

“I, Dorren Karstark, swear my fealty to Lord Cregan Stark, lord of winterfell and Warden of the North.”

Arya glanced towards Cregan, even as his face showed no emotions

“What reason should I trust your oaths, Lord Dorren, when your family of late have shown little regard for them.” 

Dorren did not raise, just simply looked at them with those dark grey eyes. 

“I was not the one to make those decisions, my lord. And I would have come sooner had I not feared for my wife's safety as her pregnancy progressed.”

They fell into a silence then neither men speaking but not as a power mover, more akin to one of difference on Dorrens part 

“And what do you hope to gain by betraying your family?”

The man rose, though his head still hung low

“Safety for my wife and son, my lord. My wife has suffered enough at my mother's hand, I would not wish for her to go through more.”

Arya held no false beliefs of Minisa Mooton, Sansas letters had told her enough about the bitch, but to hear it from her own son's mouth was another story. What cruelty had the woman done to make her own son turn on her so.

 Dorren had often been forgotten in her mind. Margaret, by virtue of her marriage had consumed much of her mind, and the other son was often just a mouthpiece for his mother, ever her perfect little boy it seemed. 

Lord Karstark was putty in the hands of his wife as well. She could almost respect how much it must have taken Minisa to bend him to her, if she didn't have the joy of knowing how much Minisa loathed everything about the North, including her husband.

Margaret V

This pregnancy was going to kill her off that she was sure. She may only be four Moons along, but already she felt bloated and tired. She had pushed through The days as best as she could, but no matter what she did it made little difference. 

Ginger tea had been little help to deal with the near constant nausea she felt. And she had no desire to go talk to that woman who followed Sansas every word like it had been said by a god for aid.

So she suffered through. Standing for days on end even as her feet and her gut yelled at her to rest. She had duties to attend to, the wedding to plan, a household to run, she had little time to rest as her body wished.

She stood currently, talking with the Steward that her husband had appointed when the last one had died. His name was Brandon, like so many in the North, and he was a Glover bastard, according to her husband. Despite that he had taken his own last name, Evergreen, for the trees that so populated the north. It was a cruel contrast to his hair, which was that same forsaken shade of red that his half-sisters was. 

She wondered if it was some cruel joke of her husbands, to remind her daily of the woman she had so loathed for so long, that seemed to continue to haunt her from beyond the grave in the form of her forsaken children. 

Children that seemed to like drawing hers into chaos. 

The front hall was being scrubbed down from top to bottom because of the prank that her son had been coerced into by Glover's stupid son. While the soap would make it easy to scrub, it made it difficult to even get anywhere, leading to a total halt of all tasks that were meant to be done. 

Her son hadn’t even had the decency to look ashamed when she caught him, in contrast to his normal expression when caught in trouble. He just continued to laugh with that boy. She felt a shiver go down her spine at the remembrance of that laugh. It seemed far too much like the barking of his wolf. And when his eyes fell upon her, she froze, caught like a deer in the eyes of a wolf. 

There was something just as unnatural about that boy as there was with his sister

“My Lady.”

She smiled at the man, realizing she had not responded to whatever asinine question he had asked her on the rationing of food, or perhaps of water? She could not recall

“Forgive me, My lord” she responded with all the grace she could manage “I fear my pregnancy has caused me a momentary lapse. May I hear the question again?”

The man’s eyes furrowed in concern as he stepped closer

“My lady, I would be happy to take on more responsibilities if you require rest. You are in a very delicate position right now.”

Anger bubbled up inside her at the pity in his voice. She forced a smile on her face as she stepped back, controlling herself with all the lessons her mother drilled into her to keep her composer

“Nonsense.” She forced her voice to stay even “I worked almost up until the labor for my first three pregnancies, I don’t see why this one should be much different.”

He bowed his head, nodding slightly

“I meant no offence my Lady, only concern for the health of you and the babe.”

She smiled, wondering what this man who to her knowledge, had to wife and children, and was a bastard born from ill means would know of pregnancy

“I take none, Lord Evergreen, Now the question.”

He nodded, as they fell back into the simple back and forth of the conversation. A majority of it mattered little, matters of management that simply needed to be reported. How much one farmer made, what the blacksmiths paid in taxes, how much food had been stored away for Winter. 

“And on the matter of the wedding my Lady.”

She rose her eyebrow, staring at the man

“What of it?”

He swallowed as he looked at his paper, closing his eyes as if steeling himself before he spoke

“I do not believe it wise to have such a grand feast.”

He was calling the rather small feast she had planned out grand? Oh how she would give her son the grand feasts her mother had told her of in Maidenpool and in King's Landing. Were she not stuck here. Were they in White Harbor they would have surely been able to do it. Why had those gods forsaken Starks settled so far inland, where they could not truly export any amount of food. 

“Nonsense” Was what she said instead “It is a time for celebration, it ought to be shared with all those in the keep. It has been so long since we have seen a wedding in these halls.”

Indeed, the last wedding had been her own, in the grand hall before what would have once been the spot where the Stark Kings of Winter would have held court. While the Ceremony itself had been held in the gods wood, the feast that had taken place in the grand hall was one for the ages. She and Bennard were sat at the top, the Stark Clock still heavy over her shoulders as they ate fresh game and bread, pies and for dessert there were so many lovely treats, even fresh citrus from the glass gardens. 

It had been the highlight of that night, especially as the bedding happened and she felt men grab and poke her as they stripped her of her clothes.

She forced herself not to think any further as the man nodded, ceding to her argument with talks of having to more heavily ration food beforehand. She cared not for how he would make it happen, just that he got it done.

She made her way back to her room, where a maid had already prepared a warm bath for her. She groaned as she slipped into the water, watching where her stomach had already begun to swell. The babe was not as big as it had been for Edric or Benjen, more akin to when Brandon had been born. Brandon had been so small for a babe, the Maesters had been worried that he would not make it. She hoped this babe would be stronger than him. She was already beginning to feel movements, and it certainly felt strong

“Your carryin’ low m’lady.”

She looked towards where the maid was collecting her clothes, Margaret’s overdress draped over her arms as she looked at her

“What?”

She said sharply as she looked down at the ground, swallowing

“Forgive me, M’lady, just something my Mother used to tell me.”

Margaret nodded as she grabbed the oils along the edge of the tub, there were many, although she was more personally inclined to the Lavender scents that her mother had been so fond of. Even just uncapping as she listened to the maid ramble brought back memories of sitting with her mother as she lectured her when she was but a girl

“Well, my mother always told me that if one is carrying low, it means its a boy. She had ten children, so I tended to believe her when it came to pregnancies.”

Margaret hummed, even as she felt her heart dropped. She had three sons already, and was hoping beyond hope that this babe was to be the girl for her husband to dot on as he had his niece, for his love to go one born of his own loins. Their own loins. 

“Well, that seems rather foolish.” She said steadily, firmly and happily “the woods witches say that you can’t tell what a babe is before it is born.” 

The woman nodded, quickly leaving the room as Margaret rose from the bath, slipping into her dressing robes as she moved to sit in front of the mirror. She slowly picked up the brush that was sitting there, a heavy fine thing that had been bought by her mother in her youth. Its handle was a fine ivory with pearls and other gems inlaid into it. 

Her mother had gifted it to her on the eve of her wedding, a gift for the moment that truly marked her as a woman. Or that had been what her mother said. 

She turned suddenly as the door flew open, its hinges whining as it over extended, her husband flying into the room, throwing a letter down in front of her

“I shall be leaving in a moon turn to deal with your traitor brother.”
He practically yelled at her, as she leaned down to pick up the letter that had fallen to the ground, the pages scattered about. She could see both her brother and her fathers handwriting, along with a print she could not place. She started with the unrecognizable one

Uncle,

I hope that you shall reconsider your current stance against both me and the laws that have long since governed the laws of this land. Especially considering you are now rather alone in this world.

I have taken Karhold with the aid of the new Lord of Karhold, Dorren Karstark. He has truly proven more loyal to the laws of the North and of the realm. The other members of house Karstark shall be given the option to either take the Black or face the king's justice. 

If you surrender to me and my host now, cede Winterfell and my siblings to me I shall offer both you and your family the mercy you are owed as members of my family. However, deny me my birthright and I will forget any blood relations between the two of us, as I feel you have done.

Cregan Stark

Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North

She felt the letter fall to the ground as a rage filled scream filled the room, the scream went and went and she couldn’t help but agree with the rage that it fell. Dorren, her stupid little brother. How much had her family given him over the years, a home, a title, a wife, even his son could be attributed to them, and how had he decided to repay them, to repay their mother, the woman who had given him the very life?

The scream was hers, as her husband cradled her to his chest, hushing her as she screamed

“Don’t worry dear, I will save them. I will save them”

She nodded, against his chest, as he smoothed her hair. She had never felt so close to her husband as she did in this moment, their anger pooling in the room around them as her heart hardened.

Chapter Text

Royce III

Royce's heart pounded with every step he took into Karhold. He knew of only one reason that Cregan Stark would summon him, and that was to take his head for the actions of his brother or father.

He hadn't taken the head of any Karstark yet, but surely he had to make an example of his control of the keep.

He wished his brother had never rode past the mill on that day, had not seen his pale eyes as he tended the field with the miller.

Then his head wouldn't be on the chopping block.

He knocked on the door of the room Stark had claimed. Waiting for the call and opening it slowly to reveal three figures in the room.

Cregan Stark was sitting at the table, his fingers interlaced as he seemingly studied the grain of the wood. 

Freya Mormont was standing behind him, only half turned to him and every bit the image of the Mormont shieldmaidens of myth, with her great battle axe strapped to her back.

And sitting beside her brother, relaxed but still ready to pounce was Lady Arya. He felt his heart pound as her eyes landed on him, looking at him like he was prey. He wasn't sure if he wanted her to pounce and get it over with or for her to look at him like that forever.

Mormont scoffed

“The Bolton?”

Cregan hummed as he finally decided to look at him, eyes empty as he scanned him

“Indeed.”

He responded as mormont scoffed in the way he was sure only a shieldmaiden would do to their rightful lord

“Me and Arya would be fine without him .”

Cregan looked towards the Mormont

“I insist that you bring at least one more person. And Snow is who I have decided on. His family is known for trickery and deceit, skills I feel shall be very useful in your quest.”

Royce was no stranger to the feeling that was enveloping him. For much of his life he was little more than a fly on the wall to the lives of his family. There but not an active participant in any conversation.

He supposed he was grateful that the miller had raised him for so long, else he may not even know how to talk.

“Before he is useful he may very well slit both mine and your sister's throat and present them as a prize for his brother.”

Royce didn't mention how what his brother wanted was Lady Arya alive. He had spoken often and harshly of the she-wolf of Bear Isle to Royce as he was shoulder deep in whatever girl had displeased him.

His brother took little joy in breaking what was weak. He wanted that push, that drive to break that which others deemed unbreakable. Took pleasure in the snap.  Once they were broken he saw no further purpose for them. 

Look there now little one, doesn’t she look good under a bolton man.

He shook those memories from his head as Lady Stark stepped closer to him, her gray eyes looking somewhere inside of him that he wasn’t even sure his Mother had seen. She had been the last one to truly look at him before he came to this camp, and ever since he felt as if he was under his blade, being dissected by these wolves. 

“Do you swear you have no alliance with your brother?”

He nodded. 

“Aye, I swear.” Even his accent seems rough against hers, despite being so similar there was no question of his baseborn heritage when he spoke “I’m just more likely to slit his throat before I do anything that would benefit him.”

He spoke candidly, he desired nothing more than to see his brother choke on his pride, on that unshakable feeling that because of who their father was, nothing could happen to him, that all were his to torment. 

“You would become a Kinslayer.”

He looked towards the Mormont, all hopped on pride that only a trueborn could be. That unshakable feeling they had that they were always morally right

“I am a bastard, M’lady, born of a Miller’s wife, I am already accursed, better for me to kill my monstrous brethren.”

He did not break his eye contact with the Mormont. She may huff and puff and stand for all she wished, but he had no intentions of backing down

“Enough, Freya.” Stark's voice called out, looking towards her companion “he is fit for this task ahead of us. And if you really wish we can assure one of us is with him awake at all times, or do you really think he could beat your axe?”

Freya mumbled something under her breath as Lady Stark walked back toward her, her hand coming to rest on her arm as she looked back at him

“We leave at sundown.”

He nodded, taking a step towards the door.

“Oh as well, Snow.” He looked back towards Cregan, almost Having forgotten the wolf in his midst “you have a new sister, Barba Bolton.”

Royce felt himself freeze even more before a small laugh came out of him

“Has,” he paused and he tried to spit it out “has her mother been seen since.”

He felt their eyes questioning him as he swallowed, but he had taken the skin from the flesh of the mother of his bastards after he found them no longer desirable before, and Barba...

One Bolton deserves a mother at least.

“I believe so.”

Was all that was said before he nodded. Leaving the room to pack his meager belongings.

Brandon II

The original plans for winterfell had long since decayed with time, possibly having never existed in the first place. Even if they had existed, Brandon would have never been able to read them, the runes inscribed onto paper were even older than the Old Tongue that his uncle and Sansa had so carefully taught him, long forgotten to time.

But that did not mean there were not any plans. 

As Brandon sat, enduring his great uncle's lecturing as he stared at the pages in front of him, not truly listening to the lectures of the seven gods and all the nonsense the man seemed to always go on about. 

Most of the front of the library was not laid out in a way that worked for him, the sections in theory made since but within them there was no consistency. It had taken him days to finally arrange the back parts to his liking, wiping the dust from their pages, restoring damages and cataloging what was beyond repair. He had taken notes from how Sansa and Jeyne organized the herbs in the gardens, their purposes first, and then further within them by their names. 

He flinched as Elmar slammed his rod down on the table. It was a simple thing, made of willow wood that whined as it arched through the air. Elmar had never gained a rod during his time as a Maester, only gathering a single chain even. But that didn’t stop Elmar from carrying the cursed thing with him everywhere he went as if it were one. 

Brandon had to suppress a smile at the time he had asked what a willow rod meant, and where his mask was if he had gained it by achieving his mastery.

Sansa had given him an ointment for the welts that had covered his arms for that bit of cheek. 

The rod slammed down again, closer to his hand as he flinched looking up into his uncle's dark eyes. He didn’t look like his grandmother, or any of his cousins as his mother described them. His hair was dark and his skin more yellow than pink. He looked more like a northerner than a riverlander.

“It is bad enough you skip your lessons, but when you are here you don’t even give me the respect I am owed, you ungrateful brat.”

Brandon had to stop himself from correcting every mistake that the book his uncle was teaching him made. The North was nothing like this book, and he wasn’t even sure where this book had come from, it being more fantasy than truth. Stating things that were merely rumors as if they were true.

But that rod was too close to his hand for him to risk it

“I am sorry, Uncle.”

Was all he said instead and his uncle harrumphed and looked him over with a critical eye. His uncle seemed even less worried than Benjen at the fact that Karhold had fallen, and the walls were closing in on them. Maybe he thought that if he sunk into the background with his Northern looks he could ensure that he survived, even if his sister, niece, nephews and all their children died. 

Before Cregan killed him, he would make sure Elmar died as well, for the library's sake more than his own. He didn’t want the books to have to deal with Elmar being the one to look after them. 

Whatever face he made seemed to displease Elmar, as the willow landed firmly on his hand with a loud crack. Brandon flinched at the noise before he felt the pain start to bloom. He tried not to move, even as he felt the pain start to grow, and tears well up in his eyes.

He knew it would do him no good to cry, crying would only make Elmar made as he was not strong enough to endure it. Gods it hurt tho, and no matter how often Elmar did it it never seemed to hurt less.

The first time it had happened he had gone to his mother, who had gone in a mad fury to confront her uncle, but he convinced her he was making a big deal out of nothing, that it had been a mere tap. 

He always convinced people he was overreacting, even as the welts grew and some even scarred, Elmar was always the one in the right. Over time it began to extend to other things. He was never someone to be trusted by his family, he lied over and over again, even when it was the truth. So why would they trust him. 

Only Sansa trusted him, only Sansa took his words at face value.

He looked at his uncle, imagining all sorts of quips and cruel taunts he could make. Of the taint of bastardy or of his expulsion from the one place he may have been something great, instead of the sad old man in front of him that seemed to take joy in his pain

“Ser Elmar.”

He looked towards the door where Sansa glided in, her red hair falling down her back almost illuminating her.

“If you could forgive me could I steal my cousin for a time.”

Her smile was sweet and sincere as she smiled at the man he was sure no one had ever smiled at before. He seemed baffled by the girl in front of him, despite having seen her in the halls a million times.

“Lady Sansa I can not allow you to-”

“Allow me, sir?”

Her voice had almost a song like quality to it as she tilted her head, peaking towards hum

“Brandon spends all of his time in the library already sir, I'm sure I shall be fine to steal him for one afternoon.”

She placed a hand on his shoulder. So gently he almost flinched. It felt like a balm again the pain coursing up his arm, like a spunge that would take it away

“My lady, are you sure you wish for him, after all it was him that got your brother in all that trouble with my niece.”

She did not back down from his stair as Brandon stood, simply took his offered arm and left the library with him. 

She led him down the stairs and through the halls till they made their way to the family glass gardens, sitting down with his hand in hers she looked at the red angry welt across the back of his hand. She rose towards her apothecary station, grabbing flowers and herbs as she placed them in the mortar, taking the pedestal and combining them

“Which herbs?”

She smiled as she came to a pipe that came from the wall, taking a small cup of steaming water from it

“Pot marigold, Marsh Mallows and elm bark.”

He nodded as the crushed leaves and bark steeped in the water, turning the water an ochre shade as Sansa watched it steep. The birds overhead sang their sweet song as Brandon began to talk.

“I found an old map of winterfell.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow as she dipped some cloth in the water before rubbing it on the welt.

“Did you know there is a passage within the crypts?”

Sansa looked at him with wide eyes as she looked around

“A passage.”

Her voice was quiet as she leaned in, He nodded, looking towards her

“Apparently it wasn’t built by Brandon the builder himself, but by the first Edwyle Stark, after Boltons managed to infiltrate the keep and he and his children were locked inside the crypt. They found an old fissure that had revealed itself after an earthquake shifted some stones. They managed to slip through the crack and came out in the wolfswood. They then raised a host and outed the Boltons from Winterfell.”

Sansa seemed far off in thoughts as she looked at him, 

“Where in the crypts is this crack?”

He nodded, 

“Behind Edwyle Starks statue, the first one without a direwolf.” She nodded as she gently tended to his welt, 

“When you come back with Cregan.” She looked at him with wide eyes as he spoke “Make sure Elmar doesn’t slip through the cracks.”

She nodded, taking his non-injured hand as she looked at him

“I will ensure that you tend the Library.”

Brandon didn’t want to mention that with all likelihood he, his brothers and his whole family would be killed for the simple matter of being traitors. Even if they were simply trapped. 

Arya III

The road was quiet as they made camp. They had ridden hard through the day and at the pace They were going it would take only a few days for them to reach Winterfell.

Freya stood besides her rolling out bedspreads as Royce was off hunting their dinner. She was to claim the first watch as she prepared a small fire.

As much as she loved Winterfell and Bear Isle, there was something she loved about sleeping under the skies and the stars. While at first it had been out of necessity she had done so, she had grown to love it. The air in forests like this were so different compared to places like Bravos and Kings Landing. A sharpness that clears her lungs as she categorizes the constellations in her mind. 

“We can see the Bear tonight.”

Freya’s words cut through the silence of the night as she pointed upwards, showing wear the bear was wandering the sky.

“And there's her cub.”

Arya said fondly, remembering days of sitting with Maester Luwin and her siblings into the hour of the bat as he taught them of the stars and the seven wanders. The stories of the bear and her cub, cursed to eternally wander the skys.

“Look, a falling star.”

She looked towards where Freya was pointing, as a silver star streaked across the sky, falling northwards on its journey.

“Shit.”

The two of them turned on a flash, looking towards where a man wearing a pink surcoat was watching them with wide eyes, stepping backwards towards a tree. Arya darted forward, cutting the man across his shin where he fell to the ground in a heap, yelping as he did so

Freya lowered her battle ax to rest along the man's throat, who was breathing heavily

“And what do we have here?”

The boy was holding his bleeding leg as he quickly looked between the two of them, his pale  eyes wide as dinner plates as his brown eyes were blown out

“Im, I'm just a scout. I was trying to find Cregan Starks camp and got lost.”

Arya rose an eyebrow, leaning down to look at the man, watching as he avoided meeting her eyes, his bloody had coming to wipe under his nose as he swiveled

“That's not all, is it?”

She grabbed the edge of his coat, inspecting the pink garment and seeing its red threading

“You're a Bolton, aren’t you?”

The boy, and looking closer he really was a boy, even younger than she was nodded

“Snow, Wyl Snow.”

Freya sneered

“You're one of Domeric Boltons brood.”

The boy nodded, sniveling some more as she dropped his coat,

“Should my leg be bleeding this much?”

His voice seemed so small as he asked that, his hands coming away from his leg red, staining his doublet red as he did so. She knew where her blade had landed did not mean it would be fatal, but one could never know

“It's a big wound, but you won’t die.”

He nodded, but with his eyes wide and looking down he truly looked like a lost child or a kicked puppy. Arya sighed, getting closer and taking his hands, moving them

“Push here, it will slow the blood flow.”

He nodded, taking her instructions in hand as she moved back, Freya looking at her confused before she moved forward

“Who sent you?”

Wyl shrugged

“There was a letter from Lord Domeric, telling me to go look for Arya Stark. I knew she was with her brother so that's where I went, but I got lost. Lord Domeric told me to go North, so that's what I’ve been doing.”

Arya nodded, looking towards where Freya was watching with critical eyes, her battle ax still ready to take the boys head off

“And what were you supposed to do with Lady Arya when you found her.”

The boy nodded

“Bring her to Lord Domeric, m’lady. I’ve told you all I know.”

Arya put a hand on Freya’s ax lowering it

“Help me bandage his wound.”

Freya looked at her like she was insane, but helped her do it as they sent the boy moving southwards towards the dreadfort

“That was idiotic, why let him go.”

Arya looked at her

“Wyl Snow is one of Lord Boltons only surviving sons, Freya. Bastard or no, he will notice he is gone.”

Freya grabbed her arm, not roughly just enough to force Arya’s gaze onto her

“Arya, he was sent to look for you by his Father. How long will it take for him to realize that the girl in the woods with the Stark look and wolf on her doublet was who he was looking for.”

Arya wretched herself from her grip as she felt Nymeria howl somewhere in the distance

“Long enough for us to be long gone, Freya. And don’t grab me.”

Freya paused, stepping back for a second as she took a breath

“I'm sorry Arya, I'm just.” Freya’s Brown eyes looked conflicted as she looked at her “I know Domeric Boltons history with girls our age, hell's even younger than we are. Him showing interest in you is nothing good.”

Arya smiled as she walked closer to her 

“And you think I would allow Domeric Bolton to get his hands on me.”

Freya shook her head

“It's not you I worry over, it's what the other member of our party may do. After all he has already used his bastard for that purpose once, what is to stop him from doing so again.”

Arya paused as Royce reentered the Camp, mud on his boots and rabbits in hand, he nodded at the two of them before sitting down to tend to their flesh.

He would always be a Bolton, Arya thought as she watched him skin the rabbit with deft hands and a knife far too fine for a bastard.

Boltons were not to be trusted. Hadn't Robb learned that fact, hadn't Sansa? She would learn the lesson from them.

“Do you not like rabbits? I'm sorry but it was all I could find, I could go look again.”

Arya stared at the Bolton, at his eerie pale eyes. She had seen those eyes on Wyl, those haunting eyes that seemed to connect all Boltons. 

“No, it's fine.”

She stated briskly, sitting down across the fire from him. The smoke obscured his vision of her. 

“If we continue west from here, we can follow the white knife from its mouth down towards winterfell.”

Freya sneered as she spoke, a body between her and Bolton

“Do you know these lands well?”

Royce paused, his hand on a stick as he held the skinned rabbit in his other, each hovering as he stared deep into the fire

“My Mother and I lived a bit west of here when I was young. The Miller, he would bring me through these woods to learn how to hunt.”

Arya cocked her head as she heard a bird fly overhead, its features almost invisible among the canopy. 

“Are there many people in the land around here?”

Freya asked, her voice soft for once as Royce continued to look in the flames

“Maybe, I haven’t been back here since I was a boy.” 

He looked up at each of them, his gaze a thousand miles away, before he swallowed, smiling as his gaze sharpened

“But I do doubt it. Much of this land is rocky and infertile, and the bits that are fertile are in ruins.”

He finished, spearing the rabbit on the spit as he did so. He handed the stick over to her as he began the second rabbit. Arya inspected the rabbit, its flesh was perfectly skinned, having been butchered by someone who was clearly skilled. 

She held it over the fire, watching as the flesh slowly began to bubble and spit, the smell of cooked meat overtaking the small grove they had claimed for the camp. 

“I have not heard much of your mother.”

She looked up at where Freya was looking at Royce, who was roasting his own rabbit. He simply shrugged, looking at the fire

“Not much to say. She was a lowborn woman who caught the eye of my father. Nothing more nothing less.”

Arya looked at him as he rotated the rabbit, checking its doneness as if Freya’s question hadn’t harmed him in any way. But he could not hide the way his eyes stared at beyond the rabbit, or the way that he shifted on the small log he had moved to sit on.

“She was a person was she not.” she spoke softly as Royce looked at her with shock “What was her name at least.”

He swallowed as she moved up her rabbit, resting the stick across her legs as the rabbit cooled
“Daisy.” he nodded as he moved his own rabbit, still looking at the fire “Her name was Daisy.”

Somewhere, a wolf howled a sad, lonely thing. Somewhere in the forest nearby, she heard Nymeria respond. 

Sansa VII

The Crypts were dark as she descended the steps, torch held up in her hands as she descended the steps. As she walked, memories filled her head. Of the prank Jon and Robb had played on her as a girl, looking back it was obvious that it had simply been Jon covered in flour, yet to her young mind it had seemed so terrifying. The only ghosts that joined her now were memories. 

Her fathers statue hadn’t looked like him, she had remembered that much. It had looked much older than Eddard Stark had ever looked in his life. But now, it was the only image in her head when she thought of her father. That or the image of Ice falling down upon his neck, her screaming even foreign to her ears. 

She paused in front of one figure, looking deep into the eyes of her ancestor. She could not remember much of Edwyle Stark. He had been one of the first Starks without a direwolf, having lost his own when it was but a pup to a Bolton invasion. 

She thought of Ice, playing with Shaggy in the gods wood as they hunted. Ice was as much her as she was. The woman she was now, so different from the girl she had been with Lady. But Lady was her as well. The moment her fathers blade had sliced through her neck, a part of her died, a beginning of a slow death of who she had been. 

She pitied Edwyle, for a part of him had likely died with his pup as well. 

She stepped into the crypt running her hand along the carved stone wall, feeling the small knicks and cracks of the stone, until her hand slipped into something bigger. Her whole arm fit in as she slipped her body in, unable to hide the small triumphant sob that wretched through her body.

It had been here the whole time. The whole time. When the keep above had become a prison for her, for Rickon, for Bran, for Theon. Escape had been just under their feet and then hadn't seen it.

She slipped back into the crypt, tears falling from her eyes as she made her way over to Rickon Stark's grave. It wasn’t Robb, or even her Father, but she needed something right now. Someone she could look at and remember being held so gently by. To not be the one comforting but to be comforted. 

She could have escaped that very first night. Before she had taken Jeynes place in that awful marriage, to spare her oldest friend some of the pain. She had come into these crypts, to look upon the face of her father before condemning herself to marriage. But she hadn’t even had that comfort, the face was wrong. 

She had endured all that, had taken even more pain so that it wouldn’t be Rickon to endure it. And in the end, she could have taken him and left. Taken him and gone to Bear Isle maybe, Lyanna Mormont wouldn’t have given them up, and would have likely rallied the North for them if she had wanted it. 

She let out one last cry, rubbing her hand along her face. Rickon Stark looked down at her. He was not a bad father. At least not at first. But she had watched him die. A slow withering death as his will to live seemingly left with his wife. Even as his children surrounded him, he still wished to be with his wife over them.

She slowly left the crypts, wiping her eyes as she did so. She walked slowly as the keep moved about her, until feet in her vision stopped her in her tracks

“Sansa, what is wrong?”

She looked up at Benjen, forcing a smile onto her face as she moved to walk away

“Nothing cousin, excuse me.”

He grabbed her wrist, not hard but not soft, but enough that it stopped her as he pulled her back towards her, hand coming to grab her chin, forcing her to look at him despite him being slightly shorter than her

“You’ve been crying.” She shook her head, taking her wrist from his hand with a gentle push, which he simply responded to by grabbing tighter “Why?”

She smiled as sweetly as she could, and sung for him in the way he seemed to like

“I was simply in the crypts.”

He nodded, finally releasing her arm. She tuck it among her skirts as he accessed her carefully nodding,

“I'm sorry he won’t be here to see our wedding, I'm sure he would have been proud.”

She smiled once more, making his eyes sparkle as he tucked some strand of hair behind her ear, as she resisted the shiver that ran down her back

“I'm sorry your father won’t be here either.”

She gladly took the news that her Uncle was riding off to fight her brother in an attempt to claim back Karhold and his goodfamily. With his diminished troops, and only the elderly Lord of the keep to his name, it was a guaranteed failure. 

Her only hope was that it was not Cregan who must strike the final blow.

“I wish he could be here. He would want to walk you to the tree.”

She nodded as she looked towards where Jeyne was walking towards her, eyes glancing between her and Benjens Back

“Jeyne.”

The woman smiled at her as she gently moved to stand beside her, voice soft as she spoke. 

“My lady, I'm afraid there is a need for you.”

Sansa nodded, quickly saying goodbye to Benjen as they walked down the halls

“I have corresponded with Eddara, my Lady.” Sansa glanced around as she leaned in close to Jeyne, hearing her rushed whispers “and her sister.”

Sansa glanced at a washerwoman as she walked by, curtsying quickly as she did so to which Sansa responded with only a nod.

“Her sister?”

Jeyne nodded, before stopping in front of a door

“Her sister Estrid works at the Tavern. She looks much like her sister, with her red hair and brown eyes. Many men come and go through there, and when drinks are flowing and women are showing an interest, men talk.”

Sansa nodded

“I shall get in contact with this Estrid later, but for now, we must plan.”

She opened the door to Rickons room, where her brother sat, staring out the Window longingly, only turning to smile when she looked at him.

Chapter Text

Arra I

Arra had known for as long as she could remember that she would marry Cregan Stark.

It was an indisputable fact. The sky was blue, her brother was an idiot, and Arra was going to marry Cregan. 

When he came to The Norrey keep, she hadn’t expected the long faced solemn boy she had been greeted with. Who looked at her with a sadness that seemed to see right through her. 

His sadness thawed with time, as most things do, and soon they were playing together, training together, growing together. And Arra saw the change. 

She watched as Cregan grew from a weasley long faced boy to a man, his chest broadening, his height and his muscle growing. 

She watched as her sisters fawned over him. As if they hadn’t watched him grow. Had heard Wylla and Raya as they plotted ways to see him shirtless and other things that Arra didn’t want to imagine.

She had long decided she was broken.

Arra would listen as people talked about the things they desired in a person. She knew how animals mated, even knew the basics of how humans did. But where her sisters and even her brothers seemed to desire it, Arra just felt nothing. 

Maybe had she been born a man she could have simply joined the watch. Her father had her brother, and she wouldn’t have been the heir, simply a spare. But she had been born into this body instead.

She stood beside her father as Cregan plotted his attack against his uncle. He had aged since they left home, no longer the boy she had played with. He seemed always troubled, his brow always furrowed. 

“We shall meet them at the edge of the woods, on the edge of the last river.” He moved his hand along the map, pointing to where he said “we outnumber them almost three to one.”

Arra crossed her arms, staring at the Karstark sun across from their wolves. She stared between them, before putting her hands on the table

“It's a suicide mission.” she felt the eyes on her as she looked at Cregan “Why would he attack us on the field, it's foolish. He would have been smarter to stay within Winterfell, no matter how many numbers we had we could not have taken the keep. Why meet us on the open field with all his numbers.”

Lord Theon glover scoffed from his side of the table, before letting out a huff of laughter

“Maybe he wanted to get away from that frigid wife of his.”

Lord Theon was Cregan's grandfather, and from the way he smiled Arra could see the similarity. Despite nearing his sixtieth nameday, Theon was still tall and muscular. His hair, despite the parts of it starting to grey, had streaks of red.

It must have been where Cregan's siblings had gotten it from

“As much as I appreciate the joke, Grandsire, Arra line of questioning is right. My uncle is no fool, despite what recent events may have us think.”

Arra watched as her father leaned down to look at the map. Her mother had always said she looked more like her father. Be it in the crook of her nose or the shape of her eyes, Arra had inherited little from her mother. Not her stormy blue eyes, or the dark of her hair. Rather, her sisters had gotten all those features

“He is banking on the Boltons.” Her father finally said, pointing to the dreadfort “Domeric Bolton can rally 6000 men, second largest in the North. His heir has been in Winterfell for these past moons, he is banking on the Boltons' support in this war.”

Cregan nodded at his father, picking up the Bolton sigil that rested atop the dreadfort 

“It is time for Lord Domeric to choose his side, he can no longer sit this war out. Send a missive out to Lord Domeric, make simple may demand, he either support my claim, or be considered a traitor along with his son.”

Her father nodded as the men slowly left the room, leaving only Arra and Cregan behind

“What about his children?”

She asked carefully. It was a well known fact throughout the North that Lord Bolton had sired countless Bastards on his different mistress, and unknown amounts throughout the common born. 

And Barba was her cousin. 

Her mother had often shared letters with her brother, and she had heard as Rhea grew up, a few months older than her, but already married, to a man forty years her senior. A fate she wouldn’t have wished on anyone, but least of all Rhea, who she heard was sweet and adored music, so much that she had learned to play the high harp and the flute.

And Rhea, who had a little girl, a babe not even a moon old.  

“I will not punish children for the crimes of their father, Arra. I have no desire to kill babes in the cradle.” 

He paused as he looked down in his hands, sitting down in the chair behind him as he did so. He was not truly looking at them, looking beyond them. Arra moved closer, sitting on the table and knocking over the Bolton sigil

“You know, you are handling this well.”

He looked up at her, and he wasn’t the Lord of Winterfell Cregan, or even Cregan Stark the young wolf. No he was just Cregan, the boy she played with in the woods

“How many lords go through a trial by fire like this when they come into their rule. Most just take up the role when their elderly father coughs for the final time, and how many of those southern twats let someone else do all the hard work for them.” she gently reached her hand out, resting it on Cregan's shoulder “But it is okay to have someone to lighten the load.”

He shook his head, looking down 

“I am the Lord of Winterfell, I must carry this myself.”

She shook her head laughing slightly

“Then why does the King have a small council, or the Winter Council exist?” She stood up, forcing him to look even further up to meet her eye “I am your friend , Cregan. Let me help.”

She could watch the wheels churning in his head. She had always known Cregan was loath to share about himself. It had taken years for him to even admit he missed his parents, and that was obvious to see

“I don't want to kill anyone.”

Arra nodded, for she knew he hadn't. She had spared him that much, and would never tell him.

“It's not an easy thing.”

He nodded

“The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword but, “ he paused looking towards the window “I don't wish to leave them orphans.”

Manfred Karstark had five children, one boy and four girls, and his aunt had three. She had heard the stories Sansa had sent, of sweet, mischievous Brandon, or little Edric not even three name days old. 

“By all accounts, Alys Waterman has been locked up in her rooms while all this has happened, her children not even old enough to take part in anything. Make her reswear her oaths, strip her children of their titles and send them to live with Alys’ father.”

Cregan nodded before standing

“I, can you be there, when I take their heads.”

Arra nodded, standing as well

“I will always stand at your side.”

Cregan nodded as he left the room, Arra following close behind, when they finally went their separate ways, Arra was soon confronted by her father

“I hope you and Cregan didn’t do anything unseemly before your wedding.”
Arra shook her head as her father guided her to the room that he had taken as his solar. They were afforded privileges as Lord Stark's bethrothed’s family. 

“You know I'm not Barth.”

Her father hummed as he sat back in his chair, running his hand through his beard. His bald spot was growing, although he would never admit it. 

Her father had once been Rickon Stark's closest friend, even brother. His ear on the council was always near her father. They had warded together in their youth at Deepwood Motte, a key reason as to why her father was not as wild as some of the other Mountain Lords, although her brother more than made up for that fact.

“You could afford to cultivate more of a relationship with the boy Arra, he has panted after you for years and you’ve only shown him mere friendship.”

It always led back to this conversation with them, since her and Cregan had begun to change from children into adults, no matter what she said her father could not be dissuaded

“I don’t see Cregan that way Father, even if we are to wed. He is my friend, I do not desire anything else.”

He sighed, shaking his head

“Yet I have not even seen you show interest in anyone at all. I do not know what must happen for you to be normal, Arra. Maybe your wedding night will fix you but I am losing hope. How do you think Cregan will react when you show no reception then? He will hate himself but he needs to make an heir with you?”

Arra didn’t know how to respond as she stared at her hands. Would it have been better if she just wasn’t attracted to Cregan but to some other man, maybe even a woman. She couldn’t say, for instead she had been cursed like this

“I will do my duty father. I always have.”

He nodded, instead focusing on the paper in front of him as Arra just stared blankly ahead. 

Dorren II

Dorren entered his mothers cell carefully, ever watchful of his mothers sullen gaze

“Have you come to taunt me, illborn.”

He shook his head, sitting down a distance from her as they just met eyes. 

The cell that Stark had put her in was by no means poor. It could pass for just a normal room, were it not for the bars on the windows and doors. The mattress may have been a little thin, and the room sparsely decorated, but it was nice. 

But to a woman like his mother, with her love of all things fine and expensive, it must have seemed like the black cells of the red keep. He had seen the finances his father had spent on her whims, and it was only a miracle that Karhold was not deep into debt. 

“I bet this is everything you’ve ever wanted, isn’t it. Me, your brother, your blood locked up while you play lord with that whore wife of yours.”

Her words were venom she would rarely spit out, but when one has only a short time to live, every one must count it seems. He just let her rage at her. He wondered if anyone had visited her in her imprisonment, it wasn’t like anyone was fond of her in the North

“Why must you hate me so, Mother.”

Was all he managed to say. He thought of saying such things to his own child, to sweet Jojen. 

“You are a disappointment.”

Dorren swallowed hard as he stared at his mother, her cold eyes that he was unsure could even hold fondness, even as they looked at Gareth and Margaret

“And when I was just a boy, desperate for your attention?”

Before his grandfather had taken him under his wing, before he had anyone, he would follow after her even when she pushed him away, even when she called him any names

“I should have thrown you from the tallest tower the moment I had gained back my strength, I should have suffocated you in your sleep. I stood over your cradle wishing that your breathing would stop.”

Minisa Mooton looked at him with cruel eyes

“Mathis is going to be sent to the wall, and Cregan is arranging marriages for the girls. Even is proposing wedding my Jojen to Mya. But you will have no such fate.” He stood looking at the woman who had caused his wife so much harm “you are to be executed on the morn.”

Dorren watched as his mothers eyes filled with tears that even a babe wouldn’t believe as she shook her head

“You would let them kill me like that, your mother.”

Dorren swallowed as he smiled

“I am simply an observer as my liege lord executes a traitor. I have no mother, certainly not a cruel, conniving bitch who puts her own ambition over the good of her children and grandchildren.”

As he turned to leave he heard his mother scream

“I should have been the queen, then I wouldn’t have had to deal with all you barbarians.”

He did not turn as she screamed

“I could have wed Viserys Targaryen, I would have given him strong sons and daughters, and wouldn't have died like that weak little girl. I would have had them take their dragons and burn this wretched land to the ground. They would have been good sons and listened to what their mother said.”

Dorren just simply shut the door.

Cregan IV

Cregan forced himself to stand tall as the prisoners were led out. All three had their heads held high in defiance as they stared at him. Gareth Karstark was wearing a sneer as he looked at him. His dark hair was kept short, and his face well shaved in a contrast to those around him, his son Manfred was much the same way. 

Minisa Mooton looked the strangest of them all. Her hair was tucked back in a simple wrap, and gone where the light and fragile gowns she was known for, left behind was only a rough woolen gown. 

Cregan forced himself to look at each of them before he took his blade from its sheave. It was no Ice, the sword that belonged to him by right. It was simple castle forged steel, polished so it reflected the light. Its blue grey matching the snow that was falling around them.

Before he spoke he rehearsed the lines in his head, speaking them a thousand times over before he ever moved his lips

“Do any of you have words before you die?”

Minisa Mooton was the only one to speak

“I hope winter chokes the life from you and your kin.”

Her voice was sharp but as she spoke it was as if the wind softened it, so words that were meant to be cruel fell flat before they could land.

“If that is all.” Cregan forced his voice to be steady “In the name of Viserys of the House Targaryen, first of his name, King of the Andals and the first men, Lord of the seven kingdoms, and protector of the realms.”

His voice was fighting to shake as he looked in the eyes the men he was going to kill

“I, Cregan of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell,” he heard Minisa Snort “and warden of the North, sentence you to die.”

The words felt heavy as one of the men pushed Gareth Karstark forward, Cregan took a deep breath as he readied his sword, forcing himself to watch as the sword moved forward, the steel forcing its way through the flesh, the blood pooled as his body fell against the cobbles. One of his men quickly came to bring it away as Manfred was forced forward. There was a buzzing in Cregan's ears as he looked towards the man. Manfred stopped, looking at Cregan with eyes that were a matching grey to his own

“My children, will they be alright?”

Cregan nodded as Manfred swallowed, kneeling down to the block himself. He rested his head upon the block as Cregan readied himself again, hearing the blade hiss against the air before it sliced through the flesh and fell with a thud upon the block. His body twitched for a second as the buzzing roared in intensity.

The blood continued to grow as one last person was brought before him.

Minisa Mooton sneered at him as she was forced to her knees, and cregan forced the buzzing back even further as he pulled the sword back, letting it fall before he felt it catch on her flesh, he used his strength to push it through a little further. 

Her head fell with a thump into the basket as Cregan turned and walked away, ignoring Arra as she tried to speak with him. As he closed the door to his rooms he collapsed, the buzzing coming to a crescendo as he covered his ears, forcing away the tears as they fell from his eyes. 

There had been so much blood. It had pooled on the ground and against the white snow like it had been sheets. The buzzing was as overwhelming as silence as he forced his eyes open, forced to see what was there and not see his mothers corpse. 

The blood wasn’t on his hands, but he saw it anyway. 

He knew none of them had been innocent. Had overseen their trials and had made the guilty call himself. But it still felt like he had done something wrong. He scrubbed his hands against the rough stone floor as if it would clean them, as if that would scrub away that he had done it. 

He had killed someone.

Why was he reacting like this, like some child . His father had killed people, he had ridden out to watch the executions since he had been able to ride. He had repeated what was to be said at them, the exact structures that had to be followed all of it. 

But when it came time to actually do it he reacted like a child. 

He wanted Sansa .

She would know what to say, she always did. She would offer support and understand what he was going through. His twin, his other half who always had words he did not. 

He wanted Arya too. 

She would have some clever witticism to say before she’d challenge him in the training yard to take his mind off of whatever was happening. 

He wanted Rickon as well. He had been just a babe when he had left, and had grown without him. He wouldn’t even know Cregan's face. He knew from Sansa’s letters that he was a spirited wild child, they could ride in the forests and have fun. 

He wanted his family.

His Pack. 

He wasn’t alone in Karhold persee, he had his maternal grandfather and his uncle, his cousin, Lord Alaric and Arra .

Arra, who had tried to talk to him that he had just brushed off callously.

But it wasn’t the same.

There were tears in his eyes

The Lord of Winterfell cannot cry.

His father had said that the first time he had gone to an execution, having to still his pony as he beheaded a deserter from the watch, or had assaulted a woman. Cregan couldn’t remember, but he could remember his fathers reaction to seeing the tears that came down Cregan's face.

Cregan forced the tears away as he stood, going towards the window. 

He had killed. That was the fact of the matter. Lawful or not, taking someone's life was killing them. He forced his emotions down as he poured himself a cup of watered down ale, drinking it fast. 

He could afford weakness in Winterfell. He had a war to fight. 

Sansa VIII

They woke early the fortnight before she was set to marry. Wearing simple clothes she, Jeyne and Rickon descended the steps to the crypts. They were careful of who saw them and where they were as they walked the long path to the passage. 

They felt strangely empty, despite the few statues that were there before being a drop in the long history of their line. 

There should have been a statue for Robb,  intermed with Grey Wind resting at his feet. She had commissioned it, but only the beginning of the curls had been carved when the skills were needed more elsewhere

He would have looked so young, compared to these ancient statues. He was only 16 when he died, she was older than him now, even in this new life. He was always her older brother, and despite being only three years older than her, he always seemed so much older, and mature. 

She had never thought of outliving him until she had.

The paused in front of Edwyle starks statue, as Sansa urged Rickon 

“Go on first.” 

She heard a distant crows cry as Rickon’s small frame slipped through the crack, looking forward carefully before looking back to them. The crow called again closer, as a shadow of dread crept upon Sansa.

“My Lady.”

Sansa heard the crow call again as she felt herself falling backways, before she was in the tunnel, struggling to see as she saw Domeric boltons face, pull her from the tunnel, Rickon close behind as he held a knife to her throat, Benjens towering form behind him, before becoming Margaret, her hand twisting Rickons hair, before she woke again.

The crow called again as she distantly heard footsteps

“Go Jeyne, take Rickon.”

The footsteps were coming closer, she blatantly realized as Margaret looked at her in confusion

“My Lady?”

“Sansa.”

Jeyne and Rickon botched asked in confusion

“I’ll distract them, get Rickon out of here.”

“N-”

Jeyne slammed her hand over Rickons mouth, struggling to hold him as Sansa stepped back, looking towards their cut off forms in the crack. She wanted to look, she wanted to force herself to look, and to fight the urge to join them.

“The Raven.”

Was all she said as Jeyne’s eyes hardened, taking a herb from her bag as Sansa turned, vaguely she saw as Rickon collapsed into Jeyne, before they both disappeared into the darkness.

Sansa walked slowly, a performance as Domeric and Benjen came before her. Benjen was leaning heavily on Domeric, and from her distance of only a few feet away Sansa could smell the beer on him. Still, as his eyes registered her in front of him his eyes light up

“Sansa,” he called out far too loudly for the crypts “My Love.”

He moved sloppily from Domerics side, pushing his entire weight onto her. Her legs buckled as she almost fell if not for the statue she could brace herself on.

“Cousin.”

She said stiffly as she tried to push him off of her. His breath stunk of ale and other things she did not wish to imagine, she forced a gag down as he moved closer to her, almost sniffing her hair. Her whole body stiffened as his hand on her back moved lower. She tried to keep her breathing steady, glancing towards where Rickon and Jeyne were likely gone

“I didn’t think you would be down here.”

She finally managed to push him off her, straightening her skirt as she did so. He stumbled slightly as he stood and she finally managed to look at the two men before her. 

Benjens hair was a mess and his clothes disheveled. He had a wineskin in one hand that he took a deep swig from. 

Domeric Bolton on the other hand, seemed as unbothered by anything. Leaning against a wall, his long hair pushed back. He didn’t look like ramsey, he was tall and lithe, his face more narrow and long. But his eyes were the same. That same, cool grey.

“I wished to pay honor to our ancestors, cousin. An honor you don’t seem to hold in the same regard.”

Domeric’s eyes sharpened as he looked towards Benjen, who was looking at her as he blubbered like a fish

“Sansa, I-I, I mean he just wanted to know some of our history.”

Sansa sent him a look as he closed his mouth, swallowing slightly

“He is a Bolton, he knows much of our history as it is entrenched with his own. After all, how many Starks' graves lie empty because their bones litter the dreadfort.”

They had killed Robb, they had killed her mother, they had hurt Rickon. And how many other starks? Domeric Bolton could walk the parapets and walls all he wished, but here? Where Starks were laid to rest. She would not stand for it

“You didn’t tell me your betrothed was a spitfire, Benjen.”

She didn’t miss the ways his eyes raked over her body. Let him look, she thought, she had endured Littlefinger’s, she had endured Tyrions. His gaze could not harm her now. 

But she wasn’t the only one who saw it. 

Benjen moved, stumbling from his spot to push Domeric

“Careful where those eyes go, Bolton.”

He hissed out the final word as Domeric let out a sly smile. Putting his hands up

“A momentary slip, I'm sure our nights in the tavern have shown you that I like a girl with some fire.”

Benjen leaned in close, pushing him once again

“She is not yours to like.”

Domeric laughed

“I know that, I've heard you calling out her name when your balls deep in that tavern wench of yours. Doubt you even know her name, the amount you call San-”

His voice was cut off as Benjen punched him in the face. Sansa couldn’t help the small gasp of shock she voiced as she stepped back. Domeric Bolton had fallen flat on his rear, his hand coming up to hold where his nose had been bloody

“What the fuck.”

He said looking up at Benjen who was unsteady standing over him

“You don’t say her name, you don’t look at her. Talk all you want of Arya, I don't care, but don’t you dare say anything about her.”

He grabbed her hand roughly, yanking her towards the entrance

“Benjen, I-”

He looked towards her

“Just, shut up and come on.”

His hand was tight around her wrist. Too tight as her hand started to throb as he yanked her around the stairs, leaving Domeric behind in the mud. He brought her to the halls where he turned her Suddenly and forced his lips against hers.

Sansa squirmed in discomfort and tried to push him off.. The smell of the beer was cloying, and Sansa had to force down the nausea that came from it. 

Finally she managed to push him off of her, standing back as she did so

“What in the gods’ name, Benjen.”

She said as he looked at her. His eyes were drooping as he stared at her

“You are not his to lust after.”

Was all he said as he stared at her. Her skin prickled as she looked down the hall, seeing the guards that had come on duty staring at them. Her chest was heaving as she looked at her cousin as he drunkenly stumbled towards the wall. 

Her dress felt too tight, too low cut as he looked at her. His drunken leering no greater than Domeric Boltons gaze

“Willis,” she called out to one of the guards, “take him to his mother.”

She said as Benjen’s eyes widened, as Willis took his arm, leading him from the hall as the other guard came up to her. Martyn, her mind supplied her. And older fellow that had server under both her father and grandfather

“M’lady, are you alright.”

She forced herself to smile as she nodded at him

“I am well, Martyn, my cousin just got a little too into his cups it seems. Please attend to your post.”

She forced herself to say calmly as she walked away, holding her hands together to force them not to shake. The keep seemed to extend in length as she walked the way to her chambers, smiling and greeting the serverts and guards beginning their day. 

It was only once she was in the safety of her rooms that she allowed herself to break. Tears strum from her eyes as she slid the bar over the door. She couldn’t scream, so she covered her mouth, containing the sobs that left her. 

As she sat in her chair she felt herself fall further back into the plushness, coming out into falling snow

“I'm sorry it had to be this way.”

She looked towards where Bran was standing, looking down at her so curiously

“It won’t end the same way.” She said steadily as she rose, looking Bran in the eyes “I won’t be like that girl, like Catia.”

Bran looked at her confused, his head tilted ever so slightly

“Sansa, If I cou-”

“-No bran.” she said steadily as she walked towards him. “I won’t ever wed a man again. I told you once.”

Her mind began to plan as she awoke on the chair, tears dried to her cheeks. 

Chapter Text

Margaret VI

“Gone?”

She said loudly as she looked towards the steward, a young man chosen by her husband after the last one died. And he seemed an incompetent fool

“Yes, my Lady. We have scoured the whole castle and no sign of him.”

She looked towards Sansa. She was sitting a distance away from her son. Closer to Brandon who kept looking towards his brother with contempt. The darn fool was too much like his father.

If her son had just stayed in the castle this likely would have never happened. If he hadn’t gone and punched the Bolton heir in a drunken state. Gods she did not think the slap she had delivered him was enough.

“Is Shaggy Dog around?”

Sansa's voice was soft as she spoke, her eyes wide as she fiddled with the necklace around her neck. She seemed to have the perfect image of a concerned sister.

Margaret wished she didn't Believe it

“No, m'lady. Nor is Ice I'm afraid. They were let out to hunt yesterday and have not returned.” The man swallowed as he looked towards the girl “I'm afraid Lady Moss is missing as well.”

Sansa let out a haggard breath as she nodded, looking away as she did so. Benjen looked at her with a look between pity and contempt

‘You fool’ she thought ‘she is your bethrothe, Go comfort her, seduce her with your presence.’

She said nothing as she spoke to the guard, turning to look at Sansa

“Sansa, when was the last time you saw Lady Moss?”

She questioned as Sansa shrugged

“Last night, she performed her duty and then left.”

Her eyes were red from tears, and Margaret wished to hate her, for she even looked beautiful crying. 

“Did she mention anything about Rickon?”

Sansa shrugged

“She asked how his day seemed, she would ask that everyday however. She helped deliver him.” Her eyes widened as her lip trembled “You don't think-”

“There is a high possibility.”

She snapped as the girl jumped slightly, nodding slightly as she shook her head. She walked toward the window, turning away from them tostatre out over the forest

“I have sent a few scouts out to find their location, but I do not remain hopeful.” 

She said honestly as she looked towards her sons. She watched as Brandon, not Benjen, moved to comfort the girl. She knew what had caused this displeasure with the girl, but she hoped it would move fast. As much as she loathed to admit it, she was their key to the north. 

The babe kicked her stomach, causing her to flinch slightly, her hand coming to rest on her stomach. Benjen looked briefly at her, concern flashing in his eyes before he smothered it. It was all the same. She didn’t need his concern

“All of us shall be with four guards at all times, except for when we are in our chambers. They will all report directly back to me. In addition, every person who enters and leaves this keep shall have to report the how and why to me personally to be approved. No one is going to enter or leave Winterfell.”

Her voice was trying to be soft, even as the girl looked at her with red rimmed eyes. She nodded slightly as Brandon talked softly to her, his words even too soft for her to hear. She feared the connection between the two of them, and the jealousy she saw in Benjen’s eyes. 

This hadn’t been the first time Benjen saw Brandon playing with what he thought was his. Toys and swords had always been Benjens first and foremost, and he would cry and whine if Brandon so much as looked at them. Sometimes she wondered if that was why Brandon loved books so much, it was the one thing that Benjen never cared for. 

“Mama!”

Edrics voice was bright as he toddled over from the maid he had been with. He had grown so much in the three years since his birth, it did not seem possible. His voice, his hair, his personality had all come out with a vengeance. His little curls that framed his wide eyes so perfectly. Gods, she wished he would stay the size to cling in her skirts forever. 

She scooped him up, holding him on her hip as she looked over the room. 

“Sansa, come. We must bring you to your final fitting.”

Sansa nodded, thanking Benjen quietly before taking Edric from her hip. Smiling at the babe before silently following her

“I know this must not be easy for you.” Margaret said stiffly, “being alone against your family.”

The girl simply smiled and said

“I'm not alone.”

Sue supposed that was true. She had Brandon it seemed. Although not Benjen anymore. 

She wished she could say something to help the girl back into her son's good graces. But alas, despite many Years of married life, she still had no advice to give.

They entered the room quietly, and it stayed quiet as Margaret sat with Edric as the tailor quietly worked. The seamstress and him occasionally bickered over things, With Sansa offering her opinion, but beyond that it was stifling.

The babe settled in as edric began to play with the excess fabric. Margaret made sure to keep an eye on him, quickly moving the fabric if he seemed to be too close to choking himself. 

A man entered in the room, looking down at her

“Lady Margaret, the first person to petition you to leave the keep.”

Margaret nodded, Edric coming to join her on her skirt, his pudgy little hand clinging into the fabric.

“Thank you. Bring them to the lord's solar. And summon Edrics governess to take him.”

He nodded as Margaret left the room shortly behind him. 

Rickon II

The sound of birds singing and a babbling brook brought Rickon to awareness. He blinked against the light that filtered through the leaves. He groaned slightly, moving against the moss blanket behind him as he felt a warm, wet thing slobber against his face. He dug his fingers into its fur, pulling himself up

“Ice?”

He said carefully as he looked around for Sansa. He could see Jeyne and Shaggy, but not his sister

“Where is she?”

Jeyne swallowed, moving carefully closer

“I'm sorry, little lord but.”

“No!” he screamed, pouncing on her, his fist connected with her face, before his other one did. Over and over again he did so, feeling the way they connected with her face with a sick pleasure “You left her.”

She couldn’t get a word in as ice gently tugged on his tunic but it did not stop him. He only slowed his punching when Jeyne showed no sign of fighting back, Or even resisting. She had a couple Inches on him, so he knew she could. He wanted her to. But she wasn't. 

So he pulled her up by the Collar, not caring as she coughed up blood onto his face

“Why did you leave her?”

He demanded as she weakly sputtered

“She commanded.”

He bashed her head against the ground before getting up, looking around for something in the woods to orriant himself somehow. He would get back into Winterfell. He would find Sansa. Even if he had to set Shaggy on every single member of the household, he would save her.

He could smell The woman's fear as Shaggy sniffed at her, a small growl letting out as his open snarling mouth drew closer. Human fear tasted the same as animal fear. At the end of the day they were all the same. Bags of meat that were held together by strands and bones. 

All trying to outrun and outlive the wolf.

Her fear was not that one. It didn't taste like fear. It had to have been, what creature wouldn't fear with a snarling wolf to their face. But it still tasted different.

It had to be the herbs and remedies she wore, Rickon told himself As he ventured deeper into the woods. Ice trampled beside him, letting out a small yip before Shaggy followed in line.

She seemed to know where she was going as she made her way through the underbrush. It felt familiar, Following the auburn hair around. Somewhere in the back of his mind he thought of himself clinging to the leg of someone, but as quickly as it happened a sense of loneliness washed over him.

He quickly shook it off. Focusing on Following Ice.

He didn't hear Jeyne following them and he was glad of it. Leave her to the crows and the foxes. It was another scent that was nearing that intrigued him.

There were multiple, that much he could recognize. There was one that smell distinctly like dried blood and old fear, not the old fear of one who was afraid but who inflicted it. Another smelled of the sea. Salty and fresh with a good bit of musk and sweat. a little bit of bear as well could be picked up occasionally.

The third one seemed to constantly shift. But below it all, was a familiar scent. One both Ice and Shaggy Picked up on.

He started running, feeling the branches snapp against his face even as they pushed them away. He caught the scent of another direwolf, letting out a small shout as he did so

“Arya!”

He called out as he broke through the branches, seeing as the small group looked towards him as Arya broke away

“Rickon!”

She called out as well as she crashed into him, holding him close to her. She was the same height as him now, her dark hair cut short, with braids worked into it. He could hear Nymeria’s yips as her and Shaggy played under Ice’s watchfull gaze.

She pulled back, moving her hands to cup his face with a happy smile on it

“Oh my gods, look at you.”

She said shakely as he pulled him back into a hug. He wasn’t as tall as her before, he realized belatedly as he rested his head against her shoulder. But he didn’t mind it so much as he breathed in her smell. 

Arya pulled back and looked around expectantly as the anger sparked again inside of him

“Where is Sansa?”

She asked as he spit out his answer

“She left her.” 

He watched as the same monstrous anger warped Arya’s face. She stepped away, looking around

“Who?”

“Moss, I dealt with her already.”

He spat as she nodded, patting his shoulder as she looked towards the others. One other.

He felt every inch of himself coil as he looked at those pale eyes. Ramsay is gone, he repeated in his head, just like Sansa told him to. Ramsay is gone and that isn't him, it isn't. 

It doesn't stop his heart from pounding.

The pale eyed Smiled weirdly before bowing. The anxiety was practically flowing off of him, the way it permeated the air. Rickon had to force himself to not scrunch up his nose in disgust.

He Forced himself to focus on the other one. She was tall, with a broad, stocky build seemingly built entirely out of muscle, if the size of the pack on her back seemed any indication. Shaggy moved towards her carefully, pushed low to the ground As he crept forward. The girl kneeled down to his level, holding her hand out

“Aren't you just fabulous.”

Shaggy tail wagged as he smelled As Rickon felt the tension ease from his shoulders.

“Rickon, this is Freya Mormont And Royce Snow.”

The girl smiled widely, nodding her head at him

“Pleasure to meet you, my lord.”

He made a disgusted face as she laughed, shaking her head

“You're like your sister, aye. Hating all that pomp of lordship, as small as it is in the north.”

She seemed decent enough, Rickon considered. He would never find the Bolton bastard decent, but the Mormont was fine. She didn’t look like Lyanna, but seemed more akin to the sister she had once described to him. What was her name, Donella? Darla? It was something akin to that. 

Arya pulled him into a hug again

“Why are you here?”

He asked bluntly, she should be with Cregan in his camp. Not here in the woods around Winterfell. 

“I'm here to get you and Sansa.”

He looked up at her with wide eyes. She had never come for him before, Sansa had been the only one to want him, he thought. But Arya said she was here for him, and for Sansa.

“There's a way into the keep, if we go back to where I was, it goes into the Crypt. I’ll show you.”

He grabbed her hand as Arya didn’t move

“Rickon, wait.”

She said suddenly, forcing him to look back at her. Her face was concerned. 

“Look at the sun.”

He did, looking up at where it was falling behind the thicker woods to the west. How long had whatever Jeyne done to him knocked him out for. He clenched his fist as he stared, wishing he had punched her just a few more times. 

“We’ll do it in the morning.”

“We don’t have time!” he screamed out, looking at her with wide eyes “They’re going to marry her to that, that, that cunt Benjen.”

Arya was looking at him with sad eyes

“I'm just as angry as you Rickon, but I have to be-”

“No,” he screamed “No you are not as mad as me. If you were, you would help me scale the walls of Winterfell and get her out of there.”

Arya grabbed his arm, practically screaming at him. 

“They're not going to force her before the Weirwood tonight, Rickon. Their legitimacy for the low lords that follow them is that she is the heir. To force her before the weirwood would strip that false legitimacy away. I am just as angry as you, but without her here someone has to think of practical ways for the plans. And as the eldest that duty falls onto me.”

Rickon stared at her with angry eyes, shaking his head

“On first light tomorrow, I am going. You aren’t going to stop me.”

She nodded, kissing his forehead. 

Morning came and Rickon found only Freya Mormont staring at him. Arya and the Bolton bastard are long gone.

Arya IV

Arya stared at Rickon, his little sleeping face. She had never been as close as she had wanted before. Always just seeing Bran or Robbs face when she looked at his. She pushed back his red locks, not seeing either of her brothers but rather her sister. He had clung to Sansa when she had returned, not even recognizing Arya. He had been so much smaller, and she supposed she had been too, but maybe it was more extreme for him. He was already the same height as her, but too gangly and awkward, his limbs too long for the rest of his body. He was most likely going to be like Sansa and their mother, tall and slender, not stocky and shorter like her and Jon. 

“Freya, I am trusting you with the most important thing to me.”

She said quietly as she looked towards her friend. Because it was true, and there were few others she would trust him with, and few were left in this time. 

Freya looked at her with wide eyes

“I hope to make you proud, Arya.”

She grabbed her hand, a small smile on her face

“You are my friend Freya. I ran with you on the rocky beaches of Bear Island, we hunted in those woods, you saw me as I went from a child to the person I am today, I would trust you with my life.”

And she would, as she turned to Royce

“Snow, you are going to join me in freeing my sister.”

She stared at her brother, wondering the fit he was going to have when he realized he had been left once again

“If you can, Freya, get him to my brother. The pack should be together.”

Freya nodded, moving to sit beside Rickon as she stood, sending one last look at her brother

“Royce, let's move.”

She mounted her horse as she set off towards the keep. Royce rode beside her, occasionally sending her a confused glance

“What do you want to say?”

She snapped, looking at him with furrowed eyebrows

“I'm surprised you could do that.”

She sneered

“What do you mean by that?”

He smiled

“I, I may not be allowed close to many of my siblings, but I don’t think I could leave any of them like that. They are the only family I have left, the only ones that acknowledge me at least.”

She paused riding close to him, 

“How many siblings do you have again?”

He did a deep inhale, shaking his head

“Well, there is Lysa, my eldest sibling, although I only briefly met her, she is married and has a family of her own. Maisie, who is probably the sibling I have talked to the most, mostly because she never shuts up, although she is harmless. Robyn, who is Maisies little shadow, follows her everywhere. Wylla and Wyl, the twins. They are sweet but too young to be really let into where I stay, so I have only seen them once or twice. It's a similar story for Yohn, Torrhen and Alayne, and you saw when I was made aware of Barba.”

She made note of how he hadn’t mentioned Domeric, seemingly unaware of this fact as he just smiled at her. Arya made a curious face laughing

“You seem to know more of your elder siblings then your younger.”

Royce shrugged

“I am a lowborn Bastard, M’lady. I am kept in the dungeons. The older ones are allowed in there.”

Arya couldn’t help the disgusted face she made as he spoke. Bolton or no, to keep anyone in the dungeons was a punishment for a reason

“The Dungeons.”

And he did not seem to even care, just shrugging as he laughed

“It's not that bad, I mean I have a bed, food, a roof over my head. It's a little dark and damp, but it has some warmth. There's a small fire I keep stalking and a desk even.”

She rose an eyebrow

“You write.”

A note if he was writing to his father or brother, and to keep an eye if he ever had any correspondence

“Ah.” he said looking down “I'm afraid I'm not m’lady. Not an important skill for me to learn, you know how it was.”

She didn’t, but what she was aware of was the sad picture he was painting of his life. Even as he spoke of his siblings he spoke more of how he wasn’t allowed to interact with them than he had memories of them. While mother had her issues with Jon being raised amongst them, she never went as far to keep him in the dungeons. She was sure if she could have, she would've sent him elsewhere to be raised, somewhere nice, but not beside his siblings. Not tantalizingly close, but unable to truly interact. 

They went quiet as Wintertown came into view, leaving their horses. And arya began to doubt her plan as she looked at Royce

“How do you think people would recognize you?”

Royce shrugged

“My brother would, but if people don’t see my eyes, they can’t really.”

Arya nodded, 

“I need you to close your eyes and trust me.”

As he did so, she began to use each muscle in her face. Feeling them shift in their places, the fat on her face moves. She warped each feature, feeling her hair become mousy, and her eyes watery. Her throat changed as another's voice spoke for her

“Tell anyone and you're dead. Open them”

“Oh what the fuck.”

Cregan V

Cregan kept his horse calm underneath him as he stared at where the units were set for his brother's charge. The mountain clans and the glovers where preparing to flank to his right, while a contingent of men were preparing to launch to the right his own men would be down the center, a diversion for his uncles men to focus on his own forces while the bulk of his army moved to attack from the back.

But before steel would meet steel, and blood was spilled, there was the parlay. His uncle rode up towards him on a  pale brown destrier. His own white stead moved underneath him. Flanking him, Arra, Alaric and his grandfather made no secret of their dislike of his uncle. On his Uncle's side, the Elderly Lord Karstark stared at him with dark dislike in his eyes. His uncle stared at him, neither of them speaking for a long moment. 

Lord Karstark was the first to speak, spitting out insults 

“I hope my wife and sons spit up at you from the Seven hells, Kinslayer.”

Cregan simply tilted his head, forcing his voice to be calm even as he was reminded of the duty he had to fulfill.

“The Karstarks are no more my kin than my horse is.”

His uncle scoffed

“Just like you, Nephew, to insult Lord Karstark like that to his face.”

Cregan looked around, before looking back to his Uncle, despising the smug look on his face

“Do you see Lord Dorren here, Uncle. After all, he is the Lord of Karhold now by my decree as Lord of the North.”

His uncle snarled but quickly stopped as Bhera Moved from where she had sat near his horse. Her snarl is much more intimidating than his uncles, after all a wolf the size of a Horse had the teeth to match.

“You insult your sister, your twin? She is the eldest, is she not. We are simply following the crown's decree after all, the eldest inherits.”

Cregan shook his head

“We never knew who came first Uncle, cease lying to yourself to prop up what is simply your own grasping of power that never belonged to you.”

His uncle's face twisted into one of disgust as he looked at him. He had never looked much like Cregan's father. The features were there, the Dark hair and grey eyes, tanned skin and even his hair was worn in a similar way. But even then, Bennard Stark looked more like a Locke than a Stark. With his features at times his uncle reminded him of the birds that his mother and Sansa Falconed with. 

“I am grasping at no power, Nephew. You are the one who started a pointless war at which you shall now lose.”

Cregan hummed, turning his horse away

“I hope that your delusions did not pass onto your children, uncle. Till we meet on the battlefield.”

He rode away, feeling a heavy weight fall over his shoulders as he helmed the head of his men, watching as his uncle's men prepared themselves. His men behind him were waiting, moving from one foot in another. Beside his desire, he could feel Bhera pace back and forth, her ears pinned back as she watched the men. Arra rode up beside him, her bow held in her hand. She said nothing, simply nodding at him as he nodded back, confident in her decisions with the archers under her command. 

Then she left, and he looked forward, his uncle's men were beginning to move forward, and so Cregan took his sword from its sheath, pointing it forward as volleys of arrows fell down upon the men, and yet they still charged forward. And it all began. 

His uncle's own archers began their attack, managing to strike his desire, forcing him to battle on his feet. Twisting and striking, all he could find was blood and gore everywhere he looked. The trap must have worked, but in the field he couldn’t tell his own soldiers from his uncles, attacking those who attacked him, or those who simply were in front of him. 

Then he felt a hand grab his shoulder, dodging as a blade thrust by his head, only to meet his uncle's furious gaze. His uncle's sword went up once more and Cregan forced himself to dodge once more. He tried his own thrust, only for his uncle to dodge as easily as walking. Their dance continued, all a dance where neither of them injured the other. No matter how much Cregan tried, even when his uncle's blade would pierce his own skin, he could not find it in himself to take that final blow. It was open, it was perfectly open, and yet it seemed his swordhand was just slightly off, never quite taking it. 

Lord Karstarks voice rang in his ears.
Kinslayer.

The Karstarks were not his blood, but Bennard was. His uncle used to take Sansa and him to the godswood when their parents didn't have the time. He would pick him up and spin him around and their laughter would fill the world. 

But his uncle was staring at him not with that happiness that had once filled his eyes, but pure anger and hatred.

He was going to kill him. Either Cregan or Bennard weren’t going to walk away from this battle. And Cregan wasn’t going to let it be him. 

He went for the thrust, only for his uncle to freeze up, an arrow sticking out of his throat. He fell, and Cregan looked around, seeing Arra standing on a mound of corpses, her bow in her hand and staring at him. She nodded slightly at him, before knocking her arrow at another and letting it loose. 

A horn blew, and as they all looked south, a flayed man descended upon the field, beside it, his own personal banner. 

Cregan let out a small smile. 

The Boltons had chosen. 

The Rotting Daughter

From her point on the top of the hill she stared down at where men clashed and fell. The smell of blood as death wafted slowly up as she breathed the smell deeply.

“Well father.” she said sharply as she looked at the bodies piling up “Have we decided our Loyalties.”

Her father’s cold eyes stared back at her.  No longer was he more interested in the blood and guts, and his eyes were on her. She gave him a sly smile, as she playfully moved her horse. She was dressed in far finer riding leathers than most bastards in her position would be allowed. The Pink sown carefully with red in a reminder of what house she had been born into, even if she had to claim the name snow

“Indeed daughter. Tell the men to attack Lord Bennards forces, and support Lord Cregan's efforts. It is clear who the winner of this war is.”

She tilted her head towards him, humming slightly

“And Domeric.”

Lord Bolton laughed, a cold dry thing that to some may appear more of a huff than a true laugh

“Let my son deal with the consequences of his own actions. I shall have a new heir soon enough.”

She let out a full smile then. Let Domeric suffer in whatever fate the gods had made out for him. If she could, she would convince the Starks to give him to her. For her to put every inch of pain he had placed her siblings through tenfold. 

She let her horse gallop away towards where the men were hiding in the woods. 

Chapter Text

Benjen II

His head was pounding as he stood across from Sansa. A small meeting arranged by his mother to ensure that they actually went through with the marriage.

He should have punched Domeric harder, for looking at Sansa now, the sun catching on her hair making it truly look on fire, he wished he could be the only one to ever see her such.

“I know my actions in the crypt seemed extreme, but I could not stand by the insult of him being there, Benjen.”

She said as she fed one of the many birds that lived in the glass gardens. A tiny thing with red feathers that reminded him of her.

“He manipulated me.” He said firmly “I was deep in my cups and he knew that. I am sure now that he was trying to deal an insult.”

Sansa nodded, standing slowly as the birds flitted off to land on one of the many trees that lined the garden

“Be that as it may, I trust it won't happen again.”

Her face was stern as he nodded, a tight lump in his throat. Last night once more he had gone out with Domeric. But he had not talked to him once, instead having drank and fucked his fill with the redheaded whore he was fond of.

They had returned to the keep together before going their separate ways once within.

“Do you swear it?”

Her voice was firm as he looked into those cold blue eyes

“I swear on the old gods Sansa, he will not enter the crypts again.”

Sansa nodded turning to tend to one of the plants as he cleared his throat

“I, I have a wedding gift for you.”

She looks towards him as he pulls out a small pendant. It's hammered bronze a near perfect match for Ice's coat, the inlaid citrine stones replicating her eyes

“I know you must be missing Ice, what with her missing as well as Shaggy. I had asked Brandon for some help with the design, pulling from historical necklaces of past ladies and-”

“It's wonderful Brandon, I shall wear it for our wedding.” She responds, smiling at him “I have a small token for you as well.”

She pulls a small kerchief from her pocket, died a pale purple as she smiles 

“I know you love the tales of knights and their ladies, so I thought I may give you my favor.”

He takes the handkerchief from her carefully, bring it to his lips to gently kiss as he stares at her

“I hope to be worthy of your favor m'lady.”

She smiles keeping her eyes on him as he carefully ties the fabric around his wrist, the same way that Uthor of the Hightower had with Marris the Maids' favor.  

Benjen was sure that if Uthor, Argoth Stone-Skin and all the other knights had looked upon Sansa, Marris would have been long forgotten. For there was no greater queen of love and beauty than his. Not when the blush crept on her cheeks from his actions.

“That is enough, you two. I have duties to attend to as I am sure you do as well.”

His mother spoke, forcing him and his lady love apart. It was no matter, one more night and she would be his, cursed be he who tries to to tear them asunder 

Arya V

Arya made sure Royce knew his role and knew it well as she led him towards the gates. There were two men standing guard, looking dull out of their minds as they moved to stop her 

“Halt, by decree of Lady Stark none are to enter the castle.”

“Please.” Her voice was not her own. It was a meek thing, perfect to match the mousy girl she had become “my brother he's sick. I heard tell of a woods witch here.”

The men glanced between each other and sighed

“Do you want to take them to Lady Stark?”

“No, it's your turn. I took the last one.”

“Oh don't act like it's such a chore. You were staring at that maid like a bitch in heat.”

Arya only glanced between the two of them making her eyes wide as possible as she adjusted where Royce was leaning on her.

“Like this girl is the same. You think I like them that young. I want them with some experience and not a child.”

The man sighed and waved his Hand

“Come girl, since he's being a right cunt and not doing his duty.”

Arya hunched her back slightly as she walked, subtly looking around the keep. It was quiet, was the first thing she noticed. The few people about had their heads hung low as they hurried to complete their tasks. It hadn't been like this when her father ruled. There was always action, maids conversing as they carried baskets, guards on watch joking with one another.

This winterfell was icey.

They were led to the Lords solar, where there was a line leading out. The guard talked briefly to one of the other men before nodding to them, leaving them in line

“Where are you from?”

Arya looked towards where another girl was standing. She looked to be the same age as Arya, with mouse brown hair and hazel eyes. When she smiled it was crooked, but it seemed to only add to her charm

“Our pa owned a farm on the white knife.”

The girl nodded

“I am from Wintertown. My ma was a seamstress, best in the town. But she died after a fever you see, birth is a deadly thing you know. Pa just walked out after that. Never found out where he went. Maybe he's living as a hermit in the woods, or maybe he's dead. The matrons of the orphanage say I'm old enough to work now. I didn't inherit my mas talent with a needle so I'm coming here to see if I can get work. Is that what your doing-”

The girl kept talking. And talking. Gods she was talking. She was sure by the time she reached the door and was allowed entrance Arya knew about the amount of times she shat in a day and what was inside of it.

Royce kept his spot leaning against her as he whispered quietly

“What was my name again?”

Arya shifted him, trying to roll her eyes subtly. She spoke louder

“Are you still with me Jon.”

The name felt heavy coming out of her throat, but it was the first name she could think of, and it was common enough. Royce coughed, making his voice weaker

“Aye, Sarra.”

Sarra and Jon. Brother and sister from a small farm on the white knife river. Their mother died birthing Sarra, and the sister that had come with hadn't made it either. Their father was hardworking and old and as best as they had tried Jon and her hadn't been able to help upkeep the farm. When their crops had failed, their father died and needing stability they had come to the Starks for help.

Arya wore a face that looked like Royce. Her eyes going a pale blue and her hair becoming even darker. She looked to be about four and ten, compared to her and Royce's six and ten.

She was to be the one to talk, after all, Jon had gotten ill on the trip to Winterfell, needing time to recover while Sarra worked their cover. 

It was by a miracle that Sansa walked by them then, and Arya forced herself not to stare too hard. 

She looked closer to how they did before. Her hair was darker but she still held that same posture she had held since Arya could remember. Proper and poised, and when she smiled at the guard he smiled back, it was  the first smile Arya had seen from Winterfell's residence

“Edric, it's  been too long since we have talked. How is your wife.”

The guard laughed slightly leaning against his spear slightly

“Lya is well, m'lady. The babe came out hale and healthy. Little thing has the strongest lungs I ever done heard. Must have got it from her mother.”

Sansa smiled widely, placing a hand on her chest

“Oh a girl. Lya was so sure it was a boy when I brought her a basket that she was talking of naming him for her father.”

The guard laughed as he nodded

“Innit that too true. When we told her the gender she told them to check again cause they were wrong. And she wanted me to thank you for the basket, your grace. She's been swaddling her in the blanket you made every night.”

Sansa smiled

“It was what I was hoping for, Edric. Now sadly onto business, is my aunt within, I find myself needing to discuss with her.”

The man nodded, opening the door for Sansa and letting her into the room.

Arya's eyes hadn't left her sister the entire time she had been in front of her. It had been years since she had seen Sansa, it had felt like longer. 

She was one of the three people left that were her true family. Cregan was her brother, but never in the way Robb, Jon, Bran and Rickon were. Sansa was the only one who truly understood what she mourned. Rickon had only vague memories of the family they had lost. Jon, Bran and them were the strongest in his mind. 

He couldn't remember Robb with the snow melting in his Auburn hair, or Mother gently tending to them while singing a Riverlands Luluby, or fathers stern but fair teachings. 

Sansa did.

The sibling she thought she had the least in common with was now the only one who shared the grief.

Illyn Paine, Cersei Lannister, Beric Dondarion all were left on her list. She supposed Beric likely died finally during that last battle with the others, but she never got to deal with the last two. And unless she wished to kill off their ancestors she would never be able to.

She shifted Royce on her arm as they moved forward in line, placing herself back in the role of Sarra the farmer's daughter. 

The door swung open as the mouse haired girl skipped out, asking the guard for the direction to the kitchens before continuing on her way. And it was then that Sarra and Jon were let in.

Sarra looked around cautiously, her blue eyes wide as she looked upon Lady Margaret and Lady Sansa. Lady Margaret sat behind a desk, her head resting in her hands as she looked at them with judgement in her eyes

“Great, a young child and a crippled. Shall you have me send them to the kitchens as well, Sansa.”

Lady Sansa sent Margaret a look as she spoke before speaking

“Let us hear them out before we make any hasty judgments, aunt.”

The Lady sends them a glare before spitting out

“Speak.”

“He's not crippled m'lady. Jon just fell with a fever on the journey here. Our father told us if anything happened to him seek out the help of the starks, that they help their people. I can work, and once Jon is better he can help as well.”

Sansa was looking curiously at her, and Arya looked back. Hoping to tell her sister that she was here to get her out of here. To reunite the pack so that it could be the way it was supposed to be.

“I will take her into my household.”

Sansa said carefully, turning to look at her aunt. Her aunt's face twisted with rage

“And the boy, you expect me to house a boy with no skills?”

“I'm sure he has skills, aunt. Once he is better he can join the stable men, they have been asking for more help, a couple members of their group passed recently, so they are looking to train up more men. Consider it a early wedding gift before tomorrow's ceremony ”

Her aunt's face looked bitter as she spoke looking away

“A wise plan, niece. Send them to their chambers, I'm sure you will have need of them soon.”

Sarra nodded, happier that her role would be someone who was supposed to be close to Sansa. All the easier to get her out of here although how was the real question. The wedding being tomorrow sped up her plans.

She paces the small floor of their rooms as Royce watched her, his head tilted slightly

“M'Lady if I may-”

“-you may not.” She snapped, continuing her pacing “How many men do you suppose you can take.”

Royce blinked a few times before shrugging 

“I would not consider myself a great warrior m'lady. I've never been formally trained. If I had the ability to sneak up on them and take them down without them realizing maybe but…”

“Sansa shall be too well guarded for that. Or at the very least have eyes on her.”

Royce sighed standing then

“M'Lady if you are your sister's hand maid would you not go to serve her tonight before bed. Use that as a chance to discover more before making our plan.”

Arya hated his level head as she sat down, her leg twitching slightly. She sighed before placing her head in her hands.

Sansa IX

Sansa twisted the cap of the wolfsbane idly. Looking at the old paper in front of her. The old tongue, long lost outside of a few tribes in the far far north. Written in its runic form. 

Her father had sat her and cregan down one day. One on each knee as he carefully taught them how to speak it. And the importance of some of these old documents. 

Kept secret but for a select few, the lords most trusted, a plan that had been in place for centuries. For culture that had been lost.

So much had been banned following the Targaryen conquest, and in particular under the conciliator. A foolish name for a man that seemed all too ready to give up all faiths for the seven pointed star. 

He couldn't ban the practice outright, so he just made broad things that targeted just them. The banning of the old tongue in legal matters,  the fines for using any sort of animal parts in a ritual, banning the north of the wall pilgrimages to see the old heart trees. And many more. 

There were some traditions she agreed were outdated, the right of the first night being one, but the way the south focused on it being a sign of their ways disgusted her, they held themselves in the open at least.

It was only when she went to her first Northern wedding did she realize the bedding was more of a southern tradition. The northern counterpart being the lady and man stripped of their clothes by their companions, a matter of laughter and teasing amongst friends as a new chapter of life begins.

She accidently pops off the top of the bottle, humming slightly as she caps it back on. The ground powder within is a deep shade of purple, although when mixed with the other ingredients simply dyes the fabric a faint purple. Nothing out of the ordinary for her, she considers as she looks at the embroidered fabric.

She had feared that she may have put too much water from the godswood within, but it seemed to be perfect. She silver colored thread doing nothing to say what was really within. 

Jeyne had taught her the way to make many poisons, from those that killed violently to those more subtle in their execution method. She thought of Joffery, the little she saw of his death. Clawing at his throat as his mother sobbed over him. Cersei for all her faults had loved her children, maybe the only thing she could love beyond herself. 

His little hands used to hold my hair, enraptured by it. 

Cersei's voice provided to her, a small slurring to the words from the wine she had drunk. A fondness only ever heard when she spoke of Joffery.

Would Margaret mourn her son the same? Would she rage and tear at her gowns? Or would it be colder, a shattering instead of an inferno.

As Sansa slipped the handkerchief in her pocket she would soon find out.

Her new handmaiden worked efficiently, but kept glancing around as if waiting for someone to appear from the walls. She supposed having lived in the wilds of the North for a time would put one on edge. Sarra was her name, but Sansa didn’t know much else about her

“Where are you from Sarra?”

She asked carefully, as the girl looked up at her with wide eyes. She glanced around once more before smiling

“The Same as you, Sansa.”

Sansa looked curiously at the girl as she smiled

“My fathers name was Eddard, my mothers name was Catelyn. He had the same coloring as me, while my mother had red hair and blue eyes just like yours.”
Sansa’s eyes couldn’t help but widen as she looked at what had to be her little sister

“Arya, how, why are you here?”
She whispered leaning in close, grabbing onto Arya even as she didn’t look like her

“I am here to get you out. You didn’t seriously think we were just going to leave you here.”

Robb did. Sansa couldn’t help the thought. Robb did it for Jeyne. He disinherited me because to him I was a Lannister as soon as Tyrion's cloak wrapped around her shoulders.

But she didn’t vocalize those thoughts, instead she wrapped her arms around her sister, unable to help the tears that streamed from her eyes. We, she said we, meaning that Cregan had wished to save her as well. 

“They aren’t going to let me go. And I, I have done something Arya.” 

Arya looked back at her

“They moved the wedding forward, and I wasn’t going to go through that, not again.”

Arya nodded, squeezing her hand. And with that, Sansa brain began to plot

“But there is something we can do.”

Margaret VII

The wedding was going well, but It was still rather early to say. She looked around the quiet of the godswood. It was lit by gentle candles that illuminated the carved face. Despite having grown up in the north, and having been married in front of the heart tree, she could never feel comfortable in front of those faces. The agony something that wasn’t human portrayed clawed at her as she looked into its tearful face. The shadows dance along it making it seem truly alive. She walked towards it all the same, for that's where her son was.

He was fiddling with the handkerchief the girl had given him, running his fingers along the embroidery gently. Margaret smiled as she looked at her boy, for all his foolishness and all his pride, he was still her son. She could recall the day he came screaming out of her. His father had paced outside the door as the labors went on, her mother standing over her to ensure all was as it was supposed to be. She had even had her personal maester watch over the birth rather than the woodswitches of the North. It had been long and painful, but that moment when her son had been put into her arms made it all worth it. The fuzz of his dark hair and his blue eyes shining.  His hair had somehow gotten even darker and his eyes had paled to be more grey, but when he turned to look at her all she could see was her babe. 

“Are you ready my son?”
He smiled, tucking the handkerchief away as he rubbed his eyes

“I always prayed that this day would come, from that first time I met her. She looked right out of those stories you read to me.”

He said before coughing slightly, and Margaret came close to cup his face. She always knew that her son would one day have to marry. And as much as she wished to be happy for him, she could not find it in her. She despised the Stark girl, with her too smart eyes and the way her husband smiled at her as if she was his child, all the while ignoring the work of her loins. 

“I hope she gives you the life you deserve, my son.” 

She said genuinely as she walked away from her son, who had turned away to cough again, although this time more out of awkwardness. She looked around the small crowd gathered in the godswood. Edric was already fast asleep in his chambers, his nanny putting him down when the sun had gone down. Brandon was to be the one to walk the girl so he was not here, and beyond that most of who should have been here for her son's wedding were away at battle. There were a few of the household men, a guard or two, and for some forsaken reason, Domeric Bolton was standing with a smirk on his face. She made no mistake of what the boy was here for, could see it in the way he eyed Sansa, he wanted a stark bride for himself, and with Sansa off the table, getting in close with the future Lord of Winterfell was the best way to secure the younger sister. 

It was no matter, she would make sure her son sent him away as soon as possible, there was no need for the flayed man here. 

It began to lightly snow, and Margaret couldn’t help but recall the old wives tales she had heard as a girl. Of snowfall during one's wedding causing a cold marriage. It had snowed at her own marriage, but that wasn’t at fault for the coldness, just as it wouldn’t cause coldness in this one. 

A Hush came over the hall as Brandon entered, holding up a lantern to guide The girls path. For all she disliked, she doubted there had been a lovelier bride. Her dress was a lovely shade of blue, clasped in the middle with silver shaped into a wolfs maw. Along the bottom of her dress, weirwood leaves gradually scattered upwards, giving the impression of them floating in the wind on a clear day. Her Hair was pinned back under an intricate head piece, similar to the one that Margaret herself had worn on her wedding day. 

It should have been the Traditional Stark headpiece, the one that had been worn for every Stark woman to marry for generations, but none had been able to find it before the big day. She had worn the Karstark one, and even the Glover bitch had worn her family one, and it was noticed that Sansa wasn’t wearing hers. She heard the whispers in the crowd. Some were whispering of the gall, others of curses and misfortune. Margaret ignored them all, focusing on where her uncle began to spoke

“Who Comes, who comes beneath the Heart Tree tonight.”

Benjen swallowed slightly, before lifting up the lantern and forcing his voice out

“Lady Sansa of House Stark, A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”

Her son stepped forward, coughing once more before speaking

"Me, Benjen of House Stark. I claim her. Who gives her?"

Her other son made to speak before her son coughed again, causing another ripple of sounds to be heard through the weirwood, and Margarent couldn’t help herself as her face became etched with worry.

 "Brandon of House Stark, Cousin of Lady Sansa," her middle son said carefully as his brother urged him to continue, and Benjen's face as he turned to look at Sansa was etched with worry as he turned to look at The girl “Lady Sansa, do you take this man.”

The girl paused for a second, opening her mouth to start speaking

“I-”

Was all she managed to say before Benjen collapsed onto the snow, violently coughing as he kneeled in front of the heart tree. Panic erupted at the sight of the blood staining white snow. He was on his hands and knees as Margaret rushed forward, cradling her boy in her hands

“Benjen!”

She called out in a panic, trying to wipe the blood from his mouth even as more stained her hands. He hadn’t stopped trying to cough, although all that was truly happening was gurgling on his own blood. His pupils were enlarged, almost completely covering his beautiful grey eyes. Where his body wasn’t wet with blood it was wet with sweat as he fell into her lap, convulsing she gently cupped his face. 

Her dress was wet with his blood that he somehow kept gurgling up, but he was moving more slowly. She could feel under her hand as his pulse slowed. She numbly realized that she was the one screaming now. As her son slowly faded. He had stopped convulsing, had stopped gurgling. 

Her son was dead.

And she screamed. 

Tears were steaming down her face as she looked at her son, the first child that had come from her womb. The one thing she had always had in this accursed castle. The only good thing her husband had ever given her. 

She felt gentle hands on her shoulder but she pushed them away, putting her head against her sons. The babe inside her kicked, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. What was the purpose of this war if her son was dead? He was supposed to be the one to rule the north. The one of whom all the wrongs that had been done to her family would be made right. 

“Mother.”

She heard her other son say, but she couldn’t care, not when Benjen was dead. 

It was her uncle that finally tore her away from her son's corpse. Holding her shoulders as she was guided to her rooms, his voice stern as he sat her down

“Pull yourself together, what would your mother think of this?”

“It doesn’t matter.” she said numbly, looking at the melted snow and blood and gods know what covering her heavy stomach. “Mother is dead, my son as well .My husband is likely soon to follow as he faces a much larger force head on the damned fool. We lost.”

Her face moved before she realized, the mark where her uncle had slapped her growing hot

“Do not speak in such a way again. We are not lost as long as my sister's blood flows through your veins, through your younger sons veins. We must simply reassess our strategy, the stark girl is still a loyal and good girl.”

And Margaret could not help the laugh that rolled through her

“You think she is good. Do not be surprised if she has rallied the guards against us as we speak. No uncle, as soon as her brother arrives she will throw open the gate and let him in, believe me. She is a deceitful little bitch and I would not be surprised if she was the one who murdered my son.”

For it was clearly a poison that had taken her son, make no question about that. Elmar Rivers scoffed, shaking his head

“The girl is clever, I will admit that but her honor is too bloody great like all the Starks to murder in such a deceitful way. And while you were too taken by the scene of your son dying, I was watching, my dull niece. She was as shocked as anyone, and sought Brandon for comfort. Why I do not know, the boy is a dullard with no hope of a bright future.”
Margaret sighed as the door flew open to her chambers, though who came through was not who she expected.

Arya Stark stood there in full leather armor, a thin sword drawn. 

“Margaret Karstark, Elmar Rivers, you are under arrest for trying to usurp your rightful lord and for the wrongful imprisonment of Lady Sansa Stark. You ought to beg for her mercy however, for it is only by her mercy that I do not kill you right here and now.”

Margaret stood with shock as Sansa moved behind them, her head tilted

“Arya, the babe is innocent. And it is down to our brother to decide that fate. After all he is the Lord of Winterfell.”

Margaret stared at her as the boy with pale eyes from before dragged Elmar from his room, despite the protesting that came through. Then her son came out from behind Sansa, staring at his great uncle carefully

“Sansa, in my lessons with Elmar he has discussed poisons with me. Maybe we should question him as well for Benjen's poisoning.”

“You Traitorous Bastard!” She screamed out staring at her son “How could you side with them over your own mother! If I had known what you would have become I would have murdered you in my womb.”

She called out, the hand covering her stomach as Sansa looked towards one of the guards, nodding slightly

“She is clearly not well after the death of her son. Ensure there is nothing in the room for her to harm herself with and keep her  barred in until my brother decides what her fate shall be.”

She screamed as the door slammed shut and she heard a bolt be locked into place. She slammed her hands against it as one thought consumed her mind. 

What would happen to her son's body? 

“...While little records exist in the Citadel detailing the State of the North in much of this time, supplementing it with the records from our Northern colleagues, and from later records referencing this time, we can deduce from 133 AC to the beginning of 134 AC the North was embroiled in a civil war. Lord Bennard Stark and his eldest son, Benjen Stark claimed Winterfell for themselves. Little is known of the details of this war, only that both Bennard and Benjen were killed at the end of the war, and the rest of his family were stripped of their titles and banished from winterfell. A tale of this has become quite popular for painters and bards alike, claiming that the Lady Sansa Stark, twin sister to Lord Cregan, demanded the head of her cousin to present to her triumphant brother. Although it is more likely that she herself did not demand the head be taken, rather a loyalist within her party at Winterfell had, with some rumors even stating that it was the younger Stark, Arya who demanded the head of the man who tried to steal her sister away…”

The Detailing of the State of the Realm at the Time of The Reign of King Viserys Targayen I by Archmaester Perestan